Return to Jarrow

by Janet MacLeod Trotter

  Catherine smiled in relief. ‘Not that she’ll see it that way.’

  Bridie came over and hugged her. ‘Oh, but isn’t it grand without her? Just you, me and Maisie. Promise me you’ll not take her back. I couldn’t bear to see you fading away with the worry again.’

  ‘Oh, I promise,’ Catherine said. ‘Never again.’

  ***

  Winter came, and Catherine and Bridie gradually built up the numbers at The Hurst once more. The roof needed constant repairs and it was a struggle to keep the damp and mould at bay during the cold wet months. The house devoured money like an insatiable beast, and often Catherine wondered why she had bought such a monstrous place.

  ‘You worry too much about things,’ Bridie would chide.

  ‘And you don’t worry enough,’ Catherine retorted on discovering a new patch of crumbling wall in the tower room.

  Bridie, she discovered, was as haphazard in her housekeeping as Kate. She never seemed to be able to keep within the weekly budget, and dismissed Catherine’s attempts to curb her spending with a shrug and a laugh as if it were a joke. To her friend’s annoyance, Catherine offered the loyal Mrs Fairy free board and lodging if she would help with the cooking and housekeeping.

  ‘I can manage fine without that woman huffing and puffing down my neck!’

  ‘I thought you’d be pleased with the extra help,’ Catherine said.

  ‘You don’t trust me, do you?’ Bridie reproached.

  ‘It’s too big a job for you to run everything on your own. And Mrs Fairy’s good with Maisie.’

  Bridie was moody for weeks afterwards and Catherine had to tread carefully. Casual comments could be taken as criticism; the slightest attention to Mrs Fairy was seen as favouritism. But at least she did not have to worry about her unstable mother screaming in front of the guests or causing chaos. She was so relieved that the battles with Kate were over that the odd tiff with Bridie was nothing in comparison.

  Months went by without Catherine seeing or hearing from her mother. The lease on the maisonette had been assigned over to Kate, and Catherine took the lack of news to mean that her mother was coping.

  ‘Bad news travels fast,’ Bridie reminded her. ‘If she wants you she knows where to find you.’

  So, with no encouragement from Bridie, Catherine did not make an effort to keep in contact.

  As Christmas approached and Catherine wondered what to do about Kate, Bridie said, ‘She’ll have Davie for company. Spare us a Christmas like last year!’

  Catherine shuddered to think of it. Instead, she sent her mother money in a card. It made her feel less guilty at having a quiet Christmas at The Hurst. There was no sign of Kate at Mass, but a note came in the New Year to wish her well.

  It was well into 1935 before she had further news of her mother.

  ‘Didn’t I run into her down on the seafront buying fish!’ Bridie reported. ‘Maisie saw her first. Weight’s dropped off her.’

  Catherine’s stomach twisted. ‘Is she all right?’

  ‘Right as rain,’ Bridie assured. ‘Got six lodgers and proud of it.’

  ‘Good,’ Catherine said, her throat feeling tight.

  ‘Asking after you,’ Bridie continued. ‘Says to come for your tea one night. Bring Maisie - have a game of snap. I told her how busy you were and not to expect it.’

  Catherine was grateful. She did not want to visit. She was happy to think that her mother was managing without her but did not want to see her. She had striven hard for peace of mind since the previous terrible year. It had completely drained her of emotion. Once again there was equilibrium in her life. To re-establish contact with Kate would destroy all that.

  Catherine said, ‘Maisie could go on her own - or you could take her.’

  Bridie shrugged and the subject was dropped.

  With spring blossom and the fresh green of early summer leaves, Catherine’s spirits rose. She felt filled with a new energy and optimism. Whenever she had doubts about The Hurst, she only had to go out into its garden to chase them away. She would walk among its trees, touching the rough bark and stand under their shade, mesmerised by the flickering, filtering light. Breathing in the scent of flowers and damp grass after a shower was better than any expensive perfume. For snatched moments, Catherine felt more at peace there than at any time in her life.

  But such times were rare, for she continued to work hard at the laundry and when she came back home, the chores of the boarding house went on until bedtime. As summer wore on, all her plans to hold tennis parties unravelled. There never seemed enough time. She and Bridie played together on occasional Saturday afternoons, challenging some of the lodgers to games of doubles.

  Catherine was surprised Bridie did not seem to mind the lack of social contact.

  ‘It must be dull for you, being stuck here all week long,’ Catherine said. ‘We should make more effort to get out.’

  Bridie pinched her cheek. ‘Don’t worry about me - I love it here. I’ve got you and Maisie and a beautiful home. What more could I want?’

  Still, as the year waned, Catherine felt an increasing need for contact outside the enclosed world of laundry and boarding house. She yearned for more time for reading and learning. She almost envied those far-off days at Harton when she had spent her free time devouring books from the library. When was the last time she had spent a whole evening reading?

  The days shortened and they could no longer play tennis or sit in the garden of an evening. Confined to the house in bad weather, Bridie and Mrs Fairy began to bicker again and pour out their grievances to Catherine on her return from work. Each strove to win control in the kitchen.

  One evening, when Catherine was returning from work wondering what petty wrangling she would find, she spotted a poster in a newsagent’s window. Fencing lessons. She stopped and studied it. One hour a week at a gym in Harcourt Street. For an instant she held a ridiculous thought of herself wielding a sword like one of the Three Musketeers. Madame Clevy had introduced her to the novel by Dumas and she had been captivated by the swashbuckling tale.

  She laughed at the idea, dismissed it and walked home. That night Bridie was in a mood over a burnt cheese sauce that had been left on the stove and ruined a pan. She blamed Mrs Fairy, who indignantly denied it.

  ‘You can’t leave a sauce and go off for a bath,’ the old cook scolded.

  ‘I left it on the hearth,’ Bridie cried.

  ‘You left it on top.’

  ‘Oh, go boil your head in a bucket!’ Bridie flounced out and gave no further help with the evening meal.

  The following day Catherine went down to the gym in Harcourt Street and signed up for fencing lessons with a wiry ex-actor called Mr Gascoigne. Bridie was flabbergasted.

  ‘Fencing? You mean sword fighting?’

  ‘Yes.’ Catherine laughed at her impulsiveness.

  ‘But why?’

  Catherine shrugged. She could hardly tell her it was to vent her irritation at the squabbling between the women at The Hurst. ‘It’ll keep me fit and trim.’

  ‘There’s not an ounce of spare flesh on you, girl,’ Bridie exclaimed. ‘And who is this Mr Gascoigne? He might be one of these men you hear about who lure young women up to their rooms and murder them!’

  Catherine laughed dismissively, ‘He’s as small as a mouse - I’d get the better of him any day.’

  After Catherine had been for a couple of weeks and come to no harm, Bridie accepted the situation.

  ‘Suppose it’ll come in handy if Kate ever comes after you with a carving knife,’ she joked bleakly.

  Catherine laughed uncomfortably. She did not like to admit that she rid herself of her pent-up aggression against Kate when she parried and lunged for her opponent. But she grew to enjoy her weekly sessions at the gym with the nimble and talkative tutor, and the assor
tment of other fencers. For an hour a week she concentrated on something physical, channelling her frustrations into the point of her epee and emptying her mind of everything else.

  Harcourt Street was towards the sea front and, walking home, Catherine passed near the end of Laurel Street. One December night when the moon was so bright it lit the rooftops in silvery light, Catherine was gripped by a powerful memory. She and Kate had been walking up the bank to East Jarrow after a rare day out on a charabanc trip, when suddenly her mother had grabbed her hand.

  ‘Haway, let’s race the moon!’ Kate had cried, and yanked her along so fast that her feet had left the ground as if she were flying. It was so unexpected and exhilarating, that for a moment she had been overwhelmed by a surge of love.

  Catherine stopped in the cold air and gasped for breath. She had not thought of the incident for years. Kate had spoken with such warmth about her real father, William Fawcett, playing the same game when she was small, that Catherine had been emboldened to ask about her own mysterious father. It had spoilt the moment. Kate had grown angry and told her never to mention him again. He was never coming back. He was dead.

  Catherine’s heart hammered at the bitter-sweet memory; one instant so close, the next at loggerheads. She looked up at the dazzling moon and it seemed to flood her with courage. Without giving herself time to think it over, she turned abruptly right and retraced her steps to her mother’s maisonette.

  Kate gasped when she opened the door. ‘You look familiar. Do I know you from somewhere?’ Catherine’s courage withered at the sarcasm, but Kate quickly pulled her in. ‘Don’t stand there letting all the heat out - haway in.’

  She led her into the kitchen. Somewhere a radio was playing. Washing was strewn overhead, the room smelt of pies and damp clothes, but somehow it was homely.

  ‘Can’t stop long,’ Catherine said awkwardly.

  Kate poured her out a stewed cup of tea from the pot. ‘Sit down, lass, you’re makin’ me nervous.’

  Catherine sipped gingerly. She had forgotten how strong Kate made it.

  ‘Business going all right?’

  ‘Champion,’ Kate said with a defiant look. ‘I hear you’re employing Mrs Fairy these days. Saw her at the market - full of it, she was. Bet that doesn’t suit Bridie.’

  Catherine said, ‘They get on fine.’

  Kate snorted and changed the subject. She chattered on about her own lodgers and about Davie, who had sent her a postcard from Cape Town.

  ‘He’ll not be back till next year,’ Kate said matter-of-factly. ‘And you, lass, what have you been doing?’

  ‘Just the same,’ Catherine said, standing up. Then she added, ‘I’ve taken up fencing.’

  ‘What do you mean, fencing?’ Kate looked baffled.

  ‘Epee - sword play.’

  Kate burst into laughter. ‘Eeh, hinny, I thought you meant mending folks’s garden fences!’

  Catherine could not help smiling as she made for the door. Kate followed her.

  ‘Fencing. Fancy that.’

  A tall man with a towel round his shoulders emerged from the bathroom. Quick as a flash, Kate said, ‘Mr Soulsby, this is my daughter, Kitty. She’s a champion fencer, don’t you know?’

  The man gave a startled nod in Catherine’s direction and bolted down the corridor.

  ‘You shouldn’t have said that,’ Catherine said in embarrassment. ‘It’s not true.’

  ‘Will be one day. Come again, won’t you, lass,’ Kate insisted.

  Catherine promised she would and headed quickly down the stairs. Glancing back at the outside door, she saw her mother still at the stairwell watching her go.

  Catherine hurried home, relieved the ordeal was over, yet strangely glad she had gone. Ten minutes together was probably as much as they could manage without an argument, so she would keep her visits occasional and brief.

  That Christmas, Catherine called on Kate with a hamper of food and a pretty woollen cardigan.

  ‘When will I get to wear a fancy cardy?’ Kate said ungraciously. ‘No one asks me anywhere.’

  Catherine knew her mother was trying to shame her into inviting her to The Hurst for Christmas, but she resisted. She had promised Bridie never to share Christmas with Kate again. Besides, this year Harold, the poet, had come back, reassured that ‘mad Mrs McDermott’ had left. She would not have him upset either.

  Through the spring of the following year, Catherine continued to make the odd duty visit to her mother on her way home from fencing lessons. Usually, she chose not to tell Bridie, for her friend only nagged her about spending time there rather than at The Hurst. Catherine and Kate talked about the death of old King George, who had once come to visit South Shields during the Great War.

  ‘You were that excited to see him,’ Kate recalled. ‘Put old John in a black mood, making all that fuss over royalty.’

  ‘ “To Hell with kings and generals - and up with the Pope.” ‘ Catherine laughed as she recalled her grandfather’s words.

  Kate was suddenly glum. ‘Got a letter from our Mary last week. Alec’s out of work and he’s taken poorly bad - never was a strong man. Says there’s more shops closed in Jarrow than open. Where will it end, eh?’

  Catherine felt uncomfortable, as she always did when talk turned to the deepening poverty on Tyneside.

  ‘What about cousin Alec?’ She swallowed. ‘He’ll have finished his apprenticeship by now.’

  Kate sighed. There’s no call for joiners at the yards. But he’s lucky to get gardening work over Cleadon way. Doesn’t pay much, but it’s a job. Mary doesn’t know what they’d do without him.’

  Suddenly Catherine was angry. ‘What a waste! Lads like Alec serving their time, learning the job - then out on the dole as soon as their apprenticeship’s finished. It’s a crying shame. And what do the politicians do about it? Sit around their clubs in London doing nothing! Everyone deserves the right to work and keep their family.’

  Kate’s eyes glittered. ‘By, you’ve a Geordie heart after all. Me father used to talk like that about the working man, so your Grandma Rose used to say.’

  It was the one thing that mother and daughter could agree on: work was the life-blood of a person, of a community. For all her hankering after a life of leisure in her daydreams, Catherine knew she would go mad if she had nothing to do.

  Catherine was quietly impressed with her mother’s success in making her own living without her or Davie’s help. Kate thrived on being busy as much as she did. Yet Catherine was always half in dread at these visits in case her mother had slipped back into her destructive drinking.

  That June, Catherine turned thirty. As her birthday approached, she grew gloomy. Bridie overheard her talking to the dog.

  ‘Life’s passing me by, Tuppence. What have I got to show for it? This big leaky house and you, eh?’

  ‘That’s no way to talk!’ Bridie scolded. ‘You’ve a good job and a fine business - and friends that think the world of you. What more do you want?’

  Catherine blushed. ‘Sorry, I didn’t mean . . .’

  ‘What you need is a party,’ Bridie declared.

  ‘I don’t want everyone to know my age,’ Catherine protested.

  ‘We don’t have to tell them. It’ll just be a summer party for all our friends.’

  Catherine was soon persuaded. It fell on a Saturday, so they planned a lunch party with tennis afterwards. She kept away from Kate’s, fearful that if her mother heard about a party she would turn up uninvited and make a spectacle of herself. Bridie and Maisie bought new outfits, while Catherine made do with last summer’s dress. The money saved was quietly sent to Aunt Mary.

  The day was a success, with breezy sunshine. Friends came from the tennis club, church and her fencing class, as well as the Townsends and several of the lodgers. There was birthday c
ake at tea time, but no mention of her age.

  As she was leaving Mrs Townsend said, ‘Sorry not to see your mother. Is she unwell?’

  Catherine flushed. She had kept from her employer just how difficult the situation had been two years ago and why Kate had to leave. ‘No, she’s fine. Full of busy.’

  A friend from church joined in. ‘Yes, she must be with that new place she’s taken on.’

  Catherine stared at the woman. ‘I beg your pardon?’

  ‘The house in Maritime Place - big terrace. Bumped into her at the shops. Full of it, she was. Eight lodgers. But you’ll know all that, of course.’

  Catherine stammered, ‘Oh, y-yes.’

  That night she told Bridie. ‘Fancy her moving without telling us. I felt foolish not knowing.’

  Bridie yawned. ‘Well, you haven’t been to see her for ages.’

  ‘Still, she could have sent a change of address. She said nothing in the birthday card. And a house in Maritime Place! How can she afford that?’

  ‘That’s her affair. One thing’s for sure, though - she’ll be cock-a-hoop that she’s upsides with you and your eight lodgers.’

  When Catherine finally tracked down her mother’s new home, she was amazed. It was a substantial boarding house near the sea front.

  ‘One of the lodgers is a decorator - got me some paint on the cheap,’ Kate said proudly as she showed off the house.

  The rooms were spartan but clean enough, and the upstairs sitting room had an attractive bay window with a partial view of the sea. Catherine felt a stab of envy for the airy room full of light.

  ‘It’s nice,’ she admitted. ‘But how can you afford it?’

  ‘None of your business,’ Kate said tartly.

  ‘You can’t come running to me if you get into debt.’ Catherine was brusque. ‘I’ve got no spare.’

  ‘I can pay me own way,’ Kate snapped. ‘Don’t need your charity.’

  ‘Good. And you could’ve told me you’d moved.’

  ‘You never bothered calling. Had to do it all mesel’.’

  ‘And who was it got you started in Laurel Street?’ Catherine cried indignantly. ‘Not that you once thanked me.’