The Jarrow Lass (22 page)

Chapter 24

Less than a month later, before the end of March, Maggie went into labour. She had a difficult time, and Rose watched with alarm throughout the day and into the night, while trying to keep a fretful Danny and her inquisitive children at bay. She packed the girls off to bed, but Danny refused to go further than the fireside. Fearing she might have to send Danny for the doctor, Rose shut herself in the bedroom with Maggie and prayed. In the early hours of the morning, the baby finally came and put an end to the hours of exhaustion and worry.

At the moment of birth, Rose steeled herself to hold the slippery infant and hand her into Maggie's arms.

‘It's a lass,' she croaked, her eyes filling with tears as she gave a trembling smile to her sister.

Maggie's face shone with elation and joy. ‘Oh, Rose,' she cried. ‘A lass of our very own! Gan and tell Danny quickly.'

Rose nodded and went wearily into the kitchen, touching Danny's shoulder gently where he dozed in the fireside chair. He jerked awake at once.

‘You can go to her now,' Rose smiled. ‘You've a baby daughter.'

Danny's face broke into an excited grin. He leapt up and kissed Rose on the cheek. Rose tensed at the contact, the coarse words of John McMullen flooding into her tired mind. She knew her brother-in-law would never take advantage of her, that he had just enjoyed boasting about having two women in the house. But she no longer felt easy in his company. She pushed Danny away from her.

‘Save that for Maggie and the bairn,' she told him stiffly, and turned away.

He almost ran from the room. Rose went and stood by the flickering fire and rested her head against the mantelpiece. She felt utterly drained and very old. The two years without William seemed like ten. She had been slaving in the puddling mill for almost a year and a half, yet she could hardly remember a time when she had not worked there. Her former life in Raglan Street seemed like someone else's.

As she stared into the fire, trying to remember what it felt like to be happily exhausted, holding a new baby in her arms, she heard Danny's excited voice through the open door.

‘Of course we can!' he exclaimed. ‘She's right bonny -just like her mam. No other name would do.'

‘But what about ...?' Maggie sounded uncertain.

‘I'll not have that sister of yours ruling our lives any longer.' Danny was adamant. ‘This is our home and our baby. We'll call our lass what we like.'

Rose held herself stock-still, her heart beginning to hammer as she realised what they were talking about.

‘We're calling her Margaret,' Danny declared. ‘Margaret Kennedy.'

Rose felt thumped in the stomach at his words. They were going to call their girl
Margaret
. How could they do such a thing? It was all she could do to stop herself crying out in anguish. The baby had not reminded her of any of her daughters, but now suddenly hearing that precious name, Rose nearly crumpled to the hearth. How could she carry on living in this place where she would have to hear her dead daughter's name mentioned every day? It would tear her apart!

Rose managed to make it to the door and slip outside into the cold damp darkness. She gulped for air, but the panic in her chest would not subside. She felt hemmed in by the blackness, the smell of dank earth at her feet, the brooding cottage at her back that felt more like prison now than home. But then it no longer was her home, she told herself brutally. Danny was right: this place belonged to him and Maggie. She and her children were only there on sufferance, at the mercy of their charity. Even her own father was a stranger there; he no longer knew or cared where he was. Besides, her sister and brother-in-law had every right to call their daughter Margaret if they chose. Hadn't her own Margaret been called after Maggie too?

‘Oh, Margaret!' she cried out in the dark. But not a soul heard her as her words were whipped away on a raw wind blowing off the river.

Far below, a lurid glow lit the town from the furnaces that never slept - the ceaseless workings of the mills. Despair and desolation swept over her at the realisation that this was her lot in life from now on. A life without purpose, world without end.

Long days of back-breaking work, then the toil uphill to be faced with the drudgery of making ends meet for her ever-needy daughters. Compounding this was the guilt of impoverishing Maggie further and the fear of Danny's growing resentment. How long before he forced them to find somewhere else to live? She should have gone long ago, but could not face the thought of coping alone again, especially now without Margaret's help.

Margaret
. Above all, would be the pain of loving a new Margaret who wasn't her Margaret - could never be hers.

Rose stumbled forward, not knowing where she was going, only that she had to get away. She went without a shawl to pull over her head in the wind, but she did not feel its bite as she fled down the muddy path and out of the gate. It banged behind her, but she did not look back. On she hurried, past the fallen-down pigeon loft where she had sheltered as a girl with the youthful William. A sob caught in her throat as she thought of it. But the pigeons were long gone and the fields were being swallowed up by grimy tenements advancing uphill from the overcrowded town. It no longer felt like the haven it had once been. There was no longer refuge on this hill, only relentless grind and pointless striving to get out of the mire.

The mud sucked at her boots and squelched as she pulled them out and ran on. Through empty streets she went, panting for lack of breath, but still she forced herself on. By the rank smell around her, Rose knew she had reached the Don. She followed it down, past the gaunt ghostly outline of the ruined monastery and the empty rectory where the Liddells had once lived. It had been abandoned by the clergy for a more manageable house in Croft Street. If only the kind couple had still been there to turn to in these desperate times!

Rose's mind crowded with memories of William and the Liddells and past times of happiness. Out of breath as she was, she felt her steps now had some purpose, as if someone - some presence - was leading her on.

‘I'm coming,' she gasped. ‘Wait, I'm coming!'

A few minutes later she was standing on the banks of Jarrow Slake. The tide was in. Its putrid molten blackness lapped at her feet, opening up before her like a deep, bottomless void. She could hear the creaking and groaning of seasoned timber as it bobbed on the high water. The sounds that had terrified her as a girl, that she believed were the cries of Jobling's ghost, held no fear for her now. Jobling's gibbet had gone sixty years ago and even if his ghost haunted this desolate place, she did not mind. Ghosts no longer frightened her. Rather, she longed for ghosts, for the restless souls of her beloved William and Margaret to come and claim her.

Rose knew that the only way she could gain peace of mind was to join them, to step into the Slake and cross to the far side, to the hereafter. Part of her knew that what she proposed to do - to take her own life - was a mortal sin. But what sort of life was it? What use was she to anyone? Her daughters would be better off without her. Maggie was a far better mother to them than she was. Rose had given her girls every last ounce of her strength and love, but now they had sucked her dry. She had nothing left to give them. She was as insubstantial as a husk blown away on the wind. The world would not miss her.

But William and Margaret did. They were impatient to be reunited. She could hear them moaning on the wind, calling to her in the mournful cry of the seagulls in the dawn. This was why Jobling's spectre had called through the elements all these years. He was beckoning his widow to follow. He would not rest until they were together again.

Rose felt sudden urgency with the growing light. She must have been standing there for quite some time, because it had been dark as pitch when she had arrived. She was chilled to the bone in her thin dress. The Slake was turning grey and less mysterious, its enticing sigh lessening with the falling of the wind. It was time to go or her chance would disappear with the coming of the new day. Already, the vivid image of William and Margaret waiting for her was fading.

‘Wait for me!' Rose cried.

She stepped off the bank and tumbled forward into the filthy frothing water. Her skirts floated up around her for a moment, then turned heavy and began to drag her down. She screamed at the impact of the icy river around her legs and thighs. Then the breath froze in her chest and she could not breathe or cry out. Fear gripped her. She was going to drown in this foul water, all alone. There was no William there waiting for her, she realised in panic. She was taking her own life and she'd go to Hell for doing so. Rose would be divided from William for the rest of eternity!

As she went down, the water enclosing her waist and breasts, she found her voice and screamed for help. Her mouth filled with stinking water. She spluttered and flung her arms above her head, trying to cling on to one of the floating planks.

There was a splash further up the bank, but Rose could not turn her head to see if it was human or animal. She went under again. Her mind filled with thoughts of her daughters waking and finding her gone, their sleepy faces turning to panic. She didn't want to die! Too late she realised how much she wanted to live, wanted to hold her children in her arms once more. What madness had tricked her into taking such a drastic step? Her foolish, fanciful obsession with Jobling's ghost had finally been her undoing. The long-ago tragedy was claiming another life.

Suddenly someone gripped her by the hair and pain shot through her scalp. Then they had hold of her arm. She was yanked towards the bank, as strong arms went around her chest and hung on to her.

Her rescuer hauled her on to the slimy bank and rolled her, spluttering, on to her side. She retched and spat out the foul water, her chest heaving in relief. It was several moments before she had the breath to look up. A dark figure leaned over her, panting with the exertion. His sour breath smelt of whisky.

‘You daft bitch!' he cried. ‘What you doing down here—' He broke off as recognition dawned on them both. ‘Rose!'

Through her strands of wet hair she stared back at the astonished face of John McMullen.

Chapter 25

For a long moment they simply stared at each other. How was it that the treacherous Slake had thrown them together once more? Rose had felt drawn to its brooding, malign presence, its promise of oblivion. She had yearned for its nothingness, for the pain inside to stop.

Yet at the point of drowning, she had been seized by a desperate desire to cling on to life. She wanted to see her daughters again, to smell the earth of Simonside, to see the sun set and the moon rise. She longed for the comfort of human touch. All this she knew in a few short seconds of struggle in the evil Slake.

How strange that she should have been rescued by John McMullen, a man she half feared and had always connected with Jarrow Slake since the day he had tried to frighten her with Jobling's ghost. He seemed to embody its dangerous depths, its hypnotic pull. He gazed at her now with his fierce look, and she braced herself for some brutal remark about throwing her back in the water now he could see who it was.

So Rose spoke first. ‘I slipped,' she panted.

He snorted in disbelief. ‘You were standing there for ages, then you jumped.'

‘You were watching me?' Rose exclaimed.

‘I could see you as I came down the bank,' John mumbled.

‘What you doing out here at this time in the mornin'?' Rose asked, noticing his dishevelled, unshaven appearance.

‘I was ganin' to ask you the same,' John grunted.

He was not going to tell her that he had got so drunk the night before that he had lost his way home and stumbled into the monastery ruins, finally finding shelter in an outhouse of the old rectory under a pile of sacking. Waking stiff and cold, he had wended his way down the Don, cursing the thudding in his head until he caught sight of the lonely figure standing by the Slake. It seemed to mirror his own feeling of isolation, of being cut off from the people around him, however crowded his surroundings.

Ever since his return from India he had felt himself different, set apart by his journeying and soldiering. He had no words to describe what he had experienced: blinding sun on rock, the smell of heat, raging thirst, the chatter of a foreign tongue around the village oven, the terrifying sound of an enemy charge.

Much of the time he had fought tedium rather than tribesmen, had longed for cold rain, a green riverbank, a coal fire. But he had also lived with danger, felt the gut-wrenching fear and exhilaration of living on the brink of death and surviving. It was not the debilitating danger of poverty, the long-drawn-out anxieties of slump and fever that faced people on Tyneside for years on end. His had been a glorious danger written about in the London newspapers; he had been one of Lord Roberts's heroes in the Afghan campaigns.

But what good had it done him? The faraway war was long forgotten, as was their gruelling march across parched merciless terrain from Kabul to Kandahar. They had marched till they dropped, half mad with fatigue and hunger. Roberts, from his horse, had forced them onwards. He had become a national hero, rewarded for his daring. But the men, John thought bitterly, had been pensioned off and forgotten about.

Where once he had hankered after Jarrow and to be able to boast around its pubs, now all he craved was one hot day in the sun, listening to the banter of his fellow soldiers. At times he longed for that heightened sense of living, the headiness of existing for the moment, rather than the drabness of civilian life. He seemed forever cursed with not being able to have what he wanted, with being in one place and hankering after another.

Catching sight of the forlorn figure on the banks of the Slake, John had been struck by their common unhappiness. Here was another desperate soul, he felt sure of it. Yet his first impulse was to turn and avoid a meeting. It was just some broken woman who had had enough - let her throw herself in if she wanted. He watched the woman pitch forward, half fascinated to see how long she would take to drown. But when she had started to shout and struggle against death, John had acted instantly. Some instinct deep within, or maybe it was just his training, made him jump in after her and pull her to safety.

What a shock it had been to find Rose Fawcett in his arms! This woman who plagued his thoughts, who attracted him yet rebuffed and humiliated him with her rejection of marriage. Would he never be rid of her?

Rose could not answer his question of why she was there. She was too ashamed to admit that she had tried to take her own life. What a coward she was! But she could see from the harsh look on his wolfish face that he already knew. It would give him further cause to despise and mock her. She hung her head.

‘Well, Rose?' he demanded. ‘What were you thinking of? With all them lasses depending on you! Were you ganin' to leave Maggie with all your troubles?'

Rose nodded, unable to face him. He let out an oath.

‘What kind of mother are you?' he asked angrily. ‘It's not as if folk haven't tried to help you! But you're too proud for that, aren't you, Mrs Fawcett?' he said scornfully. ‘You threw my offer to wed back in me face – but you'd risk your mortal soul by hoying yoursel' in the Slacks instead!'

Rose looked up. She was shaking so violently with cold and remorse that she could hardly speak through chattering teeth. ‘Ay-aye - I-I know,' she whispered, meeting his hard look. His frank words were more than she could bear. ‘I d-didn't know what else to do—' She broke down sobbing.

John's chiselled face showed no flicker of sympathy. ‘I never thought you'd be the kind of lass to give up and desert your bairns - and you from good Irish stock. You must've gone soft, being married to Fawcett.'

Rose was aghast. ‘Don't you speak ill of the dead,' she hissed at him. ‘William was a good man, the best husband and father there ever was!'

John was riled by her words. He hated to think of Rose so happy with his old rival. ‘He was weak,' John growled. ‘Mam said you had to gan skivvying for the Anglicans whenever he got sick. And look at you now! He's left you and the bairns with nowt - and you with your Irish spirit knocked out of you.'

‘Don't you preach at me,' Rose cried in fury. ‘You've never been married or had to watch your bairn get sick and not be able to stop her dying! You don't know what it's like to lose someone so dear. You've always just thought of yourself and where your next drink's coming from. I've lost a grand husband, and Margaret - me canny, canny lass.'

She covered her face in her hands and wept in distress. Moments before, she had been relieved to see him, grateful at her deliverance. Yet within minutes John had succeeded in upsetting her again. He was hateful for his unkind words! What use was it trying to make such a heartless man understand the depths of her grief? Rose crouched over her knees as if she could protect herself better from his verbal assault, hoping he would get up and leave her alone.

The last thing she expected was to feel his hand on her shoulder. She flinched in shock, looking up in alarm. Her distrust of him must have shown, for he quickly pulled back. But his expression had changed. John looked shaken by her outburst. Without a word, he slipped off his crumpled jacket and held it out to her. Rose did not move or attempt to take it. John edged forward and wrapped it around her cold wet shoulders.

‘You'll catch a chill,' he said gruffly.

What he yearned to say to her was that he did know how she felt. Her grief-stricken words had stirred up the deeply buried pain over his dead Sultana, but more especially his sweet daughter, Ruth. Was it ever possible for such a deep wound to heal? Looking at Rose's haggard, tear-swollen face, John doubted it. In that moment, he felt the loss as keenly as on the day he learned of their deaths. He looked at Rose and wanted to shield her from the raw hurt and despair that tore at her heart too.

Overcoming his fear at touching her, of being rebuffed, John tightened his jacket further about her and put an arm around her back. He tensed and waited. But Rose did not shrink away from him in disgust. She continued to weep and look at him with large despairing eyes. He pulled her into his hold and gently stroked her matted hair.

‘I'm so unhappy,' Rose sobbed. ‘I miss them that much!'

‘I know,' John whispered and held her tighter, ‘I know.'

Rose was perplexed by his sudden kindness, suspicious even. But she was too exhausted to care why he had stopped haranguing her. It was such a relief to feel someone's arms enfold her and give her warmth. She had not felt a man's arms around her in so long; she had forgotten how comforting it was. And John's were strong and protective, his hold surprisingly tender. She leaned her head against his shoulder and closed her eyes.

John thrilled at the feel of Rose in his arms, the trusting weight of her body against his. He dared to kiss her lightly on her hair.

‘I'm sorry for the things I said to you,' he said in a low voice. ‘It's a terrible thing to lose a bairn - the worst kind of thing. And I had no right to say them cruel words about your husband. It was just me jealousy.'

‘Jealousy?' Rose questioned. ‘Why should you have been jealous of William?'

John gave a groan. ‘Oh, Rose lass! You must have known how much I cared for you? Wasn't it obvious at our Michael's wedding when we danced together? I kissed you, remember?'

Rose did and it was not a pleasant memory. He had tasted of stale whisky and made her feel nauseous after William's sweet kiss.

‘But you were just drunk,' Rose said, embarrassed by the turn of conversation.

‘Maybes,' John grunted, ‘but I thought the world of you, drunk or sober. I hated the way Fawcett could say clever things and make you laugh and smile at him.' He murmured into her hair, ‘I thought that night that maybe you did care for me a bit - dancing with me and letting me kiss you. That's why I came up Simonside with that bunch of flowers,' John admitted ruefully. ‘You weren't in, but you must've found them. They were the only flowers I've ever picked for a lass - or ever will. Daft of me! No doubt you and your sisters had a good laugh over it.'

Rose sat up and stared at him, the memory of the wild flowers on the doorstep coming back to her. She had thought they were from William. It was those flowers that had spurred her on in her courtship of her husband! But all the time they had been from John. He had unwittingly thrown her and William closer together by his romantic gesture.

‘I never knew they were from you,' Rose whispered.

He looked at her sharply, but he could see the astonishment on her face. John sighed. ‘Well, it doesn't matter now. Wouldn't have made any difference any road, would it? You were Fawcett's lass, I could see that. That's why I joined the army - wasn't going to stop around to see the pair of you wed.'

Rose shook her head in disbelief. ‘You never joined the army because of me?'

‘Aye, I did.' John flushed, suddenly embarrassed by his admission. He was seldom so loose-tongued when sober. Rose could make him do and say things that no other woman had ever done.

Rose could not help but be flattered by his candid confession. To think that the taciturn youth who used to tease and frighten her had been sweet on her all along! Her sisters had seen it, but Rose had dismissed their ribald comments as nonsense. She thought of her and John's first walk together back to Simonside with the bag of cinders, and how her interest in him had been sparked by his passionate talk of Ireland. As a young lass, before her heart had been won by William, had she not also been interested in the darkly handsome John? Rose blushed to think of it.

Sitting so close to him now, with his brawny arm still heavy on her shoulder, she realised that he still had brooding good looks, despite his weather-ravaged face. His jaw was strong and angular, his nose long and straight, his eyes a mesmerising green. Her pulse began to beat more rapidly at the thought of their proximity.

‘I never said thank you for you saving me life,' she said hoarsely, ‘but I'm glad that you did.'

He scrutinised her face. ‘Aye, so am I.'

For a minute, neither of them spoke, but both were aware that the atmosphere had changed. There was a heightening of feeling between them.

‘How will you manage, Rose?' he asked quietly.

‘I don't know,' she whispered. ‘I just know I can't be separated from me bairns. I'll do anything to keep us from the workhouse and being split up. That would kill me for sure.'

He fumbled for her hand and held it firmly in his. She felt her numb fingers tingle in his warm grip.

‘Marry me, Rose,' he rasped. ‘Let me look after you and the lasses. I have me faults, I'll grant you - I'm not a saint like Fawcett - but I'll do me best for you lass, that I promise.'

Rose felt tears sting her eyes. She was touched by his fond words and earnest expression. Hope leapt in her heart. Perhaps John could give her and the girls a secure future, as well as a rough, bashful love. By the saints, she could hardly be any worse off than she was now! She imagined how relieved Maggie and Danny would be at such a marriage. But what of the girls? There was no reason why they should not grow fond of John as a stepfather in time. Maybe all he needed was a good wife to love him back, to curb his wilder nature, and then the fighting and drinking would be things of the past. She would take courage from such a thought.