No Greater Love (18 page)

‘That’s the man who tore up me newspaper!’ Maggie gasped. ‘Do you remember, last month, in Newcastle?’

‘So it is,’ Rose confirmed.

And suddenly it was brought home to Maggie that the working man could not be relied upon to put his womenfolk’s interests alongside his own. Whatever women wanted, Maggie realised, they would have to fight for themselves and she must not shirk her part in the battle.

‘What time’s the meeting with Miss Davison?’ Maggie said at last. She saw the relief in Rose’s face.

‘Come to my house at three o’clock tomorrow,’ her friend smiled.

They gripped hands for an instant and then stood up, each departing swiftly through separate gates into the maze of terraced housing.

***

When Maggie met Emily Davison that Saturday afternoon, her doubts dissolved. There was something inspiring about the woman, an energy and conviction that still emanated from her gaunt face and piercing eyes. As she spoke, Maggie felt ashamed of her wavering resolve since her attack in the Bigg Market. This woman had been through countless ordeals for their cause and was about to embark on a dangerous and lonely mission at Epsom, not knowing how an excitable, hostile crowd might react to her protest.

‘I would undertake to demonstrate at the launch at Pearson’s myself,’ Emily was telling her in the quiet civility of Rose’s front room, behind the net curtains and the half-drawn blinds. Rose’s pleasant, florid-faced mother had made tea for them and withdrawn to the kitchen, not wanting to interfere. ‘But,’ Emily continued, ‘I am too well known in Newcastle and they will be watching for me. And in the meantime, I must protest at the Derby. I may not be here in July.’

Maggie looked sharply at the seasoned suffragette, alerted by something in her voice. For a second time she had a cold sense of foreboding.

‘You mean they will imprison you?’ she asked.

Emily Davison met her questioning look. ‘We must all take the cup of suffering when it is offered, no matter what the consequences,’ she answered resolutely. ‘This coming week I must drink mine. You must decide if demonstrating at the launch of HMS
Courageous
is to be yours.’

Maggie felt her throat drying as her fear returned.

‘I know I’m asking a lot of you,’ Emily continued; not allowing Maggie to glance away. ‘It will probably mean arrest. You may lose your job at Pearson’s. You will become one of the hunted and the banned. You will get no protection from Alice Pearson - she has already ordered that no action be taken. If you do this, you act alone, without authority from the WSPU. You will be doing it as a favour to me and the greater cause of women’s freedom. Alice Pearson is wrong to try and prevent us using this moment when it’s rumoured that Asquith himself will be present, along with half of Tyneside. It’s a God-sent opportunity. When I met you at Hebron House, Maggie, I knew you were the one to carry out the mission.’

‘How did you know?’ Maggie asked, excited.

‘I recognised the same passion of conviction in you as exists in me,
^’
Emily told her. ‘It was like encountering a long lost sister.’

Maggie felt her eyes smart at the generous words. She was unused to compliments and tried to make light of Emily’s.

‘Sisters! With you so grand and me as common as clarts?’ Maggie laughed.

‘Not common in the least,’ Emily said robustly. ‘Alice Pearson may have dismissed you as a working-class girl who wouldn’t have the backbone for such action, but not me.’

Maggie’s slim face turned crimson. ‘She said that about me, did she?’

‘Yes, but only because you scared her with your commitment. Alice is a robust campaigner, but she’s also a terrible snob.’

‘Well, Alice Pearson and all the other ruddy Pearsons have got it coming to them!’

‘Maggie, watch your language,’ Rose scolded.

‘Not on my account,’ Emily laughed. She smiled in encouragement. ‘I knew you wouldn’t let me down, Maggie Beaton.’

That last afternoon in May, Maggie went home with those words of praise from the great suffragette campaigner singing in her ears. Only later did she wonder if Emily Davison had deliberately riled her with Alice Pearson’s comments in order to secure her commitment to the task ahead. If so, she had succeeded, for she burned to show the mighty Miss Alice that this working-class lass had twice her courage and fortitude.

Over the next few days she spent her pent-up energy back on the streets selling
The Suffragette
, to the fury of her mother. For the first time in a month she avoided George, unable to decide what to do about him. But by the Wednesday evening when he called at the house, Maggie realised she had to make a choice.

As they walked through the crowded park, George was uncomfortably aware of her distant manner. He asked, ‘What’s on your mind, bonny lass?’

Maggie did not answer.

‘Trouble at home?’ George guessed. Maggie shook her head.

‘Work then?
^’

‘There’s nothing wrong at work.’

‘We could gan to Hibbs’ Farm,’ George suggested, bewildered by her moodiness. ‘Lie in the grass and read poetry?
^’
His grin was suggestive.

Maggie felt a twinge of longing at the thought. ‘No.’ She was adamant. ‘We can’t. I can’t ever again... I’m sorry.’ She looked at him unhappily.

Without another word, he took her by the arm and steered her from the park. Reaching a quiet back lane, he demanded, ‘Something’s bothering you. What is it?’

She looked at the handsome concerned man before her and steeled herself for what was to come. Maggie could no longer deny her growing love for George; she thought of him constantly and longed for his company. But love was selfish and all-consuming, she realised, and her growing preoccupation with the blacksmith was undermining her loyalty to the movement. She could not be true to them both wholeheartedly and so she must give up George Gordon.

‘I’ve been neglecting my duties to the movement,’ Maggie answered stiffly, ‘seeing you so much. I’ve been that wrapped up in me own pleasure.’

George smiled in relief. ‘I’m glad it’s a pleasure. It is for me an’ all.’ He ran a rough finger down her cheek.

Maggie flinched from the contact, turning away. ‘I can’t deny I have feelings for you,’ she said awkwardly, ‘but they can’t come to anything.’

George took her hands in the dismal lane, ignoring the boys who played nearby on the mossy cobbles.

‘I care for you, Maggie,’ he told her. ‘It doesn’t matter to me that you’re a suffragette, even if the other lads give me a hard time. Everyone’s entitled to their opinions.’

‘But it’s not just a matter of opinion,’ Maggie protested, drawing away from him. ‘The movement demands more than that. It needs total commitment from its members for us to succeed.’

George looked puzzled. ‘I’ve said before, lass, I don’t mind you getting involved. You can do your bit when I’ve got me union meetings.’

Maggie looked at him in dismay. ‘You don’t understand, do you? It’s not just a hobby to fill in time while you’re at your important meetings!’ she cried. ‘I’m a suffragette first and last. Nothing else can be as important - not even us, George.’

He stood back, rebuffed. Searching her face, he found nothing there to reassure him. Her grey eyes were angry, her mouth stubborn.

‘Are you telling me you’re done with courting?’ he asked stiffly.

‘Aye,’ Maggie gulped. ‘I’ve been asked to do summat important, which you mustn’t know about - mustn’t even guess.’ She looked at him miserably. ‘It’d be better for you if you have nothing to do with me.’

George snorted in disbelief. ‘Well, I can tell when I’m not wanted. You don’t have to make up a fairy story for my sake, bonny lass.’

‘It’s true,’ Maggie protested, stung by his derision. ‘I’ve been given a mission.’

‘Oh aye?’ George sneered. ‘Orders from Mrs Pankhurst herself, is it? Trying to impress the likes of Alice Pearson? Watch your head, Maggie, you’ll not get it through your front door.’

‘Don’t scoff at me,’ Maggie was stung. ‘I’m just as important as you and all your union mates. You men just sit around and talk about revolution; we women are getting on and starting one!’

George turned away, laughing to hide his hurt. ‘I can’t wait to read about it in the newspapers.’

‘You will!’ Maggie yelled after him. ‘By God, you will, George Gordon!’

He walked away, furious at her rejection. He had neglected his rowing and his friends for Maggie Beaton, defending her from their derogatory banter. His friends and family thought her far too proud and self-opinionated for a young woman, but George had seen the tender and passionate Maggie who cared deeply about people. In the solitariness of his small lodgings he had yearned for her, impatient for their next meeting. With Maggie he found he could share his poetry and ideals; she was unlike any of the other girls with whom he had grown up and he would have done anything for her. But, George thought bitterly as he strode away, she had not cared for him after all. His friends were right, Maggie Beaton was mad with her own self-importance and vanity and he was better off without her.

Maggie watched him go, her nails digging into the rough brick at her back. Half of her wanted to rush after him and beg him to stay, while the other half smarted from his scathing remarks and cursed his going. So she stayed by the wall, shaking with anger until he was out of sight.

‘Are you all right, missus?’ asked a grimy-faced boy who had detached himself from the marble players and was staring at her in curiosity.

Maggie’s hands went to her face and found it was damp with tears.

‘Aye, Tich,’ she answered, wiping the tears roughly with her sleeve. She fished out a toffee for the boy. ‘Don’t you grow up treating lasses like they’re not important,’ she said, waving the toffee at him, ‘because we are.’

The boy gawped in surprise, then snatched at the sweet. ‘Ta, missus,’ he answered and sprinted off like a street-wise cat.

Swallowing her misery, Maggie walked resolutely through Elswick towards Rose Johnstone’s house. She would discuss tactics for the demonstration that only Rose and Emily Davison were to know about and forget all about the arrogant George Gordon who thought only his interests were important. Thinking of Emily, Maggie felt her optimism return. That brave woman had endured imprisonment, cruelty and pain without complaint, while all she was suffering was a bruised heart. And if George Gordon could not understand why the women’s cause was so important to her, then it was better that they parted now before their courtship went too far.

Arriving at Rose’s house, she found the heavy black door ajar. The house had once belonged to a wealthy merchant but like many on the edge of the West Road it had been sold and divided into more modest dwellings. Rose and her mother lived on the ground floor, in three rooms of crumbling grandeur, sharing the beautifully plastered hallway and the outside privy with three other families.

Maggie went in, knocking impatiently on the inner door. Mrs Johnstone answered.

‘Oh, my dear, come in,’ she said. ‘Rose thought you’d call.’

‘Did she?’ Maggie answered in surprise. ‘I hadn’t intended to.’

Rose rushed forward and hugged her. ‘I’m so glad you did. Isn’t it terrible news?’

‘What news?’ Maggie asked, bewildered.

Rose pulled away and exchanged looks with her mother.

‘We thought that was why you’d come,’ Mrs Johnstone murmured.

‘It’s in the evening papers,’ Rose said dully.

‘What is?’ Maggie demanded. ‘What’s so terrible?’

Rose handed her the newspaper. ‘Emily Davison threw herself in front of the King’s horse.’

It hit Maggie like a thunderbolt: today was Derby Day. Yet she had been too engrossed in her feelings for George to have remembered that this was the day their sister Emily was to face her ordeal at Epsom.

Maggie gasped in horror as she read the report about how their friend had been trampled under the horse’s hooves. The reporter seemed more indignant that the race had been ruined by her action than concerned for the woman.

‘Is she …?’ Maggie stared at Rose, feeling a cold fear gripping her insides.

‘We don’t know any more than you,’ Rose whispered. ‘Perhaps she’ll pull through.
^’

Maggie turned away. ‘Perhaps,’ she echoed hoarsely.

But in her mind’s eye she saw rank upon rank of women in mourning dress and feared that she had foreseen Emily Davison’s funeral procession.

Alighting from the train at Morpeth station, Maggie and Rose were awed by the crowds of mourners. Emily Davison’s coffin, borne from London the previous night, was guarded by suffragettes dressed in white and marked by black armbands, standing at dignified attention.

‘So many people!’ Rose gasped as they struggled down off the special train laid on from Newcastle.

The platform was covered in a sea of coloured wreaths and floral tributes that the funeral organisers were trying to clear. Maggie and Rose stood in the noon heat in their stiff black dresses and tricolour sashes as more and more spectators poured in on trains and traps and bicycles to join the funeral march.

But Maggie was hardly aware of the discomfort as the procession finally took shape and snaked off down the hill from the station. Thousands of people covered the steep banks and packed the roadsides as they strained for a view of the cortege, inching slowly forward. What were all these people thinking? Maggie wondered. Had Emily’s death finally made people realise the injustice women were suffering, or were they just here out of curiosity? Some looked on impassively but there were men who were removing their hats as the coffin went past and Maggie heard one shout out, ‘God bless the wild lass!’

Her throat swelled with emotion to see the striking ranks of suffragettes, dressed in flowing white to denote they had suffered imprisonment, carrying Madonna lilies and purple irises, leading the horse-drawn hearse. The coffin was covered in a purple pall, stitched with silver arrows to remind the mourners of Emily’s frequent spells in prison, and followed by a mourner carrying a furled union banner, draped in crepe.

‘Alice Pearson is holding a leading rope,’ Rose hissed to Maggie as they marched alongside members of the Newcastle WSPU.