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

by Janet MacLeod Trotter

  ‘You’ll get such a beating when you come out,’ she cried as she left, ‘you’ll not sit down for a week. I promise you that!’

  Kate crashed around the kitchen, finishing the day’s jobs, fuming at her powerlessness over her wayward daughter. By God, she’d make her pay for all this trouble. What she wouldn’t do for a drink! Just one to calm the palpitations in her chest, numb the hateful thoughts in her head. But there wasn’t a penny spare for liquor.

  Finally it was John who acted. He got up abruptly from his seat and went down to the privy. For an anxious moment, Kate thought he might be going to take the beating into his own hands and with a brief jolt of alarm remembered how long ago they had cowered with their mother in the outhouse, terrified of John’s murderous intentions. But then he had been mad with drink and rage; now he just seemed tired and wanting the punishment to be over.

  ‘Kitty, haway out and face the music,’ he cajoled. ‘Best get it over with, then we can all gan to our beds.’

  To Kate’s amazement, a few moments later, she heard the bolt slide back and a shadowy figure emerged from the darkened privy. She steeled herself not to weaken at the sight of Catherine’s pale, red-eyed face as she entered the kitchen. Grabbing her roughly by the arm, Kate pulled up the girl’s skirts and smacked her swiftly and hard on her bottom and legs.

  ‘Don’t you ever gan down the Slacks again!’ she roared. ‘And you leave them bairns alone, do you hear?’ She shook her until Catherine sobbed and nodded.

  ‘A-aye ... I’m s-s-sorry—’

  ‘You’ll not gan out to play for a week - you can make yourself useful round here. Now get to bed and say your prayers.’ Kate flung her away.

  Catherine scrambled round the table and limped into the bedroom, banging the door behind her. Kate stood panting, her callused hands clenching and unclenching as the rage inside her subsided. For a moment she had hated her daughter with every fibre in her body, could have beaten her till there was no more defiance in her tawny eyes. Now, she stood trembling and shocked by the strength of her anger. She was no better than Catherine. They were two of a kind, capable of the worst. Perhaps they were cursed. For the thousandth time, Kate rued the day she had ever set eyes on Alexander.

  She pushed back the strands of hair that had escaped their pins and saw Rose staring at her. In the dimness she could not read her expression. Did her mother hate and despise her the way she sometimes did her own daughter?

  ‘Mam,’ Kate whispered, ‘what shall I do with the lass?’

  After a moment, Rose said quietly, ‘She’s got too much spirit. Kitty needs a firmer hand than most. Go and speak to the priest.’

  John snorted. ‘She needs teaching what’s right and wrong, that’s all.’

  ‘She gets that,’ Kate said defensively. ‘Here and at St Bede’s.’

  John shrugged. ‘Have the lass gan to school closer to home - where you can keep more of an eye on her. A good Catholic school, of course.’ His look meant there’d be no nonsense like sending her to the Anglicans again. ‘Aye, St Peter and St Paul’s, down Tyne Dock.’

  ‘With Father O’Neill?’ Kate asked with a sinking heart. Their local priest had aged over the ten years since Kate had come home but not mellowed. ‘He’d be too hard on the lass.’

  ‘It’s what she needs,’ John declared, ‘what you should’ve got at her age if your mother hadn’t been so soft. Then maybes things might’ve turned out different.’

  Kate bristled, but swallowed a retort. She was too drained to argue with him. And perhaps there was something in the suggestion. The firebrand priest might be the only one who could tame Catherine’s wilfulness.

  Kate looked at her mother and Rose nodded.

  ‘I’ll gan and see about it the morrow,’ Kate sighed in agreement.

  Much later, when Kate finally fell into bed, she thought Catherine was asleep, curled up in a ball. Then in the dark she heard her sniff. Reaching out a hand, she felt her daughter’s hair. It was wet and sticking to her cheeks with tears.

  ‘Kitty?’ she whispered, her anger spent.

  Catherine sobbed out loud, ‘I’m sorry - I d-don’t know why I did it.’ Her body shook as she tried to explain. ‘They’re always teasing me. I just got all angry inside. It wasn’t Billy’s fault, he was just there. I didn’t mean to hurt him, I promise.’ Catherine’s voice broke as she wept again. ‘I’m bad and terrible and I’ll g-go to hell!’

  ‘Hush now.’ Kate reached out quickly and pulled her into her arms. ‘You’re not ganin’ to hell.’

  She rocked the girl soothingly until her sobbing died down. ‘Don’t you listen to what the other bairns say - they don’t mean the half of it. You’re not a bad lass underneath. They think you are because of me - but you’ll prove them wrong, hinny. You do what your mam and your teachers tell you and you’ll make some’at of yourself, by heck you will.’

  Catherine burrowed into her side and they fell asleep wrapped around each other, untroubled by nightmares or restless wanderings for the first time in months.

  Chapter 43

  Catherine appeared to settle quickly at St Peter and St Paul’s in Tyne Dock and the bouts of temper gradually abated. Soon John was teasing her for being too holy.

  ‘Here comes St Catherine - say a prayer for me.’

  ‘I do, Grandda,’ she would reply seriously, and provoke a roar of laughter.

  Kate would find her kneeling at the foot of their bed praying aloud for her family. On Saturdays Catherine would beg her to fetch her boots back from the pawnshop where they went after school on Friday, so that she could go to Sunday Mass.

  ‘Our Lady hears your prayers in the bedroom well enough,’ Kate would counter if she could not afford to reclaim the boots.

  ‘But I have to gan,’ Catherine insisted. ‘Miss Coulthard will ask us what the priest said and I’ll get wrong for not knowing.’

  ‘That old battle-axe,’ Kate snorted. ‘Get one of the lasses to tell you on the way to school.’ She was not going to be dictated to by Catherine’s censorious headmistress who dared to send her daughter home with her hair bound in plaits after she spent hours grooming it into pretty ringlets. Catherine’s wildness may have been tamed by the strict teacher but Miss Coulthard was the cause of financial wrangles. Apart from more frequent trips to the pawnshop for Sunday clothes, Catherine had thrown one of her old tantrums over a sewing lesson. She needed three yards of flannelette for a nightdress.

  ‘Three yards!’ Kate had cried. ‘I haven’t even got the rent money this week.’

  But Catherine had wept and nagged for several nights until Kate snapped. In the twilight, she marched down to Jarrow and, spotting a bale of flannelette in a shop doorway, grabbed it and shoved it under her coat.

  To her horror, as she made her escape, she saw that Catherine had followed her and seen it all.

  ‘Run!’ she barked at her daughter and they dashed from the street and up the hill, not pausing to stop till they reached East Jarrow. Kate heaved for breath, feeling nauseous from fear. She turned to see Catherine vomiting into the verge.

  ‘See what that witch has gone and made me done?’ Kate gasped. ‘You better make a canny job of that nightie.’

  Catherine said nothing, just looked at her aghast. That night she spent twice as long on her knees at the foot of the bed and Kate imagined the prayers were full of supplication on her behalf.

  Kate tried to banish the incident from her mind, for thieving was something she had never resorted to, no matter how hard up they were. She had only done it for Catherine, so that she would not be stigmatised by the other children or picked on by critical teachers. But shortly afterwards, a greater temptation came her way.

  Jack came back on leave in June with news that his regiment were to be posted.

  ‘Looks like we’re ganin’ to France at last,’ he
said eagerly. Rose was full of dismay, but John was approving.

  ‘ ‘Bout time you saw some action with the Durhams.’

  The men went out on a drinking binge which lasted from Friday night through to early Monday morning.

  Kate was gathering up clothes for the weekly wash when she felt a large piece of paper in her stepfather’s trouser pocket. He and Jack were sleeping late and the trousers lay discarded on the floor where she and Catherine had struggled to undress him the previous night. Her eyes widened as she opened it out to find it was a five-pound note. She had never held so much money in her hand before.

  Kate’s heart thumped. She thought the last of John’s compensation money had been spent over the three days of drinking. He had boasted to Jack that he would treat him to as much whisky and beer as he wanted before he took the train south. This must be the last of it, for the drawer in the sewing box was empty and no longer locked.

  She could pay off the rent man with this and have plenty left over for a few treats. Aflecks still had tinned pears on their shelves. Catherine could have a decent coat for Mass on Sundays. She could buy a secret bottle of whisky and keep it under the mattress. Kate glanced through the wash-house door. No one would know if she pocketed it. What was the harm in it? John would not miss it. He had been so drunk he would think he had spent the lot.

  Kate stood in indecision while she struggled with her conscience. She deserved it, by God! She had seen nothing of the hundred pounds. For all the years of slaving and putting up with her stepfather’s boorishness, this would be her small piece of luck. Kate unbuttoned the top of her blouse and pushed the five pounds deep inside her bodice. She set about the heavy chore of possing the clothes with a savage vigour and sang all morning like a blackbird.

  She thought she had got away with her theft until two days later when she walked back in from her job at the pub to hear John swearing and ranting at Rose.

  ‘I know I had it, you stupid bitch! I didn’t drink it all. Five pounds I had. You can’t have looked proper.’

  ‘It’s not in the box,’ Rose answered wearily. ‘You emptied it on Saturday.’

  ‘Well, I never drank it!’ John turned on Jack. ‘You knew I had it. Did you tak it? ‘Cos if you did I’ll knock yer teeth down yer gob!’

  ‘I never touched your money,’ Jack snapped. ‘You were buying beer like there was no tomorra.’

  John swore at him, then spotted Kate at the door. ‘Have you seen it?’

  ‘Seen what?’

  ‘Me money. Me five pounds.’

  Kate felt her throat drying. ‘Me? When have I seen owt of your money?’

  ‘You’ve stolen it, haven’t ye?’ he accused. ‘Got it hid somewhere. Think I wouldn’t notice. What’s that you’ve got? You’ve been buying stuff with my money!’

  He leapt at her, tearing the parcel from her arms. Dirty aprons spilled on to the floor.

  ‘Gerr off!’ Kate cried. ‘It’s washing, that’s all.’

  John glared at the heap of laundry, his fists bunched. Rose struggled to her feet.

  ‘Leave the lass be,’ she ordered. ‘She wouldn’t take your money. Either you’ve spent it or it’ll turn up. Now sit yoursel’ down and I’ll make a pot of tea.’

  Kate quickly gathered up the dirty washing and hurriedly dumped it in the wash house. When she came back in, the shouting had died and Rose was limping slowly around the scullery fetching vegetables to scrub. She was making an extra effort for Jack’s last few days, determined that she would help feed him up and that he should not see her confined to her chair like an invalid.

  The women shared the chores in silence, each happy to keep out of the way of the truculent John. As Kate lifted the heavy pan of potatoes, Rose stopped her with a look. Her mother spoke so quietly, Kate had difficulty in catching her words.

  ‘If you did take it, I never want to know.’

  Kate felt herself going red. ‘Mam, I—’

  Rose silenced her with a finger on the lips. ‘Just promise me one thing,’ she added. ‘Spend it on you and the bairn. Not on drink. Promise me you won’t drink it away like that devil in there.’

  Kate felt a flood of shame that her mother should have guessed, yet her eyes pricked with gratitude that Rose should still be trying to protect her from John. She could not speak, but nodded briefly and escaped into the kitchen with her heavy load. Her mother never mentioned the matter again.

  ***

  The night before Jack was due to embark for France, he bought two jugs of watery beer and a bottle of rum from a black marketeer at the docks and they drank to his going.

  ‘I’m proud of you, lad.’ John punched him playfully on the shoulder and Kate thought how he would boast around the Jarrow pubs till the war ended.

  Rose sat tensely, darning a thick pair of John’s socks for her son to take with him, for she had heard the trenches were cold and wet, even in summer. Kate drank deeply with the men and sang loudly until Catherine appeared like an apparition and said she could not get to sleep for all the noise.

  Jack tried to pull her on to his knee but she wriggled out of his hold and darted back to bed.

  They went to bed late and Kate fell into such a deep, drink-fuelled sleep that she was not aware of Jack until his hands were on her. She woke with a start.

  ‘Just once, Kate,’ he pleaded. ‘I’m off to fight for you and England. Might never come back. Just give us a bit o’ love before I gan. You’ll miss us when I’m gone, Kate. And I’ll miss you.’

  Kate shook her head. ‘It’s not right, Jack. I’m your sister,’ she whispered.

  ‘I just want a bit kiss and cuddle.’

  They tussled. All of a sudden he stopped and leant up. In the blacked-out room she could not see his expression, but she heard the suppressed glee in his voice.

  ‘You took it, you clever lass. You fooled him, good and proper!’

  Kate’s heart thudded to hear the rustle of the five-pound note in his hand. Jack had pulled it from her bodice. She tried to grab it from him, but he held it high.

  ‘Please, Jack, give it me back,’ she hissed. ‘I kept it for the bairn. Don’t tell on us, Jack man.’

  She heard the triumph in his voice. ‘You can have it back if you give us a bit love.’

  Kate felt defeated. What choice did she have? To give in to Jack’s demands or face a vicious beating from her stepfather. She knew the temper of the man and the torture of his belt. Jack would be gone in a day; but John she had to live with till they carried him out in a coffin. If he found out about the stolen money, it would be her body going out in a box, more than likely.

  She bargained for time. ‘All right,’ she muttered, ‘but not here. You’ll wake the bairn.’

  ‘Where then?’ Jack demanded, his breath on her cheek.

  ‘The morrow - when she’s at school - before you gan.’

  ‘Promise me!’ Jack commanded.

  ‘Aye,’ Kate said, turning her face from him.

  He went, taking the money with him as insurance. Kate lay for a long time unable to sleep, disgusted with her brother for his desires and with herself for not speaking up before about his pestering. But who would believe her? Not Rose, who adored her son whatever he did; not John, who thought him an innocent with women. Shy Jack, a canny lad to the outside world. She would be blamed for leading him on and her life would be made a misery.

  The next day she went about her work with a sick dread. As she scrubbed the pub floors of the previous night’s beer and spit, she contemplated not going home until after Jack’s train had gone. All the family, Mary included, were to travel into Newcastle to see him and the other soldiers on to the train for London. She would never be forgiven for missing the occasion.

  She thought of the five pounds and felt a surge of defiant anger. That money was hers and he was not
going to cheat her of it! She deserved every penny. Kate knew she would never have the opportunity again of possessing such a lump sum to do with as she wished. It would be her insurance against hard times, an investment in the future that could lift her out of a hand-to-mouth existence.

  All the way home she seesawed between hoping there would be no opportunity to be left alone with Jack and determination to get her money back. Jack was polishing his boots on the step, looking out for her.

  ‘Mam’s resting before the trip to Newcastle.’ He smiled up at her, as if she would be pleased with the news. ‘Father’s gone into Jarrow.’

  ‘Why?’ Kate’s heart sank, her courage failing.

  ‘Heard there’s war work at Palmer’s and they’re not fussy about age any longer. Wants to do his bit for the war effort,’ Jack smirked. ‘Doesn’t want me showing him up.’

  Without waiting for Kate to reply, he stood up and led the way inside. Kate’s pulse hammered. It would be over quickly, she’d see to that. She was following him into the bedroom, when there was a clatter of feet outside and Catherine ran in from the yard.

  ‘What you doing back so early?’ Kate asked, startled.

  ‘Miss Coulthard said I could gan to the station to see our Jack off - said he’s a grand lad for ganin’ to fight for his country,’ Catherine beamed.

  Kate glanced at her half-brother and saw the alarm on his face.

  ‘You shouldn’t be missing school,’ he reproved.

  The girl looked crestfallen. Kate quickly intervened. She went to the tea caddy on the mantelpiece and fished out a sixpence. She had meant it for a loaf of bread to see them until Friday when she got paid.

  ‘Take this and fetch a jug of beer from the Twenty-Seven.’

  Catherine gave her a contemptuous look.

  ‘Just for our Jack - so he can have a last drink before his journey,’ Kate coaxed, keeping her temper.

  The girl took the coin with a martyred look and plodded out of the house. ‘Don’t be long,’ Kate called after her, ‘else we’ll miss the train.’