THE JARROW TRILOGY: all 3 enthralling sagas in 1 volume; The Jarrow Lass, A Child of Jarrow & Return to Jarrow

by Janet MacLeod Trotter

  Rose fell into an exhausted sleep and when she awoke, William was sitting on the side of the bed, illuminated by soft candlelight, cradling their daughter in his arms. They smiled tenderly at each other and Rose unexpectedly burst into tears. William carefully placed the baby in her arms and leaned over to hold them both.

  ‘Don’t cry. She’s as bonny as her mother,’ he assured her. ‘I don’t mind that it’s not a lad.’

  ‘That’s not it,’ Rose sobbed. ‘I’m crying ‘cos I’m happy!’ She laughed and cried at the same time. ‘I was that scared - I thought I was dying. I wanted you to come back ...’

  ‘At least Mother was here to help you,’ William said.

  Rose kept to herself how unhelpful his mother had been. It was all over now and she vowed that Mrs Fawcett would never ‘help’ her in childbirth again. ‘And your father’s comfortable. I made sure there was a fire going before I left and plenty of coal in the hod.’

  Rose smiled at him through her tears. ‘Oh, William, you’re a grand man. I’m that glad I’ve got you!’

  He kissed her gently on the lips. ‘You’ll always have me,’ he promised.

  Chapter 7

  That winter was the cruellest in memory. 1879 was heralded by heavy snows that did not melt for weeks, turning Jarrow into an arctic wasteland. Nothing could move through the deep frozen snowdrifts. Ships were icebound and trains marooned. Coal could not be transported to the docks. Many a fireplace stood cold and empty, forcing people to find what warmth they could against a wall that backed on to a neighbour’s fire.

  Schools were closed and children bundled into bed together in the middle of the day, while their mothers went out in search of fuel. As cupboards emptied, starvation crept into homes like a pestilence. Men queued up for outdoor relief and waited their turn around a heap of stones to earn ninepence for piecework as stone-breakers. Some went mad with idleness and lack of food, and threw themselves into the icy oblivion of Jarrow Slake. The workhouse filled up with families that could no longer pay the rent and had nothing left to sell.

  Mrs Fawcett wept when they had to pawn their china and shiny brass fender to put food on the table.

  ‘We’ll buy them back when work picks up again,’ her husband promised.

  Then the piano had to go. Rose watched a grim-faced William struggling with three others to secure it to a flat cart and drag it off across the treacherous black ice to the pawn shop. Mrs Fawcett sat in the stark parlour, head bowed in shame at such a public display of their difficulties, but Rose’s heart went out to William, who would miss the music the most. Afterwards, a spark was extinguished from her husband’s eye and lethargy crept over him. Always one for whistling or humming snatches of songs, he soon stopped singing at all.

  Rose was housebound for weeks with baby Margaret, hibernating in bed or by the kitchen fire, anxious that her supply of milk might dry up for lack of food. Margaret was tiny and found it difficult to suckle, and the priest swiftly came to the house to christen her in case she was carried off by the pitiless winter like scores of other infants. Rose prayed fervently to the Virgin Mary to save her first-born, shuddering with horror at the thought of losing this trusting, snuffling creature with her delicate face and hands. Only Margaret could keep her arms warm and her heart comforted during this bleakest of times.

  At first, William would walk miles each day searching for casual work, doing odd bits of joinery for the wealthy of South Shields. He would accept payment in food, a piece of meat or a couple of loaves and some jam, bringing them home triumphant as a sea captain with his treasure. But then he caught a chill, which settled on his chest and brought on bouts of painful coughing that left him exhausted. A bed was made up for him by the kitchen fire and Rose watched him with mounting alarm as all his energy and interest in life seemed to drain away with the sputum he spat into the bowl at his side.

  By March, with no sign of the earth waking from the frozen spell of winter, Rose bundled up Margaret in as many layers as she could and went out in search of work. Such was the lethargy among the household that no one asked her where she was going. She thought of the Liddells, the new rector of St Paul’s and his young wife, who lived in the blackened rectory between the ruined monastery and the stinking Don.

  The Reverend Edward Liddell had startled the Fawcetts by calling on them one day to introduce himself as rector of the parish. Mrs Fawcett had quickly dispatched him with the sniffy reply that they were of the ‘true faith’ and not to bother calling again. But from what Rose had glimpsed of the young smiling rector, retreating with good grace and a faithful collie dog at his heels, she thought he might be sympathetic. If they were new, they might be in need of domestic help.

  As Rose picked her way carefully over the slippery cobbles, she was aghast at what she saw beyond James Terrace. The streets were strangely quiet, with little traffic and no singing of birds or cries of children. At a church door, emaciated, thin-lipped men stood silently in line, hands thrust deep into pockets, waiting for the relief kitchen to open. Rose hurried on to the end of the street towards St Paul’s. Off in the distance she could see figures crawling over the empty railway line that led down to the docks. Women, hunched in their shawls, were scrabbling at the iron-hard ground with bare hands for any discarded nuggets of coal.

  Rose stopped in her tracks, appalled at this twilight world of suffering. For weeks, she had been out only on the occasional Sunday to attend Mass. She had heard of what was going on in the town from William and Florrie and occasional visits from Maggie to reassure her that her family were still alive, but she had not witnessed it for herself. She thought they had been badly off, but at least they could afford to keep a fire going. She hesitated, wondering if she dare go to the Liddells asking for work when there were so many worse off than she.

  On the point of turning back, Rose glanced down at baby Margaret, muffled in her blankets, grizzling. She felt a strong protective anger. Her baby could die if she did nothing! Their daughter would not last long if William’s illness continued and he could not get out to find work, however menial. He needed medicines and they all wanted food. She worried about Maggie, coping with her father, weakened by influenza. They all needed what little she could bring in to tide them over until the mills and docks stirred into life again. She would do anything to protect her own! Hugging Margaret tightly to her breast, Rose walked on resolutely towards the rectory.

  No one answered her knocking at first. Finally a young maid came to the door. ‘The rector’s at a meeting and the missus is visitin’,’ she said, eyeing Rose with suspicion.

  ‘Can I wait?’ Rose asked, before the girl could close the door on her. ‘I belong in this parish.’ The girl opened the door and nodded for her to come in, then left her standing in the draughty hallway and disappeared.

  This was how Mrs Liddell found her when she returned. As the older woman stamped the dirty slush from her boots, she was startled at the sound of Margaret whimpering.

  ‘Goodness me! Who’s that?’

  Rose stepped out of the gloom. ‘Sorry to bother you, Mrs Liddell. But the rector called on us the other day and I wondered if you might have a bit work for us. I can do anything - cleaning, washing - just an hour or two if you like. Me husband’s ill and so’s me da, and I’ve a bairn now and I can’t think how we’re going to manage. We live with me husband’s people, but they’re out of work an’ all...’ Rose stopped. The woman’s face looked cross and exhausted, creased in worries of her own. What a fool to think she would get work here among the Anglicans, Rose thought; they would surely look after their own kind first. ‘Me name’s Rose Fawcett,’ she added in a desperate attempt to appear respectable, feeling shame that she should try to hide behind her English name. But she thought she stood no chance at all if she were marked out as Catholic and Irish.

  Rose watched the well-dressed woman shed her thick red velvet cape with a l
ook of worried exasperation.

  Margaret chose that moment to increase her wailing. Suddenly, Mrs Liddell put out a hand and touched the fretful baby.

  ‘Sounds like she’s hungry. How long have you been waiting? Jane shouldn’t have left you standing here on your own. You’ll come into the kitchen and have something to warm you,’ she insisted. ‘You can feed your baby too.’ Suddenly she smiled and her whole face lit up, softening her features. Her eyes shone with kindness.

  ‘Ta, Mrs Liddell,’ Rose answered with a cautious smile.

  For the next half an hour, Rose sat in the homely kitchen around a large table, thawing out from the cold and eating biscuits dunked in piping hot tea. The rector’s wife unwrapped Margaret and inspected her, rocking her gently on her shoulder until Rose’s hands had lost their numbness and she could hold her to her breast and feed. As Jane seemed to have disappeared on some errand, Mrs Liddell stirred the soup on the range and insisted Rose had a bowl before she went out into the cold again. All the time she asked her questions and spoke in a beautiful voice which Rose could have listened to for hours.

  ‘Is Jarrow very different from what you’re used to?’ Rose could not help asking.

  Mrs Liddell laughed shortly. ‘Yes, very. I come from the north of Scotland, but my husband and I have been living down near London - in the country. His family are from near here, though. Ravensworth.’

  Rose gave a gasp of delight. ‘Eeh! Me grandmother used to work for Lord Ravensworth. I remember visitin’ the village as a bairn - saw Miss Isabella gettin’ wed.’

  Mrs Liddell smiled. ‘Fancy! My husband was probably there too. He’s a cousin of Lord Ravensworth’s.’

  Rose looked at her in astonishment and could not help blurting out, ‘A cousin! Then what’s he doing living in Jarrow, Mrs Liddell?’

  The rector’s wife laughed. ‘What indeed! Most of his family think we’re quite mad.’ Then she sighed. ‘He felt a strong calling to come and minister here, Rose, where there is so much need. The troubles of the people are so enormous, the task sometimes seems to overwhelm him. But he had no choice. He didn’t choose Jarrow. God chose him for Jarrow. It would have been a betrayal of God’s plan for him to stay on in a comfortable parish in the south of England, and an easy life.’

  Rose thought how William would like and approve of these people. ‘It’s very brave of him, Mrs Liddell. And you. Leaving behind all that you know, for somewhere you don’t.’

  ‘I used to think so,’ she said reflectively. ‘But it’s nothing to the courage we witness here every day, believe me. Life’s not about taking the easy path - but then you know that already, don’t you?’ She gazed at Margaret sleeping in her mother’s arms and tears welled in her eyes. ‘It’s all about using your energy and gifts as best you can for your fellow man - not just your loved ones,’ she added softly. ‘That’s why we’re living in this damp old rectory and not on a country estate.’

  Rose looked away, embarrassed at the woman’s frankness. Why had she confided in her like that? Rose wondered. Perhaps it was a mark of how lonely she was in this strange, blighted town so far away from her own family and the places she loved. When Rose looked up again, Mrs Liddell was vigorously stirring the soup.

  ‘Well, Rose,’ she said, in a more businesslike way, ‘we have someone who does our laundry and Jane is supposed to do the cooking and cleaning with the help of Widow Bradley. But perhaps you could come in and help them lay the fires and do some polishing from time to time?’

  ‘Anything!’ Rose agreed quickly. ‘I lay a grand fire and I can do the heavy work - fetching water, filling baths, gettin’ in the coal. I’m used to that.’

  ‘And what about baby Margaret?’

  ‘I - I can leave her at home,’ Rose said, a little unsure.

  ‘If it’s difficult you can bring her with you,’ Mrs Liddell said kindly.

  Rose was overjoyed. She left with the agreement that she could come the next day for two hours. The raw air outside did not seem so biting as she hurried away. She did not care if the Fawcetts disapproved of what she had done - there was no one going to stop her coming to work for the Liddells, even if it was scrubbing floors for Anglicans.

  Christina Liddell watched the young woman leave, her undernourished baby wrapped tight in her shawl. Edward would probably groan at her weakness in taking on another girl they could ill afford on his meagre pay, but she did not have the heart to deny her. There was something about Rose Fawcett that had touched her. The girl was friendly and showed a lively mind. She was tired of the suspicious looks and closed doors that she had encountered so often since their arrival. The people seemed bowed down by the burden of trying to keep alive, of the brutal seesaw between endless shifts or no work at all. Their employers appeared not to care what happened to them once they left the work gates or how they lived their lives. Where were the public parks and well-endowed libraries? There was no isolation hospital to stem the tides of fever or even a dispensary in the town. No one had even thought to build them a theatre or music hall where they could enjoy a respite from the relentless daily grind.

  Edward privately fulminated against the laissez-faire attitudes of employers like Palmer’s.

  ‘They don’t even have anywhere to get a warm drink in the morning,’ he had told her angrily. ‘Is it any wonder they shelter in the pubs before work? The publicans profit from it nicely - opening in the early hours to catch the men before Palmer’s gates are unlocked.’

  ‘Why don’t you set up a cocoa stall for them?’ she had suggested. Edward had instantly seized on the idea, but then the winter slump had thwarted his plans.

  They had never seen such poverty or such drunken oblivion as on these streets. She had witnessed grown women fighting like animals, half-naked children begging for food, skeletal men digging for stones with hands that had learnt a skilled trade.

  Today had almost been the last straw. She had come from a house in the parish where an Irish woman had died. She had been found with her feet in the cold ashes of a long burnt-out fire where she must have crawled to try to seek a trace of warmth. No one deserved to die like that! Coming home to their wretched house by the putrid barren ground above the Slake, on the point of bursting into tears, she had felt like giving up. The task was a hopeless one, the misery too great for them to make an ounce of difference. How she hated this benighted place! Then Rose had stepped out of the shadows. Here was an eager, lively young woman, in far worse straits than herself, willing to try anything to help her family.

  Rose had made her ashamed of her own woes and self-pity. She had shown her what real courage and endurance was. Watching Rose dealing with her baby, she had glimpsed the goodness that existed among the evils of this industrial town. How could she think of turning her back on them? She would help Rose Fawcett by giving her work and she would redouble her efforts to get their wealthy acquaintances in the town to contribute more generously to the relief funds. By God, she and Edward would make a difference in the lives of Jarrow folk if it killed them!

  Rose weathered the storm of protest at home for daring to go out and get a cleaning job.

  ‘And with them Protestants!’ Mrs Fawcett said in a fluster. ‘She’ll be bringing in washing next.’ The men felt their pride was at stake too.

  ‘It’s bad enough our Florrie being the only wage earner,’ William fretted. ‘It’s my job to provide for you and the bairn.’

  ‘How?’ Rose demanded. ‘If the mill started up again tomorrow, you’re in no fit state to gan back. You can hardly get up off that bed!’

  William grew agitated, his breathing noisy as a pair of old bellows. ‘I’d manage—’

  ‘You’re not going to stop me,’ Rose declared, ‘me mind’s made up and I’ve promised Mrs Liddell I’ll go. I’m lucky to get the work and I’m not so proud as to think I’m above doing a bit of hard graft. I do it round here for now
t,’ she added with a defiant look at William’s parents.

  Seeing how upset she was making William by her stand, she softened. ‘I’m doing it for you and the bairn. I want to buy you medicines for your chest - pay for a doctor to visit. The sooner you’re well again, the better you can take care of me and Margaret. I’ll give up the cleaning when you’re back on your feet,’ she bargained.

  All through March and April, Rose went to the rectory. She looked forward to getting out of the claustrophobic house in James Terrace and grew to enjoy her work. Jane became friendlier, and Rose was grateful for the extra food that was offered her in the kitchen whenever Mrs Liddell was there. Occasionally, Rose saw the rector dashing between meetings or visits, grabbing a quick bite to eat, Verger the collie always at his side. He was up early and out before she arrived, supervising the cocoa stall he’d managed to get started by the docks, then helping run a soup kitchen at midday. But he was always cheerful and his thin boyish face reminded her of William. Rose mused that if the men had been born in the same class they would surely have been friends.

  Her strength returned and she worked hard, endearing herself to the wheezing Mrs Bradley by offering to do the heavy chores. The women made a fuss over Margaret, but Rose liked to keep her with her, carrying her around in a kitchen drawer while she polished the brass stair rails or laid fires.

  ‘You have a lovely singing voice, Rose,’ Mrs Liddell surprised her by saying one day while she was scrubbing the tiles in the hallway.

  ‘I like a good singsong,’ Rose smiled. ‘But me husband’s got a much better voice than me. He sings like a lark, Mrs Liddell. You should hear him at church—’ She bit her tongue for her foolishness.

  But Mrs Liddell did not appear to notice. ‘How is Mr Fawcett?’ she asked.