A HANDFUL OF STARS An enthralling story of poverty, passion and survival: one of the Tyneside Sagas

by Trotter, Janet MacLeod

  ‘Well don’t bother coming up if it’s such a trial.’

  ‘I won’t!’

  Sometimes they would stop speaking for days. But neither of them could stay angry for long and they always made up, Benny contrite for losing his temper and Clara apologising for her family’s unfriendliness. He would pull her into his arms and give her an affectionate kiss. Clara’s fondness for Benny would be rekindled. And their friendship seemed to please Reenie and Marta, whose opinion she valued more than her own mother’s.

  On one of the few occasions the two friends managed to get together for a stroll on the High Street, Reenie said, ‘Mam’s that happy about you and Benny courting. She thinks you’re good for him —know how to calm him down.’

  ‘Doesn’t seem like that to me at times,’ Clara said, rolling her eyes. ‘He gets that steamed up about the slightest thing. And he’ll argue black is white till the cows come home.’

  ‘That’s Benny; always been passionate about things,’ Reenie agreed.

  ‘So’s Frank,’ Clara commented, ‘but he doesn’t mouth off all the time like his brother.’

  ‘Frank’s an idealist,’ Reenie said. ‘He’s got all these notions about how the world should be, but he’ll never do anything about them. He and Lillian think you just have to educate people and everything will change for the better. Pair of dreamers.’

  Clara felt a pang whenever Frank and Lillian were mentioned together. ‘Maybe Frank’s right.’

  Reenie snorted. ‘If you’ve got a hundred years to spare. Me and Benny believe you need action, not words. Things need to change here and now.’

  ‘Like stirring up trouble at the garment factory?’ Clara challenged her.

  ‘The lasses there have no rights,’ Reenie replied. ‘Craven could sack them all tomorrow if he felt like it.’

  ‘But he won’t,’ Clara said.

  ‘He’s threatened to if they join a union,’ Reenie told her indignantly.

  ‘Maybe they’re better off not bothering then,’ Clara shrugged.

  Reenie gave her a shocked look. ‘Imagine it was you or me working there. For a reporter you show a strange lack of interest in what’s going on at the factory. Are you scared of what Vincent Craven might say?’

  ‘Course not,’ Clara flashed.

  ‘Go and ask him about it then,’ Reenie urged. ‘Find out for yourself what’s really going on.’

  Clara decided to investigate. She went to the factory, an old warehouse down by the river, and asked to see the manager. He was busy. She came back at the end of the day to catch the women on their way home. But when she mentioned the newspaper, no one would talk to her. Only one woman stopped long enough to say, ‘You that Clara Magee? Thought you’d be much older. That recipe page is canny helpful.’

  The janitor, locking the gates behind them, told her she was not welcome and to clear off. When she told Benny, he grew angry.

  ‘What did I tell you? Craven’s hiding a can of worms in there. Come with me tomorrow while I hand out leaflets.’

  They arranged to meet there when the buzzer went at the close of work. By the time Clara arrived Benny was already there with two helpers from the YS, shouting at the top of his voice as the women streamed past him.

  ‘You have to stand up for yourselves, lasses,’ he cried. ‘No one else in there will. Stick together.’

  ‘I’ll stick to you any day of the week, bonny lad,’ an older woman called out, making the younger ones laugh.

  Benny grinned and shoved a leaflet at her. ‘Join the union; they’ll stick up for you. Come to the meeting of the United Clothing Workers’ Union next Friday. Behind the town hall.’

  A few took the leaflets, stuffing them into pockets. Others passed heads down.

  Another woman brushed him off. ‘Aye, the minute we join, they’ll have us on strike and we’ll be out on our ear.’

  ‘Not if you all stick together,’ Benny argued.

  ‘They’ll just bring in other lasses who’ll work for less,’ she said sourly. ‘These jobs are like gold dust.’ She pushed past him.

  ‘Are you managing on what Craven pays you?’ Benny shouted after her.

  Others passed him, glancing over their shoulders at the factory behind. Clara saw the manager striding towards them, followed by the janitor. The women hurried on, dropping any leaflets they had taken.

  ‘Benny, it’s no use,’ Clara warned, ‘the boss is coming over.’

  Benny carried on. ‘Nothing will change for the better unless you change it,’ he boomed out. ‘The union will help you fight for a decent wage — one you can feed your families on. Don’t let Craven and his henchmen bully you with their threats of sacking and docked wages. Now is the time to act!’

  ‘Clear off!’ the manager bawled. ‘I’ve warned you before about harassing my workers. I’ve called the police.’

  Benny ignored him. ‘Don’t be frightened,’ he urged the women. ‘All you’re asking for is a fair day’s pay for a fair day’s work. It’s your right. It’s what your families deserve. Don’t let the bosses grind you down. Fight back, lasses! Remember the meeting: Friday, seven o’clock.’

  A whistle blew further up the street and two constables came running down. But the appearance of the manager was all that was needed to disperse the crowd. The policeman told Benny and his comrades to move on. The other two nodded, but Benny stood his ground.

  ‘This is a public street,’ he argued. ‘We’ve just as much right to be here as anyone.’

  ‘Not if you’re disturbing the peace,’ the constable replied.

  ‘What’s happened to free speech?’ Benny demanded.

  ‘Move along, lad, or I’ll have to arrest you.’

  Clara took Benny by the arm. ‘Come on, you’re not helping anyone by getting nicked.’

  ‘That’s right, miss,’ the policeman encouraged her. ‘Don’t I know you from somewhere?’

  ‘Clara Magee, Tyne Times,’ she smiled. ‘Spoke to you last week about a missing puppy. It’s PC Hobson, isn’t it? The family couldn’t have been more grateful for you finding their pet.’

  ‘Happy to help,’ he preened. ‘Now you talk some sense into your gentleman friend here. We don’t want any more trouble outside the factory.’

  Clara nodded. ‘The truth is, there wouldn’t have been any trouble if the management had agreed to see me yesterday.’ She shot the manager a look. ‘You see, I’m doing a piece for the Times — Women in the Workplace. Benny here was only trying to help me speak to some of the lasses.’

  ‘He was doing no such thing,’ the manager retorted.

  The policeman raised a conciliatory hand. ‘I’m sure Mr Reid would be happy to help.’

  The manager scowled. ‘I suppose I could see you next week,’ he muttered.

  ‘Thank you.’ Clara smiled. ‘Would Tuesday suit? I’d like a look round the factory and to talk to some of the employees. An hour would be fine.’

  Mr Reid shot her a furious look. ‘Half an hour’s all I can spare. Ten o’clock sharp.’ Then he retreated back into the factory, the janitor at his heels.

  Benny’s friends left, promising to help at the meeting on Friday. Benny and Clara walked towards Minto Street.

  ‘You could talk the hind legs off a donkey,’ Benny said in admiration. ‘I nearly believed all that Women in the Workplace stuff.’

  ‘It’s true,’ Clara retorted. ‘If I get inside, that’s what I’m interested in. What it’s like for the lasses - not just their pay. How they manage with their families. Do the men help out at home.’

  Benny laughed ruefully. ‘My, you sound like our Reenie.’

  ‘It’s like you said,’ Clara quipped, ‘us lasses should stick together.’

  ‘Do you want your tea at ours?’ he asked, looking hopeful.

  Clara shook her head. ‘Sorry, I’ve got a history society meeting. Industries of Byfell in the Nineteenth Century.’

  ‘Aye, the good old days,’ Benny grunted, ‘when they had some.’

 
; She smiled. ‘Bye, Benny.’

  ‘Come to the meeting on Friday, won’t you?’ Benny pleaded. ‘Then you can talk to the women without Reid breathing down their necks. You’ll not hear the truth otherwise.’

  ‘I’ll see,’ Clara said, not wanting to commit herself either way.

  She watched him stride off, hands plunged into the pockets of his ill-fitting suit, wiry dark hair sticking out at angles. He was becoming more and more the eccentric revolutionary. Clara had a pang of misgiving that the meeting might be an explosive one, with Benny right in the heat of it.

  Chapter 15

  Two days later, while Clara was still pondering whether to turn up to the union meeting, she had a surprise visitor to the flat. She was working at the table in the window, the May sunshine streaming in through the soot-smudged panes. Patience and Jimmy were out.

  She opened the door to find Vinnie standing there in a dark suit and starched white shirt, ebony cane in hand. There was no sign of his car in the street. He touched his trilby in a respectful nod and gave her his lop-sided smile.

  ‘Afternoon, Clara.’

  ‘Mam’s not in,’ she said, suddenly nervous.

  ‘I know; she’s at the hall. It’s you I’ve come to see.’

  Her stomach churned. ‘It’s about the factory, isn’t it? You don’t want me asking questions. You’ve come to stop me, but I’m not easy put off.’

  The way he eyed her only increased her alarm. Abruptly, he asked, ‘Fancy a walk? I’ve heard how much you like hiking.’

  She stared at him, baffled. ‘I — I’m working.’

  ‘Half an hour,’ he bargained. ‘We both need a break from work now and again. Your mam says you never stop.’

  ‘Someone’s got to earn our living,’ Clara said pointedly.

  Vinnie chuckled. ‘I love that fighting spirit. Haway and get your coat.’

  Upstairs, Clara pulled a comb through her hair and grabbed her jacket, a green tweed one she had spotted in a second-hand shop and sewn blue buttons on to make it less dull. Alarm bells were going off in her head telling her not to go with Vinnie, yet she was too intrigued to resist. It gave her the same rush of excitement that following a story did.

  Vinnie walked her round the corner to where his car was parked and flicked a coin to a boy minding it.

  ‘That’s for you, Denis, not your old man.’ He winked.

  ‘Ta, Mr Craven,’ the boy gasped and ran off gleefully with his easily earned treasure.

  ‘I thought we were walking?’ Clara hesitated as he held the door open for her.

  ‘We will,’ he promised.

  They drove out of Byfell towards the coast. In fifteen minutes they were in open countryside, pulling into a quiet village with the sea shimmering away on the horizon. Inland, the hazy smoke from a distant pit village was the only interruption to a cloudless blue sky. Clara had not realised what a beautiful day it was until now. They parked beside a squat stone church, half hidden in a canopy of lush green leaves. Vinnie opened the door for her.

  ‘Come on, I want to show you something.’ He held out his arm.

  Cautiously, she put a hand on it. He walked her through the old lych-gate and into the shade of the trees. Clara felt her misgivings return. What was all this about? Beneath their feet, the last of the late spring blossom lay like a fading carpet. There was a fresh, earthy smell. She shivered in the dankness. Vinnie put an arm about her and rubbed her shoulder. ‘You’re cold?’

  ‘No, I’m fine,’ she said, pulling away.

  He led her round the side of the church, through the damp grass to a plain headstone. He read aloud.

  William Craven, stonemason. Born 1842. Died 1872.

  Also Sarah, daughter of William. Born 1869. Died 1872.

  Gone but not Forgotten.’

  Vinnie took off his leather gloves and caressed the stone. His jaw clenched. Clara waited for him to explain. When he turned to her, his dark eyes were bright with tears. It shocked her to see him so vulnerable. Finally he spoke, his voice a low rumble like the distant tide.

  ‘He’s me grandfather. Me father used to bring me here once a year, just to remember. Not that he ever knew his own father — he was just a bairn when he died. Typhoid fever. Took the pair of them. Sarah was me dad’s sister. Never knew her either.’

  ‘Just three years old,’ Clara whispered. ‘Poor wee pet.’

  ‘And William was only thirty — younger than me. A good life cut short,’ Vinnie continued. He seemed to want to unburden himself. ‘Me grandma had to gan into service. Me father was sent to a married aunt in Byfell. She did her best for him, but she had five others. Me dad went down the pit when he was twelve. He learned bare-knuckle fighting during a lay-off at the pit. Small, stocky, hard as nails he was. He began winning good prize money. Bought the old hall off this cinematographer that went bust in 1910. That’s how the boxing started. Made a good living in the end. But he never forgot where he came from.’ Vinnie tapped the headstone. ‘This stonemason. A man who worked with his hands. A craftsman who died too young to pass on his skills to his son. Died of a poor man’s disease, Clara.’ He fixed her with an unblinking look. ‘But I’m not ashamed of where I come from. I’m proud. I look around this village and I know where I belong.’ He dug his polished shoe into the soft earth. ‘This is the soil of my ancestors,’ he said, eyes alight.

  Clara was moved by his words yet still puzzled. ‘It’s a sad story, Mr Craven. But why have you brought me here?’

  Vinnie stepped close, his look intense. ‘To show you that I care for the common man — ’cos I’m one of them. Me father championed the underdog — stood up for the working class all his life — and he taught me to do the same. I look around Byfell at the lads kicking their heels on street corners, at men grown old at thirty, and it makes me blood boil. And what does the Government do for our people? Nowt, that’s what! A Labour Party that cuts benefits and throws more lads on the dole than ever before. That’s not sticking up for the working class. That’s joining the bosses; the big corporations, the money-lenders that bleed us dry.’

  He kept his voice controlled, but his eyes blazed. ‘I went to hear Oswald Mosley when I was in London and he’s the only one with any vision. He opened my eyes, Clara, made me see how weak our rulers are. And they’re to blame for all the small businesses that have gone to the wall — decent folk like your parents. The politicians don’t care about them. Neither do the unions.’

  Clara swallowed. ‘My dad brought his troubles on himself with his gambling. You can’t blame the politicians for that.’

  Vinnie took her by the arm. ‘They did nothing to put lads back to work. If they had, their families would have had money to spend in your parents’ shop and Harry would still be alive today.’

  ‘Don’t say that,’ Clara gasped.

  ‘I didn’t mean to upset you,’ Vinnie said, holding her firm.

  ‘Then why bring me here? Why lecture me?’ she demanded.

  ‘I want to convince you that I’m not some money-grabbing boss who thinks nothing of the people I employ. I give jobs to lads round the hall just to keep them off the street and give them some self-respect. Half the time I don’t need them.’

  ‘Like Jimmy, you mean?’ Clara’s eyes stung.

  ‘Aye, like Jimmy.’ Vinnie was blunt. ‘You came to me for help and I did what me old dad taught me to do: stick up for my own kind.’

  ‘Me and Mam are very grateful,’ Clara gulped.

  ‘I don’t want your gratitude,’ Vinnie exclaimed. ‘I didn’t do it for that. I did it for Jimmy ’cos he’s just like me or me dad. Lads need work like they need air to breathe. It gives them respect. Without it they give up and die — die inside.’

  ‘And what about lasses?’ Clara demanded. ‘We need work and respect too.’

  ‘Aye, and that’s why I keep the garment factory going,’ Vinnie insisted. ‘Some of those lasses are the only wage-earners in their families. They would rather be at home looking after their bairns, but if
they were they would starve.’ His voice rose. ‘Do you know what I think when I see those lasses stitching? I think of me grandma having to gan away to London into place and never being a proper mam again. I give these lasses jobs so they can stay close to their bairns and still be proper mothers and wives. No one else is giving them work.’

  Clara wriggled out of his grip. ‘So any job is better than no job, even if you pay them a pittance?’

  His face tensed in anger. ‘I pay them lasses what I can afford. The factory nearly went bust last year cos of a boycott by Indian cotton workers, stirred up by foreign agitators. I could double the wages the morra and in two months the factory would be bankrupt and they’d all be out of work again. That’s what agitators like Benny don’t understand. Is that what you want?’

  Clara would not be intimidated. ‘I just want to have a look round and speak to the lasses myself. Mr Reid’s giving me half an hour on Tuesday.’

  ‘I can do better than that,’ Vinnie declared. ‘I’ll take you round myself. You can speak to who you like for as long as you like. Then you can judge if a Craven is true to his word.’

  Clara turned away, clutching her arms to stop herself shaking. Talk of her father’s death and Vinnie’s passionate outpouring had upset her more than she cared to admit. She felt his hands cup round her shoulders, more gently.

  ‘Dear Clara,’ he said, his tone softening, ‘forgive me. I had no right to try to sway you like this, no matter how strongly I feel about things. You must make up your own mind. It’s just. . .’ His hands dropped from holding her.

  She turned to face him. ‘Just what?’

  A muscle in his cheek worked as he clenched his jaw. What was it this usually talkative man was finding so difficult to say? When he spoke, it was almost with the bashfulness of a youth.

  ‘I admire you, Clara. A lot.’

  ‘Me?’ she said in amazement.

  ‘Why is that so strange?’ He smiled. ‘You’ve shown so much spirit. You’re just a young lass, yet you’re the strong one; the one who’ll do anything to stop your family going under. Not for one moment have you let up. It’s driven me mad the way you won’t accept any help for yourself, I won’t deny it. But by heck, Harry would be proud of you.’