The Jarrow Lass (30 page)

‘You don't have to worry about her,' Maggie said quietly. ‘You've four bairns to take care of- we've only Margaret. Mary's canny company for me - specially when Da doesn't know who I am any more.'

Rose felt another wave of guilt. ‘Are you managing all right with him?'

‘Course,' Maggie assured. ‘And Lizzie visits when she can. But I'll be surprised if he lasts another winter,' she sighed.

‘I'll take Mary back when she has to start school,' Rose promised, thinking that could still be two years away. Time enough for her to really settle with John and the baby first. By then Elizabeth and maybe Sarah would be working, and there would be more room and time for Mary.

Just then, Mary looked up and glared as if she understood Rose's reluctance to take her back. The girl stood up and tugged on Maggie's arm. ‘I want to go home. Don't like it here.'

Maggie tried to hush her. ‘I'm talking to your mam. You play with your brother Jack.'

‘No,' she shouted, kicking the chair in sudden temper. ‘He's not me brother and he's smelly.'

‘Watch your manners,' Rose warned. ‘And you'll stay to see your sisters after school.'

Mary stuck her tongue out at Rose. ‘No! You're not me mam so you can't tell us what to do.'

‘Mind your tongue!' Rose smacked her swiftly and Mary howled in protest.

Maggie stood and picked up Mary, pinning her under a strong arm and shouting to be heard. ‘Sorry, Rose, when she gets like this it's best to take her away.'

She left with the red-faced child screaming and struggling to be free. Maggie wheeled the bogie with her free hand and marched out of the yard. Rose stood at the back door cringing at the sound of her daughter bawling all the way down the lane.

‘Got a temper on her, that one,' one of her neighbours commented, having come out to view the commotion.

Rose nodded and flushed, unable to admit it was her own daughter. Besides, it was none of the woman's business, she thought defensively.

But the visit had an unsettling effect on Rose. Although the days grew warmer and lighter and the children were able to play out for longer, she could not stop thinking about the ancient Mrs Jobling, living all those years after her husband had been hanged, incarcerated in the workhouse in a twilight existence. How long had she been there? Maybe all Rose's lifetime. And her only escape had been death. Whenever Rose thought of it, she shivered as if a chill river breeze blew at her back. Every day she prayed that she and John were kept in health and he in work so that they could support themselves and their children. It was all she asked.

On Whit Monday they took the girls to see a huge procession of horses from all around the county, processing through the town. But the festival was marred by torrential rain and they retreated early, soaked through. John caught a cold and declared it was the last time he would waste a day's holiday standing in crowds with her children when he could have been snug and dry in the public bar of The Railway.

As the summer progressed, Rose noticed that John's visits to the pub on his way home from work were growing more frequent. It puzzled her until she heard from her mother-in-law that John's brother Pat was back after a couple of years in Ireland.

‘So that's why he's coming home spouting off about Ireland and Home Rule all of a sudden,' Rose laughed shortly.

Mrs McMullen nodded. ‘Pat's a supporter. John'll be trying to prove he's a better patriot than his brother. They're more Irish than the Irish, my boys, for all they speak like Jarrow men.'

When Rose asked him about it, John was dismissive. ‘It doesn't concern you, Rose. We talk politics - it's men's business.'

Rose was annoyed. ‘I've a right to know the company me husband keeps. Are you drinking with your brothers again?'

‘I'll not be questioned like a criminal by me wife,' John blustered, which confirmed Rose's suspicions.

‘We can't afford it,' she complained. ‘Why can't you come home straight from work like you used to?'

But John avoided her look. ‘I've got important business to see to, political business. There's a chance we might even get Charles Parnell himself to come and speak.'

‘Parnell, the Irish leader?'

‘Aye.'

Rose was dubious. ‘Wasn't he mixed up in some divorce? Aye, I'm sure that's the one. Father O'Brien preached against him last year. Not that you would have heard him,' Rose added pointedly.

John was quickly riled. He might not attend church regularly, but he was still a staunch Catholic. ‘Parnell's still a nationalist and leader of the Home Rule movement and I'll go and hear him whether the priest likes it or not!'

‘This is all Pat McMullen's doing, I suppose?' Rose scoffed. ‘All dreamed up in the front bar of The Railway.'

‘Don't talk daft,' John snapped. ‘I don't need Pat to tell me what to do. There are lots of us supporters. We're planning a rally in Newcastle and I intend to gan to it.'

Rose was dismayed. She had thought this was all an excuse to go drinking, but he sounded serious about getting involved in politics - Irish politics at that. That was more worrying. John had always been passionate about his homeland, but it didn't do to shout too loudly about being Irish when it came to finding work and getting on in life. She had witnessed enough discrimination to know that. Only the other week, the tick man from the Pru had refused to let them pay into a burial fund because of their surname. And hadn't she herself hidden behind the name of Fawcett in order to secure a much-needed job with the Liddells all those years ago? Besides, nobody liked an agitator, least of all employers.

‘You're not ganin' to make trouble, are you?' Rose asked in concern.

‘Stop frettin',' John said impatiently. ‘And don't meddle in things that don't concern you.'

Rose could get no more out of him but as the summer wore on she had the suspicion that he was keeping something from her. She could tell by the way he avoided her look and lost his temper over trivial matters, snapping at her and the girls if the table was not set to his satisfaction or the fire poker was put back in the wrong place.

Worry nagged at Rose like a bad tooth, but she could not discover what was wrong. At night, lying awake listening to his snoring after one of his ‘meetings', she imagined him involved in some Fenian plot. She saw him being transported to the colonies for agitation or, worse still, hanged for treason. She would be like Jobling's widow, left to fend for herself.

Then Race Week came and John announced he was going through to Newcastle.

‘Will you take the lasses?' Rose asked tentatively, remembering how last year's trip had ended in fierce argument with the gypsy.

‘No,' John was brusque. ‘We're having a procession - the Home Rule supporters. There might be bother.'

Rose's insides felt leaden. ‘Don't go, John,' she pleaded quietly. ‘You've never had any truck with politicians and demonstratin' before. Why start now when you've a family to support?'

But this only incensed him the more and he barked at her, ‘Don't tell me m' business, woman! I'm doing this for Ireland and me people. The English have me sweatin' and toilin' for them six days a week. The British army had me pound of flesh for long enough, an' all.' He stuck his fists up aggressively. ‘Now these are ganin' to be used for Ireland!'

He strode to the door, jamming on his cap. Rose went after him, full of fear.

‘Don't go fightin', please, John, man!' She held on to his arm.

But he shook her off roughly. ‘It's time we stood up for ourselves. Leave off me, Rose Ann!'

Rose gulped back the panic in her throat. ‘It's that useless brother of yours, put you up to this, isn't it?' she accused, following him outside. ‘It's all right for Pat - he has no wife or bairns to think about. But you have.' She ran after him as he marched out of the yard, not caring if all the neighbours heard. ‘Damn you, John McMullen!' she bawled. ‘What use are you to me locked up in Newcastle gaol the night?'

She could not believe she was behaving in such an unseemly way, screaming after him down the lane. But a familiar sickening terror was churning in her stomach: the terror of losing her husband, the roof over her children's heads, her tenuous security once again.

‘Mam,
Mam
,' Elizabeth pulled on her arm and tried to coax her back inside and out of view of disapproving neighbours. ‘It's a day out at the races, that's all. Just a bit march through Newcastle and then a few drinks, I wouldn't doubt. He'll not come to any harm.'

As Rose looked at her daughter's fair face, creased in concern for her, the anger in her subsided. How could a girl her age be so wise? Elizabeth had seen John's protesting for what it was - an excuse for a day out drinking more than likely.

‘You've an old head on young shoulders,' she said quietly, touching her daughter's face affectionately.

With an indignant stare at the neighbours who stood cross-armed on their back steps, Rose retreated into the house and slammed the door shut on the outside world.

It was late by the time John came home, crashing in at the back door and cursing as he tripped over a pair of boots in the dark. Rose had sat up dozing on the settle, waiting for him. Her relief that he was safely home turned swiftly to annoyance at his drunken state.

‘What time do you call this?' she demanded, rising from the seat and reaching for a spluttering candle. ‘It's gone midnight.' She held the dying candle higher. ‘Look at you! Your jacket's torn - and where's your cap?'

He lurched at her, but banged into the table instead and swore loudly at her as if it were her fault.

‘I'll not be blamed if you can hardly stand,' Rose said in derision. ‘Or hardly speak except to take the saints' names in vain.'

He tried to focus on her with bloodshot eyes, his breath reeking of whisky. ‘Don't speak to me like that, woman,' he slurred.

‘I'll speak how I want if you choose to come rolling in on all fours like an animal,' Rose jeered. ‘What a fine specimen of an Irishman! Have you won Home Rule today?'

‘Don't mock me,' John raised his voice in aggression, pushing the table between them out of the way. ‘No one makes a fool out of a McMullen!'

‘No one's making a fool out of you ‘cept yourself,' Rose muttered, thinking how old and haggard he suddenly looked.

John grabbed the stool with which he was steadying himself and raised it above his head. He waved it wildly. ‘You'll not speak to me like that in me own home,' he roared.

‘It won't be our home if you carry on drinking all your wages like you have done this past month,' Rose cried. ‘If we get put out on the street it'll be from your drinking, not my bad housekeeping.'

He gave a howl of fury and brought the stool crashing down on to the table. The legs cracked and splintered. Rose jumped back in fright, nearly dropping the candle in its tin holder. Hot wax splashed over her hand and she gasped in pain.

John turned to her, clutching the remains of the stool. ‘Well, I've some'at to please you, you ungrateful bitch! You can make a bit extra out of our new lodger.'

‘What you talking about, you drunken fool?'

He glared at her in triumph. ‘Pat's moving in with us.'

‘Pat?' Rose repeated incredulously. ‘He's not stopping here!'

John came at her, jabbing the stool at her chest. ‘If I say he is, he bloody is!'

‘No, John,' she protested, fending him off. ‘I don't want lodgers in the house with the lasses. We'll manage on our own.'

‘With what?' he cried. ‘There's no more work at the pig carrying.'

Rose stared at him, horrified. ‘What d'you mean?'

‘You heard,' he snarled. ‘They've laid me off. The work's drying up - the mill's on short time again. It'll be a hard winter, they're saying.'

Rose's heart thumped like a steam hammer. ‘When did you know?'

‘Week ago,' John said, his shoulders suddenly slumping. He dropped the broken stool.

‘The money for the races?' Rose asked bewildered.

John's look was empty as it met hers. ‘I had a lend off Pat.'

Rose felt breathless. ‘And we're supposed to pay him back by giving him a bed?'

John nodded. ‘And he'll pay for his keep.'

‘Where's he working that he can afford to keep the pair of you in whisky?' Rose demanded.

‘Down Tyne Dock,' John answered in a flat voice. ‘Loadin' iron ore off the boats.'

She stared at his bowed, dejected head. The fight of moments before had gone out of him. She was filled with both sadness and contempt. He was once more at the mercy of slackening trade, turned away from work through no fault of his own; yet he had kept from her the gravity of their situation, turning instead to his drinking friends and wild dreams of Irish freedom.