Bridie shrugged, but Catherine was still filled with disgust at her mother’s poisonous words. ‘Well, I can’t forgive her. She could have killed me with that boot. I don’t feel safe in my own house any more.’ Catherine gripped her arms tensely, willing Bridie to take her side.
Bridie touched her shoulder in sympathy. ‘It’s up to you, of course. But she’s still your mother. You can’t just throw her out on the street.’ She gave Catherine a wry look. ‘I think it’ll all blow over - once that useless husband of hers clears off to sea.’
Catherine returned with a heavy heart. She could see no way out of the situation. Kate stood pasty-faced by the kitchen range, hands shaking as she poured Catherine a cup of tea.
‘Sorry, Kitty,’ she mumbled, handing over the cup.
Catherine was still too upset to speak. She busied herself for the rest of the evening, serving supper and chatting to the returned guests, hiding her unhappiness behind a cheerful mask.
It was Davie who waylaid her on the landing on the way to bed.
‘Kitty, can I have a word?’
She nodded warily.
‘Kate’s feeling that bad about what she did - tossing me boot at you. She went too far.’
‘She always goes too far,’ Catherine said in agitation. ‘I can’t trust her. What if she took against one of the lodgers? You’ll have to take her back, Davie. I can’t cope with her drinking.’
Davie gave her a desperate look. ‘I can’t. We’ve nowhere to go.’ He put his callused hands on her shoulders. ‘You’ve no idea what it’s like back in Jarrow - ten times worse than when you last saw it. There’s hardly a man in work. It’s a ghost town. Don’t send her back to that, Kitty. It’ll kill her.’
Catherine shrugged off his hold.
‘She’s doing a good job of trying that here - the way she’s drinking.’
Davie struggled to say something. With alarm, Catherine saw tears welling in his eyes. He gulped. ‘Give her another chance, Kitty.’
‘The Hurst was to be her last chance,’ Catherine protested.
‘Please! Just one more. You’re the only one can save her.’
She stood at a loss, the burden of his hopes pressing on her so hard she found it difficult to breathe.
Finally she whispered, ‘She can stay.’
‘Kitty, thanks! You’re a lass in a million—’
‘But you have to promise me one thing,’ Catherine interrupted, steeling herself to tell him. ‘You have to keep away from here. You being on leave - it brings out the worst in her.’
Davie gave her a long pained look. She knew how much it hurt him, but coping with the two of them together was beyond her.
‘That’s Bridie talking,’ he said dully.
‘No, it’s me.’ Catherine was firm. ‘Do I have your promise? You won’t visit till Kate’s proved she’s off the drink for good.’
‘Aye,’ he said hoarsely, and turned away.
It was the last word they exchanged before he left The Hurst two days later
***
The new year, 1934, was hardly underway, when Catherine was regretting her weakness in letting Kate stay. On the surface, her mother appeared normal, busying herself around the house and calling out cheerily to the guests. But there was a glint in her eye when she looked at Catherine that made the young woman nervous. Kate was seething at Davie’s forced departure and resentful at the watchful eye kept on her drinking.
Despite Bridie being around the house and Mrs Fairy spying for Catherine, Kate was still managing to get hold of alcohol, though Catherine was baffled as to how. She could find no trace of it, but Kate’s mood seesawed and she was constantly staggering into furniture and breaking things as if inebriated. When challenged, she would laugh manically, or curse Catherine foully and burst into tears.
Then there was a series of strange incidents. Tom Hobbs went to tune the piano one day and found two of the internal hammers had been snapped off. The following week the door handle of his room was smeared in jam and the contents of his chamber pot spilt on his bedside rug.
‘Someone’s got it in for me,’ he complained.
Catherine confronted her mother. ‘Are you picking on Mr Hobbs for some reason?’
Kate gave her a wounded look. ‘What on earth for?’
‘To get back at me about the piano,’ Catherine accused.
Kate shook her head and walked off. A few days later there was jam on the piano tuner’s door again.
‘I’ve found other lodgings,’ he told Catherine at the end of the month. She tried to placate him, but his mind was made up and he left.
Other bizarre happenings occurred throughout the spring. A mousetrap was found in the ventriloquist’s bed, soap was put in the butter dish at breakfast. By Easter, three more residents had gone.
‘Why are you doing all this?’ Catherine cried at her mother.
‘Doing what?’ Kate sniggered like a child.
‘Picking on the residents. They’ve done nothing to you.’
‘Don’t know what you mean.’
Catherine wanted to shake her till her teeth rattled, but did not trust herself to touch her.
‘We’ll have no business left if you don’t stop your carry-on.’
Kate grew openly abusive to Catherine in front of the household.
‘A bossy little bitch she was as a bairn,’ Kate announced in the dining room one day when Catherine had asked her to fill up the salt. ‘And she’s just the same - for all her posh ways. I could tell you a few tales about our Kitty that would make your hair stand on end.’
Bridie intervened. ‘Kate, the guests are waiting for the salt. You can keep your tales for another time.’ She steered Kate towards the door.
‘Gerr-off us,’ Kate snarled, turning on her. ‘You’re just as bad. Dirty, filthy things you get up to—’
Bridie shoved her through the door and banged it shut behind them. Kate’s muffled shouting and swearing could still be heard, as Bridie dragged her down the corridor. Catherine was left, puce-faced with humiliation, not knowing what to say.
The major cleared his throat. ‘Soup doesn’t need salt. Perfectly good as it is.’ He bent to eat. Catherine felt tears prick her eyes as she shot him a grateful look. After an awkward pause, the others began eating.
Mealtimes became a battleground and Catherine dreaded them, not knowing what prank her mother would try, or what foul-mouthed ranting would ruin the conversation. She was a bundle of taut nerves during the day, but the long nights were even worse. She could not sleep, tossing and turning in the bed. Although there were now spare bedrooms, Catherine could not face the dark on her own. She was plagued with fearful memories of long ago: the hurtful teasing of playmates, her grandfather wielding the fire poker, Kate beating her for playing at the forbidden Slake. In the depth of the night she dwelled on her failure with men. You ‘re a bastard inside and out! - the words of a neighbour rang in her head again and again. That was why men did not want her. She was tainted, unworthy. She would always be Kate’s unwanted child.
When Catherine did fall asleep, she was caught in a web of recurring nightmares. The black-hooded priest was always walking towards her, about to envelop her in his darkness, never showing his face. In the dream, she escaped into a room that turned out to be the old bedroom at William Black Street. Kate was in the bed, laughing at her. The noise would give them away. She picked up the pillow and covered Kate’s face, trying to stifle the laughter, just for a minute. She kept pressing on the pillow, but the tall black figure always found her. She s dead, dead, his voice would echo. Then she was sobbing by a corpse laid out in the parlour, fluids dripping from the trestle into a bucket. Terrified and alone, Catherine dared herself to look at the face. But it wasn’t Kate, it was Grandma Rose.
Catherine woke from these nightmar
es crying out and bathed in sweat. Bridie grew tired of being woken and trying to soothe her.
‘Perhaps you should see the doctor,’ Bridie yawned in exhaustion. ‘You’re worn out - we both are.’
‘And tell him what? That I dream about smothering me mother with a pillow!’
‘Well, if she’s the cause of all this, it’s time she went. I’ve lost all patience with the woman. She throws our help back in our faces. It’s as if she’s daring us to put her out.’
Catherine buried her face in her hands. Bridie was right. Kate seemed constantly to be spoiling for a fight. Catherine was fraught with trying to avoid one, bottling up her anger like steam in a pressure-cooker. What really frightened her was the growing urge inside to harm Kate, to unleash that anger. What kind of appalling person was she?
It was the shame that engulfed her after such dreaming that made Catherine carry on putting up with Kate’s increasing madness.
Early summer came and the only residents left were the major, Mrs Fairy and Dorothy, who seemed impervious to practical joking. In desperation, Catherine and Bridie went round the local hotels and asked if they had any overflow of customers. She put up a notice on the church board and in shop windows.
A trickle of summer visitors came, but none of them stayed more than a few days. The beds were not made properly, the hot water ran cold, the puddings tasted salty or the soups sweet. Then a French woman came to stay on a painting holiday.
She was charming and cultured, and Catherine took to her at once. After the evening meal they would sit in the conservatory and talk about books, Catherine trying out her rudimentary French that she had learnt in her Harton days. Madame Clevy introduced her to French writers such as Voltaire and Flaubert, lending her books in translation. She could play tennis and it spurred Catherine on to cut the lawn and hold a tennis party, inviting friends from the club.
All that sunny Saturday afternoon they played in the secluded garden at The Hurst, and sat about on rugs or lounged in deck chairs. Kate came and went, puffing in the heat and joking with guests. Catherine was pleased to see her making an effort to be friendly.
At tea time, Catherine went inside to carry out a tray of drinks.
‘Let me help you,’ Madame Clevy insisted, and followed her into the kitchen.
The door was open into the butler’s pantry. Kate was swigging from a bottle. Catherine froze. Her mother saw them, calmly put the stopper back in and placed it under the sink with the cleaning materials.
She came out swaggering. ‘Well, well, caught you both together, haven’t I? Kitty and her little French sweetheart.’
‘Pardon?’ Madame Clevy looked puzzled.
Kate lurched towards them. Catherine caught a strong whiff of spirits.
‘Wanted a little bit of a kiss and cuddle in the pantry, eh?’ Kate cackled.
‘Shut up!’ Catherine ordered, blushing hotly.
‘Well, you’re wasting your time, madame,’ Kate said loudly. ‘She’s already spoken for. Bridie’s her little companion. Lady in the bedchamber.’
‘Keep your voice down,’ Catherine hissed. She took the French woman by the elbow and pulled her towards the door. ‘I’m so sorry, she’s not herself.’
‘Drunk, you mean?’ Kate came after them, grabbing at Catherine. ‘Yes, I am. It’s me only pleasure in this bloody place! Too busy with your fancy friends to care about me. Never cared about me. I might as well be dead, for all the notice you take. Hate me, don’t you? Don’t you?’ she screamed.
Catherine shook her off, her heart thudding in agitation. ‘Keep away from me! Don’t you dare come back out in such a state, or I’ll never forgive you.’
She hurried away, stuttering apologies to Madame Clevy. Outside, Bridie saw at once she was upset.
‘Is it Kate?’ she asked. Catherine nodded.
‘Let me deal with her,’ Bridie said, and went inside.
Ten minutes later, she reappeared with the tea tray, smiling. Passing Catherine she murmured, ‘Locked her in the pantry.’
Catherine gasped. Kate was probably drinking herself unconscious. Insides knotting, Catherine forced a smile and set about pouring tea. The afternoon was ruined and she could not wait for people to leave, fearful of Kate breaking out and making a scene.
Bridie cut the cherry cake and handed it round. Madame Clevy took a bite, then cried out. She held her jaw.
‘What’s wrong?’ Bridie asked.
‘Something hard - my tooth,’ she gabbled.
Catherine grabbed her plate and pulled something out of the cake. It was a small hammer from the piano.
‘How on earth did that get there?’ said Joyce, one of her tennis friends.
Catherine knew if she answered she would burst into tears. Her mother was spiteful and hateful! She would not stop until she had driven away all her lodgers, all her friends. It was the final straw.
She banged down the plate and strode back into the house. She was going to give Kate such an earful! She would kick her out on to the street, there and then. To hell with what the neighbours thought! Her mother could beg in the gutter, for all she cared.
As she marched into the kitchen, she heard Bridie hurrying behind her.
‘Catherine, don’t do anything hasty—’
‘Just try and stop me,’ Catherine cried.
She rushed to the pantry, turned the key and wrenched the door open. Kate was sprawled on the floor, an empty bottle lying beside her. She was deadly pale and motionless. Fear clawed at Catherine’s stomach.
‘Is she breathing?’ Bridie whispered.
Catherine stood, too paralysed to move. Bridie pushed her aside and bent down, putting an ear to Kate’s mouth. A long moment passed. Don ‘t let her die like this!
‘She’s breathing, but it’s shallow,’ Bridie said at last. ‘Best call out the doctor.’
Catherine let out a long breath.
Bridie picked up the bottle and sniffed it. ‘Mary Mother! She’s been drinking meths.’
Catherine stared at the crumpled body, the greying, dishevelled hair across a once-pretty face. All the fury and fear of moments before dissolved.
‘Oh, Kate,’ she whispered, bending to touch her hair. ‘Oh, our Kate!’
Chapter 38
Kate was nursed in bed for several days. The doctor told her she might have done irreparable harm to her stomach and liver from her drinking. Time would tell. When Kate asked if she could have a tot of brandy for medicinal purposes, Catherine was filled with disgust. Her mother seemed bent on self-destruction. But she would not allow Kate to wreck life at The Hurst too.
Once Kate was up and about again, meddling in the running of the household, Catherine screwed up her courage to confront her.
‘I’m making arrangements for you to live elsewhere. The tenants in our old maisonette are moving out at the end of the month. You can move back there.’
Kate gawped at her in disbelief. ‘You’re hoying me out?’
Catherine swallowed. ‘I’m providing you with a roof over your head. It’s more than you deserve after all this carry-on.’
‘All on me own?’ Kate said in a fluster. ‘How will I manage?’
‘By taking in your own lodgers. I’ve talked it over with Bridie. We’re getting a joiner to put in a couple of false walls so you can have extra rooms. You’ll have to pay your own way; I can’t afford to run two places. Specially with business so bad at The Hurst,’ Catherine added pointedly.
Kate said stubbornly, ‘And what if I refuse to go?’
Catherine held her look. ‘Then you’ll have to go back north. I’m not having you living at The Hurst any longer.’
Kate stormed out of the room.
Later, she was contrite and begged Catherine to let her stay. ‘I never meant any of those things I sai
d about you and Bridie. I don’t believe them - I just can’t bear you seeing her as your mam, and not me!’ But, encouraged by Bridie, Catherine held firm and went ahead with the alterations to the flat in Laurel Street. In September, she scraped enough money together to cover the first month’s bills and placed an advertisement in the newspaper for custom.
When the first two enquirers paid over a week’s rent, Catherine ordered her mother to pack.
‘I’ll see her settled in,’ Bridie insisted. ‘I don’t trust you not to change your mind at the last minute. A few tears from Kate and you’ll have her back to The Hurst in a trice.’
So Catherine and Kate exchanged a strained goodbye in the kitchen. Catherine went off to work and felt miserable all day, haunted by her mother’s reproachful look. She worried whether Kate had thrown a tantrum with Bridie about going and whether her lodgers had turned up.
On her return, Bridie assured her. ‘She’s fine and dandy. Putting on a show for the new boarders. Long may it last.’
Catherine was full of doubt that it would. Each day she dreaded finding that Kate had returned, drunk and in debt and demanding her ungrateful daughter to take her in. But the days passed and she did not hear from her.
‘Maybe I should go down and see how she’s managing,’ Catherine fretted.
‘Leave her be,’ Bridie said impatiently. ‘It’s what you wanted, isn’t it?’
‘Yes, but—’
‘Then stop fussing. Kate’ll manage. She’ll do it just to spite you.’
At the end of the month, Catherine came home from work to find Bridie grinning like a Cheshire cat at the kitchen table. She pushed an envelope towards her.
‘Have a look in there.’
Inside were two ten-shilling notes and a scrawled message: ‘Here’s the money I had a lend of. I have got four lodgers. Hope you are well. Kate.’
Catherine looked over in amazement. ‘She’s doing better than we are!’
Bridie laughed. ‘Didn’t I tell you? She’s out to prove herself to you. So you can stop worrying - you’ve done the right thing by her.’
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