‘Kitty,’ Davie interrupted, ‘you don’t understand. Your father’s dead.’
Catherine recoiled. ‘How would you know?’
Davie gave her a pitying look. ‘I’ve seen his gravestone - in Sweden. It’s in a cemetery for foreigners.’
Catherine stared in bewilderment. ‘Sweden?’
He shrugged broad shoulders. ‘It was his, that’s all I know. Died years ago.’
She looked at Kate for explanation, but her mother’s look was hard and desolate.
‘He’s gone,’ she said in an empty voice. ‘Don’t ever ask me about him again.’
Chapter 20
Nothing was the same for Catherine at the workhouse after the furore of her disappearance. Matron watched her hawkishly and the others made ribald remarks that once she might have laughed off, but now were too hurtful. She kept apart and buried herself in work. She volunteered for any extra shifts, driving herself to exhaustion, until she could collapse into bed and a dreamless sleep. Sometimes, she drove herself so hard it brought on bleeding from her nose and tongue, and she hid away in embarrassment.
In the privacy of her room, she read library books and wrote stories. She was gripped by a compulsion to write; it made her forget the dreary hours and where she was. Time and again, her tales of tragic love would be set in huge mansion houses, with terraces and lawns, and a mysterious lake surrounded by dense woods. Even a year after her visit to Ravensworth, the colours and smells of the countryside were still vivid. She poured out her loneliness in poetry and enrolled on a correspondence course to develop her literary style and technique.
One autumn day in 1928 Lily found her crying in her room.
‘The course teachers - they think me writing’s rubbish,’ Catherine told her. ‘Said me grammar and spelling’s that bad I shouldn’t ever think of writing as a career.’
Lily put an arm round her friend. ‘Never mind what they think. You can do owt you put your mind to.’
‘No I can’t.’ Catherine was forlorn. ‘I’m ganin’ to hoy it all away.’
Lily watched as she tore up the notebook she had been writing in for months.
‘Kitty,’ Lily said firmly, ‘forget about writin’. You’re not ganin’ to sulk in here for the rest of your life. On Saturday we’ll tak off on wor bicycles - gan to the coast or some’at. Tak a picnic - the weather’s still warm enough. What do you say?’
Catherine suddenly yearned for sea air. She flung her arms around the kind girl. ‘Thanks, Lily. Life wouldn’t be worth living without you as me friend.’
That autumn, the two of them went on several bike rides into the countryside and Catherine returned feeling the pleasant tiredness of a day’s vigorous exercise and fresh air. She learnt to laugh again at trivial things, to share jokes and forget about life at Harton.
Occasionally, when it was too wet to go out, she would visit Kate and old John, sit by the fire toasting stale bread on the fire iron. Davie was away most of that year at sea and Kate missed him. Catherine listened to her mother and grandfather snapping and snarling at each other and wondered how they had managed to live under the same roof for so long.
Conversation with her mother was still strained; neither able to forgive the other for the hurt inflicted the previous year. Catherine had not seen Gerald since. He had disappeared from the congregation, perhaps moved away; she was too embarrassed to ask.
Sometimes, a forgetful John would ask, ‘Are you courtin’, lass?’
‘No, Grandda.’
‘Brought me any baccy?’
‘I gave it you when I came in,’ Catherine said.
‘You’re smoking it, you daft old man,’ Kate reminded him.
John scowled and pulled on his pipe for a few minutes, then asked again, ‘Well, lass, are you courtin’ yet?’
‘No I’m not!’ Catherine said impatiently.
‘ ‘Cos if you are, I want to see the bugger.’
Catherine rolled her eyes. ‘Grandda, I’m not courtin’. I can’t be bothered with lads. So stop askin’.’
John grunted and sank into his own thoughts behind a veil of smoke.
‘He’s ganin’ backwards in his mind,’ Kate said as Catherine made to leave. ‘Doesn’t remember what day it is half the time. But he perks up when you come in the house, Kitty. He lives for you, hinny.’
Catherine sighed. She found these visits depressing, but the guilt she felt if she skipped them was the more overwhelming. It was this same sense of duty that drove her regularly to church and confession. At least there she was no longer troubled by Gerald’s presence. She went to pray for Kate and John, an insurance against them being sent to Hell, and she prayed for herself and the soul of her father, finding comfort in the familiar words and the echoing building. But her heart was sore to think she would never meet her father, or be rescued and swept off to another life, assuming Davie’s story had been true.
Perhaps life would never be any better than this, Catherine pondered on her knees, rosary in hand. And what did she have to complain about? She earned a fair wage and her family had a home, when increasingly trade in the town was grinding to a halt and the iron mills had ceased production. She knew by the way the wards were filling up at the workhouse that the numbers of destitute were on the increase.
Yet the docks still rang with ships unloading, and the town bustled with shoppers and Arab seamen just as before. She had a good friend in Lily, and could live without a man. Maybe she would dedicate her life to God, become a nun. At tranquil times of prayer, watching the sun stream through the stained-glass windows and throw coloured light on to the pews, she contemplated such a future.
Then Frank bowled into her life. It was springtime and the position of head laundress had just become vacant. Catherine had put in for it, hopeful that the scandal of eighteen months ago was now well behind her. She was feeling light-hearted and singing snatches of’ Red Sails in the Sunset’, when a tenor voice in the storeroom startled her by joining in.
She stopped in astonishment as a young man with reddish hair and moustache appeared from behind a pile of boxes, grinning.
‘Frank Pearson,’ he said, holding out a hand. ‘Got a supply of soap for you.’ He patted the top box. ‘Anyone told you what a bonny voice you’ve got, miss?’
‘Are you from Proctor’s?’ Catherine asked, hesitating to shake his hand.
‘Lumley’s, miss. Best soap this side of the Atlantic. Powder for the heavy wash, bars for those collars and cuffs. Better smelling than that carbolic you’re using. Just take a look.’
He had the top box open before she could answer. ‘Can offer you cracking terms as well. Better than Proctor’s. Why don’t you just try it for a month?’
‘It’s not my decision,’ Catherine said.
‘But I can see you’re an officer - and a young woman who knows her own mind,’ he persisted, ‘so maybe if you suggested it?’ He had very blue eyes. ‘Don’t I know you from somewhere?’ he asked.
Catherine felt a twist of anxiety. In childhood that question was usually followed by a derogatory snort: ‘Aye, you’re that Kitty McMullen from the New Buildings.’
‘I’ve never seen you before,’ Catherine blushed.
He clicked his fingers. ‘I’ve got it - the Palace, last week. You’re the double of Clara Bow.’
Catherine burst out laughing. ‘By, you’ve swallowed a tin of treacle.’
He stepped forward and she caught a pleasant waft of cologne.
‘Forget the soap. Can I take you to the pictures on Saturday? They’re showing Rudolph Valentino at the Essoldo.’
Catherine liked him at once. How did he know that her earliest passion had been Saturday matinees at the flicks with a stick of liquorice and no errands for a whole afternoon?
‘Yes, I’d like that,’ she smiled. Holdin
g out her hand, she added, ‘I’m Kitty, by the way.’
He took it and held on to it longer than was necessary for a handshake.
Frank failed to get his soap order, though Catherine assured him he would if she became head laundress. But he got his afternoon with her, and several Saturdays after. She found his fresh looks and cheerful chatter just the tonic she needed after months without male company. She had forgotten the fun of flirtatious conversation and the feel of a man’s hand holding hers in the dark of a picture house. Frank was uncomplicated and out to enjoy life. He worked hard and lived across the river in Percy Main.
Lily seemed a touch jealous of Catherine’s new romance.
‘You never have time for your friends any more,’ she chided.
‘I only see him Saturdays,’ Catherine pointed out. ‘He plays in the Sally Army band on Sundays, so you and me can do things together then.’
‘Bet your grandda doesn’t know he’s in the Salvation Army.’
‘No, and I’m not ganin’ to tell him. We’re just having a bit of a laugh, nothing serious.’
‘It’s all right for some,’ Lily said. ‘Can you find me one like that, an’ all?’
***
Catherine’s new-found happiness was blunted by a setback at Harton.
‘They’ve passed me over!’ she railed tearfully at Frank one week in late May. ‘Matron’s given the job to some lass from Gateshead. Can you believe it? And after all the hours of hard work I’ve put in over the years. That job should’ve been mine.’
‘Course it should. They can’t see quality when it stares them in the face. Something else will come along - don’t you worry.’
Frank took her to the pictures. In the back stalls he soothed her with soft words, murmuring in her ear, ‘I think the world of you, Kitty.’ Slipping a hand around her waist, he pulled her close and kissed her full on the lips.
They did not see much of that day’s film, as they cuddled and kissed and Catherine forgot her bruised pride for a while. Afterwards, they walked around the town, glancing into shop windows. She had a feeling Frank was trying to say something. He kept looking at her and smiling and shaking his head.
‘You’re a grand lass. I’m the luckiest man on the Tyne, eh?’
A few days later, Lily waylaid Catherine in the drying room.
‘Kitty, don’t go light with me, but I’ve heard some’at about Frank.’ She looked nervous, twisting her hands in her apron pocket.
Catherine, still morose from her lack of promotion, felt a stirring of apprehension.
‘What about him?’
‘It’s just gossip I’ve heard among the lasses - one of them comes from Percy Main.’
Catherine eyed her warily.
‘They say he’s got a lass - across the river.’
‘Don’t be daft, I know he hasn’t,’ Catherine dismissed the idea at once. ‘You shouldn’t listen to gossip - specially round here. You know they’re always trying to bring me down.’
She walked away from Lily, offended that her friend should even think of trying to spoil things between her and Frank. Since losing out on advancement, being in love with him kept her going through the long hot days in the laundry.
But as Saturday approached, she felt a familiar sense of unease at seeing him. Surely he could not have deceived her as Gerald had?
The open smile on his face and the kiss with which he greeted her gave reassurance. The early summer day was too hot for the cinema and they caught a tram to the promenade. As they bought ice creams from a barrow and walked arm in arm, the desire to know the truth was overwhelming.
Catherine blurted out, ‘The lasses at the laundry are saying things about you - bad things.’
Frank stopped and gave her a quizzical look.
‘They say you’ve got another lass over the river.’
His fair face reddened. ‘They say what? I hope you don’t believe them.’ His look was so wounded, she felt terrible for even mentioning it.
‘No, course not, but. . .’
He threw down his ice cream and grabbed her so suddenly that she dropped hers. ‘Kitty, I’m daft about you. There’s no other lass for me. You must know that? Don’t listen to what anyone says.’
‘No, I won’t.’
‘Listen, Kitty, will you marry me?’
She blinked at him as if she had misheard. ‘Marry?’ She gave a nervous laugh.
But his look was urgent. ‘I mean it, lass. Marry me now. We’ll get a special licence. We could gan anywhere, you and me.’
Catherine’s surprise gave way to alarm. ‘It’s too soon. We hardly know each other.’
‘We know enough. You’re the only lass I ever want to be with,’ Frank insisted. ‘I love you. Don’t you love me, Kitty?’
‘Y-yes—’
‘Then show it. Say you’ll marry me. Say it!’
Catherine was aware of passers-by staring at them. She pulled away from his grip.
‘I can’t. It’s too quick.’
‘It’s not,’ Frank said, with a pleading look. She had never seen him so agitated. ‘We love each other and that’s all that matters. It has to be now or never, Kitty.’
Catherine felt a ridiculous desire to laugh. He sounded like a hero from one of the new talkies. But she could see from his face that he was completely serious. It did not make sense. Why so sudden? Why was he so on edge after her questioning?
Catherine’s insides clenched.
‘There is another lass, isn’t there?’ she whispered.
Frank looked cross. ‘I can’t believe you’re asking me again.’ He turned away, plunging his hands in his pockets and began to walk off.
Catherine, embarrassed to be left standing alone, hurried after him. ‘Frank, stop. I didn’t mean it. I just don’t see what all the hurry’s about. Can’t we just carry on seeing each other for a bit? I’ve been hurt before, you see . . .’
He stopped and faced her. After a long moment he smiled, though his blue eyes looked sad.
‘Aye, course we can.’
With relief, she slipped her arm through his and they walked back into town. Although they spoke now and again, Catherine felt weighed down by the failure of the afternoon. She swallowed her disappointment when he left for the ferry without making a date for the following week.
When Saturday came, Catherine was not surprised when Frank did not. She knew something had gone badly wrong between them, though she was not clear quite what. Should she have said yes to marrying him? How different her life would be. No more laundry, no more snide remarks about her morals or her background. A clean start. Mrs Francis Pearson. A married woman’s name to bear like a badge of honour. Catherine wandered around town aimlessly, heart lurching to see figures in the distance that looked like Frank but were not. All weekend she wished she had said yes, cursed herself for her caution.
At the end of the next week, she entered the staff room to splutters of laughter. Half a dozen women stopped and stared at her.
‘Want to share the joke?’ she asked.
There were embarrassed glances among her workmates. Then Hettie picked up the newspaper they had been leaning over.
‘What’s the name of that boyfriend of yours?’
Catherine knew from the glee in her voice that it was bad news. Her stomach knotted.
‘Frank Pearson, wasn’t it?’ Hettie goaded. ‘From Percy Main. Plays cornet in the Salvation Anny band.’
‘What if he does?’
‘Got himself wed last Saturday.’
Catherine stared in disbelief. The stuffy room seemed to hold its breath. The words buzzed in her ears as if she was about to faint. She struggled not to show her shock, clutching the back of a chair.
‘Aye, and that’s not all,’ Hettie added, with a triumph
ant look. ‘His missus gave birth to a bairn on Monday!’
‘Liar!’ Catherine cried.
‘It’s here in black and white,’ Hettie said, brandishing the paper. ‘Didn’t we tell you he was a bad’un?’
Catherine clamped a hand to her mouth and wheeled around. She rushed from the room, not pausing till she reached the toilet. Head spinning, she vomited into the bowl.
Chapter 21
Worn out from a string of sleepless nights, Catherine went storming round to see Father O’Neill.
‘I want to become a nun,’ she demanded. ‘I’ve thought about it long and hard and it’s all I ever wanted to do. I’m not made for marriage, Father.’
The old priest surveyed her from under iron-grey eyebrows and shook his head. ‘They wouldn’t have you,’ he said bluntly.
Catherine flushed. ‘Let me try, please, Father. I hate it at Harton.’
‘Kitty,’ he said firmly, ‘I’ve watched you grow up. I know you well enough to say you’re certainly not made for a life of silent obedience and contemplation.’
‘But I am!’ she protested.
He held up his hand. ‘See what I mean?’ He allowed himself a half-smile. ‘No, Kitty, go away and work hard. I’ll have a word with Matron Hatch about you.’ With that he dismissed her.
Catherine was still railing at his rejection when she visited William Black Street the following Saturday.
‘I’m finished with Jarrow!’ she cried at Kate, pacing beside the hearth. ‘There’s nowt here for me now.’
Her mother shooed her out of the way of the oven door and rammed in a tray of stottie cake. ‘You’ve a grand job at Harton,’ Kate puffed, slamming the heavy iron door shut. ‘Divn’t gan chucking it in ‘cos some lad’s given you the run-around.’
‘I’m sick of the laundry. They make me life a misery - even worse since Frank Pearson . . .’ Catherine felt tears of anger sting her eyes again. She had cried all week, astonished that anyone could possess so many tears.
Kate eyed her, hands on hips. ‘Why didn’t you tell me about this Frank?’
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