Return to Jarrow

by Janet MacLeod Trotter

  Catherine coloured. ‘No, I was ill in bed for a few days - a bad cold.’

  ‘Oh, I’m sorry. I thought perhaps ...’ His voice trailed off.

  She looked at him in concern. ‘Is something wrong?’

  He shook his head as if ridding it of difficult thoughts. They walked up to Simonside in near silence, Catherine anxious not to upset him with too many questions. They sat on their bench, though the September wind gusted around them and spattered them with drops of rain.

  ‘Me family would like to have you round for tea,’ she broke the silence, ‘nothing fancy. Maybes next Saturday?’

  He frowned at her as if he were finding it hard to focus on what she was saying.

  ‘Saturday? Oh, yes, very well.’

  ‘Gerald,’ she said, puzzled, ‘tell me what’s on your mind. You seem a million miles away.’

  ‘I was thinking about Gilsland,’ he murmured.

  Her heart began to race. ‘I think of it all the time. Wasn’t it just grand? The best time in me life.’

  ‘Have you thought any more about it?’ he asked.

  Her stomach jerked. ‘About us, you mean?’

  He gave her a strange look. ‘No, about the midwifery course.’

  Catherine stared at him, baffled.

  ‘I was thinking what a great opportunity it is for you,’ Gerald continued. ‘And I would like to help you out - lend you the money so that you can go.’

  Tears stung her eyes. She blinked quickly, forcing them back.

  ‘It’s too late. I had to tell Matron by the end of August.’

  He pursed his lips. ‘I’m sorry, I would like to have helped. You deserve to get on.’

  Catherine blurted out, ‘I don’t care about being a midwife - I never wanted to be one. I want to stay here and be with you.’

  He shifted uneasily. ‘You’re very sweet.’ But he did not lean close and try to kiss her or talk about their future together. Instead he rambled on about a concert he had been to in Newcastle and his mother’s visit to the coast.

  As spots of rain turned heavier, they hurried back to town. At the foot of the bank they parted. Catherine clenched her fists in frustration.

  ‘You’ll come next Saturday then?’

  ‘Next Saturday?’ he queried.

  ‘To tea at my house,’ she prompted.

  ‘Oh, tea, yes, of course.’

  ‘It’s Number Ten William Black Street, remember. Four o’clock be all right?’

  He nodded, tipped his hat and walked away. Catherine swallowed the panic she felt rising inside. Gerald had given her no reason to be optimistic that he would come this time. She plodded up towards East Jarrow in the fading light, oblivious of the rain. She would need to tell Kate just in case he did turn up. By the time she reached the New Buildings, she had convinced herself that Gerald would keep his promise. The talk of the midwifery course had meant nothing ominous, it had just been a sign of his generous nature, wanting to provide for her, thinking of her future and wellbeing.

  All that week, Catherine went around with a feeling of dread in the pit of her stomach. She would get home early to make sure Kate had the house clean and looking respectable and make sure John was either sober or put to bed.

  On the way up to East Jarrow, she bought a large sponge cake with a cream filling that she knew Gerald would like. Arriving at the house, she was dismayed to see wet washing strewn around the hearth. The table was unlaid and cluttered with ironing.

  Catherine dashed about, seizing wet sheets. ‘Kate! He’ll be here in an hour. What you doing washing on a Saturday?’

  Her mother appeared from the scullery, her hair dishevelled, sleeves rolled up.

  ‘Your grandda wet his bed,’ she said shortly. She gave Catherine a wary look.

  ‘What is it?’

  ‘You better read this - it came this morning,’ Kate said dully, pulling out an envelope from her apron pocket.

  It had already been opened. Catherine shot her mother an angry look.

  ‘You’ve read it.’

  ‘It’s from him. I’m sorry, hinny.’

  She could not bear the look of pity on Kate’s face. Turning away, she unfolded the letter with trembling hands.

  Dearest Kitty,

  I cannot come for tea on Saturday, or any other day in the future. I am truly sorry for causing you such pain. I never meant for you to become so attached to me. My regard for you is too high to allow the situation to continue.

  You see, my dear, I have been grieving these past two years for another. I was engaged to be married to the daughter of a clerk in a law firm, here in South Shields, but being unsure of my feelings and hers, broke off the engagement just before our marriage. You, sweet Kitty, have been a solace to me in these trying times and given me back my will to love again. But I see clearly now that it is this other woman whom I truly love and that I could marry no other.

  You have been the rock to which I have clung in my despair. Please forgive me for leaning on you thus. I hope you will find a man worthy of your love in the years to come.

  With kind regards,

  adieu,

  Gerald Rolland

  Catherine wanted to scream as she crumpled the letter in her fist and threw it on the fire. How could he do this to her? He had been promised to another all along. What a coward he was! Hot tears welled in her eyes. ‘You’re better off without him,’ Kate declared. ‘His type never make a lass happy. They’re all sweet words and false promises. Here one day, gone—’

  ‘Shut up!’ Catherine rounded on her. ‘You don’t know what you’re talking about. You never knew him, so don’t you go judging him. And you should never have opened me letter!’

  ‘Well, it makes no difference.’ Kate was defensive. ‘He’s done the dirty on you any road. I’ve never trusted him since he spoilt your party - and all that sneaking about the place not wantin’ to be seen with you - well, we know why now. He had another lass all along.’

  ‘Aye, he did,’ Catherine said tearfully. ‘Happy now? Bet you’re pleased I’m just as daft as you - being taken in by posh clothes and a la-di-da voice.’

  ‘I never said—’

  ‘But at least I never got meself into trouble,’ Catherine blazed.

  ‘Don’t you speak to me like that,’ Kate snapped.

  ‘I don’t believe he had another lass,’ Catherine cried, unable to stop. ‘He just thought I wasn’t good enough for him. I bet some snotty gossip from round here told him about me and you. You’re not the only one never gan to be rid of the shame - ‘cos I’m stuck with it an’ all. Do you ever think about that?’

  Kate gave her such a look of angry despair that Catherine turned away.

  Kate came after her. ‘I’ll not be spoken to like that by me own flesh and blood as if I’m worth nowt.’ She grabbed her arm. ‘I’ve brought you up as best I can, but do I get any thanks for it? Not a word!’ She shook her. ‘So don’t blame me for your troubles with this man - they’re all of your own making. I warned you about him, but you always know best.’

  Catherine threw off her mother’s hold. ‘Leave me alone!’

  ‘Gladly.’ Kate trembled with fury. ‘Gan stew in your own misery. Get out!’

  Catherine fled into the muddy lane, not caring if the neighbours stared from their rain-splashed doorsteps. No one would be surprised at shouting coming from the McMullens’ house.

  She slipped and slid down the bank, shaking and sobbing with shock. Gerald had deserted her, Kate thrown her out and the women at Harton despised her. Where could she go to escape? Catherine stumbled aimlessly through the town, distressed and fearful. But she knew she had to keep moving, for if she stopped for one moment, the demons that chased her would catch her up.

  Chapter 18

  Cath
erine found herself at Tyne Dock station. It was just after three in the afternoon. Not knowing quite why, she bought a ticket to Lamesley. As she sat on the train and watched the dockyards and terraced housing of Jarrow and Hebburn slip by, she felt her panic and misery begin to ease.

  It was obvious she did not belong here. She would never be accepted by its people as long as the disgrace of illegitimacy was known. It bound her up like a shroud, defined who she was in the eyes of neighbours and workmates. To them she was common Kitty McMullen, daughter of a fallen woman, tainted with sin. No matter how hard she tried to improve herself, how devout she was, she would never achieve respectability round the streets of Jarrow or Shields. She was saddled with Kate’s mistake.

  Kate! she thought resentfully. Her mother had blighted her life, not only with her weakness with men, but her drinking and volatile moods. She had seesawed between possessiveness and rejection, smothering love and sudden beatings. When she thought of her childhood, the humiliations outnumbered the kindnesses: the weekly trek to the pawnshop, queuing for whisky beside grown men, the savage name-calling of the neighbours’ children.

  Catherine squeezed her eyes shut to try to rid herself of the memories. She and Kate would never get on: they were chalk and cheese. But she was only half Kate’s daughter - the lesser half - the argumentative, coarser half. Somewhere she had a father whom she took after, an impulsive romantic, a refined gentleman. It was from him she must have inherited her taste for fine things, the drive to better herself.

  The desire to discover who he was burnt within her more than ever. She felt reckless in her search for him, no longer caring what people would think of her questions. If she could only find him, she felt sure he would rescue her. She had been living the wrong life in the wrong place, whereas she was more suited to this other life of beauty and learning that had eluded her.

  Catherine stood on the platform at Lamesley, gazing at the cornfields. In the near distance, the woods of the Ravensworth estate were tinged with russet and gold, while beyond, a pit village puffed smoke like a train pulling up the far hills.

  Now she was here, she had no idea where to go first. But the air was clear and sweet after recent rain, and she was content to walk along the lane, breathing in its freshness. She stopped by the squat, grey church and put her hand to the cold stone wall. Was this where Grandma Rose had sat and watched a Ravensworth bride as a very small girl? She had loved to hear her grandmother’s stories of visits to the countryside and its tales passed down by Rose’s own grandmother. Stories from a woman who had been alive a hundred years ago, of the gentry riding by flaming torchlight and women in crinolines. She shivered to think she might be standing on the same spot as someone who had seen the Duke of Wellington.

  Suddenly, Catherine thought of Great-Aunt Lizzie. The last they had heard was that she was widowed but still living somewhere on the estate with her son, George. They had not set eyes on each other for years. Perhaps her great-aunt had known who her father was.

  It took half an hour of asking around the village before she was directed up the hill to a row of cottages in the woods. She passed under an old gateway with a deserted and boarded-up lodge. The tunnel of trees rustled above, showering her with the first autumn leaves. The driveway was mossy and overgrown, and Catherine felt the ghosts of the past watching her as she walked.

  Catherine did not recognise the stooped, grey-haired woman who hobbled to the door after much knocking. She squinted at her with a wrinkled, weather-beaten face.

  ‘It’s Kitty, your grand-niece,’ Catherine repeated more loudly, ‘from Jarrow.’

  Lizzie’s face broke into a grin of recognition. ‘Little Kitty? Well, I never! Haway in, it’s grand to see you. You don’t mind cats? Sit yourself down. I’ve just made a pot of tea. What brings you here? Is your mam all right?’ She swung round in concern.

  ‘Yes,’ Catherine said hastily, ‘everyone’s canny.’

  ‘A grand lass, your mam,’ Lizzie wheezed. ‘Happy times we had when she lived here. Our George and Alfred thought the world of her. Good with bairns is Kate.’

  Catherine felt uncomfortable. If only her aunt knew the half of it.

  ‘Let me pour the tea,’ she insisted, and jumped up to help. A ginger cat stalked up to her and rubbed against her legs.

  They chatted for a few minutes, Catherine shouting loudly into Lizzie’s ear trumpet, giving news of the family. But it was not difficult to steer her back to talk of the olden days when Kate had been at Ravensworth. The old woman’s face lit up at mention of the past.

  ‘Came to help out when I’d had a fall,’ she explained. ‘Bonny lass - such a clear skin for someone brought up in the town. She was a real favourite round here, always quick to lend a hand - and singing, always singing like a bird. Went to work at Farnacre for the old dowager.’

  ‘Farnacre?’

  ‘The old dower house yonder,’ Lizzie said, with a jerk of her thumb. ‘Then Lady Ravensworth noticed her and the next minute she’s a maid at the castle. Such a willing worker, you see. And Lady Emma - well, she was a bright spark - liked to have lively young’uns around her all the time.’

  Lizzie went off on a long ramble about the former Lady Ravensworth and a scandal concerning a footman, until Catherine steered her back.

  ‘So why did me mam end up working at the inn?’

  ‘For the reason I told you,’ Lizzie said impatiently. ‘The earl died and Lady Emma took Kate to Farnacre, then Lady Emma ran off with the footman and the next earl died an’ all, so there was no job at the dower house, so she went to the inn.’

  Catherine was still puzzled, but the real question still burnt on the tip of her tongue. She screwed up her courage.

  ‘Aunt Lizzie, did she meet me father when she worked at the castle?’

  The old woman was suddenly flustered. ‘Your father? Well, I don’t rightly know.’

  ‘But it’s possible?’

  Lizzie sucked on her gums in thought. ‘Kate would never talk about it. She never told me who he was. I always thought. . .’

  ‘What?’ Catherine pressed.

  ‘A lad who worked in the gardens was sweet on her - Robert. Aye, he spent all his spare time down at the inn, according to my Peter. And he got wed soon after Kate left, so perhaps he never knew about her carrying his bairn.’

  Catherine was disbelieving. Kate would not have risked disgrace for a mere gardener.

  ‘Aunt Mary said me father was a real gentleman - had connections with the Liddells.’

  Lizzie nodded. ‘Well, Robert had the manners of a gentleman - and he worked for the Liddells until they left the castle. He went with them to their country estate in Northumberland.’

  ‘Aunt Mary said he was called Alexander Pringle-Davies. Do you know that name?’

  Lizzie stared at her, then abruptly laughed. ‘Master Alexander? Don’t be daft! Our Mary’s full of tales and nonsense.’

  ‘So you knew him?’

  ‘Not exactly. He used to stay at the castle on business - handsome as they come. He was some sort of relation of the old earl - and a friend of Lady Emma’s. Now there was gossip about him and Lady Ravensworth ... but him and Kate? No, that’s our Mary being fanciful.’

  Catherine was hurt by her aunt’s dismissal of such an idea, as if it was impossible she could have had such a father. But instead of discouraging her, it made her all the more convinced that this gentleman must have been Kate’s lover. If it had been Robert the gardener, there could have been a hurried wedding. But Kate must have aimed too high in her expectations of love, and fallen for a man so beyond her social class that marriage would have been out of the question.

  ‘So he was related to the earl, you say?’ Catherine was desperate to glean anything about him.

  Lizzie frowned. ‘I think so - it’s so long since I’ve thought about him. Used to see him out
riding.’ She sighed. ‘No, I don’t remember the story. My Peter could have told you - he knew Master Alexander when he was a lad. Bright as a button and a whole lot of mischief.’

  Catherine’s insides twisted in frustration. If only her great-uncle was still alive to unlock the secrets Kate refused to tell.

  ‘Where is Mr Pringle-Davies now?’

  Lizzie shook her head. ‘I wouldn’t know. There haven’t been Liddells at Ravensworth since the end of the war. It’s a girls’ school now, did you know? My Peter’s bonny lawns turned into hockey pitches. The gardens gone to rack and ruin - though my George tries his best - and they’re building villas where the glasshouses used to be.’ She tutted and sucked hard on her gums.

  The light was fading from the low-ceilinged cottage and Catherine got up to leave. She would get no more from her aunt and her fading memory.

  ‘Why don’t you stop the night?’ Lizzie suggested. ‘It’s getting late and you’ll not be home before dark. George’ll be in shortly - he could show you around the old gardens.’

  Catherine brightened, having no desire to return to the town. ‘I’d like that.’

  She helped her aunt peel some potatoes and carrots for the pot, until her cousin appeared. George stooped to enter the kitchen taking off his cap and scratching his thin reddish hair, awkward at finding a visitor.

  But Catherine put him at his ease by showing interest in the models he made out of corn stalks. After a tea of rabbit stew and baked apples, he was gruffly willing to show her around the estate before nightfall. George was employed by the private school as its gardener.

  ‘Don’t have time to keep it like it should be,’ he said in apology, as they approached the shadowy castellated mansion and skirted the old stables. A clock above the archway chimed seven and someone practising piano scales could be heard from an open window. A strong, sickly smell of overblown roses wafted at them as they rounded the corner on to a terrace. The flagstones were uneven and cracked, the flowerbeds choked with wild grasses, but the lawns that swept away towards the woods were neatly trimmed. One was marked out as a tennis court.