The Jarrow Lass (28 page)

Rose put a hand lightly on his bowed head. John was hers. He would never do such things for any other woman and it gave her a warm, triumphant thrill. He loved her and she had grown to care for him. Now they were bound to each other for good by the baby who snuffled between them. If there were storms ahead, they would face them together.

Chapter 32

That winter was dogged by worry over baby Jack. He was small and sickly and did not thrive in the way Rose's other babies had. She knew that the puddling mills had sapped her former strength and left her with a body that ached and wheezed in the winter cold, then swelled uncomfortably in the summer heat. She blamed her damaged health for her son's premature birth and his listless start in life.

The priest came swiftly to christen the baby at home and Mrs McMullen shook her head with worry whenever she called. ‘He's got the look of an angel already,' she clucked, and muttered about accepting God's will.

Relations grew tense between Rose and John. He looked on anxiously, chiding her for not feeding Jack enough or failing to keep the kitchen warm.

‘You're neglectin' him, Rose Ann.'

‘No I'm not.'

‘You let the fire go out!'

‘Only when there's nowt to buy coal with,' she retaliated.

‘You're a bad housekeeper - you should make the money go further.'

‘I do the best I can with what little you give me,' Rose said reproachfully.

‘Don't blame me,' he grumbled. ‘I bring back a man's wage.' He gave her a stern look and jerked his head in Elizabeth's direction. ‘You know what I think.'

Rose glanced at her daughter squatting on the wooden fender by the fire, absorbed in a book borrowed from Aunt Maggie. She knew how happy Elizabeth was to have returned to school. Yet it would be so easy to give in to John's pressure to send the girl into service, for she was tall for her age, capable and eager to please, and would soon find a place. It would mean one less mouth to feed and extra money every fortnight once she was earning. But death had cruelly robbed Rose of her ambitions for her beloved Margaret and she was not going to be thwarted a second time. No amount of badgering from John would sway her. Above all, she was determined that her eldest should do better in life than she had.

‘No,' Rose was adamant. ‘The lass has just been made a monitress. Likely she'll be a pupil teacher by the spring - Miss Quinlan said as much.'

‘You shouldn't be filling her head full of fancy ideas,' John complained. ‘What do you want her to be a teacher for any road? No man'll want to marry her, that's for sure.'

‘She'll be able to stand on her own two feet and fend for herself without being beholden to a man,' Rose answered quietly but with an edge to her voice.

John gave her a surly look. ‘Well, if you won't see sense over the lass you can stop your complaining about lack of money then,' John said harshly, spitting into the fire and startling Elizabeth. ‘I'm the only one doing an honest day's graft around here.'

‘And what do you think I do all day long?' Rose remonstrated. ‘I never stop. There's no nine-hour day for us women with a house full of bairns!'

Elizabeth glanced between them anxiously, aware that they were arguing over her again. Her two sisters fell silent and stole out of the room, preferring to play in the dank back lane than listen to the adults wrangling.

Rose and John continued to snipe at each other until the baby began to whimper. Then both of them reached to calm him.

‘I'll see to him,' Rose said testily.

‘Haway and give him here,' John insisted, holding out his arms.

Rose gave in without much protest, silently thankful that her husband was willing to pacify the unhappy infant. The baby's crying alternately filled her with panic and jarred on her frayed nerves. But John was surprisingly patient with their son and was soon pacing the small room, clutching him tightly and whistling Irish tunes until the wailing subsided.

This was how many of their arguments ended, petering out in concern over the child, bringing them together in shared worry. Jack was the cause of most disputes between them, but also the remedy. Rose felt fiercely protective of her tiny, delicate son, struggling to hold on to life, and she recognised the same passion in John's rugged, concerned face. But the New Year came with no improvement. If anything, the baby's weight was dwindling and during the short, raw days of January he contracted a cold which made him almost impossible to feed.

Rose, frantic with worry, stayed up nursing him by the fire, calling on the saints for help. She had no energy left for her daughters and scolded them if they came too near or coughed over their brother. Her only thoughts were for her son and keeping him alive. Somehow he symbolised her new start in life with John, this second chance of some security and a home life. If Jack died, Rose feared the rough tenderness and care that had grown between her and John would die with him, wither in the bitterness and guilt of losing their shared child.

She knew how much Jack meant to her husband. He was fiercely proud of this son he had waited so long for and thought he might never have. John rarely talked of his former life in India, but Rose knew it had been hard and at times he had thought he would never return alive. She also suspected Jack was extra special because he had no link with William. When John looked at her daughters, Rose knew he was reminded of her first husband. However much he laid down the law to them in his own home, he knew he would never truly be their father. But Jack was different, prized and unique. He could not be replaced, for she never wanted to go through childbirth again. He must live!

Yet as the days dragged on, Rose could see her baby weaken and was filled with terror at the sight of him fading before her eyes. In panic one February day, she bundled up the moribund infant and ran through the streets to Dr McKay's house.

‘He's out on his rounds,' the housekeeper told her with a disapproving look.

‘Please tell me where he is,' Rose begged.

‘I can't do that,' the woman said primly.

‘You must,' Rose choked. ‘Me baby's dying!'

The stout woman hesitated, then said grudgingly, ‘I'll ask him to call as soon as he returns. Where is it you live?'

‘Albion Street,' Rose said hoarsely, trying not to cry. ‘Fifty-four. Ta, missus.'

She trailed home, buffeted by a strong westerly wind, her hopes ebbing with each step. When the doctor finally called it was dark and they were all gathered near the fire in the gloom. Dr McKay unwrapped the baby, examined him and shook his head.

‘I'm sorry, there's nothing I can do, Mrs McMullen. He was born too early, hasn't got the strength of the fully formed. A common cold could see him off.'

Rose crumpled in defeat and Elizabeth put comforting arms around her. But John was indignant.

‘Not fully formed? He's a damn McMullen! Of course he's fully formed. There's nowt wrong with him that a bit of feedin' up and a bit medicine for his chest won't put right. Call yourself a doctor? I'm not paying you owt for talking like that about my son!'

Dr McKay drew himself up and snapped closed his leather bag. ‘You don't owe me anything, Mr McMullen. But no medicine I could give him would make any difference.' He turned to Rose. ‘Best call for Father O'Brien - only prayers might save him now.'

When the doctor left, John paced the floor like a caged animal, hiding his fear with angry outbursts while Rose cried quietly over her silent baby.

‘Damn doctors! They're quacks the lot of ‘em! Killed off more soldiers with their meddling than the Afghans. Wouldn't let one near me even if me leg was hanging off!'

‘Stop your shouting,' Rose whimpered in distress. ‘Give the bairn a peaceful end, for pity's sake.'

John strode across, knocking a chair out of the way, and seized her by the shoulders.

‘Don't say that!' He shook her hard, so that she almost dropped the near-lifeless infant. ‘Our Jack's not dying! He's not going to die, do you hear me?'

Rose glared back at his stormy face, maddened by his obstinacy. It was obvious the boy was dying, so why was he torturing them all by denying what was happening? She wanted peace and quiet, to hold her little son close and give him comfort in his last hours. All John's ranting wouldn't alter a thing, only make the final night more difficult to bear. Well, she would make him see how futile his blustering words were.

Struggling to stand up, Rose thrust Jack at him. ‘Here, you take him then!' she hissed. ‘You think you're God and can stop bairns dying. You save him!' He staggered backwards, clutching the small bundle in astonishment. She pushed past him. ‘I'm off for the priest. My lad's ganin' to Heaven with a blessing on his head!'

Rose fled for the back door and rushed out into the blustery dark. At once she was caught in a squall of rain. It whipped at her face and uncovered hair, but she did not care. At the top of the street she heard footsteps coming after her.

‘Mam! Wait, Mam,' Elizabeth panted behind. ‘You shouldn't be out in this without your coat and bonnet. You'll catch your de—' The girl broke off suddenly.

Rose turned to see her daughter anxiously holding out her black cape and bonnet. Her heart melted to hear the familiar scolding that she was constantly giving her younger girls. Swiftly, Elizabeth put the cloak around her shoulders and helped her tie on the hat as if she were a helpless child. Rose could not trust herself to speak for fear she would start to cry and never stop.

‘I'll come with you, Mam,' Elizabeth said, slipping her arm through her mother's.

‘Ta, hinny,' Rose managed to whisper, and together they bent into the wind and rain and headed for the priest's house.

Father O'Brien left his half-eaten supper and came with them at once. They were all drenched by the time they reached Albion Street. John was still pacing the room with Jack in his arms and Rose felt a pang of remorse for the angry words she had flung at him. His face was haggard and pinched with worry and he flinched at the sight of the priest at the door.

To Rose's relief, he made no protest as Father O'Brien took the baby from him and began to pray. They stood about tensely, Rose gripping the hands of her other children, who were crying softly at the sudden solemnity of the final rites. She felt bitter bile rise in her throat at the thought of what was to come. Another child to bury, the fleeting happiness of a son in their midst gone like the moon disappearing behind black clouds. Why her? Why them? Why wouldn't the Virgin preserve her little lad? Jesus lived to be a grown man, why couldn't her son? she demanded angrily. What had she done to deserve this?

As the words of the priest tolled like sombre bells, Rose recalled the prophecy of the gypsy that she would bear a son but that storms would follow. Then the Irish woman had cursed John, willing that his son would stand up to him and give him not a minute's peace till the day he died. Till the day the boy died. She had thought it odd at the time, but she was sure that was what the woman had said. Had she predicted that their son would die before John? But then Jack had not lived long enough to stand up to anyone, poor little scrap. Rose bent her head, ashamed that she should have put so much store on the fey words of a tinker. Nevertheless, she would take what storms lay ahead, if only they would let her son live! Please save my child! she pleaded wordlessly as Father O'Brien handed Jack back to her.

The priest went out into the night, leaving Rose and John staring at each other across the fireside. His gaunt face looked as expressionless as if it had been cut from stone. Wearily, Rose turned and settled the baby in his drawer that served as his cradle and placed it on the hearth. While her back was turned she heard the outer door slam and John's heavy boots ring across the yard.

He's off to drown his sorrows in drink, she thought dully. No doubt this is how things will be from now on.

‘Kiss your brother good night,' she told the girls quietly.

‘But what if he gets me cough?' Kate asked uncertainly.

‘It won't matter,' Rose murmured.

‘Will he be dead in the morning?' she asked.

‘Maybes.'

All at once, Kate burst into tears. ‘I don't want him to!' she sobbed.

Rose put her arms around her. ‘I know, hinny. Maybe he'll be spared. Either way it's out of our hands.' She bent forward and kissed Jack tenderly on his pale lips, then ushered the girls swiftly upstairs. The three sisters huddled together in bed for warmth.

‘Mam?' Kate asked across the dark room. ‘If Jack dies, can Mary come and live with us instead?'

Rose felt her stomach twist at the sudden mention of the neglected Mary. She hardly gave her a thought these days, especially with so much worrying over Jack.

‘We'll see,' she gulped, and closed the door quickly before Kate could ask any more awkward questions.

As she descended to the kitchen again, she heard the back door bang and found John already back, a jar of whisky in his hand.

‘If you're ganin' to drink yourself daft, you might as well stay down the pub,' Rose said tartly.

He hardly looked at her as he placed the jug on the hearth and blew on his hands to warm them. Then he bent forward and lifted Jack out of the drawer. The baby did not stir as John sat back in his fireside chair. Rose looked on appalled. She could not bear to stay and watch him make a fool of himself, slugging back whisky and singing mawkish songs about Ireland and crying over their dying baby. Without another word, she went back upstairs to the girls' bedroom, creeping in beside them for comfort and wrapping her arms around Kate's warm body. Below she could hear John beginning to sing. She buried her head under the blanket and tried to stifle the sobs that choked her throat.