‘Aye, but there was a little one in the corner that they never seen because it was behind a curtain. I only went in it because I thought it might be a short cut, but then I seen them. I dodged out quick in case they noticed me, but I got an eyeful first, and I recognized a couple of them. I’ve had many a laugh at them an’ all that they don’t know about.’
Mrs Nuttall came beside them. ‘Your tongue’ll get you hung, Cissie. You’d better keep your mouth shut about what you seen that night or you might get into a lot of trouble.’
Cissie was unabashed. ‘They had little aprons on them too. Laugh!’ she said quietly to Cathy. ‘And they try to tell the likes of us what to do.’
Cathy laughed as she told Greg about it when she reached home, and he laughed too but seemed to agree with Mrs Nuttall.
‘Cissie should be careful, Cath,’ he said. ‘Those men are very influential, you know.’
‘I wonder if it was true – what she said she saw?’
‘I think it probably was, but she’d be wiser to say nothing about it.’
Cathy told Cissie about Greg’s advice, but she only said airily, ‘No good worrying, girl. I never worry now ‘cos the things I’ve worried about never happened, but something else what I’d never thought about comes up and hits me in the gob.’
Cathy said no more, feeling that she had plenty of other things to think about at this time. Several letters had arrived from Sam since the funeral. He wrote that Mary was heartbroken about her father, and he was taking her for a short winter holiday to take her mind off her sorrow. Later he wrote that they had returned from their holiday and their friends had arranged parties for Mary to console her, but she was still too upset to write to her mother.
Eventually a letter came in which she said that she had been prostrated by news of her father’s death. “The worst part was the fact that I was not with him as he would have wished. You know he always idolized me,” she wrote. “Thank goodness he had the joy of seeing us last year, which must have helped him in his last hours.”
Sally handed the letter to Cathy without comment, and she read it and handed it back, saying, ‘Artistically tear-stained, I see.’ She felt that she was being catty but Sally nodded her agreement, and they looked quizzically at each other.
Chapter Twenty-Four
As the months passed and spring came all the family found that the first sharpness of their grief passed too. Sally had told Sarah that she must feel free to go out and enjoy herself.
‘Your grandad didn’t believe in people mourning, you know, love. Not public mourning anyhow. And he didn’t think that insurance money should go on black clothes in case the neighbours talked, either.’
Sarah glanced down at her black dress. ‘I wanted a black dress though, Grandma. I thought it showed respect.’
‘Then it was right for you to have it, love, and I wouldn’t feel right in anything else but black. What Grandad was talking about was women rigging out the whole family in deep black out of the insurance money, when they would need it to pay a debt or to feed their family with the breadwinner gone.’
‘I suppose so,’ Sarah said doubtfully. ‘But when Mr Mullen died, Mary said it was the only time they ever had new clothes.’
Sally smiled at her. ‘Like I always say, love, there’s always two sides to everything. What I mean is, if you want to go to the pictures, love, you should go. It might help you, and it wouldn’t mean that you didn’t love Grandad or grieve for him. Plenty of time for that while you’re on your own, but he wouldn’t want you to be sad on his account, Sar.’
‘I wouldn’t go with Michael,’ Sarah said. ‘He won’t ask me anyway now.’
‘But you’re still friends,’ Sally said.
‘Yes, we say a few words when he buys his pie, but nothing personal.’
Cathy was pleased when Sarah told her what Sally had said. ‘I’m glad Grandma’s mentioned it to you,’ she said. ‘I’ve been thinking you should get out more, but I wasn’t sure how she felt about it.’
‘She said Grandad didn’t believe in mourning. Well, only in just the way you were bound to feel yourself, but not for other people to see or for any set time.’
She found that she could speak quite naturally about her grandfather now. Her mother only sighed and said, ‘Aye, Dad had his own view of everything, and the right one, that other people came round to in time.’
‘I might ask Anne to go to the pictures,’ Sarah said.
‘Yes do, love,’ Cathy encouraged her. ‘You know, Sar, it helped me a lot going out on the jobs, and I enjoy them as much as the pictures. It’s no different just because I get paid for them.’
Mick had been upset at the funeral, but since then had not said much about the loss of his grandfather. Cathy was surprised and touched when she was told that he had been set an essay on Great Men and had written about his grandfather.
Greg met one of the masters from the College at church and he told him about it.
‘An excellent essay. Your father must have been a remarkable man.’
‘My wife’s father, actually,’ Greg said. ‘But I agree with Mick – er – Michael. Lawrie was a great man, and he’s greatly missed.’
The master smiled. ‘I told Michael that I expected him to write about Cardinal Newman, William Wilberforce or someone of that stature, but he told me, politely but firmly, that they were famous men but his grandfather was the greatest man he had ever known. He’s a young man who knows his own mind and is not afraid to speak it.’
‘Perhaps he inherited that trait from his grandfather,’ Greg said with a smile.
He repeated all that the master had said to Cathy, and she in turn repeated it to her mother. They both wept a little, but they were tears of pride rather than of sorrow.
John was the only one unable to come to terms with his grandfather’s death. He was still filled with anger and bitterness when he thought of Lawrie’s lifelong fight to improve conditions for the poor, and the little he had been able to achieve. He spent most of his time either at the Club, where he met members he thought of as men of action, or at open air meetings.
He saw little of Gerry but became friendly with a man of his own age who had been unemployed since leaving school, and was as bitter as John. They were proud to meet Leo M’Gree, who had led the Birkenhead Unemployed Demonstration against the Means Test and had been sentenced to twenty months’ hard labour as a result.
‘That’s the way to do it!’ John exclaimed to his friend Bill. ‘Action. It showed the bosses were scared when Leo M’Gree got that sentence, and it made a lot of people aware of what’s going on today. My grandad spent his life battering his head against a brick wall, with hardly anything to show for it.’
‘He did a lot of good, though, John,’ said Bill. ‘He was very well thought of among the people I know.’
‘I know he was, and I’m not belittling what he did,’ John exclaimed. ‘I’m just mad to think that he worked so hard, and made sacrifices, and because he tried to do things constitutionally he got virtually nowhere. Mind you, he said to me once he’d given hostages to fortune by having a wife and children to consider. That’s one mistake I won’t make.’
‘Neither will I,’ said Bill, adding bitterly, ‘how could I keep them anyway?’
They were in this mood on a fine June evening when there was a meeting of unemployed men on some waste ground in Everton, and John and Bill went to listen to the speakers.
One of the speakers was insisting that the men’s patriotism was not in doubt, and they were loyal Englishmen who only objected to the way they were being treated by the men now in power.
‘I love my country,’ the speaker said, and suddenly John’s bitterness overflowed. He jumped up on to the platform and snatched the loud hailer from the speaker’s hand.
‘So you love your country,’ he shouted. ‘Does your country love you? “What did you do in the war, Daddy?” That was the slogan they had the cheek to use to get you in the Army. What did you do? You
men who had never known anything but hunger and misery. Waiting at the Dock Gates from four o’clock in the morning, ragged and hungry, on the chance of half a day’s work – and more often than not sent away, not wanted.
‘But you were wanted when the war came, weren’t you, and you went off like sheep to fight for the rich who stayed at home. You fought and died to keep their comforts intact. That’s what you died in your thousands for, not for yourselves or your families. You had nothing when you went and you got nothing when you came back – those who did come back.’
The men on the platform had been trying to wrest the loud hailer from John, and there had been growls of disapproval from the crowd, but suddenly a man shouted: ‘He’s right, the lad’s right. We were bloody fools,’ and John dragged back the loud hailer and shouted again.
‘Homes fit for heroes you were promised. Did you get them?’
And the crowd roared, ‘No.’
‘Will you fight for them if there’s another war?’ John yelled again, and again the crowd roared, ‘No.’
There were concerted angry shouts and John was suddenly aware of a ring of policemen with drawn batons surrounding the crowd. A man on the platform shouted frantically, ‘Clear off. Clear off, men,’ but at the same moment John felt a blow on his head and a policeman’s hand clutched his collar.
‘Clear off, men. Vamoose,’ the speaker on the platform was still yelling. ‘Don’t give them an excuse for a baton charge.’ But the charge had already begun.
John was dragged away and bundled into a police van, and a short time later he was in a cell at the Main Bridewell. His shirt was torn and he had lost a shoe, and in addition he had a black eye and two broken fingers, but none of this mattered to him.
He was still in a state of euphoria after his first experience of carrying a crowd with him, and told himself that he didn’t care what they did to him now. He had made his protest and he knew now that he could speak in public as his grandfather had dreamed he would do.
After an uneasy night spent lying on the sloping plank bed he felt less cheerful but still felt proud of the part he had played. He was brought before the magistrates with about twenty other men who had been present at the meeting. He held his head high, quite prepared to give another speech if he had the opportunity.
On the previous evening Cathy and Greg had gone to the dance at the Grafton Rooms with Josie and Walter, for the first time since Lawrie’s death. They had enjoyed the dance and their stroll home through the balmy evening, but when they reached home they found Sally sitting with Sarah.
‘Mam, what’s happened?’ Cathy exclaimed. ‘Is it Kate – Mick?’
‘No, they’re all right,’ Sally said. ‘John’s in a bit of trouble, that’s all, so I came to sit with Sarah.’
‘What sort of trouble?’ Greg asked.
‘Something and nothing, probably,’ Sally said calmly. ‘There was a message that he had been arrested at a meeting, you know how the police just gather anyone up, but he’s been taken to the Main Bridewell.’
Cathy’s hand flew to her mouth. ‘Oh, Greg,’ she said faintly. He gave her a reassuring hug.
‘Don’t worry, I’ll go down there and sort things out. I may be some time, so I hope you’ll all go to bed.’
‘I couldn’t,’ Cathy exclaimed. ‘Not till I know he’s all right.’
A look passed between Sally and Greg, and Sally said firmly, ‘No sense in us all being up, Cathy. It could take hours. You know the red tape in those places, so I’m going to bed and I think you should too.’
Cathy agreed to go to bed after she had seen her mother home safely, and Greg went to the Bridewell. Cathy was still awake when he returned alone and told her that John would be detained overnight and would face the magistrate on the following morning.
He went downstairs again and it seemed to Cathy that he was downstairs for hours. She had fallen asleep by the time he came up to bed.
The men who had been arrested were in a group waiting to go into court when a clerk came up to the policemen who were guarding them. He was holding a sheet of paper, and said: ‘Redmond. Which is Redmond?’
‘I’m here,’ John said eagerly.
The man ignored him. ‘Put him up last,’ he said to the policemen, then disappeared. John held his head high, smiling proudly. That’s because I made the speech, he thought exultantly.
The men were ushered into the court and quickly dealt with. Most of them were sentenced to two weeks in gaol or a fine of two pounds, but two men received sentences of six weeks with no option of a fine and were warned by the magistrates about their future behaviour. Most of those with the option elected to serve the fourteen days, as they were unable or unwilling to pay the fine.
I wonder what they’ll do to me, John thought with dismay mixed with pride as the order was given: ‘Put up Redmond.’ But he had to stand in the dock, ignored, as a letter was passed round the magistrates. They conferred for a few moments, with the youngest magistrate seemingly persuading the others, a white-haired man and a woman.
The charge was read out, then the clerk of the court called, ‘Gregory Redmond’, and John was astounded to see his father. Greg wore the dark suit and white shirt he wore for special occasions, and answered confidently in his deep pleasant voice the questions asked by the magistrates about the letter which he had evidently written.
John listened as though in a dream, then sudden anger seemed to make a red mist before his eyes. He tried to speak, to shout angrily at his father to leave him alone. He started forward but his arm was gripped more firmly and a policeman muttered ferociously, ‘Button your lip.’
The grip on his arms was tightened agonizingly as his father returned to his seat, and for the first time, it seemed, the magistrates looked at John.
‘In some ways your behaviour has been more reprehensible than that of the other men because you have had the advantage of a good home, and a good father to guide you. You have chosen to flout his authority and mix with bad companions who’ve played on your vanity and idealism to lead you astray,’ the youngest magistrate said, severely. ‘Nevertheless, your father has come here today to ask for clemency for you and to promise that this behaviour will not be repeated. For his sake we are prepared to give you another chance. You will be fined five pounds. Consider yourself a very fortunate young man. It will be hard labour the next time.’
John was hustled out of the court before he could speak, and was furious to be told that his father had paid the fine.
‘Don’t I have the option of gaol?’ he demanded.
‘Shut your gob and get out while the going’s good,’ the sergeant advised him. ‘And don’t come back. You won’t get off so light the next time.’
The next moment he found himself outside the court, walking along beside his father. ‘I didn’t want you here,’ he said angrily. ‘You made a fool of me before my friends, as though I was a child. Led astray, for God-sake.’ He banged his hand on a wall as they passed it, almost speechless with fury as he hobbled along wearing only one shoe.
‘Do you think I enjoyed going there?’ Greg demanded. ‘Admitting that my son was in the dock. Humiliating myself to plead for you.’
‘Then why did you?’ John demanded. ‘I’d rather have gone to gaol with the others. I don’t want any favours. You seem to forget I’m twenty years old. I’m not a child.’
‘Then stop behaving like one,’ Greg snapped. ‘Why did I go? Not for your sake, believe me. A gaol sentence might have cured you of these heroics, but what about your mother and grandmother? What do you think it would do to them? Try thinking of others instead of yourself, for once.’
His mother! For the first time John thought of her and how she would feel about his arrest. He was silent until they reached Egremont Street.
‘I’d better go through the jigger,’ he muttered to his father, turning into the back entry behind the houses.
‘I’ll come that way too,’ his father said. ‘We’d better go in together.’
Cathy exclaimed in horror at her son’s appearance. ‘John, your eye, your face – and where’s your shoe?’ She looked anxiously at Greg. ‘What happened this morning?’
‘A fine of five pounds and a warning,’ he said briefly, then as Cathy went for a bowl of water to bathe John’s eye, he said, ‘Five pounds and five shillings costs, a new pair of shoes and a new shirt needed, a half day’s pay lost by me, and possibly your job lost. A high price for your dramatics. I hope you’re satisfied.’
He walked into the back kitchen to wash his hands as Cathy came through with the bowl, and a moment later he reappeared. ‘I’ll go right away,’ he said to Cathy.
‘Wait for a cup of tea at least, Greg,’ she said. ‘You’ve had nothing.’
‘I don’t want anything, thanks,’ he said, then kissed her and went without a glance at John.
Cathy gently bathed his eye. ‘What happened, son?’ she asked. ‘Did you get caught up in the crowd?’
‘No. I got on the platform and spoke,’ he said, unconsciously lifting his head proudly. ‘I think that’s why the police charged us.’
‘Why? What did you say?’ Cathy said in alarm.
‘I told them they’d be fools to fight for a country that treated them so badly.’
‘But that’s treason!’ she exclaimed. ‘No wonder the fine was five pounds. It’s a wonder they didn’t send you to gaol.’ She had finished bathing his eye. Now she stood up and picked up the bowl.
‘It makes me mad,’ John burst out, ‘to know the way these men have been treated, and see them licking the boots of the people who tread on them…’
‘That’s wild talk,’ she said. ‘I suppose that’s what you hear in that Club.’ John looked startled and she said angrily, ‘Oh, I know you still go there. I tell you straight, John, Grandad didn’t approve of that crowd and it seems he was right. That kind of wild talk doesn’t help anyone.’
‘You don’t understand,’ he said. He stood up and went upstairs.
Cathy was bitterly hurt by John’s remark that she wouldn’t understand. Hadn’t she always listened to his views and sympathized with him? Come to that, they were her views too; she had worried about destitute people and tried to get things changed long before John was born, and her dad had worked all his life to improve things. Greg’s right, she thought. John’s getting too big for his boots, thinking he’s the smart guy who can change things overnight. He didn’t deny that he goes to that Club either, she thought.
There is a Season Page 31
