What stupid thoughts! Kate mocked herself. The lass had no father - or not one that wished to acknowledge her. John McMullen, coarse though he was, would be better than no father at all. He stood between her and the workhouse and an upbringing of orphaned shame for her daughter. What right had she to judge him?
For the next three days, Rose brought the unnamed baby into Kate to be fed. But as soon as she finished suckling and had dropped off to sleep, Rose came and took her away again and placed her by the hearth in the orange box that was her crib. She seemed contented and sleepy during the day, but at night became fretful and plucked at her mother’s breasts until they were raw.
John complained that he could not sleep with the noise, so Kate would get up and sit in the kitchen, half-dozing and exhausted. Jack lay still in the shadows and she did not know if he saw her attempting to feed and placate the demanding baby, but he never complained.
After five days, Kate could bear it no longer.
‘She’s always crying to be fed,’ she said weepily to Rose when John and Jack had left for work. ‘I can’t give her any more.’
‘You can’t be feeding her right,’ Rose scolded. ‘Let’s have a look at you.’
Kate blushed as her mother opened her blouse and peered at her. Rose clucked, ‘Well, they’re full o’ milk. You’ll get used to it.’ Then she went to hang out the washing.
Kate determined to leave her bed and not be shut away all day where she could not see her baby. But increasingly she felt unwell as she struggled to help around the house. Sweat poured off her and she had to keep sitting down to stop herself fainting. Her breasts were swollen and aching and she could hardly bear the baby to touch them. That evening, as she was pulling a potato pie out of the oven, stabbing pains shot through her and she collapsed on the hearth.
There was consternation at the kitchen table and John cursed her for being clumsy, but Rose soon realised there was something very wrong.
‘Help me carry her to the settle,’ she ordered Jack. She felt Kate’s head. ‘She’s hot as a furnace. Fetch some water, lad.’
‘Stop bossin’ him about like a girl,’ John snapped.
Rose ignored him while she peered into Kate’s glazed unfocused eyes.
‘Can you hear me, lass?’ she asked anxiously, but Kate just moaned and shook. Rose undid her blouse and gasped at the swollen, engorged breasts. She knew just how much pain her daughter suffered; the same thing had happened to her when Jack had been a babe. But Kate was far more ill than she had been. She was shaking with fever and whimpering incoherently. In the corner, the baby began to wail.
She turned to John. ‘We’ll have to send for Dr Dyer. The lass has milk fever.’
‘No!’ John growled, all the time staring at Kate’s prone body.
‘Please, John, I’m frightened,’ Rose pleaded. ‘We cannot leave the lass like this - and the bairn needs feedin’. The doctor will give her some’at to bring out the fever.’
The baby’s fractious crying filled the room.
‘We don’t need the doctor,’ John said in a low rumble. ‘I can do it.’
Rose and John stared at each other. Jack looked between them, puzzled. He was disturbed by the sight of Kate’s half-undressed body on the settle. He glanced away.
Rose swallowed. John was proposing to do for Kate what he had done so eagerly for her all those years ago - suck the milk from her breasts to relieve the swelling and allow the baby to latch on again. The thought of it made her stomach heave.
‘No,’ she said stubbornly.
John glared at her. ‘Well, I’ll not have that doctor touching her again.’ He was just as adamant. He sat down and carried on eating his tea as if nothing was wrong.
Rose turned to Kate, her heart pounding with anger, and tried to get her to take sips of water. The baby’s crying grew more distressed. The noise was relentless. Kate whimpered something that Rose could not catch.
John scraped back his chair and stood up, unable to bear the wailing. ‘I’m ganin’ next door,’ he snapped and strode out.
‘Jack, fetch me the flannel and a clean teaspoon,’ his mother ordered, reaching over for her untouched cup of tea. When he came back she shovelled in extra sugar and stirred. ‘Now lift the bairn out its box and come and sit here.’
‘Me?’ Jack asked in astonishment.
‘Aye, she won’t bite ye,’ Rose said impatiently.
She watched him pick up his tiny niece like a piece of rare china and was reminded of John holding his new-born son with the same mixture of fear and wonder. What had happened to that fiercely caring man who had stayed up all night saving the life of his precious Jack, defying them all? Too sodden in drink and his own self-pity to care about any of them any more. Rose swallowed her bitterness.
She showed Jack how to cradle the bawling baby in the crook of his arm and give her drops of tea on the end of his finger. His frowning face broke into a smile of amazement as the baby began to suck hungrily at his little finger.
‘She’ll not be fooled for long,’ Rose warned him.
She turned to Kate and began mopping her face and neck with the damp flannel. Her daughter shivered and flinched away from the touch. Rose tried to soothe her, but Kate grew more agitated, tossing her head from side to side, babbling incoherently. Rose watched in mounting alarm, paralysed with indecision. Time, on the mantelpiece clock, ticked on. The baby dropped off into a fretful sleep.
Jack glanced anxiously at his half-delirious sister.
Kate stirred restlessly under the blanket, attempting to throw it off. Rose got up. ‘I’m ganin’ for Dr Dyer.’
‘Let me,’ Jack offered, springing up. ‘I’ll be quicker and -you know -’ he blushed, ‘you’re supposed to have just had a bairn.’
‘Aye, you’re right.’ Rose nodded in embarrassment. ‘Haway and tell him it’s urgent.’
She sat for what felt like an eternity, waiting for Jack to return with the doctor. When the door banged open she leapt up, only to see John swaying in the doorway. Rose could smell the reek of whisky from across the room.
‘How’s the lass?’ he slurred.
‘I’ve sent Jack for the doctor,’ she said defiantly.
John barged across the room. ‘I told you no doctor,’ he snarled. ‘Let me at the lass,’ he ordered.
Rose stood in his way, turning her face from his foul breath. ‘No, John, please, let the doctor see to her.’
‘We can’t afford him,’ John barked. ‘Out me way.’
He shoved her aside roughly. Rose’s unsteady legs buckled and she fell heavily to the floor. She was filled with disgust at the relish with which John knelt to his task.
She heaved herself up and limped to the hearth, her eyes averted. She could not fight her husband. Neither could she block out the sound of John’s smacking lips and noisy sucking as his mouth filled with Kate’s milk. Rose felt sick to the core. Why had she not done the deed herself while John was out? She was disgusted at her own inaction. Rose bent and picked up the baby, rocking her in her arms for comfort, gulping back tears of anger that things should come to this. Her lascivious husband sating his thirst on her daughter - and she was responsible.
Rose tried to block out Kate’s small cries of anguish. Were they of pain or relief? She was suddenly filled with angry disgust for her daughter too. It was all her fault that they were reduced to such measures! She would not be made to feel guilty. It was to save Kate’s life - and that of her baby.
Rose sat, gulping back tears, until she heard John grunt in satisfaction and get up. He came and stood over her, wiping flecks of milk from his moustache.
‘It’s done,’ he announced proudly. ‘The bairn can suck now.’
She could not look into his eyes for fear at what she would see there. Rose nodded. She waited for John to make his way unsteadily t
o the bedroom door and stumble to bed. For a long moment she sat still, clutching the baby, unable to move. Then she gritted her teeth and got up, hobbling over to Kate with her grizzling bundle.
‘Are you all right, lass?’ she whispered. There was no reply from the shadows. At the smell of milk and sweat, the baby began to wail. Rose thrust her at the figure on the settle. ‘Here, she needs feedin’.’
Kate stirred and the purplish light of the June night caught her face. Her cheeks were wet with tears. Rose’s heart felt leaden. She sat down heavily and reached out a hand in the dark. Finding Kate’s, she gently nestled the baby into her hold, ‘She needs you now, hinny.’
For a moment, she wanted to gather Kate into her arms and cradle her like a child, hush her fears. But at that moment Jack rushed in, followed by the doctor. She stood aside.
‘The milk’s coming now,’ she mumbled. ‘I’m sorry you were bothered.’
‘No bother at all,’ Dr Dyer said kindly, and bent to examine Kate, speaking to her softly.
Rose turned away, heavy-hearted. ‘Go to bed,’ she ordered Jack.
He hesitated. ‘Will she be all right?’
She nodded and he went without another word, though his look was perplexed. She watched while the doctor gave Kate a draught to ease the pain and help her sleep.
‘I’ll call again tomorrow,’ he promised.
‘There’s no need,’ Rose said firmly. ‘We can manage now.’
‘Still, I’d like to—’
‘Better if you didn’t.’ They exchanged looks and she knew the young doctor understood. He nodded and left. Rose sat on the end of the settle, watching Kate feed her baby, wanting to say something but not finding the words. Her feelings for her daughter were so confused now. She smothered her pity. No point showing her weakness when one of them had to stay strong. Rose heaved herself up and turned away before Kate could see the anguish that glittered in her eyes.
Chapter 34
Afterwards, Kate could not bring herself to look at her stepfather. She retreated to the bedroom with the baby whenever he came home. She was sapped by the fever and weak from suckling her demanding infant. For weeks she never left the house, imprisoning herself in its two musty rooms, unable to face the world.
She could not rid her mind of that terrible night, when John had bent over her with his rank breath and drunken lustful look. Sometimes she convinced herself it had only been a nightmare, a trick of her fevered brain. She had been shaking and delirious, hearing voices come and go, faces distorting and dissolving before her eyes.
She had thought young Dr Dyer had lifted her on to the settle, but the face that loomed over her had been Jack’s. Later she had been roused by someone’s touch and for a brief heady moment thought Alexander had come to claim her. Perhaps she had whimpered his name. Kate burnt with shame to think of it now, for the hands and lips on her skin had not been her lover’s, but those of her hateful stepfather.
Her skin crawled to think of the way he had touched her. She could not wash herself enough to rid her of the shame. Now, every time her baby suckled, it reminded her of the brutal way John had bitten her breasts and squeezed hard until the milk came. Even after it poured from her, he did not stop sucking until he was sated.
Worse still, she had to endure his boasting about it.
‘I saved her life, you kna,’ he told Dr Dyer in triumph when he called round to check on Kate and the baby a few days later. Kate blushed furiously to hear him describe his heroics and could hardly look at their visitor.
But when Father O’Neill got to hear of a birth in the house, he came round to demand when the infant would be christened. They had kept other visitors away with stories of sickness in the house, but Rose suspected the priest was not fooled. He eyed Kate with suspicion.
‘The lass’s been ill,’ Rose excused her.
‘The child must be christened,’ the priest declared, ‘to save her mortal soul from everlasting hell.’
When he had gone, Rose turned to her and said, ‘He knows, I’m sure of it. You cannot hide away for ever. It just makes it look suspicious. I’m the one supposed to be keeping to the house.’
‘Aye,’ John agreed, ‘I don’t want that bugger on me doorstep every day.’
‘And the bairn needs a name,’ Rose persisted. ‘We need to register the birth, else we’ll have the coppers round here an’ all.’
‘I’ll gan,’ John grunted, ‘if you fetch me suit from the in-and-out.’
Kate was shocked out of her silence. ‘No!’ She looked at them both with a glint of defiance. ‘I’ll go - she’s my bairn.’
‘She should be called Rose Ann,’ John continued as if she had not spoken, ‘after the mam who’s ganin’ to bring her up.’
Kate’s heart hammered. She would be called Catherine after her! It was the only thing she could give; her name. But she kept quiet, knowing that to argue would only rile her stepfather. She could not rely on her mother to support her over this either. Since the incident of the milk fever, Rose had been more distant, as if she somehow blamed her for what John had done. But to her surprise her mother said, ‘Let Kate go. It’s me that’s pretending to be in confinement. She can make herself useful.’
It was August already. Kate knew she could not delay facing the world outside any longer. Dr Dyer had told her weeks ago that she must go to the registrar or else incur a fine for late registration. None of them could afford to pay that.
The next day, Kate squeezed into her best blue dress - the one she had worn during those carefree days at Ravensworth - and pulling on the lace gloves Alexander had given her, set out with the baby wrapped in a blanket for the registry office. Nodding at the people she passed in the lane, Kate hid her feeling of lack of self-worth beneath a cheery smile and a breezy, ‘Afternoon!’
By the time she reached the town hall, she was perspiring with the exertion of walking so far and nervousness at what she had to do. She wanted no one to be there to witness her shame at registering an illegitimate child. Kate hovered on the steps, regaining her breath. Her arms ached from holding the baby. Damn you, Alexander! Damn you for bringing me to this!
For a snatched moment, she contemplated dumping the infant on the steps and running away. No one would know it was hers. She was nameless, unregistered, unclaimed. In a few short minutes she could be out of the town and walking to Gateshead, or Newcastle - somewhere she could start a new life, unknown to anyone. Kate’s heart hammered at the thought. Then the baby stirred in her arms and bleated, her tiny lips smacking in anticipation of the next feed.
What would become of her? Would Rose come looking for her? She would be given up to the workhouse orphanage, more likely. Kate felt a wave of guilt for even thinking it. She had brought this babe into the world; she could not abandon her as easily as Alexander had done. Then a thought struck her. A daring one, a reckless one. It would take all her courage to carry it out. Lifting her chin in defiance, Kate clutched the baby tighter and entered the office.
While she waited for her turn, she almost changed her mind. But when she was called through, she gave her answers boldly and without betraying the fear that pummelled her insides.
‘The child’s name?’
‘Catherine Ann Davies.’
‘Father’s name and occupation?’
‘Alexander Davies - he’s a man of business.’
The clerk gave her a querying look. She thought quickly of the term used by visitors to the Ravensworth Arms.
‘Commission Agent,’ she smiled.
‘And your name, please?’
‘Catherine Davies, born Fawcett,’ Kate announced, her hands clammy inside the gloves that hid her lack of a wedding ring. She watched in amazement as he carefully wrote in her details. It had been so easy. But what would they do to her if they discovered the lie? Throw her in prison?
Kate felt faint.
‘And date of birth?’
‘The twentieth of June.’
The clerk looked up at her and frowned. He had guessed. It must be obvious she was a woman in disgrace with a bastard child. Fear rose in her throat.
‘You must be mistaken,’ he said quietly. ‘That is over seven weeks ago. And you wouldn’t be registering late, would you?’ He held her look.
‘No,’ Kate gulped. ‘Daft of me. I’ve been poorly with the fever - I’m not thinkin’ right.’ She stared at him in panic. What should she say? She was going to be found out after all.
The clerk cleared his throat and studied the certificate. ‘Perhaps it was a week later,’ he prompted, ‘the twenty-seventh?’
‘Aye,’ Kate gasped, ‘that was it.’ She held her breath while he wrote in the date.
‘Now, if you could sign here.’
Kate was careful to sign her imaginary married name. A moment later it was all over and he was handing her the certificate. She felt light-headed.
‘Thank you,’ she said, smiling at him in gratitude. Then she was hurrying out of the office into the hot blustery street, before anyone should call her back.
She had done it! Given her little girl a father and herself a fictitious respectability. Not Pringle-Davies - such an unusual name would have drawn too much attention - but a name none the less. It would count for nothing round where she lived and God help her if the authorities discovered her deceit! But it was worth the risk to give Catherine a legitimate name. Some day in the future she might turn round and thank her for that. Deep down, Kate still kept alive a flicker of hope that Alexander might return some day, if not for her sake, then for their child’s.
As Kate set off back to Leam Lane, with her newly named daughter cradled on her shoulder, she thought in defiance: at least she’ll not be a common McMullen! She’ll be better than that, much better!
Chapter 35
By autumn, both John and Rose were nagging Kate to go back to work. Their meagre funds were dwindling. Sarah had been quietly married to her pitman, Michael. John had cursed her for a fool, but Sarah moved thankfully to Birtley and beyond his control.
THE JARROW TRILOGY: all 3 enthralling sagas in 1 volume; The Jarrow Lass, A Child of Jarrow & Return to Jarrow Page 69
