Rose leant back against the bed and wept. She wept with regret for the past that could never return, for William who would never be the father of her son. She wept with fear for the babe in her arms and the uncertain world into which he came. The words of foreboding uttered by the gypsy returned to haunt her: storms and rocks ahead and wandering like a tinker. They seemed far more prophetic since the discovery that all John’s army gratuity was gone.
John! At least he would be pleased with this day’s work. At the thought of him, Rose attempted to stir herself, but found she could not move. Cramp seized her legs and kept her pinned to the floor. She winced and jerked in agony and the baby wailed at the sudden movement. Her throat was parched and she could no longer cry out.
It was in this state of distress and mess that Elizabeth found her mother. She came up the stairs answering Rose’s hoarse call for help. Stopping abruptly in the doorway, she gasped in horror at the scene.
‘Mam! Are you all right? What’s happened?’
‘What does it look like?’ Rose cried weakly. ‘Where’ve you been all this time? I could’ve died here on me own.’
‘Mam,’ Elizabeth sprang into the room. ‘You’ve had the baby! What should I do? Gan for Aunt Maggie?’
Rose shook her head. ‘It’d take too long. The hard bit’s done with. You must help me now.’
‘Me?’ her daughter gawped.
‘Aye.’ Rose gasped as the cramp took hold again. ‘Bring me a drink of water - and a knife and candle.’
‘Knife? What for?’ Elizabeth asked in alarm.
‘For cuttin’ the cord.’ Rose was blunt. ‘Then stoke up the fire and bring some newspaper - we’ll need to get this cleared up and burnt before your father comes in.’
Elizabeth crept closer. ‘Is it a lass or a lad?’
‘Lad,’ Rose whispered.
The girl’s face lit up. ‘Can I hold him, Mam?’
‘After you’ve done what I say,’ Rose murmured. ‘Quick, hinny, I don’t feel too grand.’
Rose was amazed at how efficiently her quiet, nervous daughter dealt with the crisis. Within a short time, the cord was severed, the afterbirth rolled into paper and thrown on the fire downstairs. She held her mother’s head gently as she helped her to sip water and coaxed her out of her dirty nightdress when all Rose wanted to do was lie back and sleep.
‘It’s too cold for you up here,’ Elizabeth declared. ‘I’ll get you down in front of the fire. You can lie on the settle with a blanket.’ She had the baby cuddled gently in her arms. ‘He’s that tiny!’ She kissed him, then frowned. ‘He’s cold an’ all. Mam, I think we should put him by the fire.’
Rose made an effort to sit up, alerted by the worry in the girl’s voice.
‘Give him here!’
But Elizabeth kept hold of her brother. ‘I’ll carry him down and come back for you.’
Rose was too tired to argue. When Elizabeth returned for her, she was surprised at how strong her daughter was. She was tall and wiry, the way Rose had been at her age, and it suddenly struck her that Elizabeth was almost full grown. Because she had always seemed so immature compared to Margaret, Rose had continued to think of her as a young girl, protected her, and even mollycoddled her. But she was a willing and competent helper. As Rose sank on to the settle after the breathless exertion of descending the stairs, she was comforted by the thought that her second daughter would be of increasing help to them all.
She woke to the sound of the younger girls traipsing in from school and throwing off their boots at the back door. There were squeals of amazement as they caught sight of their older sister sitting by the fire cradling a small bundle.
‘Mam’s had a little lad,’ Elizabeth told them proudly, ‘and I helped her.’
‘Can I have a hold?’ Sarah asked excitedly.
‘Let me!’ demanded Kate as they crowded round.
They tussled and the baby let out a querulous cry.
‘Haway and bring him over here,’ Rose ordered, ‘it’s time he was fed.’
All three of them carried him over and stood watching as Rose undid her bodice. She felt suddenly awkward. ‘This isn’t a holiday,’ she remarked. ‘You can get the table set and the tea on for Father coming in.’ She looked at their reluctant faces. ‘Then you can hold him,’ she bargained.
When John came home he was greeted by a cacophony of noise from his stepdaughters, all trying at once to tell him the news. He stared beyond them at the sight of Rose lying on the settle in the firelight, a tiny swaddled creature latched like a piglet onto the end of a large pendulous breast. His heart surged in excitement.
‘Rose.’ He lurched forward. ‘We’ve got a lad? Tell me we’ve got a lad!’
She grunted, ‘Aye, he’s a lad. Couldn’t wait for his proper time - had to come early, didn’t he?’
John punched the air and let out a whoop of joy. ‘That’s grand. That’s bloody grand!’
‘John,’ she remonstrated but smiled despite herself. It was so good to see him happy and his look almost tender under the grime. She felt ashamed at all the terrible things she had screamed about him while in the grips of labour, for she did not really mean them.
He leant forward and kissed her roundly. ‘We’ll call him John, of course.’
Kate frowned. ‘He looks too small to be called John.’
Her stepfather looked at her baffled. ‘You talk a lot of nonsense, you do.’
Kate persisted. ‘John’s a big name - a grown-up name. It’ll sit too heavy on that tiddler.’
Rose looked at the two of them and laughed. Then John shook his head and laughed too. ‘Well, you can call him Jack, if you want,’ he conceded. ‘Is that light enough for you?’
Kate beamed. ‘Aye, I like that - Jack. That suits him canny.’
John leant over Rose, touching the snuffling baby with rough, dirt-ingrained hands. She noticed how he could not resist brushing his fingers against her breast and she caught the look in his eye. It made her feel suddenly bashful to be feeding the baby in front of him. He had touched her in the dark many a time, but she had never let him look at her naked body.
Rose pulled her shawl over her open bodice and covered herself and the baby. The less he thought about such things the better. There would be no more of that carry-on for a long time, if she could help it. He had his son. Let him be content with that.
Straight after tea, John went back out. ‘I’m away to tell me mother the good news - likely she’ll want to call round and help.’
Rose felt weak at the thought of visitors, but said nothing. She succumbed to sleep even before she heard him bang the back gate.
Mrs McMullen called round later in the evening, hobbling in on her arthritic legs and praising the saints for the new life in their midst. She installed herself in the fireside chair with baby Jack in her arms and gave out orders. John, it appeared, had gone celebrating.
‘Sarah, you’re a strong girl - fetch another bucket of coal for the fire. We can’t have it going out tonight of all nights. This little man has to be kept warm - he’s no bigger than a rat.’
Rose bristled at the unkind comparison. ‘He’s not so small,’ she protested, still wrapped in her shawl on the settle. She thought she couldn’t move even if the house was burning down around her.
‘He’ll need plenty feeding if he’s to thrive,’ her mother-in-law said, making clucking sounds at her grandson. ‘Maybe you should give him an extra bottle or two while your milk’s coming in.’
Rose thought how they had no money to go buying milk or bottles, but she was not going to tell their business to John’s mother. She would only fuss and make things bad between them.
‘I’ll feed him mesel’,’ she answered stubbornly. ‘I fed all the others well enough.’
‘Well, you try again now,’ Mrs McMull
en said, rising stiffly from the chair. ‘His little lips are sucking the air.’
‘I’ll carry him.’ Elizabeth was at her side immediately, taking the baby from her shaking hands. She bore him over to her mother like a piece of precious china and delivered him safely into her arms. Rose smiled gratefully as she put Jack to her breast once more.
Sarah returned with a pailful of dross and threw it on to the fire. At once the flames were smothered and plunged the kitchen in darkness. Smoke billowed out, making them choke. Jack spluttered at Rose’s breast and lost his hold.
‘Sarah!’ the women scolded in chorus.
‘You said a bucketful,’ she cried. ‘There’s no proper coal left.’
‘She’s right, Mam,’ Kate came to her sister’s defence, ‘there’s just dust.’
Rose’s eyes smarted in the smoke, but she said quickly, ‘It won’t spoil. Might as well bank up the fire for the night, hinny. Pour a bit water on and the fire’ll still be in come the morrow.’
‘One of you girls will have to marry a pitman,’ Mrs McMullen cackled as she groped for her shawl, ‘then there’ll be plenty coal for all of us.’
‘Not me,’ protested Sarah.
‘Never!’ Kate giggled. ‘They’re all dirty and the wives are washing clothes all the time.’
Rose laughed drily. ‘Your father would never allow it, any road. Doesn’t think much to pitmen.’
‘Doesn’t think much to a lot of folk,’ John’s mother snorted. ‘But no one should be looked down on for working hard, whether it’s under the earth or over it. Long as it puts bread and potatoes on the table.’ She peered at Rose in the dark. ‘How come there’s money for John to go wettin’ the baby’s head, but not for coal?’
Rose was glad of the darkness to cover her blushing. ‘We just forgot to get some in - this all happened so sudden. Don’t fret yourself.’ But the old woman tutted.
Then Kate piped up, ‘Father took the coal money from the mug, didn’t he, Mam?’
‘Is that true, Rose Ann?’ Mrs McMullen demanded.
Rose’s heart sank. ‘Just the once - but he paid it back when he started at the carrying.’
John’s mother sucked in her breath. ‘It’s gone, hasn’t it, the money?’
‘Aye,’ Rose admitted. ‘But we’ll manage.’
‘Don’t let him drink it all away,’ her mother-in-law warned. ‘Fight him for his wages if you have to - it was like that with his father till the boys were old enough to help out.’
Rose was indignant. ‘John’s not like that - not any more. His wild days are over. He’s got responsibilities and bairns.’
The older woman quickly put a reassuring hand on her shoulder. ‘Aye, maybe he’s changed. You’re good for him, Rose Ann, I’ll give you that. I’ve never known him so happy. But you were always a good girl.’
Rose felt suddenly tearful to be spoken to so affectionately and as if she were still a young lass. ‘Ta, Mrs McMullen.’
Just then, they heard the sound of singing growing louder in the back lane. Rose’s insides lurched as she recognised John’s voice belting out across the yard. But his mother acted swiftly.
‘Elizabeth, light the gas lamp. Sarah and Kate, get yourselves up to bed and stay there. Go on, the pair of you!’
They scrambled for the door and thudded up the dark stairs, galvanised by the sense of panic in the room. The gas flame flared just as John banged in the back door, singing at the top of his voice:
‘Sing us an Irish Comaylia
sing us an Irish tune,
for Patsy Burke has buggered his work,
all by the light of the moon!
‘Where’s me lad? Where’s me little Jack? Scoffing at his mother’s tittie! Lucky Jack!’ John staggered across the room and bumped into the table.
‘Sit yourself down,’ his mother ordered, taking him by the arm and steering him to the large wooden chair by the fire. To Rose’s amazement he did as he was told. ‘Elizabeth, get your father a piece of bread and dripping to soak up the drink in his belly.’
‘Bring me a beer!’ John shouted, collapsing into the chair.
‘You’ve drunk enough to fill the Irish Sea, by the look of it,’ his mother declared. ‘There’ll be no more beer drunk the night.’
John tried to struggle out of the chair. ‘Rose! Bring him over here and let me look at the little darlin’.’
‘You leave them alone.’ His mother was firm. ‘He needs his feed and she needs to rest.’
‘I need a drink an’ all.’ John leered drunkenly at his wife. ‘Rose, have you got a little bit for me?’ He laughed until his mother smacked him sharply across the head.
‘None of your dirty talk! You’ll get that food down you, then off to bed.’
He rubbed his head and sank back in a sulk. ‘Bloody women,’ he muttered, snatching the crust that Elizabeth cautiously held out to him. This provoked another cuff from Mrs McMullen.
Rose watched them in silence, thankful that her mother-in-law was there to handle her husband. She had never had to deal with much drunkenness. Her father had only imbibed at weddings and funerals, and William had hardly touched a drop. True, she had witnessed plenty drunken brawling in the streets, even among women, but had walked away rather than intervene. Yet she knew enough to know that it was a fine line between a happy drunk and a fighting, swearing one. What tipped them over was anyone’s guess. So she watched warily, her pulse quicker than was comfortable, and tried not to disturb Jack’s attempts at sucking.
Distracted by the food, John slumped into a reverie and stared at the smoking fire.
Rose said quietly, ‘Elizabeth hinny, you walk Granny McMullen up the end of the street. It might be icy out.’
But the old woman shook her head and murmured, ‘I’ll see him to his bed first - then I’ll know you’ll get a good night’s sleep.’
‘Ta,’ Rose said gratefully.
She felt a wave of fondness for this brave, kind woman, bent and scraggy as an old crow, yet full of wisdom and generosity. Glancing at her husband, almost comatose by the fire, she thought she would do well to learn whatever her mother-in-law could teach her on handling a McMullen. Jack nipped at her breast and she winced in pain. In a rush of realisation it came to Rose that she now had two McMullens on her hands.
Chapter 31
It was only through exhaustion that Rose slept at all on the hard, ungiving wooden settle. She was hardly aware of the baby nuzzling during the night, but by her soreness in the morning, she knew that he had been. When she woke, Elizabeth was already up and moving about the room, stoking up the spitting fire with some damp wood she had found in the scullery, left over from John’s attempts at making shelves.
Her daughter lifted Jack gently from her side and, wrinkling up her nose, said, ‘By, this one smells ripe.’
‘I’ll change him in a minute,’ Rose said wearily, closing her eyes again.
‘I can do it,’ the girl answered brightly. ‘I’ve seen Aunt Maggie cleaning baby Margaret - and I used to help with our Mary, remember?’
Rose looked at her. No, she did not remember. But then she had been worried sick with William’s illness when Mary was a baby and she had blotted out the memory of those anxious days. She supposed Elizabeth must have helped her, or helped Margaret. The thought gave her a guilty pang about Mary. She certainly could not cope with the child at the moment.
As if her daughter could read her mind, Elizabeth said, ‘I’ll go up and tell Aunt Maggie the day, shall I?’
‘There’s no hurry,’ Rose said quickly. ‘She’ll not be expectin’ such news. A day or two won’t make much difference.’
Elizabeth glanced up from where she was unwrapping Jack by the hearth. ‘Don’t you want Aunt Maggie to come and help you?’
‘She’s got enough tro
ubles of her own to cope with,’ Rose sighed.
‘What about Aunt Lizzie?’
‘It’s a long way for her to travel at this time of year - and she’s still working at the castle - can’t drop everything just for us.’
Rose did not know why she was so reluctant to call in the family to help. Perhaps it was because she still felt so beholden to Maggie and Danny for saving them from the workhouse after William’s death and for keeping Mary. This time she wanted to show everyone that she could manage without their charity. She and John and their young family would manage together.
Rose smiled over at her daughter. ‘Anyways, I’ve got you, hinny. You’re being a grand help - thank you, lass.’
Elizabeth smiled with pleasure and set to work cleaning and changing her baby brother. Afterwards she went upstairs to chase her sisters out of bed and knock timidly on the door of her stepfather’s bedroom as her mother had bidden her. When he did not reply she hammered louder and called out his name. Eventually he stirred, emerging unshaven and red-eyed, reeking of stale beer.
Downstairs he snapped at Rose to pour him some tea while he dowsed his head in cold water in the scullery. No one told him the basin of water had just been used in the cleaning of his son’s soiled bottom and he did not seem to notice.
Elizabeth dealt with him calmly. ‘Here’s your tea, Father. And there’s bread and dripping on the table.’
John grimaced. ‘I’m not hungry. By, the beer at The Railway must’ve been bad.’ He clutched his stomach but gulped at the tea thirstily. Rose wondered if he had forgotten all about the birth of his son.
He drew back his chair. ‘I’ll be off.’
‘Don’t you want a hold of your lad before you go?’ Rose asked reproachfully. She pulled aside her shawl to show him the sleeping baby.
The Jarrow Lass Page 27
