THE GREAT WAR SAGAS: Box set of 2 passionate and inspiring stories: A Crimson Dawn and No Greater Love

by Janet MacLeod Trotter

  ‘Be serious for a minute,’ Flora said, losing patience.

  He bolted the rest of his soup and stood up. ‘Thank you, Sarah, delicious. I must go and say prayers at the youth club and hope they haven’t tied the new student teacher to the flagpole. Would you like to come, Doctor?’

  Flora nodded, wondering if she had annoyed him with mention of Major James. Charles was easily irritated by reference to his coal-owning father, as if he was embarrassed by his vast wealth. But she wanted nothing from him financially, and if it would help Emmie Kelso then she would keep on asking.

  As they walked out of the kitchen and across the quad, she hurriedly told him about the sickly girl.

  ‘She’s such a bright little thing and the mother doesn’t like keeping her off school, but she’s in a bad way. That terrible place! Raw sewage spilling out of a communal midden and no ventilation in those hovels. Can you believe people are still having to live like that in this day and age?’

  Charles shook his head. ‘We’ve conquered half the globe and helped ourselves to its riches, yet the common man sees none of it.’

  ‘And the common man’s wife sees even less,’ Flora retorted.

  ‘Can’t you alert the sanitary officer?’ Charles suggested.

  ‘Oh, he’s been,’ Flora grew more indignant, ‘but his orders fall on deaf ears. The magistrates won’t enforce improvements because they are also the rate payers who don’t want the expense. Those slums were condemned over twenty years ago, but they’re as overcrowded as ever.’

  The summer evening light retreated behind the tall brick buildings; the chapel bell began to toll. Flora stopped in the doorway to the hall. This place was incongruous, like a university college dropped in the middle of Gateshead’s teeming back-to-backs, an oasis of learning and pleasure amid the relentless poverty. It was a brave, madcap idea to bridge the social chasm - young, idealistic students living among the poor to bring about social change. Flora had heard from Charles how the Settlement Movement had begun with Oxford students going to live in London’s East End to teach and research into poverty. It had been a revelation to both social classes and the idea had soon spread to other industrial cities, often instigated by universities or theological colleges. Like the fountain that splashed in the centre of the courtyard, the place revived her flagging spirits.

  Charles sensed her mood and took her gently by the arm.

  ‘I’m sorry I was flippant before. Any mention of my father … I don’t want to go through life expecting privileges just because I was born an Oliphant - or for people to expect favours.’

  Flora held his look in the twilight. ‘I’m asking for Emmie’s sake, not mine.’

  ‘Of course. I’m sorry. I’ll do what I can to help.’

  He looked so boyishly unsure that Flora’s heart squeezed in sympathy. She told him about the MacRaes of Crawdene.

  Charles gave a mirthless laugh.

  ‘You’ve heard of them?’ she queried.

  He nodded. ‘Jonas MacRae is notorious in Crawdene - he started a socialist Sunday school in opposition to the chapel. Imagine that! In a village that’s ninety per cent Methodist. The last I heard he was trying to set up a branch of the Independent Labour Party.’

  ‘Well, I applaud him for that - they support women’s emancipation,’ Flora said.

  ‘Yes, but miners round here are almost solidly Liberal. Men like MacRae are too radical for most. He’s what my father would call a troublemaker and Mousy would call a “worky ticket”.’

  Flora looked dashed. ‘So you think I’m wrong to interfere and go looking for these MacRaes? Mrs Kelso talked of Jonas as a good, hard-working man.’

  ‘I’m sure he is,’ Charles said quickly. ‘And you’re right to try on the girl’s behalf. You can’t let her die; it’s unthinkable.’

  ‘But sending Emmie into a household of atheists?’

  ‘Why not?’ Charles laughed. ‘Better to be atheist than dead.’

  ‘That’s a strange notion for a future vicar,’ Flora remarked.

  ‘God can use atheists to build a better world too,’ he smiled. ‘I’ll make enquiries and find out where they live, though I don’t think you’ll have any difficulty finding them.’ He hesitated. ‘I’d offer to come with you, but I really don’t think it would help to have the boss’s son pleading your cause. From what I hear of Jonas MacRae, he’d say no on principle to an Oliphant.’

  Briefly, she touched the hand that still rested on her arm. ‘Thank you, Charles. I just needed to hear I was doing the right thing.’

  ‘Come on,’ he said brightly, ‘let’s go and sort out the little anarchists in here.’

  Together, they mounted the steps towards the shouts and shrieks beyond the hall door.

  ***

  It was the following Saturday afternoon before Flora had a spare moment to make the journey to Crawdene on her bicycle. Armed with an address from Charles, she left the sprawl of Gateshead and the smaller riverside towns behind. Doubts soon set in. She had no idea what these people were really like or whether her request would be a huge burden. Only the thought of Emmie lying panting in that squalid room, and Charles’s encouragement, kept her peddling forward.

  The climb grew steeper. She dismounted and pushed her bicycle up the last slope, into a westerly wind. Finally, Crawdene hove into view over the lip of the hill: a long line of terraced cottages with shorter streets running off into surrounding fields fringed by woods. Dominating the skyline, a short walk further uphill from the village was the Liddon pit, named after Charles’s dead older brother. The pithead was flanked by sheds and a massive spoil heap. She passed a solidly built brick Methodist chapel and a more modest hall with a tin roof. As they drew closer, Flora noticed the cottages were back-to-backs, the lanes in front mere rutted tracks. In winter they would be rivers of mud. On the breeze came a pungent smell of cesspools. Her heart sank. Emmie would be exchanging one dismal, unsanitary home for another. She stopped, debating whether to turn and leave before she was noticed.

  Suddenly, she was hit by a fresh blast of wind. It smelled of honey and hay. A cock crowed. She was reminded of childhood holidays in the countryside of East Lothian. Flora looked around more closely and noticed how some of the pitmen had carved out allotment gardens on steep ground across the dusty lanes. Sheds, made of old fencing and corrugated iron, clung on precariously amid chicken coops, rows of onions, climbing runner beans and sweet peas. It was the mix of colourful flowers grown among the practical vegetables that made Flora press on. This was ten times better than any riverside slum.

  She stopped at the co-operative store, crammed with tins, sacks, jars and cooking utensils. Shoppers stood aside for the tall, red-headed stranger in her outlandish cycling breeches and listened to her ask directions to the MacRae house.

  ‘Aye, they’re here all right,’ the head shopkeeper laughed. ‘Old Jonas still trying to turn Crawdene into Utopia.’

  A woman snorted. ‘Well, he’s got a job on his hands.’

  ‘Not in any bother, are they?’ another asked suspiciously. ‘That Rab’s a wild one - and young Samuel’s not much better. Turning their mam grey.’

  ‘No,’ Flora said quickly, ‘there’s nothing wrong. I’m just visiting on behalf of a friend.’

  A third woman took her to the door and pointed up the hill and off to the right.

  ‘Don’t listen to them - the lads are canny,’ she said in a hushed voice. ‘Bit hot-headed like their da and some take offence at them not ganin’ to the chapel, but they’d give you the shirts off their backs if you asked them. Up there. China Street - number eighteen - left-hand side.’

  Thank you,’ Flora smiled. ‘It’s an unusual address, isn’t it?’

  The woman chuckled. ‘Reckon pit owner stuck pins in an atlas when he named the streets. We’ve got the whole world in Crawdene from Italy to Siam.’

  Flora had to stop herself telling the woman she was right. Except it had been twelve-year-old Charles and his four-year-old sister, Sop
hie, who had prodded their father’s atlas to choose the street names. Charles had told her the story with that mixture of shame and amusement he displayed when talking about his family.

  Leaving the bicycle at the store, being looked after by two eager boys, Flora picked her way between the ruts and open drains to China Street. Groups of children stopped their games to stare, but there were few men, just two elderly neighbours sitting out on stools and a glimpse of a man bent over a spade in his allotment.

  A dark-haired woman with lively eyes answered her knocking, wiping her hands on her apron. ‘Aye, I’m Helen MacRae. If it’s Jonas you’re after, he’s down at the hall, getting it ready for tonight’s speaker.’

  ‘Oh…’ Flora paused, wondering if there was any point speaking to Helen without her husband.

  Helen took charge of the situation. ‘Looks like you need a sit-down. Come away in. I’m putting on a broth for the lads.’

  Flora followed the pitman’s wife into the low-ceilinged cottage. ‘We’re expecting a good turn-out for the meetin’, but Jonas shouldn’t be too long - unless he’s already arguing with the speaker,’ she laughed.

  ‘What’s the occasion?’ Flora asked, intrigued.

  ‘Independent Labour Party - monthly meetin’. Jonas started a local branch after he heard Keir Hardie down Gateshead. There’s a debate tonight on universal suffrage.’

  ‘How interesting.’ Flora was impressed, despite her disquiet about the MacRaes’ reputation.

  ‘But you haven’t come to hear me prattle on about politics. Please sit down. You’ll have a cup of tea, Miss …?’

  ‘Dr Jameson. And thank you; that would be very welcome.’ Flora sat on the horsehair sofa and glanced around the kitchen-parlour. The furniture was solid: a well-scrubbed table with five chairs, a chiffonier that probably pulled out as a bed, and a big chest of drawers. The range was arrayed with pans and a large blackened kettle. The hearth was sooty and the fender dull, but the boots beside it were well polished, and a warm smell of baking made her mouth water.

  There were pictures of landscapes on the wall and a large family photograph: Helen in an old-fashioned bonnet beside a stout man with a thick moustache and side whiskers and, in front of them, a row of three solemn, handsome boys. Beside it hung a large framed text proclaiming the Socialist Ten Commandments. Flora had a pang of misgiving. She did not want Emmie to be left with troublemakers. But when Helen thrust a warm scone and a cup of tea at her, Flora dismissed her doubts. Any arrangement over Emmie would only be for a few months - a year at the most.

  With plate balanced on her lap, Flora launched into her story about the Kelsos. Helen’s round face creased in concern.

  ‘Poor Mary! We thought she’d remarried. Jonas’s letters got returned saying she’d gone away - we just assumed - with her not keepin’ in touch, like. And they were such bonny baims. Nelly, wasn’t it? What a live spark. And wee Emmie, bright as a button and full of chatter for one so young. Like she’d been here before.’

  ‘She’s hardly able to speak now, her breathing’s so bad,’ Flora told her. She took a deep breath and came out with her request that the MacRaes take her in for a while.

  ‘I know it’s asking a lot and I won’t think any the worse of you for saying no - and of course you’ll have to consult your husband - but could we just see if the change in air helps? And it goes without saying that you’ll be reimbursed for the cost of food and clothing. Mr Ol— er - friends of mine at the Settlement in Gateshead and I will help. A good diet would make such a difference to the girl; she’s quite malnourished. You don’t have to let me know now - but after you’ve had a chance to talk to Mr MacRae …’

  Helen fixed her with a curious look. ‘Why are you doing all this for the lass?’

  Flora hesitated. She had kept asking herself the same question. It was anger at the poverty she saw daily, the appeal from her friend Maria Dillon to intervene on behalf of her brightest pupil, the wish to do something for the helpless widow, Mary Kelso. But there were a score of Mary Kelsos in her area. It was Emmie herself - her lively, intelligent eyes - the potential Flora sensed in her, that goaded her to act. She reminded Flora of herself at such an age - a girl with a thirst for life. Why should Emmie be denied a future because of poverty and ill health? Flora’s generation were going to change the world for all women - working-class women as much as any. In the meantime, if she could act to save one of her patients from dire poverty, she would.

  Flora simply answered, ‘Her teacher asked me to help.’

  Helen nodded. ‘Of course we’ll take the lass. My Jonas and her da were like brothers. They may not have seen much of each other over the years, but they’d each do owt for the other. John would’ve done the same for one of our lads.’

  Flora hid her surprise at the woman’s forthrightness; she had expected a pitman’s wife to defer to her husband’s wishes in all things, especially on such an important matter. She felt a wave of gratitude towards the kind-hearted woman. ‘Thank you so much.’

  ‘And I won’t hear of taking money off you.’ Helen brushed aside her thanks. ‘What about the other lass?’

  ‘Nell? She’s much more robust. Must be nearing leaving school. I had it in mind to offer her cleaning work at the surgery.’

  Just then, the back door banged open to a clatter of boots and loud voices. Flora turned to see two youths in filthy jackets and caps stamp into the kitchen. Their faces were so smeared in coal dust, it was impossible to tell their ages.

  ‘Boots off, lads, before you take another step,’ Helen ordered.

  They stopped and stared at the well-dressed visitor. The slighter one pulled off his cap to reveal a thatch of dirty fair hair. He blushed and bent to untie his boots. The taller one with the curling dark hair gave Flora a keen gaze.

  ‘Are you the speaker for the night, miss?’

  ‘I’m afraid not,’ Flora smiled, ‘though it sounds interesting. I belong to the Women’s Suffrage Society in Gateshead as it happens.’

  ‘Fancy that!’ Helen exclaimed. ‘These are my sons, Rab and Samuel.’

  Flora introduced herself, gingerly taking the grimy hand that the elder boy thrust at her.

  ‘Boots off, Rab.’

  But he carried on staring. ‘Would you like to gan to the meetin’? You could put in your penny’s worth. There’s plenty’ll argue against you.’

  ‘Rab, leave her be,’ Helen warned.

  ‘I’d like nothing better,’ Flora said, ‘but I have calls to do this evening.’

  Rab nodded. ‘You could come and speak another time. We like to hear what’s ganin’ on in the towns. If Oliphant had his way, there’d be no newspapers or books in Crawdene, save the Bible to read.’

  ‘Really?’ Flora felt uncomfortable. Should she mention her connection with the coal-owner’s family?

  ‘Aye, he’s the ogre that owns everything round here—’

  ‘Rab!’ his mother said sharply. ‘You’ll get us all into trouble with that tongue of yours.’

  Rab grinned as he pulled off his boots.

  Helen looked apologetic. ‘Major Oliphant’s the landlord - owns the Liddon pit and several others round here. You’ll not repeat my son’s words, will you? He’s just having a joke.’

  ‘Of course I won’t,’ Flora assured her as she rose to go. Now would not be the time to confess a friendship with Charles. ‘I can see you have much to do. I’ll leave my address and you can send word when it’s convenient for Emmie to come and stay once you’ve had a chance to talk it over with Mr MacRae.’ It still seemed possible to Flora that the patriarch Jonas might say no.

  ‘Who’s Emmie?’ Rab asked.

  Helen raised a hand to silence him. ‘I’ll explain after.’

  ‘I’m very grateful,’ Flora said, taking the woman’s hand. ‘I can see you are good people.’

  Rab laughed. ‘That’s not what they say about us down the chapel.’

  His mother glared at him. ‘Take no notice,’ she sighed at the doctor. />
  Flora turned at the door with a smile for the mischievous Rab and his bashful brother. They grinned back. As she left, a small skinny boy appeared at the loft hatch overhead and peered down at them.

  ‘That’s our pet ferret,’ Rab joked, as the boy dodged out of sight.

  ‘Our Peter, he means,’ Helen said with a roll of her eyes. ‘He’s a bit shy - not like some.’

  On the way home, free-wheeling down the bank from Crawdene, Flora had pangs of doubt again. Was the house too small? Where would Emmie sleep with all those boys? And that Rab - so quick to speak his mind, like a moth flying at a flame. And she had not met the infamous Jonas, who was no doubt ten times more outspoken.

  Then she shook off her worries. Helen MacRae was warmhearted and caring. She would welcome Emmie with open arms and that’s all that mattered. She could not wait to tell Charles all about her visit. The thought made her pick up speed and race back to town.

  Chapter 3

  In early August, Flora returned to the Kelsos with news that the MacRaes were willing to take Emmie. Emmie was asleep when she came, but was woken later by Nell shouting at her mother about the unfairness of it all.

  ‘Do you want your sister to die?’ Mary finally snapped.

  ‘No.’

  ‘Then stop your complaining. The doctor’s offering you work at the surgery once you’re fourteen.’

  ‘Aye, scrubbing floors,’ Nell said indignantly.

  ‘Least it’s work,’ Mary sighed. ‘If you keep in, she might give you a bit book-keeping or clerking.’

  ‘I’m ganin’ to swing on the trapezes,’ Nell declared.

  Mary closed her eyes in despair. ‘If you’re offered a job you’ll take it and be grateful - then maybe we can leave this terrible place and find somewhere better for Emmie.’

  ‘Emmie! Always Emmie,’ Nell railed and stamped out of the room.

  After letters to and fro about travel arrangements, it was decided that her mother would take Emmie as far as Swalwell on the train. The MacRaes would fetch her from there. Emmie began to dread the moment when she would have to say goodbye to her mother. Nell made it worse with her stories of gloom.