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

by Janet MacLeod Trotter

  Tom was smirking at the worthless present. He had given her a large leather shopping bag, a bottle of lavender water and a soft woollen bed jacket. Emmie quelled her curiosity at the book and wrapped it up again.

  Tom stood up. ‘Haway, Emmie, it’s time I got you home.’

  Helen’s face fell. ‘But you haven’t had your tea - stay a bit longer.’

  Emmie avoided a row and followed Tom. ‘I couldn’t eat a thing. I’ll call round soon,’ she promised.

  Helen held her at arm’s length and looked her over. Then she nodded and let her go. Emmie hurried out after Tom, glad of the frosty air after the stuffy kitchen full of cooking and tobacco smells that made her nauseous. She slipped her arm through Tom’s.

  ‘I can’t wait to get home,’ she sighed.

  He patted her arm and smiled in satisfaction. ‘Aye, just the two of us.’

  Helen turned from waving them away, her look thoughtful.

  ‘What’s bothering you, lassie?’ Jonas demanded. ‘They’re young and want to get back to their own fireside.’

  ‘Aye,’ Helen agreed. ‘And if I’m not mistaken, there’ll be another one at their fireside, this time next year.’

  ‘What’s that?’ Jonas asked. ‘Speak up. What did you say?’

  ‘I think our Emmie’s expectin’, that’s what.’

  Chapter 12

  1912

  Emmie stood in the shade of the back door, trying to catch some breeze. She could not get comfortable. The kitchen was too hot; the hard chairs made her back ache. The baby kicked within her, restless. It was difficult now to walk all the way to the shops and back without having to sit down, especially in the sudden hot spell of late June.

  But she revelled in being pregnant. The Currans treated her like a queen, not letting her lift a finger. Even Louise, who had been miffed at Emmie becoming pregnant first, was now full of excitement at the impending birth and knitting endless hats and booties.

  ‘Auntie Louise, eh? We can take the bairn out every day, once you’re out of confinement.’

  Helen called in when she knew Tom was at work and helped Emmie with the heavier chores of washing and blackening the grate. From her aunt, she heard news of the family and the wider world. Rab was working part time for the ILP, helping put out its weekly newspaper, so he had little time for knife-grinding.

  ‘Getting a name for himself teaching night classes too,’ Helen said proudly. ‘They want him to start giving lectures at the Settlement come the autumn.’

  ‘That’s grand,’ Emmie said with a small pang of envy. She had lost touch with her friends in Gateshead. She had not heard from Dr Flora since Christmas, and the occasional letter from Mabel’s arthritic hand was hard to decipher. Yet she blamed herself for not keeping in touch. After writing with news of her forthcoming baby, Emmie had nothing to tell. Life was humdrum, one day much like the last.

  Once she had started to feel less ill, Emmie had filled the days with preparing for the baby, sewing small sheets and knitting an elaborate shawl. Keeping house for her and Tom was now routine, and often on wet wintry days time had hung heavily while she waited for her husband’s return. Talk of the Settlement made her restless. She did not tell Helen how much she missed her old job at times, as well as the modest wages. Now she had no money to call her own. For over two years she had earned ten shillings a week, five shillings to spend how she wanted after giving the rest in housekeeping to Helen.

  Tom gave her twelve shillings’ housekeeping every Friday night, before they went out to the chapel social. She had to account for every penny and pay the shortfall in rent not covered by the meagre allowance from Oliphant’s coal company. Now she appreciated why Rab had protested so loudly at the unfairness. Tom paid into an insurance scheme, a burial fund, chapel collection and football subs. He treated himself to five Woodbines a week and kept their spare cash hidden in the linen drawer. Emmie did not dare help herself to any of it as Tom knew exactly how much was there. At least now that he had changed to the early shift, they were able to have a weekly evening out at the chapel, at little or no cost.

  Helen came with other news too. That spring, she had fulminated at the defeat of the Conciliation Bill in Parliament. It sparked off a spate of window smashing and militancy.

  ‘They’re saying Miss Sophie got arrested,’ she said, wide-eyed.

  ‘Never! What for?’ Emmie gasped.

  For chucking a brick through a town-hall window in Gateshead,’ Helen answered with glee. ‘She’s joined the suffragettes.’

  ‘Is she in gaol?’

  ‘No - magistrates let her off with a caution. They say one of them was that MP, Hauxley. Well, he’s thick with Oliphant, isn’t he?’

  ‘Still, it was a brave thing to do,’ Emmie said in admiration.

  For the umpteenth time, she wondered what would have become of Miss Sophie and Rab if she had not interfered that day. Once, she would have been able to talk to Rab about such things; now she rarely saw him and had no idea what he thought any more. Only the volume of poems given her at Christmas provided a tantalising clue. Why the sonnets of Keats and Shelley? Was it saying that he hoped she would stay happily in love with Tom, or was it one of his jokes, mocking the very idea of love? The radical Shelley, who despised marriage, royalty and religion, was one of Rab’s favourite poets.

  ‘There’s a march in Newcastle planned for July,’ Helen told her on the most recent visit, ‘a pageant - Great Women from History. The Guild can’t decide whether to go as Florence Nightingale and her nurses or Boadicea and her spear carriers. Jonas says we should gan just as we are - pitmen’s wives.’

  ‘Where’s the fun in that? You want to dress up,’ Emmie laughed. ‘I wish I could come.’

  Helen looked her over. ‘Not this year, pet. You look fit to burst. In a week or two you’ll have a bonny bairn to nurse.’

  Emmie nodded. Neither of them admitted that Tom would never allow her to go, even if she was not carrying his child. He disapproved of her involvement in anything outside the home, especially if it had to do with the Women’s Guild or suffragism. Before, when they were courting, Tom had tolerated her meetings and marches. But now, as his wife, she was made to feel disloyal for supporting anything with which he did not agree.

  Once he had said, ‘Emmie, what do you need to gan to the Guild for? Aren’t you happy here with me?’

  ‘Course I am, but—’

  ‘You’d rather spend an evening gossiping with a bunch of wives than with yer husband.’

  ‘It’s not gossiping,’ Emmie replied, ‘we have talks and debates - we learn things.’

  ‘Mam never saw the need to join,’ Tom reproved. ‘She says leave the talkin’ to the men. There’s more than enough to do in the home - and those who spend too much time at meetings divn’t look after their homes properly.’

  Stubbornly, Emmie continued to go to the Guild on Wednesdays until April, when she found it too tiring. Secretly, it was a relief not to come home to an offended Tom who would not speak to her or touch her in bed. It was easier to go along with his likes and dislikes. Then she was rewarded with Tom in a good mood, being funny and affectionate.

  He was overjoyed at the pregnancy and fussed over her protectively, even doing jobs around the house. He filled the coal hod and dadded his work clothes against the yard wall to shake out the coal dust. He lifted heavy pans and went to the standpipe for water. He talked with impatience of the day he would become a father and she loved him for it. Once the baby arrived, they would be a proper family. She longed for the time when she would be too busy looking after her child to miss her old life.

  Standing in her back doorway that hot June afternoon, she pushed away the dark tresses that clung to her damp brow, listening out for Tom’s footstep. But it was a breathless Louise who appeared first, waving a handbill.

  ‘Emmie! You’ll never guess what?’ she called in excitement.

  Emmie smiled quizzically. ‘We’ve won the vote?’

  ‘Don’t be d
aft,’ Louise said impatiently. ‘Look at this. They’re coming to Blackton tomorra night.’

  ‘Who are?’ Emmie tried to look at the piece of paper her friend was jiggling in front of her.

  ‘The Yorkshire Players - a touring variety act. But look at the names. There - the soprano singer - Nell Kelso. Isn’t that your sister?’

  Emmie felt winded. She clutched her stomach in shock. ‘Nelly?’

  ‘Eeh, Emmie, get inside and sit down,’ Louise ordered.

  She steered her to a kitchen stool and smoothed out the paper on the table. Emmie stared at the list of performers, her sister’s name in bold black ink as a star turn. Louise thrust a cup of water into her shaking hands.

  ‘Could it really be our Nelly?’ Emmie whispered.

  ‘Course it could.’ Louise was adamant. ‘She ran off with a music-hall lad, didn’t she? And Nell was a canny singer. Didn’t you say she was always threatening to run off with the circus or music-hall acts when you were bairns?’

  Emmie nodded. She looked at Louise, hardly daring to hope.

  ‘But what if it’s not her?’

  Louise shrugged. ‘There’s only one way to find out.’

  Emmie’s heart quickened. ‘I want to gan and see her. Will you come with me, Lou?’

  ‘Better ask Tom first,’ Louise cautioned. ‘He might not want you gallivantin’ around so near to your time.’

  Emmie reached out and squeezed her hand. ‘Back me up, won’t you?’

  When Tom trudged in, he gave his sister a suspicious look.

  ‘What you two plottin’?’

  Louise showed him the advertisement.

  ‘Will you take me?’ Emmie asked. ‘Please, Tom.’

  He shook his head. ‘You’re in no state to be ganin’ to a variety show.’

  ‘You could get a lift over in Mr Attwater’s trap,’ Louise suggested. ‘I’m sure he’d help if he knew the reason.’

  ‘I divn’t want you gettin’ in a state - think of the bairn,’ Tom fretted. ‘What if it’s a wild-goose chase?’

  ‘I won’t get in a state,’ Emmie said, her look pleading. ‘It might be me only chance of findin’ out what really happened to Nelly.’

  His look was dubious. ‘I thought she was a bad ‘un? If she gets you all upset—’

  Louise intervened. ‘Look at her, Tom. She’ll do herself more harm staying here and not knowing.’

  Tom bent and kissed Emmie on her head.

  ‘All right, lass. If that’s what you want, then I’ll take you,’ he conceded.

  Emmie clutched his hand in gratitude. ‘Thanks, Tom.’

  The young Methodist minister was happy to take them across to Blackton, declaring he liked a bit of theatre now and again. He was more liberal in this than Barnabas Curran, who believed all theatre was the work of the Devil. Louise, who had instigated the trip, was not prepared to provoke her father’s wrath by going with them. So Emmie was grateful for the minister’s support, and especially for Tom being prepared to defy his father for her sake. She had noticed how much more Tom stood up to the senior Curran since their marriage. The leather belt of chastisement had gone from its hook by the fireside the day Tom left home.

  By the time the curtain went up in the Miners’ Hall at Blackton, Emmie was nearly sick with anticipation. When Nell Kelso walked on stage in a sequined dress, arms spread out in long black gloves that came up past her elbows, Emmie had a moment of doubt. Her hair was the colour of corn and her body pencil-thin. But the broad mouth and dark eyes, made more alluring by make-up, were instantly recognisable.

  She clutched Tom’s hand. ‘That’s her - that’s Nelly!’

  Tom gave her an answering squeeze. They sat holding hands as Nell’s vibrant voice filled the hall and she glided around the stage in her glittering gown, captivating the audience with her songs and ready smile. When she sang in the finale, Nell was given a standing ovation and even Mr Attwater stood up and shouted, ‘Brava!’

  Afterwards, they waited for the hall to empty and then sent a message backstage to ask for Nell. She appeared some minutes later in a slim-fitting dress of pink chiffon, her hair, released from its tight pins, framing her elfin face.

  She came towards Emmie grinning, with hands outstretched. As Emmie stood up to greet her sister, Nell caught sight of her pregnant state and froze.

  ‘Emmie, you’re expecting!’

  Emmie smiled and went to hug her. They embraced awkwardly over Emmie’s bulge.

  ‘I married Tom,’ Emmie said proudly, turning to nod at her husband. He was looking handsome in his best suit and stiff collar, grinning bashfully as Nell came forward to shake his hand.

  ‘Congratulations. Our Emmie’s a lucky girl.’

  ‘I am,’ Emmie agreed. ‘Eeh, it’s grand to see you, Nelly! Why did you run off like that? You had everyone that worried. And not even a card—’

  ‘Don’t nag,’ Nell said, rolling her eyes. ‘I bet the fuss was over in days. I told you I couldn’t go and live in that mission place.’

  Emmie stopped herself asking about the money. ‘Dr Flora missed you a lot. Will you gan and see her while you’re in the area?’

  Nell shrugged. ‘We’re near the end of the tour - I might do.’

  ‘I’ve so much to tell you. Sam got married to Louise and we got wed at the Settlement and—’

  Tom interrupted. ‘Emmie, the minister’s waiting outside to take us home.’

  Emmie looked at him in dismay. ‘Can Nell come back with us? I just want a bit of time with her.’

  Tom looked unsure.

  ‘Can you come, Nelly?’ she urged. ‘Stay the night at ours and catch up with the others the morra. That’s all right, isn’t it, Tom?’

  Tom hesitated then nodded. Nell looked between them. ‘I suppose I could - I mean, I’d like to. Give me a few minutes to fetch my bags.’

  They went outside to explain to the minister. He laughed and said he might get her to lead the singing in chapel on Sunday.

  ‘Oh, she’ll not be stoppin’ that long,’ Emmie said hastily, imagining the consternation Nell’s brash appearance would cause in their spartan chapel.

  Tom helped Emmie up into the carriage and stood around whistling while they waited.

  ‘She talks posh, doesn’t she?’ he mused. ‘Not like you, Emmie.’

  Emmie flushed. ‘That’s just an act - some’at she’s learned for the stage.’

  ‘Still,’ Tom said, ‘it’s canny to listen to.’

  That evening, they sat up late, listening to Nell’s amazing tales of travel through England with different theatre troupes. She had parted company with Jackman soon after leaving Tyneside. Nell was vague about how she had managed to break into music hall.

  ‘I made a name for myself singing in various establishments around Leeds,’ she said grandly. ‘Jackman got me introductions, but he wanted me to stay put. I told him I wouldn’t end up in the West End of London by hanging round Leeds beer halls all my life.’

  ‘Beer halls?’ Tom said, wide-eyed.

  ‘Concert halls,’ Nell smiled.

  Emmie found it hard to keep her eyes open or stop yawning. While Nell carried on chatting to Tom, she made up a bed for her sister on the horsehair sofa, a wedding present from the Currans.

  ‘Tom needs to be up for the early shift,’ Emmie told Nell.

  ‘Get yourself to bed,’ Tom told her. ‘I’ll come when I’m ready.’

  Emmie lay in the stuffy bedroom, unable to get comfortable, listening to the drone of conversation and laughter. It struck her that she and Tom did not laugh together like that any more. When had it stopped? After their courting days or the first few weeks of marriage, when it had all been new and exciting? The boundaries of her world had gradually shrunk. Life had become dull; she had become dull. Perhaps Tom found her so, compared to the vivacious Nell. He had never met anyone of Nell’s type before.

  Emmie tried to be optimistic. It was just because she was pregnant and not able to do as much. Once the baby was here, th
ere would be plenty to laugh about together.

  Emmie turned over again, a sharp pain gripping her, as if an invisible hand squeezed her womb. She stifled a cry. It eased off, but as soon as she closed her eyes, it came again. The pain came and went for half an hour or more. She longed for Tom to come to bed, but did not want to make a fuss. Was this normal, or was something terrible happening to the baby?

  When Tom finally crept to bed at two o’clock, the pain had worn off. He leaned over and kissed her. There was a sour smell to his breath.

  ‘You’ve been drinking,’ she whispered in astonishment. ‘You never drink.’

  Tom sniggered. ‘That sister of yours had a drop of brandy. Said it helps her sleep after performin’. Seemed bad manners not to join her.’

  Emmie was surprised, but did not really mind. Jonas and the boys had a drop of whisky on holidays without coming to harm. And this was a special occasion, being reunited with the wandering Nell. She decided to say nothing about the pains. She would ask Helen in the morning.

  But rising early to make Tom breakfast before he left for work, she felt ill. And when she went to the outside water closet, a rush of colourless liquid poured between her legs. She leaned against the wall, shaking. Returning to the kitchen, she felt faint.

  ‘Tom, I don’t feel well…’

  He eyed her groggily over a cup of tea. Behind him, Nell slept deeply.

  ‘I think the baby …’

  At once he was alert. ‘The baby?’

  ‘I had pains in the night,’ she confessed, ‘and just now — I - wet mesel’.’

  Tom sprang up. ‘Why didn’t you say owt?’ he cried. ‘I’ll fetch Mam.’

  Emmie wanted to stop him, tell him to go and call on Helen for help. The house was not clean enough for her mother-in-law and she would disapprove of Nell.

  ‘What about me sister?’ Emmie whispered.

  Tom hesitated, glancing at the sleeping Nell, her arms thrown out, mouth open, golden hair loose across the pillow. Emmie noticed the flush that came to his cheeks.

  ‘Why don’t you call on Auntie Helen? Let’s not bother your mam yet,’ Emmie said quickly.