‘Oh, go boil your head in a bucket!’ Bridie flounced out and gave no further help with the evening meal.
The following day Catherine went down to the gym in Harcourt Street and signed up for fencing lessons with a wiry ex-actor called Mr Gascoigne. Bridie was flabbergasted.
‘Fencing? You mean sword fighting?’
‘Yes.’ Catherine laughed at her impulsiveness.
‘But why?’
Catherine shrugged. She could hardly tell her it was to vent her irritation at the squabbling between the women at The Hurst. ‘It’ll keep me fit and trim.’
‘There’s not an ounce of spare flesh on you, girl,’ Bridie exclaimed. ‘And who is this Mr Gascoigne? He might be one of these men you hear about who lure young women up to their rooms and murder them!’
Catherine laughed dismissively, ‘He’s as small as a mouse - I’d get the better of him any day.’
After Catherine had been for a couple of weeks and come to no harm, Bridie accepted the situation.
‘Suppose it’ll come in handy if Kate ever comes after you with a carving knife,’ she joked bleakly.
Catherine laughed uncomfortably. She did not like to admit that she rid herself of her pent-up aggression against Kate when she parried and lunged for her opponent. But she grew to enjoy her weekly sessions at the gym with the nimble and talkative tutor, and the assortment of other fencers. For an hour a week she concentrated on something physical, channelling her frustrations into the point of her epee and emptying her mind of everything else.
Harcourt Street was towards the sea front and, walking home, Catherine passed near the end of Laurel Street. One December night when the moon was so bright it lit the rooftops in silvery light, Catherine was gripped by a powerful memory. She and Kate had been walking up the bank to East Jarrow after a rare day out on a charabanc trip, when suddenly her mother had grabbed her hand.
‘Haway, let’s race the moon!’ Kate had cried, and yanked her along so fast that her feet had left the ground as if she were flying. It was so unexpected and exhilarating, that for a moment she had been overwhelmed by a surge of love.
Catherine stopped in the cold air and gasped for breath. She had not thought of the incident for years. Kate had spoken with such warmth about her real father, William Fawcett, playing the same game when she was small, that Catherine had been emboldened to ask about her own mysterious father. It had spoilt the moment. Kate had grown angry and told her never to mention him again. He was never coming back. He was dead.
Catherine’s heart hammered at the bitter-sweet memory; one instant so close, the next at loggerheads. She looked up at the dazzling moon and it seemed to flood her with courage. Without giving herself time to think it over, she turned abruptly right and retraced her steps to her mother’s maisonette.
Kate gasped when she opened the door. ‘You look familiar. Do I know you from somewhere?’ Catherine’s courage withered at the sarcasm, but Kate quickly pulled her in. ‘Don’t stand there letting all the heat out - haway in.’
She led her into the kitchen. Somewhere a radio was playing. Washing was strewn overhead, the room smelt of pies and damp clothes, but somehow it was homely.
‘Can’t stop long,’ Catherine said awkwardly.
Kate poured her out a stewed cup of tea from the pot. ‘Sit down, lass, you’re makin’ me nervous.’
Catherine sipped gingerly. She had forgotten how strong Kate made it.
‘Business going all right?’
‘Champion,’ Kate said with a defiant look. ‘I hear you’re employing Mrs Fairy these days. Saw her at the market - full of it, she was. Bet that doesn’t suit Bridie.’
Catherine said, ‘They get on fine.’
Kate snorted and changed the subject. She chattered on about her own lodgers and about Davie, who had sent her a postcard from Cape Town.
‘He’ll not be back till next year,’ Kate said matter-of-factly. ‘And you, lass, what have you been doing?’
‘Just the same,’ Catherine said, standing up. Then she added, ‘I’ve taken up fencing.’
‘What do you mean, fencing?’ Kate looked baffled.
‘Epee - sword play.’
Kate burst into laughter. ‘Eeh, hinny, I thought you meant mending folks’s garden fences!’
Catherine could not help smiling as she made for the door. Kate followed her.
‘Fencing. Fancy that.’
A tall man with a towel round his shoulders emerged from the bathroom. Quick as a flash, Kate said, ‘Mr Soulsby, this is my daughter, Kitty. She’s a champion fencer, don’t you know?’
The man gave a startled nod in Catherine’s direction and bolted down the corridor.
‘You shouldn’t have said that,’ Catherine said in embarrassment. ‘It’s not true.’
‘Will be one day. Come again, won’t you, lass,’ Kate insisted.
Catherine promised she would and headed quickly down the stairs. Glancing back at the outside door, she saw her mother still at the stairwell watching her go.
Catherine hurried home, relieved the ordeal was over, yet strangely glad she had gone. Ten minutes together was probably as much as they could manage without an argument, so she would keep her visits occasional and brief.
That Christmas, Catherine called on Kate with a hamper of food and a pretty woollen cardigan.
‘When will I get to wear a fancy cardy?’ Kate said ungraciously. ‘No one asks me anywhere.’
Catherine knew her mother was trying to shame her into inviting her to The Hurst for Christmas, but she resisted. She had promised Bridie never to share Christmas with Kate again. Besides, this year Harold, the poet, had come back, reassured that ‘mad Mrs McDermott’ had left. She would not have him upset either.
Through the spring of the following year, Catherine continued to make the odd duty visit to her mother on her way home from fencing lessons. Usually, she chose not to tell Bridie, for her friend only nagged her about spending time there rather than at The Hurst. Catherine and Kate talked about the death of old King George, who had once come to visit South Shields during the Great War.
‘You were that excited to see him,’ Kate recalled. ‘Put old John in a black mood, making all that fuss over royalty.’
‘ “To Hell with kings and generals - and up with the Pope.” ‘ Catherine laughed as she recalled her grandfather’s words.
Kate was suddenly glum. ‘Got a letter from our Mary last week. Alec’s out of work and he’s taken poorly bad - never was a strong man. Says there’s more shops closed in Jarrow than open. Where will it end, eh?’
Catherine felt uncomfortable, as she always did when talk turned to the deepening poverty on Tyneside.
‘What about cousin Alec?’ She swallowed. ‘He’ll have finished his apprenticeship by now.’
Kate sighed. There’s no call for joiners at the yards. But he’s lucky to get gardening work over Cleadon way. Doesn’t pay much, but it’s a job. Mary doesn’t know what they’d do without him.’
Suddenly Catherine was angry. ‘What a waste! Lads like Alec serving their time, learning the job - then out on the dole as soon as their apprenticeship’s finished. It’s a crying shame. And what do the politicians do about it? Sit around their clubs in London doing nothing! Everyone deserves the right to work and keep their family.’
Kate’s eyes glittered. ‘By, you’ve a Geordie heart after all. Me father used to talk like that about the working man, so your Grandma Rose used to say.’
It was the one thing that mother and daughter could agree on: work was the life-blood of a person, of a community. For all her hankering after a life of leisure in her daydreams, Catherine knew she would go mad if she had nothing to do.
Catherine was quietly impressed with her mother’s success in making her own living without her or Davie’s h
elp. Kate thrived on being busy as much as she did. Yet Catherine was always half in dread at these visits in case her mother had slipped back into her destructive drinking.
That June, Catherine turned thirty. As her birthday approached, she grew gloomy. Bridie overheard her talking to the dog.
‘Life’s passing me by, Tuppence. What have I got to show for it? This big leaky house and you, eh?’
‘That’s no way to talk!’ Bridie scolded. ‘You’ve a good job and a fine business - and friends that think the world of you. What more do you want?’
Catherine blushed. ‘Sorry, I didn’t mean . . .’
‘What you need is a party,’ Bridie declared.
‘I don’t want everyone to know my age,’ Catherine protested.
‘We don’t have to tell them. It’ll just be a summer party for all our friends.’
Catherine was soon persuaded. It fell on a Saturday, so they planned a lunch party with tennis afterwards. She kept away from Kate’s, fearful that if her mother heard about a party she would turn up uninvited and make a spectacle of herself. Bridie and Maisie bought new outfits, while Catherine made do with last summer’s dress. The money saved was quietly sent to Aunt Mary.
The day was a success, with breezy sunshine. Friends came from the tennis club, church and her fencing class, as well as the Townsends and several of the lodgers. There was birthday cake at tea time, but no mention of her age.
As she was leaving Mrs Townsend said, ‘Sorry not to see your mother. Is she unwell?’
Catherine flushed. She had kept from her employer just how difficult the situation had been two years ago and why Kate had to leave. ‘No, she’s fine. Full of busy.’
A friend from church joined in. ‘Yes, she must be with that new place she’s taken on.’
Catherine stared at the woman. ‘I beg your pardon?’
‘The house in Maritime Place - big terrace. Bumped into her at the shops. Full of it, she was. Eight lodgers. But you’ll know all that, of course.’
Catherine stammered, ‘Oh, y-yes.’
That night she told Bridie. ‘Fancy her moving without telling us. I felt foolish not knowing.’
Bridie yawned. ‘Well, you haven’t been to see her for ages.’
‘Still, she could have sent a change of address. She said nothing in the birthday card. And a house in Maritime Place! How can she afford that?’
‘That’s her affair. One thing’s for sure, though - she’ll be cock-a-hoop that she’s upsides with you and your eight lodgers.’
When Catherine finally tracked down her mother’s new home, she was amazed. It was a substantial boarding house near the sea front.
‘One of the lodgers is a decorator - got me some paint on the cheap,’ Kate said proudly as she showed off the house.
The rooms were spartan but clean enough, and the upstairs sitting room had an attractive bay window with a partial view of the sea. Catherine felt a stab of envy for the airy room full of light.
‘It’s nice,’ she admitted. ‘But how can you afford it?’
‘None of your business,’ Kate said tartly.
‘You can’t come running to me if you get into debt.’ Catherine was brusque. ‘I’ve got no spare.’
‘I can pay me own way,’ Kate snapped. ‘Don’t need your charity.’
‘Good. And you could’ve told me you’d moved.’
‘You never bothered calling. Had to do it all mesel’.’
‘And who was it got you started in Laurel Street?’ Catherine cried indignantly. ‘Not that you once thanked me.’
‘Thanks for nowt! You hoyed me out.’
‘If you’re going to be like that, I’ll not bother coming.’
‘And if you’re ganin’ to twist your face, better that you divint!’
Catherine marched out, vowing never to visit again. Her ungrateful mother could do what she wanted; she refused to worry about her.
Later, when Bridie had calmed her down with hot tea and reassurances, Catherine felt a twinge of shame for her outburst. She had not meant to be churlish about Kate’s new lodging house, but her mother’s crowing over her had riled her so. After all she had put up with, the least Kate could have done was let her know where she had gone.
She was struck by a sudden memory. Catherine was playing around the lamppost in William Black Street with the other children. It was misty. She was smaller than most of them. They must have just moved from Leam Lane. Out of the mist came a tall woman in a pale lilac dress and a matching hat. Her oval face was flushed, eyes wide, skin translucent. Catherine gazed up at her, thinking how beautiful she was.
As soon as the woman set eyes on her, she rushed forward and grabbed her arms, shaking her hard. Catherine gasped in shock, realising it was Kate.
‘You little bugger! Where’ve you been? I thought you were dead! Don’t you ever do that to me again, do you hear?’
All the air was trapped in Catherine’s throat. She had no idea why her big sister was so angry, just that her grip was hurting her arms. Usually she looked forward to the rare visits home because Kate always brought treats from the baker’s where she worked. But now she was really angry with her for something she had done. The next minute, Kate was dragging her down the street, demanding to know where her house was. As soon as they got there, a furious row erupted with their parents ...
Catherine shook off the memory. It was from a time before she discovered that Rose and John were her grandparents and Kate her mother. The great betrayal. They had moved house to escape the rumours without telling Kate, and she had come frantically looking for them. Years later, Kate had still been furious about it and blamed it on her.
Catherine stifled her pity. Kate had been just as petty not telling her of the move to Maritime Place. As usual she was behaving like a wayward child.
It was autumn before Catherine forced herself to go and check on her mother. Bridie told her to let sleeping dogs lie, but a sense of duty got the better of her. She would call on her way to fencing so she could not stay more than a few minutes.
‘Haway in!’ Kate beamed at the unexpected visit, making Catherine feel worse.
‘Can’t stay - I’ve got a lesson.’
‘I’ve that much to tell you, lass.’ Kate ignored her excuse and pulled her inside. She made for the stairs. ‘I’ve a pot of tea brewing in the sittin’ room. One of me lodgers likes to take tea there while he’s studyin’.’
‘The kitchen will do,’ Catherine said in dismay. ‘I haven’t time for tea.’
‘Don’t be daft. It won’t take a minute.’ Kate gave her a proud look. ‘He’s a teacher at the Grammar School.’
‘Who is?’
‘Me new lodger. Got a degree at Oxford University. Fancy that, eh? One of my lads with a degree! Wait till you meet him.’
Catherine’s heart sank. ‘I don’t want to meet him - I’ve just come for a minute to see you.’
‘Told him me daughter was well read, an’ all. Think he thought I’d made you up - you not coming round here. You’ll just come upstairs for a minute. Rude not to.’ Kate went ahead, panting up the steep stairs.
Catherine gripped the banisters in irritation. Her mother was determined to show off in front of this tiresome teacher. She followed her into the sitting room, scowling and impatient.
‘This is me daughter Kitty I was tellin’ you about,’ Kate said breathlessly.
Low autumn sun was flooding the room. For a moment Catherine was dazzled and could not see to whom she was talking. There was a movement in the bay window and a slim man stepped forward from behind the table. The light caught his face, boyish and bespectacled. He looked far too young to be a teacher, more like a head boy.
‘This is Mr Cookson,’ Kate announced. ‘He teaches mathematics.’
The young teach
er hesitated.
Catherine felt his awkwardness. ‘I’m just on my way to a fencing lesson,’ she said, ‘thought I’d call by.’
He regarded her silently, hands in pockets. Books lay open on the table beside him.
‘But you’re studying. Mustn’t interrupt,’ she said hastily. ‘I didn’t want to come up.’
‘Mr Cookson doesn’t mind,’ Kate said grandly. ‘We always stop for a cup of tea about now.’
‘Well, I can’t,’ Catherine said in a panic. The way he was staring at her was unnerving. ‘Got to go.’
Quite suddenly, he stepped towards her and held out his hand.
‘Tom,’ he said in a deep voice that belied his slight frame. ‘Pleased to meet you.’
Catherine hesitated.
‘Where’re your manners, lass?’ Kate said. ‘Gan on, he won’t bite!’
She stepped to meet him and took his hand. It was smooth and warm - an academic’s hand. He held on to hers firmly. Close up, his eyes through the glinting spectacles were a warm brown, his mouth sensual.
‘Do you fence?’ she demanded.
His thick eyebrows raised in surprise. ‘N-no. I’m afraid I don’t.’
She pulled away. What on earth had possessed her to ask such an absurd question?
‘It doesn’t matter.’ She spun round and strode to the door. ‘I’ll see myself out,’ she gabbled. ‘Goodbye.’
‘Kitty!’ Kate cried.
Hot with embarrassment at making such a fool of herself, Catherine fled down the stairs and out of the house.
Chapter 39
‘What in the world is the matter?’ Bridie asked. ‘The Hound of the Baskervilles been chasing you?’
Catherine caught her breath. ‘No, nothing’s the matter.’
Bridie gave her a curious look. ‘Then why are you back so early?’
‘Early?’
‘You’re not usually back from fencing till after eight - and it’s just turned six.’
‘Fencing!’ Catherine clapped her hands to her face. ‘I quite forgot.’
Bridie was baffled. ‘But that’s why you went out.’
THE JARROW TRILOGY: all 3 enthralling sagas in 1 volume; The Jarrow Lass, A Child of Jarrow & Return to Jarrow Page 115
