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

by Janet MacLeod Trotter

  June came and with it the news that Sophie Hauxley had given birth to a son, Arthur Liddon. The miners were given a half-day holiday in celebration and an extra shilling each in their pay by a proud Major James. He had his longed-for heir.

  Tom and Emmie took Barny for a picnic on the fell on the half-day off, revelling in the warm sunshine and seeing their son tripping about happily in the heather. They both hoped for another child, but Emmie had failed to fall pregnant again.

  ‘You can almost forget there’s a war on, up here,’ Emmie mused, pulling at the coarse grass and scattering seeds.

  ‘Aye,’ Tom agreed sleepily, lying back in the heather.

  ‘I wish Lou had come with us,’ Emmie said.

  ‘Too busy knittin’ for our Sam,’ Tom grunted. ‘He’ll have more socks than the rest of the regiment put together.’

  ‘Keeps her busy, poor Lou.’

  Tom reached across and pulled her towards him. ‘Stop thinkin’ about me sister for once and give us a kiss.’

  Barny came rushing across and jumped on his father. ‘Me too!’ he giggled.

  Emmie laughed and hugged the pair of them.

  Tom had just gone off to work the next morning when a neighbour of the Currans came banging on the back door.

  ‘Come quick, missus,’ he panted, ‘Mrs Curran sent me to fetch you.’

  Emmie’s heart thumped in alarm. ‘What’s happened?’

  ‘Wouldn’t say,’ the youth mumbled, and dashed off.

  Emmie knocked on Mrs Haile’s door and asked her to take care of Barny. Ten minutes later, she was catching her breath at the Currans’ back door. Even before she went in, she could hear wailing and her insides clenched.

  Louise caught sight of her and ran over in hysterics.

  ‘Sam,’ she screamed, ‘my Sam! Says he’s dead.’ Her eyes were wild, her face swollen and red from crying.

  Emmie clung on to her, looking with incomprehension at Louise’s frightened mother. ‘Telegram came half an hour ago,’ she explained in agitation. ‘I’ve sent for Mr Curran.’

  ‘But how?’ Emmie asked in bewilderment. ‘He hasn’t even gone to France.’

  Louise clutched at her. ‘Aye, that’s right. Didn’t I say that, Mam? They must’ve made a mistake - not my Sam - he’s still in England.’

  ‘But the telegram says—’ Mrs Curran said weakly.

  Louise wailed, ‘I don’t care what it says - it’s lies!’ She buried her head into Emmie’s shoulder and wept uncontrollably. All Emmie could do was hold on to her shaking body and stroke her hair, trying not to dissolve into tears herself. She thought of Helen and her knees almost buckled.

  Barnabas arrived and his presence calmed his daughter.

  ‘You must accept it, lass,’ he told her, patting her shoulder in a rare show of affection. ‘It’s not for us to question. What will be, will be. God be merciful on his soul.’

  Louise was helped to bed and lay under the cover, hunched into a ball, her face buried in the pillow Sam used. Emmie stayed with her for a while, but her friend refused all comfort and would not speak.

  In the Currans’ parlour, Emmie asked, ‘Sam’s parents …?’

  Barnabas nodded grimly. ‘I’ll go up to the forge - tell Jonas face to face. He can let his family know.’

  Emmie said quietly, ‘No, I’ll go and tell Aunt Helen.’

  The walk down to China Street seemed endless, her heart banging in dread, throat dry, legs shaking. But when she reached number eighteen, Emmie was filled with a sudden calm. She walked into the familiar kitchen with the sun pouring in through the low doorway and called out a greeting as she had on countless occasions. Helen turned from rolling pastry, wiped her hands on her apron and beamed in surprise.

  ‘Pet lamb!’ she cried. It was the old babyish expression that shattered Emmie’s brave front.

  ‘Oh, Auntie Helen,’ she gasped, holding out her arms.

  Helen froze. ‘What’s happened? Is it Barny?’ she whispered.

  Emmie shook her head, tears streaming down her face, ‘Louise got a telegram this morning …’

  ‘Not Sam!’

  Emmie nodded. She squeezed her eyes shut at the sight of Helen’s stricken face. Moments later, she felt her aunt’s arms wrap around her.

  ‘Oh, my bonny, bonny bairn!’ Helen sobbed.

  For the first time, Emmie heard Helen weep aloud and the sound tore through her heart.

  Chapter 18

  A few days later, a letter came from Sam’s commanding officer with more details. Four days after landing in France, they were moving up to the front when Sam had been run over. He had gone to help pull a supply wagon out of a ditch; the horse had bolted. The officer praised Sam’s good humour and bravery in the line of duty. He was a good soldier, one who kept up the spirits of his fellow men. He was given a Christian burial.

  Jonas railed at the news. ‘Good soldier! He hadn’t even got to the front. He was a good pitman, that’s what. The waste of it all - the stupid, wicked waste! Oh, my laddie,’ he broke off, kicking the fender.

  A bouquet of flowers and a card of condolence came to Louise from Mrs Sophie Hauxley. Louise was pathetically grateful. For the first time in a week, she gave a wan smile and set about arranging the flowers. This, more than anything, angered Emmie. Sam’s death had been futile, not heroic. All the condolences in the world would not bring him back, or make up for sending him off to fight a senseless war. She blamed Miss Sophie’s red-blooded jingoism that day back in September for filling Sam’s head full of ideas of glory. Bunches of flowers were to silence dissent, encourage yet more young men to rush off and die for the cause.

  Emmie looked at the sombre Currans dressed in black and began to resent their piety. They had turned Sam away from his family. He had closed his ears to the MacRaes’ arguments for a socialist future, without war or poverty. Sam had been tricked, just as the Currans were under the spell of militarism. It would always be like this, as long as too few of them stood up against the tide of hatred and bloodshed.

  Emmie swallowed her bitter words against the Hauxley bouquet and set off home in the rain. It came on harder and she suddenly diverted down India Street. The rain drummed on the uneven bricks as she crossed Mannie’s yard, but above the din she heard music playing loudly. Pushing at the half-open door, she peered into the gloom of Rab’s room. The melancholy piano music swelled around her, the fire hissed and smoked.

  Rab’s hair was longer, beard untrimmed, sleeves rolled up over brawny arms like a navvy as he played. Emmie said his name, but he did not respond, so totally absorbed was he in the music. As her eyes grew accustomed to the shadows, she saw the untidy heaps of paper and unwashed crockery, the unmade bed.

  Suddenly, he broke off playing, his shoulders heaved and he let out a groan or a laugh. Rab’s thick-set body shook and the strange gulping noise grew louder. In shock, Emmie realised he was crying. Embarrassed, she was stepping back towards the door when he turned and saw her.

  Tears streamed down his face. He made no attempt to hide his weeping. They stared at each other.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ Emmie whispered. ‘I didn’t mean …’

  She backed away, rushed out the door and fled across the slippery yard. She ran home, haunted by the sight of Rab’s open grief. Of all of them, he knew Sam the best. As boys they had been inseparable; as youths they had worked, sung and played together. Only since Sam had married had they grown distant. The war had split them asunder. Helen had told of the brothers’ bitter parting. Now Rab would never be able to make amends. What a terrible burden! Emmie’s heart ached for him. She had gone hoping to find comfort, yet had run away instead of comforting Rab. It would be doubly difficult to go back now. Rab was a proud man and she had caught him in a rare moment of weakness.

  Over the next few days, Emmie tried to forget she had ever been. She took comfort in her three-year-old son, his cheerful chatter and generous hugs. She tried to talk to Tom about Sam, but he nursed his grief privately and resented her har
king back to old times.

  Louise obeyed the call from Sophie Hauxley to sign up at the labour exchange as a patriotic duty, and got a job in the local hardware store. Sam’s became a hallowed name in the Curran household, a saintly soldier who had never done any wrong. Emmie did not recognise the virtuous teetotal chapel-goer who was eulogised by Mr Attwater at a memorial service for her brother-in-law. To Emmie, they were robbing her of her true memories of the happy-go-lucky Sam. She found it a trial to be at the Currans’ and preferred to slip out to see the MacRaes. They talked about their son all the time, and Peter repeated old jokes of Sam’s, proud to wear his brother’s cap.

  The summer brought no relief from the grim news of numbers dead and maimed at the front. One time, visiting the Settlement, Emmie listened with horror to a wounded soldier tell of the carnage to a packed meeting of the No Conscription Fellowship. But by the autumn there was open talk of conscription. A first step was for young men to come forward to attest that they were willing to be called up if necessary. Tom came home talking bullishly that he and some of his marras were going to register.

  Emmie was dismayed. ‘Don’t be daft! You’ll join up over my dead body.’

  Tom gave her a sharp look. ‘Don’t tell me what to do. We all have to stand up and be counted.’

  ‘And be shot down twice as quick,’ Emmie retorted. ‘It’s not a game of footy over there.’

  ‘How would you know?’ Tom said irritably.

  ‘I’ve heard lads tell what it’s like - at the Settlement. And it’s working-class lads are having the worst of it - and not just from the enemy. One Durham Light Infantry lad was shot by his comrades for fallin’ asleep at his post - made to do it, they were.’

  ‘I don’t like you ganin’ there,’ Tom snapped. ‘They’re fillin’ your head full of dangerous nonsense.’

  ‘Not like the nonsense they’re filling your head with in the papers and at chapel, you mean?’ Emmie challenged. ‘How many more lads have to die before both sides see the only way to end this war is to sit down and negotiate?’

  Tom sprang at her, shaking her by the arms. ‘Don’t talk like that in my house! That’s bloody treason.’

  Emmie was scared by his look of fury. ‘And what about me and Barny if you get called up?’ she gasped.

  At mention of their son, Tom let go his grip. ‘I’ll always provide for the pair of you.’

  ‘Not if you’re dead,’ she said, shaking.

  He turned from her, his expression hard to read.

  ‘It’s just a name on a piece of paper - to show I’m no coward. Married pitmen won’t get called up.’

  ‘Please, Tom,’ Emmie pleaded, ‘don’t do it.’

  But he would not listen to her and went with his friends to register under Lord Derby’s scheme. He was issued with an armband to show he had attested and wore it proudly around the village. One time, at the MacRaes’, Emmie found Peter upset at having been forced to take a white feather in Gateshead for not wearing an armband.

  ‘Poor lad thinks he’s done some’at wrong,’ Helen said angrily. ‘Jonas told him to wear the feather in his cap with pride, but he doesn’t understand.’

  Emmie had not been down to the Settlement in many weeks, but the Guild decided to provide warm clothing again through the coming winter. When she took a sackful of clothes one November day, she found her friends in an agitated state.

  ‘The police raided the printing press two days ago,’ Flora told her, showing Emmie around the workshop. The filing-cabinet drawers were still gaping open, their contents spilling. ‘They confiscated all copies of this week’s paper. Philip was taken in for questioning.’

  ‘Why?’ Emmie asked, appalled.

  ‘They were running an article on the number of casualties - accusing the Government of withholding the true figures.’

  ‘Are the Runcies all right?’ Emmie asked quickly.

  Flora nodded, her face strained. ‘Philip was released, but only after a lot of questions about the Fellowship - they wanted names and addresses. He refused to give them. Thinks it’s a matter of time before they come back. Next time they might close down the printing press. Mabel’s in a terrible state - very shaken.’

  Emmie glanced at the wreckage around her and thought of the kind Runcies being treated like criminals. She followed Flora to the Runcies’ small flat, shocked to see how frail and gaunt-faced Mabel looked. She could hardly stand to greet her, and wheezed as she spoke. She was cheered to see Emmie but grew exhausted quickly and they did not stay long.

  Standing in the dank quad, Emmie asked angrily, ‘What can I do to help?’

  Flora looked hard at her. ‘I won’t involve you in any of this unless you are quite sure you know what you’re getting into. It could land you in a lot of trouble.’

  Emmie gulped. ‘I’ve stood back and watched for too long,’ she said stoutly. ‘I want to do something to stop this war.’

  Flora smiled and took her by the arm. ‘Come inside.’

  Later that day, Emmie left, the precious envelope of papers entrusted to her tucked into the lining of her coat.

  ‘Give these to Rab,’ Flora had instructed. ‘Tell him to hide them. They’re duplicate lists of NCF members and details - just in case we are arrested.’

  Emmie had nodded, amazed at her calmness.

  ‘Tell him not to come to the printing press this week - he must manage without our help for the time being. The Runcies don’t want him implicated in anything here. They know they are being watched now.’

  The next day, Emmie screwed up her courage to go and see Rab. She had hardly seen him to speak to all year; a nod in the street, passing on the doorstep at his mother’s, that awkward encounter after Sam had died. She decided to take Barny with her to make it seem like a casual visit. The day was dark, the clouds lowering and burdened with coming rain.

  Barny ran ahead, hopping across the mossy yard as if he knew where he was going. Rab’s door was ajar. He banged it open and ran in.

  ‘Rab!’ the boy shouted.

  ‘Hello, bonny lad,’ Rab laughed in surprise.

  Emmie walked in to find Barny wrapped around Rab’s legs, Rab ruffling his dark hair. She was amazed her son remembered him after all these months. Rab looked at her with vivid blue eyes through thin-wired spectacles.

  ‘Didn’t know you wore readin’ glasses,’ Emmie blurted out.

  He took them off, self-conscious and reddening. ‘Mannie gave me a lend.’

  ‘Look like a real revolutionary,’ she teased. ‘They suit you.’

  They stared at each other, suddenly tongue-tied. Barny tugged at Rab’s hand.

  ‘“Grandfather Clock”, singing,’ he urged, pulling Rab towards the piano.

  ‘“Grandfather Clock”?’ he grinned. ‘Why not!’

  It made Emmie think of the last time when music had been pouring out of the room, drowning Rab’s grieving.

  She said, ‘No, you’re workin’. We’ll not stay.’

  Rab’s look was sardonic. ‘You stay away over a year and turn up for half a minute. I think we can both spare the time for a cup of tea.’

  He played Barny his favourite song twice through. Then Rab made a pot of tea and cleared a space on his paper-strewn kitchen table, chatting all the time to Barny. Only when he had poured tea did he sit down and eye Emmie.

  ‘I hear about you from Mam. You look grand, Emmie.’

  She blushed and quickly pulled out the package from Flora, explaining why she had come. Rab was full of concern to hear about the raid.

  ‘You’re taking a risk coming here,’ he said quietly. ‘What would Tom say?’

  ‘I think you know what he’d say,’ she answered, glancing away.

  ‘Is that why you stopped coming?’ Rab asked. ‘Stopped writing for the Messenger?’

  Emmie shrugged. ‘That day Barny ran up to you at the rally … Tom gets jealous easily. Didn’t want him gettin’ the wrong idea.’ She glanced at him. ‘And the Messenger - didn’t know what to write an
y more - what to think.’

  ‘And what about now?’ Rab pressed.

  She looked at him directly. ‘I think the war is wrong - for all the reasons you said and people wouldn’t listen to. I want to do something, because of what’s happened to the Runcies, to all of us, to Sam …’ she faltered. Tears stung her eyes.

  Quickly, he put out a hand and covered hers. His grip was warm, strong, encouraging. She saw his jaw clench. He could not speak of his brother yet, but she saw the compassion in his eyes.

  Emmie whispered, ‘Give me a job to do and I’ll do it - leafleting, anything.’

  Rab smiled. ‘You can start by writing something for this week’s Messenger. I’m running out of paper, but I’ll put it out on brown if I have to.’

  Emmie sat at the table and wrote her first column as Artemis in sixteen months. She exhorted ordinary women to work for peace, to stop their husbands and sons being used as cannon fodder, to resist conscription. Rab read it and grinned.

  ‘We’ll both end up in gaol at this rate.’ He looked at Barny building a house with dominoes by the hearth. ‘I’ll take out the bit about conscription - can’t have his mam being arrested.’

  Emmie fixed him with a look. ‘Leave it in - I stand by every word. What would happen if every woman hid behind her bairns? Nowt would change. I don’t want Barny to grow up and be in the next war. I’m doing this for him.’

  He gazed at her for a long moment. ‘By, lass, I’ve missed your company.’

  Emmie reddened. Softly she asked, ‘Then why did you stop coming round to your mam’s on a Friday when you knew I’d be there?’

  Rab answered in a low voice. ‘I thought it better if I stayed away. I’d grown to care too much.’