Jarrow Trilogy 01 - The Jarrow Lass, page 19
‘John McMullen,’ Maggie answered impatiently. ‘I told you he was back from the army.’
Rose put down her mending. The memory of the stranger staring at her came briefly to mind. ‘Since when?’
Maggie sighed, ‘About a month ago. Don’t you listen to anything I tell you any more?’
Rose bent her head once more. ‘Nowt to do wi’ me.’
Maggie carried on spooning soup into Mary’s mouth. ‘I don’t know why I bother telling you anything,’ she complained. ‘Might as well talk to me shadow. I’d get more sense out of it than you these days.’
Rose felt quick annoyance. ‘Why should I be interested in John McMullen? I couldn’t abide him before he went away - always drunk and swearing his head off.’
Maggie snorted. ‘You used to be sweet on him - before you met William.’
Rose was furious. ‘No I wasn’t! How dare you say that? I’ve only ever loved William. I’ll never look at another man again.’
‘Keep your hat on,’ Maggie snapped back. ‘I never suggested you would. All I was telling you was a bit of news from the McMullens - they are still friends of ours even if you don’t bother with ‘em.’
Rose saw how she had riled her usually placid sister and felt bad. She did not know from where her bursts of anger came. She glanced across the room to where Kate was sitting on her grandfather’s knee, hoping she had not heard their arguing. Their heads were bent together as they told each other stories, oblivious to anything else. Rose lowered her voice.
‘I’m sorry. I know you didn’t mean anything by it. I just don’t like any talk of me going with another man after William.’
Maggie regarded her. ‘Aye, well, maybes you don’t. But it’s not just yourself to think about, there’s the bairns, an’ all.’
‘What d’you mean by that?’ Rose demanded.
‘I mean that mourning your dead husband won’t put bread in the bairns’ mouths,’ Maggie said bluntly. ‘And you know you can’t stay here for ever - we’re not managing as it is - not unless the lasses gan out to work.’ Rose could tell they were Danny’s words she was repeating, but Maggie went on swiftly before Rose protested at the suggestion. ‘And there’s some’at else.’
‘What?’ Rose asked, panic rising inside. If Maggie had tired of defending her, then her days at Simonside were numbered.
Maggie flushed pink as she spoke. ‘Me and Danny -we’re - I’m expectin’.’
Rose gawped at her sister. For ages she had longed for Maggie to become a mother too, but now she felt winded at the news. There would be even less room for her family now. She looked at Mary’s sticky face and mop of unruly curls and was overwhelmed by the burden of being her children’s provider. She tried to speak, but could not. Rose let out a howl that brought Kate rushing over in alarm.
‘What’s wrong, Mam?’ she asked, putting arms around her shoulders. But Rose could not control her sobbing.
Maggie answered in a quiet, bitter voice, ‘She’s crying ‘cos she’s feeling sorry for hersel’.’ She stood up and lifted Mary out of the high chair that Danny had made.
Rose looked at her sister, seeing the hurt she had inflicted. She groped for an apology.
‘I’m sorry, Maggie. Don’t be cross. It’s grand you’re going to have your own bairn.’ She clutched Kate tightly and whispered in desperation, ‘It’s just - I - I’m that frightened. I don’t know what I’m going to do!’
Chapter 19
A frostiness grew between Rose and Maggie that did not thaw, despite Rose’s attempts to curb her short temper and be more helpful. But the unborn baby was an unspoken source of tension. Try as she might, Rose could not stifle feelings of resentment towards her sister for having a healthy husband in work who would be able to provide for her and the child. Danny was overjoyed that he would finally be a father and fussed around Maggie possessively, the way William used to over Rose. He would criticise Rose for not helping around the house enough and constantly order the older girls to do jobs for his wife.
Rose knew that Maggie was under increasing pressure from Danny to be rid of them before their baby was born in the spring, but Rose was at a loss as to what to do. All her energy was used up in her job. She could not contemplate having to find somewhere new to live and she relied heavily on Maggie to cope with the household chores and the children. Maybe if she could put a little bit by each week and stay until Margaret was old enough to find part-time work, she could manage.
But Rose seemed to have lost the knack of good housekeeping. She was incapable of saving anything and it was only thanks to Maggie’s careful budgeting that they managed to keep the girls clothed and provide enough food to last the week without resorting to the pawn shop.
Lizzie came home for a visit, announcing that she was engaged to a gardener at Ravensworth called Peter and planned a quiet wedding in the new year.
‘That’s grand!’ Rose hugged her tearfully. ‘I’m glad for you. I wish I could help you out more ...’
‘I know you do,’ Lizzie said quickly, ‘but we’ll be canny.’
Rose felt wretched. From being the sister who always had a bit extra to give her family, she was now a burden to them.
As the leaves dropped from the trees and the mornings grew chilly, Rose fretted more and more about the future as she trudged into work. Increasingly, she caught glimpses of the tall carrier, humping scrap iron through the gates of the puddling mill. Whereas a few weeks ago she would not have given him a second thought, since the row with Maggie, Rose had been jolted out of her self-absorbed grief.
She tried to get a proper look at the man, but he never stared at her as he had that first time. She noticed a bleached moustache and eyebrows, weathered cheeks and broad shoulders under a too-tight jacket. He looked too old to be the John McMullen she had last seen at his brother Michael’s wedding twelve years ago. But his thick boots and battered army hat suggested otherwise. She knew only too well how she had aged in looks since then. It was possible this sallow-faced man hiding under his soldier’s cap might be the insolent John of former years.
The next time she saw him. Rose straightened up and waited. As he turned to go he caught her watching him and tipped the edge of his grubby cap at her. Something about the directness of his gaze was familiar. She nodded in return. As he went, she wondered why she had tried to catch his attention. She was not even sure it was John. Besides, she had never really liked him. Annoyed with herself, she returned to her back-breaking work.
Three days later, she caught him looking her way again. This time he removed his cap and scratched his short-cropped hair; his glance at her was bashful, but it was long enough for Rose to be sure it was John McMullen. His eyes were that startling green; the stubborn set of his mouth under the bushy moustache the same. Rose felt uncomfortable. Her heart was racing and her breath came erratically. She felt an overwhelming desire to sit down and was suddenly acutely aware that she was stripped off to her shift and petticoat. But he held her gaze and she could not look away. Neither of them smiled. Then he nodded at her, jammed on his cap and abruptly marched away.
‘Who’s the general then?’ her friend Bridie nudged her.
‘Someone I used to know,’ Rose said, gripping her arms and trying not to shake. ‘His father’s a friend of me da’s.’
‘Handsome, I’d say,’ Bridie winked.
‘You think owt on two legs is handsome,’ Rose grunted, and turned back to work before the foreman spotted them chatting.
‘He’s sweet on you,’ her friend remarked.
‘Don’t be daft,’ Rose cried. ‘He’s lording it over me! Back from the army and India and such grand places -finds me slaving for a pittance. He’s always had a callous streak. John McMullen will be loving it. Well, I haven’t always had to work like this - I’ve had a decent husband and a grand house in Raglan Street and luxuries he’s never had. And I’ve five bonny daughters . . .’ Rose stifled a sob. She despised herself for getting worked up over the likes of him.
Bridie touched her shoulder. ‘Haway, don’t upset yoursel’.’ She glanced around. ‘Did you say John McMullen? The McMullens from the pit cottages?’
Rose nodded and wiped her nose on the back of her hand.
‘I’d heard one of ‘em was back from the army,’ Bridie murmured. ‘Aye, and I’d heard they paid him a pension an’ all. He’s been spending it round the pubs, our Billy says. And he should know - he lives in ‘em.’ She took hold of Rose by the arm. ‘If it’s the same man, maybes you should encourage him.’
‘John McMullen?’ Rose said in distaste. ‘He’s too fond of the drink and talking with his fists.’
Bridie snorted. ‘Maybes he’s not perfect, but you and the bairns would be better off settling for a strong man with a bit money in his pocket. Or would you rather stay here till the work kills ye?’
Rose could find no answer to that.
Chapter 20
It took John another month to pluck up the courage to call on Rose at Simonside. He had almost gone on half a dozen occasions, washing himself carefully, polishing his boots and putting on his fading army jacket. But his brothers’ ribald questioning and his own shyness had got the better of him and he had turned into the nearest pub instead.
On the long voyage back from Bombay, John had determined that he would find a wife on his return to Jarrow, someone like his mother, who would see to his needs and keep his sons in check. For John also dreamt of a large family, of children who would love and fear him, make him feel worthy in his own home. But what he returned to was a house still overcrowded with brothers and occasional lodgers, a cantankerous old father and a sick mother. He worried about his mother’s bouts of coughing and the brown phlegm she spat into the hissing fire, and tried to make her feel better by buying her small trinkets and pots for the kitchen.
‘All I want from you is to see you settled,’ she would tell him with a weary smile whenever he gave her something. It was she who had told him the startling news that Rose McConnell was a widow and living back at Simonside.
‘Left with five young daughters to bring up, the poor lass,’ Mrs McMullen said with a toothless intake of breath. ‘William Fawcett got the consumption - been dead two summers. Danny and Maggie took them in, but from what Danny’s mother says, he’s sick of the sight of them. Well, it’s a lot to ask of a man - taking on some other man’s wife and children - and Maggie expectin’ their first one and still having to look after the old man too. He’s no more than a bairn himself these days - thinks he’s living back in Ireland and keeps wandering off looking for his parents.’ She broke off breathlessly to cough and John did not like to tax her with all the questions that flooded into his head.
Gradually he learned that Rose was reduced to working long hours at the puddling mill and he took on a casual job, lugging pig iron so that he could see for himself. At first he did not recognise her. He was looking for the slim-waisted girl with the coils of dark hair who had captivated him as a young man. It was this image of Rose that he had carried with him through the long years of military service on the North-West Frontier.
During the Afghan campaigns, when they had marched through rocky passes, choked by the summer heat and dust, while men around him had died of thirst and dysentery, he had kept going with thoughts of her. During the bitter winters with nothing left to eat but the leather of their boots, he had conjured up her face. John had thought he would die, was convinced he would never get back to Jarrow again, and his dreams of her had been sweet torture. Only a miraculous counter-march led by fellow Irishman General Roberts had saved them all from being cut to pieces by fierce tribesmen who showed neither fear nor mercy.
Back in India, he had taken up with a local woman, an Anglo-Indian, who had been one of the camp followers and who reminded him of Rose. He knew he could never have the McConnell girl because she belonged to the respectable and worthy Fawcett. It was why he had left Jarrow so suddenly, for he could not bear to see her married happily to another. But John knew that in his bitterness he had not treated his army woman well. He had alternately used her and neglected her, leaving her behind for months at a time, punishing her for not being Rose.
Only when he had come back and found Sultana had borne him a daughter did he show her kindness and a grudging affection. He had doted on the tawny-eyed child, naming her Ruth. He had taught her to sing Irish songs. Then, three years ago, he had returned from a tour of duty at the Frontier and found them both dead from an outbreak of cholera.
He had got blind drunk for a week and nearly poisoned himself to death with the local firewater. After that, John had no more heart left for soldiering and often his stomach played up. He served his time, increasingly withdrawn and impatient with the world, waiting for his gratuity and a passage home.
Now, after years of gruelling service under a harsh sun, where anyone he had let himself care for had died of sickness or been butchered fighting at his side, fortune had smiled on him. Rose McConnell - he had never thought of her as Fawcett - was widowed and in need of rescue from the brutal puddling mill.
He had stared at her hard the first time he saw her, puce-faced and sweating in the ferocious heat. She was stout and thick-armed, her sleeves pulled back and hands filthy. Her dark hair was scraped into a severe bun at the back of her head, but wayward strands had escaped and stuck to her glistening neck and cheeks. He doubted it was her, until a coarse-faced woman at her side prodded Rose and nodded in his direction. Slowly she straightened, leaning on her shovel, and glanced over with lifeless eyes.
She pushed at her stray hair and frowned. A vein stood out on her broad forehead, throbbing with the exertion of manual work, and her chest heaved. Her breasts sagged in the shapeless dress. John felt a rush of disappointment, even anger at this woman for taking the place of the pretty girl he remembered, who had plagued his mind all these years. But it was Rose. The large, wide-set eyes, the full mouth and prominent cheekbones were recognisable. Yet despite the lines of experience and pain etched across her face, it was still attractive, still dearly familiar.
John felt a stab of pity mixed with triumph at having found her. He waited expectantly for her to show surprise or pleasure at seeing him again after all this time. But after a few seconds, she turned back to her work without a flicker of interest or recognition. He left feeling fury and hurt, humiliated by the pointing and laughter of the other women. How he hated them all! He spent the rest of the day in the pub until he was thrown out for being abusive and swearing in Urdu, and had to be frog-marched home by two of his brothers, singing drunkenly at the top of his voice.
After that, John feigned indifference to Rose and the other women when he unloaded the scrap iron from the wagons, until one day late in the autumn, when he became aware of someone watching him. It made the back of his neck prickle, the way it used to on sentry duty, camped out among the bald rocks guarding the Frontier. He looked up and saw Rose eyeing him from the open doorway. His heart thudded in shock. Gone was the dead expression of before; her look was sharp and assessing, her posture bold. In confusion, he touched his cap and fled in panic. Afterwards, he tried to remember if she had nodded at him or not.
In a state of nerves, he returned a few days later, determined to take a longer look. He lingered in the doorway, fighting the urge to run away, until Rose turned towards him. Flustered, he took off his cap and scratched his head. How was it that women managed to alarm him so easily, when he had stood and faced unspeakable horrors in battle?
She nodded at him and his stomach unknotted. It was a definite sign of recognition, even of interest. He was suddenly aware that she was only half dressed. Her bodice showed the plump tops of her breasts and the pale bare flesh of her upper arms. John felt a quickening of excitement, a familiar stab of desire at the sight of a woman’s body. He turned quickly and left, nervous at the thought that she might be discussing him with the other woman. But he could not rid his mind of Rose and grew more unsettled by the day.
It was his mother who finally pushed him into paying a visit to Simonside.
‘I can see something’s eatin’ at you,’ she complained. ‘Joseph tells me you’re daft for some lass - you were singing about her when they had to carry you home the other night.’
John flushed with embarrassment and growled a denial.
‘For the love of St Peter, go and see her,’ she urged. ‘It’s time I had you off me hands for good.’
It was a raw December afternoon when Elizabeth and Kate spotted the man in the army jacket making his way up the track. Between them they were carrying a sack of cinders that they had scavenged from the railway siding and some fat twigs brought down by recent gales. They gawped at him as he came closer, wondering whether to stay or scamper back to the cottage in safety.
It was Kate who spoke first to the tall, stern-faced man who peered down at them as he regained his breath at the gate.
‘Are you a soldier?’ she asked, eyeing his appearance with interest.
‘I was,’ he answered.
‘You still look like one to me,’ Kate said. ‘You’ve got a red coat like a soldier.’
‘And who are you?’ he asked gruffly.
‘I’m Kate Fawcett. I’m seven and I can say me nine times table. This is me sister Elizabeth. She’s ten.’
John glanced at the mute girl with blue eyes so like her father staring at him fearfully. ‘Has she lost her tongue?’
‘Na,’ Kate answered again. ‘We’re not supposed to talk to strangers.’
‘Not very obedient then, are you?’ John grunted. ‘Any road, it’s your mam I’ve come to see.’
Kate looked doubtful. ‘She doesn’t speak to strangers neither. She doesn’t speak much to anybody - except Our Lady and St Theresa and me da in Heaven.’
John scowled at her. ‘I’m not a stranger - I’m an old friend of your mother’s. Now stop yer cheek and gan and tell her I’d like a word.’
