No Greater Love (28 page)

George sighed. ‘I worry for you, bonny lass. But this time I won’t try to stop you.’ He leaned over and kissed her cold pink cheek and saw the colour deepen.

‘Ta,’ Maggie answered with a smile and tightened her grip on his arm. She was flooded with sudden tenderness for him, a deeper feeling than the physical ache that his nearness always provoked. Outwardly, George Gordon was a blunt miner’s son, a hard-grafting blacksmith, rower and drinker like many working-class lads with whom she had grown up. But inwardly he nurtured a passionate belief that their brutal world could and would be bettered, if the common people were empowered to change things. He was a romantic, Maggie suddenly realised, with his secret love of history and poetry and music and his whimsical idealism. And standing in the cold damp fog that stole in from the Tyne, she was certain that he cared deeply for her, as she cared for him.

Without another word they walked on contentedly, arm in arm, listening to the cry of the chestnut-seller whose brazier glowed orange through the December mist.

***

It was Christmas Eve and Hebron House was spectacularly bedecked in holly wreaths, sparkling tinsel and large coloured baubles, and an enormous Christmas tree filled the hallway with glittering waxy light from dozens of candles.

Richard Turvey was hardly aware of Felicity’s elaborate gestures to prove to the world that she was mistress of the Pearson mansion as he was hurried down a dimly lit passageway and through a series of doors to a smoke-filled study.

He had met Herbert Pearson on a previous occasion, when the portly businessman had been chummy and offered him a cigar in this trophy-filled private room. Richard had thought fleetingly that it looked like a props room for some exotic play, with stuffed heads, spears and rifles pinned against the walls. He had almost made a joke about it, but stopped himself in time, recognising that his employer had little sense of humour.

Tonight, though, there were no cigars on offer and no boastful chat about hunting in Africa or being on the verge of a glittering political career. Herbert Pearson was inebriated and aggressively threatening.

‘
Nothing
?’ he demanded.

‘I have some idea—’

‘Idea? I don’t want your bloody ideas, Turvey! I want this woman found and locked up. You’re engaged to her sister, for God’s sake. A halfwit would have found her by now!’ He poured himself another brandy, his breathing laboured, then continued, ‘There’s been a hammer thrown through the window of our quayside offices with a copy of
The Suffragette
wrapped round it. That picture house I opened a month ago had a brick thrown into the foyer in the middle of the night. It’s a blatant attempt to sabotage my election campaign. Don’t you read the bloody papers?’ Herbert threw a copy of the
Newcastle Journal
at Richard’s feet and gulped back the large brandy.

Richard wished it was for him, he was desperate for a drink himself. Restraining the urge to grab the heavy bulbous glass, he picked up the newspaper and adopted an expression of concern.

‘Terrible.’ He shook his head. ‘But how do we know it’s Maggie Beaton?’

‘We don’t!’ Herbert snapped. ‘But the other militants are under careful watch. It’s got to be Beaton - and she’s got to have friends protecting her. Her stupid antics are damaging our business as well as my political hopes - people are beginning to ask why we’re a target. You would think she had some personal vendetta against us, but I’m told we used to employ the little baggage! Terrorism scares people, Turvey, especially business people. So get off your arse and find her. Otherwise you’re fired.’

Richard was jolted by the threat. He looked around the comfortable, ostentatious room with its leather sofas and wool carpets and the roaring coal fire that could have heated all the ranges in Gun Street. He was sick with envy for this over-fed, overbearing man who could have every luxury he cared for without thinking twice about how to pay for it. All his life he must have got what he wanted, when he wanted it, and Richard was determined he was going to grab a portion of his wealth.

After all, he deserved it, Richard thought resentfully. He had fed back information on a rival export business by befriending an elderly clerk and getting him drunk and with Helen Beaton’s help he had the potential to blackmail a prominent councillor. Yes, Helen Beaton had been a useful find. She was impressionable and desperate for love, and it had been easy convincing her that there would be rich rewards if she did as he asked and compromised the respectably married councillor. It was their secret, he had told her when he had seduced her that afternoon in the modest Jesmond hotel; they would work together in secret and one day they would be rich enough to run off together, to London or Paris or Florence... She had been seduced by the very names and he had found her the easiest conquest of his career.

But the fat Herbert, Richard thought with disdain, was ungrateful for all his hard work so far. He was obsessed by the wretched Maggie and the damage she inflicted upon his Pearson pride.

‘She’s bound to come sneaking round now it’s Christmas,’ Richard said. ‘They’re clannish, these Beatons, for all they’re at each other’s throats half the time. She’ll not be able to stay away. Don’t you worry, sir.’

‘Well, you better be right,’ Herbert growled, dismissing him with a wave. ‘Now go, and don’t return until you’ve found her. If you don’t deliver her by the New Year, you’re out on your arse, Turvey, and back in the gutter where we found you.’

‘Yes, sir.’

Richard left, inwardly fuming at his master’s rudeness. He would hang on to Pearson like a leech and suck the bastard dry of his wealth, he determined. But first he would have to flush out the elusive Maggie. He would get to her through her family, he vowed.

Deep in thought, he nearly walked straight into a tall woman emerging from what looked like a broom cupboard under the back stairs. He moved aside just as she moved aside, blocking each other again. Her face was completely shadowed in the dim corridor and he took her for some maid.

‘Look at the mistletoe!’ he said, gesturing above. As she looked up, Richard grabbed her behind the neck and kissed her roundly on the lips. ‘Happy Christmas darlin’!’

He walked on, whistling
Alexander’s Ragtime Band
.

Alice stared after the thin young man in the loud checked suit, speechless with outrage. She was further mortified to note that there was not a single sprig of mistletoe to be seen in the passageway. She had no idea who he was, only that he had presumably come from the back entrance to Herbert’s study. Some ghastly drinking friend, she assumed, shuddering with distaste, who had taken her for one of the servants.

Perhaps it had done her good to know for an instant what it was like to be treated as an inferior woman, Alice thought. No wonder Maggie Beaton was so at war with the world. Well, she had a present to warm her militant heart this Christmas, Alice smiled, locking the darkroom door behind her to keep her secret safe.

Maggie experienced a strange thrill as she re-entered the streets of West Newcastle for the first time in months. It was like stepping back into a world she had lost long ago; a vibrant, cosy, thrusting world. Every corner gas lamp, shop and cobbled lane was comfortably familiar and yet she had been away long enough to be struck by things she had never before noticed.

The entrance above the steam laundry was embellished with two fat cherubs, blackened with soot, and there was a clock above the nearby ironmongers that must have been there for years. She had never taken the trouble to look around her home streets as she did this day. Anonymous in an old brown coat and her battered hat, she walked on delightedly past shops decorated with tinsel and colour in their windows.

Horses jangled past in the afternoon twilight as traders delivered final orders and customers rushed about in search of last-minute bargains. The trams trundled and sparked along their lines, disgorging travellers while the pubs filled up with men finishing work for the holiday.

She passed the Gunners with its grubby attempt at jollity - a faded Chinese lantern hung above the door - and then she was outside the entrance to her old home.

All at once Maggie was terrified. She had no idea what her reception might be after such an absence, or whom she might encounter. Then she thought of Granny Beaton and young Tich who never held a grudge - and her mother whom she yearned to see again. No matter what she did, Maggie instinctively knew her mother would stick by her. She mounted the stairs swiftly and without a sound; over the past weeks she had perfected the art of stealth.

Jimmy answered the door, releasing a fug of warmth and light onto the dark stairway. He strained to look at her, failed to recognise his missing sister and asked, ‘What you want, missus?’

‘A smacking big kiss, kiddar!’ Maggie threw her arms round her brother and embraced him.

‘What!’ Jimmy spluttered ‘Who the ...?’

‘Maggie, you daft lump!’ she answered. ‘Let us in, man Tich, it’s brass monkeys out here.’

‘Maggie?’ he gasped. ‘Eeh, Mam, it’s wor Maggie!’

He pulled his sister into the flat and banged the door behind them. The first person Maggie saw was her mother half rising from her chair by the fire. Maggie was shocked to see her dress hanging off her usually stocky figure and her face sunken with ill health. The older woman mouthed her utter astonishment, but no sound came out.

‘Mam!’ Maggie rushed towards her and enveloped her in a hug. ‘I’ve missed you that much.’ She felt her mother’s frail arms go round her and cling on.

‘Maggie,’ she croaked ‘Eeh, Maggie.’

For a moment neither of them could trust themselves to speak and they held on tight, tears spilling down their cheeks.

‘I don’t believe it!’ Susan’s indignant voice broke in. Maggie pulled away to see her eldest sister staring at her across the kitchen.

‘Susan!’ Maggie smiled at her and stepped round her mother’s chair to greet her sister. ‘It’s grand to see you - and you’re looking bonny. I heard you’re betrothed.’

But Susan held herself stiffly away.

‘All this time, all this worry, and you just swan in like Princess Muck. Can’t you see the state Mam’s in? You’ve half worried her to death with your goings on.’

Maggie was taken aback by her hostility.

‘That’s enough, Susan!’ Mabel silenced her with something of her old authority. ‘Don’t you go blaming my illness on your sister. My health was ruined long ago, but it’s not going to get the better of me. I’m a tough old boot, so don’t you go talking about death. Now, tak’ that hat off, our Maggie, and let’s get a look at you.’

Maggie did as she was bidden, revealing her short blonde hair.

‘What in the world have you done, lass?’ Mabel shrieked.

They all stared at her in horrified interest.

‘You look like one of them lasses in the films,’ Jimmy said in admiration. ‘I wish Helen was here to see you.’

‘Where is our Helen?
^’
Maggie asked.

‘Up at Violet’s,’ her mother answered. ‘She spends more time there than at home these days.’

The comment seemed to infuriate Susan who lashed out unkindly, ‘You look like a tart, Maggie.’

‘Shut your mouth, Susan,’ her mother ordered, ‘or I’ll—’

‘Or you’ll what, Mam?’ Susan challenged her. ‘Beat me? Lock me in the netty like Helen? Not any more, you won’t. The only reason there’s still a roof over our head since Maggie got herself arrested is because of my Richard. Tell Maggie how he’s paying the rent now - how he’s paying for a goose this Christmas and all the treats. We’d be lucky to have rabbit otherwise.’

‘Goose, eh?’ Maggie exclaimed. ‘And how’s Richard Turvey managing that when he’s only a caller outside the Olympia?’ Maggie had meant only to tease, to dispel the tension, but Susan rounded on her in fury.

‘My Richard’s got a good job - in an office. He’s got prospects. He’s earned more in three months than Mam can in three years of peddling old clothes! Anyways, my Richard’s never been a caller, so don’t you go putting him down. You’re just jealous, I can see that.’

Maggie laughed outright. ‘Jealous over that trickster? Don’t be daft! A friend of mine said she’d seen him touting for business outside the Olympia.’

‘Oh, aye? A gaolbird, no doubt!’ Susan sneered. ‘I wouldn’t believe a word of one of your friends - we don’t know who you’re mixing with these days, anyway. Richard’s the best thing that’s happened to this family. We’d all be heading for the workhouse without him.’

‘Lasses, stop your fighting!’ their mother protested wearily.

Maggie was silent. It had been in prison that she had learned from Mrs Surtees the pea-seller that Richard had merely been a tout for the picture house. She had remarked to Maggie that she had seen the man who had run away that night in the Bigg Market and left her to be assaulted. The description had fitted Richard exactly. But Maggie was more dismayed by the influence he obviously exercised over her sister. Along with her smart blue dress, Susan wore a new arrogance and disdain towards her family that upset Maggie. A few months ago, she would never have spoken to their mother in such a cruel way.

She saw Jimmy looking at them in misery and confusion and stopped herself giving Susan a mouthful, turning her back on the older girl.

‘Well, our Tich,’ she forced herself to be bright, ‘I’ve brought you summat. It’s not much but I know you like them.’ Maggie handed over her brown paper package which Jimmy tore at eagerly.

‘Sorry, I haven’t got you owt, Maggie. Didn’t know you’d be coming.’ His immature face registered surprise, then disappointment as four oranges came tumbling out. ‘Oh, ta.’

‘Well, I said it wasn’t much, but it’s all I could afford.’

‘It’s fine, hinny,’ her mother assured, coughing and spitting into a bowl at her side.

‘Richard’s already given me a pocket watch. Says I’ll need to keep good time in me new job. Do you want to see it?’ Jimmy grinned.

‘You’ve got a job, our Tich?’ Maggie asked, delighted.

‘Aye, a proper job,’ Jimmy nodded proudly. ‘I’m going to be a runner for some merchants down the quayside - start after Christmas.’