Emmie hobbled back to the house, fearful of a neighbour accosting her from a window or a child running into her yard as a dare. She imagined how they gossiped about Tom leaving early, under a cloud, and how she was to blame. The only people who would not judge her were the MacRaes. Emmie let out a sob. How she longed to be with them; for Jonas to talk courage into her, to have Helen’s arms around her.
But then the humiliation of Tom’s beating engulfed her anew. They must never know. They had already lost so much. It would break them. They might feel guilty at not being there to protect her. Or worse still, they might wonder if she had brought it on herself. Better to keep the assault unknown. She would get through this alone. Except she was not alone. She went and stood over Barny and stifled her weeping. Poor bairn! What future did he have with her?
Emmie struggled with her darkest feelings. He would be better off without her. His father would not be violent if she was not there. She would never have to face Tom or his family or the neighbours again. She would go to the kitchen drawer and take out the sharp paring knife …
Barny stirred and whimpered in his sleep. Without thinking, she bent down and caressed his forehead, smoothing back the wayward curls. He was too hot in his jersey. She slipped it over his head without waking him. Emmie buried her face in its warm smell. How could she possibly think of leaving him! She went back to bed, clutching the jumper, and fell into a deep dreamless sleep.
The next day, Emmie forced herself to get up. Wincing with the pain in her limbs and back, she refilled the coal-hod and coaxed the fire back into life. Barny watched and fetched kindling from the coal shed. When it was going, she fried up some stale bread with the last remaining egg and they shared it between them. The kettle boiled and she brewed a pot of tea.
‘Can we gan to the woods the day, Mammy?’ Barny asked eagerly.
Emmie’s heart began to pound. They would have to walk past the Attwaters’ manse or go round by Siam Street, which backed on to the Currans’.
‘Not today, pet,’ she said hastily. ‘It’s ganin’ to rain.’
‘Can we see Auntie Helen?’ he pleaded.
She shook her head. ‘She’ll be busy.’
Barny scowled. ‘I want to gan to Auntie Helen’s! You promised, Mammy.’
‘Tomorrow maybe,’ she sighed.
‘No! I want to gan the day. Please, please!’
‘Oh, stop shoutin’,’ Emmie snapped, pressing her hands to her pounding head.
Barny gave a reproachful look. ‘You and Dadda shout.’
Emmie burst into tears. Barny stared in horror. He rushed to her and threw himself in her lap.
‘Don’t cry, Mammy,’ he sobbed, ‘please don’t cry.’
Emmie tried to stop but could not. She no longer seemed in control of anything. It terrified her. Eventually she managed to prise the unhappy boy from her lap.
‘You gan and play in the yard,’ she told him. ‘We’ll gan out later.’
He went and she sat and stared at the dirty plates. She did not have the energy to move them. Later she heard him playing in the lane with some of the other children. The discordant notes of his tin whistle pierced the air. To her relief he seemed to forget about going out later in the day. Emmie boiled up some beetroot and baked two potatoes in the oven for their tea. They went to bed early.
The following day, Emmie determined to go to the shops. She was out of provisions. She buttoned up her coat and pulled down her hat, forcing herself to look in the mirror. An ugly red weal snaked across her left cheek and on to her neck. A purple bruise stained her left temple and brow-bone, standing out against the deathly pallor of her skin. She pulled her hat further down over her eyes and tied a scarf around her neck.
Turning to take Barny by the hand, she was suddenly overwhelmed by panic. She stood rigid in front of the door, unable to move, her heart hammering, palms sweating. Emmie dropped Barny’s hand.
‘You’ll have - to - gan to the - shops for Mammy,’ she panted.
She took a deep breath and repeated the things they needed from the store: dripping, candles, matches, suet, ham knuckle and flour. She wrote them down on a scrap of brown paper, wrapped it around some money she had hidden from Tom in the pantry and placed it carefully in the boy’s pocket.
‘Give this to the shopkeeper, no one else. Ta, pet.’ She kissed him, gave him the string bag and propelled him out of the door.
Barny seemed excited by the mission and half skipped, half ran out of the yard. Emmie sat tensely in the kitchen. What a coward she was! He would lose the order. He could not carry such a load all the way home.
Half an hour later, Barny clattered in the back door, the string bag hoisted over his narrow shoulder like a sack of coal, and dumped it at her feet. He grinned up at her in triumph.
‘Clever lad,’ she whispered tearfully. ‘You’re Mammy’s clever lad.’
The next day she sent him out again to collect some eggs from the allotment. He had done so with Peter many times and she knew her son could manage the task. Emmie was kneeling painfully, sweeping the hearth, when he returned. In alarm she heard him chattering to someone as they crossed the yard. There was no time to flee into the bedroom. She watched the door in fright.
‘Emmie! The bairn tells me you’re sick.’ Helen bustled into the room. ‘You should’ve sent him to fetch me. We’ve brought some carrots and greens, as well as the eggs.’
Helen stopped and peered, adjusting to the gloom after the brightness of outside. ‘Emmie?’ She stepped closer. ‘Let me take a look at you.’
Emmie turned her face away. Helen bent over her.
‘Look at me, lass,’ she cajoled, gripping her shoulder. Emmie winced at the pain. Helen lifted her hand quickly and pushed back Emmie’s hair. Even in the shadows she could see the bruises on her face and whip marks across her neck. ‘Oh, Emmie! Me darlin’ lamb. Did Tom do this?’
Emmie hung her head, too ashamed to admit it even to Helen. Helen kneeled down beside her and gently enfolded her. ‘Does it hurt all over?’ she whispered.
Emmie swallowed down a sob.
‘Dear God, what possessed him?’ Helen said, dumbfounded.
‘He hates me,’ Emmie whispered. ‘C-called me a wh—’ She could not bring herself to utter the word, it was so shaming. ‘They all think I’m a—’
‘No,’ Helen stopped her. ‘Don’t listen to what people say. You’re a good lass, a brave lass - there’s none better.’ She held and rocked her gently as Emmie succumbed to tears. ‘Tom was wicked to do this. If he was here I’d give him a piece of my mind, by heck I would!’
Barny piped up. ‘Will you make Mammy better, Auntie Helen?’
She turned and pulled the boy into her embrace. ‘Course I will, pet lamb. You were a brave boy to come and tell me.’ She said to Emmie, ‘1 should’ve come to check on you sooner. We had no idea - folk tell us nothing these days - I’m sorry.’
They clung to each other.
‘I’m that ashamed,’ Emmie confided, ‘I can’t face anyone.’
‘You don’t have to,’ Helen comforted. ‘You’ll come and live with us till you get your strength back. No argument.’
Helen moved briskly around the house, packing clothes into a canvas bag and gathering food into a pan. She damped down the fire and helped Emmie into her coat.
‘Put this shawl over you,’ she suggested. ‘Barny, take your mam’s hand.’
They shut the door behind them and walked together down the lane. Emmie stared at her feet and did not meet the look of anyone. Somehow, she managed to get to China Street without fainting with fright.
In the privacy of the cottage, Helen peeled off Emmie’s blouse and skirt and studied her wounds. She clucked in sympathy, angrily berating the absent Tom. They boiled up hot water and filled the tub. Gently Helen washed her, patted her dry and dressed her as if she were a child. Emmie nearly wept at such tenderness.
When Jonas returned from work, he grew agitated at the news of Emmie’s treatment. He spl
uttered, his speech still slurred from his stroke.
‘Go round - old man Curran’s - have it out. That laddie - learned brutality from that p-pious bastard.’
‘Jonas!’ Helen admonished. ‘Watch your tongue in front of the bairn. And you’ll do no such thing. Emmie wants no more trouble from those people. They’ve washed their hands of her and we don’t want them round here causing her bother, do you hear?’
Jonas blustered in frustration, cursing all Currans as capitalist warmongers. The next day he came back in a filthy temper. The proud Scot had been unable to prevent himself upbraiding Curran for his family’s ill treatment of Emmie. They had nearly come to blows in the pit yard. Dissention was growing among the pitmen, a staunch core protecting Jonas from the vilification of the others. Day by day, unrest stirred in the village, quarrels breaking out between neighbours, overwrought with shortages and the constant worry about a war that appeared to be without end.
Cocooned from the tensions beyond, Emmie gradually unburdened herself. She spoke of Tom’s disastrous leave, his drinking and violence, disappearance and reappearance with Danny. She told of his falling-out with his parents, his increasing paranoia about her involvement with COs and his confession about being in a firing squad that brought on his final brutal assault. The MacRaes’ patient understanding helped Emmie to feel less guilty.
‘You’re not to blame for any of it,’ Helen insisted.
‘C-course not,’ Jonas agreed. ‘World’s gone mad - young Curran’s taken it out on y-you.’
‘He even thought I was having an affair with Rab,’ Emmie admitted awkwardly. ‘That’s what seemed to spark off the beatin’.’
Helen and Jonas looked at each other for a long moment.
‘And you’re not?’ Helen asked quietly.
Emmie reddened. ‘No, course not. Why do you think that?’
Helen smiled sadly. ‘Because it’s obvious to everyone but you how much our son cares for you. In that letter from France, he told us. Said we had to look after you and Barny as much as we possibly could.’
Jonas grunted. ‘Would think he was your m-man the way he telt us.’
Emmie looked away. ‘But, he’s not.’
She thought of Rab’s letter to her and knew she should have destroyed it long ago. If Tom ever found it, she knew he would kill her - or kill Rab. She was a fool to have left it lying in a drawer where it could so easily be discovered.
The next time Helen took Barny out to the shops, Emmie steeled herself to go back to her house and root out the letter. People stopped and stared at her as she walked down the lane on to the main street and turned up towards Berlin Terrace. They looked hostile. She was sure someone spat as she passed. Emmie forced herself on. She was imagining it.
She was weak, unused to the exercise, and took an age to walk the short distance. She became aware of people behind. A group of boys began to follow. Someone threw a stone at her back.
‘Traitor! Traitor!’ they chanted.
Emmie’s heart banged in fright. She quickened her pace. Another stone flew past. Emmie spun round dizzily and confronted them. There were six or seven young boys, some adults standing further off.
‘You should be at school,’ she challenged. ‘Get yourselves off there now.’
They stared back, then one shouted out, ‘And you should be in prison, missus!’
Emmie went puce. She turned and hurried into Berlin Terrace. They pursued her, laughing and shouting, goading each other on. She would go and find Johnny Collier to sort out these truants. Emmie almost ran the last yards to her house, fumbling with the latch and slamming the door closed behind her. Surely they would not dare break into her home?
Breathless, she leaned against the door until her racing heart calmed down. The house was chilly and damp without a fire. She went into the bedroom and pulled out the deep drawer of the wardrobe. Feeling under the linen, wrapped in Barny’s baby shawl was the letter. Emmie put it to her lips and stood up.
She let out a scream. Two faces were pressed against the window staring in at her: a boy and a young man. Emmie rushed forward and pulled down the blind.
‘She’s in here!’ someone shouted. She could hear footsteps. They were crossing her yard! The back door rattled.
Emmie froze. They could not break in, it was bolted. Suddenly she was unsure if the front door had been locked before Helen led her away. She dashed out of the bedroom and into the tiny porch. Cobwebs hung at the door from lack of use. The large key was in the lock. She turned it quickly; it had been open. ‘Mean as a key,’ Jonas always said. Now she needed keys to protect her from her own people.
Emmie returned shakily to the kitchen. She drew down the blind above the dresser and retreated to sit in the semi-dark by the ash-laden hearth. They would soon tire of their game and go away. She would just have to wait. But the noises outside did not diminish - if anything it sounded as if more people were gathering in her yard, older voices calling to each other.
Emmie sat there over an hour and still her persecutors did not go away. She clutched Rab’s letter, read it over and over to give her courage. She would give the world to have him with her now, facing whatever it was gathering outside her door. Suddenly she was filled with anger at her situation. Why should she have to cower in her own home like a prisoner? She had done nothing wrong. She would face them and be done with it.
Emmie struck a match and put it to the edge of Rab’s letter. She knew the words by heart. No one else would ever read their tender, intimate confessions. She could protect him from that at least. She watched it bum to ash in the grate. Then she went to the back door and unbolted it. Pulling it half open, she stopped in shock.
The yard was full of people, men and women as well as the boys. A cry went up like the baying of dogs.
“There she is! Get her!’ They surged forward. Emmie tried to slam the door shut. A man stuck his boot in the crack. She kicked his shin in panic. He moved, she heaved on the door and threw the bolt across.
Emmie panted in fear. Who were they? They shouted and hammered on the door, calling for her to come out and face them.
‘We don’t want traitors round here!’ cried a man’s voice. The crowd chorused in agreement.
There was something familiar about the voice but Emmie was too panicked to work out what. She stood back from the door and crouched behind a chair. Surely someone would come and rescue her soon. Helen would wonder where she was. Thank goodness she had not brought Barny here.
All at once, there was a terrifying smashing of glass and a brick came hurtling through the kitchen window. It landed inches from Emmie, glass splintering across the linoleum. She screamed in fright.
‘Come out, Hun-lover!’ a man bawled.
‘Out, out, out!’ the others chanted.
Emmie crawled under the table. How had it come to this? All her ideals, her hopes for peace in ruins. How had she ended up in this joyless place, cowering like a mouse under a kitchen table with her neighbours screaming for her death? Clamping her jaw tight, she would not give them the satisfaction of hearing her cry.
It seemed an eternity that she waited for them to break in and lynch her. Then she became aware of other shouts, imperious orders.
‘Stand back, get back now! Let us deal with this. Should be ashamed of yourselves! Back. I said.’
There was a hammering on the back door. Emmie held her breath.
‘Mrs Curran? Let us in, Mrs Curran. It’s the police.’
Emmie’s heart leaped. They had come to save her. Halfway out from under the table, she stopped. What if it was a trick?
‘Who are you?’ she shouted back.
‘Sergeant Graham, ma’am. Open up. You’ll not be harmed.’
She heard him ordering his men to clear the yard, chivvying the crowd back. It was Graham’s voice. She crept to the back door and opened it. Standing in the afternoon drizzle, she saw Johnny Collier by the door.
‘Oh, thank the Lord,’ she gasped. ‘I thought I was …’ She
caught the tense look on his face.
‘You’ve got to come with us, Emmie,’ he said quickly. ‘I’ll not let them harm you.’
Sergeant Graham rushed up. ‘Emmie Curran,’ he barked, ‘I’m arresting you under the Defence of the Realm Act. You’ll come with me, please. Don’t make a fuss and there’ll be no more trouble.’
Emmie stared at them. ‘Arrested for what?’ she asked, even as they bundled her out of the door and across the yard.
‘For behaviour likely to harm the war effort and detrimental to the morale of the people,’ he gabbled. ‘Hurry up, I can’t guarantee your safety if you don’t come now.’
Emmie was hustled down the back lane by half a dozen policemen, the crowd jeering as she went.
‘Good riddance!’ they cried. ‘String her up!’
‘Who are they?’ Emmie gasped, as Johnny pulled her along.
‘Crowd from Blackton,’ he answered. ‘Keep moving, lass.’
At the end of the lane, they bundled her towards a horse-drawn police van. She resisted.
‘Where are you taking me?’ she asked in alarm.
‘It’s not safe for you here,’ Graham said curtly.
‘Gateshead,’ Johnny murmured.
Emmie was choked by panic. ‘But I have to see me bairn - they don’t know what’s happening - Helen and Jonas—’
But they heaved her into the back.
‘Please!’ she begged. ‘Just let me say goodbye—’
As the door slammed shut, Johnny shouted, ‘I’ll tell them, lass, I promise.’
Emmie strained to see out of the high-barred window, as the van shook and joggled down the street. She glimpsed only rain-spattered roofs, then she was jolted to the floor. She could hear people running alongside, bawling insults and banging on the sides of the van.
Emmie clung on, as they lurched downhill. All she could think of was Barny and how he would be wondering where she was. Would her son ever forgive her for disappearing out of his life without a word of explanation or farewell?
THE GREAT WAR SAGAS: Box set of 2 passionate and inspiring stories: A Crimson Dawn and No Greater Love Page 31
