Return to Jarrow

by Janet MacLeod Trotter

  Kate hovered close, touching Catherine’s hair with tentative fingers. ‘I’ll gan back, hinny. Davie and me can manage. I can see there’s no room for me here, and I’m sorry for making you cry.’

  Catherine felt even more wretched at their sudden kindness. She howled while they fussed and petted her like mother hens. She took Bridie’s handkerchief and blew her nose. It was spattered with blood. Dizziness overcame her as more blood poured from her nose. Bridie cried at Kate to fetch cloths from the kitchen while she helped Catherine to the bed. Their voices came and went like bad reception on the wireless. When she lay down the room spun around and made her nauseous.

  It was an hour before the bleeding stopped, by which time she was exhausted and past arguing about anything. Catherine fell asleep and woke in the early hours, as a silvery dawn light seeped in around the curtained windows. She felt weak and listless, the wrangling of the previous evening plaguing her thoughts.

  Getting up, she went to the window and peered out on the quiet street. Wide pavements, ornate railings, clipped hedges and electric streetlights. It was a world away from the New Buildings in Jarrow. Glancing back at Kate, sleeping in the big bed, she felt a pang of remorse at her selfishness. Her mother looked so peaceful, the lines on her face smoothed away, her mouth half-open like a child’s.

  ‘Can’t you sleep either?’ Bridie whispered, startling her.

  ‘No.’

  ‘Come here, girl, and sit with me.’ Bridie made room for her on the couch. ‘I’ll make us a cup of tea in a minute.’ She put an arm about her. ‘You’re shaking. Are you still feeling ill? I’ll fetch the doctor out in the morning.’

  ‘No, I’m all right,’ Catherine whispered, grateful for her tenderness. ‘I’m sorry about last night. I’ll let Kate stay if you think it’s the right thing to do. It’s just I was looking forward to having the flat to ourselves again.’

  ‘So was I,’ Bridie reassured her. ‘But if we got a bigger place, we could all get along without being in each other’s pockets.’

  ‘I suppose so,’ Catherine said resignedly.

  ‘Well, there’s no harm in looking, is there?’ Bridie encouraged. ‘And if we found somewhere you liked, and if it was big enough, then maybe . . .’

  ‘Maybe what?’

  ‘Maybe I could bring Maisie over from Ireland. We could all live together like one big happy family,’ Bridie said excitedly.

  Catherine finally understood. ‘So that’s what this is all about. It’s Maisie you want, not Kate. Why didn’t you tell me before?’

  ‘Because you’ve already been so good to me,’ Bridie said, suddenly tearful. ‘I couldn’t ask you to dig into your pocket just for my Maisie. She’s my responsibility not yours.’

  Catherine took Bridie’s hand. ‘You really miss her, don’t you?’

  Bridie nodded. ‘She’s all I can call my own.’

  Catherine made up her mind. ‘If that’s what you really want, then that’s what we’ll do. We’ll go out this weekend and hunt for a bigger flat.’

  Bridie threw her arms around her. ‘What a darling girl! What a big-hearted darling, darling girl.’

  Catherine laughed. She felt flooded with warmth to be able to make someone so happy. Worries over Kate and the cost, or caring for Bridie’s young daughter were banished as they hugged each other. She was loved again and that was all that mattered.

  Chapter 31

  Kate went to Jarrow but wrote twice weekly to ask how plans for her return were progressing. Davie had gone back to sea agreeing that she should live with Catherine while he was away so much. He could take his leave in Hastings.

  Catherine felt creeping foreboding at Kate coming to live with her, but smothered her doubts and continued to house-hunt to please Bridie. Her friend was skittish at the thought of Maisie being with her again and Catherine’s tentative questions were brushed aside.

  ‘Will we need to find her a school?’ Catherine asked.

  ‘School?’ Bridie laughed. ‘She hasn’t been to school since I left Ireland. She’s not the learning kind.’

  ‘A job then?’

  ‘Maisie’s not the kind of girl to hold down a job,’ Bridie replied.

  ‘What will she do all day while we’re working?’ Catherine asked.

  ‘Oh, she can help Kate with the housekeeping. She’s a good girl - just needs telling what to do. Your mother will love her.’

  So, with pressure coming from both older women, Catherine found a maisonette near the sea front in Laurel Street. At the end of October, Mr Townsend brought round the workhouse van and helped her move her furniture. She handed back the keys to her ground-floor flat with a heavy heart. It had been a happy place that she had made her own. Now she would have to start again, but with two strong-minded women who would want a say in how her home was furnished and run. Still, Catherine clung to the belief that Kate had changed for the better and, anyway, Bridie would protect her from her mother’s interference.

  Bridie and Catherine set to work spring-cleaning the large flat and ordering extra furniture. Kate and Maisie would have the two small bedrooms, as Bridie thought they needed rooms of their own, while Catherine and Bridie shared the large one. There was a separate bathroom, a kitchen big enough to eat in and a spacious sitting room with a partial view of the promenade and the sea beyond.

  ‘Isn’t it a dream place?’ Bridie exclaimed. ‘Much nicer than Clifton Road. And it’s nearer the shops and the beach. Maisie will think she’s died and gone to heaven.’

  It was arranged that Kate would arrive first and settle in, before Maisie was sent over from Ireland. A nervous Catherine went to meet her mother at the station, with Bridie’s words of encouragement ringing in her ears: ‘It’s the start of a new life for all of us, girl. One happy family, that’s what we’ll be.’

  The carriages of the London train emptied. There was no sign of Kate. Catherine’s instant feeling was of relief. Her mother had decided not to come after all. Ridiculous to think she could ever leave Jarrow. But she knew deep down that Kate would come and the next moment there was a commotion at the far end of the train. Bags were being thrown out of the door and a guard was helping a passenger down the step. She heard Kate’s laugh. Even at this distance she knew that her mother was drunk.

  Catherine hurried up the platform, heart hammering. Kate was talking loudly, the guard placating her, calling for a porter to help.

  There’s no need,’ Catherine said hastily. ‘I’ll take her luggage.’

  ‘Here she is,’ Kate bellowed, ‘my posh daughter, Kitty. Oops, s-sorry, likes to be called Catherine. Bet you thought I was making it up, lad.’ She laughed loudly as she stumbled against the guard.

  ‘Steady, ma’am. Let me help you to the barrier.’ He shot Catherine an amused look.

  ‘Looked after Kitty for years - now she’s ganin’ to look after me,’ Kate giggled. ‘That’s fair, isn’t it?’

  ‘Sounds fair to me,’ the guard answered, winking at Catherine.

  She followed behind with Kate’s two bags, puce with embarrassment. Swiftly she hailed a taxi and bundled her mother in the back. She did not look capable of walking to the new flat and Catherine feared a scene in public. By the time she had marched her mother up the stairs to the maisonette and staggered up with her heavy bags, Catherine was seething with anger.

  She turned on Kate. ‘How dare you turn up in such a state?’

  ‘What state?’ Kate looked at her wearily.

  ‘Drunk, that’s what,’ Catherine snapped.

  ‘Just had a little nip,’ Kate said, flopping into a chair. ‘Keeps the cold out. London’s perishing.’

  ‘You promised you wouldn’t drink any more,’ Catherine accused. ‘I wouldn’t have agreed to you coming here if I thought you were still hitting the bottle.’

  Kate gave a h
urt look. ‘I was celebratin’. Ta-ra Jarrow, hello Hastings.’ She started to hiccup. ‘D-on’t be cr-oss.’

  Catherine gave a sigh of exasperation and strode to the kitchen for a glass of water. By the time she returned, Kate’s eyes were closed and her breathing heavy.

  ‘You can’t go to sleep here.’ Catherine shook her. Kate grunted and slumped further into the chair. Moments later she was snoring loudly.

  Bridie came back from the shops to find Catherine sitting at the window her face wet with tears.

  ‘What’s wrong, girl?’ she asked in concern.

  Catherine jerked her head at the sleeping Kate. ‘Turned up drunk, didn’t she? Same as ever. It’s all a big mistake. I should never have let her come.’ She covered her face and wept anew.

  Bridie put an arm around her. ‘She was probably that excited about seeing you. It doesn’t mean she’s at the drink all the time. Come on, cheer up. We’re the bosses here and we’ll not let her slip back into bad ways.’

  When Kate woke, she was contrite and made an effort to be complimentary about her new home. She hobbled into the kitchen and rolled up her sleeves.

  ‘I’ll wash the dishes,’ she insisted. ‘You two workers put your feet up by the fire.’

  ‘Told you so,’ Bridie whispered to Catherine, as she picked up her knitting and settled in a chair. ‘Come on, sit down and read something to me.’

  Catherine began a new chapter of Great Expectations, which they had been reading together. After a while Kate emerged from the kitchen with a fresh pot of tea.

  ‘We’ll have this before bed, eh?’ she said. ‘You carry on readin’, hinny. I like to listen to you. She used to do a bit writin’ herself, did you know that, Bridie?’

  ‘No, I didn’t.’ Bridie gave a surprised look.

  ‘Do you still do your writin’, Kitty?’

  Catherine blushed. ‘No, not for ages.’ She would feel awkward explaining that she only wrote when she was lonely or unhappy. It was something that had filled in the long evenings at Harton and Tendring.

  ‘Used to scribble away in an old exercise book,’ Kate continued. ‘Our Jack nicked it for her from a school where he was billeted during the war. Filled every little inch of it, did our Kitty. Whatever happened to it, I wonder.’

  ‘You probably threw it on the fire,’ Catherine snorted, secretly astonished her mother had taken such notice.

  ‘I wouldn’t have,’ Kate protested, ‘but maybes old John did. Used it for tapers, more than likely.’

  ‘Well, what a dark horse,’ Bridie said in amusement. ‘Catherine a writer.’

  ‘Aye, and she wrote this long story for the Shields Gazette, but they sent it straight back. And after all that work and paying for that lass Amelia to have it typed up proper like in a book.’

  ‘Bridie doesn’t want to hear about all that,’ Catherine cried. ‘It was just childish—’

  ‘You always had a head for a story, mind,’ Kate went on. ‘The tales she used to come out with about leprechauns and fairies at the bottom of our lane - and telling all her school friends that I was courtin’ Dr Dyer - now that was a fairy story if ever there was one! Her grandda said all her tale-telling would land her in gaol or make her a fortune.’

  Bridie and Kate laughed together.

  ‘Well,’ said Bridie, ‘let’s hope it’s the fortune, for all our sakes.’

  After Kate’s arrival, Catherine and Bridie made sure that no alcohol was brought into the house. Kate seemed to settle in easily, busying herself with cleaning the flat and making meals. Every day she walked to the shops, looking for bargains at the butcher’s and grocer’s. She washed on Mondays, ironed on Tuesdays, baked on Wednesdays, washed the windows Thursdays, scrubbed the kitchen Fridays and baked again on Saturdays.

  ‘See, she’s managing just fine without a drink,’ Bridie declared one night, after Kate had gone to bed. ‘It was high spirits when she first arrived, that’s all.’

  Only one problem arose those first weeks. Mrs Hind, their widowed neighbour downstairs, complained at Kate hanging out washing in the shared back courtyard.

  Mrs Hind waylaid Catherine on her return from work. ‘Monday has always been my day, and your mother never takes in the washing line when she’s finished. I have to look at her bare line all week.’

  Catherine asked Kate to wash on Tuesday or Wednesday instead.

  ‘But I’ve always washed on Mondays,’ Kate protested. ‘If I leave it till later, all me other jobs get knocked back.’

  ‘Please, Kate,’ Catherine pleaded. ‘Does it matter?’

  ‘All right for you to say, but I’m the one doing the hard graft. That wife downstairs has only herself to wash for; why can’t she shift her day?’

  ‘She goes out other days,’ Catherine explained, ‘and she’s old and set in her ways.’

  Kate snorted. ‘She might push you around, but she’ll not push me.’

  Catherine gave up arguing and resigned herself to being lectured by her neighbour every Monday. She had hoped that the widow might have been a companion for Kate, someone with whom to share a cup of tea. But from Mrs Hind’s disparaging remarks, Catherine realised the woman thought she was far socially superior to Kate. This irked Catherine, so she left the neighbour to fight her own washing battles with Kate.

  ‘Your mother needs company,’ Bridie said, when they discussed the issue. ‘It’s time for Maisie to come.’

  Word was sent to Bridie’s sister in Ireland to arrange the ferry crossing. Bridie would meet her at the other end and bring her to Hastings on the train.

  ‘Our first Christmas all together!’ Bridie cried in excitement, the day she left to collect her daughter.

  ‘What’s she like, this Maisie?’ Kate asked, after Bridie had gone.

  Catherine shrugged. ‘Never met her.’

  ‘You mean she’s never been over here in all that time?’ Kate exclaimed.

  ‘No, but Bridie’s been home to see her often enough,’ Catherine defended.

  ‘So what’s wrong with her?’ Kate persisted.

  ‘Nothing.’ Catherine grew impatient. ‘She’s not very bright, that’s all.’

  ‘Feeble-minded, you mean?’

  ‘No! Well, she just needs a bit of looking after.’

  ‘And that’s my job, isn’t it?’ Kate gave her a look. ‘That’s why your precious Bridie wants me here - to look after her lass, while she gans off to work.’

  ‘You’re the one begged to come down here,’ Catherine reminded her. ‘If it doesn’t suit, you can sharp go home.’

  Yet Catherine too was apprehensive about the new arrival. How handicapped was Maisie? Would she throw fits or wet the bed or wander around at night like some of the inmates at Harton? Kate was only echoing her own fears. The Stanways at the Essex workhouse had shocked her with their belief that such people should be kept locked up.

  ‘I’d sterilise the lot of them,’ the master had declared. ‘They’ll only bring more mental defectives into the world, given half the chance. Runs in the family, you see.’

  Catherine had squirmed at such conversations for it echoed the bigotry she had thought to escape. The Stanways and other adherents of the eugenics society would no doubt condemn her just as harshly for being illegitimate. Her mother’s weakness was a moral disease that would taint her too, in their eyes. That was why she had to leave, before they confronted her about it.

  As Catherine waited tensely for Bridie to return, she felt ashamed of her unspoken fears.

  Chapter 32

  It was late when the travellers returned, Catherine and Kate waiting up and struggling to stay awake.

  ‘What a big lass!’ Kate blurted out on seeing Bridie’s daughter. ‘I thought you were just a bairn.’

  ‘Hello, Maisie,’ Catherine smiled. ‘You must
be tired out.’

  Maisie clung to her mother, avoiding their eyes. Bridie looked exhausted.

  ‘Don’t be shy, girl. Say hello to the nice ladies,’ she coaxed. But Maisie hung her head and said nothing.

  ‘I’ll fetch the tea,’ Kate said quickly.

  ‘Let me take your coat,’ Catherine offered. ‘Would you like to see your room, Maisie? We’ve painted it blue, ‘cos your mam said that was your favourite colour.’

  Maisie looked at her mother as if Catherine had not spoken. ‘Milk and two sugar lumps, please.’

  ‘Yes, pet,’ Bridie smiled, ‘now take off your coat and give it to Catherine.’ She helped the girl out of her coat and handed it over. The friends exchanged looks. Bridie said, ‘I think Maisie should sleep with me tonight - until she gets used to her new home. You don’t mind going in the little room for a night or two, do you?’

  ‘Maisie sleep with you tonight,’ Maisie repeated before Catherine had time to answer.

  ‘That’s right,’ Bridie reassured, ‘Catherine won’t mind. Now sit with me and drink your tea.’

  They sat at the table in the window, slurping tea, while Bridie told them of the journey. Catherine tried not to stare at Maisie the way her mother did. Kate was right; Maisie looked older than her fourteen years. She was large, her body fully grown and her black hair coiled into a bun like a middle-aged woman, though, watching her methodically stir and sip her tea, Catherine saw that her face was fresh-skinned and youthful.

  Soon Bridie was ushering her daughter into the main bedroom. Maisie ignored their good nights, then turned in the doorway.

  ‘There are thirty-two steps,’ she announced. ‘Twenty steps then twelve steps. Thank you for the tea.’ Then she went into Catherine’s bedroom.

  Bridie laughed at their puzzled faces. ‘The steps into the flat,’ she explained proudly. ‘Maisie notices things like that. Wake us in the morning, won’t you?’

  When the door had closed, Kate said, ‘Well, she’s a queer one. Not so much as a how-do-you-do, but she’s counted the steps to the maisonette. Not sure I can be left with her all day long.’