Catherine said nothing, because she knew he was right.
***
The following Saturday, Gerald approached her after benediction and gave her a diffident smile.
‘Which way are you walking?’
She stared at him, speechless, heart knocking against her chest.
‘Sorry, I just thought. ...’ He gave an embarrassed cough. ‘But maybe you’re waiting for your young man?’
‘Young man?’ Catherine stammered. ‘Oh, you mean Tommy? Goodness, no, he’s not me man! I don’t have one. And yes, I’d like to walk with you.’ She blushed crimson.
They stood for a moment, smiling awkwardly.
‘Well?’ He looked at her quizzically.
‘Yes?’
‘Which way do you live?’ he prompted.
‘Oh!’ Catherine exclaimed. Panic seized her at the thought of him walking her back to William Black Street where she was due to spend the night. Davie was home and he and Kate would be drunk by now. Her mother would give Gerald the eye and pull him into their fusty kitchen, for raucous singing and whisky drinking. Gerald did not look like the type who drank liquor. But neither did she want him walking her to the gates of the workhouse, where they might be spotted by the malicious Hettie or one of her spies.
‘I-I’m not going straight home,’ Catherine improvised desperately. ‘I thought of going to the pictures.’
‘Oh, I see,’ Gerald said in surprise. ‘Is there something good on?’
‘Yes - well -I don’t know -I was going to find out. Do - do you like the cinema?’ She felt herself sweating as she asked him. What had possessed her to be so forward?
He looked taken aback, then nodded. ‘Yes, I do. Are you meeting someone, or were you going on your own?’
Catherine felt herself squirm. He might think her odd for going to the pictures alone, but she had done so since she was a small girl. Her greatest pleasure in childhood was to be slipped a penny by her Uncle Jack and dash off to the noisy fleapit to gaze at the moving pictures, while organ music burst over her and swept her into a magical world.
‘I was going alone,’ she said, meeting his look with a touch of defiance.
Suddenly he smiled. ‘May I join you? I have no other plans this evening.’
Catherine was elated. ‘Of course, I’d like that very much.’
He nodded, and together they set off towards the centre of town. By the time they had found a film to go to, she had told him her name, that she lived in Jarrow and worked as an officer at Harton, that she loved reading and painting and cycling in the countryside. He listened attentively to her chatter and laughed at her descriptions of her fellow staff, and Catherine could not help exaggerating their foibles to amuse him.
Gerald insisted on paying for good seats in the stalls to see a Rudolph Valentino film, and bought chocolates for the interval. Catherine thought she must be dreaming; never could she have imagined such luck. If Hettie Brown could see her now, sitting in the dark next to the handsome, well-to-do Gerald Rolland - insurance agent, bass singer - the woman would have a pink fit. Catherine felt a delicious thrill at the thought of introducing such a man to her family and friends.
Afterwards, she had a strong desire to slip her arm through his and stroll through the streets of South Shields. But he made no move towards her.
‘Can I see you to your tram?’ he asked politely. ‘I go in the opposite direction.’
She felt a stab of disappointment as she nodded.
‘Thank you very much for treating me to the film,’ she said, as the tram rattled to a stop in front of them.
Gerald tipped his hat. ‘Perhaps we can do it again some time?’
Catherine smiled eagerly. ‘I’d like that very much.’
He waved her away and she craned for a view of him out of the dirty window as the tram laboured up the bank towards East Jarrow. She could not wait to see Kate’s expression when she told her about the grand man who had bought her chocolates. It was something they could share over a cup of warming tea, something to make Kate’s eyes widen in admiration.
‘Where’ve you been?’ Kate demanded angrily, when she reached home. ‘You never said you’d be this late.’
‘To church, then the pictures,’ Catherine said, unable to hide her smile of satisfaction.
Kate’s eyes narrowed in suspicion. ‘Your tea’s ruined - burnt to a cinder. You never said owt about the pictures. Who you been with?’
Catherine’s heart sank. She could tell by her mother’s look and the smell on her breath that she was in a belligerent mood. There was no sign of Davie or John. Perhaps they had gone to the pub and left her, or maybe there had been a row. Kate grabbed her by the arm.
‘Don’t turn your back on me. I asked you a question. Who you been with? Look like the cat that got the cream.’
‘A friend took me to see Rudolph Valentino,’ Catherine admitted.
‘A lad?’
‘Not a lad - a man - a nice gentleman.’
‘What man? You’ve never said owt about a man friend. Your grandda’ll go light if he hears about this.’
‘I’ve done nothing wrong,’ Catherine said, resentful of her mother’s tone. ‘I’m a grown woman, I can see who I like.’
‘Not while you’re still under my roof,’ Kate snapped.
‘I’m not under your roof,’ Catherine challenged. ‘I pay me own way in the world now. I only come back on me day off to keep you happy and see Grandda.’
This seemed to madden Kate further. She shook her daughter.
‘Don’t you give me your lip. You’re still just a lass, for all your airs and graces. And you’re too young for men friends. Have you been doing owt you shouldn’t have?’
Catherine shook off Kate’s hold. ‘You mean like you did?’ she accused. ‘I’m not that daft.’
In fury, Kate slapped her across the cheek. Catherine gasped and clutched her face. In an instant Kate was remorseful.
‘I’m sorry, hinny,’ she said tearfully, trying to hug her, ‘I didn’t mean to hit you. I’m just that scared of some man taking advantage of you. Let me look at you. I’ll get a wet cloth. Sit here, hinny. Don’t cry, please don’t cry.’
But it was Kate who was soon in floods of tears, berating herself and false men and the world in general for all her troubles. She sat looking old and worn out, wiping her eyes with a grubby apron, while Catherine made her sip water. How quickly Kate could ruin a good day or a special feeling with her drunken suspicions and her grasping neediness. Catherine fought down resentment at her volatile mother. Why did she bother trying to please her? She should have kept quiet about Gerald and the cinema, pretended she’d been with Lily. But she could never lie to her mother.
‘Tell me about your man,’ Kate sniffed, trying to smile.
Catherine felt tired and deflated. She no longer wanted to talk about Gerald. She wanted to keep the young shoots of their courtship to herself, where her mother could not spoil them. Kate would be especially suspicious of an older, well-to-do man who might remind her too painfully of her failure with Alexander Pringle-Davies.
‘There’s nothing to tell,’ Catherine said wearily. ‘He’s just a friend from church, that’s all. I’m sorry about the tea.’
‘I’ll make you some’at now,’ Kate said, brightening, the storm suddenly over. ‘Egg and fried bread, eh?’
The sweet taste of chocolate was still on Catherine’s lips. ‘No, ta. I’ll just have a cup of tea.’
‘Nonsense,’ Kate said, rising, ‘you need fattening up - just skin and bone. Can’t trust you to eat proper at Harton, but I can make sure you do in my house. And the men’ll want some’at when they roll home.’
Kate was in command again. Knowing it was easier not to argue, Catherine set about helping make the eggs, hugging to herself the
thought that she would see Gerald tomorrow at Mass. She could hardly wait.
Chapter 11
Catherine tried to hide her disappointment when Gerald did not seek her out the following day. It was crowded outside St Peter and St Paul’s, and he was gone before she could speak to him. All that week she thought of him and wondered if she had imagined their magical evening together. But she still had the remains of the box of chocolates, which she kept in her cupboard and did not want to finish because they were a sweet reminder of the best evening of her life.
What did she know about him, apart from his respectable job with an insurance company? He had hardly spoken about himself, parrying her questions with the briefest of answers. Gerald had a mother still alive somewhere in Newcastle. He loved music, especially Bach and Haydn. He lodged in a large house that overlooked the park and the seafront. That was all she knew about him. Perhaps he was a widower, or jilted in love and wary of young women. Maybe he was not interested in her and had simply been at a loose end the previous Saturday.
Still, she attended benediction this Saturday as usual, as much in hope of seeing him, as a sense of duty.
Ignoring her during the service, he caught her up outside in the dark.
‘Kitty!’
She stopped and swung round. ‘Mr Rolland.’
‘Gerald, please,’ he chided her. ‘Are you walking into town?’
‘I was going to call on my friend Lily.’
‘Let me accompany you.’
Catherine nodded, trying to appear calm. They set off through the frosty streets, their footsteps ringing on the cobbles. He chatted to her as if they were old friends, asking her about the past week. Halfway to Lily’s house, he suddenly asked, ‘Is your friend expecting you?’
Catherine blushed. ‘Not really, but she doesn’t mind me just calling.’
‘Then she won’t be offended if you don’t call at all?’ he pressed. ‘I was thinking how nice it would be if we went to the pictures together again, tonight.’
Catherine’s heart leapt. ‘Yes, it would. Carole Lombard’s on at the Palladium.’
‘Then let’s go,’ Gerald urged.
Catherine grinned back. ‘If you let me buy the chocolates this time.’
They sat in the packed cinema, squashed close together, eating chocolates. At one point his hand touched hers and he left it resting there for several minutes. Catherine thrilled at its warm heaviness, at skin touching skin.
Afterwards, he took her arm and linked it through his own as he walked her to the tram.
‘Next Friday, they’re doing Handel’s Messiah at St Benedict’s,’ Gerald said. ‘Would you like to go?’
‘That would be grand,’ Catherine beamed.
‘Good, I’ll get us tickets. Meet you there, outside the hall, half-past seven.’
Catherine went home, wrapped in happy thoughts of the following Friday. It was only later that she thought it odd that they had not mentioned seeing each other at Mass the following day. Sure enough, when Sunday came, Gerald slipped away from church without speaking to her and she was left puzzling over his erratic behaviour. When they were on their own, he was sweetly attentive and full of interesting conversation. But on a crowded Sunday at church, he did not even glance in her direction.
Despite this, Catherine was happy to be with him when she could. He was, she thought, a shy man and given time would become outwardly more demonstrative towards her.
They had a happy evening at the Messiah, and at the end Catherine dared to suggest, ‘It’s the staff Christmas dance next Saturday - would you like to come?’
He looked startled, then glanced away. ‘I don’t - can’t dance.’
‘You don’t have to,’ Catherine laughed. ‘We can just sit and eat mince pies and watch the others.’
‘No, sorry. I promised to visit my mother. I won’t be in South Shields that night.’
Catherine hid her disappointment. He was making excuses, she knew it. But perhaps he hated dancing and did not want to be shown up. She would do nothing to make him embarrassed, so dropped the idea.
‘So I won’t see you for a fortnight?’ she said glumly.
He reached for her hand. ‘I’ll take you into Newcastle for a Christmas concert,’ he suddenly suggested. ‘The Saturday before Christmas. What do you say?’
‘Yes, of course!’ Catherine cheered up at once. ‘I’ve never been to Newcastle. Will we go on the train?’
‘Train and a concert - and tea at Fenwick’s,’ he promised, with his sensuous smile. Then he raised her hand to his lips and brushed it with a kiss.
Catherine was shaking with excitement as she mounted the tram, quite forgetting that moments before he had spurned the idea of going with her to the workhouse dance. She attended it with Lily instead, but could not help telling her friend about her secret courtship.
‘Not Mr Rolland from church?’ Lily gasped.
Catherine grinned. ‘Aye, and next Saturday we’re going to Newcastle for a concert and tea. He’s such a gentleman - and that interesting about music. Did you know he used to play the organ in a cinema in Newcastle?’ Catherine hesitated. ‘What’s wrong?’
Lily shook her head. ‘Nowt. It’s just - well, I thought I’d heard he was married.’
Catherine stared at her, stunned. ‘No he isn’t! He can’t be. Gerald isn’t the type to lead a lass on.’
‘Must have got it wrong,’ Lily said hastily. They looked at each other warily. Maybe Lily was a touch jealous of her being courted by such a man. After that, they did not speak again of Gerald Rolland, except at the end of the evening when Lily said, ‘Take care, Kitty. Don’t do anything daft in Newcastle.’
Catherine was hurt that her friend should doubt her, knowing how cautious she was with lads. She had never let Tommy Gallon kiss her full on the lips like Lily had, so she was one to talk! But as the trip to Newcastle approached, she grew nervous and began to feel unwell. On the Friday evening, to her consternation, she began a heavy nosebleed. Gert called Matron Hatch and Catherine was confined to bed.
‘Has this ever happened before?’ Matron asked.
‘Yes,’ Catherine admitted, ‘but it’ll pass.’
‘You’ll want to rest at home over the weekend. We’ll call for your mother.’
‘No,’ Catherine said in alarm. She did not want Kate coming anywhere near the workhouse or showing her up in front of Matron and her colleagues. ‘I’ll be right as rain by tomorrow.’
But on Saturday morning, she could hardly climb out of bed with weakness. Catherine asked if Lily could visit her to take a message to her family. To her dismay, Hettie stood guard at the door, listening to their conversation.
Catherine added desperately, ‘You will tell the choir master, Mr Rolland, that I cannot come to practice.’
Lily nodded. ‘Where will I find him?’ she whispered.
‘Tyne Dock, quarter past one,’ Catherine mouthed, fighting back tears of frustration.
It was three days before she was back on her feet and in the laundry. Lily could tell her little.
‘Aye, he was there,’ she told her hurriedly in the drying room. ‘Didn’t seem best pleased when I told him you were ill. Hardly said a word - didn’t even thank me for me trouble,’ she added indignantly.
Dismayed, Catherine put a hand on her arm. ‘Ta for going. You’re a good friend, Lily.’
Christmas Day came and Catherine saw Gerald at Mass. He gave her a searching look as he passed on the church steps and tipped his hat, but said nothing. Kate was standing beside her and did not miss the look or her daughter’s blushing.
‘That’s him, isn’t it?’ she said, staring at Gerald’s retreating back as if she had seen a ghost. ‘The man who took you to the pictures.’
Catherine shushed her and began walking away. Kat
e limped after her.
‘I know his type,’ she said with a bitter little laugh. ‘All posh clothes and syrupy words, but a heart of bell metal.’
Catherine was furious. ‘You don’t know anything about him,’ she hissed.
‘So why’s he ignoring you?’
‘He’s a shy and private man,’ Catherine defended.
Kate snorted. ‘Don’t fall for any lad who thinks he’s better than you. Doesn’t matter what they say - you can see it in their eyes. Look into their eyes, Kitty.’
They walked home in tense silence. What did Kate know? She was too embittered by her own mistakes with men to see good in any of them. Even Davie, who adored her, got the sharp end of her tongue when black moods took a-hold.
Catherine tried to shake off her anger at her mother and the disappointment that Gerald had not spoken to her on Christmas Day. While Kate took nips of whisky in the scullery, Catherine busied herself with preparing the lunch of pork, stuffing and vegetables. She was gladdened by John’s glee at the new pipe she had bought him, and even Davie seemed pleased with the tobacco pouch and lighter she gave him. But the mood changed abruptly with the opening of Kate’s present. Her mother burst into tears at the sight of the pearl hatpin and navy gloves.
‘You shouldn’t gan spending good money on me,’ she blubbered. ‘I don’t deserve it. I haven’t had gloves like this since . . . such a long time.’
‘Something smart for church,’ Catherine said awkwardly.
Kate shot her a look. ‘What d’you mean? You saying I don’t gan enough?’
‘No—’
All at once, she was belligerent. ‘When do I get the chance? I’ve a house full of lazy men demanding this and that.’
Davie said good-naturedly, ‘The lass didn’t mean anything by it.’
‘What would you know?’ Kate snapped. Catherine felt a familiar dread at the angry gleam in her mother’s eyes. She was itching for a fight.
‘It wasn’t always like this, you know. I remember when I was a lass, we’d go every Sunday to Saint Bede’s in Jarrow.’
‘Shurr-up and get the dinner served,’ John ordered.
THE JARROW TRILOGY: all 3 enthralling sagas in 1 volume; The Jarrow Lass, A Child of Jarrow & Return to Jarrow Page 93
