Authors: Janet MacLeod Trotter
‘Richard got him the position, of course,’ Susan added.
‘I’m sure Tich would’ve got something anyway,’ Maggie answered swiftly. ‘You’ve always been a good fetcher and carrier for us.’ She ruffled her brother’s spiky hair playfully. ‘I’m pleased for you, kiddar.’
Just then a figure shuffled slowly into the kitchen from the open parlour door. Maggie saw her dear grandmother squinting blindly across the room.
‘Still not wearing specs, Granny!’ Maggie teased and moved round the kitchen table to meet her.
The old woman stopped at the familiar voice and cocked her head. ‘Is that you, Peggi?’ she asked.
Maggie felt a stab of disappointment. She raised her voice. ‘No, it’s me, Maggie, remember?’ She took hold of her grandmother’s dry, papery hands and squeezed them.
‘Divn’t worry, hinny,’ Mabel consoled her daughter, ‘she’s away with the fairies half the time. Keeps on about a wife called Peggi.’
‘Peggi was her sister,’ Maggie whispered. ‘She sailed to Canada after the village was broken up and Granny’s never seen or heard of her since.’
They all waited in silence as Maggie clung to the old woman and watched her crinkled face to see if the mist of confusion in her myopic eyes would lift. Maggie’s heart twisted to think how lost and lonely the old Highlander must be, retreating into a past life, searching for her beloved sister, confused by the strangers around her.
‘Maggie?’ her grandmother finally asked.
‘Aye, Granny,’ she encouraged, ‘your granddaughter.’
‘Maggie,’ Agnes Beaton repeated with more conviction. ‘You’ve come home at last.’
‘I have,’ Maggie smiled, ‘but just for a visit.’
‘You’ve been away such a long time,’ her grandmother accused.
‘She still thinks you’re Peggi, I bet,’ Susan remarked.
Granny Beaton looked between the two of them, then said clearly, ‘I know it’s not Peggi. It’s your sister Maggie. The hair - it made me think…’ She leaned on Maggie’s arm and patted her hand. ‘And how did they treat you in that terrible prison, dearie?’
Maggie gave Susan and her mother a triumphant look. ‘I survived, Granny.’
***
It was dark by the time Maggie left. She stayed for a cup of tea but her mother could not persuade her to stay the night and share the goose with them on Christmas Day. She felt restless and uneasy in the tense atmosphere of Gun Street and did not relish the prospect of watching Richard and Susan lording it over her family and Aunt Violet simpering with satisfaction that it was her nephew who was saving the Beatons from destitution.
So she went, kissing her mother and grandmother tenderly and promising to keep in touch via John Heslop. She gave Jimmy her return tram fare and told him to buy new shoelaces for work. Susan merely nodded at her when she wished her a happy Christmas and Maggie left feeling depressed that her sister had changed so quickly from a fussing but kind-hearted girl into this preening, self-satisfied woman.
When she got back to the Dobsons she found a visitor waiting.
‘Maggie, my dear.’ Alice rose from the bed in relief. ‘I thought I was going to miss you.’
‘I’ve been home,’ Maggie explained, unpinning her hat.
‘All’s well, I hope.’
‘I’m worried about Mam,’ Maggie confided. ‘She’s got this bad chest.
’
‘I’m sure it cheered her to see you again,’ Alice smiled.
‘Aye, I think it did,’ Maggie sighed. ‘I miss her summat terrible.’
‘Here,’ Alice held out a parcel, ‘I think this will cheer you up. I wanted to give it to you in person, before I go up to Oxford Hall to join my parents.’
Maggie took the present and unwrapped it cautiously. Nestling in the tissue paper was a pair of miniature silver frames. Maggie turned one over to reveal the thoughtful, half-smiling face of Emily Davison in a large boater.
‘To inspire your great efforts,’ Alice smiled at Maggie’s astonished expression.
Maggie looked at the other one and gasped in delight. It showed her sitting with George; she happy, he glowering with embarrassment.
‘My birthday,’ Maggie recalled, laughing. ‘George hating the idea of having his photograph taken. Oh, they’re canny presents. Ta very much, Miss Alice. I’ll treasure them always. But I’ve nothing for you.’
Alice waved a hand. ‘It’s enough to see the pleasure on your face, Maggie.’ She rose. Below she could hear the sound of carols being sung at the mission Christmas Eve service where the brandy-smelling Mrs Dobson had gone to help out. Alice wished that Maggie did not have to live in such squalor and was determined that, when Maggie was no longer hunted by the police, she would find a position for her within her own household.
‘I may not be able to visit you for a while,’ Alice said, pulling on her gloves. ‘I intend to go south and visit friends after Christmas. With my brother and his wife spending January on the Continent as usual, the house will be locked up. For the first time in years I think I’m actually glad to be getting away from Hebron House. It doesn’t feel like my home anymore.’
Maggie nodded, tempted for a moment to tell Alice of the dangerous mission she must undertake. But she resisted. The leadership no longer trusted Alice after her collusion with the police to stifle protest at the launch of HMS
Courageous
and although Maggie no longer blamed Alice, it was best if she knew nothing of her plans. However, it was a relief to hear her confirm that Hebron House would be empty for several weeks.
Alice put a hand on Maggie’s arm. ‘You will take care of yourself, won’t you? I know that you’d do anything for the movement, but I can’t save you from prison.’
Maggie was defiant. ‘I don’t expect you to.’
‘No,’ Alice sighed and dropped her hold. As she turned to leave, Maggie spoke.
‘Whatever happens in the future, Miss Alice, I want you to know how much I’ve appreciated what you’ve done for me these past weeks.’
Alice smiled in surprise. ‘Thank you, Maggie.’
‘And you don’t have to keep feeling guilty that Miss Davison died and you didn’t,’ Maggie added quietly. Alice was astounded by the young woman’s perceptiveness. ‘And you don’t have to keep making it up to me. I don’t expect anything from you except your comradeship and I can’t give you anything but mine in return. At least in that respect we’re equal, Miss Alice. But it’s probably best if you don’t visit again. It’s too risky - they might be following you. You’ve been canny coming down here; I know it can’t have been easy. And I want you to know I’ve been glad of your friendship.’
Alice gulped back a surge of emotion for the straight-backed, dignified woman before her who was telling her gently to go and leave her alone. It was beyond her comprehension why she should find herself wanting the companionship of this lowly woman and her friends - the schoolteacher Rose, that earnest girl Annie and the gruff, well-read blacksmith George. But her visits to the quayside had become more real and vital to her than any of Felicity’s tedious soirées or her own attempts to occupy her boring days. Herbert was obstructing any attempts to become more involved in the business, so Alice found consolation in her photography and her radical friends. But now that avenue of interest was to close.
‘If that’s what you wish - though I’ll miss you,’ Alice answered hoarsely. Maggie nodded but said nothing. Alice turned and opened the door for herself, then added, ‘If you ever need me, you won’t be too proud to ask, will you?’
Finally Maggie smiled. ‘I’m not one for asking favours,’ she said wryly, ‘but thank you anyway.’
Alice smiled back. She wanted to hug Maggie, but suspected such a familiar gesture would not be welcome. ‘Goodbye, Maggie.’
‘Ta-ra, Miss Alice,’ Maggie replied.
After her visitor had gone, Maggie sat for a while on the bed gazing at her two photographs. She was thrilled to own them and it had not been easy saying goodbye to her benefactress. She had grown to admire, even like, the tall, energetic lady with her extraordinary talent for photography. She had come to see that Miss Alice was not just a conventional, privileged boss’s daughter concerned only for her own kind. It took imagination and kindness to think of such a gift - framed memories of the suffragette who had inspired Maggie’s radicalism and of the man she loved. But it was best, Maggie thought, that she now distanced herself from Alice Pearson before she undertook her most daring mission yet. And it would be better for Pearson’s daughter to be safely away and untainted by the deed.
Maggie kissed the picture of George and hugged it to her chest, then she put it under the pillow she shared with Annie and went downstairs to join the carol singers.
***
Christmas Day was an unexpectedly happy day for Maggie. Instead of brooding over thoughts of her family tucking into roast goose without her, she and the Dobsons held their own party in the mission hall. Heslop provided a joint of pork which he came and shared with them after a service at the Methodist chapel on Alison Terrace. Rose Johnstone and her mother were invited and George came later after a visit to his inebriated father and brothers and inquisitive sister.
‘You’re going with someone, aren’t you?’ Irene had questioned. ‘That’s why you’ll not stop five minutes with your own folk. You’ve always been the same - Mr Secretive. Just hope she’s a better catch than that bad’un Maggie Beaton. I didn’t cry buckets when you finished with her, I can tell you!’
George had been relieved to escape, he told Maggie afterwards as they sat round a trestle table, their stomachs full of pork and stuffing and vegetables, wearing party hats and streamers that Maggie and Annie had made out of brown paper. Still to come were Mrs Johnstone’s spicy mince pies and ginger wine.
At the head of the table John Heslop sat cracking nuts, while Millie Dobson cracked jokes which grew more unsuitable by the minute. She had been drinking brandy since breakfast, despite Maggie and Annie’s protestations, and any minute now they knew she was going to burst into song. Maggie could tell that Rose was curbing her disapproval with difficulty, so she moved to intervene.
‘Rose, give us a tune on the piano,’ she requested.
‘Yes, do, Rose, that would be nice,’ Heslop agreed quickly. ‘And perhaps you would sing for us, Maggie? You have such a beautiful voice.’
Maggie blushed and glanced at George who winked his encouragement. Without further persuasion the two young women embarked on their repertoire of traditional songs that Rose had taught at school and the pair had absorbed during their growing up. Sad romantic ballads were followed by lively north country songs in which Millie Dobson joined raucously.
The dim, cavernous hall took on a homely air as the party congregated round the old upright piano, their faces flushed in the lamplight, their voices blending together, from Mrs Johnstone’s quavering high-pitched notes to George’s rumbling bass.
Maggie felt a flood of gratitude towards the compassionate butcher for looking after them all and she smiled at him warmly as he stood close to Rose’s mother. For a moment she thought how nice it would be if John Heslop and Mrs Johnstone ended up finding companionship together, for she suspected both were lonely. The genteel and placid Mrs Johnstone would be a less turbulent choice than her own intemperate mother would have been, Maggie mused.
Finally the party broke up. As Rose and her mother left with Heslop, George took Maggie by the arm and steered her towards the door after them.
‘I could do with some air after all that nosh,’ he smiled. ‘Come with me.’
Grabbing her coat, Maggie followed eagerly into the salty dusk of the quayside. Linking arms they walked along the riverside, past warehouses and tenements and the merchant vessels bobbing on the high tide.
‘You’re up to summat, aren’t you?
’
George guessed. ‘You’ve got another job on, haven’t you?’
‘Aye,’ Maggie admitted quietly. ‘Headquarters have been in touch.’
‘What’s it this time? Customs House? Town Hall? I can’t keep giving you all me hammers, Maggie, I’ll have no tools left for work.’
Maggie laughed to hide her apprehension. ‘I’m not going to hoy hammers through windows this time, Geordie.’ It was the nickname she called him by and it gave her comfort using it.
‘What then?’ George asked, pulling her round to look at him.
‘I’ve told no one, not even Rose.’
‘Maggie, you can tell me,’ George insisted. ‘Trust me!’
She looked at him steadily. ‘Arson,’ she said quietly.
George swore in disbelief. ‘Where?’
‘Hebron House.’
‘Bloody hell!’
‘Herbert Pearson is campaigning against us in his by-election speeches. We must do all we can to give him a rough ride,’ Maggie defended stoutly. ‘The house will be empty until well into the New Year - Miss Alice said so - so no one’s life is at risk.’
‘
Your
life is, Maggie! The plan might go wrong - it sounds too dangerous.’
She leaned up on tiptoes and silenced him with a kiss on the lips. It was the first time. George stared at her, speechless with surprise. Maggie laughed.
‘Never been kissed before, bonny lad?’ she teased.
‘Not like that,’ George grinned and pulled her to him in the dark, planting another one vigorously on her mouth.
They clung together, excited by their own daring, Maggie blushing in the dark to think how her family would disapprove at such carrying on. But she was now beyond the protection of her family and free to make her own mistakes. Maggie revelled in the feel of his arms about her and the warmth of his breath on her face, the moistness of his mouth. She was intoxicated with the feel of him, the closeness, the urgency of his kissing, and she did not want the embracing to end.
A couple of sailors went past. ‘You’d think you’d not eaten for a week!’ one joked. ‘Warmer between the sheets, darlin’,’ the other laughed bawdily.
Maggie pulled away, scandalised by their ribaldry, but George just shouted back a derogatory comment as the men weaved their way down the quay. Now filled with awkwardness towards him, Maggie insisted it was time she returned to the Dobsons. George reluctantly agreed. He took her arm and turned back.
As they neared the old warehouse, wrapped in an intimate silence, they became aware of a commotion at the door. Instinctively, George pushed Maggie into the black void of a nearby close. The shouting increased, interspersed with the screams of women as a struggling group emerged from the warehouse.