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

by Janet MacLeod Trotter

  ‘Call me Millie. We’re partners in crime now, hinny,’ Mrs Dobson cackled.

  ‘But what about Annie?’ Maggie asked in concern, flopping down thankfully on the bed.

  ‘She’ll come out after dark dressed in a maid’s outfit - they’ll have changed coppers by then - and the dozy buggers won’t notice the difference,’ Millie reassured her. ‘Tomorrow they’ll start to wonder where the hell you’ve got to, but they’ll have a job finding you. My Annie’s good with the scissors and a spot of hair dye. Your own mam won’t recognise you once we’ve finished.’

  Maggie thought suddenly of her mother and the heartache she must be causing her. Yet, perhaps in Annie’s disguise, she might be able to return and visit briefly, Maggie comforted herself with the thought.

  Millie poured brandy into two chipped mugs and handed one over.

  ‘Get that down your neck and feel it do you some good,’ she ordered, swigging greedily at her own.

  Maggie did as she was told, spluttering as the liquor burned its way down her throat and set fire to her chest. Yet with it came a feeling of elation that she was free and had hoodwinked the authorities. They had tried to destroy her body and soul with imprisonment, force-feeding and degradation. But they had not succeeded in breaking her, Maggie thought with fierce pride, and she would regain her strength to fight. She was filled with a new sense of purpose, finally seeing a way out of the terrible blackness of the past weeks.

  ‘To us lasses!’ Maggie raised her mug again. She clinked it against Millie Dobson’s.

  ‘To us lasses!’ Millie echoed and let out a joyful cackle.

  ***

  By December, Maggie’s health had improved dramatically under the care of the Dobsons and the nutritious fresh food regularly brought by John Heslop. The butcher was kind and concerned and tried to divert Maggie’s impatience at being inactive by encouraging her to help at the mission.

  ‘You have great talents that could be put to good use,’ Heslop told her. ‘Such enthusiasm, and a wonderful singing voice. You’ve done your bit for women’s suffrage, Maggie. There are other equally worthwhile causes.’

  He seemed pleased whenever Maggie appeared from the Dobsons’ hideaway and lent a hand in the kitchen. As Christmas drew nearer, Maggie threw herself into organising a special meal for those who were out on the streets, enjoying the rousing carols being sung at the mission meetings. It all helped to occupy her mind which was increasingly drawn to thoughts of her family preparing for the festive season. She had heard from Heslop that Susan was engaged to Richard Turvey and despite misgivings about the man, she was pleased for her sister. Through Heslop she had conveyed messages to her family that she was safe and well and hoped to see them before long.

  John Heslop was reticent when Maggie asked him what Susan had said at chapel about her escape.

  ‘I’m sure she’s reassured to know you’re well cared for,’ he said rather awkwardly. ‘You’ll understand that at the moment her thoughts are rather occupied by her engagement to Mr Turvey.’

  ‘Aye, of course,’ Maggie replied, disappointed.

  Several times, Maggie slipped out of the Dobsons’ flat and mingled with the Saturday crowds on the quayside, edging towards Sandgate market where she knew her mother would be selling clothes. On the first occasion it had taken all her willpower to restrain herself from rushing over and flinging her arms round her mother. She had looked quite old and grey-faced, her movements slow as she bent down to spread out her wares. But Helen had been with her and Maggie did not trust her sister to be discreet, so she had crept away in frustration. The market was quite possibly watched. They might be expecting her to contact her mother there.

  Since then, to Maggie’s concern, her mother had not been at the Saturday market. Helen had been in charge of the second-hand clothes and shoes, though she appeared more interested in gossiping with the other stallholders than attempting to sell her stock. Maggie’s alarm had increased when, on one occasion, she spotted Richard Turvey emerge from a nearby public house and help Helen load the unsold coats and dresses onto the barrow. She was too far away to hear what they said, but their manner seemed teasing and over-intimate.

  When she told John Heslop of her worries, he was dismissive.

  ‘Mr Turvey is soon to be one of the family, isn’t he? It’s very commendable that he’s willing to help out when your mother is ill.’

  ‘How ill is she?’ Maggie asked in real concern, forgetting her unease at Helen’s behaviour.

  ‘A chest infection, Susan tells me,’ the butcher replied, ‘but nothing to worry about. They’re just being cautious keeping her indoors during this cold spell.’

  She was restless and Millie Dobson began to complain it was like having a wild cat pacing around her room. She was a cheerful, kind-hearted woman but Maggie could tell she was getting on her nerves, cooped up with not enough to do. Her daughter Annie, however, was fired with the cause of women’s rights after her involvement in Maggie’s escape from the nursing home and constantly shadowed Maggie. It was like having an earnest and attentive ghost, silently following and watching her every move, she told George Gordon on one of his visits. For it was his visiting, and that of her friend Rose and even Alice Pearson, that kept Maggie sane in her cramped, fusty hideout.

  ‘Teach her something,’ George suggested, amused.

  ‘I’m not a teacher,’ Maggie laughed.

  ‘You’ve all the makings of one - intelligent, bossy, loud-voiced…’

  Maggie took a playful swipe at her companion as they meandered among the maze of tenements near the quayside. He grabbed her hand and locked it into the crook of his arm.

  ‘You could teach her book-keeping, shorthand or whatever you clerks do.’

  ‘Did,’ Maggie corrected wryly.

  ‘Well, here’s a chance to keep up your skills - teach them to Annie. Her mam would kiss your feet if Annie managed to get a good job.’

  ‘I suppose I could,’ Maggie considered. ‘She’s a bright lass. Thanks, George,’ she smiled up at him, ‘it’ll give me summat to do till the movement comes up with some real work.’

  He felt troubled as he watched her determined face with the restless, searching eyes looking beyond him. He had grown used to the new Maggie with her neat wavy blonde hair framing her brow under an enveloping hat, although it gave her a misleadingly placid look, like her sister Susan. Blonde or dark, the sight of her lively upturned face still filled him with longing.

  ‘You’re serious about wanting to do more for the movement then?’ George asked.

  ‘Course I am,’ Maggie answered roundly. ‘I’m already the wrong side of the law so what does it matter if I carry on breaking it for the sake of greater justice? I need a new mission - not just brick throwing, something bigger.’

  ‘Heslop’s mission not enough for you then?’

  ‘You know I don’t mean that kind of mission,’ Maggie retorted. ‘Anyone can peel tatties and sing hymns; not everyone can be a militant protester.’

  George sighed. ‘I worry for you, bonny lass. But this time I won’t try to stop you.’ He leaned over and kissed her cold pink cheek and saw the colour deepen.

  ‘Ta,’ Maggie answered with a smile and tightened her grip on his arm. She was flooded with sudden tenderness for him, a deeper feeling than the physical ache that his nearness always provoked. Outwardly, George Gordon was a blunt miner’s son, a hard-grafting blacksmith, rower and drinker like many working-class lads with whom she had grown up. But inwardly he nurtured a passionate belief that their brutal world could and would be bettered, if the common people were empowered to change things. He was a romantic, Maggie suddenly realised, with his secret love of history and poetry and music and his whimsical idealism. And standing in the cold damp fog that stole in from the Tyne, she was certain that he cared deeply for her, as she cared for him.

  Without another word they walked on contentedly, arm in arm, listening to the cry of the chestnut-seller whose brazier glowed orange through th
e December mist.

  ***

  It was Christmas Eve and Hebron House was spectacularly bedecked in holly wreaths, sparkling tinsel and large coloured baubles, and an enormous Christmas tree filled the hallway with glittering waxy light from dozens of candles.

  Richard Turvey was hardly aware of Felicity’s elaborate gestures to prove to the world that she was mistress of the Pearson mansion as he was hurried down a dimly lit passageway and through a series of doors to a smoke-filled study.

  He had met Herbert Pearson on a previous occasion, when the portly businessman had been chummy and offered him a cigar in this trophy-filled private room. Richard had thought fleetingly that it looked like a props room for some exotic play, with stuffed heads, spears and rifles pinned against the walls. He had almost made a joke about it, but stopped himself in time, recognising that his employer had little sense of humour.

  Tonight, though, there were no cigars on offer and no boastful chat about hunting in Africa or being on the verge of a glittering political career. Herbert Pearson was inebriated and aggressively threatening.

  ‘Nothing?’ he demanded.

  ‘I have some idea—’

  ‘Idea? I don’t want your bloody ideas, Turvey! I want this woman found and locked up. You’re engaged to her sister, for God’s sake. A halfwit would have found her by now!’ He poured himself another brandy, his breathing laboured, then continued, ‘There’s been a hammer thrown through the window of our quayside offices with a copy of The Suffragette wrapped round it. That picture house I opened a month ago had a brick thrown into the foyer in the middle of the night. It’s a blatant attempt to sabotage my election campaign. Don’t you read the bloody papers?’ Herbert threw a copy of the Newcastle Journal at Richard’s feet and gulped back the large brandy.

  Richard wished it was for him, he was desperate for a drink himself. Restraining the urge to grab the heavy bulbous glass, he picked up the newspaper and adopted an expression of concern.

  ‘Terrible.’ He shook his head. ‘But how do we know it’s Maggie Beaton?’

  ‘We don’t!’ Herbert snapped. ‘But the other militants are under careful watch. It’s got to be Beaton - and she’s got to have friends protecting her. Her stupid antics are damaging our business as well as my political hopes - people are beginning to ask why we’re a target. You would think she had some personal vendetta against us, but I’m told we used to employ the little baggage! Terrorism scares people, Turvey, especially business people. So get off your arse and find her. Otherwise you’re fired.’

  Richard was jolted by the threat. He looked around the comfortable, ostentatious room with its leather sofas and wool carpets and the roaring coal fire that could have heated all the ranges in Gun Street. He was sick with envy for this over-fed, overbearing man who could have every luxury he cared for without thinking twice about how to pay for it. All his life he must have got what he wanted, when he wanted it, and Richard was determined he was going to grab a portion of his wealth.

  After all, he deserved it, Richard thought resentfully. He had fed back information on a rival export business by befriending an elderly clerk and getting him drunk and with Helen Beaton’s help he had the potential to blackmail a prominent councillor. Yes, Helen Beaton had been a useful find. She was impressionable and desperate for love, and it had been easy convincing her that there would be rich rewards if she did as he asked and compromised the respectably married councillor. It was their secret, he had told her when he had seduced her that afternoon in the modest Jesmond hotel; they would work together in secret and one day they would be rich enough to run off together, to London or Paris or Florence... She had been seduced by the very names and he had found her the easiest conquest of his career.

  But the fat Herbert, Richard thought with disdain, was ungrateful for all his hard work so far. He was obsessed by the wretched Maggie and the damage she inflicted upon his Pearson pride.

  ‘She’s bound to come sneaking round now it’s Christmas,’ Richard said. ‘They’re clannish, these Beatons, for all they’re at each other’s throats half the time. She’ll not be able to stay away. Don’t you worry, sir.’

  ‘Well, you better be right,’ Herbert growled, dismissing him with a wave. ‘Now go, and don’t return until you’ve found her. If you don’t deliver her by the New Year, you’re out on your arse, Turvey, and back in the gutter where we found you.’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  Richard left, inwardly fuming at his master’s rudeness. He would hang on to Pearson like a leech and suck the bastard dry of his wealth, he determined. But first he would have to flush out the elusive Maggie. He would get to her through her family, he vowed.

  Deep in thought, he nearly walked straight into a tall woman emerging from what looked like a broom cupboard under the back stairs. He moved aside just as she moved aside, blocking each other again. Her face was completely shadowed in the dim corridor and he took her for some maid.

  ‘Look at the mistletoe!’ he said, gesturing above. As she looked up, Richard grabbed her behind the neck and kissed her roundly on the lips. ‘Happy Christmas darlin’!’

  He walked on, whistling Alexander’s Ragtime Band.

  Alice stared after the thin young man in the loud checked suit, speechless with outrage. She was further mortified to note that there was not a single sprig of mistletoe to be seen in the passageway. She had no idea who he was, only that he had presumably come from the back entrance to Herbert’s study. Some ghastly drinking friend, she assumed, shuddering with distaste, who had taken her for one of the servants.

  Perhaps it had done her good to know for an instant what it was like to be treated as an inferior woman, Alice thought. No wonder Maggie Beaton was so at war with the world. Well, she had a present to warm her militant heart this Christmas, Alice smiled, locking the darkroom door behind her to keep her secret safe.

  Chapter 15

  Maggie experienced a strange thrill as she re-entered the streets of West Newcastle for the first time in months. It was like stepping back into a world she had lost long ago; a vibrant, cosy, thrusting world. Every corner gas lamp, shop and cobbled lane was comfortably familiar and yet she had been away long enough to be struck by things she had never before noticed.

  The entrance above the steam laundry was embellished with two fat cherubs, blackened with soot, and there was a clock above the nearby ironmongers that must have been there for years. She had never taken the trouble to look around her home streets as she did this day. Anonymous in an old brown coat and her battered hat, she walked on delightedly past shops decorated with tinsel and colour in their windows.

  Horses jangled past in the afternoon twilight as traders delivered final orders and customers rushed about in search of last-minute bargains. The trams trundled and sparked along their lines, disgorging travellers while the pubs filled up with men finishing work for the holiday.

  She passed the Gunners with its grubby attempt at jollity - a faded Chinese lantern hung above the door - and then she was outside the entrance to her old home.

  All at once Maggie was terrified. She had no idea what her reception might be after such an absence, or whom she might encounter. Then she thought of Granny Beaton and young Tich who never held a grudge - and her mother whom she yearned to see again. No matter what she did, Maggie instinctively knew her mother would stick by her. She mounted the stairs swiftly and without a sound; over the past weeks she had perfected the art of stealth.

  Jimmy answered the door, releasing a fug of warmth and light onto the dark stairway. He strained to look at her, failed to recognise his missing sister and asked, ‘What you want, missus?’

  ‘A smacking big kiss, kiddar!’ Maggie threw her arms round her brother and embraced him.

  ‘What!’ Jimmy spluttered ‘Who the ...?’

  ‘Maggie, you daft lump!’ she answered. ‘Let us in, man Tich, it’s brass monkeys out here.’

  ‘Maggie?’ he gasped. ‘Eeh, Mam, it’s wor Maggie!’

 
He pulled his sister into the flat and banged the door behind them. The first person Maggie saw was her mother half rising from her chair by the fire. Maggie was shocked to see her dress hanging off her usually stocky figure and her face sunken with ill health. The older woman mouthed her utter astonishment, but no sound came out.

  ‘Mam!’ Maggie rushed towards her and enveloped her in a hug. ‘I’ve missed you that much.’ She felt her mother’s frail arms go round her and cling on.

  ‘Maggie,’ she croaked ‘Eeh, Maggie.’

  For a moment neither of them could trust themselves to speak and they held on tight, tears spilling down their cheeks.

  ‘I don’t believe it!’ Susan’s indignant voice broke in. Maggie pulled away to see her eldest sister staring at her across the kitchen.

  ‘Susan!’ Maggie smiled at her and stepped round her mother’s chair to greet her sister. ‘It’s grand to see you - and you’re looking bonny. I heard you’re betrothed.’

  But Susan held herself stiffly away.

  ‘All this time, all this worry, and you just swan in like Princess Muck. Can’t you see the state Mam’s in? You’ve half worried her to death with your goings on.’

  Maggie was taken aback by her hostility.

  ‘That’s enough, Susan!’ Mabel silenced her with something of her old authority. ‘Don’t you go blaming my illness on your sister. My health was ruined long ago, but it’s not going to get the better of me. I’m a tough old boot, so don’t you go talking about death. Now, tak’ that hat off, our Maggie, and let’s get a look at you.’

  Maggie did as she was bidden, revealing her short blonde hair.

  ‘What in the world have you done, lass?’ Mabel shrieked.

  They all stared at her in horrified interest.

  ‘You look like one of them lasses in the films,’ Jimmy said in admiration. ‘I wish Helen was here to see you.’

  ‘Where is our Helen?’ Maggie asked.

  ‘Up at Violet’s,’ her mother answered. ‘She spends more time there than at home these days.’