This is a special day for me and I want it to be canny. I can’t go to the boat race if you won’t come with me. Me and Richard will just have to stop in the house with Mam and Granny.’
‘All right,’ Maggie sighed, giving up her plans of a pleasant read or going into town. ‘I’ll come.’
Susan rushed over and kissed her on the cheek. ‘You’ll have to put on something smart, mind. And you’ll brush your hair, won’t you? And please don’t wear that hat with the suffragette ribbons round it. You’ll not go on about women’s rights to Richard either? He doesn’t hold with that sort of talk.’
Maggie groaned and closed her book. She had no wish to spend the afternoon trailing around after Susan and the garrulous Richard Turvey, craning over the crowds to get a glimpse of a few rowing boats. But she could see how excited her sister was at the prospect of the afternoon’s entertainment and Susan certainly deserved a few hours’ respite from the drudgery of Gun Street.
‘Haway then,’ Maggie smiled resignedly. ‘I’ll play the meek little sister just this once. What do you want me to wear?’
Taking the tramcar to Scotswood, the party of three alighted close to the Ord Arms and followed the crowd of holidaymakers down to the riverside. Stepping past a group of children playing marbles in the street, they emerged from the uniform ranks of housing onto the banks of the Tyne where a thriving boat club was swarming with spectators.
‘Used to go boating a lot on the Thames,’ Richard was telling Susan who was clinging to his arm. ‘Rowed on most big rivers in Europe, as a matter of fact.’
‘Have you, Richard?’ Susan looked impressed. ‘Thamesmen are supposed to be grand rowers, aren’t they?’
‘Tynesiders are better,’ Maggie said, tired of Richard’s boastfulness. Susan gave her a warning look.
‘Don’t listen to Maggie, she just likes to argue,’ Susan laughed falsely.
‘My, my, little sister,’ Richard replied, with an infuriating smile. ‘I didn’t think you took any interest in rowing.’
‘I don’t,’ Maggie muttered, her irritation mounting. ‘I just—’
‘You just like to stick up for Geordies, is that it?’ Richard said. ‘Think I’m being a big-headed Londoner, do you? Well, us Londoners do have a lot to be proud of, you know, little Maggie. But no, I see myself as a man of the world - cosmopolitan, well-travelled. You don’t want to limit your horizons to one little place on the map, even if you are a proud northerner.’ He chuckled, cocking his head to one side under his jaunty cap.
‘My horizons aren’t limited,’ Maggie was stung into answering. ‘I’ve met women from all over the country and I’m just as interested in the rights of lasses in London as Tyneside.’
‘Oh, Maggie, you promised not to start on about politics!’ Susan protested. ‘Can’t you just enjoy the afternoon without getting all steamed up?’
‘Sorry,’ Maggie apologised, swallowing her indignation and turning from Richard’s triumphant face. She determined to ignore his jibing and remain mute for the rest of the expedition.
Soon they were surrounded by the crowd and being jostled good-naturedly down to the landings of the boat club. Maggie was not even sure which local teams were in the competition but she assumed by the size of the crowd that there must be several. She knew that most communities along the Tyne had their own rowing club, as did several of the works along the riverfront, including Pearson’s.
Rowing had always been a popular local sport and Maggie could vaguely remember enjoying the spectacle of boat racing as a child. She had a memory of being by the lapping river edge, watching the narrow boats cutting through the blue-grey water, the rowers’ arms stretching and pulling in unison. She had been high on her father’s shoulders, up above the cheering crowds and the flotsam of caps and boaters, soaring like a seagull yet safely anchored by her father’s large hands. But somewhere in her growing up she had lost her appetite for boating.
‘Remember when Father used to take us on the river?’ Susan said, echoing her thoughts. ‘And you always had to take one of the oars.’
‘Always in command, eh, little sister?’ Richard teased.
Maggie shrugged. ‘I don’t really remember.’
‘But you must,’ Susan insisted. ‘You loved a trip on the river, just like Father.’ She smiled at Richard. ‘She was Father’s shadow, was our Maggie.’
‘Stop going on so, Susan,’ Maggie said irritably. ‘I hardly remember what me dad was like.’
Glancing at Richard, she noticed him watching her with interest, as if making a mental note of her weakness, the soft underbelly of memories of her father that were too painful to expose. Well, it had nothing to do with this Londoner how she felt about her father, Maggie thought with resentment, and she would not speak about him to Richard. Changing the subject quickly, she said, ‘Look, I think something’s about to start. We’ll get a better view if we push nearer the front.’ Maggie pulled Susan after her, squeezing a path through the cheerful spectators and secretly hoping they might lose Richard in the mêlée. Just as they emerged onto the edge of the riverbank, a burly figure in a rowing singlet and shorts pushed by. Maggie stifled an exclamation as George Gordon turned and caught sight of her in the same instant.
For a moment he hesitated, as if debating whether to acknowledge her, then decided to speak.
‘Not here to protest at the lack of a ladies’ team, are you?’ he grunted.
‘I’m having an afternoon out with me sister Susan,’ she replied coolly.
George nodded amiably at Susan.
‘It’s George Gordon, isn’t it?’ Susan squinted at him.
‘Aye.’
‘Thought it was. You’ve got the Gordon chin. Doing well at Pearson’s, so I hear,’ Susan nodded in approval. ‘Blacksmith, aren’t you?’
Maggie and George both looked at her in astonishment.
‘I see your sister Irene at the wash-house every week,’ Susan explained with a laugh. ‘We always have a bit crack.’
‘I might have known,’ Maggie sighed. ‘There’s no one this side of Westgate Road our Susan doesn’t know about.’
‘Aye, and Irene’s the same,’ George said, sliding a glance at Maggie. ‘There’s no one can beat a couple of lasses for gossiping, is there?’
‘I always find it’s men that like the sound of their own voices,’ Maggie retaliated. ‘British industry could run off the hot air you lads generate over a few pints of beer.’
‘Maggie!’ Susan remonstrated.
At that moment, Richard came pushing through breathlessly, throwing Maggie a reproachful look for having left him behind.
‘This is Richard Turvey,’ Susan introduced him quickly, flustered by Maggie’s aggression towards the swarthy rower. ‘From London. Richard works in the cinematography business. George Gordon here used to go to school with us, he works at Pearson’s.’
The two men nodded at each other suspiciously.
‘So which is the crew to bet on, eh?’ Richard asked, jangling the change in his pocket.
‘Eeh, Richard, you’re not going to gamble?’ Susan asked, shocked.
‘No harm in a little flutter, Susan dear,’ Richard answered, amused at her disapproval.
‘But the police,’ she gasped.
‘I’m sure George here can advise me where I can place a little bet,’ Richard smiled. ‘He looks like a man of the world. Eh, George?’
Maggie thought she saw a flicker of contempt cross the rower’s face but he answered courteously enough.
‘Over yonder,’ he nodded at a riverside pub with blackened opaque windows. ‘They’ll be happy to take your money. Our crew are as good as any - Pearson’s. Now if you’ll excuse me,’ George said with a mock flick of respect to Maggie, ‘we’re off next.’
For the first time Maggie noticed the blue and gold colours of Pearson’s across his chest and her heart gave a painful squeeze as it conjured up a vivid memory of her father in just such a singlet.
‘You row for Pearson’s
?’ she blurted out.
‘Aye,’ George nodded, surprised by her sudden interest. ‘Not going to scupper us as a protest against Lord Pearson, are you?’ he grinned. Maggie was surprised George Gordon knew of the magnate’s virulent speeches against women’s suffrage in the Upper House. Working men of his kind usually took no interest in such debates.
‘Perhaps I will,’ Maggie responded.
‘Well, I hope you can swim,’ he joked ‘Cos none of these buggers will gan in after a suffragette.’
‘Good,’ Maggie pouted, her grey eyes flashing. ‘I’d rather drown as a suffragette than be beholden to a mere man!’
George laughed out loud and moved off, shaking his head.
‘Maggie, how could you be so rude?’ Susan scolded.
‘He asked for it,’ she replied, not in the least contrite. She caught sight of Richard watching her closely once more and felt uneasy under his narrow-eyed scrutiny.
‘I don’t think Mr Gordon minded Maggie’s provocation in the least,’ Richard said softly.
Maggie felt herself colouring at his remark and turned away quickly, shielding her eyes from the glare bouncing off the oily water. Her dislike of Richard Turvey was increasing by the hour; she was dismayed at Susan’s obvious infatuation with his foxy good looks and glib conversation.
The rest of the afternoon passed pleasantly enough and Maggie enjoyed the holiday mood of the crowd and the warm sunshine on her shoulders as the crews raced along the stretch of Tyne, west of Scotswood Bridge. Being upstream from Pearson’s vast shipyard and fortress-like armaments factories, the air was more clear of the ubiquitous pall of smoke and steam that they lived under every day and Maggie filled her lungs full of the lighter air, watching with more interest than she cared to admit, to see how Pearson’s crew progressed.
Richard spent a large part of the afternoon in and out of the nearby pub, while Susan tried to hide her disappointment. He was gleeful when the unfavoured young crew from the glassworks on which he was betting beat the mighty Pearson’s in the semi-final. But noticing Susan’s growing coolness, he quickly pocketed his winnings and bundled them back on a tram to Daniel Park.
‘I’m going to treat you to tea at that open-air stall,’ he smiled broadly at Susan. ‘It’s the only reason I wanted to bet in the first place - spend a bit extra on you, dear.’
Maggie found this hard to believe but Susan seemed mollified and slipped her arm through his again. A colliery brass band from Benwell played stirring music under the copper-domed and gilt-painted bandstand as they tucked into cream cakes and a jug of tea in the park. Richard talked expansively. ‘I must take you to tea at the new Terrace Tearoom in Fenwick’s - they have an orchestra playing every afternoon, you know.’
‘Every afternoon!’ Susan exclaimed in pink-faced wonder.
‘Then we could go and see Houdini at the Empire.’
‘Who’s Houdini?’ Susan asked, through a mouthful of sticky cake.
‘Don’t tell me you haven’t heard of Houdini, girl?’ Richard laughed in disbelief. ‘The world-famous self-liberator, that’s who. Has Helen not told you about him?’
‘Helen?’ Susan flushed. ‘Why should she?’
Richard hesitated, then nudged her playfully. ‘No reason, it’s just that sister of yours seems to live in the theatre, as far as I can see.’
‘She may well,’ Susan said with disapproval, ‘but I seldom get the chance to go out like she does, though how she finds the money to go to the pictures all the time defeats me.’
Maggie slipped away, musing that money appeared to be no obstacle to Richard either. What exactly was he doing in Newcastle? She wouldn’t be surprised if he was just living leech-like off Aunt Violet and making money at gambling, then chided herself for being uncharitable. Just because she disliked him did not mean he made a living by dishonest means. Still, she found it hard to believe that he was anything as responsible as a manager of a prestigious new cinema.
Leaving through the wrought-iron gates, Maggie debated briefly whether to return to Scotswood to see the outcome of the regatta, then dismissed the notion as frivolous. If she walked into town now, she would still have time to sell copies of The Suffragette and on Saturday evening the markets, public houses and cafes were always teaming with people. Pushing thoughts of George Gordon’s glistening and muscled arms firmly from her mind, she walked purposefully towards the city.
***
All afternoon, George had been conscious of the Beaton girls standing on the landing in their pale dresses and straw hats watching the races. Not that that had spurred him on to greater exertions, or been responsible for his crew gaining a well-fought place in the semi-finals of the regatta, but nonetheless he had been aware of their presence. The raising of a pale hand to shade her flint-grey eyes, an amused inaudible comment to her sister, a cat-like yawn in the sunshine were glimpses that had made him conscious of Maggie Beaton throughout the afternoon.
The distraction had been annoying and incomprehensible, and even now he found himself thinking of Maggie’s slim, determined face and slender neck framed by her thick, untidy black hair. Now, if she had had Susan Beaton’s pleasant feminine manner, he could have understood his stirring attraction. But Maggie Beaton was too forthright and self-opinionated for any man to find attractive and too knowledgeable about manly pursuits such as politics. She would come to no good, that one, George thought, with a shake of his head.
‘Haway, George man,’ said Bob Stanners, a fellow rower, slapping him on the shoulder. ‘We’re off into town for a few. You coming?’
‘Gan on without me,’ George replied ‘I’ll catch you up later.’
His pale, red-headed friend groaned. ‘You going to sulk about losing the cup to Armstrong’s for the next year?’
‘I’m not sulking,’ George insisted, ‘just want to stop off at me da’s on the way - see how the old bugger is.’
He knew Bob and the others thought him strange for not living at home with his family, preferring to rent a room on his own in a dilapidated house in Rye Hill. But he had always been independent, a very private man, in spite of his capacity for organising others and being a stalwart of the rowing team. He revelled in his one-roomed freedom away from the bursting pit cottage in Benwell where his sister Irene kept house for his father and brothers, his mother having died long since.
‘Haven’t got yourself a secret woman tucked away in that den of yours, have you, George?’ Bob teased, punching him on the chest.
‘Wouldn’t you like to know.’ George caught Bob’s fist, delivering a playful cuff on his chin in return. They wrestled for a minute until the others intervened and they parted with cheerful obscenities.
When his friends were out of sight, George turned in the opposite direction and made his way over some derelict land, climbing a battered fence and crossing a field. Later he would visit his old father and help himself to Irene’s homemade pies, but first he wanted to walk. Since a scrawny youth he had enjoyed roaming the countryside on the fringes of Newcastle, watching the wilderness retreat before the greedy sprawling mass of hastily thrown up housing and brash new factories.
Small farms and meadows still stood their ground against the grime and smoke and effluent that threatened to poison them with progress. As a boy, George had played among the stooks and waded barefoot through burns, imagining he was an ancient Briton evading the imperious Romans just like in the history book John Heslop, the Sunday School teacher, had lent him. George had long since turned his back on religion, seeing it as a trick of the ruling classes to keep their workers docile and obedient. But Heslop’s teaching had fired a love of history that had never been quenched and George would often steal to the institute library after work to read dusty historical tomes and even poetry.
‘God forbid - if there is a God - that Bob and the lads should ever find me reciting poetry,’ George said aloud as he strode through the young green grasses, stirring up butterflies.
When he was sure he was out of earshot
of the receding houses, he pulled a volume of poetry from inside his jacket and began to read Matthew Arnold to the trees and hedgerows as he passed. It was suitably melancholic after his defeat on the river and he boomed out verse after verse. Approaching a farmhouse, George fell silent, enjoying the evening twitter of birds and the bellow of a cow needing milking. He waved at the red-cheeked dairy girl with her raw hands and wondered why he had not been born on the land where he felt most at home.
At least he was not working underground like his father and brothers, George thought with relief. After his mother’s death, he had hung around the blacksmith’s forge to be near the horses, comforted by the animal smells and the warmth of the forge fire in winter. For years he had watched fascinated as the blacksmith in his leather apron had shod pit ponies and dray horses, his tools ringing harshly as the hot metal glowed orange in his grasp and the forge reeking with the pungency of scorched hooves. Finally the blacksmith had agreed to take him on because he was the strongest of the boys who pestered for a job and he learned quickly.
George gained the top of the hill and looked back down to the Tyne and its hazy industrial sprawl. Church spires poked up hopefully out of the smog, but they were outnumbered by the smoking chimneys and preying cranes. George sighed. He had left the smithy, lured by better prospects in the shipyards, and since then it had been his lot to spend his days sweating in Pearson’s forge working its gigantic hammers and hydraulic presses. Although there was satisfaction in producing huge metal sheets that were turned into impressive ships, George often felt he was no more than a tiny ant among thousands, working mindlessly for Pearson’s profit.
‘Well, ants can bloody well organise!’ George shouted down at the miles of factory sheds. ‘One day we’ll all have a say in our working conditions!’ He punched the air as he spoke. No one knew that most of his union speeches had been practised up here among the indifferent cows. ‘One day the nation will own the means of production, not just a handful of men like Pearson. And we’ll spend the profits on decent housing and education beyond fourteen and pensions for our old citizens. Never again will they have to fear the workhouse!’
THE GREAT WAR SAGAS: Box set of 2 passionate and inspiring stories: A Crimson Dawn and No Greater Love Page 48
