‘What you sayin’, you old bitch?’ he snarled. ‘Get me a bit bread and put some o’ Kitty’s honey on it.’
Kate ignored him. ‘Tell me what you did all week. Was the hotel very grand?’
Catherine revelled in telling her mother all about it, while she fetched bread and spread on honey, to keep the peace between John and Kate. Her mother laughed and made little comments at her pithy descriptions of the other guests.
It was late by the time Catherine got up to go. Kate pressed her to stay.
‘It’s raining cats and dogs still. Why don’t you stop the night, hinny?’
‘No, I’m on duty first thing in the morning.’ She pulled on her coat and hat, which had been steaming by the hearth.
Kate saw her to the door. ‘This man,’ she said with a serious look, ‘he’s not leadin’ you on?’
Catherine bristled. ‘Course not. He cares for me. That business with me party - his mam was ill - and he’d heard about the McMullens being clannish - was afraid we wouldn’t take to him.’
Kate grunted, ‘Well, there’s nowt we can do about that. He’ll have to tak us as he finds us.’ She scrutinised her daughter, her blue eyes still vivid despite the shadows and lines. ‘I just hope he’s not ganin’ to lead you a dance.’
They both knew she was thinking of Catherine’s father. His unspoken presence hung between them like a question unanswered.
‘He’s not like that,’ Catherine said, shrugging into her wet coat.
‘I hope not,’ Kate replied, her voice heavy with regret.
All the way back to Harton, in the teeming rain, Catherine could not rid her mind of her mother’s dispiriting words. That night the temperature dropped and she could not get warm, yet the narrow room with its view on to another brick wall seemed airless and oppressive. By morning she was sneezing violently and her head throbbed; by evening a nosebleed had started and she took to bed.
Matron came to visit her and asked her strange questions about her holiday.
‘Perhaps you’ve picked up an infection,’ she said.
Catherine’s head swam. She felt too ill and tired to answer.
‘Sorry, Matron,’ was all she could mumble.
Lily slipped in to see her the next day. ‘Not supposed to be here, but I’ve brought you some of me mam’s ointment to rub on. Cures everything from colds to lumbago. Did you have a canny time? Was Gerald good to you?’
Catherine managed a weak smile and nodded. ‘Best time ever. We’re courtin’.’
Lily gasped. ‘That’s grand. Shall I get word to him you’re poorly?’
But before Catherine could answer, Hettie barged into the room.
‘You, out!’ she ordered. ‘If I catch you up here again, you’ll be straight to Matron.’
Lily hurried off. Hettie hovered over the bed.
‘Was there some’at you wanted Lily to do?’ she asked.
Catherine shook her head, worried at what she might have overheard.
‘Had a good time then? Must have spoilt it, being ill. I wouldn’t have done it meself- ganin’ off on me own like that - doesn’t seem proper. But you young’uns . . .’
Catherine turned her face away and clutched a wodge of torn sheet to her nose. She could not be bothered arguing back at Hettie’s snide remarks.
The following day, as she struggled to dress for work, she noticed in alarm she had come out in a rash. It made her itch and she could not stop scratching. Her colleagues were quick to notice.
‘You got that all over?’ Gert asked with disgust.
‘It’s from Lily’s ointment, that’s all,’ Catherine said, unnerved by all the staring.
That evening, Hettie and Gert came to tell her she was being moved to the sick bay.
‘But I’m not infectious,’ she protested weakly.
‘Matron’s orders. We’ve got to help you move,’ Hettie said with satisfaction.
Catherine was taken to a windowless room in the sanatorium away from the others. She could hear the hacking cough of a consumptive somewhere else on the wing. Lying back, she felt dizzy and frightened. What did they think was wrong with her?
She seemed to lie there for an eternity, until Matron appeared suddenly with a doctor.
‘Dr Lovell is going to examine you,’ Matron Hatch said brusquely. Then she was gone, closing the door behind her. Catherine sat up in alarm. She did not want to be left alone with this man. She had heard him talking sharply to the inmates. He eyed her fiercely under bushy grey eyebrows.
Without a word of greeting, he began poking around her ears and mouth and shone a small torch into her eyes. She flinched as he touched her with cold fingers and examined her hands and arms. Thinking of the kind Dr Dyer, Catherine wished she could be lying at home being fussed over by their local Scots doctor.
‘Lie down and pull up your nightgown,’ Dr Lovell ordered.
Catherine stared at him in horror. ‘Why?’
‘Don’t ask questions, just do as you’re told,’ he snapped.
She lay back, feeling sick, and closed her eyes tight as his hands prodded every inch of her. He pulled her legs apart and examined her with a cold instrument. Catherine began to whimper with the discomfort and shame.
‘With whom have you been in contact recently?’ he demanded.
She opened her eyes and asked in bewilderment, ‘What do you mean?’
‘You’ve been away on holiday, Matron told me. Have you been in close physical contact with a man?’
Catherine stared in confusion.
He added impatiently, ‘You have a suspicious rash. We need to know if you might have caught it from being intimate with a man. You are known among the staff as being familiar with men.’
Catherine went puce. They thought she had been with a man! She, who was so terrified of intimacy that she kissed as if her lips were sewn together, was being accused of loose behaviour. Worse still, they thought she was diseased because of it. How dare they accuse her so? She was more devout and upstanding than the rest of the staff put together.
Catherine went hot and cold with shock. She could not speak. Not only had this hateful man touched her all over, but Matron had ordered it. Mrs Hatch thought the worst of her too. But what could she say? She had been on holiday with Gerald and allowed him to kiss her alone. Did that count as intimate contact? Surely she could not have caught this rash from one long kiss?
She swallowed hard and forced herself to say, ‘I got the rash from some ointment. Lily thought it would help me cold. I never came back from holiday with any rash,’ she said defiantly, ‘and I’ve never been intimate with a lad.’
Even as she denied the words, her face burnt with the shame of it all. They had ruined her romantic thoughts of Gerald, sullied the innocent memories of their holiday together. Now she could never share them with the others. Hettie must have overheard her talking to Lily about Gerald and used the information against her.
Dr Lovell wiped his hands on a cloth and shut his bag.
‘I don’t think there’s any cause for concern,’ he said brusquely, ‘but I’ll recommend that you stay in isolation until the rash goes, just to be sure.’
He left. Catherine sat on the bed clutching her knees and shaking. She was furious and miserable. Part of her wished to storm out of the workhouse and tell them all to go to the devil. She had never felt so ashamed in all her life. But to do so would be to admit defeat. It would make her look guilty and the bigots like Hettie and Gert would have triumphed.
Through the long sleepless night, Catherine tossed on the bed, besieged by black thoughts. She must have done something wrong to be in such a position. She was sinful to have gone on the holiday in the first place. In the depths of her mind, were her thoughts about Gerald just as carnal as Kate’s had been for her father? Maybe the rash wa
s a punishment. She was tainted with the same weakness as Kate.
People must be right when they said that the sins of mothers infected their daughters and that’s why they had to be brought up apart, so they would not go the same way. That’s why Rose and John had sent Kate away and brought her up as their own. They had wanted to keep her from Kate’s corrupting weakness. She should never have been allowed to return and look after her. From the moment Kate had begun to run their household things had started to go badly wrong - the drinking, the debts, the fighting and violence, the rough men who had come into the midst of their home as lodgers . . .
Catherine had a brief flash of memory, as vivid as a moving picture, of a lean-faced man with cropped dark hair and jade-green eyes smiling at her.
Come here, pretty Kitty, and I’ll tell you the story of Osian and the magic horse.
He had swung her on to his knee and she had felt the coarseness of his serge trousers on her bare legs, the warmth of his hands. As he told the tale, his breath was hot on her neck and he bounced her up and down as if he were the galloping horse. She had wanted to climb down, but the horse was galloping too fast and she clung on in fear.
The memory faded before she could remember his name or who he was, but it left her feeling queasy and desolate.
Her fear subsided with the new day. By then Catherine had decided that she would stay on and redouble her efforts to appear respectable in the eyes of the other officers. She would give them no excuse to besmirch her character or carry tales to Matron. She would not let Gerald kiss her again until they were engaged.
Two days later, she was back working at the laundry and in the evening went straight to confession. She poured out her guilty thoughts about kissing Gerald and dwelling on the carnal, and recognised Father O’Neill’s stern voice rebuking her behind the confessional. Catherine came away feeling frightened of the flames of Hell, of kissing Gerald and going the way of her mother.
Yet she longed to see him again. With being ill, she had missed him on Sunday and went eagerly to church the following one. There was no sign of him and no sound of his deep, melodious voice. When she went home, Kate was full of questions, impatient to meet him.
‘He’s working away,’ Catherine said evasively.
‘Have you seen him since the holiday?’
‘No.’
Kate tutted. ‘That’s a bad sign.’ She gave a piercing look. ‘You haven’t - you didn’t. ..?’
Catherine rounded on her. ‘Did what? Let him have his evil way?’
Kate flinched. ‘I just don’t want to see you taken in . . .’
‘Like you were, you mean?’ Catherine said bluntly, hurt that her mother should think as little of her as the women she worked with. She stormed out and did not visit again for two weeks.
Chapter 17
The following weekend, Gerald reappeared. Catherine, sick with relief, hung back waiting for him after benediction.
‘You’ve been away? It seems ages. Is your mother all right? I’ve missed you that much,’ she gabbled as they walked down a side street.
He nodded at her questions without looking at her, his mind somewhere else. ‘Yes, it does seem an age,’ he said distractedly.
‘Shall we go up to the railway cutting?’ she asked eagerly. ‘I want to hear all about where you’ve been.’
‘You weren’t there the Sunday after we got back,’ he said accusingly.
Catherine coloured. ‘No, I was ill in bed for a few days - a bad cold.’
‘Oh, I’m sorry. I thought perhaps ...’ His voice trailed off.
She looked at him in concern. ‘Is something wrong?’
He shook his head as if ridding it of difficult thoughts. They walked up to Simonside in near silence, Catherine anxious not to upset him with too many questions. They sat on their bench, though the September wind gusted around them and spattered them with drops of rain.
‘Me family would like to have you round for tea,’ she broke the silence, ‘nothing fancy. Maybes next Saturday?’
He frowned at her as if he were finding it hard to focus on what she was saying.
‘Saturday? Oh, yes, very well.’
‘Gerald,’ she said, puzzled, ‘tell me what’s on your mind. You seem a million miles away.’
‘I was thinking about Gilsland,’ he murmured.
Her heart began to race. ‘I think of it all the time. Wasn’t it just grand? The best time in me life.’
‘Have you thought any more about it?’ he asked.
Her stomach jerked. ‘About us, you mean?’
He gave her a strange look. ‘No, about the midwifery course.’
Catherine stared at him, baffled.
‘I was thinking what a great opportunity it is for you,’ Gerald continued. ‘And I would like to help you out - lend you the money so that you can go.’
Tears stung her eyes. She blinked quickly, forcing them back.
‘It’s too late. I had to tell Matron by the end of August.’
He pursed his lips. ‘I’m sorry, I would like to have helped. You deserve to get on.’
Catherine blurted out, ‘I don’t care about being a midwife - I never wanted to be one. I want to stay here and be with you.’
He shifted uneasily. ‘You’re very sweet.’ But he did not lean close and try to kiss her or talk about their future together. Instead he rambled on about a concert he had been to in Newcastle and his mother’s visit to the coast.
As spots of rain turned heavier, they hurried back to town. At the foot of the bank they parted. Catherine clenched her fists in frustration.
‘You’ll come next Saturday then?’
‘Next Saturday?’ he queried.
‘To tea at my house,’ she prompted.
‘Oh, tea, yes, of course.’
‘It’s Number Ten William Black Street, remember. Four o’clock be all right?’
He nodded, tipped his hat and walked away. Catherine swallowed the panic she felt rising inside. Gerald had given her no reason to be optimistic that he would come this time. She plodded up towards East Jarrow in the fading light, oblivious of the rain. She would need to tell Kate just in case he did turn up. By the time she reached the New Buildings, she had convinced herself that Gerald would keep his promise. The talk of the midwifery course had meant nothing ominous, it had just been a sign of his generous nature, wanting to provide for her, thinking of her future and wellbeing.
All that week, Catherine went around with a feeling of dread in the pit of her stomach. She would get home early to make sure Kate had the house clean and looking respectable and make sure John was either sober or put to bed.
On the way up to East Jarrow, she bought a large sponge cake with a cream filling that she knew Gerald would like. Arriving at the house, she was dismayed to see wet washing strewn around the hearth. The table was unlaid and cluttered with ironing.
Catherine dashed about, seizing wet sheets. ‘Kate! He’ll be here in an hour. What you doing washing on a Saturday?’
Her mother appeared from the scullery, her hair dishevelled, sleeves rolled up.
‘Your grandda wet his bed,’ she said shortly. She gave Catherine a wary look.
‘What is it?’
‘You better read this - it came this morning,’ Kate said dully, pulling out an envelope from her apron pocket.
It had already been opened. Catherine shot her mother an angry look.
‘You’ve read it.’
‘It’s from him. I’m sorry, hinny.’
She could not bear the look of pity on Kate’s face. Turning away, she unfolded the letter with trembling hands.
Dearest Kitty,
I cannot come for tea on Saturday, or any other day in the future. I am truly sorry for causing you such pain. I never m
eant for you to become so attached to me. My regard for you is too high to allow the situation to continue.
You see, my dear, I have been grieving these past two years for another. I was engaged to be married to the daughter of a clerk in a law firm, here in South Shields, but being unsure of my feelings and hers, broke off the engagement just before our marriage. You, sweet Kitty, have been a solace to me in these trying times and given me back my will to love again. But I see clearly now that it is this other woman whom I truly love and that I could marry no other.
You have been the rock to which I have clung in my despair. Please forgive me for leaning on you thus. I hope you will find a man worthy of your love in the years to come.
With kind regards,
adieu,
Gerald Rolland
Catherine wanted to scream as she crumpled the letter in her fist and threw it on the fire. How could he do this to her? He had been promised to another all along. What a coward he was! Hot tears welled in her eyes. ‘You’re better off without him,’ Kate declared. ‘His type never make a lass happy. They’re all sweet words and false promises. Here one day, gone—’
‘Shut up!’ Catherine rounded on her. ‘You don’t know what you’re talking about. You never knew him, so don’t you go judging him. And you should never have opened me letter!’
‘Well, it makes no difference.’ Kate was defensive. ‘He’s done the dirty on you any road. I’ve never trusted him since he spoilt your party - and all that sneaking about the place not wantin’ to be seen with you - well, we know why now. He had another lass all along.’
‘Aye, he did,’ Catherine said tearfully. ‘Happy now? Bet you’re pleased I’m just as daft as you - being taken in by posh clothes and a la-di-da voice.’
‘I never said—’
‘But at least I never got meself into trouble,’ Catherine blazed.
‘Don’t you speak to me like that,’ Kate snapped.
‘I don’t believe he had another lass,’ Catherine cried, unable to stop. ‘He just thought I wasn’t good enough for him. I bet some snotty gossip from round here told him about me and you. You’re not the only one never gan to be rid of the shame - ‘cos I’m stuck with it an’ all. Do you ever think about that?’
THE JARROW TRILOGY: all 3 enthralling sagas in 1 volume; The Jarrow Lass, A Child of Jarrow & Return to Jarrow Page 97
