A Child of Jarrow

by Janet MacLeod Trotter

Kate sighed impatiently. ‘You like school. Don’t be awkward.’

  ‘I’ve got a pain.’

  Kate grabbed the child by the arm and yanked her towards her. She gripped her between her knees while unknotting and pulling out the tight rags.

  ‘Ow!’ Catherine complained. ‘You’re hurting me!’ She tried to pull away.

  Kate held on to her hair. ‘Don’t you start,’ she warned. ‘I’ve enough to do today without you throwing one of your paddies.’

  ‘I don’t want to gan,’ Catherine cried, stamping her foot. Kate could see she was working herself up into a tantrum.

  ‘Why not?’ she asked in exasperation.

  ‘ ‘Cos Margaret Lodge won’t let me skip with her.’

  ‘Is that all? Gan and skip with someone else.’

  ‘Margaret Lodge won’t let me skip with any of them.’

  Kate swung the girl round. She could see tears welling in her eyes.

  ‘Who’s this Margaret? Is she family with Dolly Lodge from Learn Lane?’

  Catherine nodded. ‘Cousins.’

  Something squirmed in the pit of Kate’s stomach. Was it possible . . .? Kate swallowed her fear. She stood up and went to fetch a length of rope she used as a washing line in the house when it was too wet to hang clothes in the lane.

  ‘Here, take this. Margaret can gan skip with the devil.’

  Catherine’s eyes widened at the sudden gift. ‘Ta, our Kate,’ she gasped.

  After that there was no difficulty getting the girl ready and she ran off across the fields at the back of the New Buildings, taking the summer shortcut to Simonside.

  To Kate’s relief nothing more seemed to come of the incident with Margaret. She was worrying unnecessarily that rumours might have spread from Learn Lane about Catherine’s origins. It had just been a tiff among friends.

  A few days later it was Catherine’s seventh birthday and Kate hurried back from work to lay on a special tea. She had stayed up the previous night baking cheese pies and a ginger cake. She’d taken on an extra decorating job in Lancaster Street to pay for the ingredients and a bag of boiled sweets for Catherine to share out with her friends.

  Mary came round with baby Alec to help, but spent most of the time fussing over the small infant and telling Kate of the new furniture they had ordered and the baby clothes Alec’s family had bought them.

  ‘Course, the upstairs houses are bigger,’ Mary crowed, ‘so the bairn can have his own room. And we don’t need to sleep in the parlour, so there’s room for proper furniture. Matching, of course. Mam, you’ll have to come round and see. I’ll send Alec round to help you up the street.’

  Kate bit her tongue. At least Mary would not be swanning off with Catherine to the pictures this year, now she had the baby to look after.

  Catherine came clattering in with a gaggle of friends in her wake.

  ‘Can we eat yet, Kate? We’re all ravishing.’

  ‘Where did you swallow that long word?’ Kate laughed.

  ‘You mean ravenous,’ Mary corrected. ‘My Alec says that when he comes home.’

  ‘Ravishingly ravenous then,’ Catherine pouted.

  Kate shot Mary a satisfied look. ‘Aye, tea’s ready. Gan and wash your hands.’

  She watched them tucking into her food and felt a glow of wellbeing. Thanks to her hard work, her daughter was enjoying a good birthday spread. None of her friends would go home with bad tales about the way Kate ran the McMullen household.

  As they finished, Kate handed out the surprise bag of sweets. ‘Gan out and play.’

  ‘Ta, Kate,’ Catherine said, rushing to the door.

  ‘Hold your horses,’ Mary stopped her. ‘I’ve sommat for you, from me and Alec.’

  Kate watched as Mary flourished a box from out of her shopping bag. The children crowded round excitedly as Catherine opened it. The girl gave out a gasp of delight.

  ‘Eeh! Our Mary!’

  As she held it aloft for all to see, Kate could not believe her eyes. It was a beautiful china doll with a delicately painted face, dressed in layers of white silk.

  ‘It must’ve cost a fortune!’ Kate blurted out, stupefied.

  Mary smiled in confirmation. ‘And the hair’s real,’ she boasted.

  Catherine clutched the doll to her, stroking the fair hair in wonder. She had never possessed anything so expensive or special. Kate’s insides twisted with jealous resentment.

  ‘Careful with it,’ Mary fussed. ‘Don’t squeeze it too tight or you’ll break it.’

  Catherine cradled the doll in her arms as if it were made of eggshells.

  ‘It’s grand,’ she gasped in awe, ‘the best present I’ve ever had. Thank you, thank you, Mary! You’re me best sister.’

  Mary sat back and preened. Kate had to look away. The envy in her eyes must shine out of her like headlamps. She set about clearing the table and resetting it for the men. She could not speak for the anger that choked her. How dare Mary steal the show with her expensive doll? Just because her husband had a steady job and money to spare. It was she who had worked her fingers to the bone to lay on this tea for Catherine and her friends, no one else! She might as well not have bothered for all the thanks she got! Catherine did not even love her. Her affections could be bought in a trice by a china doll.

  Kate was thankful when Mary left soon after and John and Jack tramped in, dusty and sweat-stained from work.

  ‘There’s more work coming in the yards,’ John reported. ‘New orders on the books from the Government.’

  ‘That’s grand,’ Rose wheezed, looking up from her mending.

  ‘Aye, battlecruisers and that,’ Jack said with enthusiasm. ‘It’s ‘cos the Germans are buildin’ ships as fast as they can. Maybes we’ll have a scrap with them if it carries on.’

  ‘The saints preserve us,’ Rose shuddered.

  ‘We’ll not fight the Kaiser.’ John was dismissive. ‘He’s related to the King.’

  ‘I’d join up if we did,’ Jack said. ‘Missed the last one.’

  Kate remembered how keenly her brother had followed the Boer War, re-enacting the sieges and battles of distant Africa with a rifle made out of driftwood. She had bought him a book about the war that he had read over and over until it fell to bits with handling.

  ‘You’ll do no such thing,’ Rose told him sternly. ‘Sit down and have your tea. There’s cake left from the bairn’s party.’

  The men were quick to demolish the rest of Kate’s baking, though no one gave her credit for it. She stood at the sink washing up, seething with indignation.

  ‘Cut us another slice of cake, lass,’ John called over. ‘And you haven’t put sugar in me tea.’

  Kate banged down her dishcloth and stalked to the table. ‘Want me to drink it for you an’ all?’ she muttered.

  ‘Don’t give me your lip. You sound like one of them suffragettes.’

  ‘Chance would be a fine thing.’ She splashed in sugar and stirred it round vigorously.

  ‘What was that? Aye, unnatural bitches the lot of them. And that one at Epsom - spoilt a good day’s racing.’

  ‘Emily Davison?’ Kate glared at him. ‘She died, for pity’s sake!’

  ‘Serves her right, bloody woman.’ John slurped his tea noisily. ‘Could’ve killed the King’s horse or the jockey.’

  ‘Well, I think she was brave,’ Kate dared to say. ‘And us women have a canny lot to complain about. It’s slavery for lasses they want to abolish first.’

  ‘Kate ...’ Rose murmured in warning.

  But John slammed down his fist, already riled. ‘Did I ask for your opinion? There’ll be no complaining under my roof from you or any other bitch, or it’s a good hidin’ you’ll get. Do you hear?’

  Kate swallowed her fury and stormed back to the scul
lery sink. She knew her stepfather was itching for an excuse to use his belt on her back. She would not give him the satisfaction. Rose mollified her husband by sending Jack out to buy a jug of beer. The nearest pub was a ten-minute walk away and John was less inclined now to go out drinking since moving up the hill, preferring others to fetch it in.

  Kate worked on into the evening, rolling pastry at the table in the window, keeping an eye out for Catherine, while the men sat and drank and Rose dozed in her chair. The doors were flung open, letting the evening breeze off the river filter through the stuffy kitchen. As the shadows lengthened, Kate went out and called her daughter in.

  Catherine appeared at the top of the lane. ‘Can I stay out a bit longer, our Kate?’ she called. ‘There’s no school the morrow and it is me birthday. Please!’

  ‘Just another five minutes,’ Kate relented. It was cooler outside and Kate stood for a moment leaning on the back gate, breathing in the salty breeze. She listened to the children racing off up the lane, squealing like seagulls and disappearing into the next street. They were probably playing knocky-nine-doors and annoying the neighbours, but what was the harm in it on such a warm Friday night?

  Friday night. When the pubs filled up and wages got spent and the lucky ones went to the picture house or the music hall and had a laugh. And courting couples went arm in arm to the park or quiet fields ... Kate looked up at the evening star and remembered how it had shone so brightly over the lake at Ravensworth. A deep stab of longing for Alexander went through her. Whatever had become of him? It pained her that she would never know. Most of the time she managed to smother any thought of him. She had long given up believing that he had once loved her, let alone that he might return to discover how she and the child had fared all these years. She had been stupid to think that men did anything except out of selfish motive. They only wanted women in bed or in the kitchen as far as she could see.

  But on rare nights like this, when the warm air prickled the skin and the stars beckoned in a violet sky, Kate remembered what it had felt like to be kissed and courted by the most handsome man she had ever set eyes on. For a brief sweet moment, she remembered what it felt like to be in love.

  Shouting and a clatter of feet startled her out of her thoughts. Catherine came tearing past her into the yard. The girl doubled over, gasping for breath.

  ‘What’s all the noise about?’ Kate demanded.

  Catherine clasped her knees, her chest heaving. When she unbent, Kate saw her face was troubled.

  ‘What’s wrong? Someone been chasing you?’

  The girl shook her head and walked unsteadily to the door.

  ‘Too much excitement,’ Kate declared as they entered the kitchen. ‘I’ll make you a cocoa, then it’s off to bed.’

  But the girl ignored her and went up to Rose, who was yawning in her chair.

  ‘Mam,’ she said frowning, ‘Mam?’

  ‘What is it, hinny? You look all done in.’

  ‘The missus at Number Sixteen - round Phillipson Street - she was shouting at us.’

  ‘Being a pest, were you?’ John grunted, slouching contentedly in his fireside chair.

  ‘You shouldn’t be out so late,’ Rose reproved. ‘It’s past your bedtime.’

  But Catherine hovered by her, perplexed by something.

  ‘Mam,’ she hesitated. ‘What does bastard mean?’

  Kate flinched and Rose gasped, ‘Where did you hear such a word?’

  ‘That missus at Number Sixteen,’ Catherine repeated solemnly. ‘She said, “You’re a bastard on the inside and the out!” What did she mean? It wasn’t me who knocked on her door - it was Belle.’

  John lurched out of his chair. ‘The bloody wife! I’ll have it out with her!’

  ‘No, John,’ Rose said at once, ‘leave it be.’

  ‘No one says that to one of mine!’ he growled. ‘She’ll get a piece of my mind.’

  Kate felt nauseous. How could the woman be so cruel? She stared at Catherine and the girl looked back baffled.

  ‘It’s what Margaret Lodge said,’ Catherine said quietly. ‘She wouldn’t tell me either.’

  Kate’s stomach churned. ‘They said that to you at school, an’ all?’

  ‘Aye. What’s it mean?’

  Kate set her jaw. ‘Means nowt. You get off to bed. I’ll bring in your cocoa.’

  ‘But—’

  ‘Now, Kitty!’ Kate ordered. She watched her daughter retreat into the back room, puzzled and subdued. Kate gripped the table to stop herself shaking. When the girl was gone, the argument erupted again.

  ‘I’ll not have her bad-mouthed by a bunch of dirty Protestants!’ John railed. ‘Told you she should never have gone there. Should be at a good Catholic school, learning the Faith. Teachers would sharp beat the bad words out the little buggers.’

  Tears stung Kate’s eyes. Why did they ever think they could cover up such a scandal? Their old neighbours in Tyne Dock must have known; now the rumours had followed them here. The poison of people’s gossip was leaking out around them like dirty water through fingers. She was powerless to stem it.

  ‘I’m off to have it out with that bitch in Phillipson Street,’ John shouted, pulling on his cap.

  ‘No, please.’ Kate stood in his way. ‘It’ll just make it worse.’

  ‘I’ll not have her saying owt bad about the McMullens. Get out me way.’

  But Kate stood her ground. ‘The lass’ll hear far worse before she’s through.’ She looked at him steadily. ‘I’ll tak her out of Simonside and send her to the Catholics, if you don’t go bothering that missus.’

  John’s bleary eyes narrowed at her suspiciously. ‘You will?’

  ‘Aye. But not to Father O’Neill. She can gan to St Bede’s in Jarrow,’ Kate said quickly. ‘They’ll not know her there. She can start with a clean slate.’

  She watched him working it through in his mind. Finally he nodded and sat back down in his chair.

  ‘Pour us a beer then, lass,’ he said with a look of satisfaction. ‘We’ll drink to Kitty gettin’ a proper education.’

  Kate did as he asked, relieved that a scene had been averted. Yet her heart was sore that she should have to take Catherine away from the respectable parish school where she seemed happy until now. She could only hope that the move to Jarrow would keep the rumours of illegitimacy at bay - that dark cloud of shame that hung over them constantly, threatening its merciless rain.

  Chapter 38

  Kate took Catherine away from Simonside School the following week. For the rest of the summer term she had to go to a local school in East Jarrow until there was room for her at St Bede’s Infant School in the September. Catherine appeared to take this sudden upheaval in her stride and spent the long holidays roaming the lanes and fields that bordered East Jarrow with her friends.

  Kate tried to keep her occupied with jobs close to home: pounding the washing in the poss tub, carrying basketloads of other people’s washing back to their houses, running to the shops for soap or flour or matches. But even at seven years old, the girl was fiercely independent, disappearing on adventures and returning triumphantly with nuggets of coal from the cinder tracks or pieces of driftwood for the fire.

  ‘Look what I’ve got you, Kate,’ she reappeared one day, dragging in a huge plank of wood and dropping it like a cat its prey.

  ‘You’ve not been down the Slacks, have you?’ Kate fretted.

  ‘No,’ Catherine said, her pretty hazel eyes all innocence, crossing her fingers behind her back.

  ‘You have,’ Kate accused. ‘How many times have I told you it’s dangerous to play down there? You could fall in and drown and we’d not find you - just like Jobling’s body disappearin’ into thin air. It’s a bad place - you stay away.’

  Catherine’s look turned sullen. She kicked the pl
ank. ‘I was just trying to help.’

  Kate felt a flash of remorse. ‘Aye, well, we’ll say no more about it. Tak it out in the yard and I’ll chop it up later.’

  When Catherine came back in, Kate went to the tin on the mantelpiece and took out a halfpenny. She thrust it at the child.

  ‘Here, gan to the shop and get a twist of sweets.’

  Her round face brightened. ‘Ta, our Kate.’

  ‘Be quick about it, mind. I need you to help me fold the sheets.’

  Kate was not surprised when Catherine skipped back in clutching a comic instead of black bullets, and squatted down on the fender at Rose’s feet. The girl had begun to read anything she could get her hands on. Mrs Romanus from upstairs had lent her a fat book by Charles Dickens that Kate had thought would give her a headache with all its words. But Catherine followed the words with her finger in deep concentration. Catherine would pester Aunt Maggie to look at her books too.

  Best of all, the girl seemed to like comics and annuals with pictures. To Kate’s annoyance she could sit by the fire for hours lost in a story world, oblivious to her pleas for help and blocking the way to the oven. Maybe old John was right and the Catholic teachers would knock some discipline into her dreamy head.

  Once Catherine started at the Jarrow school, Kate’s limited budget was stretched even further. The girl needed money for tram fares and, as it was too far to come home for dinner, she had to take food with her. As the autumn wore on, the family began to slip into debt.

  Kate tried to make ends meet with odd jobs: cleaning, mending window frames, taking in washing. But it was not enough. Her hands and arms were red raw from the scrubbing and possing and wringing of heavy linen through the wooden mangle. Her shoes were rotten and feet sodden and itchy from standing in rivers of filthy water in the wash house. At nights she could not sleep for the burning in her arms unless it was dulled by drink.

  This was the only help she got from her stepfather, money towards ajar of beer or whisky, when he had not spent his pay in the pubs on the route home. Jack was little better, for he was drinking hard after his shifts unloading from the ships, and did not see the housekeeping as his problem. At home he was lazy and Kate resented the way Rose always made excuses for her son.