Return to Jarrow

by Janet MacLeod Trotter

  Catherine waited for the sound of the poker banging on the fender or crockery flying. But her grandfather’s swearing petered out and the silence that followed was ominous. With a feeling of dread, she was sure that the anger and bitterness would turn its attention on her next.

  A week later, Davie was bound for the Cape and Kate’s patience had run out. She turfed Catherine out of bed and spring-cleaned the bedroom. Kate’s way of coping with unhappiness was to work twice as hard, pushing herself physically so she had no time to dwell.

  ‘Work it out, lass,’ she ordered, when Catherine sat listlessly watching her. ‘No point sitting around feeling sorry for yoursel’. You can start by helping me beat the mattress.’

  ‘I’m too tired,’ Catherine complained.

  ‘You need a bit fresh air in your lungs, that’s all. We’ll get the mattress out in the yard.’

  Catherine struggled to help her mother, while John sat by the fire ignoring the activity. She coughed as dust and feathers flew up around them, wary of Kate’s grim look.

  The next day, Kate roused her from sleep. ‘I’ve got work decoratin’ down Jarrow. You’ll have to get your grandda’s breakfast. There’s washing to fetch from Simpsons’ in Oswald Street and a parcel to tak down to Gompertz’s - Davie’s suit. Make sure you get a good price for it.’

  ‘Not the in-and-out!’ Catherine protested. She had never overcome the humiliation of being sent to the pawnshop, with the neighbours watching from their doorsteps.

  ‘How else are we ganin’ to eat this week?’ Kate was sharp. ‘I’ll be back at dinner time.’ Then she was gone.

  Catherine sat for a long time feeling numb and alone. Was this to be her life, domestic drudgery and trips to the pawnshop? But what else was she fit for? She had turned her back on school at thirteen, with no pieces of paper to prove she knew anything. Her head might be full of dreams and stories, but she didn’t have the education to make sense of them on paper. Since a child, she had tried to write down snatches of stories that flashed through her mind, but they never came out right. She blushed to think of the long story she had once sent into the local newspaper that had been returned the very next day, rejected and obviously unread. How that had rankled - still did.

  She could start her painting again. But maybe it was ruining her health. It might sound tragically romantic to be an artist dying young, but she wanted to live. Catherine was filled with a sudden yearning for life, to experience a world beyond the New Buildings, even beyond Jarrow and Shields. Wasn’t she the daughter of a gentleman?

  Catherine forced herself to get up and dressed in her best. She would show them all. Today, she would go and find herself a job away from William Black Street. Simpsons’ washing would have to wait, and as for the pawnshop - Davie’s suit was Kate’s affair; she could take it herself.

  When Catherine reappeared that evening, Kate’s worry turned quickly to fury.

  ‘I’ve been looking all over for you - you never went to Simpsons’ -and Davie’s suit’s still on the table. Where the devil have you been?’

  ‘Signed up with Mrs Bridge’s.’ Catherine faced her triumphantly.

  ‘What you mean, Mrs Bridge’s?’

  ‘The wife that runs that agency,’ Catherine said proudly.

  ‘For domestics?’

  ‘Not just them - all kinds of work. She thinks I’d make a good lady’s companion.’

  John bellowed with laughter. ‘Hark at her!’

  Kate just gawped at her, speechless.

  ‘It’s true,’ Catherine insisted. ‘There’s a lady up Cleadon village wants one. Mrs Bridge thinks I’m just right for the job. I’m to gan up there tomorra and be interviewed.’

  ‘Interviewed!’ crowed John. ‘Our Kitty, a lady’s companion? You bugger!’

  Kate found her voice. ‘Don’t talk daft. You’ll be a maid of all work - a skivvy. I can’t believe you’d fall for that. You’re not ganin’.’

  ‘I am.’

  ‘You’re not fit enough. It’ll finish you.’

  ‘Oh, but I’m fit enough to skivvy for you and run up and down to the pawnshop?’

  ‘Don’t give me your lip—’

  ‘Don’t worry, you’ll get no more of me lip. I’m not stoppin’ round here any longer. If the wife up Cleadon’ll have us, I’m off to live up there. Thought you’d be pleased for me.’

  ‘Pleased that you’re ganin’ into place?’ Kate was scornful.

  ‘Well, what else can I do?’ Catherine protested.

  ‘Some’at you’re more suited to, like shop work. You’ve a head for figures and business.’

  ‘You just want me around here to do your chores for you.’

  ‘And what about me?’ John joined in. ‘Who’s ganin’ to look after me while Kate’s out workin’?’

  ‘You’ll manage.’ Catherine eyed him boldly.

  ‘Don’t go.’ Kate was suddenly pleading. ‘Don’t leave me with . ..’

  Catherine knew from her look that her mother dreaded being left alone with John. But why should she pass up this opportunity of a better life? The fear of being stuck there for ever was stronger than her guilt at leaving Kate to put up with John alone. And some day soon, Davie would be back.

  ‘There’s Davie, remember. He’ll be pleased to find me gone.’

  ‘I don’t know why you’ve taken against him so,’ Kate snapped. ‘He’s done nothing to deserve it.’

  Catherine knew she could never get her mother to understand that it wasn’t so much dislike of Davie, as a deep longing for her real father, that made her act as she did.

  ‘Me mind’s made up.’ Catherine stood her ground. ‘I’m ganin’ up Cleadon the morra.’

  Kate hung her head in defeat, while John spat into the fire and cursed all women.

  A week later, Catherine had secured the position at Oakside Manor, bought her uniform with a loan from the Church, and packed a small bag of possessions. Her mother walked her down to the tram stand.

  ‘I still don’t see what you need a uniform for if you’re a lady’s companion.’

  ‘Oh, it’s just for neatness,’ Catherine said excitedly. ‘You should see the size of the house - five bedrooms and a bathroom as big as our kitchen and two inside privies! And the gardens - you can’t see the road for the trees, like a secret world. And greenhouses. Mrs Halliday says they grow peaches. Just think of it, I’ll be eatin’ fresh peaches this summer.’

  Kate gasped and stopped. Catherine saw her hands fly to her mouth.

  ‘What’s wrong?’ she asked in concern. Tears welled up in her mother’s eyes. ‘Do you have a stitch? Do you want to sit down?’

  Kate shook her head but could not speak.

  ‘I can walk the rest on me own,’ Catherine assured her.

  ‘N-no,’ Kate gulped. ‘It was just the talk of peaches.’ She wiped her eyes fiercely with her sleeve.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ Catherine said in confusion. ‘I didn’t mean to gan on about them. I’ll bring you some back if I can.’

  Kate gave a sad smile. ‘It’s not that, hinny. You just reminded me of some’at.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘I used to work in a big house once, with great big greenhouses. The smell of the peaches . . .’

  Catherine held her breath. ‘You mean Ravensworth?’

  Kate gave her a sharp look. ‘Who told you that?’

  Catherine shrugged. ‘Maybes it was Grandma.’

  Kate nodded. ‘Aye, I lived with your Great-Aunt Lizzie at Ravensworth when I was about your age - helped her out when she broke her leg. Her husband, Peter, was one of the gardeners - canny couple. I got a job at the castle for a bit as a kitchen maid.’

  Catherine marvelled to think her mother had worked in such a place. Aunt Mary had mentioned the coaching inn, but not t
he castle. Perhaps she had been jealous of Kate’s job there. What stories her mother could tell about the gentry and their ways, if only she could get Kate to talk about it.

  ‘What was it like,’ Catherine asked breathlessly, ‘working for the Liddells?’

  Kate’s look was instantly guarded. ‘What do you know about the Liddells? Has our Mary been letting her mouth go?’

  Catherine did not answer. Kate abruptly picked up the bag that Catherine had set down on the pavement and began to march down the bank. Catherine sighed in frustration. Her mother would never talk to her about her past, let alone about Alexander Pringle-Davies. All Catherine knew was that fresh peaches reminded Kate of a past she was too ashamed or frightened to remember.

  As the tram for Cleadon approached, Kate touched her daughter’s cheek with a roughened hand.

  ‘Take care of yourself, lass.’

  ‘I’ll be back before you know it.’ Catherine tried to make light of their parting. ‘I get every Saturday afternoon off when Mrs Halliday gans over Sunderland way to visit her sister.’

  ‘That’s grand,’ Kate smiled.

  For a moment, Catherine saw a flash of beauty in her mother’s face. She leant forward and gave Kate a peck on the cheek. The next moment Kate was pushing her on to the tram with her bag and waving her away. By the time she’d found a seat and looked back, her mother was gone.

  Catherine felt a momentary pang of loss. But the thought of the grand house that was soon to be her home rekindled her excitement. This was the start to a new life away from the shame and poverty that dogged her in East Jarrow, and she could not wait to get on with it.

  Chapter 7

  ‘And the Blakes are coming for afternoon tea,’ Mrs Halliday called at Catherine’s retreating back. ‘They like egg and cress sandwiches and lemon sponge cake - but not too much lemon - you can be a bit heavy-handed at times, Louisa.’

  Catherine gripped the door handle, swallowing a retort.

  ‘And you can serve it in the summerhouse. Unless it clouds over, then we’ll have it in the dining room - with the French windows open to the garden. Unless it’s too breezy, then you can shut them. Or maybe we should just take tea in here? What do you think, Louisa?’

  That you’re a fussy, ridiculous old wife, who should get off your backside and do something useful for once! Catherine itched to say it out loud to her fidgeting, querulous employer, sitting next to the fire fanning herself in the stifling room. Only Mrs Halliday could insist on a fire in the middle of June, unable to make up her mind if it was going to stay fine or start to rain.

  Catherine turned to face her. ‘I’ll serve tea in the dining room with the doors half open. Is that all, ma’am?’

  ‘Yes, yes, I think so, for the moment,’ Mrs Halliday panted. ‘And I hope you’re not going to be sharp with my visitors, Louisa. You’re becoming more brazen by the day.’

  Catherine left the room, clenching her fists to stop herself screaming. She stomped into the kitchen where old Sam, the gardener, was slurping tea.

  ‘I’ll give her brazen! Some of us have been up since five this morning laying fires and heating water - though we’re in the middle of a hot spell. And now she’s got company for tea and expects me to go tappy-lappying all over the garden and house with tea trays, when I’ve got all the polishing to do and the beds to make up for her snobby sister and brother-in-law coming tomorra.’

  ‘Aye, well,’ Sam ruminated, ‘that’s what you’re paid for, Louisa.’

  ‘Not nearly enough,’ Catherine railed. ‘And don’t you gan calling me Louisa, do you hear? I’m Kitty, except to that daft Mrs Halliday and her friends.’ Catherine imitated her employer’s breathless voice. ‘”Oh, no, no, no! We can’t have a lady’s maid called Kitty, it’s too common, don’t you think? You shall be called Janet - no, Rachel. Or maybe Sarah. Something plain but dignified. Louisa. That’s it, Louisa.”’

  Sam chuckled at the mimicry. ‘You should be on the stage, lass.’

  ‘I should be anywhere but here,’ Catherine sighed. ‘Lady’s companion, my foot. I’ve never worked so hard in me life. Me mam was right; I’m just a skivvy with a posh name. And the way they look at me, the missus and her snooty friends, as if they’re doing me a big favour letting me stand around serving them. I can’t believe I’ve stuck it for a whole year.’

  ‘Worse things happen at sea,’ Sam said amiably.

  A bell jangled on the wall above them. Catherine gritted her teeth.

  ‘She’ll have changed her mind again. It’ll be cucumber sandwiches and currant loaf, served on the lawn and me dancing the tango with a rose between me teeth.’

  Sam got up chuckling, while Catherine braced herself to return to the drawing room and the vacillating Mrs Halliday.

  Later, as she sweated in the hot kitchen over a rhubarb tart, she wondered for the umpteenth time why she stayed. The dream of being a lady’s companion and a life of gentility in the countryside had evaporated after a few weeks. The day she was rechristened Louisa, Catherine knew her mother had been right and that she was to be a maid of all work in all but name. She had been tricked. Apart from Sam’s wife, who came in to help with the laundry, there was no domestic help at Oakside Manor but her.

  ‘But you’re so capable,’ Mrs Halliday had cried in astonishment when Catherine had suggested another pair of hands in the kitchen. ‘I wouldn’t want anyone else. Besides, there’s only me to look after. It’s not very hard work for a young girl like you.’

  Catherine had to admit that the reason she had stayed was stubbornness and not wanting to admit to Kate that she had been right all along. She put up with her employer’s carping and indecision, only standing up to her about her days off. Mrs Halliday tried to wheedle out of the Saturday afternoon arrangement whenever she wasn’t visiting her sister, but Catherine had been quietly stubborn and made a point of leaving Cleadon every Saturday afternoon so that she could not be at the woman’s constant beck and call.

  Her free hours slipped by too quickly, and there was time for little else than a couple of hours at home and attending benediction before returning to Oakside Manor. The one source of joy in her week was hearing the deep bass voice of the mysterious man who sat behind her in church. When he was there her spirits were lifted; when he was not, Catherine was gripped with disappointment. She had heard the priest call him Mr Rolland, but she could discover nothing more about him.

  If Davie was at home, Catherine would brace herself to find her family already drinking from the ‘grey hen’ in the middle of the afternoon, the kitchen door thrown open to catch the river breeze. After handing over most of her wages to Kate, she would retreat up the street to Aunt Mary’s orderly house.

  ‘Why don’t you call on Lily?’ Kate had suggested recently. ‘All you get from our Mary is her complaining. You need a bit of fun on your day off - a bit company your own age.’

  ‘Lily’s courtin’,’ Catherine sighed.

  ‘Well, what about Amelia?’ Kate persisted.

  Catherine shrugged. She had not dared go back to the youth club in over a year, afraid of being cold-shouldered by her former friends. She had lost touch with them all.

  Thinking about it now, as she shoved the rhubarb tart into the scorching oven, she was overwhelmed by loneliness. She was nearly nineteen, but her life was one of drudgery and isolation. She suddenly longed for the quick laughter and chatter of Lily, Tommy and the others.

  The next Saturday, she plucked up the courage to seek out her old friend. Mrs Hearn answered her knocking.

  ‘No, pet, our Lily’s gone on the outing to Hexham - with the youth club. Did you not hear about it?’

  Catherine swallowed. ‘I’ve been that busy with work.’

  Lily’s mother nodded. ‘Eeh, it’s grand to see you. I’ve missed you comin’ round, Kitty. Hearing you lasses chattering and carry
ing on together.’

  Suddenly Catherine’s eyes flooded with tears. ‘I miss it an’ all.’

  A moment later she was openly crying on the Hearns’ doorstep. Quickly, Mrs Hearn had an arm about her and was bustling her into the kitchen. She produced a clean starched handkerchief, a cup of tea and a large wedge of currant loaf still warm from the oven. By the time Catherine had finished it, she felt ten times better.

  ‘If you’re that unhappy up Cleadon way,’ said Lily’s mother, ‘why don’t you come back home, find some’at round here?’

  ‘I don’t want to gan back to me family,’ Catherine confessed. ‘I don’t get on with them.’

  Mrs Hearn sat and pondered this. Her face suddenly brightened. ‘Our Lily says they’re needin’ lasses at the laundry.’

  Catherine tried to hide her lack of enthusiasm. Harton workhouse still invoked terror. It was never to be mentioned at home for fear of inciting her grandda’s temper. It conjured up a terrible time in Kate’s childhood when she had been sent out to beg round the streets and John had been reduced to hard labour at Harton in order to eat.

  ‘You could live in,’ Mrs Hearn suggested. ‘Why don’t you ask Father O’Neill to put in a word for you? A little word from the priest dropped in the right ear works wonders. And you and our Lily could be together again. She’d be that pleased.’

  Catherine looked up in surprise. ‘Would she?’

  ‘Why, of course,’ Mrs Hearn smiled. ‘Whatever it was you two fell out about, wasn’t worth the bother. I know Lily misses you - she’s said as much.’

  Catherine was not sure if the woman was just being kind, but the words gave her courage. She left the Hearns’ feeling a new surge of optimism. Even a job at the workhouse laundry would be better than her present situation - if Lily would be her friend again.

  She plucked up courage to speak to Father O’Neill after the Saturday evening service. He glowered at her from under wiry grey eyebrows as she asked for his help, and she felt her familiar fear of him. How many times as a child had she woken screaming from a nightmare in which a black-robed priest loomed out of the dark of the confessional box from which she could never escape? In her childish mind she had always linked the nightmare with the censorious Father O’Neill.