The Jarrow Lass (38 page)

Chapter 43

Those words of warning rang in Rose's head hours later when the sun began to set over the blackened stacks of the coke works and factory chimneys to the west. The evening shadows were growing longer up the lane and creeping across the back yard. Rose went out to look, pretending she was paying a visit to the outside closet. She peered away down the hill for any sign of Sarah returning along the Jarrow Road. There were still plenty of people meandering home along it, but none of them looked like her daughter.

Rose's heart began to pound. John had gone out again after sleeping off his early drinking. Please God, let Sarah return before him! Kate and Mary had taken Jack along to see the bonfire at the end of Lancaster Street on the other side of the New Buildings and she could hear the noise from where she stood. But families were beginning to return to their houses and children were being called in. It was not nearly dark yet, and Rose drew comfort from the thought.

An hour later, she went out to fetch the younger ones home. Through the dusk she could see the lights of Newcastle away in the distance. Now and again, fireworks would pepper the indigo sky with sparks of light, then fade like shooting stars. For once the evening sky was clear and the moon rose and brightened like a ship's lantern as the sky darkened.

‘Haway, our Jack, it's high time you were in bed,' Rose said when she found him squatting by the bonfire. His face was weary but still aglow with excitement in the light of the flames.

‘Can't I stop?' he complained.

‘Get yourself home now, before your father finds you still out,' she ordered, pulling him up. She looked round for Kate and saw her in the middle of a group of young friends, telling some story that was making them laugh.

‘Mary, tell your sister I want her home,' Rose said, anxiety clutching her. Kate was quite capable of staying out late and forgetting what time it was. But where could Sarah be? She was usually so sensible.

When Rose got back there was still no sign of her eldest. She busied herself getting Jack to bed and tidying up the house for the morning. She laid a cloth on the table and put out cups and plates for Sunday breakfast - there would be bacon and freshly baked bread. Rose banked up the fire and sent Kate to the tap to fill up the kettle. Her daughter could tell she was fretting.

‘She'll have stopped with Auntie Bella,' Kate said.

‘She was told to be home.' Rose was short with her.

‘The trams'll be busy the night,' Kate pointed out. ‘Our Sarah might have had to wait—'

‘Don't make excuses for her,' Rose cut in. ‘She should've been back before now. I'll have some'at to say when she walks in that door.'

For the next hour, she paced in and out of the house, hovering at the back door or walking to the top of the street to see if Sarah was in sight. But when one of her neighbours stopped her to ask if she had lost something, Rose hurried indoors, not wanting her business known. The time of the last tram came and went. She watched the clock, counting down the fifteen minutes she thought it would take for Sarah to walk up the bank from the tram stand. She listened out for the girl's steps but heard only a distant tug on the river and the sound of someone singing through an open window.

Sarah was not coming home. Rose felt nauseous. Perhaps something terrible had happened to her? She had been set upon on her way home. Pushed in the river. Crushed in a crowd. She had fallen in with bad company, as John had feared. At best, Sarah had defied them and deliberately stayed over at Bella's. How could she be so stupid? Rose see-sawed between anger at her daughter's disobedience and terror that something awful had happened to her.

Several times, she reached for her shawl with the intention of setting out to look for Sarah, then realised the futility of such an act. Newcastle was a good hour's walk away and she would not know where to begin searching. Perhaps she should go to the police station? Or walk into Jarrow and see if Clara had returned? But then Sarah's friend was expected to stay over at Bella's, Sarah had said. Rose wrung her hands in a fever of indecision. In the end she decided to go to bed, praying that Sarah was safely at Bella's.

As Rose had dreaded, the next person to walk - or rather stagger - in the door was John. It was gone midnight and quite dark. He lurched around, bumping into furniture and cursing that the light was out. Rose lay still, pretending to be asleep. He began to sing again. The others were safely shut away in the bedroom, at least she had seen to that. She wondered how long they would stay asleep with the noise he was making.

Rose watched her husband guardedly. It was just possible that he was so drunk he would not notice that Sarah was not there. He might have forgotten she had gone to Newcastle at all or she could pretend that the girl was asleep in the other room with her sisters. Better for him to discover her absence in the morning when he was hungover than when fiery with drink. Or maybe Sarah would come home on an early tram and slip in the house before he awoke. She prayed for such a miracle.

John stumbled towards the bed. ‘Where are you, Rose?' he slurred.

‘Here,' she whispered. ‘Come to bed.'

He nearly fell on top of her as he crashed against the bed. He swore, then yanked at the bedclothes.

‘Gerrup,' he ordered. ‘Out. It's Mafeking. We've got the Dutch peasants on the run. Dance wi' me!'

‘John,' Rose protested, ‘it's the middle of the night.'

‘Dance, woman!' he cried, trying to drag her out of bed. ‘Everyone up and dance!' Abruptly, he turned and lurched off across the room. Before Rose could haul herself up, he had barged into the other room.

‘Leave them be!' she called after him in panic.

But it was too late. She could already hear him shouting at Jack to stand to attention and the girls to get up and dance. He pushed them through the door and clapped his hands in time to some imaginary tune in his head. Rose could just make out the pale, apprehensive faces of her children, but could do nothing to reassure them. John lunged at the fire with the poker and stabbed at the dross to stir up some flame to light the room. A lurid red glow flickered over his face.

‘Dance, you little wasters!' he cried, laughing at their sluggish attempts. ‘Get your knees up!'

Kate and Mary spun each other round. Jack stood yawning widely, half asleep on his feet. Rose went over and pulled him towards her, guiding him to her bed. ‘Sit here, hinny,' she murmured, pressing his tired head to her bosom.

It was a mistake. With just Kate and Mary turning circles to his command, John realised the room was too empty. There was someone missing. Through the alcoholic numbness that slowed his thoughts, it came to him.

‘Where is she?' he demanded, his humour souring instantly. The girls carried on dancing. He grabbed at Kate's arm and shook her roughly. ‘I said where is she? Where's your sister?'

Nobody spoke. John pushed her aside and lurched back into the bedroom. He poked the bedding with the fire iron and swore at the empty bed. Rose stood up, her heart hammering, and pushed Jack behind her. John came storming out of the bedroom.

‘Where's that little bitch got to?' he bawled at her.

‘She's not here, John,' Rose said, her throat so tight she could hardly speak. ‘She must've missed the tram. Maybe they were too full after all the celebratin'. She'll have stopped with Bella - she'll be all right.'

He stepped forward unsteadily, his face full of fury. Rose just had time to anticipate his clumsy move and dodge out the way before he brought the poker crashing down. It clattered to the floor, missing her by an inch. Kate screamed in fright.

‘Are you all right. Mam?'

‘Aye,' Rose gasped, side-stepping John's attempt to grasp her. She ran round the table. ‘Get out the house,' she cried at the girls. ‘Take your brother!'

They could hardly hear her for the shouting and cursing of their stepfather. He chased after Rose like a man demented, ramming the table and hurling chairs out of the way to get at her. Kate grabbed Jack and ran for the back door, pushing Mary in front of her.

Rose seized the heavy iron skillet from the range and held it in front of her like a shield. ‘Don't you touch me!' she screamed at him. ‘I told the lass to be back. You heard me!'

‘You encouraged her to go,' he shouted. ‘Always going against me! She'll be whoring on the streets of Newcastle. You've a slut for a lass! I should've taken the belt to her long ago - but you're soft as clarts. This is your doing, you old witch!'

‘Don't you blame me,' she yelled. ‘You're the one that's driving her away with your drinkin' and cussin'. It's no surprise she's not come back - she might never come back! And who would blame her?'

‘By God, I'll tak the belt to you, an' all!'

‘Never!' Rose spat at him. ‘You'll not touch me. You're nothing but a drunken, foul-mouthed pig who picks on them that can't fight back. But I'll fight yer this time!'

John picked up a plate from the table and threw it at her. ‘Gerr-out!' he roared. ‘I'll kill yer!' He grabbed the bread knife from the table and held it aloft. Kate, still hovering in the doorway, screamed.

Rose froze in shock at the madman before her. His face was contorted, a gaunt devilish mask in the firelight. He was going to kill her! Without thinking, she hurled the skillet at him then bolted for the door. She heard the pan clatter against the table but did not look round to see if it had hit him. Rose tripped over the doorstep, pushing her children ahead of her.

‘Run!' she gasped and fled down the brick path, panic choking her.

She knew she could not outrun John if he came after her. For a second she wondered what neighbour would give them shelter, but even in that moment of gut-wrenching fear, she could not bring herself so low as to beg for refuge in the middle of the night.

Rose reached the bottom of the yard. ‘In the netty,' she ordered, hurling her children into the shed that housed the dry closet. She slammed the door shut behind them and fumbled with the iron bolt with shaking hands. She rammed it shut just as she heard John staggering down the path after her. He shouted oaths and hammered on the door until she thought he would knock it down. But she and Kate leaned against it with all their weight and prayed it would not give way. Mary and Jack huddled on the wooden seat and sobbed in fright.

John kicked and thumped the door and railed at her for several minutes, but did not break in. Finally the blows subsided and the threats lessened until he tired and gave up. Rose heard him trudge back to the house shouting at some screeching cat on a neighbouring roof. She did not move till she heard the back door bang shut and then silence.

Her heart pounded. She felt too ill to speak or reassure the terrified children. Rose waited, not trusting that he had really gone, but heard nothing more. After a while, she slipped back the bolt and peered out. All was quiet. Yet she did not dare go back to the house to make certain he had fallen asleep. Rose retreated into the musty, rank-smelling closet and closed the door again.

Her legs gave way and she sank to the floor, sobbing with relief that she was still alive. Kate put comforting arms around her.

‘It's all right, Mam,' she crooned, ‘it's all right. Father's wrong. It's not your fault. It's nobody's fault.'

Rose was shaking all over, her hands clamped over her mouth to stifle her weeping. The neighbours must have heard the row, but they would not hear her crying like a bairn! She must be able to walk past them in the morning as if nothing had happened. They must not guess that she had spent the night locked in the outhouse like a dog. She hardly took in Kate's gentle words of reassurance, only that she was there being strong for her when she felt as weak and helpless as a newborn.

It was Mary's disapproving tone that forced her to take hold of herself. ‘Our Jack's dirtied himself,' she said with distaste. ‘He stinks.' She shoved him away from her.

Rose struggled to her feet with Kate's help. She saw Jack's forlorn, skinny figure standing shivering in his shirt, his shoulders shaking with silent sobs.

‘It's running down his leg, Mam,' Mary said in disgust.

Rose reached out for her unhappy son.

‘Sorry, Mam,' Jack whimpered.

Rose touched his cheek with her hand. ‘I know, hinny. Let's get you cleaned up.'

Kate was already handing her some sheets of torn-up newspaper. Between them they stripped the boy and wiped him down, ignoring Mary's protests at the stench.

‘Divn't listen to her, kidder,' Kate said kindly, wrapping her shawl around her half-brother. ‘Bet plenty of soldiers shit their breeches fighting the Boer.'

Rose gathered her youngsters around her and told them they would wait a little longer to make sure their father had fallen asleep. But she must have done so herself some time during the short hours of the night, for she woke to find herself slumped against the wooden box seat, stiff and aching. Mary was huddled in the corner, while Jack lay curled in the crook of Kate's arm. Daylight was poking in through the cracks around the door. She dragged herself up, her insides clenching at the thought of what the day would bring. Quietly, she roused the exhausted children and together they crept out of the closet.