Jarrow Trilogy 01 - The Jarrow Lass, page 40
Rose had to accept that she could not offer hospitality to Sarah’s young man. Anyway, the romance might come to nothing so it was not worth riling John’s temper over the matter. For her husband’s ill humour had got no better over the three and a half years they had lived at Cleveland Place. His attempts at sobriety had not lasted long, and when in work he would often get no further than the pubs on Learn Lane, a stone’s throw from the dock gates, forgetting about his long walk home. Many were the times she had had to send Jack searching for him late in the evening, for she was too lame to go herself and would not have suffered the indignity of entering a public house.
Jack, a tall, wiry youth, was often repaid with a ‘smack in the gob’ for his efforts in trying to prise his belligerent father from the cosiness of some bar. John’s favourite haunt was the notorious Alexandria, known locally as The Twenty-Seven because it served as the next stop after the twenty-six staithes along the docks.
Rose would try to comfort her son after such bouts of violence. ‘Your day will come,’ she promised him. ‘He’ll not be the stronger one for ever.’ The saints forgive her, but she almost willed the moment to come when Jack would stand up to his father and give him a taste of his own medicine.
Sometimes Rose worried about Jack. He had become increasingly moody and withdrawn since his sisters had left home, especially Kate, who had always been openly affectionate with her half-brother. But faced with John’s constant criticism at his lack of hardness or teasing about girls, Jack kept to himself, disappearing on his own to trap rabbits or fish the streams. He would shadow the local farmer when he went out to shoot crows and once or twice the man had let Jack have a go with the gun. Jack seemed to gain more pleasure from this than any amount of socialising. The boy had a good aim and had once returned from a fair with four coconuts that Rose had not known what to do with. Rose often wondered if she had been right to bring the family out to their semi-rural retreat. Perhaps Jack needed more company; he was turning into a loner. But better that than a fighting, cussed drunk like his father. Not one day did Rose regret the move for her own sake. Even in the depths of winter when she had had to break the ice on the pail to get water for the kettle and struggle through the snow to search for tinder, she had thanked the saints for her primitive cottage.
Like an animal in hibernation she had rested her bruised spirit, slowly reawakening to the world with a new inner strength. She delighted in spring rain, summer birdsong and autumn sun as if she was experiencing them for the first time. While she tended her garden, the earth seemed to nurture her in return. During these solitary years when she had often been on her own for long hours at the cottage, Rose had rediscovered a sense of worth. She kept hens and grew giant rhubarb and strong onions. She exchanged these with her neighbours for jams, relish or firewood. She bartered produce with itinerant pedlars for buttons, hairpins and Emerson’s Bromo Seltzer, which she forced on John when he complained of sore head, stomach or bowels.
Rose would take Jack with her blackberry picking along the railway line and gather elderflower and wild mint for cordials. Her son would return from his wanderings with crab apples, nuts and the occasional rabbit or wood pigeon for the pot. On rare occasions, John would come home early and in a good mood, and they would eat together and walk out along the embankment to view the trains, and Rose wished life could always be that tranquil.
Certainly, it had been easier this last year without Mary in the house. At sixteen she had grown as sharp and quick with her tongue as her stepfather. Gone were the days when John would indulge the girl and defend her from her mother’s censure. He found her as difficult and volatile as Rose did. Mary was as prickly as a briar and not afraid to speak her mind. Her job with the Simpsons had not lasted. Rose had hoped that her youngest daughter would be content to stay at home and help her, as she was finding heavy chores increasingly difficult. But Mary chafed at her confinement in the remote cottage and resented doing the back-breaking washing and water carrying.
‘I’ve been trained as a lady’s maid,’ she declared grandly to her mother. ‘This’ll ruin me hands.’
In desperation, Rose had begged her sisters and daughters to find employment for Mary as far away from home as possible. It was Kate who had saved the day. The inn at Ravensworth, close to where she was working, needed a chambermaid. When Mary heard that this was no common hostelry, but the hub of social life for the staff at the castle, she lost no time in boarding the train for Lamesley.
Rose glanced at the clock again. Kate and Mary might be at Lamesley station at this very moment, waiting for the train to take them to Gateshead and then on to South Shields. They would get off at Tyne Dock station and walk up the hill. Jack had gone down to meet them and carry their bags.
It had been one of the best decisions of her life to send Kate to Lizzie’s. Rose felt sure of it. Shortly after their move to the cottage, Kate had said a tearful goodbye to them all and gone to live with her aunt. It was not long before she had been noticed around the estate and put to employment. At first Kate had gone to work at Farnacre Hall on the estate. There her easy nature and willingness for hard work had been spotted by Lady Ravensworth herself and soon she was working in the castle. It was more than Rose could have wished. Kate had told Rose that the old earl himself took a passing interest in her because she came from Jarrow.
‘He spoke to me, Mam!’
‘He never!’
‘Aye, said a cousin of his used to be rector here - Canon Liddell,’ Kate told her on a visit home. ‘He spoke highly of him - says he worked himself into an early grave for the people of Jarrow.’
‘He’s dead?’ Rose asked in shock. ‘Canon Liddell’s dead?’
‘That’s what he said.’ Kate gave her an enquiring look. ‘Did you know him, Mam?”
Rose felt a pang of sorrow. ‘Aye, I did,’ she answered quietly. ‘Worked for him and Mrs Liddell a long time ago. He was a real gentleman, just like your da. They were two of a kind,’ Rose said sadly.
‘Did me da know him an’ all?’ Kate asked eagerly.
Rose nodded.
‘That’s grand!’ Kate exclaimed. ‘A real gentleman, eh?’ Her face was suffused with pride as if she had just discovered some aristocratic blood in her own ancestry.
Afterwards, Rose noticed, Kate held herself with a new dignity and spoke with assurance in a voice that had subdued the rough edges of her speech. Rose was secretly proud of her daughter’s ability to improve herself, despite John’s teasing and Mary’s mimicry.
So it was a blow to Rose’s ambitions when the old lord died in the summer of 1903 and his widow moved out of the castle. With the coming of the new earl and his wife, some of the dowager’s staff had been dismissed, including Kate. As luck would have it, help was needed at the Ravensworth Arms, where Mary was now working, and Kate had been able to stay on in the area, serving as barmaid at the inn. She had stubbornly resisted John’s decrees that she should come home and be of more help to her mother. Rose was finding it harder to manage on her own, but she refused to let Kate be bullied back by her stepfather. She would rather struggle on uncomplaining, knowing that her daughters were happy in their new lives.
It was worth it on the rare days off to see Kate blooming and full of life, her hair loosely gathered on the nape of her neck and swept back from her forehead in the latest style. Last March she had surprised Rose with tickets to the Theatre Royal in Jarrow to see a farce, The Cruise of the Saucy Sally, part of a grand naval and military night. She even persuaded John and Jack to go too.
‘Haway, when’s the last time you had a night out?’ Kate cajoled. Rose thought back to those distant days of early marriage when a more romantic John had treated her to an evening at the Albert Hall.
‘Your mother couldn’t walk that far.’ John was dismissive.
‘Aye, I could,’ Rose said stoutly, not prepared to be denied.
‘I’ll borrow the cart off Mr Burn,’ Jack offered, keen to listen to the military bands. ‘He’ll not mind.’
Between them they managed to win John round to the idea and they had all ridden in style in Harry Burn’s vegetable cart, the kind neighbour driving them himself and picking them up afterwards. Rose’s head had been full of the songs of the show for weeks afterwards and she had delighted in hearing the solemn Jack whistling them while he dug the garden for her.
All was quiet in the house now as Rose waited for her family to gather. John had disappeared to buy a newspaper which probably meant she would not see him until dinner was on the table. But by half-past ten, Sarah had arrived and was bustling around the dark kitchen, shoving the meat into the oven and heaving the chopped vegetables into a large pot to simmer on top of the range.
If Rose could have run, she would have done so when she heard Jack’s whistling and footsteps approaching up the garden path. She hobbled to the door and flung it open. Kate and Mary were there, pink-cheeked and chattering, their breath billowing in frozen clouds. Jack was behind them almost hidden by a mound of Christmas parcels.
‘It’s Kate’s fault,’ Mary said, by way of a greeting, ‘she spent every penny of her Christmas wages at the village bazaar. You wouldn’t believe the rubbish she’s got.’
‘Happy Christmas, Mam!’ Kate cried, ambling towards her with her quick limp and nearly knocking her over in an exuberant hug. Rose was sometimes embarrassed by these shows of affection, but today she did not mind.
‘Haway inside, hinnies,’ she said. ‘Sarah’s got the dinner on. Jack, you open that bottle of ginger wine - I’ve been keeping it hid from your father. Take your coats off and let’s have a good look at you!’
She surveyed her daughters in their neat dresses and boots, their hair well groomed. What a picture they looked! But she could not help fussing.
‘Mary, are they feedin’ you enough? I’ve seen better-fed scarecrows.’
‘I’m run off me feet all day long, that’s why,’ Mary complained.
‘They feed us plenty, Mam,’ Kate assured her.
‘Well, you look well enough on it, our Kate,’ Rose remarked. ‘Mind you, you’ve rings around your eyes. Are you gettin’ enough sleep? They don’t keep you up all hours, do they?’
‘I don’t mind the hours, Mam. I like me job,’ Kate smiled.
‘She’s lovesick, that’s what,’ Mary said drily.
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?’
