No Greater Love (11 page)

When he was sure he was out of earshot of the receding houses, he pulled a volume of poetry from inside his jacket and began to read Matthew Arnold to the trees and hedgerows as he passed. It was suitably melancholic after his defeat on the river and he boomed out verse after verse. Approaching a farmhouse, George fell silent, enjoying the evening twitter of birds and the bellow of a cow needing milking. He waved at the red-cheeked dairy girl with her raw hands and wondered why he had not been born on the land where he felt most at home.

At least he was not working underground like his father and brothers, George thought with relief. After his mother’s death, he had hung around the blacksmith’s forge to be near the horses, comforted by the animal smells and the warmth of the forge fire in winter. For years he had watched fascinated as the blacksmith in his leather apron had shod pit ponies and dray horses, his tools ringing harshly as the hot metal glowed orange in his grasp and the forge reeking with the pungency of scorched hooves. Finally the blacksmith had agreed to take him on because he was the strongest of the boys who pestered for a job and he learned quickly.

George gained the top of the hill and looked back down to the Tyne and its hazy industrial sprawl. Church spires poked up hopefully out of the smog, but they were outnumbered by the smoking chimneys and preying cranes. George sighed. He had left the smithy, lured by better prospects in the shipyards, and since then it had been his lot to spend his days sweating in Pearson’s forge working its gigantic hammers and hydraulic presses. Although there was satisfaction in producing huge metal sheets that were turned into impressive ships, George often felt he was no more than a tiny ant among thousands, working mindlessly for Pearson’s profit.

‘Well, ants can bloody well organise!’ George shouted down at the miles of factory sheds. ‘One day we’ll all have a say in our working conditions!’ He punched the air as he spoke. No one knew that most of his union speeches had been practised up here among the indifferent cows. ‘One day the nation will own the means of production, not just a handful of men like Pearson. And we’ll spend the profits on decent housing and education beyond fourteen and pensions for our old citizens. Never again will they have to fear the workhouse!’

A blackbird came screeching out of a hedge and George stopped to laugh at himself. He was reminded of himself as a young boy, springing out of ditches, brandishing a sword-stick and making battle speeches against the occupying Romans.

Suddenly another voice came stridently into his mind.
I’m fighting for justice for all women … We want equality with men under the law and equal wages...

Maggie Beaton was mad, George declared to himself, and such notions might be a danger to working men whose jobs must be protected and enhanced. Yet he was troubled by Maggie’s startling words. Were the suffragettes not asking that women be given the very things that working men wanted - the vote, better pay and improved social conditions?

George mocked himself. What would Bob Stanners and the others think of him if they suspected he was going soft on women’s rights? If his friends thought of such things at all, it was with irritation that women dared to set sports pavilions on fire or throw hammers through picture-house windows. When a suffragette had smashed the window of Lloyd George’s car in Newcastle, Bob had said, ‘If it was my missus, I’d give her a hidin’ into next week. Shows lasses aren’t fit to vote, doesn’t it?’

George had grunted agreement but had been secretly admiring of the woman’s courage in confronting the ruling class so brazenly. He was disturbed by the thought that, while the suffragettes got on with their revolution, he and his mates just endlessly talked about it.

Time for a drink, George thought, trying to clear his mind of conflicting feelings. He pushed the poetry book back inside his jacket and strode back towards the town.

Gas jets were flaring outside the pubs, and Maggie could glimpse smoky interiors behind the heavy brass-handled doors. She was tempted to stride in and shout her slogans over the general hubbub, but she knew she had to be careful. She must do nothing tonight to provoke arrest and miss her important meeting with Emily Davison and she knew the police would detain her on the slightest pretext. They knew all the local militants and watched them like hawks, so she maintained her unobtrusive position at the edge of the Bigg Market, silently holding up a copy of
The Suffragette
in the hope that some of the Saturday night revellers might buy one.

She was content to watch chattering couples and families walking around the open stalls, lit by a hissing phosphorous light. A father cradled a sleeping girl in his arms, while two boys beside him shared a tub of peas and his wife fingered a piece of red calico in indecision. Rejecting it, the mother moved away, ruffling the boys
^’
hair in amusement at something they had said and Maggie felt a strange sense of aloneness.

She was set apart by what she chose to do, but she was meant to be alone. How else could she do this important work? If she had a husband and family, she would be too occupied with daily chores to have any energy left for the women’s cause. She realised that she was lucky to have Susan and Granny at home to take care of the mundane, wearisome tasks of daily life, so that, after her office job, she could concentrate on more important work. Although Granny might think of it like that, she knew her sister did not. Yet it cheered Maggie to think that Susan inadvertently helped women’s suffrage in this way.

As the market began to empty and the yawning stallholders packed up their goods and went home, Maggie realised how tired and footsore she was. She decided to bundle up her newspapers too.

‘Here, hinny.’ The toothless pea-seller stopped and offered her a tub from her soapbox on wheels. ‘Bet you’ve had nowt to eat all night.’

‘Ta, Mrs Surtees.’ Maggie smiled gratefully at the stooped woman who often lingered to speak to her, taking the proffered food.

‘Too hard for my old gums anyways,’ Mrs Surtees cackled. ‘Sell ’em to Pearson’s as bullets, me old man always says.’

‘Taste canny to me,’ Maggie said, biting on the hard peas hungrily.

Mrs Surtees began to recount the week’s events, her husband’s health and the gossip of Sandgate, keeping Maggie entertained while she ate. The square had darkened and fallen so peaceful that the sudden disruption as brawlers spilled out of the Half Moon took them by surprise.

‘You’re a bloody cheat!’

‘I won fair and square. You’re too drunk to know the difference.’

‘Don’t call me a drunk!’

A man was shoved into their path, knocking the remaining tubs of peas onto the cobbles. As they bounced away in front of an astonished Mrs Surtees, Maggie upbraided the sprawling men.

‘You big clumsy buggers! You’ll pay her for the peas,
^’
she shouted.

A thin-faced man snarled at her to shut up as he took hold of the man at her feet and jerked him round.

Maggie was dumbfounded as she peered into the dark. ‘Richard Turvey, is that you? What in the world...?’

Richard focused on her with smoke-reddened eyes. ‘Help me, won’t you?’ He doubled up as his assailant kicked him in the stomach. Other men began to crowd round the victim.

‘Stop it,’ Maggie said, attempting to intervene.

The thin man turned on her aggressively. ‘Stay out of this, you silly bitch. He’s cheated me of me money and he’s in for a good hidin’.’

‘And you’ve cheated this woman of her earnings,’ Maggie replied sharply. ‘You’ll pay for the peas you’ve ruined.’

The young drunk glared at her menacingly. ‘What you interfering for? Who the hell are you anyway?’ Suddenly he noticed her suffragette sash and the pile of newspapers. ‘You’re one of them bloody women,’ he spat. ‘I’ll have you!’

Forgetting the man on the ground, he lurched towards Maggie, grabbing her sash and tearing it off her. In an instant he was followed by others from the pub who turned on her with hostile looks and menacing hands. Maggie froze in terror as Mrs Surtees was shoved out of the way by the riled men. One grabbed her by the jacket, another by the blouse.

‘Whore!’

‘You’ve asked for this.’

‘Hanging’s too good for your kind!’

‘Let her have it!’

She screamed in agony as her hair was pulled and someone punched her breast. Instinctively she knew that if she lost her footing and went down, that would be the end. She clutched at one of the attackers and held on to his arm, sinking her teeth into his hand. He howled in pain, drawing back his hand, but someone else jabbed a fist into her eye. For a moment Maggie was blinded and as the angry faces blurred before her, she felt herself slipping to the cobbles.

I’m going to die, she thought. I’m going to die in a dirty lane because of these senseless drunken men. And my petty efforts for the cause will be wasted before I’ve had time to prove myself.

As she went down, Maggie was aware of increased noises and confusion, then her head hit the ground and she blacked out.

***

George Gordon and Bob Stanners came across the commotion as they took a short cut through the market on their way home. At first they thought it just another Saturday night fight as the pubs emptied, then George spotted a torn sash lying in the debris of rotting vegetables and discarded paper.

Pushing their way into the fight, they saw the old pea-seller crouched and sobbing on the kerb.

‘Help the lass, please help the lass!’ she wailed at them.

George strained into the dark and saw a young woman on the ground. Filled with fury, he seized the nearest attacker round the neck and pulled him back. Caught off balance, the man stumbled and George helped him on his way with a hard punch. Without hesitation, Bob set about the woman’s attackers too. The drunks were no match for the fit blacksmith and his friend and they soon fell back, stumbling away with curses and bleeding noses.

George bent down to help the woman. A lone stallholder hurried over with a lamp and the light flickered to reveal a pale bruised face under the matted black hair.

‘Maggie Beaton!’ George gasped in horror. ‘The bastards!’

‘You know the lass?’ Bob asked.

‘Aye, she’s from over our way,’ George said, filled with disgust at the attack. He leaned forward and gently lifted her to a sitting position. Maggie’s eyes flickered open, but she gave no look of recognition. She moaned and George felt her thin body convulse under his touch.

‘It’s all right, hinny,’ Mrs Surtees tried to reassure her. ‘These lads have saved you. They’ll do no harm.’

Maggie still stared at them with confused eyes as a harsh sobbing rose up in her throat.

‘Shall I gan for the coppers?’ Bob asked.

George hesitated, noticing the torn sash of purple, green and white.

‘No, they’d probably just arrest her for selling her papers.’

The truth suddenly dawned on Bob. ‘She’s a bloody suffragette!’

‘So?’ George was sharp.

‘Probably asked for it,’ Bob said disparagingly, ‘mouthing off.’

George turned on him angrily. ‘No lass deserves to be set on like this, no matter what she stands for.’

‘Aye,’ Mrs Surtees agreed, stroking Maggie’s forehead with her gnarled hands. ‘And it only happened ’cos she stood up for a man they were attacking. The bugger didn’t even stay to help her. Makes me blood boil.’

George shook his head in disbelief.

‘So what do we do with her?’ Bob asked glumly.

‘We get her home to her family.’ George was adamant. ‘Help me lift her, Bob.’

Bob muttered, ‘All right, but it doesn’t mean I agree with—’

‘Shut your gob and give us a hand!’

They got Maggie to her feet and George covered her with his own jacket. She was shaking and in shock, saying nothing, as if she did not know him. Mrs Surtees blessed them and waved them away.

In the warmth of the tramcar, Maggie began to revive, becoming aware of curious stares from the passengers. Feeling with her hands, she realised several buttons had gone from her blouse and that the jacket she wore was far too big. What was she doing here? she puzzled. And why was she wearing this jacket? All at once, the memory of the attack flooded over her and she looked around in panic. George Gordon stood looking over her, keeping his balance as the tram jolted them forward.

‘You’re all right, bonny lass,’ he smiled awkwardly. ‘We’ll see you home.’

Maggie noticed he was in his shirtsleeves. Somehow, the tall blacksmith had rescued her. She closed her eyes again, every bump of the journey jarring her bruised body, though she was thankful to be in the safe fuggy interior of the car.

Later, as George and Bob helped her from the tram and across the road to Gun Street, she was able to discover how they had stopped the assault.

‘Thank you,’ she whispered.

There was consternation at her arrival, with Susan fussing around her and Granny Beaton instructing her to lie on the parlour bed while they attended to her cuts and bruises. The men withdrew hastily, refusing offers of tea. Jimmy and Helen came in bleary-eyed and yawning and demanding to know what the noise was about. Then Maggie’s mother appeared, her greying hair hanging in limp braids over her shoulders and her body shapeless in her nightgown. How old she looks now, Maggie thought through her fatigue as Susan explained what had happened.

Mabel sat on the edge of the bed, holding Maggie’s hand. ‘I should never have let you go out on your own,’ she fretted, ‘and you shouldn’t have put yourself in such danger.’

‘I wasn’t on my own - Rose was there most of the time too,’ Maggie answered. ‘She hadn’t long gone when –’

‘Rose Johnstone!’ Mabel grew suddenly angry, withdrawing her hand from Maggie’s. ‘I wish you’d never met the lass. Turning your head with all this politics - I blame her for this.’

‘You were happy enough with Rose when she helped me with me education and getting a job at Pearson’s. It wasn’t Rose’s fault; it was a pack of drunken men who did it!’

Helen gave an impatient huff, jealous of the attention Maggie was receiving. ‘There you go again - it’s always men’s fault for everything. The truth is you’ve never liked lads.’