‘Well,’ Hettie said breathlessly, ‘I don’t rightly know, but remember how upset she got over Jenny McManners and her bastard son? Takes one to know one, I say.’
There were gasps of shock.
‘Never!’
Catherine clutched the doorframe for support, fighting waves of nausea. She wanted to run away. They were hateful! But she had to go in, show them that she did not care. It was gossip and nothing more - they had no proof, just Hettie’s vile thoughts. She had done nothing wrong and there was no fancy man.
With heart pounding, she forced herself to walk in the room. The talking stopped at once. Two women returned to their knitting, the others stared at the jigsaw on the table.
‘I’ve brought some rock cakes from me Aunt Mary,’ Catherine said brightly. ‘Thought you all might like to share them.’
She smiled at each of them in turn, relishing the guilty looks on some of their faces.
‘That’s canny,’ mumbled one of the knitters.
‘No, thank you, they give me indigestion,’ Hettie said dismissively and stood up. ‘You coming, Gert?’ Her friend hesitated, then followed.
Catherine felt her mouth drying. If they all walked out, she would crumble like dead leaves.
‘Don’t worry,’ Catherine said with forced joviality, ‘if they’re too hard we’ll donate them to the stone-breakers’ yard.’
One of the women laughed. ‘Haway, I’ll try one. Like anything with raisins in.’
It broke the awkwardness and Catherine rushed to the table in relief, tearing open the greaseproof paper. She made a pot of tea and soon the talk was of the shortening days, the collapse of the miners’ lockout and whether Matron could afford to lay on mince pies at the Christmas dance.
That night, as Catherine lay in bed, it was not for herself that she worried, but Tommy. It was so easy in the enclosed world of the workhouse to forget what was happening outside. But the casual talk of the lockout by the miners’ bosses made her ashamed she had not thought of it more.
Tommy had been on strike for six months and she could imagine only too well how they were getting by on no money. His mother taking in washing or lodgers, trips to the pawnshop until their house was bare, scratching along the wagon ways for fallen bits of coal, risking arrest stealing timber. Children going to bed with stomachs aching, men tightening their belts, the women huddling over cups of hot water because the stores would no longer give them credit for tea. She had known times of hardship as a child, when there had been little work at the yards and what money came into the house was never enough to clear their debts.
Her eyes stung with angry tears. Why should working people be treated in such a way, when the bosses lived in huge mansions and never had a day’s worry over money? The world was topsy-turvy. There were people who slaved hard all their lives and never earned enough to live on - like some of the wretches who ended up in the workhouse. And there were those who never did a day’s work and had more money than they knew what to do with - like Mrs Halliday at Oakside Manor. Even in her short life Catherine knew of injustice, and it rankled.
And there was big-hearted, foolish Tommy throwing away precious pennies on a bunch of flowers because he knew how much pleasure it would bring. He was worth ten Mrs Hallidays.
Unable to sleep, Catherine sat up and pulled on her new winter coat that had caused such a stir. It was paid for with her own hard-earned money and she would wear it with pride. Pulling out a half-filled exercise book, she began to jot down characters for a story, pithy little thumb-sketches based on people she knew - members of staff, long-ago lodgers of Kate’s, characters around the docks, spiteful children. Maybe the story would never be written, but it helped calm her anger at the unfairness of life, and finally it helped her sleep.
***
The next time she saw Tommy, she slipped him half a crown that she had saved especially. He tried not to take it.
‘So you can buy your mam something for Christmas - and your little sisters,’ Catherine encouraged. She did not add that it was the worst feeling in the world to have nothing in your Christmas stocking. One year, Kate had filled hers with wrapped vegetables because she had nothing else to give, and Catherine had wept with fury and disappointment. It seemed even crueller than an empty stocking, to have a bulging one that turned out to be full of potatoes and carrots. She would not wish that on any child.
Tommy gave her a kiss on the cheek, but Catherine pushed him away with a quick laugh. They were standing outside church after Mass and she wanted no one to get the wrong idea about them.
As she turned, she almost collided with a tall man behind. He raised his bowler hat and smiled.
‘Excuse me.’
‘No - it was my fault,’ Catherine stuttered, as she stared into his face. Her heart thumped. It was Gerald Rolland, the man with the deep, sensual voice who sang at the back of the church. The man she had watched for the past two years, who had not so much as returned a look. Here he was smiling at her and raising his hat as if she was a lady.
‘Lovely music today, wasn’t it?’ she said on impulse.
‘Indeed it was,’ he agreed. ‘This is my favourite time of year - all those carols, all those great tunes.’
‘Me too,’ Catherine enthused, aware how much she was blushing. ‘And you’ve such a beautiful singing voice.’
He shot her a look of surprise. She felt weak at the knees under his dark-eyed, scrutinising gaze. ‘How kind of you,’ he smiled again. He had a broad sensual mouth. Adjusting his hat, he added, ‘No doubt I’ll see you at church again. Good day.’
Catherine nodded and smiled and watched him stride away in his well-cut black coat. Her heart was jerking like a yo-yo. Tommy coughed and she turned to see him grinning with amusement.
‘ “You’ve got such a beautiful singing voice”,’ he mimicked.
She gave him a shove. ‘Well, he has.’
‘Kitty, your cheeks are on fire. Could this be love?’
She covered her face and told him to shush. ‘I was just being polite.’
‘You’ve never told me I’m a beautiful singer,’ he teased.
‘That’s ‘cos you sing flat as a pancake,’ she laughed.
‘I can tell when I’m well beaten,’ Tommy said ruefully. ‘Maybe all those French lessons and talking posh will pay off.’
‘What do you mean by that?’ Catherine bristled.
Tommy grinned, ‘Well, you didn’t do all that to impress the likes of me, now did you, Kitty?’
Catherine said nothing, because she knew he was right.
***
The following Saturday, Gerald approached her after benediction and gave her a diffident smile.
‘Which way are you walking?’
She stared at him, speechless, heart knocking against her chest.
‘Sorry, I just thought. ...’ He gave an embarrassed cough. ‘But maybe you’re waiting for your young man?’
‘Young man?’ Catherine stammered. ‘Oh, you mean Tommy? Goodness, no, he’s not me man! I don’t have one. And yes, I’d like to walk with you.’ She blushed crimson.
They stood for a moment, smiling awkwardly.
‘Well?’ He looked at her quizzically.
‘Yes?’
‘Which way do you live?’ he prompted.
‘Oh!’ Catherine exclaimed. Panic seized her at the thought of him walking her back to William Black Street where she was due to spend the night. Davie was home and he and Kate would be drunk by now. Her mother would give Gerald the eye and pull him into their fusty kitchen, for raucous singing and whisky drinking. Gerald did not look like the type who drank liquor. But neither did she want him walking her to the gates of the workhouse, where they might be spotted by the malicious Hettie or one of her spies.
‘I-I’m not going straight home,’ Cat
herine improvised desperately. ‘I thought of going to the pictures.’
‘Oh, I see,’ Gerald said in surprise. ‘Is there something good on?’
‘Yes - well -I don’t know -I was going to find out. Do - do you like the cinema?’ She felt herself sweating as she asked him. What had possessed her to be so forward?
He looked taken aback, then nodded. ‘Yes, I do. Are you meeting someone, or were you going on your own?’
Catherine felt herself squirm. He might think her odd for going to the pictures alone, but she had done so since she was a small girl. Her greatest pleasure in childhood was to be slipped a penny by her Uncle Jack and dash off to the noisy fleapit to gaze at the moving pictures, while organ music burst over her and swept her into a magical world.
‘I was going alone,’ she said, meeting his look with a touch of defiance.
Suddenly he smiled. ‘May I join you? I have no other plans this evening.’
Catherine was elated. ‘Of course, I’d like that very much.’
He nodded, and together they set off towards the centre of town. By the time they had found a film to go to, she had told him her name, that she lived in Jarrow and worked as an officer at Harton, that she loved reading and painting and cycling in the countryside. He listened attentively to her chatter and laughed at her descriptions of her fellow staff, and Catherine could not help exaggerating their foibles to amuse him.
Gerald insisted on paying for good seats in the stalls to see a Rudolph Valentino film, and bought chocolates for the interval. Catherine thought she must be dreaming; never could she have imagined such luck. If Hettie Brown could see her now, sitting in the dark next to the handsome, well-to-do Gerald Rolland - insurance agent, bass singer - the woman would have a pink fit. Catherine felt a delicious thrill at the thought of introducing such a man to her family and friends.
Afterwards, she had a strong desire to slip her arm through his and stroll through the streets of South Shields. But he made no move towards her.
‘Can I see you to your tram?’ he asked politely. ‘I go in the opposite direction.’
She felt a stab of disappointment as she nodded.
‘Thank you very much for treating me to the film,’ she said, as the tram rattled to a stop in front of them.
Gerald tipped his hat. ‘Perhaps we can do it again some time?’
Catherine smiled eagerly. ‘I’d like that very much.’
He waved her away and she craned for a view of him out of the dirty window as the tram laboured up the bank towards East Jarrow. She could not wait to see Kate’s expression when she told her about the grand man who had bought her chocolates. It was something they could share over a cup of warming tea, something to make Kate’s eyes widen in admiration.
‘Where’ve you been?’ Kate demanded angrily, when she reached home. ‘You never said you’d be this late.’
‘To church, then the pictures,’ Catherine said, unable to hide her smile of satisfaction.
Kate’s eyes narrowed in suspicion. ‘Your tea’s ruined - burnt to a cinder. You never said owt about the pictures. Who you been with?’
Catherine’s heart sank. She could tell by her mother’s look and the smell on her breath that she was in a belligerent mood. There was no sign of Davie or John. Perhaps they had gone to the pub and left her, or maybe there had been a row. Kate grabbed her by the arm.
‘Don’t turn your back on me. I asked you a question. Who you been with? Look like the cat that got the cream.’
‘A friend took me to see Rudolph Valentino,’ Catherine admitted.
‘A lad?’
‘Not a lad - a man - a nice gentleman.’
‘What man? You’ve never said owt about a man friend. Your grandda’ll go light if he hears about this.’
‘I’ve done nothing wrong,’ Catherine said, resentful of her mother’s tone. ‘I’m a grown woman, I can see who I like.’
‘Not while you’re still under my roof,’ Kate snapped.
‘I’m not under your roof,’ Catherine challenged. ‘I pay me own way in the world now. I only come back on me day off to keep you happy and see Grandda.’
This seemed to madden Kate further. She shook her daughter.
‘Don’t you give me your lip. You’re still just a lass, for all your airs and graces. And you’re too young for men friends. Have you been doing owt you shouldn’t have?’
Catherine shook off Kate’s hold. ‘You mean like you did?’ she accused. ‘I’m not that daft.’
In fury, Kate slapped her across the cheek. Catherine gasped and clutched her face. In an instant Kate was remorseful.
‘I’m sorry, hinny,’ she said tearfully, trying to hug her, ‘I didn’t mean to hit you. I’m just that scared of some man taking advantage of you. Let me look at you. I’ll get a wet cloth. Sit here, hinny. Don’t cry, please don’t cry.’
But it was Kate who was soon in floods of tears, berating herself and false men and the world in general for all her troubles. She sat looking old and worn out, wiping her eyes with a grubby apron, while Catherine made her sip water. How quickly Kate could ruin a good day or a special feeling with her drunken suspicions and her grasping neediness. Catherine fought down resentment at her volatile mother. Why did she bother trying to please her? She should have kept quiet about Gerald and the cinema, pretended she’d been with Lily. But she could never lie to her mother.
‘Tell me about your man,’ Kate sniffed, trying to smile.
Catherine felt tired and deflated. She no longer wanted to talk about Gerald. She wanted to keep the young shoots of their courtship to herself, where her mother could not spoil them. Kate would be especially suspicious of an older, well-to-do man who might remind her too painfully of her failure with Alexander Pringle-Davies.
‘There’s nothing to tell,’ Catherine said wearily. ‘He’s just a friend from church, that’s all. I’m sorry about the tea.’
‘I’ll make you some’at now,’ Kate said, brightening, the storm suddenly over. ‘Egg and fried bread, eh?’
The sweet taste of chocolate was still on Catherine’s lips. ‘No, ta. I’ll just have a cup of tea.’
‘Nonsense,’ Kate said, rising, ‘you need fattening up - just skin and bone. Can’t trust you to eat proper at Harton, but I can make sure you do in my house. And the men’ll want some’at when they roll home.’
Kate was in command again. Knowing it was easier not to argue, Catherine set about helping make the eggs, hugging to herself the thought that she would see Gerald tomorrow at Mass. She could hardly wait.
Chapter 11
Catherine tried to hide her disappointment when Gerald did not seek her out the following day. It was crowded outside St Peter and St Paul’s, and he was gone before she could speak to him. All that week she thought of him and wondered if she had imagined their magical evening together. But she still had the remains of the box of chocolates, which she kept in her cupboard and did not want to finish because they were a sweet reminder of the best evening of her life.
What did she know about him, apart from his respectable job with an insurance company? He had hardly spoken about himself, parrying her questions with the briefest of answers. Gerald had a mother still alive somewhere in Newcastle. He loved music, especially Bach and Haydn. He lodged in a large house that overlooked the park and the seafront. That was all she knew about him. Perhaps he was a widower, or jilted in love and wary of young women. Maybe he was not interested in her and had simply been at a loose end the previous Saturday.
Still, she attended benediction this Saturday as usual, as much in hope of seeing him, as a sense of duty.
Ignoring her during the service, he caught her up outside in the dark.
‘Kitty!’
She stopped and swung round. ‘Mr Rolland.’
‘Gerald, pl
ease,’ he chided her. ‘Are you walking into town?’
‘I was going to call on my friend Lily.’
‘Let me accompany you.’
Catherine nodded, trying to appear calm. They set off through the frosty streets, their footsteps ringing on the cobbles. He chatted to her as if they were old friends, asking her about the past week. Halfway to Lily’s house, he suddenly asked, ‘Is your friend expecting you?’
Catherine blushed. ‘Not really, but she doesn’t mind me just calling.’
‘Then she won’t be offended if you don’t call at all?’ he pressed. ‘I was thinking how nice it would be if we went to the pictures together again, tonight.’
Catherine’s heart leapt. ‘Yes, it would. Carole Lombard’s on at the Palladium.’
‘Then let’s go,’ Gerald urged.
Catherine grinned back. ‘If you let me buy the chocolates this time.’
They sat in the packed cinema, squashed close together, eating chocolates. At one point his hand touched hers and he left it resting there for several minutes. Catherine thrilled at its warm heaviness, at skin touching skin.
Afterwards, he took her arm and linked it through his own as he walked her to the tram.
‘Next Friday, they’re doing Handel’s Messiah at St Benedict’s,’ Gerald said. ‘Would you like to go?’
‘That would be grand,’ Catherine beamed.
‘Good, I’ll get us tickets. Meet you there, outside the hall, half-past seven.’
Catherine went home, wrapped in happy thoughts of the following Friday. It was only later that she thought it odd that they had not mentioned seeing each other at Mass the following day. Sure enough, when Sunday came, Gerald slipped away from church without speaking to her and she was left puzzling over his erratic behaviour. When they were on their own, he was sweetly attentive and full of interesting conversation. But on a crowded Sunday at church, he did not even glance in her direction.
Despite this, Catherine was happy to be with him when she could. He was, she thought, a shy man and given time would become outwardly more demonstrative towards her.
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