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

by Janet MacLeod Trotter

  Maggie looked around, feeling awkward in her neatness. A woman caught her eye and gave her a guardedly hostile look. Maggie recognised her as the prostitute who had drawn her mother’s censure outside Stella’s cafe. Closer up, her painted face looked old and weary, as if here at least she did not have to pretend to be young and appealing. There was an air of watchfulness, almost expectancy, about the patiently waiting dozens. Maggie escaped behind the curtain.

  ‘Here, give me something to do,’ she said.

  Heslop was in conversation with a stout woman in her middle years and a girl with a delicate waxen face.

  ‘Stir this, hinny,’ the older woman said, handing her the ladle.

  ‘Two minutes and we’ll begin,’ Heslop said, after introducing his helpers as Millie Dobson and her daughter Annie.

  As Maggie stirred a broth of bacon bits, peas and potatoes, which gave off a welcome aroma in the fusty hall, she heard Heslop calling his congregation to attention. Annie was dishing out hymn books with an anxious smile, while her mother hacked at a pile of loaves with a blunt carving knife.

  ‘Mr Heslop’s a good’un,’ she panted over her task, ‘Doesn’t turn up his nose at us like other do-gooders.’

  ‘You’re not from the chapel, then, Mrs Dobson?’ Maggie asked.

  The woman gave a loud cackle. ‘Me from the chapel! Eeh, that’s a laugh. Never been inside a church since me baptism.’ She saw the confusion on Maggie’s face. ‘I came here to give my Annie some nourishment, hinny. She’s always been thin as a reed. I like a bit sing-song and Mr Heslop was that canny, we kept coming back. Then he asks us if I’d like to give a hand - extra bowl of broth in it for my Annie, an’ all. Been working here for a year now, taking care of the hall.’

  Maggie glanced over at the lean butcher and smiled to herself at his pragmatic approach to saving souls.

  He led his flock in a rousing hymn which most of them sang and then said prayers and gave a short address, through which a couple of foreign sailors fidgeted and yawned. After a final hymn, there was a clatter as the assembled sat down and shuffled in anticipation on the benches. Heslop tapped two men on the shoulder and they got up and went to help carry out the bowls of soup for Annie. Maggie joined them, doling out hunks of ragged bread to the grimy hands that reached out to her.

  All the while, Heslop went among them, talking and listening and sharing a joke with his motley congregation. Maggie noticed him in conversation with the prostitute and wondered what the respectable ladies of Alison Terrace Methodist Church would say if they could have seen him in such company. What, Maggie wondered wryly, would her own mother think, for that matter?

  With the food finished, people began to drift away and the hall to empty. Maggie helped the Dobsons to clear away and wash the bowls and spoons in a half-barrel that did for a sink.

  ‘Miss Beaton will be sleeping here tonight,’ John Heslop told Mrs Dobson. He turned to Maggie. ‘Mrs Dobson and Annie are my caretakers, they live above.’

  ‘No need for the lass to stay on her own,’ Mrs Dobson said at once. ‘She’s welcome to share with us.’

  ‘Ta very much,’ Maggie smiled with gratitude, ‘if it’s no bother.’

  ‘No bother at all, hinny,’ she insisted. ‘Only too pleased to help a friend of Mr Heslop’s.’

  Locking up the hall, John Heslop bade them goodnight and left. Maggie followed the women up to the next floor. What must have been an old office, still with a large marble fireplace, was now the living quarters of the two Dobsons. A large bed stood in one corner, a horsehair sofa in another, a dresser with a tin washbowl and chipped china jug, along with a small gas stove, filled the remaining space. From one large opaque window the room was washed in a muted green light. By the proud way Mrs Dobson showed Maggie their home, she realised they must have come from somewhere infinitely worse.

  ‘We’ll have a little nip before bed, eh?’ Millie Dobson chuckled, going to the dresser and producing a small bottle of brandy, almost empty.

  ‘Mam,’ Annie said fretfully, ‘Mr Heslop would hoy us out if he knew you were drinking.’

  ‘Brandy’s medicinal,’ Millie Dobson replied, pouring the contents into a teacup and handing it to Maggie. ‘Have a sip to help you sleep, hinny.’

  Maggie hesitated. She knew Heslop disapproved of drink and according to Susan it was the reason why he had not married their mother. Yet it might help take her mind off the ordeal ahead. She sipped and then nearly spat it back out as the alcohol tore at her throat. Seconds later, warmth flooded into her cheeks and she felt better. Annie left the room in disapproval, taking the jug to fetch water.

  Millie Dobson cackled. ‘Annie doesn’t like it, but it’s got me through many a night’s whoring.’ She drained the rest of the brandy.

  Maggie stared at her, wondering if she had heard correctly.

  ‘Didn’t Mr Heslop tell you what I was?’ Millie laughed. ‘Suppose you won’t want to stop with us now.’

  ‘Makes no difference to me,’ Maggie answered, trying to hide her shock.

  ‘Well, what could a widow like me do but gan on the street?’ Mrs Dobson said, suddenly defensive. ‘Me man died at sea. I had nee money and a sickly bairn. I wasn’t going to sit back and watch my Annie die an’ all!’

  ‘I understand,’ Maggie said quickly.

  ‘How can a lass like you understand?’ the older woman said bitterly.

  ‘Because me mam was widowed too and had to bring up four bairns on her own. She was lucky, Mr Heslop lent her a bit of money to set up a second-hand clothes business and she had a few household things to sell. But it’s been a struggle.’

  ‘Ah, Mr Heslop! He’s given me a hand up off the street with this mission, and Annie too. I want Annie to do better than me, have a future, respectable like.’

  ‘But doesn’t it make you boil that women like you and me mam have to rely on the charity of men like Mr Heslop?’ Maggie asked, emboldened by the brandy. ‘Widows should have more security - and the families that depend on them.’

  ‘Aye,’ Millie sighed, ‘but there’s nowt we can do about it, hinny.’

  ‘By heck there is!’ Maggie cried. ‘We can fight for the vote, then we can begin to change the laws to suit us women.’

  Millie Dobson looked at her with eyes that sagged in a liverish face. ‘Are you one of them militants?’ she asked suspiciously.

  ‘Aye,’ Maggie admitted proudly, ‘and if there were more of us, we’d have the vote sharpish. Women have bowed their heads and carried their burden without a fuss for too long. Even Heslop thinks we should have the vote.’

  ‘Does he, you bugger!’ Millie exclaimed in astonishment. She peered hard at Maggie. ‘Are you in bother with the coppers or summat? Is that why Heslop’s hiding you?’

  ‘Not yet,’ Maggie said with a grim smile.

  ‘Tell us what you’re up to, hinny.’

  Maggie found it a relief to confide in the woman who sheltered her, for her aloneness was at times overwhelming. Even if Mrs Dobson was indiscreet, who would take any notice of a talkative old prostitute? She outlined her planned protest.

  Millie cackled with glee. ‘Eeh, and you just a slip of a lass! Good on you! I wish I had summat stronger to give you, but it’ll have to be tea we toast you with, hinny.’

  She went to the stove and lit the gas under a blackened pan of stewed tea and condensed milk. When the dubious mixture had boiled, Mrs Dobson poured it into two cups with their handles missing and handed one to Maggie. ‘To us lasses!’ she toasted.

  Maggie clinked cups. ‘To us lasses!’ she echoed and took a gulp. It was thick and sweet and the most revolting tea she had ever drunk, but with the broken-toothed Mrs Dobson grinning at her in encouragement, it tasted strangely comforting.

  ***

  On the day of the launch, Alice Pearson rose early. Dressing in an outdoor skirt and jacket, she slipped out of Hebron House as the maids were still laying the fires downstairs. Her dog Rosamund padded eagerly from her basket in the flower roo
m when Alice called her. Together they set off across the terrace and down the front steps onto the dew-soaked lawn. Mist lay like a shawl over the treetops, obscuring the view of the river and its docks, but in its damp chill lay the promise of its evaporation and a hot day ahead. The smell of coal fires wafted over the high park walls, reminding Alice of the teeming humanity beyond her oasis of green trees and flowering bushes.

  Rosamund returned and shook droplets of water over her skirt, the hem of which was already soaked with dew.

  ‘This is going to be a great day!’ Alice said aloud, reaching down to fondle her poodle.

  She thought of her father in the east wing, sleeping off the grand dinner she had thrown for those involved with the Pearson’s enterprise: the chief engineers, their business suppliers, the local coal-owner, their financial partners, agents and bankers. Alice had been determined to impress them all with Pearson hospitality, so that it would be the talk of the business world for the next year. They had dined on Scottish salmon, delicately clear soups, massive sides of beef and pork, a dozen different vegetables, strong cheeses and soft puddings that sparkled with spun sugar and spectacular decoration. They had drunk sherry and wine and port and Madeira and the dining table had groaned under the weight of silver candlesticks and gleaming tureens and cutlery and bright crystal. The downstairs rooms had been filled with fresh cut flowers whose perfume had filled the old mansion with a warm heady scent in the evening sun. Daniel Pearson had been delighted with it all.

  Alice looked up at her father’s curtained rooms. Why was he so liberal towards her as an individual, she pondered, while so reactionary in his attitude to women in general? He encouraged her involvement in Pearson’s and resisted her mother’s attempts to have her married off and yet he scoffed at the idea of women having a share in political power. Perhaps he was merely posturing to his political allies and business associates, Alice thought. One thing she was sure of was that he valued her companionship and conversation more than that of his wife or son and, for her part, she would do anything to please him.

  Alice shot an uneasy look at the unseen, ordered rows of terraces that muscled against the walls of the estate. To please her father she had co-operated in the subduing of the local suffragettes for the duration of Asquith’s visit. More than that, she had provided the police with details about Maggie Beaton.

  ‘The girl is unstable!’ she said aloud to Rosamund. ‘I could tell from the way she ranted at me at Emily’s funeral. Very bad form!’

  The dog barked at the sound of her mistress’s cross voice.

  ‘Talking of what Emily would have wanted as if she had been a friend - quite insulting! And making threats about taking action. No, it was important the girl be warned off.’

  No doubt a visit from the police would have scared her from acting rashly, Alice thought, and if not her, then certainly her family.

  ‘She mustn’t be allowed to spoil my plans, Rosamund,’ Alice said to the dog as they returned to the house.

  Her father had promised that she would be seated next to the Prime Minister at lunch and would have an opportunity to do some discreet lobbying. Alice did not allow herself to dwell on what her fellow suffragettes might think of such a passive approach, for she had convinced herself that she could do more for the cause using her position of influence than they could throwing missiles or protests from afar. Anyway, she did not care about making herself unpopular, as long as she achieved what she wanted, she thought stubbornly.

  ‘Come, girl!’ she ordered Rosamund. ‘We’ve work to do today.’

  ***

  No one was taking any particular notice of the two women and the pasty-faced girl making their way along Scotswood Road among the crowds. One was small and old, stooped under a large black cape and lace cap, the other stout and coarse-looking in a drab brown dress and battered orange hat

  ‘You’ll have to take those flowers and that stuffed bird off the top!’ Maggie had protested at Millie Dobson that morning. Millie had been quite offended.

  ‘I paid good money for that hat. It’s not just any old bird, it’s a nightingale.’

  ‘It’s nowt but a spuggy,’ Maggie had contradicted, looking at the dusty, pathetic sparrow. ‘You’ll draw attention. I’m supposed to be an old widow, not part of a vaudeville act.’

  ‘All right,’ Mrs Dobson had huffed and given the offending hat to Annie to unstitch.

  On Friday evening, John Heslop had handed over the box of clothes to Maggie, saying, ‘Jimmy got these out the house without a problem, or so he says. He’s itching with curiosity to know what you’re doing - and so am I.’

  ‘You’ll know soon enough,’ Maggie had answered, grinning. Then just as he was leaving, Maggie asked him, ‘I know Mam and Granny’ll be worrying over me. After it’s all over, will you go and tell them I came to no harm and I’ll see them when I get out.’

  John Heslop had studied her a moment and then nodded, seeming to understand that Maggie was heading for imprisonment. ‘I’ll go and see your family,’ he had promised and departed.

  There was a festive air about the crowds making their way towards Pearson’s shipyard. Maggie had to force herself to slacken her pace and remember that she was a frail elderly woman in Mrs Johnstone’s dark blue dress and her grandmother’s enveloping cape.

  ‘This is a canny day out,’ Millie Dobson declared, infected by the high spirits around her. ‘I’ve never been this far upriver in all me life.’

  Maggie grunted ‘People don’t come down here unless they have to - it’s not exactly Gosforth Park, is it?’

  ‘Looks a fine place to me,’ Mrs Dobson replied, looking about the bustling street. But Maggie noticed that Annie was coughing in the dusty, smoky air, her face pale as china. She seemed to have difficulty keeping up with even their stately pace.

  ‘Not long now,’ Maggie smiled at the wan girl. ‘See the spiked gates over there? That’s Pearson’s.’

  Maggie felt her stomach churn as she said the words. Her moment of immortality was approaching, she thought. Round her waist the suffragette flag was fastened by a cord and one pull on the bow would release it. If she never did anything worthwhile in her life again, Maggie thought, at least today she was going to make history. It never crossed her mind that she might fail in her protest, for she had dismissed Rose’s fears that the crowd would not let her through, or that she would be arrested before displaying her banner, or that Asquith would never notice her. Maggie was inspired by an inner conviction that her cause was just and therefore she would succeed.

  About her, voices chattered and hooters on the river blew in anticipation of the event. Yet the yard seemed strangely hushed Maggie suddenly realised that the usual noises of industry had ceased for this short special time, while all the workers and their families came to see the launch of their ship. The ringing clang of plates falling into position and the din of hammer on metal had stopped. For a moment she was reminded of an occasion in her childhood when her father had proudly taken her to see the launch of a passenger ship he had helped to build. Swung high on his shoulders, she had been nearly sick with excitement as the men threw their caps in the air and her father had shouted, ‘Go, you bonny boat!’

  The huge bulk had slid into the water with a screech of chains and snapping ropes like some primeval beast roaring out of its lair of scaffolding, to dip and roll triumphantly in the murky green water. Maggie had stared in wonder as her father described the luxury of its vast interior. ‘Like a palace, Maggie - and the nearest we’ll ever get to one!’

  As they jostled forward now, Maggie looked round at the expectant faces, the array of flags and coloured bunting around the distant makeshift stand for the launching party. These people - her people - were just as excited as she had been as a child to see the birth of their ship. Briefly she wondered where George Gordon was. Probably boozing in the pub, she thought disdainfully. Well, she would show him and all of Pearson’s other workers how deluded they were. This ship was not their ship, it be
longed to Pearson’s who cared nothing for the men who had sweated and toiled over its creation and would soon sell it to a government that kept women voteless and powerless.

  Maggie’s anger ignited at the thought of how her father had died building one of their ships and she realised that she was not just protesting about the vote. She yearned to strike a blow at the heartless Lord Pearson and his haughty daughter. They were to blame for her family’s misfortune. The deep sense of loss for her father and the humiliation felt for her mother on the funeral day when Pearson’s had sent her a washboard and bucket engulfed her once more. For years she had nursed her anger and bitterness at the injustice they had suffered and she had to restrain herself from dashing forward at that very moment and tearing into the assembled Pearsons like a frenzied dervish.

  They were near enough now to make out the figures on the platform. The men were dressed in well-cut coats and top hats, the women in a blaze of colourful summer dresses, all frills and lace and crowned with elaborate hats of feathers and ribbons. Maggie tried to peer over the heads of the crowd to make out the figure of Alice Pearson.

  ‘Haway, lads!’ Millie Dobson cried at the men around them. ‘Make way for me old mother. She’s walked all the way from Newcastle to see this. Give her a bit space, hinnies.’

  Mrs Dobson’s ploy worked instantly; a path opened up before them and people pushed aside for the bent old woman and her family. Maggie knew she must gain the launch platform itself if she was to make any impact at all. As they approached through the heaving press of bodies, she could see the steps were well policed and the crowds were being kept back. But thanks to Mrs Dobson’s persistence they were as close to the launch party as they could get and she could clearly identify the tall imposing figure of Alice Pearson in a frock of mint green and cream and a hat of ostrich feathers. Was that Asquith next to her, or Lord Pearson? Maggie was suddenly unsure. Neither of them looked like the pictures she had seen of the Prime Minister in the newspapers. She realised with a jolt that, even if she came across him in the street, she would not know what Lord Pearson looked like and yet he controlled the lives of all around him. The only man she recognised was Herbert Pearson, Lord Pearson’s son, whom she had glimpsed on a rare visit to her workshop and who was standing at the far end looking bored.