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

by Janet MacLeod Trotter

  Catherine smiled gratefully. ‘Thanks, but I can’t keep relying on you to come to the rescue.’

  ‘Why not? Cooking’s been my life, dearie,’ Mrs Fairy beamed.

  ‘Well, I’ll deduct some of your rent this month,’ Catherine offered quickly. The older woman gave a shrug of agreement. No doubt Bridie would scold her for her readiness to reduce the cook’s rent, but the arrangement was only fair.

  Catherine added more awkwardly, ‘And, Mrs Fairy, could you keep an eye on my mother - let me know if she - er - gets herself in a similar state again?’

  Mrs Fairy nodded. She was a Methodist and had texts on her bedroom wall urging temperance and godliness. She would be an ally in controlling Kate.

  But as the autumn wore on, Catherine’s worst fears were confirmed.

  ‘She drinks rum with Mr Wilkie in the summerhouse,’ Mrs Fairy reported.

  Catherine gawped in amazement. The retired merchant seaman was a keen gardener and was out in all weathers sweeping up leaves and clearing the flowerbeds.

  ‘She takes him out a cup of tea mid-afternoon,’ Mrs Fairy continued, ‘and doesn’t come back in for an hour. Leaves Maisie to mind the fire and the stove on her own. And that’s not all. She’s ordering alcohol with the groceries. Couldn’t work out where she was hiding it, till I came across a bottle of vodka in the drying room - down behind the pipes.’

  ‘With the groceries?’ Catherine cried in disbelief. ‘But I pay the bills. There’s never been any charge for vodka.’

  ‘Must have it down as something else,’ the old cook suggested.

  Catherine went straight to her desk and riffled through the bills. When she looked closer, some of the amounts seemed excessive. One week there was a huge weight of flour ordered, the next enough boot polish to wax the footwear of a regiment. More recently there seemed to have been a large volume of cleaning gumption ordered twice weekly.

  A telephone call to the grocer’s confirmed that two bottles of whisky or vodka a week had been added to the bill in the guise of other groceries, under instruction from Mrs McDermott.

  ‘Sorry, missus,’ the clerk apologised, ‘but she said it was in case some of the teetotal residents signed for the packages and got offended. Said it was for medicinal purposes.’

  Catherine gave him short shrift. ‘In future you are to ignore any requests from Mrs McDermort. Either Mrs McKim or I will be ringing in the orders from now on. If there’s any alcohol delivered here again, I shall take my business elsewhere.’

  She told Bridie the whole story that night. ‘What shall I do? I don’t trust her. And I can’t ask Mrs Fairy to watch her all hours of the day. She’s already helping out in the kitchen more than she should, Kate’s getting that unreliable with the meals.’

  ‘You’re right,’ Bridie agreed. ‘She can’t be trusted. Leaving my Maisie to put coal on the fire - she could have us up in flames.’ Bridie was indignant. ‘The only answer is for one of us to be here all the time.’

  Catherine was dismayed. ‘But I can’t. We need every penny of my salary to keep this roof over our heads.’

  ‘Then it’ll have to be me,’ Bridie said in resignation. ‘The money we save on Kate’s drinking will probably cover the loss of my wages,’ she added with a weak laugh.

  When they confronted Kate, she went on the attack.

  ‘It’s all lies! Me and Wilkie drink tea, that’s all. That fat old cook, sticking her nose in - she’s just jealous ‘cos he’s friendly with me and not her.’

  ‘I know how you’re getting it,’ Catherine said. ‘I’ve spoken to the grocer.’

  Kate flushed. “Twas just the odd half-bottle now and then. For me aches and pains. Am I not allowed a bit medicine? You work us that hard.’

  ‘Well, it won’t be necessary from now on,’ Catherine told her sharply. ‘Bridie’s giving up her job to help you run The Hurst. She’s in charge from now on - and that includes the ordering.’

  Kate banged her fist on the kitchen table, making Maisie jump.

  ‘That’s not fair! This is my job.’

  ‘It’s too much for you,’ Catherine said, trying to keep calm.

  ‘That’s right,’ Bridie smiled. ‘It’s a huge weight on your shoulders. Together we’ll get on grand - make this the best boarding house in Hastings, eh?’

  Kate glared at them. ‘You’re both against me, the pair of you. You want me out.’

  ‘No we don’t—’

  ‘Aye, you do. She wants me out!’ Kate jabbed a finger at Bridie. ‘Wants you all for hersel’. Pretends to be all sweetness and light, till your back’s turned.’

  ‘Stop it,’ Catherine ordered. ‘There’s no need to be nasty to Bridie. It’s my decision. I want her here to keep an eye on things - and I want you to stop drinking.’

  Kate clenched her fists, her face contorted suddenly into a mask of hate. Catherine stepped backwards, fearful that her mother would hit her. Maddened, Kate whirled round, picked up a pretty milk jug from the table and dashed it on to the stone hearth. Maisie screamed as it shattered into a dozen shards.

  With a roar of anger, Kate barged past them and stormed from the room, slamming the door behind her so that the windows shook. Catherine clutched the back of a chair, her heart pounding with fear and relief.

  Maisie began to wail, ‘Auntie Kate’s angry with Maisie.’

  ‘No, pet,’ Catherine tried to reassure her, ‘just with me.’

  Bridie cuddled her daughter. ‘There’s no need for tears, girl. It’s all right. Auntie Kate’s in a mood. It’ll blow over like the rain.’ She went to Catherine and hugged her. ‘Don’t worry, I’ll sort your mother out.’

  Catherine could not stop shaking. ‘This is what it was always like,’ she whispered, ‘rages and fighting. That’s what I came here to get away from. I can’t stand all that again.’ She gave Bridie a desperate look.

  ‘You won’t have to,’ Bridie said stoutly. ‘I’ll see to that.’ She kissed Catherine on the forehead like a child. ‘Didn’t I say I’d take care of you?’

  ‘Yes,’ Catherine said, feeling comforted.

  ‘And I always will,’ Bridie promised.

  Chapter 36

  For a time, tempers settled down at The Hurst and Bridie did seem to manage Kate. With a combination of breezy charm and bullying, the Irish woman won Kate’s co-operation. Together they were conspirators in thwarting Mrs Fairy’s interference in the kitchen. Bridie resented the woman for fussing over Maisie and relaying gossip to Catherine.

  ‘Miss McMullen doesn’t need to be bothered with petty problems, Mrs Fairy,’ Catherine overheard her friend say one day. ‘Me and Mrs McDermott are in charge here, so don’t you worry about a thing. Off you go and enjoy a walk to the park while the weather holds.’

  Catherine was thankful for Bridie’s firm hand. She had enough to cope with at work with turnover of staff and taking on the laundering of a nearby children’s home. It was a relief to come home and find the evening meal ready and not be in fear of what else she might find. Often, she was so tired she ate swiftly and went straight to bed. Later, Bridie would come up with a cup of cocoa and relay the gossip of the day to make Catherine laugh. If there was any trouble with Kate, Bridie kept it to herself.

  ‘Sober as a judge,’ Bridie laughed, when Catherine asked.

  Kate did appear to be off the drink. With Catherine she was wary, keeping out of her way as if she feared another outburst. Only occasionally did Kate let slip a reproachful remark.

  When making pastry one evening and supervising Maisie’s cutting, she said to the girl, ‘Used to do this with Kitty once upon a time. Made pastry-men together. Long ago, before she got too grand for such things.’ She shot Catherine a look. ‘Not that she’d remember.’

  Catherine was stung. ‘Course I remember.’

 
Kate’s look was disbelieving.

  ‘I do,’ Catherine insisted. ‘There was only ever enough pastry left over for one and a half men. You used to say he’d lost his leg in the Boer War.’

  A half-smile flickered across Kate’s flushed face, then she turned to Maisie. ‘See, she only ever remembers the bad things - never enough pastry for madam. Listen to Kitty, you’d think she’d had the worst childhood in the world. She should’ve had a taste of mine.’

  Catherine had left before Kate saw the tears of hurt welling in her eyes and thought she had got the better of her.

  Christmas came and most of the residents went to spend it with relations. Only the major, Harold the poet and Mrs Fairy stayed. Catherine was looking forward to a quiet, cosy holiday, when Davie hove back from sea.

  ‘Got a month’s leave,’ he grinned. ‘I can have a proper go at fixing that roof this time.’

  But the winds were too wild and Kate forbade him to clamber on any ladders. Torrential rain set in for days and leaks sprung in half a dozen new places. Harold’s bed was soaked and he had to move out of the turret into a lower room, which caused him to resume his night rambles. Kate and Davie went out on Christmas Eve morning to fetch chestnuts to roast on the fire and did not return until dark.

  They came back drunk, Kate singing at the top of her voice and Davie swirling her around the kitchen in a crazy dance and laughing at nothing in particular. She ordered the major to carry in his gramophone and put on one of his two dance records. Every time it ended, Kate would lurch over to wind it up again.

  Mrs Fairy stalked out in disapproval, but Kate was oblivious. She pulled Maisie up and made her dance too. Catherine watched nervously, but Bridie winked at her.

  ‘It’s Christmas, she’s doing no harm,’ her friend whispered, as Kate burst into song again.

  Catherine went off to serve supper to the three remaining lodgers, the sound of her mother’s raucous singing carrying along the corridor.

  ‘Tomorrow we’ll have a nice Christmas dinner all together,’ Catherine smiled, hiding her dismay.

  ‘Sounds like some have celebrated enough already,’ Mrs Fairy sniffed.

  Major Holloway chuckled. ‘Like a bit of song and dance myself, now and again.’ He looked shyly at Catherine. ‘In fact, there’s a dance on at The Imperial on Boxing Day. Wondered if you’d like to go?’

  Catherine’s spirits lifted. She had not been dancing for so long. The Hurst had consumed all her energies.

  ‘How kind,’ she smiled. ‘I’ll ask Bridie if she’d like to come too.’

  His smile faltered. ‘Course, Mrs McKim’s most welcome,’ he mumbled, and dropped his gaze.

  Catherine hid her amusement at his invitation. She had no intention of becoming romantically attached to the old soldier. Bridie would be a perfect chaperone.

  Christmas Day came. Catherine, Bridie and Maisie trooped off to Mass, unable to rouse Kate or Davie from sleep. When they returned, Kate was bustling about the kitchen, red-eyed but defiantly cheerful. Davie stamped in from the wet with a full hod for the kitchen fire. The damp coal hissed and spat as he shovelled it on.

  ‘You get yourselves along to the sitting room,’ Kate ordered. ‘I’ll see to the dinner.’ She refused any help, so Catherine went to join the other guests in a glass of ginger wine. As a Christmas present to each other, she and Bridie had decided on a second-hand piano. It had been delivered in a downpour the day before and Tom Hobbs had tuned it before catching a train to his sister’s in London.

  Catherine had told Bridie about her disastrous lessons as a girl and her half-hearted attempt to play again while courting Gerald Rolland. But Bridie played a bit and insisted Catherine would love it if she just let herself try. While they sipped drinks in front of a crackling fire, Bridie opened the lid and began to play a jaunty music-hall tune. Then, to the surprise of everyone, Harold stepped forward.

  ‘I’d like to play,’ he said simply. He sat flexing his fingers then bent over the keys. After a hesitant start, he began to play ‘Greensleeves’. After once through, Harold began to sing the song too. Catherine was amazed at his clear, tuneful voice. She had never heard him sing in the six months he had lived there.

  Bridie clapped in delight. ‘What talent! You’re a dark horse, so you are. Play us another one, Mr Harold.’

  He smiled boyishly under his mop of fair hair and played ‘Linden Lee’. The others gathered around him and sang along. They were almost finished when the door banged open. Catherine turned to see her mother standing white-faced in the doorway, staring.

  Harold finished and the last notes died away. Bridie clapped. Kate limped across the room, her hand outstretched towards Harold, mouthing something. As she reached him, he turned and she stopped abruptly, dropping her hand.

  ‘I thought - it sounded - you looked—’ she mumbled in confusion.

  Catherine stepped round quickly and took her by the arm. ‘Doesn’t Mr Harold play well, Kate?’

  ‘Mr Harold? Yes . . .’

  Her mother looked on the verge of tears.

  ‘Why don’t you sit down a minute?’ Catherine said in alarm. The last thing she wanted was a scene in front of the residents. ‘I’ll get you a sip of ginger wine.’ It was non-alcoholic, so even Mrs Fairy could not disapprove.

  But Kate waved her away, seeming to take control of herself again.

  ‘Whose piano is it?’ she demanded.

  Bridie said brightly, ‘It’s ours. Me and Catherine bought it for Christmas. Isn’t it just the grandest thing?’

  Kate gave Catherine a hard look. ‘You’ve bought a piano?’

  Catherine nodded, feeling like a child again under her mother’s glare. ‘It was Bridie’s idea.’

  Kate snorted. ‘Aye, it would be. No doubt you’ll play for her like you never played for me.’

  With that, she turned and made for the door, calling, ‘Dinner’s ready when you’ve finished your little singsong.’

  An awkwardness settled on the group and Harold quietly shut the piano lid. Catherine was annoyed with her mother for spoiling the moment, yet felt a prick of guilt about the piano. Kate had been so keen for her to learn the instrument and play it for a living, but Catherine had resented the pressure and been fearful of the mounting debt of unpaid lessons and payments. It had ended in failure and the humiliation of Kate’s piano being repossessed.

  Through Christmas lunch, Catherine watched her mother warily for signs of a storm brewing, but Kate’s strange mood seemed to have passed. Once they were all full to the brim with turkey and plum pudding, it was Kate who suggested they return to the fire and a singsong around the piano.

  ‘My father used to play “Linden Lee”,’ she told Harold as she propped herself on a chair by the piano. ‘It’s one of the few things I remember about him. Will you play it again for me?’

  She sang along with tears in her eyes and Catherine felt pity for her mother. It explained her agitated state earlier. Harold’s music had conjured up a strong memory of Kate’s real father, a man she could hardly recall. Catherine felt a bitter-sweet longing for her own unknown father. Perhaps he had played the piano or sung such songs. She would never know and Kate would never tell her.

  Mrs Fairy went for a nap, the major dozed by the fire and Catherine and Bridie went for a walk before the light faded. By the time they returned it was dark and they could see Kate and Davie illuminated in the sitting-room window, swigging from cups and singing, Harold still banging away at the piano.

  ‘Bet that’s not tea they’re drinking,’ Catherine muttered.

  Bridie took her arm. ‘Don’t say anything today. It’ll only spoil things. Plenty time to sober her up before the other lodgers come back.’

  Catherine sighed. ‘Suppose you’re right. It’s just, whenever Davie’s around she drinks like there’s no tomorrow.’

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bsp; ‘It’s ‘cos he’s there to stand up for her. She knows she can push her luck when her man’s around,’ Bridie answered. ‘You should put him off coming here so much.’

  Catherine tried to curb Kate’s boisterousness by bringing in tea and fruit cake, and suggesting a game of cards. But her mother ignored her and carried on singing, bullying Harold to keep playing. Eventually he got up.

  ‘I can’t play any more,’ he announced, and left for the sanctuary of his own room.

  ‘We’ll get the major’s gramophone then,’ Kate cried, and sent Davie to fetch it from the kitchen.

  She ordered Davie and the major to push back the furniture and roll up the carpet so they could dance. Mrs Fairy stalked out and Catherine gave up trying to organise a game of whist. She helped Maisie with a game of patience, then left the others dancing and went early to bed.

  There she goes, Miss Misery Guts,’ Kate shouted after her. ‘Doesn’t know how to enjoy herself.’

  For a long time Catherine lay in the chilly bedroom listening to her mother’s raucous singing, stung by the taunt that she was joyless. Could it be true? As a child she had been happy to stand on the fender and sing for the family. On feast days and Hogmanays she had stayed up late at the houses of cousins or friends and joined in the celebrations.

  But a part of her had always held back, frightened that the evening would spin out of control. It might end in a fight or fire irons being hurled across the room. She had to stay awake, be ever vigilant or something would happen to Kate. Predatory hands might come for her in the night, seek her mother out while she lay unconscious with drink.

  Once more, Catherine had a vivid memory of a dark shadow looming over the feather bed that she had once shared with Kate in Jarrow. A man was pulling at her mother, breathing hard, cursing and pleading.

  ‘Gerr-off her,’ Catherine said in fright. ‘Leave our Kate alone!’

  But the man ignored her and went on pawing at Kate’s prone body, bending over her and breathing his staleness over them both.