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

by Janet MacLeod Trotter

  ‘Want to earn a tanner, Tich?’ she asked her skinny brother. He nodded eagerly as she knew he would. All his life, Jimmy had run errands for them and been at his sisters’ beck and call. It never seemed to occur to him to say no, or perhaps he knew his life would not be worth living if he did. It was hard to think of him as fifteen when he looked no more than twelve and still wore short trousers. His mother had promised him long breeches as soon as he found a full-time job and stopped playing around the streets with the younger boys. But Jimmy seemed content to sell the odd bundle of firewood and fritter away the rest of the day acting cowboys and Indians with Tommy Smith or sneaking into the picture halls for free.

  ‘Come with me after tea to Pearson’s rowing club,’ Maggie told him.

  Jimmy agreed eagerly. ‘Can Tommy come an’ all?’

  Maggie hesitated. Her brother might be more likely to carry out her plan if his thirteen-year-old friend were there to back him up. ‘Aye, if he wants to - but not a word about this to anyone. Tell Tommy to keep his gob shut and I’ll give him summat too.’

  Maggie tried to ignore the excited look on her brother’s face all through tea, sure that Susan would notice and ask the reason.

  ‘Where you going?’ Mabel demanded later as Maggie made for the door with her hat on.

  ‘Me and Tich are going down the riverside to look for firewood,’ she answered casually. ‘It’s too nice to stop indoors all evening.’

  Her mother looked at Jimmy and he smiled back innocently.

  ‘Be back before it’s dark, mind,’ Mabel instructed and waved them away.

  Jimmy and Tommy hurried beside Maggie, attempting to keep up with her brisk pace.

  ‘Can we go on the tram, Maggie?’ Jimmy asked.

  ‘Not if you want paying.’

  ‘What are we going to do at the rowing club?’ Tommy questioned, excited to be out of his mother’s way for the evening. Maggie knew her mother would use the opportunity of Mrs Smith being on her own to go downstairs for a jar with her.

  ‘You’re going to look for firewood,’ Maggie told them.

  ‘But that’s what you told Mam we were going to do,’ Jimmy said in disappointment. ‘I thought it was some secret mission for your women’s thing - spying or getting a message to someone. It must be summat like that, our Maggie?’ He had always admired his rebellious sister for standing up to the family and showing the courage he lacked. Their bullying mother never got the better of Maggie, Jimmy thought, and he would do anything his sister asked of him.

  Maggie smiled at her brother’s imagination. Well, if that would make the expedition more enjoyable for him, she would play along.

  ‘It is,’ she whispered, ‘a very special mission. That’s why I could trust only you and Tommy.’

  ‘Eeh, will we get into real bother with Mam if she finds out?’ Jimmy gasped.

  Maggie groaned inwardly to think Jimmy might run off home for fear of their mother.

  ‘She’s not going to find out unless you tell her,’ Maggie answered severely, ‘so you mustn’t breathe a word of this to anyone.’

  He still looked at her dubiously. ‘Not even our Susan?’

  ‘Especially not Susan,’ Maggie said sternly. ‘Listen, Tich, others are depending on you and Tommy - you’re my cover, so that no one gets suspicious. But if you’re too scared…’

  ‘Course we’re not,’ Jimmy answered indignantly. ‘We’ll do owt you ask us, eh, Tommy?’

  ‘Why-aye!’ Tommy agreed and began to whoop with excitement while Jimmy spun imaginary pistols in the air.

  ‘Tell us what it’s for,’ Jimmy pressed. ‘Are you going to blow up the rowing club?’

  ‘No!’ Maggie cried.

  ‘Sink one of Pearson’s boats?’ Tommy asked eagerly.

  ‘No. Now stop making wild guesses,’ Maggie said, trying to keep a straight face. ‘You have to go and find George Gordon,’ she added quickly, ‘and tell him I have a message.’

  ‘George Gordon?’ Jimmy repeated in surprise. ‘Is he mixed up in this too? So Mam was right in saying he’s a dangerous radical.’

  ‘Enough said.’ Maggie brought a stop to speculation before Jimmy’s imagination ran riot. She made them talk of other things until they reached the bank of the Tyne near Scotswood, by which time her heart was hammering. She scribbled a message on the back of a suffragette leaflet, folded it and handed it over to Jimmy.

  At first they could find no one down at Pearson’s landing, then Jimmy spotted a boat approaching, its oars dipping and splashing rhythmically in the iridescent water. Maggie recognised George’s bulky arms before she saw his face. She quelled her impulse to run away and sent the boys down to meet the crew.

  ‘That’s him with the black moustache,’ Maggie told her brother. ‘Ask him to come up and meet me at the tram standard. When you’ve given him the message, go and look for driftwood until I fetch you.’

  ‘This isn’t just a love note, is it?’ Jimmy asked, suddenly suspicious. He held the folded leaflet between two fingers as if it might be contaminated.

  ‘Course not,’ Maggie answered with a blush.

  ‘That’s all right then,’ Jimmy smiled and rushed down the bank with his friend following and making whooping noises.

  ‘Pair of daft lads,’ Maggie laughed aloud, shaking her head and wondering what had possessed her to come. ‘If he refuses me, Eve Tindall, I’ll have your guts for garters!’

  She waited for what seemed ages at the top of the bank, just out of sight of the boat club. A tram stopped and waited for her to get on, and she waved it away in embarrassment. No one appeared. A second tram came into sight and Maggie was contemplating jumping on it when a voice made her start.

  ‘This is all very secretive, Maggie Beaton.’

  She spun round to see George Gordon standing behind her, a faded towel round his bullish neck which still glistened with the sweat of exertion.

  ‘Aye, I’m sorry.’ She flushed. ‘Our Tich thinks it’s some mission for the movement - it’s difficult to get away on me own and I didn’t know where you lived and I wanted a word, just a favour really. I won’t blame you if the answer’s no, but I’ve got myself into a spot of bother with the family.’

  ‘Doesn’t surprise me with that lot,’ George grunted, folding his arms and watching her, intrigued.

  ‘You see, they don’t approve of you since you stood up for me and the movement.’

  ‘I’m flattered,’ George laughed.

  But Maggie ploughed on, frightened of losing her nerve with him. ‘Well, after what you’d done for me, I got mad with Mam and our Susan and I, er, I said - that we were courtin’ - just to get me own back at them like. Now they’re expecting you to call. So I was wondering if you would accept an invitation to come to tea at our house - Saturday. We could just pretend …’ Maggie’s words dried on her lips as she looked up and saw the amusement on George’s ruddy face.

  ‘Saturday? Tomorrow?’ he asked, pulling on his moustache.

  ‘Aye.’

  ‘Pretend we’re courting?’

  ‘Aye,’ Maggie whispered, her cheeks on fire. ‘I can see now it was a daft idea. Perhaps you could forget what I’ve just said.’ She moved as if to go.

  ‘Hold on, lass,’ George answered, putting out a hand to stop her. ‘I think it’s one of your better ideas, if you want my opinion.’

  ‘Do you?’ Maggie looked at him cautiously.

  ‘Well, if it’s just pretend, and just for Saturday, I think I could help you out. Just for a favour.’

  ‘Ta,’ Maggie gulped, then saw that he was laughing. ‘Don’t mock me, George Gordon,’ she said, lifting her chin. ‘I’ll not be made fun of.’

  ‘Don’t take yourself so seriously, bonny lass,’ George grinned, offering her his arm. ‘Haway, if we’re courting, I can’t leave you hanging about a tram standard on your own. Let’s go and find Buffalo Bill and his mate.’

  Maggie smiled but did not take his arm. They found the boys exploring the shoreline, filling
their pockets with a treasure of stones and glass and the detritus of the tide. Maggie felt an unexpected contentment, watching their absorbed play as the sun went down in a smudge of orange beyond the chimneys of the power station.

  ‘They’re supposed to be collecting firewood,’ Maggie chuckled.

  ‘Leave them be,’ George said. ‘They’re happy as pig in muck. I was the same as a lad - a right little jackdaw. Our Irene would go mad at the rubbish I brought home.’

  ‘But Tich is fifteen now, yet he’s still such a bairn.’

  ‘He’ll grow up in his own time,’ George replied. He turned and looked at Maggie. ‘Want to walk?’

  ‘Where?’

  ‘Up the hill – Hibbs’ Farm,’ George suggested.

  ‘The boys ...’

  ‘Won’t notice we’ve gone,’ George said, guiding her by the arm. ‘I’ll show you where I used to play as a bairn.’

  ‘I thought you Gordons just terrorised the school yard,’ Maggie laughed.

  ‘No more than the Beatons,’ George grinned and led her along the towpath.

  He helped her scramble over gates and rickety fences until they reached the edge of Hibbs’ meadows and his grazing milk cows. Maggie was amazed at its peacefulness and seclusion so near the grime and smoke of the town. From here, the river looked like a bronze rope in the dying sun, coiling among the hazy rows of houses and silent chimneys. It was so quiet that she could hear the munching of the cows in the long grass and a bird’s evensong. Over towards Benwell village, washing hung limp like huge sails becalmed in the soft evening air.

  George pointed out landmarks on the Durham side of the river.

  ‘Sixty years ago there’d have been countryside all around here, just farms and little villages and small pits. And the Pearsons were just modest property owners and engineers. Even the river was a different shape - there used to be an island down there, midstream. It was dredged to allow the big ships to be built this far upriver.’

  ‘How do you know so much about the area?’ Maggie asked in surprise, watching a laundress gather in the bleached sheets in a distant field.

  ‘Have an interest in history, I suppose,’ George said with an embarrassed shrug.

  Maggie was intrigued. ‘Tell me more, George. I’ve lived here all me life, yet the only history I know is about kings and queens and boring battles.’

  They squatted down in the grass, George picking a strand to chew between his teeth. He told her of old Newcastle with its bustling port and merchants and how industry had spread along the banks of the Tyne with the coming of the railways, deep mining and the inventiveness of engineers like Pearson and Armstrong.

  ‘But all the prosperity counts for nothing if the working man doesn’t have a share in it,’ George concluded.

  ‘Or the working woman,’ Maggie added.

  They looked at each other and laughed. ‘Or the working woman,’ George conceded. ‘But don’t tell my comrades I said so.’

  ‘I’ll make a suffragette out of you yet, George Gordon,’ Maggie teased, nudging his arm.

  He looked at her slim face under the large battered hat of crushed fake flowers. Gone were the usual frown lines between her blue-grey eyes and her pale full lips were relaxed. Her arms were roped round her green-skirted knees, revealing slim ankles above her worn shoes. If she had sat still and content for a moment longer, George knew he would have bent over and kissed her, but she seemed to catch the intention in his eyes and leapt to her feet.

  ‘Must get off and find our Jimmy,’ she said, turning from him and brushing the pollen from her skirt.

  She had suddenly become aware of how close they were sitting and of the salty male smell of George, still in his rowing clothes. It made her uneasy. She had no idea how she should behave with a man she was barely courting, but she was sure she should not be sitting alone with him in a darkening field. It had been all right while they had talked of history and commerce, but now in the silence the atmosphere between them had subtly shifted to an intimate and unpredictable mood.

  She led the way purposefully back to the riverbank and found the boys building a campfire on a pocket of derelict land. They both looked at Maggie with scepticism as if they realised there had been no special mission. But any disgruntled comments were silenced by the money that Maggie quickly gave them. Cajoled away from the fire, they walked with George to the end of Gun Street.

  ‘Tomorrow then,’ he said in parting.

  ‘Aye, tomorrow,’ Maggie smiled under the light of the gas lamp, then bustled the boys home.

  ***

  Alice Pearson stepped out of her open-topped motorcar onto the pale gravel drive of Oxford Hall. She dreaded these quarterly visits to her parents’ country retreat. It was set amid the rolling hills of the upper Tyne valley among heather moors and lush woods, but the sprawling stone mansion with its bizarre Byzantine turrets guarded by stone griffins was, to Alice, a monstrosity. Unlike her beloved Hebron House, blackened by Newcastle’s smoke, the walls of Oxford Hall gave off a glare as if still new after fifteen years. The gardens that spilled away from the terraces were stuffed with gaudy flowers and shrubs, while the ornamental trees were still immature and spindly, betraying themselves as intruders among the long resident birches and ancient elms. The very name Oxford Hall was pretentious to Alice, as the family had no link with the southern town, except that her brother Herbert had failed to get into the university there.

  ‘Alice!’

  Alice turned to see her sister-in-law Felicity waving to her from the tennis court. She did not recognise the young woman opponent but guessed it must be one of Felicity’s many friends who came to stay and relieve the boredom of country life. Alice waved back. She liked Felicity for her intelligence and wit and felt sorry for her being married to her dull and feckless brother. Yet there was uneasiness between them, Alice always sensing Felicity’s resentment at being controlled and hemmed in by the powerful Pearsons. Felicity cared nothing for the family firm but when she showed her lack of interest openly, Alice’s sympathy for her was strained.

  She strode over to the tennis court and Felicity met her, kissing her cheek.

  ‘Glad to see you. Herbert’s out shooting rabbits or whatever you’re allowed to kill in May. This is my friend Poppy. We were at school together.’

  Alice shook hands with an attractive woman, all of her height but slim as a willow in her tennis skirt and blouse. She had intelligent brown eyes and a dusting of unfashionable freckles that spoke of hours spent outside.

  ‘Tish has told me all about you,’ Poppy said in a warm, husky voice. ‘I’m full of admiration. I just wouldn’t have the courage to do the things you do.’

  Alice found herself blushing. ‘I’ve done very little really, just lent my name to the cause.’

  ‘Rubbish!’ Felicity broke in. ‘Herbert’s got permanent collywobbles wondering what you’re going to do next.’ She took Alice by the arm. ‘And I’d watch out this visit, he’s got a bee in his bonnet about the launch of some boat - thinks you’re likely to scupper it.’

  ‘HMS Courageous!’ Alice laughed. ‘Well, he shouldn’t go putting ideas into my head, should he?’

  ‘Let’s have tea in the summerhouse like children,’ Felicity suggested, pushing back strands of wispy blonde hair. ‘Your mother’s gone to Newcastle shopping and your father’s keeping an eye on Herbert - making sure he doesn’t massacre the estate tenants by mistake.’

  Poppy laughed reprovingly. ‘Really, Tish, you’re very hard on poor old Herbert. I’m sure he’s not such a bad shot.’

  ‘He’s worse than bad; he’s a complete liability because he thinks he’s good. If we ever go to war with the Boer again, I hope they don’t give him a commission.’

  They were halfway across the terrace when Poppy said, ‘The next war is more likely to be on our doorstep - the Balkans are at each other’s throats and the Germans are starting an arms race.’

  ‘Oh, don’t be so pessimistic,’ Felicity chided.

 
; ‘I’m so immersed in what’s happening here, I don’t really take much notice of what’s happening on the Continent,’ Alice admitted.

  ‘Nothing new,’ Felicity said breezily. ‘Belligerent Balkans and tired Turks slugging it out. All too far away to bother about, I say.’

  ‘But you don’t agree?’ Alice asked Poppy. Alice noticed a brief exchange of looks between Felicity and her friend.

  ‘My husband’s in the Foreign Office,’ Poppy answered. ‘He’s worried we’ll be drawn into a European war.’

  ‘Oh, what does stuffy old Beresford know about Europe?’ Felicity cried. ‘He won’t even let you go over the Channel on holiday.’

  ‘Beresford,’ Alice queried, ‘is your husband?’

  ‘Yes,’ Poppy laughed ‘Tish never calls him by his Christian name, John. They’ve never got on.’

  ‘Stop talking about Beresford,’ Felicity ordered, dragging them both forward by the arms. ‘It’s picnic tea, then swim in the river.’

  ‘Swim?’ Alice protested. ‘But I’ve nothing to put on.’

  ‘Who cares?’ Felicity cried. ‘There’s no one around here to see, and no Herbert to huff and puff about our lack of modesty. Come on, girls!’

  Alice allowed herself to be propelled across the terrace, knowing that it was useless to argue with her sister-in-law once she had made up her mind.

  Tea was ordered and Alice insisted on changing out of her driving suit into a cooler blouse and skirt, while the other women stayed in their tennis wear. Alice was delighted by Felicity’s rebellion against changing into formal tea gowns and taking tea inside as her mother would have insisted had she not been away for the day. As an afterthought, Alice fetched her camera and tripod and took photographs of Felicity and Poppy sitting casually on the steps of the summerhouse, tucking into large slices of rich chocolate cake, and later, of the two friends lounging back under the cherry blossom, chatting and unconcerned by the lens that studied them.

  Eventually Felicity grew irritated.

  ‘For goodness sake come out from under that wretched cloak of yours and speak to us. It’s like trying to converse with a headless highwayman.’