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

by Janet MacLeod Trotter

  ***

  That September brought heavy losses in Flanders, with gruelling battles at Artois and Loos which gained little ground from the Germans. The first flush of patriotism was waning as life grew more grim at home. Pub hours were curbed to tackle drunkenness and absence from the shipyards and armaments factories, and there was renewed pressure on single men to enlist or be assessed for active service.

  As the fields were harvested around them, Maggie increasingly felt that their days of detachment on the farm were numbered. Then one evening, as darkness descended, George did not return home from work.

  Maggie had heard the buzzers blow at the end of his shift, the ghostly sound carried uphill on the chill evening breeze. But George did not appear.

  She sat alone by the dancing fire, waiting. She no longer expected Jimmy; he had wheedled his way into Aunt Violet’s affections and was almost permanently living with her and his favoured Uncle Barny. Perhaps George had gone to a meeting that he had forgotten to mention, she tried to comfort herself. Tempted to go out and search for him, Maggie realised with alarm that she would not know where to begin. She had cut herself off from the town for too long, content to live a hermit’s life on the farm.

  Then just as she could stand the waiting no longer, she heard his footsteps on the path and the door banged open.

  She could tell immediately that George had been drinking.

  ‘What do you mean by staying out till all hours?’ she ranted, sick with relief and anger at his appearance. ‘I thought you’d gone under a tram! Do you ever stop to think what would happen to me if you weren’t here? No! A few beers and any thought of me goes flying out the window!’

  He stared at her across the room.

  ‘What’s the matter?’ she demanded, suddenly alarmed at the sight of his haggard face.

  ‘They’ve sacked me,’ he said bleakly. ‘The bastard bosses have sacked me.’

  Maggie gawped in bewilderment. ‘What on earth do you mean? They need you night and day at the yard!’

  George shook his head violently. ‘An agitator - they called me an agitator. Said I was trying to stir up trouble among the men.’

  ‘But it’s not true!’ Maggie exclaimed, stepping towards him.

  George brushed her off, weaving his way to the fireside. Staring into the dying flames, he spat viciously.

  ‘Somebody took notes at the meetings, put words into me mouth. Someone doing Pearson’s dirty work. Needed a scapegoat - said I was subversive - against the war.’

  ‘It’s not a crime to be against the war,’ Maggie answered robustly. ‘You’ve grafted as hard as any for Pearson’s.’

  He lifted his head to look at her and she thought she saw resentment cross his harrowed face.

  ‘Well, they’ll never have me back,’ he answered coldly. ‘Whoever betrayed me’s made sure of that. Told the bosses I’m living with a known revolutionary, a suffragette who went to prison for trying to burn down Pearson’s mansion. Well, as soon as they heard that they started talking about a conspiracy inspired by you. Pearson’s will probably make sure I’m blacklisted anywhere on the Tyne.’

  ‘But the union . . .’ Maggie gulped, horrified by the implications of what he was saying.

  George let out a harsh laugh. ‘They won’t rock the boat for me, not Pearson’s boat or any other! This war’s tied their hands tighter than any bosses’ legislation’s ever done. Pearson’s said they wouldn’t charge me or take it any further with the police if I went quietly, so the union told me to do just that. I divvn’t care what they do to me but I’d not see you go back to prison.’

  He slumped into a chair and later slept by the fire rather than go to bed. Maggie lay alone, her mind in a turmoil. George had accepted defeat for her sake, to protect her from further trouble, but at the same time she knew he blamed her for being thrown out of work. She had seen the look on his face and it made her insides turn to ice.

  Yet who was it who had really betrayed him? she wondered. Who could dislike him enough to arrange for his sacking and be vindictive enough to bring her past into it?

  Her grandmother’s words echoed in her mind again, warning her to beware of the wicked man who had betrayed her. At times, Maggie had wondered if the old woman could possibly have meant George, but had felt guilty for even entertaining the thought.

  Then, in the middle of the night, it came to her. Richard Turvey had done this to them. George had mentioned that he was working at Pearson’s. Richard had no interest in union politics except to spy on the activists. He was probably in Pearson’s pay to seek out and name radicals who might be suspected of trying to incite unrest among the workforce. The bosses were jittery enough to employ agents provocateurs, Maggie thought grimly as she tossed in the empty bed.

  And then her mind searched for clues about Richard. They had known nothing about him until his abrupt entry into their lives two and a half years ago. She had been the only one of the family to dislike and distrust him from the start, Maggie realised, and he had neither forgotten nor forgiven her disdain of him; he had shown that plainly at her grandmother’s funeral. She knew he had lied about his job and his involvement in the brawl in the town, but he had wormed his way into the heart of her family anyhow.

  So was it Richard Turvey who had betrayed her to the police? Maggie wondered bitterly. And by so doing had he been the cause of her mother’s heart attack? Suddenly Maggie was sure of it. Her mother must have suspected him too and that was why she had gone to confront him at Aunt Violet’s. He would have done it for spite or for money - or both, she thought angrily. That would explain how he always had money to squander on himself and Susan - and Helen, she thought with disgust. He might well have been in Pearson’s pay that long ago and taken money for trying to subvert the Women’s Movement. Anything was possible.

  Maggie got up and paced outside to quell the waves of nausea that overwhelmed her at the thought of the harm Richard Turvey had done to her family and now to George. He had seeped into their lives like a poison, infiltrating every relationship until he was rid of the ones who stood in his selfish way or dominated the ones he could more easily exploit. She cursed her Aunt Violet for ever introducing her evil nephew into their family.

  Shivering violently in the damp, chill night air, Maggie contemplated an angry confrontation with Richard where she would vent her fury and hatred of him and accuse him of his wickedness. But to what avail? she countered wearily. He would only deny it and throw her out - or bar her from entering in the first place. Did Susan and Helen know the extent of his deceit? she wondered. They could not be completely innocent, Maggie concluded, and yet they chose to stay with him. She felt betrayed by them all and achingly alone as she stood shaking uncontrollably in the fitful night wind.

  But when she tried to speak to George the following day of her suspicions about Richard, he seemed irritable and uninterested in her theories. He disappeared for the whole of the day and returned without telling her where he had been.

  George soon found that his suspicions about being blacklisted were right. He could not find employment with any of the naval yards on Tyneside or with any related industries that were owned by the men who did business with Pearson’s. He was an outcast on Tyneside and the bitterness and frustration of his predicament ate into his being, so that he lashed out at the person closest to him - Maggie.

  He took to staying away at his family’s home in Benwell or sleeping in the loft, leaving Maggie alone and miserable and at a loss to know how to comfort him. As for herself, she had nowhere else to go. The Samuels had sold everything and bought a passage to America. She thought of approaching Rose for help, but they had not spoken for two years.

  Once, she tried to suggest to George that they move away and start where no one knew them, as they had once joked of doing when she had been on the run from the police. But he seemed too far sunk in gloom to register what she had said.

  ‘What’s the use?’ was his despondent reply as he gazed down at his idle hands
.

  When they had nothing left to pawn for the rent, Maggie went to Farmer Hibbs and asked him to take on George. For two weeks he got work lifting potatoes and his mood improved. But when the harvest was over, George took to his chair by the fire and hardly moved from the cottage.

  Worried they would be evicted and no longer able to bear his sullenness or bouts of bad temper as Christmas approached once more, Maggie sallied down to her old workshop on the riverside. She was not surprised when her old boss, Mr Roberts, gave her a curt refusal and hurried her out of his office. But Eve Tindall made an excuse to leave her desk and came rushing after Maggie.

  ‘Read about you in the papers,’ Eve crowed, peering at Maggie over her spectacles. ‘What a shock you gave us all! It’s no wonder they’ll not have you back here.’

  ‘No,’ Maggie smiled at her old colleague, ‘I didn’t really expect them to. I’m glad to see you again though. Eve.’

  ‘Aye, pet,’ the older woman nodded awkwardly. Then she blurted out, ‘Did they treat you badly inside?’

  Maggie’s smile was strained as she quipped, ‘Not half as bad as me own kin have done.’

  ‘Eeh, pet!’ Eve gasped in sympathy.

  ‘Don’t worry about me,’ Maggie assured her with a pat on her plump arm. ‘Nowt keeps me down for long.’

  ‘Listen,’ Eve said, lowering her voice. ‘I could have a word in Mr Tindall’s ear - see what he can do. They’re taking on women in the workshops now - short of men since the autumn.’

  Maggie’s face lit up with hope. ‘That would be canny of you, Eve.’

  A week later Maggie started in Number 16 workshop, packing munitions into wooden crates under the huge dusty arc of glass and metal that resounded with the banging and hammerings of scores of aproned workers.

  The tasks were monotonous, the atmosphere noisy, the discipline strict, yet Maggie revelled in the company of the other young women who had taken up the jobs of men now at the Front. Dressed in her anonymous overalls and cap, she felt relief at not being singled out for special attention or abuse as she had grown used to over the past years. To the others she was just Maggie, the girl with the quick tongue and a sharp joke when the foreman’s back was turned. No one knew where she lived exactly or what she did after the buzzers blew, but everyone nodded and called in a friendly fashion on her return the following day.

  And there was money for Christmas! Maggie came home laden with parcels and treats on Christmas Eve. She had stopped at the shops on Alison Terrace on her way home from work and bought a leg of pork from John Heslop and sausages and black pudding for George’s breakfast. It was even more of a sacrifice and treat than usual because meat was becoming scarce - Heslop had secured the pork especially for her. Maggie had felt obliged to promise the butcher that she would attend chapel on Christmas Day.

  She had found some second-hand books at the pawnshop for George’s Christmas present and stopped to buy roast chestnuts at a brazier on the corner, unable to resist the sweet aroma of the grilled nuts.

  A few days before, Maggie had decorated the cottage with holly and red ribbon and hung mistletoe above their bed in the hope of rekindling George’s appetite for lovemaking. They had been abstinent for too long, Maggie reflected.

  Returning up the hill, she could see the faint glimmer of firelight through the green blackout blinds, beckoning and welcoming her home out of the dark night. Behind her she could still hear the faint melody of a hurdy-gurdy churning out Christmas carols.

  Entering the cottage, brimming with holiday spirit, Maggie was dashed to find it empty. The fire had been banked up but there was no sign of George anywhere. For weeks she had been urging him to go out and now she was vexed not to find him in.

  Still determined to make it a happy Christmas, she unpacked and busied herself preparing the meat and vegetables for the next day’s feast. Stoking up the fire, she boiled up a pease soup and baked bread and currant buns. She was just pulling these out of the oven when the door opened.

  She turned to see George standing in the doorway with her brother. He had gone to fetch Jimmy to please her, Maggie thought with gratitude.

  ‘Jimmy!’ she cried in delight ‘You’ve come for Christmas! Haway in and sit yourselves down. There’s a pan of soup on the boil. I’m that pleased to see you both - thought I’d be seeing in Christmas Day on me own. I’ve been that busy at work, I’ve hardly set eyes on you for weeks, Tich.’

  She saw him bristle and laughed apologetically. ‘Sorry, Jimmy it is.’

  George pushed the youth towards the fire and blew on his hands, holding them out to the flames. Maggie sent her brother out for more coal and then sat him down at the table.

  ‘So what you been up to of late?’ Maggie asked, her face glowing with the heat of baking.

  ‘I’ve got summat to tell you, Maggie,’ Jimmy said, his face animated as he sniffed the soup. ‘You’re the first to know - except for Geordie, of course.’

  She threw George a quick look of enquiry, but saw him glance away and move nearer to the hearth.

  ‘Well?’ she smiled, intrigued.

  ‘I’ve enlisted with the Fusiliers,’ he grinned. ‘We’ve been out celebrating!’

  ‘Celebrating!’ Maggie cried in dismay. ‘But I thought they wouldn’t have you.’

  ‘I’m eighteen now,’ Jimmy pulled back his scrawny shoulders proudly, ‘and anyways, they’ve reduced the height for recruits - I’m not too small anymore.’

  She saw the look of triumph on her brother’s lean, childish face and felt a pang of sympathy for him. All his life he had been constantly told he was too young or too puny to do the things he wished, but now he had achieved recognition as a raw recruit into Uncle Barny’s old regiment - into the British Army that was guzzling up young men with a voraciousness never seen before.

  Her sympathy for him turned at once to anxiety. She rounded on George in annoyance.

  ‘Why didn’t you try to stop him?’ she accused. ‘I thought you’d have better sense.’

  ‘Stop me?’ Jimmy laughed. ‘It was Geordie gave me the courage to try again.’

  ‘What?’ Maggie shouted.

  ‘Aye,’ George turned and looked at her directly for the first time since entering. ‘I’ve joined up too, Maggie.’

  She stared at him in open-mouthed disbelief, her slim face flushed and framed by tousled dark curls of hair. His stomach lurched as he noticed for the first time in months how pretty she was, how much he wanted her. What a waste of fruitless months, he thought with regret, while he wallowed in depression about his unemployment, his worthlessness. He had been so angry with Maggie for being partly to blame for his sacking and then making him feel doubly inadequate by going out and supporting them with her wages. He was no use as a worker and no use to her either, he had told himself brutally.

  So he had been left with no option but to join the war. No longer could he look at the maimed men in the street or even his own damaged brother without pangs of guilt at his safe, directionless life.

  ‘There’s talk of conscription coming in soon,’ George tried to justify his decision to Maggie. ‘I’d be one of the first to be called up anyway as a single unemployed man.’

  He saw her flinch at his words and hated himself for inflicting the pain that showed in her grey eyes. But he could not go back on his decision. Joining up had given his battered pride a sudden lift; his life now had purpose again. He had convinced himself that he could best support his comrades by joining them in the trenches. But looking at Maggie’s stricken face, George knew that she would never see it that way. The price he would have to pay for regaining his self-esteem might be losing the woman he loved more than anything in the world. They looked at each other helplessly, aware of the gulf that yawned between them.

  Maggie felt too sick to speak. Without a word, she handed the soup ladle to Jimmy, then walked out into the night.

  Chapter 23

  Looking back several months later, Maggie could remember little of that Christmas Da
y in 1915. Jimmy had gone by the time she had returned from pacing the town, body frozen and mind numbed. On Boxing Day, George went too.

  ‘It’s all I can do,’ he said defiantly. Then, less sure, ‘Will you stay here?’

  ‘It’s my home isn’t it?’ Maggie answered robustly. ‘I’m earning enough to pay the rent and have a bit put by, so don’t bother yourself about me.’

  ‘I didn’t want it to turn out like this, Maggie,’ George insisted. ‘I’ll send back money.’

  ‘I don’t need your money, Geordie,’ Maggie answered proudly. ‘Send it to your Billy if you want to send it anywhere.’

  And so he had gone, with a brief peck on her turned-away cheek and she had not seen him since.

  It was spring now and Maggie had got through the past months by plunging herself into her work at the factory and returning exhausted to the cottage to sleep. New families had moved into temporary huts at the bottom of the hill, drawn to the riverside by the offers of work in the munitions sheds. But she heard their children being told to stay away from her cottage, suspicious of her solitary existence. In their games they called her a witch and threw stones down her chimney for dares.

  Maggie ignored the jibes and stayed within the close surrounds of the cottage, working in the garden or reading by the hearth. Her one weekly trip to town was to the penny library on Alison Terrace. Increasingly, she avoided places and shops where she might encounter her family or past neighbours, for she had lost her appetite for sociability. She had grown accustomed to her own company, for at least that was reliable. What, she asked herself, was the point of allowing a new friendship to blossom when the people she loved were always taken from her?

  Then her ordered, uneventful life was disturbed by a letter from George. He was writing from camp. His training was over and they were about to be sent to France. Could he see her before he went?

  The letter arrived on the Thursday and the following day on her return from work, she found him digging in the black earth of the garden, beyond the spring daffodils. The sight of him in uniform filled her with nervous foreboding, so that her words of greeting lodged in her throat.