She cried into his shoulder. ‘It’s true - our Mary’s never loved me. It’s Maggie she wants to stop with, not us.’
‘Well, it’s us she’s got,’ John said firmly. ‘I said I’d tak on all your bairns and that’s what I’m ganin’ to do. She’s too young to know her own mind, she’ll settle given time.’
Rose leaned against him, praying fervently that John was right. Her fondness for him grew. He wanted to care for them all, was more prepared than she was to take on the wilful Mary. But deep down she worried that it was already too late to win Mary’s trust and love. The small, unhappy girl seemed to know her own mind only too well.
For a short time, Mary seemed to calm down and accept her new surroundings, particularly when her sisters were there to make a fuss of her. But when Rose was left alone with her, she would become moody and sullen or fly into a tantrum over the smallest upset and cry for an hour at a time. When the weather was fine, Rose tried to tempt her with trips to the park, but these would always end in a tearful scene and Mary being dragged home in disgrace. Eventually, Rose gave up taking her out and dreaded going anywhere with her in public. The girl responded to neither punishment nor treats.
John began to tire of her temper and stubbornness too. She refused to play with the rag doll he had bought her and tore up the paper windmill he made. Mary wandered around clutching her worn and grubby peg doll that Maggie had made for her one Christmas and gazed at them with dark reproachful eyes.
Once, John grew so impatient with her for not doing as she was told, that he seized her peg doll, strode to the back door and hurled it down the back lane. Mary threw herself at the door, screaming like a banshee. Her sisters looked on in alarm, but Rose hushed Kate when she tried to protest.
‘She has to learn to behave herself,’ she told her daughters, though silently wished John had not been so hasty.
But her husband could not bear the noise and stormed out of the house and did not come back until dusk. To Rose’s dismay he was smelling of drink. By this time Mary was asleep in her cot and Rose was not going to tell John that Kate had spent the evening scouring the lane till she found Peggy the peg doll.
‘Maybes we should send her back to Maggie’s?’ Rose suggested as they lay in bed.
‘No,’ John was adamant. ‘I’m not ganin’ to let the little bugger beat me! She’s my responsibility now. She’ll not get her own way so easy with me as she has done with you and your sister.’
‘Aye, but it’s me who has to put up with her ways, while you’re out and about spending money,’ Rose complained.
‘That’s my business, not yours,’ John replied sharply. ‘I give you plenty for housekeeping.’
‘Some weeks,’ Rose muttered.
‘Every week,’ John protested. ‘You should spend it with more care.’
‘You’re one to talk!’ she snorted.
‘Don’t you go telling me what I should or shouldn’t be doing, woman!’
Rose turned away in annoyance. For a while they lay not speaking, each resentful of the other. Then she felt John reaching for her, his breath warm on her neck.
‘Haway,’ he said, relenting, ‘let’s not fall out over the bairn. Listen, it’s the Hoppings next week. We’ll all gan together - make a day of it. What do you say?’
Rose was about to say no; she had sworn never to go back to Newcastle’s Town Moor since Margaret had gone missing and caused her and William such panic. But she checked herself, aware that John did not like any mention of her former husband.
‘Aye, that would be canny,’ she said instead. ‘The lasses will be over the moon.’
‘Grand,’ John said in satisfaction, nudging closer. He kissed her cheek and squeezed her waist. Swiftly, his hands hitched up her nightdress and began his familiar fumblings. Soon there was no more talk.
Then three days later, on the eve of Race Week, Mary went missing. Rose had left her for five minutes while she went to the corner to buy currants to put in the rock buns she was making for their Saturday picnic. When she returned there was no sign of her.
In a panic she searched the house, then doubled back across the yard to peer into the gloom of the privy. When there was no sign of her, she picked up her skirts and ran up and down the lane, peering into backyards and shouting breathlessly to neighbours to search their own kitchens for the child.
‘Skinny, brown hair - she’ll be carrying a peg doll,’ Rose panted.
But no one could find her, nor even recall seeing her. When John came back from visiting his mother, they spread the search. He went into the neighbouring streets, calling into pubs and small house shops to ask if anyone knew where the missing girl was.
‘Mary McMullen,’ he told those who asked her name, ‘she’s me youngest bairn.’
All afternoon they searched the surrounding streets, even venturing into the middle of town in the faint hope she had climbed on to a cart and been carried further afield. Rose was half demented at the thought of her being run over by the heavy wheels of some goods wagon or spirited away by passing tinkers.
‘I’ll never forgive mesel’ if she’s come to any harm,’ Rose cried at John in distress. She burned with shame to think of the way she had scolded and resented Mary, taken a hand to her far more often than her sisters. Now all she wanted to do was find her and hug her and never let her go.
It was Kate, returning from school, who suggested where they should look.
‘She’ll have gone to Aunt Maggie’s,’ she said straight away.
‘Maggie’s!’ Rose cried in disbelief. ‘She couldn’t possibly know the way.’
‘A lass of her age?’ John was dismissive. ‘She could never walk that far, even if she did.’
But, at a loss as to what else to do, they all trekked the mile and a half up to Simonside. Maggie was at the gate looking out for them.
‘I was going to come and fetch you once Danny got home,’ she said in agitation. ‘I couldn’t leave our Margaret - and Mary - well, she won’t budge.’
‘She’s here!’ Rose cried, relief engulfing her. ‘Is she all right?’
Maggie nodded. ‘She’s sitting on her grandda’s knee eating plums.’
John exploded, ‘I’ll give her bloody plums, the little bugger! We’ve been running round the whole of Jarrow looking for her!’
He strode forward, trying to barge past Maggie, but she barred his way, pushing him back with both hands. ‘You’ll not gan in there shouting and frightening her,’ she said firmly.
He glared at her, astonished to be spoken to so frankly by Rose’s younger sister. But Rose knew that Maggie could be mulish too; she would stand her ground, especially where Mary was concerned. Rose stepped between them and put a hand on John’s arm.
‘The lass is safe, that’s all that matters,’ she said quietly. ‘If she wants to stay with Maggie, what’s the harm? I can’t be doing with fighting over her any more.’
John swore with incredulity. ‘For God’s sake, Rose ...’ He chewed and pulled on his moustache, a sign, Rose knew, of his agitation. But she looked at him pleadingly.
‘Let her stop here for a bit longer, till she knows you better and we’re more settled.’
His look was thunderous. ‘Don’t you blame me for that little beggar’s bad ways! If she were mine, I’d give her a hidin’ into next week for the trouble she’s caused.’
‘But she’s not,’ Rose said impatiently, then instantly regretted her words.
He narrowed his eyes at her accusingly. ‘No, she’s Fawcett’s bitch and your problem, isn’t she? You do what you want with her.’
He shook off her hold, turned on his heels and marched off down the path without a backward glance.
The women watched him go, Rose trembling at his harsh words. She felt wretched. Somehow she had mishandled both John and Mary and she had the
uneasy feeling that she would pay for it some day. Your chickens always come home to roost, her granny had used to say.
Rose sighed and turned back to Maggie. The girls scrambled for the door, eager to be out of the way of wrangling adults and to see their infamous little sister.
‘There’s a storm brewing in that one,’ Maggie warned, nodding at John’s retreating back.
Rose gave a mirthless laugh. ‘Maggie, hinny, I’m used to weathering storms.’
Chapter 28
John’s anger at Rose for leaving Mary at Simonside did not last longer than a night, though it was a long disturbed night. He came back drunk from The Railway pub, singing raucously about his homeland of Ireland, and broke a plate trying to help himself to mutton pie from the pantry shelf.
‘Haway to your bed, man,’ Rose cajoled as she picked up the shattered plate and wondered if it could be mended. ‘It’s late.’
‘I’ll come when I’m ready,’ John snarled, shovelling the uncut pie into his mouth and scattering crust over the oilcloth. He hummed loudly as he ate.
‘Keep the noise down,’ Rose chided, sweeping up behind him, ‘you’ll wake the lasses.’
John snorted and focused bleary eyes on her. ‘So we’ve still got some bairns under the roof, have we? Not dumped them all with your sister, eh? Call yoursel’ a mother!’
‘You know I haven’t,’ Rose answered tersely, stung by his sarcasm. The day had left her overwrought and tired out. She could do without his petty needling comments.
‘Mary, Mary, quite contrary, how does your garden grow?’ he taunted before ramming in another mouthful.
‘Stop it!’ Rose reproached. ‘I’ll not leave her up there for long - just till she’s a bit older and can understand what’s what.’
‘What’s what?’ John sneered. ‘That her mam cannot teach her manners or how to respect her new father?’
‘She’s still a baby,’ Rose protested.
‘That’s when they need tellin’,’ John declared. ‘We had respect for our mother and father knocked into us before we were old enough to run away or answer back. If you don’t take a strong hand to that Mary now, it’ll be too late.’ He belched, then added, ‘Mark my words, that lass’ll give you the run around when she’s older.’
‘Maybes,’ Rose sighed, suddenly too tired to care.
She straightened up and looked at his tousled appearance. It had been an anxious day for him too, she conceded. John had searched as frantically for Mary as if she had been his own daughter. He had found her only to lose her once more to his sister-in-law, a bitter disappointment and blow to his pride as her new stepfather and provider. And Rose was learning just how much that pride meant to John, how quick he was to take offence, how easily his passion was roused.
Drained as she was, Rose knew there was one way left of sweetening his mood. That was if he hadn’t drunk too much, she thought drily.
‘I’m away to me bed,’ she said, holding his look. ‘Come with us, John man.’
He regarded her as he sucked the crumbs from his moustache and wiped his mouth across his sleeve. All at once, a boyish grin spread across his face, lightening the look in his eye.
‘Why, that’s the best bit of sense you’ve talked all night, Mrs McMullen,’ he answered as he took an unsteady step towards her.
Rose smiled and turned quickly for the door. She wasn’t going to let him get his hands on her before she had seen him safely up the stairs. He cursed and laughed and stumbled after her, chasing her into the bedroom. The short June night was already giving way to an indigo dawn when their tussling in the bed had ceased and Rose finally got some sleep.
With Mary gone, the tension in the house evaporated. John and Rose took the older girls on the train to the Hoppings fair in Newcastle and Rose walked arm in arm with her husband, thinking they looked a proper family to the outside world. Arriving at the huge echoing Central Station, the girls clutched their parents’ hands and stared about them, their eyes wide in wonder at the size and grandeur of the city buildings. The younger ones had never been this far from Jarrow and even Elizabeth had been too young to remember her one and only visit with William.
The girls revelled in the rides and the gaudy side stalls on the Town Moor, while John won a coconut with a powerful shot and bought them all some cinder toffee to share out. Just as they were making their way back to the town, a gypsy woman called out in an Irish voice, ‘Come here, lady! Come and buy a fancy piece of Irish lace and I’ll tell you your fortune. Come and get a piece of Irish luck, lady!’
Rose would have ignored her and walked on, but John tugged at her arm and turned to smile at the red-haired young woman sitting on an upturned box. She was sharp-featured, with shrewd, lively eyes under fair brows, and knew John was the key to custom. She beckoned to the girls and Kate went closer with curiosity. The gypsy stroked the child’s lustrous chestnut hair.
‘Sir, you’ve a fine clutch of pretty daughters, so you have! Buy your lady this piece of lace for the baby she’s carrying. It’s luck you’ll have if you buy from the Irish!’
John flushed with surprise and pleasure. Rose could tell he was captivated by the woman’s blarney and pretty smile.
‘You’re right there, lass. I’m Irish mesel’,’ John preened, ‘a McMullen.’ He nodded to Rose. ‘But what’s this you’re saying about me missus expectin’?’
Rose squirmed with embarrassment and remonstrated, ‘John! I’m not expectin’. How could a stranger know, anyways?’
The young woman gave her a quick sweeping look and laughed. ‘I’ve the gift of second sight, lady! I can tell by just lookin’ at you. Buy this pretty bit of lace for your baby and you’ll have the son you want and a christening within the year.’
John removed his cap and scratched his head, letting out a whistle. ‘That’s grand talk, grand talk! Isn’t it, Rose Ann? A lad and a christening! By heck, another John McMullen to carry on the line,’ he crowed. ‘Would you like a baby brother, Kate?’
Kate, who was listening in open-mouthed fascination, turned to her mother. ‘Are we ganin’ to have a baby brother, Mam?’ she asked in excitement. “Cos he can have Mary’s cot.’
Rose put a hand to her mouth, quite flustered. ‘No! There’s no baby coming - not yet.’
John laughed and put an arm around her waist possessively. ‘There will be if the lass says so,’ he grinned. ‘We’ll have the luck of the Irish, you’ll see.’
He paid up swiftly for the piece of homespun lace and handed it to Elizabeth for safe-keeping. ‘Here, you can look after this until your baby brother comes,’ he winked. Turning to the gypsy he asked jovially, ‘And what else can you tell me missus about the future?’
‘Come here, lady! Let me see your hand,’ the girl said, waving her closer.
‘I don’t hold with such things,’ Rose said primly.
‘Haway and show the lass your hand, Rose Ann!’ John insisted, pulling her back.
‘Go on, Mam,’ Kate said, enjoying the commotion.
Reluctantly, Rose offered her palm and let the girl rub a grubby thumb across it. Her young face creased in concentration as she studied Rose’s calloused hand. After a minute of this, John grew impatient.
‘Haway and tell her! How many bairns are we ganin’ to have?’
The young woman glanced up, her eyes hooded. She shrugged vaguely. ‘Nothin’ much to tell.’
Rose was relieved. An uneventful life from now on would suit her fine. She withdrew her hand, but John was suddenly scornful.
‘You’ll get nowt from me for that. Call yoursel’ a fortune-teller? I’ve heard better predictions from me brother’s canary.’
The gypsy looked at him sharply, her pretty eyes narrowing. ‘Very well,’ she muttered, seizing Rose by the hand and gripping her round the wrist. ‘You’ve had more than your share
of sadness - there’s loss and death.’ Her look was grave. ‘And there are hard times still to come.’
John snorted impatiently. ‘You could say that about anyone round here. You’re tellin’ us nowt we don’t already know. Haway, Rose, let’s gan.’ He pulled her away.
But the Irish woman stood up and grabbed at her arm. ‘You’re heading into the storm - there are rocks ahead and a time of wandering like tinkers. But you mustn’t give up. The lives of others are tied to yours.’ Her urgent look filled Rose with foreboding and she snatched her hand away.
‘You’re talking gibberish!’
‘No!’ the gypsy cried. ‘You must keep afloat in the storm and choose your course wisely. Only if you do that will you come through the worst into the sunset. The angel child is waiting for you there to sweeten your old age.’
For a brief moment, Rose had a picture of Margaret standing waiting for her in a doorway, her hair bound in ringlets and head tilted, a quizzical smile on her lips. An angel child.
But the image was shattered by John’s angry cursing. ‘Load of rubbish! Storms an’ angels. D’you think I’m daft? Here, you can have your cheap bit of lace, an’ all. I want me money back, you thieving little bitch!’ He tore the lace from Elizabeth’s hands and thrust it menacingly in the woman’s face. ‘Give us me sixpence!’
She pulled the coin from a cloth purse around her neck and spat on it. ‘I don’t want it - there’s blood on it - the blood of foreign men!’ She tossed it at him. ‘You’re full of fight, but you’ve the heart of a coward,’ she mocked. ‘You’re the sort of man who picks on the weak.’ The look she gave was venomous. ‘May the son that sleeps in your wife’s belly be the one to stand up to you. May he bring you not a minute’s peace till the day he dies!’
Rose saw the look of shock on John’s face ignite into fury. She grabbed the arm that he raised before he could strike the fortune-teller.
‘Stop, John!’ she cried. ‘Come away from her! She’s just mischief-making.’
He tried to throw her off, but Rose was strong too and clung to his side. She pushed him away. The gypsy did not flinch or take her look from his face. Rose’s heart thumped in fright. It was as if the woman was cursing her husband with her all-knowing eyes and mysterious words.
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