THE TYNESIDE SAGAS: Box set of three dramatic and emotional stories: A Handful of Stars, Chasing the Dream and For Love & Glory

by Janet MacLeod Trotter

  She disappeared into the crush of people. They waited, Clara imagining what Vinnie would have to say on finding her there. She thought she would faint. Cissie did not come back.

  ‘I must have air,’ Clara panted.

  ‘Let’s try the back door,’ Willa said, shaking.

  They pushed against the flow of people down towards the stage and through a door that led into a dingy passage. Others followed them. Minutes later, they were out of the back door and into the glare of the hot narrow lane. Clara was momentarily dazzled. She gulped at the fresh air.

  ‘There’s no one here,’ Willa gasped, clutching her.

  Squinting, Clara saw that the back street was almost empty and could not believe their luck. The back entrance was hidden by dustbins and an old advertising hoarding.

  ‘Let’s make a dash for it,’ Willa urged, pulling her by the arm.

  Just then, a surge of people ran out of the hall behind them, clattering into the bins. Protesters at the top of the back lane turned and spotted them.

  ‘Stop the fascist bastards!’ they yelled, and gave chase.

  ‘Run!’ Clara shouted, grabbing a screaming Willa and pulling her along.

  Fear made her move more quickly than she could have imagined. Holding each other’s hand they fled together down the lane, clattering across the cobbles in their high heels. Willa’s hat flew off.

  ‘Leave it!’ Clara ordered as the crowd gained on them.

  A group of the men who had escaped from the back entrance turned and faced their pursuers. Clara felt sick fear at the sound of fists slamming into flesh as the two sides met. But it gave the women the extra valuable seconds to flee into the next street and batter on the door of the BUF offices.

  A Blackshirt looked out and quickly bustled them inside, slamming the door shut behind them. Clara collapsed into a chair, shaking and feeling sick. Moments later, noise erupted right outside as violence spread into the street. A brick came hurtling through the window and glass splintered at their feet. Willa screamed.

  ‘Quick, get upstairs,’ a clerk ordered.

  He guided Willa. Clara followed, breathless and weak-legged, hauling herself up behind them to an upstairs committee room where a young secretary and an elderly volunteer were taking refuge.

  ‘Major Lockwood!’ Clara panted.

  ‘Dear girl,’ he greeted her, ‘what on earth—’

  Before he could finish, there was more splintering of glass and shouting below. Clara wondered wildly if their attackers had broken in. The clerk rushed to the window.

  Willa cried hysterically, ‘I should never have come — I want George — I wish I’d never come — they’re going to kill us!’

  Clara pushed her into a chair next to the terrified secretary and went to look too.

  ‘We’re surrounded,’ the clerk muttered tensely.

  There was chaos. Within minutes the lane had filled with men. They charged with sticks and banner poles, missiles flying over their heads; they screamed and cursed as they punched each other and fell to the ground. It was hard to tell which side was which, each attacking with equal ferocity. Clara watched in horror as one man lay helpless in the dust while three others kicked him until he stopped moving. She wanted to vomit. She covered her mouth, swallowing down bile.

  ‘My God, they’re killing that man! We have to help him.’

  ‘He’s a Bolshie,’ the young man replied in distaste.

  Clara stared at him in disbelief. ‘Does it matter?’

  He gave her a hard look. ‘Yes, it does. They started all this.’ He turned abruptly and strode to the door.

  ‘Don’t leave us!’ Willa wailed.

  Clara went to her quickly. ‘It’s all right, we’re safe in here. Cissie will guess where we’ve gone and tell Vinnie — he’ll rescue us. You mustn’t worry.’

  But Clara did not believe her own words. She had seen the hatred on the faces of the fighting crowds. If they broke in...

  ‘Barricade the door after me,’ the clerk ordered. She watched him disappear and felt fear rise up and choke her.

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Clara forced herself to act. She began dragging a heavy table in front of the door. Major Lockwood came swiftly to help.

  ‘You shouldn’t be doing this in your condition,’ he rebuked her. ‘Please sit down with the ladies.’

  A sharp pain stabbed at her insides. Clara clutched her stomach, stifling a cry.

  ‘What’s wrong?’ Willa asked anxiously.

  ‘Nothing,’ Clara gasped.

  ‘Is it the baby?’ Willa fretted.

  Clara did not answer as she retreated to a chair, heart racing, brow perspiring. She felt hot, clammy and unwell.

  ‘Mary, fetch Mrs Craven a glass of water,’ Major Lockwood commanded. The secretary hurried into the adjoining kitchen.

  Clara’s distress seemed to shake Willa out of her paralysis. She helped Clara out of her jacket and loosened her blouse. Mary came back with a cup of lukewarm water.

  ‘Thank you,’ Clara whispered.

  The major came over and sat with them, telling them how he had tried to attend the meeting but had been turned back by the police for his own safety.

  ‘Where are the police now?’ Willa demanded tearfully.

  ‘They can’t cope,’ the major replied. ‘We must rely on our own troops for protection, like that brave young man downstairs.’

  Clara wondered where Jimmy was at that moment; it filled her with anxiety to think what might be happening to him. Was Vinnie safe? And what had become of Cissie?

  A few minutes later, they were startled by the sound of boots clattering on the stairs and people pushing against the door. The major jumped up to defend them.

  ‘Let us in!’ someone shouted, hammering on the door. ‘Lads are injured. We’re Blackshirts.’

  The major went to pull back the table. In came two men dragging a third between them. His face was streaming with blood, his jacket torn. Behind stumbled two more, one holding a limp arm, the other with gashes to his temple and cheek. The first two laid the semi-conscious man on the floor and rushed back out.

  Willa began to moan, ‘I think I’m going to be sick,’ and dashed into the kitchen.

  Clara got up unsteadily and went to help. She asked Mary to fetch a bowl of water and any towels she could lay her hands on, while she stooped and spoke to the man.

  ‘Can you hear me?’ The man stared at her with glazed eyes and did not respond. She put a finger to his bloodied neck and found a pulse. ‘You’re going to be all right. You’re safe now. We’ll get you cleaned up.’

  Mary came back with water and an armful of tea towels and they washed the blood from his face. There was a deep cut on his forehead. Clara ripped up one of the towels and bandaged the man’s head to stem the bleeding. Mary fed him sips of water. The major gave swigs of whisky to the other injured men while Clara bathed their cuts too. The man with the dangling arm cried out in pain when she touched it.

  ‘It might be broken,’ she said gently. ‘Give him another nip of whisky, Major.’

  Taking her jacket, she cradled it round his arm and tied it round his neck in a sling. Reenie had once practised putting slings and bandages on her during her training. Clara thought fleetingly of her old friend. Was she out demonstrating on the streets like Benny or nursing the injured like Clara?

  The man on the floor was pale and sweating. She sat with him, holding his hand and murmuring encouragement. This is madness! she thought. We’re fighting our own people; it’s civil war.

  There was no let-up in the running street battles below. They raged on all afternoon and the wounded and bleeding were hauled into the besieged building. Clara and the others did what they could to help. The stench of sweat and blood in the stifling upstairs room was overpowering, but when they opened the window for air, missiles were hurled in through the gap. They pulled the shutters closed and turned on the lights.

  It was like a scene from a field hospital and Clara kept bu
sy to stem the horror that threatened to overwhelm her. They soon ran out of towels for bandages and used the men’s shirts instead. Even Willa overcame her terror to help nurse the casualties. A young medical student who came in with a leg injury did what he could to assist them. All the time, Clara tried to ignore the increasing pains that gripped her insides and left her breathless.

  She could not believe the anarchy outside or that they had been left by the police to fend for themselves. There would be a lull in the fighting and someone would venture downstairs to see if it was safe to leave, only to find the enemy had regrouped and were ready to attack again.

  As evening came and the fighting outside subsided once more, Clara realised how parched and thirsty she was. Walking into the kitchen, she was overcome by a sudden acute pain. She collapsed on the floor and passed out.

  Coming to, she found herself lying on the kitchen floor, Willa, Mary and the major staring at her in consternation. Her skirt and knickers were drenched. Pain gripped her like a vice.

  ‘Willa!’ she cried out in fear. ‘What’s happening to me?’

  Willa seized her hand. ‘Oh, Clara! Your waters have broken; I think the baby’s coming.’

  Mary looked on in bewilderment. ‘You can’t have it here, miss.’

  Willa turned to the major. ‘Major Lockwood, do something! You have to get us out of here. Clara might lose her baby.’

  Galvanised, he headed out of the kitchen and ordered the young medic in to help.

  ‘I don’t know the first thing about babies,’ the student protested.

  ‘You soon will,’ the major snapped. ‘Just sit with her. I’ll see if we can negotiate our way out.’

  He disappeared. The wait seemed interminable; Clara lay in agony, feeling the baby pressing down heavily inside. She was terrified of losing it. Half an hour or more passed before the major returned with two Blackshirts. Clara sobbed with relief. Major Lockwood leaned down and gingerly patted her shoulder in reassurance.

  ‘They’re calling a truce to let you and the other women out. They’re bringing in an ambulance.’

  It seemed an age before word came through that the ambulance had arrived. By that time Clara was writhing in agony. The men helped her to her feet. She nearly fainted again from the pain and her legs buckled. They carried her between them, Willa and Mary following.

  She was only vaguely aware of reaching the street outside and being carried to the end and into an ambulance. There was noise about her, staring faces, and then she was in the vehicle with Willa holding her hand. She wanted to tell one of the Blackshirts to get a message to Vinnie, but did not have the strength to speak. She closed her eyes as the van jostled forward, the stabbing pains now unrelenting. An orderly placed a damp cloth on her sweating brow and told her to hold on.

  But she could not. Ten agonising minutes later, Clara felt a huge force tear through her and knew her baby was coming. She tried to sit up as she yelled in pain and terror. Her baby was born as the ambulance swung in through the gates of the maternity hospital.

  ‘Let me see!’ Clara panted, struggling to move. She saw a tiny, red slippery creature in the orderly’s hands. It spluttered as if it were choking. The man looked uncertain what to do.

  ‘Clear its mouth so it can breathe!’ Willa cried.

  He held on to the baby until the ambulance came to a halt. Clara was stretchered into the hospital, calling out in distress for her baby.

  She remembered nothing after that, until later she came round in a high-ceilinged ward and it was dark. She could hear the querulous cries of babies in the distance. Clara was too weak to move. She felt as if she were floating above the room and not a part of anything below — the pain and feverishness seemed to belong to someone else. She tried to float out of the room to search for her baby, but could not find the door.

  She had no idea how long she remained in her semi-conscious state; it could have been hours or days. She was half aware of doctors and nurses coming and going, staring down at her, taking her temperature, administering injections.

  One morning she finally awoke feeling clear-headed yet painfully weak. Early morning light was streaming in at the window and she wondered where she was. Gradually, she realised she was on her own in a small side ward. Her first thought was for her baby. Where was it? What was it? Was her baby alive? Then she had a flood of longing for Vinnie. How desperately she wanted him to be there with her now, his vibrant presence assuring her that everything was all right. Did he even know where she was yet? Was he unharmed from yesterday’s conflict? Or was it longer ago than yesterday?

  The nightmarish scenes of running battles and the terrible fetid room full of the wounded came back in a vivid rush. What had become of their glorious movement that it could descend so quickly into thuggery and violence? Both sides had seemed as bad as the other in their brutality. Clara turned her face into the pillow and wept. Yet even as relief came with her tears, she berated herself for her weakness. Crying would not help her discover what had happened to her baby.

  A nurse came in as she was trying to struggle out of bed.

  ‘Get back in at once,’ the nurse ordered. ‘Goodness me, it’s good to see you in the land of the living. I’m Nurse Brown. Can you manage something to eat?’

  ‘My baby,’ Clara croaked. ‘I want my baby.’

  ‘Baby Craven is under observation,’ the nurse said.

  ‘What for?’

  Nurse Brown came to her bedside and took her hand. ‘You both had a rough time of it during the delivery.’ She was direct. ‘She’s very immature and weak.’

  ‘She?’

  ‘Yes, you have a girl. Did you not know?’ she asked in surprise.

  Clara shook her head. The nurse patted her hand. ‘Perhaps that’s little wonder; you’ve been in a fever these past three days. Don’t worry, we’re doing what we can to save her.’

  Clara felt hot tears well up once more. ‘Save her? She’s not going to die, is she?’

  ‘I didn’t say that.’ The nurse went to leave the room. ‘You try to rest.’

  ‘My husband,’ Clara called after her, ‘does he know—’

  ‘He’s been here every day, but you’ve been too ill for visitors. Mr Craven will be allowed in at the visiting hour today,’ she promised as she left.

  Clara lay in a sweat of anxiety. Her daughter was lying somewhere in the same hospital, her life slipping away and Clara not there to comfort her. By the time a doctor came to see her, she was half mad with worry and dark thoughts.

  ‘The baby is doing better by the hour,’ he said, trying to calm her, ‘but she’s still in a poorly state.’

  ‘Can I go and see her?’ Clara pleaded.

  ‘Tomorrow perhaps. I’m afraid you’re too weak at the moment,’ he said with a pitying look. ‘Your blood pressure has been dangerously high — it’s lucky that both you and your baby are alive. It’s very important that you rest.’

  Clara’s agony of mind was only relieved when, later, Vinnie appeared at the door. Clara burst into tears at the sight of him holding an enormous bouquet of flowers. He plonked them on the bed and rushed to take her in his arms.

  ‘Oh, lass! I’ve been that worried about you.’

  ‘Vinnie,’ she sobbed, ‘I’m so sorry.’

  ‘What you sorry about?’ he exclaimed.

  ‘I should never have gone to the rally. I’m sorry for not listening to you. It was terrible what happened. I can’t bear to think about it. But Willa was scared and I thought we could escape out the back. Then they chased us and all those lads fighting — I thought it would never end — and the blood — oh, God, Vinnie, I’ll never be able to forget—’

  ‘Stop it,’ Vinnie said firmly. ‘You mustn’t upset yourself any more. They’re nowt but a pack of animals — trying to terrorise women. I hope you see that now — what we’re up against?’ He kissed her forehead. ‘All that matters is that you’re safe and the bairn’s been born alive.’

  Clara gasped, ‘Vinnie, have you se
e our daughter?’ He nodded. ‘Tell me what she’s like.’

  ‘The littlest nipper I’ve ever seen,’ he said wryly.

  ‘Who does she look like?’ Clara asked eagerly.

  He shrugged. ‘No one. But one day she’ll be as bonny as her mam.’

  A sob caught in Clara’s throat. ‘I want to see her. Why can’t I see her?’

  ‘All in good time. The doctors know best.’

  ‘Where is she?’

  ‘In a special ward,’ Vinnie said, standing up.

  Clara looked at him in dismay. ‘Are you going already?’

  ‘There’s a lot to do,’ he answered. ‘Mosley’s due in Newcastle the day after tomorrow.’

  Clara felt light-headed. In her anxiety over the baby, she had forgotten all about their leader’s visit. She realised she knew nothing of what had happened to the others after the siege at headquarters.

  ‘What about Willa? Is she all right?’ Clara reached out to stop him going. ‘And Major Lockwood was there too.’

  ‘They’re canny,’ Vinnie assured her. ‘After you went in the ambulance, the police moved in to round up the riff-raff.’

  ‘And Cissie? She went to find you—’

  ‘She did, but not in time to rescue you and Willa. And before you ask, Jimmy’s fine too — proved himself a man that day.’ His eyes shone with pride. ‘I told Jimmy he could bring your mam in to see you tomorrow.’

  ‘Thank you, Vinnie.’ She smiled weakly. ‘Do you forgive me for going?’

  He paused before answering. ‘I’m not best pleased you disobeyed me — and Mam’s still ranting on about the way you gave her the slip. But Major Lockwood said you were a real little Florence Nightingale. You showed great bravery and for that I’m proud.’ His face clouded suddenly. ‘But it could so easily have ended badly for you and the bairn,’ he added sternly. ‘You must never do anything like that again.’

  He leaned down and kissed her swiftly on the head, then he was striding to the door and waving goodbye.

  ‘Vinnie!’ she called out. ‘Wait. What are we going to call the baby?’

  Without hesitation he announced, ‘We’ll call her Sarah — after my grandmother and aunt.’ With a brief smile he was gone.