The Jarrow Lass

by Janet MacLeod Trotter

  ‘You wouldn’t believe the height of the mountains,’ she gasped.

  ‘I’ve seen bigger in Afghanistan,’ John said scornfully.

  But not even her stepfather could dampen Kate’s enthusiasm.

  ‘And the water - it was that clear and fresh, you could see right through it!’

  Kate’s delight at what she had seen reminded Rose of her rare trips beyond Jarrow to the countryside around Ravensworth. She could still remember being entranced as a child at the sight of long green grass and trees heavy and rustling with leaves. It had been a glimpse of Heaven. She saw the same wonderment in her daughter’s face - and something else - a growing confidence in the seventeen-year-old. She had tasted freedom and Rose could tell she hungered for more.

  A few weeks of relative peace followed with John and Jack caught up with following the progress of Lord Roberts’s march north after taking Bloemfontein. Jack looked out for billboard headlines on his way back from school and reported them to his father. He had copied a map of South Africa on to brown paper from a globe in his classroom and traced the progress of the British troops whenever reports on the war filtered through.

  It was a Saturday morning in late May when the extraordinary news reached Tyneside. Rose had thrown open the back door and levered up the sash window to let air into the hot kitchen. The smell of fresh baked scones and bread wafted out on the warm breeze. John was down the bottom of the yard feeding the chickens and Jack had last been seen vaulting over the black tarred fence with his toy rifle, made from scavenged pieces of wood. For weeks he had been re-enacting the heroic sacrifices of Spion Kop and the relief of Ladysmith.

  Somewhere down on the river a hooter went off. Then a factory siren wailed. Rose and John looked up at the same time. She saw the alarm on his face and knew he was thinking the same thing. An accident had happened, maybe an exploding boiler or a fire. John stood up and went to the back gate. As he did so, a red flare soared up from the river and speckled the air above them. Several more hooters began to blare along the riverside.

  ‘What the bloody hell’s ganin’ on?’ he cried. ‘Are we being invaded?’

  Rose picked up her long skirt and apron and hurried down the path towards him. There was now a cacophony of noise rising up all around them. Ships’ bells were being rung as if for action stations. Rose’s pulse hammered in alarm.

  Just then, Jack came hurtling up the back lane waving his dummy rifle above his head.

  ‘They’ve gone and done it!’ he screamed in agitation. ‘They’ve broken through!’

  ‘What in the name of—’ Rose stretched her arms out to calm him. ‘Who’s broken what?’

  ‘We have!’ Jack squeaked, hardly able to speak.

  ‘What’s happened?’ John barked. ‘Spit it out, lad.’

  ‘Mafeking,’ he panted. ‘Mafeking’s been relieved!’ He whooped and punched the air with his rifle.

  ‘Is that what all this song and dance is about?’ Rose asked in bewilderment.

  ‘Aye,’ Jack grinned. ‘Happened Thursday or Friday. They’re saying down at the station London’s ganin’ crackers at the news. Can we have a party, Father?’

  John just grunted. ‘You scarper before I find you a job to do.’ Then as an afterthought he fished in his pocket and pulled out a penny. ‘Gan and get yourself some’at to celebrate.’

  Jack took the penny as if he had just been given a sovereign. ‘Ta, Father. Ta very much!’ He ran off with the speed of a fire-cracker before John changed his mind.

  John shook his head. ‘Well, bugger me! He’s gone and done it again. Lord Roberts - he’s a bloody wizard.’

  Only later did the newspapers reveal that it was Colonel Baden-Powell who was the hero of Mafeking, bringing deliverance to the railway town after seven months of siege. But to John it was still the brilliance of Roberts, that talisman of the British army that was turning the conflict in the country’s favour, conjuring victory out of humiliation. Rose could not decipher whether her husband loved or hated the field marshal, but that day he basked in the glory of it all as if he had had a hand in it.

  The town was gripped in a fever of celebration and John was not going to miss out. Factories closed and brass bands marched with children parading behind them playing kazoos and waving flags. The pubs did a roaring trade and by the afternoon there were people openly singing and dancing in the streets.

  Sarah came home excited. ‘They’ve given me the rest of the day off, Mam. Can I go into Newcastle with Clara? Her Auntie Bella lives there now - we could stop with her.’

  ‘I’ll not have you stoppin’ with strangers,’ John said at once. He had returned from several hours’ drinking and was dozing in his chair. But he was not too drunk to give his opinion.

  ‘They’re not strangers,’ Rose defended. ‘The lasses have been friends since school. And Bella used to help me out with the bairns when we lived at Raglan Street.’ As soon as the words were out she knew it was the wrong thing to say. Bella and Raglan Street were part of her past that was anathema to John.

  ‘I don’t know them,’ he snapped. ‘And Newcastle won’t be safe on a day like this. It’ll be heavin’ with strangers and bad ‘uns.’

  ‘We’ll just be looking round the shops,’ Sarah said, ‘and having our tea with Auntie Bella.’ She looked pleadingly at them both. ‘Please. I hardly ever get time off and it’s a special day - one for celebrating.’

  Rose forced herself to keep quiet, knowing that if she gave her permission, John would perversely refuse it. It was best to say nothing and let him make the decision.

  He stared at Sarah suspiciously. ‘You sure you’re not meetin’ some lad?’

  ‘Course I’m not,’ Sarah exclaimed. ‘It’s just me and Clara.’

  ‘Cos you’re too young to start courtin’ and when you do it’ll be on my say-so.’

  ‘Aye, Father, I promise.’ She stared at him expectantly. ‘So can I go?’

  John pulled a face. ‘Aye, go on. Just this once, mind.’

  Sarah’s face broke into a smile of relief. She gave him a quick kiss on his cheek. ‘Ta, Father.’

  But before she could fix on her boater and dash out the door, he added, ‘You’re to come home the night, mind you. There’s no stopping in Newcastle on a Saturday night.’

  Sarah glanced at Rose in dismay, but Rose cut off any protest, fearing that John might forbid her to go at all if she argued back.

  ‘You’ll do as your father says,’ Rose warned. ‘Be back here by nightfall.’

  Chapter 43

  Those words of warning rang in Rose’s head hours later when the sun began to set over the blackened stacks of the coke works and factory chimneys to the west. The evening shadows were growing longer up the lane and creeping across the back yard. Rose went out to look, pretending she was paying a visit to the outside closet. She peered away down the hill for any sign of Sarah returning along the Jarrow Road. There were still plenty of people meandering home along it, but none of them looked like her daughter.

  Rose’s heart began to pound. John had gone out again after sleeping off his early drinking. Please God, let Sarah return before him! Kate and Mary had taken Jack along to see the bonfire at the end of Lancaster Street on the other side of the New Buildings and she could hear the noise from where she stood. But families were beginning to return to their houses and children were being called in. It was not nearly dark yet, and Rose drew comfort from the thought.

  An hour later, she went out to fetch the younger ones home. Through the dusk she could see the lights of Newcastle away in the distance. Now and again, fireworks would pepper the indigo sky with sparks of light, then fade like shooting stars. For once the evening sky was clear and the moon rose and brightened like a ship’s lantern as the sky darkened.

  ‘Haway, our Jack, it’s high time you were in bed,
’ Rose said when she found him squatting by the bonfire. His face was weary but still aglow with excitement in the light of the flames.

  ‘Can’t I stop?’ he complained.

  ‘Get yourself home now, before your father finds you still out,’ she ordered, pulling him up. She looked round for Kate and saw her in the middle of a group of young friends, telling some story that was making them laugh.

  ‘Mary, tell your sister I want her home,’ Rose said, anxiety clutching her. Kate was quite capable of staying out late and forgetting what time it was. But where could Sarah be? She was usually so sensible.

  When Rose got back there was still no sign of her eldest. She busied herself getting Jack to bed and tidying up the house for the morning. She laid a cloth on the table and put out cups and plates for Sunday breakfast - there would be bacon and freshly baked bread. Rose banked up the fire and sent Kate to the tap to fill up the kettle. Her daughter could tell she was fretting.

  ‘She’ll have stopped with Auntie Bella,’ Kate said.

  ‘She was told to be home.’ Rose was short with her.

  ‘The trams’ll be busy the night,’ Kate pointed out. ‘Our Sarah might have had to wait—’

  ‘Don’t make excuses for her,’ Rose cut in. ‘She should’ve been back before now. I’ll have some’at to say when she walks in that door.’

  For the next hour, she paced in and out of the house, hovering at the back door or walking to the top of the street to see if Sarah was in sight. But when one of her neighbours stopped her to ask if she had lost something, Rose hurried indoors, not wanting her business known. The time of the last tram came and went. She watched the clock, counting down the fifteen minutes she thought it would take for Sarah to walk up the bank from the tram stand. She listened out for the girl’s steps but heard only a distant tug on the river and the sound of someone singing through an open window.

  Sarah was not coming home. Rose felt nauseous. Perhaps something terrible had happened to her? She had been set upon on her way home. Pushed in the river. Crushed in a crowd. She had fallen in with bad company, as John had feared. At best, Sarah had defied them and deliberately stayed over at Bella’s. How could she be so stupid? Rose see-sawed between anger at her daughter’s disobedience and terror that something awful had happened to her.

  Several times, she reached for her shawl with the intention of setting out to look for Sarah, then realised the futility of such an act. Newcastle was a good hour’s walk away and she would not know where to begin searching. Perhaps she should go to the police station? Or walk into Jarrow and see if Clara had returned? But then Sarah’s friend was expected to stay over at Bella’s, Sarah had said. Rose wrung her hands in a fever of indecision. In the end she decided to go to bed, praying that Sarah was safely at Bella’s.

  As Rose had dreaded, the next person to walk - or rather stagger - in the door was John. It was gone midnight and quite dark. He lurched around, bumping into furniture and cursing that the light was out. Rose lay still, pretending to be asleep. He began to sing again. The others were safely shut away in the bedroom, at least she had seen to that. She wondered how long they would stay asleep with the noise he was making.

  Rose watched her husband guardedly. It was just possible that he was so drunk he would not notice that Sarah was not there. He might have forgotten she had gone to Newcastle at all or she could pretend that the girl was asleep in the other room with her sisters. Better for him to discover her absence in the morning when he was hungover than when fiery with drink. Or maybe Sarah would come home on an early tram and slip in the house before he awoke. She prayed for such a miracle.

  John stumbled towards the bed. ‘Where are you, Rose?’ he slurred.

  ‘Here,’ she whispered. ‘Come to bed.’

  He nearly fell on top of her as he crashed against the bed. He swore, then yanked at the bedclothes.

  ‘Gerrup,’ he ordered. ‘Out. It’s Mafeking. We’ve got the Dutch peasants on the run. Dance wi’ me!’

  ‘John,’ Rose protested, ‘it’s the middle of the night.’

  ‘Dance, woman!’ he cried, trying to drag her out of bed. ‘Everyone up and dance!’ Abruptly, he turned and lurched off across the room. Before Rose could haul herself up, he had barged into the other room.

  ‘Leave them be!’ she called after him in panic.

  But it was too late. She could already hear him shouting at Jack to stand to attention and the girls to get up and dance. He pushed them through the door and clapped his hands in time to some imaginary tune in his head. Rose could just make out the pale, apprehensive faces of her children, but could do nothing to reassure them. John lunged at the fire with the poker and stabbed at the dross to stir up some flame to light the room. A lurid red glow flickered over his face.

  ‘Dance, you little wasters!’ he cried, laughing at their sluggish attempts. ‘Get your knees up!’

  Kate and Mary spun each other round. Jack stood yawning widely, half asleep on his feet. Rose went over and pulled him towards her, guiding him to her bed. ‘Sit here, hinny,’ she murmured, pressing his tired head to her bosom.

  It was a mistake. With just Kate and Mary turning circles to his command, John realised the room was too empty. There was someone missing. Through the alcoholic numbness that slowed his thoughts, it came to him.

  ‘Where is she?’ he demanded, his humour souring instantly. The girls carried on dancing. He grabbed at Kate’s arm and shook her roughly. ‘I said where is she? Where’s your sister?’

  Nobody spoke. John pushed her aside and lurched back into the bedroom. He poked the bedding with the fire iron and swore at the empty bed. Rose stood up, her heart hammering, and pushed Jack behind her. John came storming out of the bedroom.

  ‘Where’s that little bitch got to?’ he bawled at her.

  ‘She’s not here, John,’ Rose said, her throat so tight she could hardly speak. ‘She must’ve missed the tram. Maybe they were too full after all the celebratin’. She’ll have stopped with Bella - she’ll be all right.’

  He stepped forward unsteadily, his face full of fury. Rose just had time to anticipate his clumsy move and dodge out the way before he brought the poker crashing down. It clattered to the floor, missing her by an inch. Kate screamed in fright.

  ‘Are you all right. Mam?’

  ‘Aye,’ Rose gasped, side-stepping John’s attempt to grasp her. She ran round the table. ‘Get out the house,’ she cried at the girls. ‘Take your brother!’

  They could hardly hear her for the shouting and cursing of their stepfather. He chased after Rose like a man demented, ramming the table and hurling chairs out of the way to get at her. Kate grabbed Jack and ran for the back door, pushing Mary in front of her.

  Rose seized the heavy iron skillet from the range and held it in front of her like a shield. ‘Don’t you touch me!’ she screamed at him. ‘I told the lass to be back. You heard me!’

  ‘You encouraged her to go,’ he shouted. ‘Always going against me! She’ll be whoring on the streets of Newcastle. You’ve a slut for a lass! I should’ve taken the belt to her long ago - but you’re soft as clarts. This is your doing, you old witch!’

  ‘Don’t you blame me,’ she yelled. ‘You’re the one that’s driving her away with your drinkin’ and cussin’. It’s no surprise she’s not come back - she might never come back! And who would blame her?’

  ‘By God, I’ll tak the belt to you, an’ all!’

  ‘Never!’ Rose spat at him. ‘You’ll not touch me. You’re nothing but a drunken, foul-mouthed pig who picks on them that can’t fight back. But I’ll fight yer this time!’

  John picked up a plate from the table and threw it at her. ‘Gerr-out!’ he roared. ‘I’ll kill yer!’ He grabbed the bread knife from the table and held it aloft. Kate, still hovering in the doorway, screamed.

  Rose froze in shock at
the madman before her. His face was contorted, a gaunt devilish mask in the firelight. He was going to kill her! Without thinking, she hurled the skillet at him then bolted for the door. She heard the pan clatter against the table but did not look round to see if it had hit him. Rose tripped over the doorstep, pushing her children ahead of her.

  ‘Run!’ she gasped and fled down the brick path, panic choking her.

  She knew she could not outrun John if he came after her. For a second she wondered what neighbour would give them shelter, but even in that moment of gut-wrenching fear, she could not bring herself so low as to beg for refuge in the middle of the night.

  Rose reached the bottom of the yard. ‘In the netty,’ she ordered, hurling her children into the shed that housed the dry closet. She slammed the door shut behind them and fumbled with the iron bolt with shaking hands. She rammed it shut just as she heard John staggering down the path after her. He shouted oaths and hammered on the door until she thought he would knock it down. But she and Kate leaned against it with all their weight and prayed it would not give way. Mary and Jack huddled on the wooden seat and sobbed in fright.

  John kicked and thumped the door and railed at her for several minutes, but did not break in. Finally the blows subsided and the threats lessened until he tired and gave up. Rose heard him trudge back to the house shouting at some screeching cat on a neighbouring roof. She did not move till she heard the back door bang shut and then silence.

  Her heart pounded. She felt too ill to speak or reassure the terrified children. Rose waited, not trusting that he had really gone, but heard nothing more. After a while, she slipped back the bolt and peered out. All was quiet. Yet she did not dare go back to the house to make certain he had fallen asleep. Rose retreated into the musty, rank-smelling closet and closed the door again.

  Her legs gave way and she sank to the floor, sobbing with relief that she was still alive. Kate put comforting arms around her.