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

by Janet MacLeod Trotter

  ‘Of course Tommy can come,’ Susan replied, her sigh almost inaudible. ‘If he smartens himself up,’ she added to Mrs Smith.

  Mary Smith did not take offence at the criticism. ‘That’s canny of you, pet,’ she smiled at Susan. ‘I’ll get him scrubbed. Must be grand having company,’ she added wistfully.

  Susan hesitated. She was loath to invite her neighbour whom she saw as common and dowdy but felt a gnawing guilt at excluding her. Mary Smith would just be sitting alone with a jug of beer for company, listening to the revelries upstairs. Her husband, Gabriel Smith, was a morose, solitary character who disappeared for days on end and there was no sign of him about the flat at the moment.

  ‘You’ll come up as well, won’t you, Mrs Smith?’ Susan said, relenting.

  ‘Eeh, hinny, I’d like nothing better,’ the small woman replied at once. ‘That’s very neighbourly of you. I’ll bring me baking. Currant loaf and a meat pie. Don’t expect my Gabriel will be back before Monday. Gone off on his wanders. Won’t miss owt.’

  Susan steered Jimmy out of the flat quickly to escape Mary Smith’s effusiveness and the smell of unwashed bodies.

  ‘That’s canny of you to invite the old lass,’ Jimmy said as they climbed the stairs together. ‘Old Smithy’s been gone for a week this time. It’s a good job Mr Heslop lets her clean his shop else they’d have nowt to live on.’

  Susan sighed, letting her arm slip round her brother’s bony shoulders. ‘Aunt Violet’ll probably have a fit, mind.’ She grimaced at the thought.

  ‘She’ll be happy as pig in swill,’ Jimmy giggled ‘Someone to turn up her nose at.’

  They both laughed as they entered the flat together.

  ***

  By the time Maggie mounted the stairs, barely illuminated by the spluttering gas lamp, she could hear the sounds of music and singing resounding from her home. With any luck, Susan and her mother would be in too good a mood to notice that she was late and mud-spattered from the filthy streets outside.

  She entered the warm kitchen to see Granny Beaton hovering over the range, muttering to herself as usual.

  ‘Is that you, Maggie?’ The ancient woman peered round with rheumy eyes. Maggie knew her grandmother could hardly make her out but she would not admit to her frailty or allow Maggie to buy her spectacles.

  ‘Aye, Granny,’ Maggie answered, pulling off her soaking scarf and hat and plonking down her purchases on the rough wooden table. ‘Has Uncle Barny been here long?’

  ‘This past hour or so,’ Granny Beaton said, moving towards her granddaughter with a stooped back. ‘You’re soaking, lassie!’ she cried, feeling Maggie’s jacket and suffragette sash as she began to help her discard her wet clothes. She clucked and fussed around her.

  ‘I better change,’ Maggie said ‘You go back into the parlour.’

  ‘No, no, I’m brewing up a strupach,’ Granny Beaton answered, nodding at the warming teapot. ‘And there are some in there could do with it to clear their heads,’ she added in disapproval.

  Maggie heard her mother’s raucous laughter rise above the others; the party was obviously well under way. But before she could retreat to the bedroom she shared with her sisters, the parlour door was thrown open and Aunt Violet came bustling out.

  ‘So you’ve decided to show your face at last,’ she sniffed at her bedraggled niece. ‘I told your Susan it’s a disgrace you not being here at the start, but she wouldn’t have you criticised. She’s all heart, your Susan. But why you have to go about with those creatures who call themselves women.’ Aunt Violet’s prim face puckered in distaste.

  Maggie turned to her grandmother, ignoring her aunt. ‘I went by the butchers’ market, Granny. I’ll put the meat in the pantry.’

  ‘Let me, lassie,’ Granny Beaton picked up the package from the table and tottered off towards the scullery over the back stairs where a cold stone slab served as a larder.

  ‘You get yourself in the parlour, young lady,’ Aunt Violet grabbed at Maggie as she attempted to retreat. ‘Your mam’s already showing herself up as usual, and that awful Smith woman is smelling the room out. They’ve polished off a jug between them.’

  ‘And I suppose Uncle Barny’s drinking water,’ Maggie said wryly, shaking off her aunt’s hold. Violet had plagued them all for years eager to criticise her mother’s desperate attempts to keep them fed and with a roof over their heads. What did it matter if she took the odd drink or two? But Violet had few good words to say about any of them except Susan, whom she favoured, because Susan was too weak to stand up to her, in Maggie’s opinion.

  ‘Don’t you be cheeky about your uncle,’ Violet snapped, giving Maggie a shove in the back.

  Pulling wet strands of hair from her face, Maggie marched into the parlour. A red-faced Uncle Barny was resting his fiddle on his stiff cork leg, raising a pot of beer to his lips. Beside him, Maggie’s mother looked equally jovial, her greying hair falling loose and her stout hands caressing a glass of ale. Glancing about the crowded room, Maggie noticed Mary Smith and her plump son squatting on the floor next to Jimmy. Helen was sitting demurely on a chair, smiling up at a slim man with a thin moustache and prominent teeth who was telling some joke.

  ‘Maggie!’ Susan rushed over to greet her sister, her face animated. ‘Come and meet Mr Turvey.’

  Maggie was surprised at her sister’s lack of reproof at her lateness and looked again at the stranger who was the centre of attention.

  ‘So this is the Maggie I’ve heard so much about,’ the man smiled, his accent southern. He stepped forward in an immaculate brown suit and checked waistcoat with ostentatious watch and chain. Holding out his hand he said jauntily, ‘Pleased to meet you, I’m sure.’

  Maggie looked at him with suspicion, but took his hand briefly. It was warm and he tried to hang on to hers while he fixed her with deep-set hazel eyes.

  ‘Sorry I’m late, Susan,’ Maggie turned to her sister, ‘but I got you these.’ She handed over the lace and buttons and Susan gasped with pleasure.

  ‘They’re lovely. Look, Mam, pearl buttons. They’d look canny on your grey blouse.’

  ‘They’re for you!’ Maggie laughed in exasperation. ‘I’ve not spent all me wages to see you give me present away.’

  ‘Ta, very much.’ Susan blushed and pecked her sister on the cheek. ‘We’ve kept some pie for you and Mrs Smith’s currant loaf is delicious. You look worn out. Come and sit down. Mr Turvey’s just telling us about his travels on the Continent.’

  ‘You must call me Richard, please,’ he insisted. ‘I don’t suppose Maggie is the least bit interested in hearing about my touring days. I hear you’re very serious-minded, young Maggie,’ he laughed, ‘not one for idle story-telling.’

  Maggie instantly disliked his smooth, patronising manner.

  ‘Don’t be daft!’ she replied. ‘I’ve had a day of politics; I’d like nothing better than a bit of entertainment.’

  Richard smiled. ‘Can’t think of anything worse than a day of politics.’ He pulled a theatrical face.

  This brought giggles from Helen and the boys and a titter from Aunt Violet.

  ‘Heads down!’ cried Uncle Barny jovially. ‘The cannonballs are going to fly.’

  But Maggie was too weary to spar with the aggravating young man and fell into a seat by the table, picking up a sandwich hungrily. Richard Turvey appeared disappointed.

  ‘Well, the least I expected was to be heckled,’ he laughed. ‘Isn’t that what you political ladies are best at? You’re a very disappointing suffragette, young Maggie. Of course, I don’t see why pretty young girls like you should want to bother with politics.’

  ‘That’s what I say,’ Violet nodded vigorously. ‘It’s not ladylike.’

  ‘I agree, Aunt Violet. Pretty girls don’t want to waste their womanly charms marching about and carrying banners,’ Richard said with a wink at Helen. ‘Marching and banners is for soldiers, eh, Uncle Barny?’

  ‘I love the sight of soldiers on the march,’ Helen giggled.<
br />
  Maggie did not know if she was more irritated by his provocative manner or Helen’s simpering response. She put down her half-eaten sandwich and gave him a withering look.

  ‘With such an enlightened attitude as that, Mr Turvey, I’m surprised you’re not a member of the government. It’s such a pleasure meeting you and being reminded just how necessary the women’s struggle is.’

  ‘Bravo!’ Uncle Barny chuckled. ‘That’s you told, Richard, me lad.’

  ‘Maggie,’ Susan remonstrated, flushing with embarrassment. ‘I think you should apologise to Mr Turvey.’

  ‘No, no.’ Richard held up a hand, attempting to hide his annoyance at being snubbed. ‘No apology necessary. I was in the wrong for upsetting the little lady.’

  Mabel broke in quickly, knowing Maggie’s temper was as short as her own. ‘Give us another tune, Barny,’ she nudged her brother.

  ‘But, Mam,’ Helen protested, ‘Richard’s in the middle of his story about the Russian prince.’

  ‘Well, he can give his lungs a rest for a few minutes. Sit yourself down, Richard hinny,’ Mabel shouted at her guest, ‘and stop your gabbing. And, Mary, pour me another glass before Granny forces me to drink her tea.’

  Seeing that no one argued with Mabel Beaton, Richard slipped onto the sofa next to Helen, for once upstaged. As Barny struck up a lively jig and Mary Smith passed round the jug of beer once more, he contented himself with witty asides to Helen and winks across the room at Susan, while all the time being aware of how the darkly becoming Maggie Beaton ignored him.

  The evening continued with rousing singing and Jimmy was sent out for more beer until Granny Beaton chased the guests away, muttering that the Sabbath would soon be upon them. Mabel and Mary, who were singing ‘The Blaydon Races’ for the sixth time, had to be prised apart and Mary was helped downstairs by her son Tommy, while an inebriated Uncle Barny leaned on Tich and Susan for support.

  ‘It’s me leg,’ he chortled, ‘can’t make it do what I want.’

  ‘It’s the booze, more like,’ Violet answered huffily, stalking off ahead.

  Maggie caught Richard whispering something to Helen on his way out, which brought a coquettish look to her sister’s face.

  ‘Grand evening!’ Mary Smith shouted up from below and then the downstairs door banged shut behind her.

  ‘Have I told you ‘bout the siege of Lichtenburg, Jimmy?’ Barny slurred at his nephew.

  ‘Aye, once or twice, Uncle Barny,’ Jimmy grinned and rolled his eyes heavenwards at Susan.

  ‘I lost me leg, you know—’

  ‘Our Tich’ll see you up the road,’ Susan interrupted as they reached the bottom of the stairs.

  ‘No need, young man,’ Richard appeared at Barny’s side, ‘I can manage him.’ He smiled at Susan. ‘It’s been a wonderful evening and I have enjoyed meeting you, Susan. Aunt Violet told me you were the special one and I see what she means,’ he winked at her.

  Susan flushed with pleasure and surprise, for she had been disappointed by the amount of attention he had paid to Helen.

  ‘It’s been canny meeting you too,’ she said shyly, her hand going to her neck in a nervous gesture.

  He moved closer and dropped his voice. ‘I hope I may call on you sometime.’

  ‘Of c-course,’ Susan stuttered and beamed with delight.

  ‘Right then, Uncle Barny,’ he said loudly, relieving Jimmy of the portly older man’s weight. Barny began to sing again as he was steered into the dark damp street.

  ‘I’ll get you into the matinee next Saturday, Jimmy, my boy,’ Richard promised.

  ‘Ta very much,’ Tich replied enthusiastically. ‘That would be champion.’

  Susan and her brother watched them go, Aunt Violet stalking ahead with Barny’s fiddle while the men weaved their way behind.

  ‘He’s canny, isn’t he?’ Tich glanced at his sister.

  ‘I think so,’ Susan answered coyly.

  ‘It was disgusting the way Helen was flitting with him all evening, mind,’ Jimmy complained as they retreated inside.

  Susan agreed but said nothing. After all, it was she and not the brazen Helen that Richard had asked to see again. She was seized by the sudden exciting thought, as they ascended to the flat, that Richard could be their means of escape from Gun Street. She would marry Richard and being an important man he would buy a house big enough for them all to live in. It would be a house with a proper parlour, only used for entertaining, Susan daydreamed, and there would be railings and a gate in front and a door with gleaming brasses. Her mother would no longer have to slog around Newcastle selling clothes and Helen could be indulged with new dresses. Granny Beaton could spend her final days sitting in front of a roaring fire that never went out and Tich would find a good position, working indoors instead of hawking firewood around the neighbourhood. And Maggie...

  Susan’s imagination failed her when she thought of her other sister. Try as she might, she could not see Richard living happily with Maggie under his roof, a constant critic of all he said and did. No, Maggie would be much happier setting up house with Rose Johnstone or one of her other strident friends. She could visit them for Sunday tea or whenever she wanted, but it would be a far more harmonious household if Maggie was absent, Susan mused, then felt a pang of guilt for the disloyal thought.

  ***

  The next morning Maggie had just finished dressing her grandmother in the room that passed for parlour and the old woman’s bedroom when she heard banging on the front door. Her mother and Helen were still lying in bed and Tich was out early delivering Sunday newspapers. She heard Susan, who was stirring the porridge, go to answer the door.

  Instantly, she recognised Rose’s clear voice.

  ‘What is it?’ Maggie rushed out to greet her friend, knowing it must be something serious to bring her rushing round on a Sunday morning.

  ‘Mrs Pankhurst!’ Rose thrust a newspaper at her. ‘They’ve given her three years’ penal servitude. Isn’t it outrageous?’

  Maggie scanned the inside page in shock. Emmeline Pankhurst had been given a three-year sentence for ‘incitement’ following a mysterious fire at Walton Heath. The judge had ignored the jury’s plea to show her mercy and women protesters had been cleared from the gallery for shouting ‘shame’ and singing The Women’s Marseillaise.

  ‘Three years? After all she’s been through already?’ Maggie gasped. ‘They’re trying to kill the woman. We have to do something, Rose.’

  ‘Don’t be ridiculous,’ Susan said, hands on hips. ‘What can you possibly do? You think you’re so important, but you’re no better than the rest of us.’

  ‘Something will be done,’ Rose said, giving Susan a dismissive look. ‘Maggie, can I have a word alone?’

  ‘Come in the parlour.’ Maggie steered her friend quickly into the adjoining room and closed the door on Susan’s affronted face. Rose glanced warily at Granny Beaton sitting staring at her Bible on the iron-framed bed.

  ‘She can’t hear very well,’ Maggie assured her friend, ‘and she wouldn’t tell if she could.’

  The old woman glanced up and smiled at Rose who gave her a hasty greeting. Maggie knew her grandmother had always approved of her friendship with the schoolteacher.

  They spoke in hushed tones. ‘There’s to be a meeting this afternoon to decide on a response to the prison sentence,’ Rose said.

  ‘Good,’ Maggie said roundly, itching to take some action. ‘What time?’

  ‘Three o’clock.’

  ‘Not till then?’ Maggie felt frustration.

  Rose shook her head. ‘It was agreed last night, when news was telephoned through to Miss Pearson.’

  Maggie suddenly remembered that Rose had been at a soirée at Hebron House and felt niggled that she had not heard about the news sooner.

  ‘I’ll come to your house after dinner,’ Maggie said. ‘We can go up to town together.’

  ‘The meeting’s not at the office,’ Rose told her softly. ‘The police might be keepin
g an eye on activity there.’

  ‘Where then?’ Maggie asked.

  ‘Alice Pearson said we must meet at Hebron House.’

  Maggie felt a thrill of expectation. Finally, she was going to enter the mysterious world of the rich and powerful Pearsons and come face to face with the formidable Alice Pearson.

  Chapter 4

  From the terrace of Hebron House, Alice Pearson could not see the ranks of workers’ houses that hemmed in the mansion and its grounds. The view was of dense mature trees coming into bud and rolling lawns interrupted by circular flowerbeds of daffodils and primulas. Cherry blossom scattered across the terrace like soft confetti as Alice descended the steps with her friend Emily Davison.

  ‘It was good of you to come, Pem.’ Alice smiled down at the slim woman beside her, noticing a stiffness in her movements as she walked. She had aged dramatically since her last visit to Hebron House, yet her eyes still shone with vitality and the lustre had not quite gone from her golden hair.

  ‘I had to come,’ Emily answered forcefully. ‘It’s monstrous what they’ve done to Emmeline Pankhurst and I know just what a terrible time they’ll give her in prison. We really must hit back as hard as we can.’

  She broke off coughing, her face looking pinched and drawn in the blustery spring wind. Alice slipped an arm through hers in concern.

  ‘Would you rather return to the house? It was selfish of me to make you walk outside on such a cold day. I can see how your last spell in prison has—’

  ‘I’m quite all right,’ Emily said to the large woman at her side. ‘There’s no need to fuss.’

  They continued across the lawn with Alice’s black poodle, Rosamund, padding at their heels and fell to reminiscing. They had been brought together through their membership of the WSPU and would certainly never have met socially otherwise. Alice had found Emily refreshingly lively and outspoken compared to her own conventional family; she enjoyed a party and was accomplished on the piano as well as being dedicated to the suffragist cause. Alice’s brother Herbert could not bear her friends, but even he enjoyed being shocked by Emily Davison’s outrageous and engaging conversation. Alice’s broad face broke into a smile as Emily recounted her escapade into the House of Commons where she had hidden in a heating flue.