‘That’s as maybe,’ Kate cried in desperation, ‘but I could never bring him home to such a place!’ It was out before she could stop herself.
Rose stared at her, first in disbelief, then with shock as realisation dawned. ‘Your gentleman,’ Rose whispered, ‘you’re talking about him, aren’t you?’
Kate bit her lip, furious with herself for speaking her thoughts. They were wild thoughts, dreams that might come to nothing. And because of her impetuous words she had hurt her mother, she could tell by the wounded look on the older woman’s face.
‘You’re ashamed of us,’ Rose said, feeling numb inside. ‘You’re ashamed of your own mother.’
‘No, Mam!’ Kate cried, grabbing her mother’s arm. ‘Not of you.’ Her pretty face was pleading. ‘Please believe I’d never be ashamed of you. It’s just Leam Lane and -’
Rose felt tears sting her eyes. ‘I know - your father,’ she finished for her.
‘He’s not me father,’ Kate said in a voice full of rancour.
Rose pulled away. ‘He’s kept a roof over our heads all these years - including yours. He at least deserves your respect for that.’
Kate shook her head. ‘You did that, not him.
Rose looked at her daughter and felt overwhelming sadness. A huge gulf separated them and it was of her own making. She had encouraged Kate to go away and better herself, yearned for the day she would return with a ring on her finger, having won the heart of a respectable, prosperous man. How could she blame her for wanting to distance herself from the grubby, noisy poverty of Tyne Dock? Wherever they lived, Rose realised too late, Kate would probably shun them. That must be why she had been so coy about telling them she was courting. She wanted to keep her admirer and her new life quite separate from her old.
‘Is he so very grand?’ Rose asked quietly, searching her daughter’s face.
Kate hardly dared meet her mother’s look. ‘Yes,’ she whispered.
Suddenly Rose was filled with foreboding. Had Kate set her sights too high? Was she involved with someone too far above her station for safety? On impulse she stepped towards Kate and pulled her close, gathering her arms about the girl’s slender shoulders.
‘Oh, lass, I fear for you!’
‘Oh, Mam, don’t!’
Kate clung to her mother as she had not done since childhood and wept. She had thought never to feel her strong hug again. Her mother seemed to have forgotten how to touch them these past years. But it felt so good now! She felt strength flow from the older woman to her and give her courage.
‘I know you’d like him. He’s kind and funny and so handsome. I don’t know what he sees in me.’
‘Don’t you do yourself down,’ Rose declared. ‘You were meant for better things than skivvying. You hold your head up high when you walk out with this Mr— what do you call him?’
‘Pringle-Davies.’ Kate blushed.
‘Aye, Pringle . . .’ What was it about the name that was familiar? Rose struggled to remember. There was something Kate had said about him before that had sparked off a half-memory. No, it had gone. It did not matter now. Having Kate holding on so affectionately was weakening her resolve to let her daughter go.
With difficulty, Rose pulled away. She would not break down in front of Kate. She had not stayed strong for her all these years to betray herself as weak now. Rose gulped back the tears in her throat. How she wanted to protect her daughter!
‘You’re right,’ Rose said hoarsely, ‘don’t let him come here. If you’ve a chance of happiness, lass, take it. By God, you take it!’
They looked at each other, both shaking with the cold and the emotion that clawed at their insides. Kate reached forward to touch her once more, but Rose drew back. She did not trust herself to embrace the girl again; she would not have the strength to let her go.
‘But whatever you do and wherever you go,’ Rose added stoutly, ‘don’t you ever be ashamed of who you are. You’ve had good parents - God-fearing parents who’ve brought you up to do right, however poor we’ve been.’ She raised her hand and lightly touched Kate’s cheek as if in farewell. ‘Remember you were born a Fawcett - you were your da’s favourite. I’ve given you that - so be proud of it. Make me proud of you, lass!’
She withdrew her hand swiftly and turned away.
‘Mam,’ Kate rasped, ‘don’t go!’
But Rose kept on walking towards the cottage. They both knew that in that moment of truth when Rose had laid bare her feelings, she was also letting go. Rose did not look back; she could not in case her resolve wavered. She would rather her daughter went back to Lamesley and never saw her again, disowned her family, if it meant a chance at happiness with a man above her station who could give her security. Although the pain of separation would be raw, she would give up her daughter for William’s sake - for her beloved William’s memory!
As she reached the door, Rose heard Kate sob, ‘I will, Mam - I’ll make you proud!’
Rose glanced round and gasped to see Kate’s features caught in the golden light of the winter sunset. Her tear-stained face looked beatific. There was no other way to describe it. At that moment she had the face of an angel.
The gypsy’s words rang in her ears. At the end of her life she would be blessed with an angel child. Kate would give her that angel child, Rose was certain of it. Ever since she had first seen Lord Ravensworth’s daughter married and in her childish mind confused her radiant face with that of the moon, Rose believed she had been looked after by a guardian angel. How else to explain how she had survived all that she had been through? It was all for a purpose. All roads had led here to this moment of clarity. Kate was her chosen one. She would carry on where Rose could not. In time she would bring her greater joy. Rose smiled at her daughter, then opened the door and went inside.
Kate was left trembling in the dark, weeping at the weight of responsibility she felt pressing upon her. She had seen it in her mother’s eyes, heard it in the way she spoke of Kate’s real father. Her mother had freed her from her stepfather’s dominance, but in return there was a price to pay. Rose expected the world from her.
Kate looked up into the late afternoon sky, already dark. There was just a glimpse of a new moon hanging over the copse, lifting like the sail of a ship. A new beginning. Kate took heart from the omen. She turned and looked behind her, to the south where Ravensworth and her other existence lay.
‘Oh, Mam,’ she whispered in the frosty stillness, ‘I wish I had as much faith in myself as you do - and as stout a heart.’
Then she thought of the man she loved, the man with auburn hair and dark eyes that danced with dangerous merriment. The man with the deep voice that flattered and teased and told her she was beautiful. The man of a hundred tales who claimed his mother had been a Liddell who had eloped with a coachman named Pringle. The man who tempted her to recklessness too.
‘Alexander.’ She whispered his first name tentatively, blushing at her daring. A wave of tender longing swept over her.
‘Alexander,’ she called out more boldly, as if she could conjure him to her. ‘Soon we’ll be together again!’
Then, before facing the others, she blew a kiss in the direction of Ravensworth. For after today, Kate knew more than ever, that was where her heart and her destiny lay.
***
THE JARROW LASS is the first in a Trilogy. A CHILD OF JARROW and RETURN TO JARROW continue the story of Rose and her family through the first half of the 20th century.
Praise for A CHILD OF JARROW and RETURN TO JARROW:
‘The Jarrow Lass was inspired by Catherine Cookson’s grandmother. This follows into the next generation, with Cookson’s mother and the childhood of the great novelist herself. It is a winner.’
The Bookseller.
‘Brings early 20th century Jarrow vividly to life. A smashing read.’
Lancashire Evening Post
‘Her finest yet - a wonderfully moving, deeply emotional tale’
The Daily Record
‘This is a story to burn itself into your mind.’
Northern Echo
‘Penmanship of the highest quality ... This is a story of warmth and despair, based on facts and places and with excellent characterisation. It is a delicate yet strongly-woven book of biography and imagination. Rich in narrative, which twists and turns on every page. It touches many raw nerves of human experience.’
The Newcastle Journal
‘It is powerfully and skilfully written, and keeps you interested until the end.’
The Sunderland Echo
***
Janet welcomes comments and feedback on her stories. If you would like to do so, you can contact her through her website:
www.janetmacleodtrotter.com
The Jarrow Lass Page 42
