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

by Janet MacLeod Trotter

  As she reached the gate, she heard a commotion in the flat above. Her mother was protesting, someone was screaming and voices argued back. Maggie slipped on the cobbles, picked herself up and, lifting her skirt, began to run up the dark back lane.

  Her heart was thumping furiously and her breathing was loud in her ears. For a few minutes she ran aimlessly, like a hunted quarry, too terrified to think about direction. But when no clatter of boots pursued her, she began to take note of where she was. She skirted the walls of Daniel Park and headed uphill. Alison Terrace was deserted. For a moment she agonised over whether to pound on Heslop’s door and beg for sanctuary, but she could not muster the courage to confront him. Maggie ran on.

  A milk cart nearly mowed her down as she darted across the road by the Presbyterian Kirk. She slowed to a brisk walk, breathless and wheezing, but growing optimistic that she had escaped. Ten more minutes’ walking and she would be safely back to Arthur’s Hill and George. That thought gave her comfort.

  She paused for breath under the arc of a street lamp and heard a van lumbering up behind her. Dazed by a light, she was too slow to recognise the hunched black vehicle of a police van. Minutes later, Maggie was under arrest again and on her way to the police station.

  Later that day, Mabel heard that Maggie had been caught. It was splashed across the evening newspaper that Mary Smith brought back from Heslop’s after work.

  Without hesitation she turned on Helen and grabbed her by the hair. ‘You told Violet that Maggie was here, didn’t you?’ she shouted.

  Helen screamed in pain and fright.

  ‘I didn’t!’

  ‘Divn’t lie to me, you little bitch!’ Mabel cried, pulling her about the room by her hair. ‘You told Violet and she went to the police. How else did they know to come knocking here in the middle of the night? Unless you shopped Maggie yourself?’

  Helen screamed again, so loud that Mary Smith tried to intervene, but Mabel shoved her away.

  ‘I didn’t!’ Helen whimpered. ‘But Susan and Richard had such a row about it - Aunt Violet heard everything.’

  Mabel flung her to the floor. ‘I knew it! That bloody woman’s been interfering with me life and me family for years. Well, Violet’s got it coming to her now!’

  Without stopping to put on her coat or hat, Mabel marched from the kitchen and down the back stairs, leaving Helen crying into Mary’s shoulder.

  ‘I hate her!’ Helen sobbed ‘I wish she was dead.’

  ‘No you don’t, hinny,’ Mary said, cradling the distraught girl. ‘You mustn’t say such things about your mam.’

  ‘She’s never loved me,’ Helen cried hysterically. ‘She blames me for everything. None of them love me! I hate them all!’

  Mabel laboured up the hill to Benwell, gasping for breath in the dank, smoky air. She became aware of Jimmy running up beside her in the gloom but did not slacken her pace.

  ‘Mam, wait!’ he called. ‘I think I know who told the coppers about Maggie. It’s not who you think.’

  ‘I know who told them!’ Mabel shouted back. ‘And I don’t need you getting in the way. I’ve a few scores to settle with wor Violet.’

  Jimmy lost courage and stopped pursuing his mother. He did not want to witness a scrap between his relations or hear the arguments, so he turned round and skulked away.

  Mabel entered without knocking. They were all sitting round the tea table, eating in silence. Susan looked up, pale-faced and astonished. Before Violet had time to defend herself, Mabel was laying into her physically and verbally. The frustrations and petty jealousies and slights of years came pouring out in one incoherent, savage attack.

  Mabel’s brother Barny hobbled onto his good leg and tried to intervene, shocked to see his sister so riled. She was screaming about Maggie and betrayal, calling his wife evil and vindictive. Violet was wailing in terror. All the while Richard and Susan sat watching, stupefied by the scene.

  ‘Do something, Richard.’ Susan shook him, horrified to see her mother in such a state. She had seen her lose her temper before, but this time she was apoplectic with rage, her face a livid crimson. Richard rose half-heartedly, murmuring placations, but obviously reluctant to come between the women.

  ‘Mam, what are you shouting about?’ Susan said, rising in agitation and moving round the table to reach her.

  Mabel’s blinding fury seemed to abate for a moment at the sound of Susan’s voice.

  ‘Where were you when your sister needed you?’ Mabel accused. ‘You couldn’t be bothered to come, could you?’

  ‘I wanted to, Mam,’ Susan answered, unable to bear her mother’s withering look, ‘but Richard—’

  ‘Well, you’re too late,’ Mabel cut off her excuses. ‘Maggie’s been arrested again. This time it’ll probably kill her! And all because Violet couldn’t keep her big nose out of it!’ Mabel screamed.

  ‘I never! I never!’ Violet gasped, crouching from her sister-in-law’s raised hand. ‘Barny, tell her I’ve done nothing wrong.’ But her husband had collapsed into his chair, too shocked to act.

  It was Susan who stepped between them and grabbed her mother’s fist. ‘When was Maggie arrested?’ she demanded

  ‘In the middle of the night,’ Mabel cried, trembling with rage and exhaustion. ‘You couldn’t even wait till morning, could you, Violet? You’ve always picked on my Maggie because she was special to me.’

  Susan flinched at the words. ‘It couldn’t have been Aunt Violet,’ she said angrily. ‘She never went out until this morning. One of your neighbours must have seen her and—’ Susan stopped. Richard had gone out last night, unexpectedly, she remembered. Normally he slept well after intercourse and lay in until after breakfast. But last night he had returned late and this morning he had disappeared to work early. She looked at him, wondering. He was quite capable of betraying Maggie, especially if there was money in it for him, she thought. But she could never accuse him in front of her mother, just as she could never admit her mistake in marrying him in the first place.

  But Mabel caught her look of suspicion and turned on Richard. Could it be that Jimmy had been trying to tell her about Richard? she suddenly wondered. Was this smiling, selfish, handsome man who had wheedled his way into her family really Maggie’s betrayer? He had manipulated and charmed them all: Susan, Helen, Jimmy, Violet, Barny, even herself - all except Maggie who had shown open contempt for him. Oh, yes, Mabel thought with bitter anger, Richard Turvey was quite capable of betraying her beloved Maggie!

  Mabel lunged for Richard, her mouth open in accusation. But no words came out, just a strangled sound. Mabel clutched herself as pain shot through her and clamped her jaw. She groped for support and latched onto Susan, trying to speak. A look of incomprehension crossed her face, alarm and disbelief.

  ‘Mam, what’s wrong?’ Susan asked in fright.

  Her mother doubled up and then slowly, gracefully, crumpled to the floor.

  ‘Mam!’ Susan screamed and knelt beside her. But her mother did not answer.

  ‘Fetch the doctor, man!’ Barny shouted at Richard and waved his stick in agitation.

  Long before the doctor arrived, Mabel Beaton was dead. Susan touched the cooling skin, draining of life, and wailed in distress. Violet, not knowing what else to do, went to fetch Mrs Liddle, to help lay out the body.

  ***

  Mabel was buried the day Maggie began her new term in prison. She had three months still to serve of her previous sentence and a further two years for admitting the arson at Hebron House. This time she was taken to Durham gaol and so did not learn about her mother’s death until nearly two weeks later when John Heslop was permitted to visit in order to tell her the sad news.

  Already weakened from hunger strike, she sat pale and stunned by the news. A heart attack ... all very sudden . . . buried the Saturday before last . . . crocuses out ... Susan looking after the family.

  She hardly took in Heslop’s conversation, but this last piece of information reached her.

  ‘S
usan?’ Maggie asked in bewilderment. ‘But she’s married...’

  ‘Susan and Richard have moved back to Gun Street,’ John Heslop explained. ‘They will take care of your grandmother and Helen and Jimmy, so there’s no need for you to worry. I gather there was friction between the young couple and your aunt, so it’s worked out for the best.’

  ‘The best?’ Maggie echoed dully.

  Heslop reached forward and briefly touched Maggie’s clenched hands. ‘I was fond of your mother too,’ he said quietly. When Maggie did not speak, he asked, ‘Is there anything I can do for you?’

  But she just stared at him with large, desolate eyes and shook her head. He was worried for her, but felt powerless to help. Glancing around at the narrow interview cell and the surly wardress with the heavy bunch of keys, he was suddenly moved to pray.

  Heslop prayed out loud for Maggie, though he was certain she did not hear. She had withdrawn into some inner hiding place to nurse her pain.

  Leaving the prison and returning to a world of spring buds and birdsong should have come as a relief, yet he felt a great weight on his spirit at the thought of Maggie left alone in her misery. All the way home on the train, Heslop wrestled with the problem of how he could help her. By the time he reached Newcastle, he had determined to undertake the task he least wanted to do - go and visit her lover, George Gordon.

  The visit was a disaster. The young blacksmith was angry and bitter at Maggie’s re-arrest and John Heslop found himself indignantly denying that he had betrayed her.

  ‘How do I know it wasn’t you who went to the police?’ George accused. ‘You wanted Maggie to give herself up before, didn’t you?’

  ‘Yes, but only if it was of her choosing,’ the butcher answered, offended. ‘I would never have betrayed her, no matter what she’d done. I respect and care for her too much.’

  But this seemed to inflame the younger man all the more.

  ‘I’m the one who cared for her when you all turned your backs, remember! And I’m the one who’ll take care of her when she comes out - if she comes out of Durham alive.’

  ‘I can see there’s no point in staying and being insulted,’ Heslop said stiffly. ‘I only came out of friendship for Maggie to tell you that I had seen her and that she looked as well as could be expected.’

  For a moment they glared at each other in dislike, then George forced himself to apologise.

  ‘I’m sorry. It was good of you to come.’ He swallowed hard and asked hesitantly, ‘Did she ... did she ask you to come?’

  Heslop shook his head and saw the bleak look cross the blacksmith’s face. So he added, ‘But she asked me to send you her fondest regards.’

  It was a lie, but he felt Maggie would have sent such a message if she had been in any state to speak. Besides, he did not like to see the young man suffering, despite their differences.

  ‘Thank you,’ George murmured, flushing with embarrassment.

  ‘I’m sure they would let you write to her,’ the butcher suggested, ‘or I could send a letter on your behalf.’

  ‘Thank you, but I can write for mesel’,’ George bristled.

  Heslop decided it was best to leave and did so, promising to pass on any news he received of Maggie’s welfare.

  After he had gone, George sat for a long time by the dying fire in the poky flat, thinking of Maggie and rueing their bitter row. He had been jealous of her family who still seemed to have a hold over her and instead of going with her to see them and protecting her, he had derided and rejected her so that she had run home anyway. If they had not argued she would not have been caught, he tortured himself with the thought.

  George cried out in his agony and loneliness. He could not stay here alone in this flat that reminded him constantly of Maggie. Her clothes and suffragette newspapers lay around reproachfully and even the scent of her seemed to linger in the room. He would give notice and leave at the end of the week, George decided. He would find somewhere quite different, somewhere for his sore spirit to recuperate and where Maggie could come and live with him when she was released. Somewhere that would not remind them of the hurtful things they had said to each other. The thought gave him new comfort and hope.

  And George came to another startling decision. He would tell his family about Maggie. They would disapprove strongly, but there would be no more hiding and lying about his relationship with her. There would be no more shame.

  ***

  Alice Pearson disembarked from the London train with three porters in her wake carrying her luggage. Two further trunkfuls of new clothes purchased in Paris and London had been sent ahead to Hebron House. Alice had come hurrying home after Herbert’s message that their father had suffered a stroke - Herbert blaming it on the distress caused by the arson attack. But Maggie Beaton had been caught and sentenced for her part in the arson attack and was safely incarcerated in Durham prison. Herbert insisted that he needed Alice to help in the final run-up to the by-election and she found she needed little persuasion to return home.

  She revelled in the smells of steam and smoke around Central Station, the bustle of railwaymen, flower-sellers and shoe-shine boys. The Pearson Bentley was waiting for her outside the vast arched entrance and she settled into the comfortable leather seat, eager to watch the sights of busy Tyneside as they nosed their way past trams and drays and rolleys.

  Two months had given Alice time to reflect on the outrage carried out at Hebron House. Her initial fury at Maggie’s actions which had caused her to flee Newcastle had now abated, but she still felt the arson was a personal betrayal. She had shown the Beaton girl friendship and support yet had been repaid with this wicked attack on her family’s property. The WSPU could have chosen any number of targets without picking on Hebron House and she had immediately severed all ties with the suffrage movement. She agreed now with Herbert that she must stand firm with her own class, to protect their own interests against this creeping threat of anarchy, of socialism, of empowering working-class women like Maggie who would only use it to bring them down.

  It frightened Alice that these people had no sense of deference to those who ruled them, no sense of loyalty. For without a sense of place, the world was turned on its head and anything could happen. She firmly believed that there were those born to lead and those born to follow; reducing all to the same level would provoke anarchy - revolution.

  ‘God forbid!’ Alice said aloud in the purring motorcar.

  She could now admit to herself that her commitment to women’s suffrage had been superficial, a flirtation with ideals of equality in which she did not really believe. If she was brutally frank with herself, she had espoused the cause because she had enjoyed the attention, being in demand socially for fund-raising luncheons and bazaars. She had delighted in shocking her parents and brother too, because it made them notice her and take her more seriously.

  But she would never have the appetite for sacrifice that Emily Davison or Maggie Beaton had; indeed, she did not want equality with women such as they. Over the past two months, Alice had come to this startling revelation about herself. She was a Pearson, one of the elite in British society, and she believed in and wished to uphold their system of class. She would work with her brother to further his political ambitions and consolidate the Pearson dynasty and in return would demand political rights for women of her class, those who could be trusted with power. Intelligent, articulate women such as herself should be given the vote and greater freedom in law, but such freedoms should be based upon property and privilege. They were not for the masses or the likes of Maggie Beaton who terrified her.

  The high wrought-iron gates closed behind the Bentley; early daffodils at the edge of the drive bowed their heads in the breeze. Beyond, Alice could see scaffolding around the damaged summer pavilion; the roof was being renewed and the windows replaced. Workmen crawled over the scorched stone like ants, busily restoring it to its former glory.

  Alice felt overwhelming relief.

  Herbert greeted her at
the entrance and later, in his study, bubbled over with news of his campaign.

  ‘There’s a dinner at the Assembly Rooms tonight. Felicity doesn’t want to go, so I want you to accompany me. And there’s a luncheon at the Liberal Club tomorrow and I want you to organise a dinner here on Saturday.’

  ‘What does Tish say about that?’ Alice asked warily.

  ‘She’s going to London for a week - staying with the Beresfords,’ Herbert said, avoiding his sister’s look. ‘She’s been quite a help really, but politics doesn’t interest her like it does you.’

  ‘I see,’ Alice replied. And she did. Her brother wanted to forget their past differences and use her skills at organising and entertaining politicians and businessmen. Felicity’s reward for playing the loyal wife and social hostess to Newcastle society was to be allowed the occasional trip to stay with Poppy Beresford. As long as Poppy was kept safely at a distance, Herbert could pretend she did not exist.

  Alice smiled, glad that she was to have a free rein in her own house again, even for a short while. Tomorrow she would drive up to Oxford Hall and see her father, whose recovery was proving slow and would probably only be partial, Herbert told her.

  After tea, Alice went to her darkroom and did a thorough clear-out of drawers and folders. Dispassionately she looked at the pictures of her former friends in the WSPU. Reduced to mere black and white images, Alice could forget that she had once had feelings for them. Now they were just specimens captured by her camera. She took the photographs into the drawing room and watched them burn in the fireplace. Then she went to pour herself a brandy. The WSPU had been part of a dangerous episode in her life, when she had dabbled with viewing the world differently, as if from the wrong end of a lens. Ridding herself of the images helped Alice restore her old set of values and reinforce her comforting sense of place.

  In the end, it was an unnervingly close race. The Labour Party fielded a candidate who played on the shipyard workers’ dissatisfaction with their pay.

  ‘We’re producing more tonnage than ever before!’ the Labour hopeful shouted from the hustings. ‘But the buying power of the sovereign in your pocket is getting less!’