Catherine glared at her in reply.
A date was set for her first examination, but even this did not spur her on to regular practice. The gleaming piano sat gathering dust and the parlour did not fill with the sweet music that Kate so desired. It was nothing but a source of argument or silent resentment between the two and she grew to regret her foolishly extravagant gesture. It had pushed her further into debt and it was only a matter of time before the prestigious shop where she had bought the piano came to reclaim it for non-payment. What had possessed her to buy such a thing? And at a time of such shortage when even meat, butter and margarine were now being rationed?
Kate had to admit that it was because life was so drab and sorrowful after so many years of war and then Rose’s death that she had seized on the idea of cheering them all up. Music would restore their battered spirits and give Catherine an entry into a better world. But her contrary daughter had tossed her generosity back in her face and John made the most out of her mistake, by commenting daily on her stupidity and spendthrift ways.
Shortly before Catherine’s dreaded examination, the wrangling household were distracted by a long-awaited letter from Jack. There had been no news from him for weeks during the spring offensive. The Germans had broken through at Arras and Ypres and taken thousands of prisoners. The doom-mongers talked of the British retreating to the Channel and the Germans marching on Paris.
‘He’s safe!’ Catherine cried, the first to read the letter.
‘Read it out, lass,’ John ordered.
‘Dear Father,
I’m writing this behind the lines. We saw a lot of the action along the River Somme. I was on sniper duty. But it is quiet now. Some of the lads are low with influenza, but I’m champion. And this is the best news. I’m being made lance-corporal. Captain Scott says I am a crack shot. I hope you will be pleased with me for getting me stripe—’
‘Pleased?’ John interrupted. ‘The daft bugger! He doesn’t want a bloody stripe.’ John picked up the poker and stabbed at the fire in agitation.
Catherine stared at him in astonishment. ‘But isn’t it grand getting a stripe?’
‘No,’ John exclaimed, ‘it’s the quickest way to getting his head blown off.’
Kate could see that the girl was flummoxed. ‘It’s an honour for him being a good shot,’ Kate declared. ‘I thought you would be proud.’
‘I’d rather have him alive than dead with a stripe,’ John growled. ‘There’s nowt wrong with being Private McMullen.’
‘Well, there’s nothing we can do about it.’ Kate shrugged and went back to kneading suet into dumplings.
‘Aye, there is,’ John replied, scraping the poker against the steel fender so that it screeched for her attention. ‘He can turn it down. You write to our Jack and tell him not to take it.’
Kate thought it would make little difference. Jack could be as bloody-minded as his father and more likely to seize the promotion if John was against it. They thrived on one-upmanship and now Jack had found something he was better at than his father. Kate wrote the letter - the first to her brother in two years - expecting the advice would be ignored.
At the beginning of August a postcard of a cheery uniformed soldier came for Catherine, telling her gleefully that her uncle now had a lance-corporal’s stripe on his jacket. It happened to arrive on the day of the piano exam and Catherine tucked it into her pocket for good luck. No one expected her to do well and not even Kate wished her luck as she trailed down the hill to Tyne Dock.
It was a futile exercise as the piano had been repossessed the previous week. Catherine had bolted to the privy when the men had come to carry it out and Kate had been left to stand in the doorway, glaring defiantly at the curious stares of neighbours. Afterwards, she had sat at the kitchen table drinking from a secret bottle of rum Davie McDermott had left her and which she kept for emergencies, ruing the money she had thrown away on an impractical romantic whim.
‘Well then?’ Kate demanded when Catherine returned from the examination.
The girl’s expression was guarded. ‘It was all right.’
Kate scrutinised her. ‘You mean you passed?’
Catherine nodded.
Kate spun round and faced John. ‘Do you hear that? The lass passed her test. I told you she was musical.’
‘Not much good it’ll do you now,’ John said disparagingly, ‘seeing as that piano’s gone.’
Kate flushed. ‘I’ll find someone else’s she can practise on.’ She turned to her daughter. ‘Eh, Kitty? You can still gan to Hood Street for your lessons.’
‘No,’ Catherine said in alarm, ‘I’m not ganin’ back there.’
‘Why ever not?’
‘No one else pays Mrs Dalton in pie and peas,’ she blurted out.
Kate felt winded. The child was ashamed of her attempts to pay for the lessons, but she had no idea how difficult it was to juggle what little they had and make ends meet. Why couldn’t her daughter be grateful for the way she tried to do her best for her against all the odds? Kate was sick with disappointment.
When the piano certificate arrived at the end of the month, declaring that Catherine had been awarded honours, Kate sat down and cried.
‘You little beggar,’ she accused. ‘You knew you could do it all along - you didn’t try just to spite me. That’s the last time I do sommat special for you!’
Catherine ran out with a hurt look, leaving Kate feeling it was somehow all her fault. They hardly spoke a word to each other for days, until a letter came that shattered the tense silence at Number Ten.
‘It’s Jack!’ Kate gasped. ‘He’s been wounded.’
‘What’s it say?’ John demanded. Kate read it out falteringly.
‘”I wish to notify you of the grave news that your son John McMullen has been wounded in action at Miraumont, during the taking of the German-held ridge. He fought bravely and without thought for his own safety. He has been taken to a casualty clearing station where I spoke to him and assured him I would write at once to his family. Your son is awaiting transportation back to England and I pray for his swift recovery.
Yours sincerely,
Padre N. Sinclair.”’
They sat in stunned silence, then Catherine said, ‘But he’s still alive?’
‘Aye,’ John let out a long breath, ‘thank the saints.’
Kate felt an assault of conflicting emotions: shock that Jack was wounded and relief he had not suffered a terrible death. She leapt up and paced to the stove, stirring the pot of lentils that was their tea for the third day running.
‘We’ll need new linen. He might have weeks lying in bed,’ she gabbled. ‘I’ll gan into town the morrow and get some sheets. You’ll have to lend us some money.’ She fixed John with a look.
He nodded without protest, still in shock.
‘I’ll make him a card to welcome him back,’ Catherine said more cheerfully, the frown of worry wiped from her brow.
The next day Kate trekked far and wide in search of linen and soap that she could afford. She walked briskly to stifle her anxious thoughts. How injured was he? Would he be an invalid for ever? Was he missing arms or legs? Her poor little brother! Then she thought of the years stretching ahead looking after an invalid Jack as well as her stepfather, both demanding her attention and sapping her strength.
She was thirty-six. It might already be too late to escape a lifetime of servitude to the McMullen men. Kate felt herself buckling under the burden of being trapped. In a panic, she turned into Jarrow cemetery and found herself standing in front of her mother’s grave, unmarked except for a crude wooden cross and a dead posy of flowers that Catherine must have put there at Whitsuntide.
Dropping her bundle, Kate sank to her knees.
‘Oh, Mam! I wish you were still here - I cannot face all this on me own.’
She started to weep quietly in the hazy September sunshine as unformed prayers came spilling out of her.
‘Please help me. Give me strength to go on. Don’t let Jack be badly wounded. I’ll take care of him, I promise. Just don’t let him be a cripple and a burden to me. I’ll help him get better. Please help me ...’
She did not know if she prayed to Our Lady or her own mother or both, but when she finally got to her feet and picked up her brown paper parcel, she felt an easing of the blackness that pressed around her. Kate walked back up the bank with her spirits lifted a fraction. Jack had survived. He could be her ally against old John now that Rose was gone. They would look out for each other like old times.
When she entered the back door, there was something about the stillness that alerted her. It weighed in the air like flour, thick and muffling. She dumped her shopping down on the table and unpinned her battered hat.
‘I got the sheets in Ormonde Street.’ She turned as she spoke. John was sitting upright in his chair as if to attention, his face impassive, drained of any colour. Catherine was squatting on the fender, her knees pulled up to her chin in a habitual defensive pose.
‘What’s wrong with the pair of you?’ Kate asked. ‘Angel walked through the room?’
Catherine jolted at her words and looked anxiously at her grandfather.
‘Tell her,’ he said dully, without looking at either of them.
Catherine held out a piece of paper she had been clutching.
‘Telegram came while you were out.’ Her voice was high-pitched and quavering. ‘He died of his wounds. Jack’s dead.’ Her face crumpled as she said it.
Kate went forward quickly and pulled the girl to her, hugging her in comfort as she cried into her shoulder.
‘Poor Kitty,’ she gasped, clutching Catherine and stroking her hair. ‘Poor Jack!’
Then suddenly she was crying too, weeping for her brave half-brother, dying so far away from home. Guilt quickened her tears that she should have been wallowing in self-pity over her mother’s grave. She would have put up with him in any state, just to see Jack home again, giving her a shy smile. Why had she been so off-hand with him on his last visit home?
Kate cradled her sobbing daughter in distress. Jack might have been the only one who could have put John in his place and fought her corner. Now he was dead and gone, and she would never know.
Chapter 46
News of the Armistice reached Tyneside mid-morning on a chilly Monday in November. Hooters blared and bells rang. Workers at Palmer’s and along the river downed tools and stopped the machines. People pulled on coats and spilt into the streets to share the sense of relief. Spontaneous cheers went up for the British Army and Navy. No one knew quite what to do.
Later, thousands of war-weary people flooded into the town centres along the river, carrying effigies of the Kaiser. From the New Buildings, Kate could see the crowds set fire to one on Jarrow’s old pit heap. The bitter smell of kerosene filled the cold dank air and clung to the washing long after. Children were let out of school and marched through the town, banging tin drums and blowing mouth-organs and kazoos. Catherine improvised with paper and comb and rushed to join her friends.
Kate hurried up to Mary’s in excitement. ‘Get them blinds down. They can gan on the bonfire!’
‘I might need them.’ Mary was cautious.
But Kate just laughed and ran around the house ripping down the improvised blackouts. Her joy was infectious and soon Mary was helping her sister throw them out into the back lane along with hers. Within minutes children were scrambling to take them to the heap and pile them on the fire.
‘Haway, Mary,’ Kate grinned, ‘let’s gan and watch.’
‘But I’ve washing to do—’
‘Oh aye, stop the Armistice - Mary’s got her washing to finish,’ Kate teased.
Kate rushed back into her house and emerged with a colander secured to her head with a scarf, clanging two pan lids together.
‘What do you look like?’ Mary spluttered.
‘And here’s a couple of spoons for you,’ Kate said, pulling them out of her apron pocket.
Mary smirked, ‘We haven’t done something this daft for an age.’
‘It’s time we did,’ Kate grinned, leading the way with a clash of kitchen cymbals.
That night the sky was filled with fireworks and the pubs ignored the wartime restrictions and stayed open till the barrels ran dry. The singing and drinking at Number Ten went on late, John’s drinking friends knowing they would be welcome if they came with a tot of whisky to share. Eventually John grew maudlin about Jack and they helped him to bed, weeping like a child.
***
The celebrations were short-lived. John was soon back to his complaining and bullying. He plagued Kate all day long, for he had given up his war job. Since Jack’s death, her wily stepfather was drawing a war pension, claiming he had been dependent on his son’s army pay. Not a penny of it did he pass on to her for housekeeping, so Kate was once again forced to take in lodgers to make ends meet.
But as 1919 came, and civilian life resumed, there was no shortage of casual labour needing bed and board. Demand for shipping to replace the losses of the war was high. At least when there were other men in the house, John had to curb the worst of his abuse.
It was Catherine who proved more troublesome. Always one for playing up about tired legs and sickness to stay off school or avoid going to the pawnshop, she was brought back from school one day in a terrible state.
‘Lass collapsed in the yard,’ Kate was told. ‘She cannot walk.’
Kate put her to bed, feeling guilty that she had forced the girl to school that morning, despite her tearful pleading to stay at home. She had complained of a fall a few days previously but Kate had given short shrift.
‘Don’t think you can skive off school for a scratch on your hip,’ she had said dismissively.
But her daughter lay in bed for days, delirious with fever and unable to climb out of bed to go to the privy let alone walk there. Dr Dyer came and ordered complete bed rest, though he seemed baffled by Catherine’s symptoms.
‘She’s lost the use of her legs, though nothing’s broken. The girl’s in a state of exhaustion - probably run down by the lack of nutrition from the shortages. Lots of rest and a good diet, Kate, that’s what she needs.’
While Catherine lay ill and confined to bed, the lodgers went in the parlour and John had to sleep on the settle. He grumbled constantly but Kate was firm that the child must be left in peace. She pawned her daughter’s shoes and school clothes to bring her kippers and grapes, trying to tempt her to eat. But Catherine was lacklustre and had no appetite. She showed no interest in the daily comings and goings beyond the half-open bedroom door.
‘Eat a bit of pear, hinny,’ Kate coaxed, ‘you’ve got to get your strength back.’
Catherine turned her face away, her eyes staring fixedly on the blank wall, and said nothing. Kate was at a loss as to how to break the strange spell of silence that had settled on her usually forthright daughter.
‘Well I don’t have time to sit here all day talking to me own shadow.’ She quickly lost patience and left.
Only at night did the girl find her voice, sometimes yelling out so loud in her sleep that Kate had to shake her awake before the lodgers complained.
‘Stop your noise!’ she hissed. ‘Or we’ll have the men banging on the wall.’
Afterwards, Kate tried to pull the girl into her arms and reassure her it was just a bad dream. But Catherine stiffened in rejection and held her face away as if she could not even bear to breathe the same air. So Kate’s words of comfort shrivelled on her lips and she fell into exhausted sleep. Sometimes she slept late and it was John who came to rouse her with predatory hands on her thighs and buttocks.
‘
Get away!’ Kate cried groggily.
‘Well, get up you lazy bitch and give us breakfast.’
Catherine lay in bed for weeks until gradually her interest in life returned. She found she could get up and walk a few steps. Kate moved her to the settle in the kitchen where she could watch the other children playing in the street. She still seemed oddly detached and did not show any inclination to try to join her friends. But Kate was heartened by her increasing appetite and the occasional spark of defiance.
‘You’ll be back at school by blackberry picking,’ she encouraged.
‘I’m not ganin’ back,’ Catherine announced. ‘I don’t learn anything useful.’
Kate snorted. ‘Tell that to Miss Coulthard.’
‘I wish she was dead,’ Catherine muttered. ‘She’s always picked on me. I hate school.’
Kate scolded her for such a thought and let the matter drop.
During her long recuperation, Davie McDermott reappeared from sea and asked for lodgings.
‘I heard about Jack,’ he said with a touch on Kate’s shoulder, ‘and I’m sorry.’
She nodded and quickly cleared the bedroom for his use.
Catherine perked up to hear the stoker’s tales of stormy voyages to the West Indies and America. They sat and played cards at one end of the table while Kate hummed over the ironing at the other. Kate enjoyed his quiet, easy-going presence and he was generous with jugs of beer in the evening. It reminded her of happier moments when Stoddie had flirted with her and made her feel special. She longed to know what had happened to Davie’s brother-in-law, but was too shy to ask. Catherine, though, was not.
‘Did he come home after the war?’ she asked.
‘Aye, he’s working over Liverpool way,’ Davie said, rolling a cigarette.
‘Just think of it - after all them years in a prison camp. Can he speak German?’
Davie laughed softly. ‘Don’t rightly know.’
‘D-did he -’ Kate floundered, ‘has he . ..? Is he wed to your Molly’s friend?’
A Child of Jarrow Page 41
