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

by Janet MacLeod Trotter

  She was not there. She would be out at the shops, spending his money, he thought in irritation. There was no tea cooking on the stove, no hot water in the hanging pot. Tom looked around more closely. Nell’s bags had gone from under the sofa, her hairbrush and eau-de-Cologne from the mantelpiece. Quickly he checked his secret store of money in the linen drawer. It was gone, all twelve pounds of it; money he was saving for Emmie and the baby. Stunned, he sat down on a stool.

  There was a noise at the back door, a baby’s grizzling. Tom sprang up. Emmie stepped into the kitchen, carrying Barny. They hesitated, eyeing each other.

  ‘How did you know she’d gone?’ Tom demanded.

  ‘Louise came and told me,’ Emmie said, rocking the fretful Barny. ‘Your sister told her to get out - the way you should’ve done, Tom.’

  ‘I was ganin’ to,’ he said hotly.

  ‘Louise gave her a bit money to find lodgings in Newcastle.’

  ‘Gave her money?’ Tom cried. ‘She’s run off with all our savings, the thieving bitch!’

  Emmie gasped, ‘Oh, Tom -’

  ‘Don’t blame me. If you’d stopped at home like you should, you could’ve kept an eye on her. I’ve been too soft on the pair of you.’

  ‘Well, she’s gone now, so there’s an end to it.’ Emmie kept her temper. ‘I’ll not let her come between us again.’

  ‘And what about my hard-earned money?’ Tom demanded.

  Emmie sighed. ‘We can save up again. All that matters to me is that we’re back together - you, me and the bairn.’ She looked at him squarely. ‘Is that what you want, Tom?’

  He felt full of anger and resentment, yet as he looked at Emmie and Barny, he knew that all he ever wanted was them. Nell had flattered and made him feel important, desirable even. But she was dangerous, destructive. Suddenly he felt a wave of relief that Nell was gone, vanished like a bad dream.

  ‘Aye, that’s what I want, an’ all,’ he admitted. He held out his arms.

  Emmie rushed forward. Tom wrapped his arms around her and Barny.

  ‘Oh, Tom, I’m sorry about Nell and the money.’

  He kissed her. ‘I’m sorry too - for givin’ your sister too much attention and that. You know it’s you I care for, no one else, don’t you, lass?’

  Emmie nodded.

  ‘Here, give me that bairn,’ Tom said, taking Barny in his arms and jiggling him. The baby’s whimpering grew louder.

  ‘He needs a feed,’ Emmie said.

  Tom smiled bashfully and handed him back. ‘I’ll put the kettle on for a pot of tea, eh?’

  Emmie smiled, encouraged. She knew it would be all right as soon as the meddling Nell was gone. As she fed Barny, she watched Tom brew the tea, then fry up some potatoes and onions for their meal.

  She blurted out, ‘I love you, Tom Curran.’

  He looked round in surprise and grinned with pleasure.

  Later, as they lay in bed listening to the sounds of Barny’s soft breathing, Tom said, ‘I didn’t like the way you ran off to the MacRaes, Emmie. Why did you do that?’

  ‘They’re me family,’ Emmie said, feeling awkward. ‘I didn’t know where else to turn.’

  ‘You should’ve turned to me.’ Tom was adamant. ‘I’m your family now. I don’t want other folks poking their nose in our business - not the MacRaes, not even me da. I’ll not have him bawlin’ at me in front of me marras again. Do you hear?’

  Emmie was dismayed at Tom’s bringing up the subject again, but she agreed. ‘Aye, Tom, if that’s what you want.’

  ‘It is. I love you, lass, and I’ll always tret you well. But I’m yer husband and you must do as I say from now on.’

  Emmie almost laughed, imagining how Helen would greet such pompous words from Jonas with a pithy denial.

  But Tom continued, ‘And don’t you ever take Barny away from me again. ‘Cos if you do, I’ll take me belt to you, good and proper.’

  Emmie was speechless. She peered at Tom in the half-dark, but his expression was serious. He sounded chillingly like his father. She realised then how much the Nell episode had humiliated him. She wanted to reply that if he ever took his belt to her, she would leave him good and proper. But her first instinct was always to back away from confrontation, to be conciliatory. So she said nothing.

  Tom rolled on to his side and fell asleep, while Emmie lay awake, plagued with thoughts of Nell’s mischief and Tom’s threats. Finally, she convinced herself that Tom would give her no cause ever to take Barny away. They had both been overwrought these past few days. Together, they would make a happy home for their beloved son.

  Chapter 13

  Nell was never mentioned again by the Currans and Emmie settled contentedly into motherhood, delighting in baby Barny and all he did. Tom was a besotted father, playing with his son and proudly showing him off when they went for walks or round to his parents. Only Emmie appeared to notice how this sometimes irritated Louise and Sam. She knew they longed for a baby too, but two years after marrying they were still childless.

  A down-turn in trade meant a period of short time at the pit and Sam never managed to have enough put by to rent their own place. Emmie and Tom managed on less and lived frugally, Tom giving up smoking and Emmie her books from the penny library in Blackton.

  ‘You don’t have time to read anyways,’ Tom pointed out. ‘We’ve got the Bible - you don’t need to fill yer head with owt else.’

  Sometimes Emmie would pull out her book of sonnets and read them aloud to Barny. He would babble at her, laugh and clap his hands as if it was a great joke.

  ‘It’s just a secret between you and me,’ she said, tickling him. ‘Your da’s forgotten I’ve got it.’ Barny would roll over and giggle. But when the small boy began to stagger about on his feet and say the occasional word, Emmie had to hide the book from his inquisitive reach.

  Everyone adored Barny. He had Tom’s hazel eyes and Emmie’s mop of dark curls. He was quick to smile and slow to throw tantrums. ‘A little chatterbox,’ Mrs Curran called him affectionately. ‘Where do all those words come from in someone so small?’

  Emmie did not say that she talked to Barny all the time, filled the routine drudgery of household chores by chatting to her son. She taught him nursery rhymes, sang songs from her choir days, talked to him about everything from the cleaning power of vinegar to votes for women. It did not matter that he did not understand most of what she said; it passed the time before Tom came home.

  That was the best part of the day, when she and Barny helped wash the grime of the pit from Tom’s aching body. Then they fed together and played with Barny before putting him to bed. At times of such contentment, Emmie pushed any mutinous thoughts about the boredom of Crawdene firmly from her mind.

  For outside news she could always rely on Helen. She kept her visits to the MacRaes to once a week for fear of upsetting Tom, but she looked forward to them greatly. Tom had taken to going with Sam on a Friday evening to a new temperance club where they played backgammon and listened to visiting speakers, pianists and brass bands. When Tom went out to the club, Emmie bundled Barny into his pram and went round to China Street.

  Barny loved to listen to Peter on his tin whistle, be fed currant buns by Helen, and swung in the air and boomed at by Jonas. Very occasionally, Rab would be there. He would get down on all fours and give Barny rides on his back. He was still teaching at the Settlement and in recent months had revived the moribund Blackton Messenger.

  Whenever Rab was there, Emmie asked eagerly for news of the Runcies, Dr Flora and the Reverend Charles.

  In the early summer of 1914, he told her proudly, ‘Runcies say I can have one of their presses. They’re not taking on as much work these days.’

  ‘Where will you put it?’ Emmie asked, astonished.

  ‘Old Mannie says I can store it in his workshop.’

  Jonas snorted. ‘He means outhouse.’

  ‘Doesn’t matter what you call it,’ Rab laughed, ‘as long as the roof doesn’t leak.’

&
nbsp; ‘And what news of Dr Flora?’ Emmie asked.

  ‘You’ll like this,’ he smiled. ‘She’s to speak at the Miners’ Gala this year about women’s suffrage. The women are getting one of the platforms to themselves - miners’ leaders are backing them.’

  ‘At last!’ Helen cried. ‘That’s grand.’

  ‘I can’t wait,’ Emmie said in delight.

  ‘So you’ll be going this year then?’ Rab asked.

  Emmie blushed. ‘Tom thought Barny was too young last year - what with all the crowds and such a long day. But now he’s nearly two, he can ride on his daddy’s shoulders.’ She cuddled her son.

  At the MacRaes’ for a couple of hours a week, she could catch up on outside events and talk over the rumours of unrest in Europe without the censure of her husband. Tom refused to talk politics with her, whereas Jonas and Rab could not sit in the same room for five minutes without discussing it.

  ‘It’ll never come to war,’ Jonas declared. ‘The rulers are all related.’

  ‘Aye, but Germany wants colonies like the rest of them - and they fear despotic Russia,’ Rab pointed out.

  ‘But it’s nowt to do with us,’ Emmie said.

  Rab snorted. ‘Where land is at stake, all the imperialists club together. If one goes to war, we’ll all be dragged into it.’

  Jonas was optimistic. ‘There’s no appetite for war here. The working man sees more in common with his comrades in Germany than our own rulers.’

  ‘And the women,’ Helen joined in. ‘There’s a suffragist from Germany coming to speak at the Guild next week - Frau Bauer.’

  ‘Frau Bauer!’ Emmie exclaimed. ‘I met her at the rally three years ago. I wish I could come.’

  ‘Why don’t you?’ Helen suggested. ‘Then you can have a word. It’s on Wednesday at two o’clock. Day shift’s not over till four.’

  Emmie hesitated, aware of Rab’s scrutiny. She knew Helen was telling her that the meeting would be over before Tom got back from work; he need never know.

  ‘But what would I do with Barny?’

  ‘I’ll look after him for an hour or so,’ Rab volunteered.

  Emmie stared at him. ‘I couldn’t ask you …’

  ‘Why not?’ he smiled. ‘Wednesdays I work on the Messenger at home. Mannie won’t mind having the little ’un around.’

  ‘There you are,’ Helen cried. ‘Barny’ll be fine with our Rab, won’t you, pet?’ She tickled the boy under his chin.

  Giggling, Barny pointed a finger and said, ‘Wab.’

  Emmie was emboldened by their encouragement. ‘Aye, that’d be grand,’ she smiled.

  ***

  By the following Wednesday, Emmie was almost sick with nerves and excitement. As she waved Tom away that morning, she felt a surge of guilt as if she was doing something illegal. But all she was doing was attending a harmless meeting, she told herself firmly; something she had done week in, week out before she was married.

  The May afternoon was blustery with sudden gusts of rain when she wheeled Barny round to India Street. Her heart hammered the nearer she drew to Mannie’s house, with its untidy outhouses covered in briars on the edge of Oliphant’s Wood. What would Tom have to say if she knew Rab - anarchist, atheist MacRae - was looking after his son?

  As they arrived, a sudden squall sent them racing across the yard into Rab’s lodgings. Barny threw out his arms in excitement, squealing to be freed from the pram. Rab unclipped his harness and swung him out. Emmie noticed Rab had erected a fireguard of chicken wire around the hearth. The furniture was threadbare and the clippy mats on the floor were cast-offs of Helen’s - ones that Emmie had worked on long ago.

  But the paintings on the wall, books on top of Mannie’s old piano, periodicals strewn across the floor and the reading lamp gave it a cosy feel. Half the kitchen table was covered in papers smelling of ink, the other in chipped teacups and a huge teapot. The room reminded her of the Runcies’ printing works and she had a stab of nostalgia for those busy days.

  ‘Pour yourself one before you go,’ Rab nodded. ‘It’s freshly made.’

  She glanced at the clock on the mantelpiece. She had got there early. ‘Just while he settles,’ she murmured.

  As she poured out tea for them both, she watched Rab carrying Barny around the room, pointing out the pictures. ‘And that one’s of the Campsie Hills - I used to gan walking there when I lived in Glasgow. See the cows - or coos as they say up there.’

  ‘Coos!’ Barny repeated, enjoying the sound.

  Emmie perched on the edge of a stool, feeling ridiculously tongue-tied and trying not to stare at the narrow bed in the comer covered in a tartan blanket. The room was so intimate, a glimpse into Rab’s personal life that felt like trespassing. Abandoning her half-drunk tea, she stood up. Barny sensed she was leaving and twisted in Rab’s hold.

  ‘Mammy,’ he cried, struggling to be put down, his face beginning to crumple

  She came to him and gave him a quick kiss.

  ‘Mammy’s ganin’ to a meetin’. I’ll be back soon. You stay and play with Uncle Rab.’

  ‘Mammy!’ he began to wail as she retreated to the door. She hesitated.

  ‘Perhaps I shouldn’t…’

  ‘Off you go,’ Rab encouraged. ‘He’ll be all right once you’ve gone.’

  Rab spun Barny round to the piano. ‘Look at this!’ he cried, striking the keys with his free hand. Emmie slipped out and stood beyond the door, listening to Rab playing and singing ‘My Grandfather’s Clock’. Barny’s crying stopped in abrupt amazement. She could imagine him wide-eyed, his head cocked to listen. Then she heard him giggle and wondered if Rab was making faces as he sang along. She hurried away, warmed by a sudden tenderness.

  To her delight, Dr Flora was at the meeting in the Co-operative Hall, having brought Frau Bauer from the Settlement, where she was staying. After the lively discussion, the choir got up to sing and Frau Bauer pulled Emmie to her feet.

  ‘We will sing together like old times, ja?’ she beamed.

  Emmie stood beside her and belted out the song of the ‘Women’s March’, exultant to be one of them again.

  Over a cup of tea, Emmie was warmly greeted by Flora.

  ‘Emmie, you are looking so well.’ The doctor kissed her on the cheek. ‘Motherhood suits you. And where is the wee one? I’d love to meet him.’

  ‘I’ll bring him down to see you,’ Emmie promised, carried away with excitement at seeing her friends again. Now was not the time to ask her about Nell. She would speak of her sister when she visited properly.

  Helen was going around with cards to sign up new recruits as Friends of Women’s Suffrage.

  ‘You’ll want a Friend’s card, Emmie?’ she almost ordered. ‘This is for ordinary lasses to have their say, not just the Pankhursts and Oliphants of this world.’

  Emmie registered and tucked her card into her coat pocket. The meeting over, she hurried round to India Street, picking her way round the muddy puddles, bursting to tell Rab all about it. She found him and her baby squatting on the floor, drawing on brown paper with a piece of charcoal. Barny’s face, smeared in charcoal, lit up at the sight of her. He scrambled to his feet, abandoning his scribbles, and threw himself at her legs.

  Hugging him tight, Emmie cried, ‘You look like a pit lad.’

  Rab grinned, going to fetch a cloth. ‘I knew we’d be in trouble. But at least I stopped him eating it.’

  As they cleaned up Barny, Emmie gabbled about the meeting and the reunion with Flora, still elated.

  ‘And I’ve signed a Friend’s card, an’ all,’ she said proudly, showing him her membership card.

  ‘That’s grand,’ he smiled. ‘So you’re going to get involved again?’

  Emmie hesitated. ‘Aye … when I can.’

  Rab nodded. ‘I’m happy to have Barny, if it helps.’

  Emmie gave him a quizzical smile. ‘Fancy you helping the women’s cause, eh?’

  He grunted. ‘Even the Labour Party’s supporting women’s emancip
ation these days. You won me over long ago.’

  Emmie blushed at the look he gave her. Turning away, she said, ‘Ta for the offer.’

  Quickly she buttoned Barny into his jacket and lifted him protesting into the pram.

  ‘Stay Wab’s,’ he cried.

  Rab laughed and ruffled his hair. Emmie’s heart squeezed at the memory of how he used to do that to her when she was little. She hurried away, forcing herself not to glance back at the tall figure leaning in the doorway watching them go.

  Tom was baffled by her restlessness that evening.

  ‘Can you not sit down for two minutes?’ he asked.

  ‘Let’s gan for a walk,’ Emmie suggested. ‘It’s a canny evening - not one to be stuck inside.’

  ‘I see from the mud on the pram you’ve already been out today,’ Tom commented.

  Emmie’s heart skipped a beat. Now would be the time to tell him about the meeting; say she had gone just to see Dr Flora. But her courage failed.

  ‘Aye, I went down the village.’

  ‘That’s good,’ he nodded. ‘Give the bairn some fresh air now the weather’s better.’

  He agreed on a walk. While they were out, Emmie said as casually as possible, ‘I’d like to take Barny down to see Dr Flora and Reverend Charles sometime.’

  ‘Why d’you want to do that?’ Tom was dismissive. ‘That mission’s in the slums - don’t want Barny catching fever.’

  ‘The Settlement’s clean as can be,’ Emmie reassured, ‘and it wouldn’t be for long. Please, Tom, they’ve been good to me - and the Reverend married us, remember? It’s only right that I take Barny to see them.’

  Tom was grudging. ‘Well, I can’t take you Saturday, not with the final against Tow Law coming up.’

  ‘I’ll gan during the week,’ Emmie said hastily, ‘then we can watch you in the final.’

  ***

  The following week, Emmie dusted down her old bicycle and wheeled it round to India Street with Barny staggering along beside her.