A Child of Jarrow

by Janet MacLeod Trotter

  Now she carried her dread at the future around with her like a stone in the pit of her stomach. Alexander had forgotten her, or decided not to bother with her further. Mary had been right all along. He had taken what he wanted and now he had no more need. No doubt he would be horrified to discover her pregnant. Perhaps he would deny it was his. He had lain with her only once, after all. Kate despaired. She had to admit she did not really know Alexander at all. She had built him into a romantic hero like a character out of one of the novels Aunt Maggie read so avidly. He was a figment of her foolish imagination. And yet she loved him so much!

  In all her nights and days of torment, Kate hardly spared a thought for the child she carried in her womb. If she thought of it at all, it was with a sense of repulsion. It was an ever more visible sign of her plight and shame. She wished she could tear it out of her body with her own hands and be done with it! Then she shrank with guilt at such unchristian thoughts and believed herself evil.

  On the morning of their departure, Mary helped her pack up her few possessions. She had bought a few small gifts of soap and lavender water for her mother and Sarah, a penknife for Jack and a pouch of tobacco for John. Taylor gave them a lift in his cart to the station. Kate felt sick as they jostled in silence out of the gate and down the lane. She looked back at the inn and the small high window where Alexander had woken her from sleep with a fateful tap of a pebble. If only she had slept on and never got up to answer its call.

  She strained for one last look at the wooded hills and castle towers of Ravensworth, but a cold mist hid them from view. Even at this final hour she half expected, half hoped to see Alexander riding out of the gloom to meet her. But the road leading to the estate was deserted. Mary had agreed to tell Aunt Lizzie on her return, for Kate did not have the courage to face her aunt and uncle or say goodbye to her boisterous cousin Alfred. She could not bear the thought of his puzzled look and questions at her going.

  ‘Look after yourself,’ Taylor said with an awkward nod, and left them standing on the platform.

  ‘Ta, Mr Taylor.’ Kate smiled bravely. ‘Ta for everything you’ve done for me.’

  She looked deathly pale as she climbed on board the train, but she held herself erect and did not look back.

  Later, perhaps pricked by Kate’s quiet dignity and word of thanks, Taylor sat down and wrote a message to Davies. He told him of the girl’s departure and that she was with child. Perhaps it would spark some sympathy in the old man for the trouble his son had caused. Maybe it would prompt him to provide a bit of money to help Kate out in her need. Taylor wasn’t sure, but that was the reasoning behind his letter. He still felt guilty for intercepting Alexander’s letters and sending them to Davies, though he believed it was in Kate’s best interests to end the affair. His fear that it would end in disaster had been proved right. At least now, Davies would stop pestering him to spy on his wayward son.

  All the way back to Jarrow, Kate was in turmoil. How could she bring herself to tell her parents of what she had done? Perhaps she should get off at Gateshead and disappear. But where? She had no savings and no one would employ her now. The only possessions of any worth were her two brooches, one from Lady Ravensworth and one from Alexander. As the train picked up speed, she contemplated rushing to the door and throwing herself on to the tracks. Anything but face the wrath of John McMullen! She buried her face in her hands.

  Why had she ever believed the honeyed words of Pringle-Davies? What a fool she had been.

  As they approached the hazy outline of Tyneside and its mass of smoking chimneys, Kate’s dread increased. At Gateshead, they boarded the train for South Shields and the familiar landmarks rushed to encircle them - the spire of St Bede’s in Jarrow where they had gone as girls, the forest of cranes and chimney stacks and tenements piled up on the river bank, the sludge-grey water of Jarrow Slake where timber bobbed on the tide.

  She felt this old half-forgotten world close around her, hemming her in. The throb of the train was like the pounding of her heart. They surged through the cutting below the cottages of Cleveland Place, leaving the last patches of countryside, and down into the blackened clutter of buildings that was Tyne Dock.

  Chapter 26

  Only twice had Kate been home since her family had moved to the dingy flat in Learn Lane. It stank of the docks and shook each time a goods train thundered down to the staithes. As the sisters alighted on the smoky platform of Tyne Dock station, panic gripped Kate’s chest and squeezed the air in her throat. She couldn’t breathe.

  ‘I c-cannot...’ Kate gasped, frozen to the station platform. At the barrier she could see Jack and Sarah waiting to greet them. ‘... cannot... move ...’ She clutched Mary’s arm, feeling faint.

  ‘Haway,’ Mary chivvied, ‘there’s nowt you can do about it now.’

  ‘They’ll kill me,’ Kate whispered.

  ‘No they won’t. I’ll not let ‘em,’ Mary said with spirit. ‘Your family’s all you’ve got now, our Kate, so don’t be so soft.’

  Somehow she made it through the barrier and was enveloped in a generous hug from her older sister.

  ‘By, you’ve put on a bit o’ beef! Feedin’ you well, I see.’

  Kate promptly burst into tears.

  ‘I didn’t mean owt by it,’ Sarah said in consternation.

  Jack, hovering a few feet away, stared in embarrassment at the commotion. Through her tears, Kate noticed how he had thickened out and grown another few inches. There was a shadow of hair on his upper lip that had not been there before and she felt suddenly shy of him.

  ‘You might as well tell her,’ Mary hissed.

  ‘Not here,’ Kate sobbed, glancing around in fear at being recognised. ‘Not in front of the lad.’

  Mary threw Jack a dismissive look. ‘He’s ganin’ to hear about it soon enough.’

  ‘Hear what?’ Sarah demanded. She held Kate away and scrutinised her. But Kate turned in embarrassment and began to hurry away from the hubbub at the station entrance.

  Mary was about to explain, but Kate swung round. ‘Don’t you dare say a thing! Not till Mam’s been told.’ Her stormy look was enough to silence Mary’s gossip.

  From somewhere deep inside, Kate found a steely courage. She was Rose Fawcett’s daughter and she would not cringe in fear from facing her parents. Her mother had lived through worse than this and survived. She had made a terrible mistake and no doubt would be made to pay for it. But she would walk down these streets with her head held high and brazen it out.

  Kate’s courage lasted until she stepped through the door of the downstairs dwelling and saw her mother’s flushed expectant face. Behind, her anxious siblings shuffled through the door.

  ‘Haway in, hinnies!’ Rose wheezed. ‘Why all the long faces? Not been scrappin’ already, have you?’

  ‘No, Mam,’ Kate said, squeezing past the wooden settle and throwing her arms about her in a desperate hug.

  ‘Kate’s got some’at to tell you,’ Mary said at once. Kate glared, prompting her sister to protest, ‘Haway and get it over with!’

  ‘Where’s Father?’ Kate asked nervously.

  Rose nodded next door with disapproval. ‘In the Twenty-Seven.’ She pushed Kate away, alerted by her look. ‘What’s wrong? You been sacked?’

  Kate swallowed and nodded.

  ‘Oh, lass! What you gone and done?’

  Kate started to shake. ‘I -I cannot tell you ...’

  Rose looked over at the others, but Sarah shrugged in bewilderment and Jack stared at the floor. Only Mary, fierce-eyed, seemed fit to burst with the news.

  ‘Spit it out, lass,’ Rose said grimly, ‘before you choke on it.’

  Kate’s knees buckled. She sat down abruptly on the hard settle that dominated the cramped room. The one piece of furniture that had survived countless flits and trips to the pawnshop; bought
with Father’s army bounty and his pride and joy. Father! Fear engulfed her.

  ‘I’ve done a terrible thing,’ Kate whispered. ‘You’ll never forgive us.’

  ‘That’s for me to decide,’ Rose said. Then added more gently, ‘Haway, hinny, you can tell your mam.’ She squeezed her shoulder in encouragement.

  Kate looked into her mother’s florid, square face, puckered in concern, deep lines of suffering scored into her brow and around her once full mouth. In that moment, she hated herself for the pain she was about to inflict, the shame she was visiting on her mother’s name and family. Kate gazed into Rose’s worried brown eyes. The compassion she saw there gave her the courage to speak.

  ‘That man I told you about,’ Kate gulped, ‘the one I was courtin’?’

  Rose nodded.

  ‘He’s ... I... I’m carrying ... his ...’ Kate floundered.

  ‘ She’s expectin’!’ Mary burst out, unable to contain herself.

  Rose looked nonplussed. She gazed between the two of them. Sarah’s hand flew to her mouth to stifle a cry.

  ‘She’s having his bairn,’ Mary cried.

  Rose whipped round suddenly. ‘I know what expectin’ means! Hold your tongue.’

  She stared down at Kate in disbelief, her mouth creasing into a hard tight line. Kate’s stomach clenched at the look of raw hurt in her mother’s eyes.

  ‘Is it true?’ Rose demanded.

  Kate nodded.

  ‘And is he ganin’ to stand by you - this gentleman of yours?’ She almost spat out the word.

  Kate flinched. ‘He doesn’t know,’ she said hoarsely.

  Mary butted in. ‘Hasn’t been back since September. And he’s ganin’ to marry some posh squire’s daughter, any road.’

  Rose gave out a shudder. Her eyes glittered with anger as the enormity of Kate’s disgrace sank in. She raised a large roughened hand and slapped her daughter hard across the face.

  Kate gasped and fell sideways from the force of the blow.

  ‘How could you?’ Rose yelled and, grabbing hold of her, yanked her upright. ‘How dare you?’

  ‘No, Mam!’ Sarah jumped forward and held on to Rose’s arm. ‘No more hittin’.’

  ‘I’ll box her bloody ears!’ Rose cried in fury.

  But Sarah was strong and thrust herself between the women, then Mary waded in too. ‘Leave off her, Mam. Fightin’ doesn’t change owt. What’s done is done.’ Both daughters pulled their mother away.

  Rose’s chest heaved as she panted, glaring at Kate all the while as if she were a serpent coiled on the seat. There was fear and contempt in that look that turned Kate’s blood cold.

  ‘I’m sorry, Mam,’ she choked, and began to weep.

  Suddenly Rose was gulping for air, her breathing as noisy as bellows. The colour was draining from her swearing face.

  ‘Mam, you’re having a turn!’ Sarah cried, steering her into a chair. She pulled at the buttons of her high-necked blouse and loosened the constricting collar. ‘Take it steady, that’s it, get your breath back,’ she soothed.

  As Rose wheezed and fought for breath, Kate rushed over in concern.

  ‘Mam, I’m sorry, I never meant—’

  But Sarah gave her a warning look and she stood back, not knowing what to do, while Mary fetched water and Sarah fanned her mother’s face. Rose refused to look at her. Kate turned away, utterly wretched. It was then she remembered Jack. He was standing by the door as if on the point of flight, glowering at them all.

  He flicked Kate a look from under his dark brows, his blue eyes sharp and appraising. For the first time it struck her how alike he looked to John - a handsome younger version of his father. They held each other’s look for a long moment, though Kate could read nothing of his thoughts from his set expression. Did he despise her too? Or was he too young to understand? No, there was something knowing in that look that told her otherwise. He was half man himself already. Yet there was still a young boy’s awkwardness in the way he hesitated by the doorway, alone and unsure.

  All at once, his body stiffened and he whipped round like an animal sensing danger.

  ‘Me da’s comin’,’ he said in a low mumble.

  ‘Oh, Mary Mother!’ Kate moaned.

  Rose pushed away her fussing daughters and, clutching the table, heaved herself to her feet.

  ‘Let me deal wi’ him,’ she ordered, breathing hard, but her face set in determination. ‘Lasses, get the food out the oven. No one breathe a word of this till I say, you an’ all, Mary,’ she warned. She gave Kate a contemptuous glance. ‘And you gan and wash your face. Don’t let him see you’ve been blubbin’.’

  Kate edged round the table and escaped to the scullery just as she heard her stepfather’s heavy tread at the front door. He was whistling ‘Sweet Molly Malone’. There was a flurry of activity as Sarah and Mary competed to busy themselves with a clatter of plates and steaming pots of vegetables.

  ‘That’s a grand sight!’ she heard John exclaim as he tramped into the room, stamping his boots from the cold. ‘Here, you useless beggar, get this beer poured - you can have one an’ all.’

  Kate splashed icy water on to her face with shaking hands, as Jack appeared searching for an extra cup, an earthen jug in his hands. She caught a whiff of the hoppy liquid and felt queasy. She gave him a desperate look. A memory came back to her with sickening clarity of the way her stepfather had once taken the belt to Sarah for failing to return home from a day out in Newcastle. He had whipped her almost to death for being a few hours late - and she had not even been with a man!

  ‘Jack, I cannot face him,’ she whispered, shivering with terror.

  Her half-brother carried on pouring as if he had not heard. But Kate saw from the flush creeping into his cheeks that he had. He was embarrassed and ashamed of her. Somehow she had disappointed him too. Kate took a deep breath. She was going to have to face this alone. She had no one to blame but herself. Why should Jack protect her when she was bringing dishonour to their family? As she made for the door to the kitchen, she was aware of him glancing at her sideways, but still he said nothing.

  John McMullen was sitting in his high-backed chair in its chosen spot by the fire. The room felt oppressively stuffy and Kate’s head swam.

  ‘So there you are, lass! What you got for me, eh?’

  Kate forced a smile. Around the table the others shot her nervous looks as they brought food to the table, fiddled and rearranged plates and cutlery.

  ‘It’s not much this year, Father,’ she said, avoiding his look and scrabbling for the parcel of tobacco. It seemed so meagre compared to last year’s ostentatious present of the picture of Lord Roberts, which now hung above the fireplace.

  He sniffed it and tore off the wrapper like a child. ‘Baccy - that’s grand. What you got me, our Mary?’ He pocketed the tobacco swiftly.

  ‘That’s from both of us,’ she told him with a defiant look. ‘Mam, we got you some canny soap.’ She took over from Kate, seizing the basket and handing out the other small gifts, seeing how her sister was paralysed with fear.

  ‘Let’s eat before the dinner gets cold,’ Rose instructed. ‘Jack, you carve.’

  The memory of John threatening them with a kitchen knife the night he discovered Sarah gone leapt into Kate’s mind. Perhaps her mother did not trust him with the carving knife. She sat down, feeling faint.

  ‘What’s wrong wi’ you?’ John snorted.

  ‘She’s a bit under the weather,’ Rose said quickly. ‘Food’ll help.’ She pushed a plate of pork and potatoes and cabbage across the table. Kate felt bile rise in her throat. ‘Eat,’ Rose told her.

  ‘How about a drop of beer?’ John chuckled. “That’ll perk you up.’

  Kate shook her head.

  ‘You know she doesn’t touch it,’ Rose said primly.
>
  ‘She works in a pub, you silly bitch,’ John said with derision. ‘Bet she has it for breakfast. Fill it up again, Jack lad,’ he ordered, banging his empty glass on the table.

  He intercepted a look between Rose and her son.

  ‘It’s a holiday, woman! And don’t you go all high and mighty on me, Rose Ann. I remember when you liked your fill o’ beer - working in them puddling mills—’

  ‘Stop it, John,’ she remonstrated. ‘That’s ancient history.’

  ‘Saved your mam from a fate worse than death, I did,’ he continued. ‘Not that she’s thanked me from that day to this.’

  Rose sighed with impatience but bit back a retort.

  ‘By, she could sup with the best of us in those days.’

  Kate felt the familiar dread at a row brewing. It always started with John needling Rose about some petty fault he saw in her or women in general. The more he belittled her, the more puffed out he became with his own importance. According to him, he had saved them from the gutter and made them respectable. Their descent into debt and poverty over the years was blamed on Rose’s bad housekeeping and slovenly ways, never his drinking or lack of work.

  The family had all learnt it did not pay to answer back. Around the table they sat tensely, making half-hearted attempts to eat the food.

  ‘Your mam was two steps from the gutter when I made an honest woman out of her,’ he goaded.

  Kate dropped her fork with a clatter. Rose glared at her in warning. The time was wrong. He was in one of his contrary moods - half joking, half vindictive.

  Suddenly he was suspicious. ‘What’s ganin’ on?’

  ‘Nothing.’ Rose kept calm.

  ‘Some’at is,’ he growled. ‘All sitting there with red-hot pokers up your backsides.’

  ‘John ...’ Rose tutted.