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

by Janet MacLeod Trotter

  ‘And what about the time you broke the window of Lloyd George’s car?’ Alice reminded her with a hearty laugh. ‘Pity he wasn’t in it.’

  ‘Yes,’ Emily agreed. ‘I’m really rather bad at recognising faces.’

  Alice stopped and shaded her eyes as she scanned the view over the treetops to the coil of river beyond. The Tyne looked grey and choppy and unfriendly at that moment, fringed with the chimney stacks and shipping cranes that generated her father’s wealth. The wind was blowing downriver bringing the pungent smells of paint and iron and human effluent into the secluded haven of Hebron House. Alice shivered and drew her coat round her bulky shoulders.

  ‘A dramatic gesture is needed,’ she spoke sombrely, ‘something that will draw attention to the highest in the land - the King even.’

  ‘I quite agree,’ Emily was enthusiastic, ‘and I think I know what you’re going to say.’

  ‘You do?’

  ‘Yes. HMS Courageous.’

  ‘HMS Courageous?’ Alice was taken by surprise.

  ‘Yes, your father’s new battleship.’

  ‘I know very well what it is,’ Alice answered tersely. ‘But what’s it got to do with grand gestures?’

  ‘Its launch,’ Emily said with an edge of impatience. ‘Surely the Royal Navy’s most modern battleship will be launched by royalty or a member of the Cabinet at least.’

  Alice stopped. ‘It may well be, it really hadn’t occurred to me.’

  ‘But it’s a marvellous opportunity,’ Emily enthused, ‘and so easy to organise. You’ll be able to find out all the details.’

  ‘No!’ Alice said instinctively. ‘I mean, not at this moment. The launch won’t be until later in the summer, we need a more immediate protest. Yes, more immediate.’ She took her friend by the arm and steered her round. ‘You see, I’ve been contacted by headquarters. They want a disruption at the Derby, in front of the King and Queen. Now that would really capture the headlines.’

  Emily resisted Alice’s attempts to marshal her indoors and Alice found herself being scrutinised. She could see she had disappointed her militant friend and she felt vaguely annoyed that she, a Pearson, should be judged and found wanting. She did not take criticism easily and saw no reason why she should have to explain that she felt a pride in the new battleship and would be helping her father to entertain the dignitaries on launch day at Hebron House. She could not possibly sabotage such an important event for Pearson’s.

  But Alice could not admit that the overriding reason for steering clear of such action was her fear of losing her valued independence at Hebron House. Her father tolerated her eccentric desire to live alone and dabble in the women’s movement because she was considered beyond marriageable age and because he could afford it. In return, she helped him with the business as much as she could. While her brother Herbert gambled his wealth away at their mother’s card tables, she at least helped Pearson’s compete against their powerful rivals.

  ‘The Derby?’ Emily said at last.

  ‘Yes, at Epsom,’ Alice encouraged.

  ‘So that’s what this meeting is about?’ Emily asked, her voice flat.

  Alice nodded. She saw now how she could distract Emily from plotting to disrupt the launch. ‘We need someone of experience and courage to carry out the task,’ she said, bending to pick up a whining Rosamund. ‘I naturally thought of you. Of course, it’ll have to be discussed with the others and put to the vote.’

  Emily nodded but said nothing. Alice was too relieved that she had dropped the subject of the launch to notice her lack of enthusiasm.

  ‘Let’s go back inside,’ Alice said brightly. ‘The others will be arriving for the meeting shortly and I’d like to discuss the idea further with you before they come.’ Alice began to walk purposefully towards the house, clutching the spoilt Rosamund. ‘I’ll arrange for tea to be served in the drawing room.’

  Skirting the summer pavilion with its huge stone urns, Alice marched them back to the house.

  ***

  Maggie entered the grounds of Hebron House bursting with curiosity, Rose Johnstone at her side.

  ‘Look at the size of it!’ Maggie gasped as the gatekeeper clanged the side gate shut behind them. She had glimpsed the roof of the mansion from the top of her school building, but never before had she seen its vast frontage of classical pillars and lofty windows. ‘Have you brought a map with you?’ she laughed nervously.

  ‘Yes,’ Rose teased. ‘People have been known to get lost in there and wander around for years without finding a way out.’

  ‘Bet there’s folk in there think Queen Victoria’s still on the throne,’ said Maggie.

  They hurried up the drive, moving to the verge as a horse and trap bumped its way past them to the gates. As they approached the house, signs of decay became evident; the paintwork had blistered on the front doors and the window-frames were faded and bleached a silvery white. The stone pillars showed as much black grime as the houses in Gun Street and the paving on the terrace was cracked and weed-choked. Its air of neglect surprised Maggie. For a moment she wished she could have brought Susan with her, knowing how fascinated her elder sister would have been, but the meeting was secret and Susan would have disapproved of it anyway. In front of the house, Maggie recognised Jocelyn Fulford’s shiny black motorcar.

  Rose pushed her up the steps to the entrance.

  Inside they were shown up a vast staircase shrouded by dark portraits of sombre men with hunting dogs and women in crinoline dresses to a bright room overlooking the front terrace. It was as big as the public reading room in the library and loftier than her old school hall. Maggie stared around in wonder at the drawing room crowded with deep easy chairs and huge jardinières holding exotic palms. A fierce fire blazed in a white marble fireplace overhung with huge mirrors, its mantel decorated with candlesticks. The walls groaned with oil paintings in heavy gilt frames squeezed in among dozens of framed photographs. Maggie had heard that Alice Pearson was an accomplished amateur photographer and glancing at one photograph by the door she saw a charmingly natural image of a pretty boy on a miniature pony.

  Rose nudged her forward and Maggie found her buttoned boots made no noise as she crept over the carpet.

  ‘Come in, come in,’ Alice Pearson encouraged, waving her arms at them. Maggie recognised the tall, well-built woman with the sweep of chestnut hair and large outspread hands as their hostess. She had an expressive, full face, dominated by a bulky nose and bold brown eyes that never seemed to blink.

  Rose had told Maggie that Alice had somehow avoided being married off and was now safely into spinsterhood, following her own pursuits. She can afford to, Maggie thought enviously, unable to stop staring at her surroundings.

  ‘This is Maggie Beaton,’ Rose introduced her nervously.

  ‘How do you do?’ Alice held out a hand with a warm smile.

  Maggie, acutely aware that her hands could have been cleaner, responded awkwardly.

  ‘There’s tea on the table and then we’ll get down to business.’

  All Maggie could do was nod, feeling dowdy in her grey woollen dress and shapeless blue hat. Rose began to chat to one of the others about the soirée, leaving her wondering what to do. A woman Maggie recognised as the militant Emily Davison came towards her with a cup of tea. She had seen Miss Davison’s picture in the newspapers on several occasions and realised she was among a very select group of activists, thanks to Rose’s recommendation.

  ‘Help yourself to milk or sugar,’ Emily smiled at the overawed young woman. ‘We’re so pleased you’ve joined us today.’

  Maggie smiled back gratefully, hardly able to believe she was in the company of such important women.

  Soon, Alice Pearson brought the room to order.

  ‘We all know why we are here,’ she said in a clear, confident voice. ‘Our sister Emmeline has been wronged by so-called British justice. She has been locked away for three years for inciting voteless women to burn down an empty villa. Where is her
crime?’ Alice demanded. ‘They only acted out of frustration. I say it is those in authority who incited the women; it is they who should have been put in the dock.’

  ‘That’s right,’ Emily Davison said, rising to her feet. ‘They had to blow up Lloyd George’s house to wake him up! We have declared war, sisters, and the sword must not be put away until we win the vote. Like Joan of Arc, we’ll fight and take the consequences for our beliefs. We’ll continue to go to prison, we’ll suffer force-feeding, we shall not submit until we have justice!’

  Maggie watched her transfixed, stirred deep within herself by the uncompromising words. She knew then that she was prepared to do as much as Emily Davison and Alice Pearson asked of her. Gripped by the rightness of their cause, it no longer mattered that they were from different sides of a social gulf and that the tall upper-class woman was a Pearson. As Rose had said, Miss Alice had had nothing to do with the way Pearson’s shipyard had treated her family, she was on their side.

  ‘We want a volunteer,’ Alice Pearson was speaking again. ‘Someone prepared to make a dramatic gesture that will splash our cause across every newspaper in the land.’

  ‘We think the Derby at Epsom is where we must demonstrate,’ Emily joined in. ‘The King and Queen will be present, it’s a God-given opportunity.’

  ‘One of us will make a protest as the King’s horse goes past - brandish one of our banners,’ Alice continued. Maggie sensed a hushed tension among the dozen women present.

  Emily added, ‘And we’ll fight on, sisters. God will give the victory!’

  ‘Here, here!’ said Jocelyn and approval rippled around the room.

  ‘I have been in contact with our sisters in London,’ Alice said, ‘and they agree that the volunteer should come from the north; she is less likely to be recognised or detected. Are we all in agreement that this is the course of action we should take?’ She swept them with her brown-eyed gaze.

  There were murmurs of assent, but Rose tugged on Maggie’s arm and whispered, ‘We can’t take part.’

  Maggie, hardly able to contain her excitement at the idea, looked at her friend in astonishment. ‘Of course we can.’

  ‘No, Maggie, can’t you see—’

  ‘Do you wish to say something, Rose?’ Alice spoke across the room. ‘If so, we’d all like to hear it.’

  Rose flushed deeply but answered in her clear schoolroom voice. ‘I’m sorry, but Maggie and I cannot take part in the protest. We have to work for our living; we cannot afford to take off to Epsom. It’s not just the expense, but the time. We’d lose our jobs. As you know, I’m a teacher and Maggie is, well, she’s a secretary in one of Pearson’s workshops.’

  Alice nodded in sympathy. ‘I quite understand. Such sacrifice would be unnecessary. As a matter of fact, I was going to propose our sister Emily for the task. She has courageously agreed to have her name put forward but of course it must be put to the vote.’

  Maggie felt indignant at her friend’s intervention and the way in which she had been so quickly excluded from the plot.

  She stood up. ‘I don’t care if I do lose me job,’ she said with spirit. ‘Pearson’s aren’t the only employer around here. I’ll find summat else, more than likely. I want to do something important for our cause, not just handing out bits of paper on a Saturday afternoon. I’ve got the bottle to do it I’d throw myself under the hooves of the King’s horse if I had to,’ Maggie said with vehemence.

  Alice was taken aback. ‘There’s certainly no need for that,’ she answered with a nervous laugh, looking more closely at the diminutive young woman with the ill-fitting hat. There was raw defiance in her slim face. She had dismissed this working-class girl as some lame duck of Rose Johnstone’s, who was probably only good for handing out newspapers in the rougher parts of town.

  ‘Maggie, you can’t,’ Rose intervened again. ‘It’s all very well being full of high ideals, but your family depends on the wage you bring in. There are others here who can undertake the protest - I think Miss Davison is an excellent choice.’

  ‘Quite so,’ Alice agreed quickly, keeping the uncomfortable thought to herself that Maggie might also be out of her social depth among the London WSPU. ‘My dear, we do appreciate your fervour,’ she smiled at the eager young woman before her, ‘and we shall find plenty for you to do locally. Now, are there any other proposed names?’

  Maggie sat back down, livid with Rose and with Alice Pearson’s patronising manner. She watched as the others shook their heads and then voted unanimously for Emily Davison to take on the task. She sat in the seat next to Maggie, quietly composed, an air of fatality clinging to her pale face.

  Suddenly Maggie was gripped with foreboding for her; she sensed danger like a powerful smell hanging in the room.

  Slowly Emily stood up. ‘Thank you for choosing me,’ she said. ‘I consider it a great honour to be able to strike this blow on behalf of womankind.’

  Soon afterwards, the meeting broke up and Rose and Maggie followed the others out, not speaking to each other. Out in the fresh air, Maggie was about to berate Rose for her interference when Emily Davison came hurrying out after them.

  ‘Miss Beaton,’ she called, ‘I would like to talk to you at greater length. Perhaps we could meet at Miss Johnstone’s one evening soon?’

  Maggie and Rose exchanged surprised looks. ‘Of course,’ Rose said, ‘I’d be pleased to have you.’

  ‘Why do you want to speak to me?’ Maggie asked her warily, suspecting this well-spoken woman was just patronising her too.

  Emily flashed a smile. ‘Because you’ve got a strong dose of north country spirit, my girl, and that’s just what’s needed for a plan of mine.’ She glanced over her shoulder and added hurriedly, ‘I can’t speak of it here but I really do need to talk to you soon. It’s of the utmost importance to the cause. Can I rely on you, Miss Beaton?’

  Maggie answered without hesitation, ‘Aye, of course you can. I’ll do anything for the movement.’

  Emily Davison fixed her with bright eyes. ‘Yes, I thought you’d say that.’

  Once more, Maggie had a fleeting premonition of disaster like a tiny shiver across the shoulders, and she suspected that whatever happened to this fearless woman, it would change her own life too.

  ***

  The following weeks dragged by with no word from Emily Davison and Maggie could hardly concentrate on her office work at Pearson’s. She was increasingly reprimanded by her superior, Mr Roberts, for typing errors and was impatient for the end of each day when she could escape the dirty little office in Number 12 workshop.

  Two older women worked with Maggie in the same shop’s office for ten shillings a week, having replaced a man who had been paid one pound for his clerical services. One was a timid woman called Mary Watson who rarely spoke but the other was a keen-eyed Yorkshirewoman, Eve Tindall, whose foreman husband had secured her the job.

  ‘What’s bothering you, lass?’ Eve finally asked during their daily half-hour tea break. They sat in the office, for there was nowhere else for them to go, while the men from the factory vanished to the nearby public house. ‘Your mind’s not on your work. Isn’t that a fact, Mary?’

  Mary Watson did not look up from her penny romance or acknowledge that she had been spoken to.

  ‘Nowt as queer as folk, and nowt as strange as that one,’ Eve said, shrugging and turning back to Maggie. ‘Is there trouble at home?’

  Maggie was cautious, knowing how Eve liked to know everything about everybody. The secretive Mary Watson drove Eve Tindall to distraction.

  ‘No more than usual,’ Maggie grimaced, thinking of Helen’s petty bitching towards Susan over Richard Turvey. So far he had called on neither of them and the mounting suspense was proving unbearable to both.

  ‘It’s all this business about the suffragettes then?’ Eve guessed. ‘By, there’s been some terror going on - burning down cricket pavilions and setting fire to trains. Whatever next!’

  Maggie, too, had read about the spate of
militant acts that had flared up around the country after Mrs Pankhurst’s arrest. ‘Taking action is the only way of getting through to these people,’ she answered.

  Eve gave her a shrewd look over tiny oval spectacles. ‘You mixed up in some trouble?’

  Maggie shook her head and slurped at her tea.

  ‘You know summat, don’t you?’ Eve said excitedly, whipping off her spectacles and leaning closer.

  ‘Don’t be daft, I’m just a foot soldier who sells newspapers. I’m not going to know what the big guns are up to.’ Maggie tried to keep her voice unconcerned.

  Eve breathed hard on her glasses and rubbed off dust particles that plagued their cramped workspace. ‘There’s devilment afoot and you know about it, Maggie Beaton. You can’t fool me with your butter-wouldn’t-melt looks.’ She leaned closer still, her large bosom squashing on the table top. ‘Now are you going to tell Auntie Eve all about it? You know I wouldn’t tell a soul,’ she whispered.

  Maggie leaned towards her and hesitated. She was aware that Mary Watson had not turned a page of her book for several minutes, though she still pretended not to listen.

  ‘Do you really want to know?’ Maggie asked in a loud whisper. Eve nodded vigorously. ‘Well, if you join the WSPU you’ll find out everything!’ Maggie grinned.

  ‘You minx.’ Eve sank back in disappointment.

  ‘Why don’t you?’ Maggie laughed. ‘It needs sensible ordinary women like you to broaden the campaign. There are too many women hostile to the cause.’

  ‘That’s because it’s just a load of toffee-nosed madams who have nothing better to do with their time than chain themselves to railings.’ Eve snorted.

  ‘Rubbish!’ Maggie replied at once. ‘If ordinary women like you and me sit back and pretend it’s got nothing to do with us, then men are always going to decide how our lives are run, can’t you see that? They aren’t going to just give up power and hand us freedom on a plate, we have to fight for it.’