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

  ‘Wait, Mam!’ Millie stopped her. ‘Let the lass have her say.’ She fixed a steady gaze on Helen and demanded, ‘Where’s your proof that Dan’s your father and that he was married to someone else?’ She could hardly believe she was asking such questions, let alone with such a steady voice. Inside she felt so fragile that another harsh word or gesture might shatter her into tiny pieces.

  Helen walked over to the table and pulled out some papers from a neat handbag.

  ‘Here’s their marriage certificate, September 1920. And this is my birth certificate – look, it’s got Daniel Nixon as the father, February 1921. They didn’t divorce until 1928.’ Millie handled the documents with shaking hands, as if they scorched her fingers, but Dan’s name was on them both, along with a scrawl that could have been his careless signature. ‘Grandfather gave him his first break in football, signed him up for his club. That’s how he met Mother. She thought Dan was so dashing, with his army uniform and his good looks. She was very young and easily impressed.’ Helen laughed mirthlessly. ‘I was a mistake, of course. Nobody wanted me at first. But I don’t think Dad liked being told what to do by Grandfather. He ran away from his responsibilities,’ she said critically, ‘changed clubs. Grandfather never forgave him for letting everyone down, had him branded as a troublemaker around the local clubs. I suppose that’s why he came north again.’

  ‘Did he know about you?’ Millie gulped. ‘Did he know he had a daughter?’

  Helen gave her a look of surprise. ‘Of course he did! He used to send me presents and money when I was little, and I could never understand why he wasn’t living with us. I still remember my mother crying for days when she got a letter from him asking for a divorce. All because of you!’ Her look turned resentful. ‘I didn’t know the reason until much later, but my grandfather told him that she never would. Grandfather wanted to ruin his career when my father married you, but Mother wouldn’t let him go to the newspapers. In the end both of them thought Dan wasn’t worth it, that’s why she finally agreed to divorce him and why she wouldn’t see him when he tried to come back a few years ago. But I always longed to meet him. After all, he is my father!’ she said defiantly.

  Millie’s insides turned cold. ‘What do you mean, when he tried to come back?’ she gasped.

  Helen’s blue eyes, so like Dan’s, glinted with triumph. ‘A few years back he got in touch with Mother again. Said he was living in Kilburn. He wanted to see me, started sending presents again. But Mother wouldn’t let me keep them, threw them out. They were little girl’s toys anyway,’ Helen said dismissively, ‘and I was nine by then.’

  Millie sat there, stunned, gazing blindly at the proof in front of her. She thought she had been able to bear all the betrayal and disappointments of her marriage to Dan and survive them, clinging on to the belief that for all his mistakes he still loved her deeply and above all others. Yet at their wedding he had been married to someone called Clementine Mary. Her own marriage had been a sham and her beloved Edith had been born out of wedlock, disgraced by Dan’s bigamy, while this hateful young woman who stood before her now could claim to be Dan’s true daughter! Not only that, but Dan had tried to seek out his first daughter maybe just months after Edith’s death, Millie thought in acute distress, while she was lost in the darkness of her grief. How could he have done that to her?

  She felt a scream welling up inside her, a cry of pain and rage that had to escape out of her or else she would be torn apart by its force.

  ‘No! No!’ she yelled, gasping and panting as she rose and grabbed the table, overturning it. The papers went flying and dirty cups smashed on the polished floor. ‘No!’ she screamed again. ‘The lying bastard! He’s weak and selfish! I hate him, hate him, hate him!’

  She picked up her chair and hurled it across the room, and then seized another. Helen backed away, alarmed by the madness that had suddenly gripped this dark-haired woman she had dismissed as dull and inferior. The second chair broke the window with a deafening crash. From nowhere the children appeared, to gawp at the jagged glass and a raging Millie.

  As she set about smashing the dining-room furniture, Millie was vaguely aware of her mother shouting at her to stop. She saw Ava and Marjory appear in the doorway, their mouths open in horror, followed by a grim-faced Grant.

  ‘You were right about Dan!’ she screamed at Teresa. ‘A good-for-nothing womaniser! I can’t believe I was taken in for so long! I’ve wasted my whole life on him!’

  Grant dived across the room and seized her. She fought him off, scratching his face, beating him with her fists and kicking him, hardly aware of who he was. All she could feel was the rage that consumed her. She gave vent to her pent-up fury at all the years of slights and setbacks, broken promises and hurtful words. But worst of all was the thought of Dan’s betrayal of her and the children that enveloped her like a suffocating mist. It was too much to bear. She felt the fight draining out of her, faintness overcoming her pain. Someone was struggling with her but she did not want to struggle any more. As she collapsed, she heard Albert’s voice clearly, full of concern and panic.

  ‘What’s wrong, Mam?’ he cried. ‘Tell me what’s wrong? H-has something happened to me dad?’

  Millie gave way to uncontrollable sobbing as she crumpled to the floor.

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  1941

  Millie remembered almost nothing of the following weeks. The end of the Blitz came, and a postcard from Gordon Armstrong, whose ship was involved in the evacuation of Crete. The news was full of the German invasion of Russia and Japanese attacks in Malaya, but Millie was aware of none of it. For a time she was in a state of total collapse, unable to drag herself out of bed or cope with the most mundane of chores, let alone see to the needs of the children. At times she would wake up and look around her bedroom and wonder where she was or who she was. Then the pain of memory would flood through her and she was engulfed in the shame that Dan had brought on her, and she wished she did not have to wake up at all.

  Shocked by her daughter’s breakdown after all her years of coping with life’s tragedies and setbacks, Teresa galvanised herself into running the hotel once again. Crippled though she was, she hobbled around giving out orders, working out menus, disciplining the children and damping down the rumours about Millie’s bigamous marriage with strong denials. It was she who arranged for Millie to stay at Ella and Walter’s house for a month of rest and quiet, while Marjory lived in at the hotel and looked after the children.

  Teresa could see how Albert’s querulous demands about his father and Robert’s boisterous aggression were distressing Millie. She needed to be away from the hotel and its daily demands else she would never have a chance to regain her strength. To vent her anger, Teresa wrote to Dan about Helen’s visit and how the news of his bigamy had destroyed Millie’s health. He would not be welcome back in Ashborough, she told him. When letters began to arrive for Millie she kept them unopened until Millie felt strong enough to read them.

  Meanwhile Ella nursed Millie, bringing her food upstairs if she wished to stay in bed and keeping prying neighbours from the kitchen when she ventured downstairs. Millie was plagued by dark thoughts, unable to imagine herself coping with life again. Even the smallest of tasks, like rising and getting dressed, seemed as daunting as climbing the Alps. She tortured herself with thoughts of Dan’s marriage to another woman and the daughter he had known about all these years and kept secret from her. How was it possible to live with someone and not know such devastating secrets about them? It made her think she had never known the real Dan at all.

  Worst of all, the truth of Dan’s past made her question everything about herself, leaving her feeling vulnerable and anxious, just as she had when Edith had died. It was like another bereavement; she had lost her husband as surely as if she had received a telegram from the army reporting his death. Except it was not final; this bereavement was like a shadow cast across the rest of her life as if he had gone missing in action. The Dan she thought she had k
nown would never return to her, yet the bigamous Dan might. Should she allow him back after what he had done to her? Part of her never wanted to see him again, yet there were the boys to consider. They adored Dan, especially Albert. Did she have the right to deny all contact with their father? Then there was Helen. Millie wanted to hate the young woman for devastating her world and for being the grown-up daughter that Edith should have been. She could almost picture Edith as looking like the wavy-haired, blue eyed Helen. Yet Dan’s daughter had sent her flowers and cards, shocked that Millie had known nothing of her existence, and contrite at the havoc she had caused by her appearance and revelations. Teresa had forbidden her to go near Millie, yet Millie could not help being curious about Helen, secretly wanting to find out more about her in the hope that such knowledge might explain Dan to her better.

  But the only visitors she was allowed were the children, twice a week after school, and she braced herself for these brief, noisy appearances, yearning for their company yet knowing that she could not stand more than ten minutes at a time. She felt guilty at neglecting them, but Ella kept the visits short and assured her that Marjory was enjoying looking after them.

  As the summer wore on, Millie gradually became aware of her surroundings and began to take more of an interest. She and Ella would sit and work on a patchwork quilt that they were making out of an old serge suit of Mungo’s and scraps of material from Marjory’s childhood dresses. If they talked at all it was to reminisce about their days in London, a subject that held no pain for either of them. Occasionally the talk would stray back to their childhood in Craston in the days before the Great War, and Ella would remind her of people and incidents that she had long forgotten.

  Sometimes Grant would call round after a shift at the pit, with a volume of poetry or a D.H. Lawrence novel for her to read. Millie felt weak at the thought of struggling through the books, but not wanting to hurt his feelings, she would ask him to read her bits while she sewed or simply closed her eyes and listened. Whereas Walter had fulminated about his brother’s disgraceful betrayal and said he would have nothing to do with him again, Grant made no judgement in front of Millie, for which she was grateful. In the quiet of Ella’s kitchen, Millie found she could talk to Ella and Grant about thoughts long buried that she had never been able to voice to her mother. Her mind, so disturbed by the revelations over Dan, had unearthed her early past too, and she found herself wanting to talk about Graham, and her father, and the war that had torn her family apart.

  One time she asked Grant to talk to her about Flanders. He was reticent at first, and then told her some of the anecdotes about his fellow fusiliers. ‘The best thing was getting a parcel or letter from home,’ he admitted. ‘That kept us all going. We’d share out what came – even the love letters,’ he blushed.

  ‘And who was sending you love letters?’ Ella teased.

  ‘No one,’ Grant answered with an embarrassed smile. ‘I was one of those who got to read other marras’ postcards.’

  Millie mused. ‘I remember the only thing our Graham wanted was Woodbines. They had a nickname for him; I’d forgotten it until recently.’

  ‘What was that?’ Ella asked.

  ‘Furnace,’ Millie chuckled weakly.

  Grant gave her a strange look. ‘Furnace?’ he questioned. ‘I’ve heard that before . . .’ Millie watched his brow unfurrow as a memory came back to him. He held her look with his dark, brooding eyes.

  ‘Tell me,’ Millie whispered, her heart beginning to pound.

  ‘It was in a field hospital. I was visiting a marra of mine – wounded on the Somme. There was this lad visiting the same ward – we got chatting and discovered we both came from the north-east. I remember now, I’m sure it was Craston he talked about.’ Millie felt a shiver go down her back as she saw Grant struggling to recall the details.

  ‘Can you remember what he said?’ she urged.

  Grant shook his head. ‘Not after all this time.’

  Millie looked down at her lap in despair. It was tantalising to think he might have met and talked with her brother so soon before his death. It was as a result of his running away in action later that summer of the Somme that Graham had been shot. There was a huge dark hole in her family’s memory and understanding of what had happened to Graham that made it impossible to imagine what those last days must have been like for him, and impossible for her to come to terms with his shameful death. How she yearned for anecdotes about him in the way other people talked about their sons and brothers with such pride.

  Grant touched her shoulder lightly. ‘But I do remember having a cigarette with him outside. The matron chased him out for trying to light a Woodbine for his friend. I went out with him and he shared it with me. I remember he laughed a lot and he told me his nickname was Furnace.’

  Millie looked up, wondering if Grant had been one of the last people to speak to her brother. ‘And I remember this,’ Grant said quietly. ‘When I went back in to say goodbye to me marra, he was talking with the other wounded lad about Furnace. He said that underneath all the smoke and the banter, Furnace was one of the bravest in their company. He’d volunteer for night raids at the drop of a hat. Hadn’t been home on leave for two years.’ Millie’s eyes swelled with tears. ‘If he was your brother,’ Grant added gently, ‘then you’ve no reason to feel any shame for him. His own mates were a better judge than the men who court-martialled him.’

  Millie felt tears of loss and regret for her brother trickle down her cheeks. ‘It sounds like Graham,’ she murmured, ‘I’ve never believed he was a coward.’

  Grant reached over and squeezed her hand. ‘I fought alongside lads like your brother and I saw the same sort of comradeship and courage that I was used to down the pit. A few lads did reach the end of their tether or went mad with the noise of the shelling, but only after they’d put up with months in the trenches. The only cowards in that war were the ones stuck far behind the front lines, giving out the orders,’ he said bitterly.

  Ella went and fetched a cup of water while Millie clung on to Grant’s hand and cried quietly. She felt strangely close to him, as if in some way she had reached her brother through him. Grant had known Graham, however briefly, in that part of his short life that was a blank to her, and it gave her comfort. After a while they talked again, Millie telling Grant about her brother, with Ella joining in her reminiscences about Craston.

  ‘I’ve been thinking a lot about me dad an’ all,’ Millie confessed to her friends. ‘All this business with this lass Helen.’

  ‘Don’t go worrying yourself over her,’ Ella said stoutly. ‘She’ll not come near you again if I can help it.’

  Millie shook her head. ‘No, but she’s got me thinking. All these years she’s been without her father, wondering what he’s like or what he’s doing or whether she’ll ever see him again. And when she got the chance she took it. She came looking for him, not caring what her mam or grandfather thought – or any of us, for that matter.’ Millie flushed, but continued in a small voice. ‘She had the guts to go after him, go after what she wanted, no matter what others thought of her. It makes me feel guilty that I never tried harder to find me own father – discover what happened to him. I’ve thought about him all these years, but never done anything about it. I’ve always thought it was ’cos I didn’t want to upset Mam, but I think it’s really because I’ve never been brave enough to go searching.’

  ‘He never made the effort either,’ Ella pointed out.

  Millie felt uneasy. ‘He might have done,’ she confessed. ‘Dinah told me that time we all went to the seaside, you know, before . . .’ Millie broke off, reddening at the memory of that awful night when Dan’s affair with Dinah was discovered.

  ‘What did she tell you?’ Grant asked quietly.

  ‘She said that she’d always meant to tell me but hadn’t,’ Millie continued, ‘that this man had turned up asking for me at Paradise Parade. It was after we’d moved away to Kilburn. She sent him away, thinking he was just a tramp
after money – probably heard about me and Dan and the way we spent so freely. She said Mrs Hodges took him in and gave him a cup of tea, but she never saw him around again.’

  ‘Why do you think it was your father?’ Grant asked.

  ‘Because Dinah said he walked with a limp,’ Millie replied, trembling, ‘and me dad walked with a limp after a fall of stone at the pit.’

  ‘It could’ve been anybody!’ Ella exclaimed.

  ‘I know,’ Millie admitted, ‘but it doesn’t stop me thinking, wondering . . .’

  Grant said, ‘Mrs Hodges might be able to tell you more, if you really want to find out.’

  Millie gave him a desperate look. ‘I do,’ she whispered. ‘All this business with Dan and Helen – it makes me wonder if I’ve been right about anything. I’ve always thought badly of me dad for letting me mam down and not providing for us, but maybe I judged him too harshly. I just saw it all from a child’s point of view. I’ve blamed him all these years for Mam having to slave for Moody, but it was really because of me that she had to.’

  ‘Don’t you go blaming yourself for what your mam did,’ Ella insisted. ‘As you said, you were just a bairn. What either of your parents did wasn’t your fault.’

  ‘You’re right,’ Millie sighed, feeling her guilt easing a fraction. ‘But I really would like to know what happened to me dad.’

  ‘Then when you’re feeling stronger, I’ll take you to see Mrs Hodges,’ Grant promised. ‘At the very least you can find out if this man was your father or not. And if it was, then at least it shows he cared something for you, tried to find you,’ he said kindly.

  Millie gave him a grateful smile, surprised as much by his sympathy as by her ease in talking to him about such personal fears. ‘Thank you,’ she answered, already feeling stronger for having unburdened herself to her friends. Maybe soon she would have the strength to write to Dan and tell him what she thought of him. She knew from her mother that he had been told about Helen’s visit and warned to stay away, but she had been unable to bring herself to read his letters, not wanting to hear any more of his excuses.