The Jarrow Lass (41 page)

Kate blushed. ‘Give over, our Mary!'

Rose eyed her more closely. ‘So that's it - I could tell there was some'at. Who is he then?'

‘Nobody!'

Sarah joined in. ‘Mr Nobody?'

‘Are you courting?' Rose asked excitedly.

‘No!'

‘Yes you are,' Mary contradicted. ‘He's a gentleman an' all. Our Kate's quite turned his head.'

‘A gentleman!' Rose gasped. ‘What sort of gentleman?'

Kate hid her face in her hands in consternation. ‘He's just an acquaintance.'

‘Hark at her - he's just an
acquaintance
,' Mary mimicked.

‘He's friendly, that's all - it's in his nature,' Kate blustered. ‘He's like that to all the staff.'

‘Just happens to call round on your day off,' Mary smirked.

‘So you are courtin'?' Sarah cried.

‘Not properly—'

‘But this lad - he's special to you?' Rose asked.

Kate looked at her with shining eyes and Rose knew that it was true without her having to speak. There was an expectation in her flushed expression, a quickening of the voice as she talked about him.

‘He's not from round here, but business brings him to the castle now and again. He's travelled - even been to the Continent. Full of learning and stories, Mam.'

‘Blarney, more like,' Mary snorted. ‘You're not the first lass he's taken an interest in, from what I hear. Quite a reputation as a ladies' man, for all his fine airs and posh clothes, has Mr Pringle-Davies.'

‘That's just gossip,' Kate protested. ‘He's a real gentleman - related to the Liddells themselves.'

‘And I'm the Queen of Sheba!' Mary laughed.

Kate took a swipe at her sister.

‘The Liddells, eh?' Rose gasped in astonished delight. ‘What did you say his name was?'

But before Kate could answer, they heard a shout on the path outside. John was back.

‘Quick, get the table set,' Rose ordered, deciding she could question Kate later. ‘Jack, more coal on the fire.'

Kate said in alarm, ‘Don't say anything to Father, will you?'

‘I thought there was nowt to tell?' Mary baited.

‘You say a word and I'll pull your hair out!' Kate threatened.

‘She'll not,' Rose warned. ‘We'll not have today spoilt with silly tittle-tattle or give your father the excuse to lose his temper.'

But by the sound of John's singing, she gauged he was in a good mood. He came banging through the door, clutching two bottles of beer, to find them all bustling round industriously.

‘Now isn't that a grand sight?' he crowed. ‘A family making ready for the master! Is me dinner ready, Rose Ann?'

‘We've all the presents to open first,' Kate said, pointing at the pile on the hearth. She loved the present-giving more than anything. The more she gave the more it made up for those barren Christmases after Jack had been born when there had been no treats and no gifts.

‘We'll eat first.' John was firm. ‘Jack, pour me a beer, son.'

With a look from Rose, Kate did not argue further. They gathered around the oval table, John in his high-backed fireside chair, the others on an assortment of chairs and stools. Once it was all served up and John was digging into his food, Rose sat down with satisfaction. The table was laden with good things to eat and the smell of roast pork and steaming potatoes filled the warm kitchen. Her family tucked in eagerly, their faces flushed, their chatter light-hearted. She wished she could savour this moment for ever.

After the mince pies and custard, John pushed back his chair and eased his belt.

‘By, that was a good dinner, lass,' he said with satisfaction, and Rose thought how that was praise indeed from her taciturn husband.

‘Please, Father, let's open the presents now,' Kate pleaded. She was almost bursting with the effort not to tear open the parcels at once.

John gave a grunt of agreement. ‘What've you got us then?'

Kate scrabbled among the pile. ‘This is for you, Mam. It's a hat so you don't have to keep wearing that old bonnet.'

‘You're not supposed to tell her till she's opened it,' Sarah laughed.

‘I like me old bonnet,' Rose said, looking doubtfully at the brown paper package.

‘Put it on, woman, and let's have a look at you,' John said indulgently.

Rose unwrapped the parcel and found a neat, flattish green hat like a stunted boater with a large bow of pale green ribbon tied at the front.

‘It's not quite the latest fashion - Mrs Fairish in the village wore it a few years,' Kate explained. ‘But no one round here will know that. I remember you having a green hat when I was a bairn,' she smiled.

‘You remember that?' Rose said in amazement. ‘You were a baby.' A green hat and a green dress that had been her pride and joy when married to William. She had never worn anything as elegant since. Rose put the hat on.

‘Suits you,' Sarah said.

‘It'll blow off in the wind,' John snorted.

‘You can use one of me hatpins,' Mary offered.

‘It's bonny,' Rose said, her voice suddenly wavering. She took it off quickly and busied herself wrapping it up again, in case anyone saw the glint of tears in her eyes. It would not do to get sentimental about the past and all over a silly hat.

‘I'll find a hatbox for it next time,' Kate promised.

‘Haway, what else have you brought?' John asked impatiently.

Kate handed out the other presents, stockings for Sarah, a clothes brush for Mary and a book for Jack.

‘What's that?' John asked suspiciously, eyeing the second-hand book.

‘It's all about the Boer War,' Kate said, unable to keep the surprise.

Jack read out the title slowly,' With Roberts to Pretoria by G. A. Henty.' He looked up at Kate and gave one of his rare smiles. ‘Ta, our Kate. That's champion.'

‘What use is a book?' John scoffed. ‘And about that bugger Roberts an' all.'

‘I thought Lord Roberts was your hero?' Kate asked in dismay.

John snorted. ‘He might be a good commander,' he conceded, ‘but he treated us lads like muck - drove us till we dropped. It's us soldiers should get the glory, not the generals on horseback. It's easy to shout orders.'

‘You should know,' Mary murmured, and Rose tried not to smile.

But John's hearing was not what it used to be and he missed the remark.

Kate heaved her final present from the floor. ‘You'll not be wanting this then.'

‘What is it?' John eyed the flat parcel, the largest of them all.

‘It's a picture of—'

‘Don't tell me!' he shouted. ‘Give it here.'

Kate helped him untie the string. Everyone crowded round. It was a painting in a heavy wood frame: a British general on a horse with an African servant holding the reins.

‘By, that's grand!' Jack exclaimed in admiration.

‘Who is it?' Sarah asked.

‘That's what I said when Kate bought it at the bazaar,' Mary smirked.

‘Lord Roberts, of course,' Jack said impatiently.

‘Which one?' Mary laughed. ‘The soldier or the servant?'

‘Don't be cheeky,' John said, flicking a hand at her. He sat back and looked at it. ‘Stand over there and hold it up.' Jack and Kate did so, Kate holding her breath for some sign of approval.

‘Well, John?' Rose grew impatient. She could see how much it mattered to Kate. She must have spent a small fortune on it.

John sucked in his cheeks, then nodded. His face broke into a smile. ‘Fancy me having a grand picture like that.'

‘You like it then?' Kate asked.

‘Aye, it's a canny picture.'

Kate gushed in relief, ‘It used to hang in the big hall - but the new mistress didn't like it and gave it to the butler. His missus didn't like it either - so she gave it to the bazaar. Think of that, it once hung in Ravensworth Castle.'

Rose could see John swelling with pride before her very eyes. Kate had played cleverly to his vanity.

‘Pity there's not enough room to hang it above the fireplace,' Mary said cattily. ‘I told Kate that but she wouldn't listen.'

‘We can move the dresser and hang it over there,' Rose said quickly, not wanting Kate's moment spoilt.

‘Dresser be damned!' John cried. ‘We won't need to. I nearly forgot.' He slapped his knee, looking pleased with himself.

‘Forgot what?' Rose asked.

‘My Christmas present to you,' John grinned. ‘I heard about it this morning.'

‘Heard what?' Rose was nonplussed. He had not bought her a present at Christmas for years.

‘Where is it?' Kate asked in excitement.

‘Down in the town,' John chuckled. ‘We've got the chance of a place - Leam Lane - right next door to The Twenty-Seven. No more tramping up here in the pouring rain for me and the lad. And it'll be much easier for you to manage, Rose. We'll hang Lord Roberts over the mantelpiece in Learn Lane. What d'you say?'

There was complete silence. Rose was appalled. But she could not say that she was completely taken by surprise. John had been itching to get them back to the town where he felt more at home. Jack was just an excuse. So was her health.

‘We're canny here,' she answered. ‘I can manage.'

‘No you can't,' John snapped, displeased with all the long faces around him. ‘I thought you'd be happy at the idea. Close to the shops, no stairs, a tap in the back yard. Better than living like peasants up here.' He glared round the room. ‘Tell your mother it's the best thing for her. Unless one of you wants to come home and run this place for her?' he challenged them.

Rose saw them all look away, one by one. She would not ask it of them and John knew that. She knew that she had no choice. He was right: she struggled to manage as it was. Leam Lane would be far more practical for all of them, especially for John and Jack, working at the docks.

‘Well, it's all arranged,' John said brusquely. ‘We'll move come the New Year.' He glanced around. ‘Look at your twisty faces - you'd think we were headed for Botany Bay! Jack, open that other bottle and let's drink to better times - to living in Shields. We'll hang the old dog Roberts over the fireplace, eh, our Kate?'

Rose caught the look of horror on her daughter's face. She seemed on the point of tears.

Kate sprang up. ‘Hang it where you bloody well like. I don't care!' Then she fled to the door and rushed outside into the dusk, slamming it behind her.

‘Kate?
Kate
. John shouted after her. He looked at Rose quite baffled. ‘What's got into her?'

Rose was surprised too by the girl's response to the news. It would hardly affect her away in Lamesley. Rose had spared her the need to come back.

‘Sarah, put the kettle on,' she sighed. ‘I'll go after her.'

Chapter 47

Rose found Kate at the bottom of the garden, shivering by the fence. The last glimmer of silvery light in the west touched her downcast face. Her cheeks were wet with tears. Rose was puzzled by why she should be so upset; Kate hardly let anything get her down.

‘You shouldn't worry what he says about Lord Roberts,' Rose chided. ‘He was pleased with the picture, I could tell.'

Kate shook her head. ‘It wasn't the picture.'

‘Us moving then?' Rose questioned. ‘You're upset at us moving.'

Kate sniffed. ‘Aye.'

Rose sighed. ‘It had to come sometime - I knew we couldn't stay on here for ever. Your father's right, I can't manage and it'll be easier for Jack—'

‘Jack!' Kate cried. ‘It's always what's best for Jack.'

Rose was taken aback. ‘He's just turned fourteen - he's still a young lad - and he still lives at home. You don't,' Rose said pointedly. ‘It's not like you to be jealous of our Jack.'

Kate looked at her with soulful eyes. ‘Oh, Mam, I'm sorry. It's not our Jack either.'

‘Then what?' Rose pressed. ‘What's bothering you, hinny?'

‘It's Learn Lane - Shields - we don't belong there. And next to The Twenty-Seven - that terrible place!'

Kate could not begin to explain to her mother how much she was afraid of it. It was part of the nightmare of her childhood, begging on the streets for food. When the doors of the well-off had been shut in her face she had gone down to Tyne Dock and stood outside the dock pubs begging the men for the remains in their bait tins. Grubby bread and treacle wrapped in newspaper, that's what Leam Lane and The Twenty-Seven meant to her.

‘We've managed in worse places,' Rose said defensively. ‘There're still decent folk live round there, don't you forget that. Don't judge a book by its cover.'

‘That's as maybe,' Kate cried in desperation, ‘but I could never bring him home to such a place!' It was out before she could stop herself.

Rose stared at her, first in disbelief, then with shock as realisation dawned. ‘Your gentleman,' Rose whispered, ‘you're talking about him, aren't you?'

Kate bit her lip, furious with herself for speaking her thoughts. They were wild thoughts, dreams that might come to nothing. And because of her impetuous words she had hurt her mother, she could tell by the wounded look on the older woman's face.

‘You're ashamed of us,' Rose said, feeling numb inside. ‘You're ashamed of your own mother.'

‘No, Mam!' Kate cried, grabbing her mother's arm. ‘Not of you.' Her pretty face was pleading. ‘Please believe I'd never be ashamed of you. It's just Leam Lane and -'

Rose felt tears sting her eyes. ‘I know - your father,' she finished for her.

‘He's not me father,' Kate said in a voice full of rancour.

Rose pulled away. ‘He's kept a roof over our heads all these years - including yours. He at least deserves your respect for that.'

Kate shook her head. ‘You did that, not him.

Rose looked at her daughter and felt overwhelming sadness. A huge gulf separated them and it was of her own making. She had encouraged Kate to go away and better herself, yearned for the day she would return with a ring on her finger, having won the heart of a respectable, prosperous man. How could she blame her for wanting to distance herself from the grubby, noisy poverty of Tyne Dock? Wherever they lived, Rose realised too late, Kate would probably shun them. That must be why she had been so coy about telling them she was courting. She wanted to keep her admirer and her new life quite separate from her old.

‘Is he so very grand?' Rose asked quietly, searching her daughter's face.

Kate hardly dared meet her mother's look. ‘Yes,' she whispered.

Suddenly Rose was filled with foreboding. Had Kate set her sights too high? Was she involved with someone too far above her station for safety? On impulse she stepped towards Kate and pulled her close, gathering her arms about the girl's slender shoulders.

‘Oh, lass, I fear for you!'

‘Oh, Mam, don't!'

Kate clung to her mother as she had not done since childhood and wept. She had thought never to feel her strong hug again. Her mother seemed to have forgotten how to touch them these past years. But it felt so good now! She felt strength flow from the older woman to her and give her courage.

‘I know you'd like him. He's kind and funny and so handsome. I don't know what he sees in me.'

‘Don't you do yourself down,' Rose declared. ‘You were meant for better things than skivvying. You hold your head up high when you walk out with this Mr— what do you call him?'

‘Pringle-Davies.' Kate blushed.

‘Aye, Pringle . . .' What was it about the name that was familiar? Rose struggled to remember. There was something Kate had said about him before that had sparked off a half-memory. No, it had gone. It did not matter now. Having Kate holding on so affectionately was weakening her resolve to let her daughter go.

With difficulty, Rose pulled away. She would not break down in front of Kate. She had not stayed strong for her all these years to betray herself as weak now. Rose gulped back the tears in her throat. How she wanted to protect her daughter!

‘You're right,' Rose said hoarsely, ‘don't let him come here. If you've a chance of happiness, lass, take it. By God, you take it!'

They looked at each other, both shaking with the cold and the emotion that clawed at their insides. Kate reached forward to touch her once more, but Rose drew back. She did not trust herself to embrace the girl again; she would not have the strength to let her go.

‘But whatever you do and wherever you go,' Rose added stoutly, ‘don't you ever be ashamed of who you are. You've had good parents - God-fearing parents who've brought you up to do right, however poor we've been.' She raised her hand and lightly touched Kate's cheek as if in farewell. ‘Remember you were born a Fawcett - you were your da's favourite. I've given you that - so be proud of it. Make me proud of you, lass!'

She withdrew her hand swiftly and turned away.

‘Mam,' Kate rasped, ‘don't go!'

But Rose kept on walking towards the cottage. They both knew that in that moment of truth when Rose had laid bare her feelings, she was also letting go. Rose did not look back; she could not in case her resolve wavered. She would rather her daughter went back to Lamesley and never saw her again, disowned her family, if it meant a chance at happiness with a man above her station who could give her security. Although the pain of separation would be raw, she would give up her daughter for William's sake - for her beloved William's memory!

As she reached the door, Rose heard Kate sob, ‘I will, Mam - I'll make you proud!'

Rose glanced round and gasped to see Kate's features caught in the golden light of the winter sunset. Her tear-stained face looked beatific. There was no other way to describe it. At that moment she had the face of an angel.

The gypsy's words rang in her ears. At the end of her life she would be blessed with an angel child. Kate would give her that angel child, Rose was certain of it. Ever since she had first seen Lord Ravensworth's daughter married and in her childish mind confused her radiant face with that of the moon, Rose believed she had been looked after by a guardian angel. How else to explain how she had survived all that she had been through? It was all for a purpose. All roads had led here to this moment of clarity. Kate was her chosen one. She would carry on where Rose could not. In time she would bring her greater joy. Rose smiled at her daughter, then opened the door and went inside.

Kate was left trembling in the dark, weeping at the weight of responsibility she felt pressing upon her. She had seen it in her mother's eyes, heard it in the way she spoke of Kate's real father. Her mother had freed her from her stepfather's dominance, but in return there was a price to pay. Rose expected the world from her.

Kate looked up into the late afternoon sky, already dark. There was just a glimpse of a new moon hanging over the copse, lifting like the sail of a ship. A new beginning. Kate took heart from the omen. She turned and looked behind her, to the south where Ravensworth and her other existence lay.

‘Oh, Mam,' she whispered in the frosty stillness, ‘I wish I had as much faith in myself as you do - and as stout a heart.'

Then she thought of the man she loved, the man with auburn hair and dark eyes that danced with dangerous merriment. The man with the deep voice that flattered and teased and told her she was beautiful. The man of a hundred tales who claimed his mother had been a Liddell who had eloped with a coachman named Pringle. The man who tempted her to recklessness too.

‘Alexander.' She whispered his first name tentatively, blushing at her daring. A wave of tender longing swept over her.

‘
Alexander
,' she called out more boldly, as if she could conjure him to her. ‘Soon we'll be together again!'

Then, before facing the others, she blew a kiss in the direction of Ravensworth. For after today, Kate knew more than ever, that was where her heart and her destiny lay.

***

THE JARROW LASS is the first in a Trilogy. A CHILD OF JARROW and RETURN TO JARROW continue the story of Rose and her family through the first half of the 20th century.

Praise for A CHILD OF JARROW and RETURN TO JARROW:

‘The Jarrow Lass was inspired by Catherine Cookson's grandmother. This follows into the next generation, with Cookson's mother and the childhood of the great novelist herself. It is a winner.'

The Bookseller.

‘Brings early 20th century Jarrow vividly to life. A smashing read.'

Lancashire Evening Post

‘Her finest yet - a wonderfully moving, deeply emotional tale'

The Daily Record

‘This is a story to burn itself into your mind.'

Northern Echo

‘Penmanship of the highest quality ... This is a story of warmth and despair, based on facts and places and with excellent characterisation. It is a delicate yet strongly-woven book of biography and imagination. Rich in narrative, which twists and turns on every page. It touches many raw nerves of human experience.'

The Newcastle Journal

‘It is powerfully and skilfully written, and keeps you interested until the end.'

The Sunderland Echo

***

Janet welcomes comments and feedback on her stories. If you would like to do so, you can contact her through her website:

www.janetmacleodtrotter.com