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

by Janet MacLeod Trotter

  ‘Yes, it was.’ Catherine burst out laughing.

  ‘If I didn’t know you better, I’d say you’d been drinking,’ Bridie declared.

  ‘No, really I haven’t,’ Catherine said, flopping on to a kitchen chair.

  ‘Spill the beans, girl,’ Bridie ordered.

  Catherine glanced at Mrs Fairy and Maisie, but they were deep in a game of snap at the table.

  ‘I went to see Kate.’

  Bridie gasped. ‘She upset you? She’s back on the drink?’

  ‘No,’ Catherine said hastily, ‘nothing like that.’

  ‘Well, something must’ve happened to make you run back here like a rabbit!’

  Catherine felt foolish. ‘She was showing off - wanting me to meet one of her lodgers just ‘cos he’s a teacher. I didn’t want to meet him but she made me. And . . .’

  ‘And?’

  ‘Made a fool of myself. I was a bit rude to the poor man. Then I ran out.’

  Bridie was watching her intently. Catherine could feel herself blushing.

  ‘Doesn’t sound like anything to get in a stew about,’ said Bridie.

  ‘No.’ Catherine cringed anew to think of her strange behaviour. If she hadn’t been so annoyed with Kate, dragging her to meet the shy teacher, she might have greeted him with more courtesy and poise.

  ‘What was he like?’ Bridie asked.

  ‘Very young - looked more like a schoolboy - probably his first job.’

  ‘Too young for you then,’ Bridie said bluntly.

  Catherine gave her a startled look. ‘Oh, of course - I didn’t mean - I’m not the least bit interested—’

  Bridie abruptly laughed. ‘Listen to you! Skittish as a kitten. Kate’ll be pleased she got you in such a tizzy over one of her precious lodgers.’

  It was too late to go back for her fencing lesson and Catherine cursed her forgetfulness. Panic had made her head for home. By the next day, she could not believe her stupidity. She was cross with Kate for the embarrassing encounter and herself for missing her precious fencing lesson. What did it matter if some maths teacher thought her rude or odd? She would probably never see him again.

  It was Saturday tea time when the timid Dorothy came to find her. Catherine was mending a chair in the chilly billiard room, which was now a glorified storeroom.

  ‘Miss McMullen - there’s a man at the door.’

  Catherine pushed hair out of her eyes. ‘Can’t Bridie see to him? I’m busy, pet.’

  Dorothy looked anxious. ‘He asked for you.’

  ‘Who is it?’

  The pale girl bit her lip. ‘Sorry, I didn’t ask. I’ve never seen him before.’

  Catherine sighed. It was probably some salesman who had got hold of her name. She marched through to the front entrance.

  ‘Hello, Kitty.’ It was Tom Cookson standing on the doorstep, hands in pockets.

  Catherine stared at him open-mouthed. He was dressed casually in an open-necked shirt and tweed jacket, looking even more like a young student.

  ‘I hope you don’t mind me calling. I was passing by - Mrs McDermott mentioned where you lived.’

  ‘Oh.’ Catherine was speechless.

  ‘But I can see you’re busy.’ He stepped back, looking less sure. ‘Unless you greet all your guests with a hammer.’

  Catherine glanced down and saw she still clutched the tool. ‘Goodness! No, of course not.’ She plonked it quickly on the porch table. What a sight she must look, in an old pair of trousers and her hair in a mess. She pushed back her wavy fringe. ‘Please, come in.’

  Tom hesitated. ‘I’d like to, but your mother will have tea on the table in twenty minutes, and I’ll be in trouble if I’m not back.’

  Catherine was disappointed at such timidity, then saw from his sudden smile it was part in jest.

  ‘Yes, you will be,’ she smiled back. ‘Another time perhaps.’

  ‘Well,’ Tom said, clearing his throat, ‘there’s a Carole Lombard film on at the Odeon this evening. I wondered if you’d like to go.’

  Catherine’s eyes widened in surprise. How did he know she idolised Lombard, even tried to copy her dreamy hairstyle?

  ‘Go with you?’ she asked.

  ‘Well, yes.’ He looked so young and uncertain after the bravado of asking, that she wanted to throw her arms about him in reassurance.

  ‘Of course I’d like to go,’ she said quickly. ‘What time?’

  His lean face brightened. ‘Seven thirty.’

  Catherine nodded. ‘I’ll meet you in the foyer just after seven.’

  ‘You will?’ He stood there grinning foolishly.

  ‘Yes,’ Catherine said a touch impatiently.

  ‘Good.’

  He walked off down the drive, hands in pockets, whistling. Catherine wondered if she was mad going to meet him. Bridie would certainly think so.

  She did not tell her friend until it was nearly time to go. Bridie gawped as she appeared downstairs in her favourite blue dress and high heels.

  ‘Not going dancing with the major, are you?’

  ‘No, the pictures.’ Catherine hurriedly put on her coat.

  ‘With Major Holloway?’ Bridie cried in disbelief.

  ‘With Mr Cookson.’

  Bridie came after her to the door. ‘Who the devil is Mr Cookson? You’re not going to meet a stranger on your own? Why didn’t you tell me?’

  ‘He only asked me two hours ago,’ Catherine answered with an apologetic shrug.

  ‘I better come with you,’ Bridie said at once. ‘Give me a minute to change.’

  ‘No, Bridie.’ Catherine was firm. ‘I can look after myself. I’m thirty, for heaven’s sake - and bigger than him!’

  She opened the door and hurried into the dark.

  ‘You never told me who he was,’ Bridie called after her, ‘or where you met him.’

  ‘Tell you later,’ Catherine answered, and quickened her pace.

  She knew from the light thrown on the driveway that her friend watched her till she disappeared from sight. She felt bad for springing such a surprise on Bridie, but it was tinged with excitement at her daring. Why shouldn’t she go out to the pictures with a young man? She couldn’t remember the last time someone had asked her. Bridie and she had gone so often when their friendship was new, and now she missed such outings.

  Tom Cookson was a stranger in Hastings and probably lonely. Once he found friends he wouldn’t need to ask an old spinster like her. She would take advantage of the offer while she could.

  He was waiting for her, dressed in a smart suit and tie, hair smoothed down. On catching sight of her, his serious face broke into a smile and she felt a small flutter inside. He had made an effort for her and she was flattered.

  ‘Bought you chocolates,’ he said bashfully, holding out a box. ‘Mrs McDermott said you liked them.’

  ‘You told Kate you were meeting me?’ Catherine said in alarm.

  ‘Shouldn’t I have?’

  Catherine knew it would cause Kate amusement to think of her thirty-year-old daughter meeting her youthful lodger, but she didn’t care. She would endure teasing from her mother just to see a Carole Lombard film.

  ‘Doesn’t matter,’ she smiled quickly and accepted the chocolates. ‘Thanks, this is a real treat.’

  Tom had bought good seats in the balcony. As they settled in and ate chocolates, they swapped questions. Tom had come straight from university in Oxford into his first job at Hastings Grammar School. He loved his subject. The pupils were great. Essex was where he came from.

  ‘I worked in Essex for a short time,’ Catherine said.

  ‘I know. Your mother said you didn’t like it.’

  Catherine blushed. ‘I wouldn’t say that—’

 
‘Too flat for you northerners,’ Tom suggested.

  ‘Let’s just say, I prefer it here.’

  Tom nodded. ‘So do I.’

  She looked at him in astonishment. ‘But you’ve only just moved here.’

  ‘Yes,’ he agreed, ‘but I can already tell I’m going to be happy.’

  ‘Go on.’ Catherine was intrigued. ‘Give me examples.’

  ‘Walking the Downs - the light on the sea - my job.’ He paused. ‘Getting away from my noisy family - and the snobs at Oxford who look down their noses at scholarship boys.’ He looked at her. ‘I like the people I’ve met.’

  Catherine’s heart quickened. He spoke as she felt. Could it be that he was running away from his past too - forging a new identity in this pleasant coastal town?

  Before she could ask him any more, the lights went down and the Pathé news came on. Catherine froze, a chocolate halfway to her mouth, at the sight of scores of shabbily dressed men marching in the rain behind banners.

  ‘The Jarrow Marchers have reached Bradford, where they enjoyed their first hot bath,’ said the commentary. ‘The mayor turned out to greet them, and donations of food have been pouring in for the footsore men. Two medical students are on hand to treat those blisters and a walking barber to keep them looking trim. They’ve come a long way from home - but they’ve got even further to go before reaching London and handing in their petition to the Prime Minister, Mr Baldwin . . .’

  Catherine put back the chocolate, her appetite soured by the sight of their gaunt faces. If her eyes weren’t blurred with tears she might see one that she recognised - men from the New Buildings or the dock gates. Men so desperate for work that they were prepared to march hundreds of miles to London to shame the government into action. Her people. She was filled with a fierce pride, and yet this news spoilt everything. How could she sit back and enjoy a silly romantic film when she knew the marchers would be bedding down on a hard hall floor, clothes damp and stinking, their hungry families left behind to worry and fend for themselves? She could imagine it all too vividly.

  The main film began, but she was dangerously close to bursting into tears. She might move to the other end of the country but she could never shake off her past. It would always catch up with her when she least expected it.

  Just then, she felt a warm hand cover hers. Tom took her hand and squeezed it gently, as if he guessed her misery. He said nothing, just gave her his shy smile and then turned to watch the film. She let her hand rest in his for several minutes.

  After the film, Tom asked, ‘Can I walk you home?’

  Catherine felt touched. ‘It’s a long time since a lad’s asked me that,’ she smiled. ‘But it’s quite out of your way.’

  ‘I like walking.’

  ‘All right,’ Catherine agreed.

  As they walked through the dark, chilly streets they talked about films, which led on to books. She thought to show off her reading knowledge, only to discover that his was far greater. Not only did he know the classics of English literature, but was well read in philosophy, poetry and drama.

  ‘Didn’t know mathematicians read that much!’ she cried with envy.

  ‘Always had my head buried in a book,’ he said sheepishly, ‘when Mother thought I should’ve been helping with my younger brothers and sisters.’

  ‘You were lucky to have books,’ Catherine said, thinking how she had had to make do with penny comics and the rare book from a lodger.

  Reaching The Hurst gates, Catherine said on impulse, ‘Come inside for a cup of cocoa - warm you up before your trek down the hill.’

  ‘Thank you,’ Tom agreed at once.

  Bridie was waiting up for her in the kitchen. She looked startled at Tom’s presence.

  Catherine introduced them, then hurried to boil up some milk.

  ‘So how did you meet?’ Bridie asked.

  ‘Through Mrs McDermott,’ Tom answered. ‘I’m in digs there.’

  Bridie exclaimed, ‘Oh, you must be the schoolboy!; Catherine shot her a look, but she went on, ‘That’s what Catherine calls you. And you a teacher! Still, it must be grand for the boys to have someone near their own age.’

  Tom reddened.

  ‘Don’t listen to her.’ Catherine tried to laugh it off. ‘Bridie can be such a tease.’

  Tom smiled uncertainly. ‘Kitty says you come from Ireland?’

  ‘Oh, Kitty, is it?’ Bridie crowed. ‘And what else has Kitty been saying about me?’

  ‘Nothing,’ he said.

  Her smile died. ‘Well, that’s a surprise - seeing as we’ve been best of friends for six years or more. There’s nothing she doesn’t know about me - or me about her.’

  The brittle look in her blue eyes made Catherine nervous.

  ‘Tom and I are going to take our cocoa into the sitting room,’ Catherine said, messily stirring the hot drinks. ‘You look tired - there’s no need to wait up any longer.’ She plonked the mugs on a tray with a plate of biscuits and nodded at Tom to follow.

  ‘It’s been nice meeting you, Mrs McKim,’ he said.

  Bridie ignored him. ‘I’ll see you upstairs later, Catherine,’ she called after them.

  Catherine hid her irritation at the woman’s rudeness. Thankfully, the sitting room was empty. Putting on the standard lamp and stoking up the fire, she put the tray down on the hearth and flopped beside it.

  Tom was studying the collection of books in the glass-fronted case.

  ‘Trollope! Have you read the Barsetshire novels?’

  Catherine shook her head. ‘Just the one you can see.’

  ‘I’ll lend them to you,’ he enthused. ‘They’re such a good picture of Anglican life.’

  ‘I wouldn’t know, I’m Roman Catholic.’ She looked at him, wondering if she would catch that look of disdain.

  He came over and squatted down beside her, his face thoughtful. ‘My father was a verger - but he died when I was a baby. I sometimes wonder what my life would have been like had he lived.’

  Catherine held her breath, waiting for him to go on.

  ‘Mother married again. I have a big family and nothing to complain about - but it doesn’t stop me thinking ... I would like to have known him. I feel different from the others.’

  ‘Yes!’ Catherine agreed. ‘Different - that’s it. I’ve a stepfather too. Never knew my real one. It’s like you’re standing in a painting but it’s only half finished - part of it’s missing - and you can never see the full picture no matter how hard you try.’

  ‘Is that why your mother drinks - to try and forget?’

  ‘Drinks?’ Catherine flushed. ‘She doesn’t any more!’

  ‘Sorry,’ Tom said hastily, ‘I shouldn’t have said—’

  Catherine put out a hand quickly and touched him. ‘No, it’s me that’s sorry. Oh, it’s no surprise, but I get so angry. Just when I think she’s off it for good ...! It’s me who’ll have to pick up the pieces again when she drinks herself into debt. She nearly ruined me here—’ She stopped, appalled that she had said so much. Tears stung her eyes. ‘What must you think of me, with a mother like that?’

  Tom took her hand and raised it to his lips, kissing it gently. ‘I think you’re the most amazing woman I’ve ever met - so strong and full of life. You’re beautiful and clever and I could go on listening to your voice all night long.’

  Catherine gazed at him in astonishment. What an extraordinary young man he was. Didn’t look like he would say boo to a goose, but could flatter as well as any of the worldly-wise men who had deceived her in the past. Yet she could see from his earnest expression and kind eyes that he meant every word of it.

  Impulsively, she leant towards him and kissed him on the lips. His mouth was firm and warm, and the contact sent a shiver right through her. When she pulled away, she was shaking. Neither
of them knew what to say.

  ‘Look, we’ve let the cocoa get cold,’ she said, pushing a mug towards him and hiding behind her own. ‘Tell me more about Trollope.’

  They sat by the fire late into the night, discussing literature and history, arguing about religion and social justice. Tom was a liberal and devoutly Anglican; Catherine believed working people were enslaved by bigotry and ignorance as much as by the bosses.

  ‘There’s no one crueller than the bigot,’ Catherine declared, ‘whether gossiping neighbour or fire-brand priest.’

  ‘But all your priests - even the kind ones - believe Protestants like me are going to Hell.’

  ‘I know, but that doesn’t mean I do.’

  ‘So why do you follow what the priests tell you?’ he challenged.

  ‘Guilt,’ Catherine admitted. ‘I’m not as religious as I was back home - but I can’t stop going. It’s a part of who I am, even though I don’t agree with all they teach.’

  She had never had such a conversation with anyone before, least of all a man. Catherine was excited and stirred by it. There were so many things she wanted to know and discuss. She hid her disappointment when Tom finally stretched his cramped legs and made to leave.

  ‘Can we do this again next Saturday?’ he asked as she showed him out.

  ‘I’d like that,’ Catherine smiled.

  ‘Perhaps we could have tea out before the film?’

  ‘Yes, let’s.’

  It took her a long time that night to get to sleep. Her mind buzzed with their talk.

  In the morning she was exhausted and Bridie critical.

  ‘Don’t know what the guests must think of you, staying up all hours with that boy!’

  ‘He’s not a boy,’ Catherine said irritably.

  ‘He is compared to you. It’s not seemly.’

  ‘We just talked. He’s an interesting man.’

  ‘You don’t want to go getting a reputation,’ Bridie warned darkly.

  Catherine went for a walk to escape. Down at the harbour she watched the waves crashing on to the beach. What would Father John say to her courting an Anglican? What would her grandda have thought? Even Kate might not be best pleased. She felt the sudden weight of tradition pressing down, her mother’s voice telling her not to start something that would only end in trouble or more heartbreak.