No Greater Love (36 page)

Two months had given Alice time to reflect on the outrage carried out at Hebron House. Her initial fury at Maggie’s actions which had caused her to flee Newcastle had now abated, but she still felt the arson was a personal betrayal. She had shown the Beaton girl friendship and support yet had been repaid with this wicked attack on her family’s property. The WSPU could have chosen any number of targets without picking on Hebron House and she had immediately severed all ties with the suffrage movement. She agreed now with Herbert that she must stand firm with her own class, to protect their own interests against this creeping threat of anarchy, of socialism, of empowering working-class women like Maggie who would only use it to bring them down.

It frightened Alice that these people had no sense of deference to those who ruled them, no sense of loyalty. For without a sense of place, the world was turned on its head and anything could happen. She firmly believed that there were those born to lead and those born to follow; reducing all to the same level would provoke anarchy - revolution.

‘God forbid!’ Alice said aloud in the purring motorcar.

She could now admit to herself that her commitment to women’s suffrage had been superficial, a flirtation with ideals of equality in which she did not really believe. If she was brutally frank with herself, she had espoused the cause because she had enjoyed the attention, being in demand socially for fund-raising luncheons and bazaars. She had delighted in shocking her parents and brother too, because it made them notice her and take her more seriously.

But she would never have the appetite for sacrifice that Emily Davison or Maggie Beaton had; indeed, she did not want equality with women such as they. Over the past two months, Alice had come to this startling revelation about herself. She was a Pearson, one of the elite in British society, and she believed in and wished to uphold their system of class. She would work with her brother to further his political ambitions and consolidate the Pearson dynasty and in return would demand political rights for women of her class, those who could be trusted with power. Intelligent, articulate women such as herself should be given the vote and greater freedom in law, but such freedoms should be based upon property and privilege. They were not for the masses or the likes of Maggie Beaton who terrified her.

The high wrought-iron gates closed behind the Bentley; early daffodils at the edge of the drive bowed their heads in the breeze. Beyond, Alice could see scaffolding around the damaged summer pavilion; the roof was being renewed and the windows replaced. Workmen crawled over the scorched stone like ants, busily restoring it to its former glory.

Alice felt overwhelming relief.

Herbert greeted her at the entrance and later, in his study, bubbled over with news of his campaign.

‘There’s a dinner at the Assembly Rooms tonight. Felicity doesn’t want to go, so I want you to accompany me. And there’s a luncheon at the Liberal Club tomorrow and I want you to organise a dinner here on Saturday.’

‘What does Tish say about that?’ Alice asked warily.

‘She’s going to London for a week - staying with the Beresfords,’ Herbert said, avoiding his sister’s look. ‘She’s been quite a help really, but politics doesn’t interest her like it does you.’

‘I see,’ Alice replied. And she did. Her brother wanted to forget their past differences and use her skills at organising and entertaining politicians and businessmen. Felicity’s reward for playing the loyal wife and social hostess to Newcastle society was to be allowed the occasional trip to stay with Poppy Beresford. As long as Poppy was kept safely at a distance, Herbert could pretend she did not exist.

Alice smiled, glad that she was to have a free rein in her own house again, even for a short while. Tomorrow she would drive up to Oxford Hall and see her father, whose recovery was proving slow and would probably only be partial, Herbert told her.

After tea, Alice went to her darkroom and did a thorough clear-out of drawers and folders. Dispassionately she looked at the pictures of her former friends in the WSPU. Reduced to mere black and white images, Alice could forget that she had once had feelings for them. Now they were just specimens captured by her camera. She took the photographs into the drawing room and watched them burn in the fireplace. Then she went to pour herself a brandy. The WSPU had been part of a dangerous episode in her life, when she had dabbled with viewing the world differently, as if from the wrong end of a lens. Ridding herself of the images helped Alice restore her old set of values and reinforce her comforting sense of place.

In the end, it was an unnervingly close race. The Labour Party fielded a candidate who played on the shipyard workers’ dissatisfaction with their pay.

‘We’re producing more tonnage than ever before!’ the Labour hopeful shouted from the hustings. ‘But the buying power of the sovereign in your pocket is getting less!’

He told voters - the prosperous, property-owning skilled men who could swing the result - that earnings among most trades had not improved in fifteen years and were not likely to if a Pearson became their MP.

To Alice’s bitter indignation, the local WSPU threw its weight behind the Labour candidate as he had made vague promises about women’s suffrage. She redoubled her efforts to court and win the middle-class vote for her brother, speaking on Herbert’s behalf at open meetings and dining businessmen and local politicians at Hebron House. Felicity stayed away until the day of the election and Alice had a free rein in the Elswick mansion.

Right up until the votes were counted at the Town Hall on election night, no one was quite sure of the outcome. Herbert stood anxious and perspiring amidst the hubbub of the count, while Felicity sat cool and aloof, hardly concealing her boredom with the whole affair.

Alice, on the other hand, found the experience electrifying. She had worked tirelessly for three weeks, entertaining, lobbying and organising on Herbert’s behalf, and paced around all evening, fully enjoying the suspense and anticipation. She smelt the scent of victory before the announcement and when Herbert was finally declared the new MP, her elation was intoxicating. For a split second she daydreamed that it was she who had won the honour of representing the west of Newcastle in Parliament, then she set her mind on enjoying Herbert’s victory. She began to invite supporters back for a late supper at Hebron House.

***

George Gordon and Bob Stanners, standing on the steps of the Town Hall, learned with disappointment that their candidate had missed an historic victory by fewer than a thousand votes. It seemed the dominance of the Pearsons in West Newcastle could not be shaken, economically or politically.

The friends retired to a nearby pub to drown their frustration.

‘Here’s to the working man!’ Bob grunted and drank.

‘Here’s to revolution!’ George muttered.

‘Bugger revolution,’ Bob spat. ‘Just give me a better wage, a rich lass and a few more o
^’
these.’ He raised his glass again.

‘It’ll happen,’ George predicted, spreading his hands wide. ‘International socialism - across Europe. Brothers together.’

‘What about sisters?’ Bob teased.

George knew it was a dig about Maggie. He flushed, feeling a pang of anxiety.

They drank silently for a minute.

‘If we had solidarity with other workers abroad,’ George continued his theme, burying his worries about Maggie, ‘we could have change tomorrow. They couldn’t stop us, we’d be too many. The Pearsons of this world would have to graft like honest men, aye, and throw their mansions open to families who can’t afford a roof over their heads.’

‘Like a posh workhouse, you mean?’ Bob grinned.

‘There’d be no need for workhouses anymore,’ George enthused. ‘Everyone would have a right to a job and a share in the profits. The workers would run the industries, the mines, transport - just think of it!’

‘Aye, that’s all very well, but what about these foreigners?’ Bob sniffed. ‘I don’t like the sound of fraternising with foreigners.’

‘Not foreigners,’ George replied stoutly, ‘just French brothers and German brothers. We’ve all got the same needs and concerns underneath,’ he insisted. ‘They just talk different.’

‘French brothers!’ Bob ridiculed ‘You’re full o’ daft ideas, George man!’ his friend laughed.

‘Not daft at all,
^’
George said and slurped his pint. ‘Workers unite! Aye, and do it before some halfwit emperor picks a fight with another and drags us into a war.’

‘Now you’re really talking daft,’ Bob laughed. ‘The King’s related to them all, he’s not going to allow a scrap.’

‘Haven’t you heard of families scrapping?’ George grunted ‘They’ve been at it in the Balkans again and the race is on with the Germans to build ships - that’s obvious at Pearson’s. That Kaiser’s itching for a fight.’

‘Shut your gob, George, and buy us a beer,’ Bob groaned. ‘You’re like a prophet of doom and I’ve had enough of that the night. Haway and gan to the bar.’

***

In Durham prison, Maggie held out for ten weeks before hunger striking and force-feeding broke her. This time she was prepared for the struggles and torture and hostility of the prison authorities, knowing how weak and listless she would become. But she was not prepared for the overwhelming blackness that engulfed her with the news of her mother’s death.

She was filled with grief and guilt. If she had not visited and brought the police to Gun Street, perhaps her mother would still be alive, she accused herself. Had the strain of their emotional reunion and the shock of her flight and arrest killed her mother? Over and over, in the dreary grey cell, she replayed that visit in her mind and imagined her mother’s death.

Heslop had said she had died at Aunt Violet’s. What had she been doing there? Reprimanding Susan for not coming to see her? Accusing Violet of betraying her? And who was it who had tipped off the police about her secret visit? Maggie wondered day after day, with nothing else to occupy her thoughts. Helen? Violet? Susan? Mary Smith? But none of it made sense.

Maggie tried to visualise Gun Street without her mother, but could not. And she wept at the thought that her mother would never achieve her dream of returning to Sarah Crescent and living out her old age in dignified comfort as she had wished.

Then, lying in pain on the narrow bed, her throat and mouth and tongue swollen from the force-feeding, thoughts of George and the flat in Arthur’s Hill came to haunt Maggie. Had she really lived there with him for those brief happy weeks or had it just been a dream? Her memories swum like elusive fish in her head. She missed him desperately, but did George think about her now with any affection? He had not written to say so.

At the beginning of May and quite unexpectedly, John Heslop came to visit.

He could not hide his shock at what he found; a grey-faced, emaciated woman who looked nearer fifty than her twenty-one years.

‘They’re going to release you again on licence,’ he told her, ‘and I’ve come to make arrangements for your transfer.’

‘How kind,
^’
Maggie managed to say in a voice as dry as parchment. ‘No need.’

‘Dear Maggie,’ he said, taking her hand. ‘I’m afraid there is a need. You see,’ he cleared his throat awkwardly, ‘you can’t go back to Gun Street. They won’t - there’s no room for you. The Gosforth nursing home can’t take you in because,’ he hesitated, again sounding awkward, ‘well, it’s a matter of funding. And I can’t provide for you at the mission. Sadly, Millie Dobson has returned to the streets - all that business over Annie’s arrest turned her back to drink so there’s no one there to nurse you. And you simply must have someone to look after you. Can you think of anyone you can go to to convalesce?’ He held his breath, wondering if she would think of him as someone to whom she could turn.

But Maggie’s mind felt dense like putrid water. Her family would not have her back was the only thought in her head.

‘Perhaps the Johnstones?’ John Heslop suggested hesitantly.

Maggie shook her head slowly. ‘Rose and I fell out after that fire business,
^’
she croaked.

‘Would you like me to make enquiries among the congregation?’ Heslop tried again. ‘I could help you ...’

Maggie’s eyes filled with tears at his show of concern.

‘You’re very kind, Mr Heslop,’ she said weepily.

‘I’m more than willing,’ he assured her, ‘and I want to help.’

Maggie searched his face, wondering how much she could ask of this man, who for some unfathomable reason kept wanting to befriend her.

‘Will you do something for me?’ Maggie asked, her large, shadowed eyes pleading.

‘Of course, anything,’ he promised.

Silence hung between them like a web while Maggie hesitated. Shadows flickered across the cell floor as the spring sunlight tried to penetrate through the narrow window high up in the wall. Her mother had loved the spring. But her mother was dead, Maggie thought in desolation. She realised suddenly that she did not want to return to Gun Street anyway; it could never be home again without her mother there. The thought spurred her on to release the words trapped inside.

‘Please go and ask George Gordon if I can come home to him,’ she whispered. ‘He’s the only one I’ve got.’

John Heslop turned from her to hide his disappointment. He would have taken her in if she had asked, even if it had provoked the censure of his fellow chapel-goers. But she saw him only as a family friend showing her kindness, a messenger, nothing more.

Against his better judgment, John Heslop carried out Maggie’s request and sought out George Gordon. He finally tracked him down through the rowing club to a cottage beyond Scotswood, on the edge of Hibbs’ Farm. Delivering Maggie’s message without enthusiasm, he was unprepared for the young man’s arrogant delight. Of course he would take her in, she was his lass.

Heslop pointed out that he could not possibly nurse her and would have to engage help. George insisted he would care for her himself.

Heslop left in a turmoil of doubt that he had done the right thing. Since Mabel’s death, he felt doubly responsible for Maggie, especially since the rest of her family wanted nothing to do with her. Yet he was delivering her back into a sinful existence with the atheist blacksmith.