THE TYNESIDE SAGAS: Box set of three dramatic and emotional stories: A Handful of Stars, Chasing the Dream and For Love & Glory

by Janet MacLeod Trotter

  Gordon gave him a disparaging look. ‘And what would you know about the life of a docker?’

  ‘I did a documentary on the Clydebank Work-in of ‘71,’ Alan said proudly. ‘I wasn’t born yesterday.’

  Gordon grunted. ‘Aye, I can see that.’

  Jo was annoyed at his look of derision. ‘Come on, Alan, it’s time to move on. Gordon wouldn’t understand about empathy for those in a worse situation than himself.’ She gave him a hostile look, but Gordon just laughed and Alan seemed intent on escalating the discussion.

  ‘We’ll not go until I’ve educated this fool in some of his own class struggle,’ he insisted. They ordered another round, argued some more and then Alan wended his way to the toilet.

  ‘Not used to drinking pints, is he?’ Gordon mocked. He saw Jo’s furious look and put out a hand. ‘Sorry, I’m just jealous,’ he grinned.

  ‘You’ve got a cheek,’ Jo hissed. ‘After what you did…’

  ‘I’ve often felt bad about the way it all came out,’ Gordon said, his expression contrite. ‘I’d been going through a bad patch with Barbara; story of me life! And I suppose I was annoyed you’d never told me we had a bairn together.’

  ‘We didn’t,’ Jo said angrily. ‘You’d already dumped me by the time I found out.’

  ‘Aye, but I’ve often thought that was my big mistake.’ He covered her hand again. ‘By heck, we were good together, weren’t we? Don’t you remember?’

  She pulled away quickly. ‘Get lost.’

  He laughed. ‘I’ve missed you, Jo-Jo. What you doing with an old man like him?’

  ‘He’s not old,’ Jo said hotly, ‘and he’s −’

  ‘Yeah, yeah. He’s worth ten of me, I know,’ Gordon interrupted. ‘Well, I think he’s a patronising bastard with a bladder problem. Why stick with him when you could have me?’ he added softly.

  ‘You’re married, remember,’ Jo said sharply.

  ‘As good as separated,’ Gordon countered. His flippant look vanished. ‘Things are bad at home; me job’s uncertain and we’re always rowing these days. It was never like that with us, was it, Jo-Jo? I wish I could start again with you.’

  Jo’s pulse was thudding. How dare he make such an outrageous suggestion? This was the man who had ruined her life, and now he was propositioning her as if none of it had ever been. But worst of all was the treacherous quickening of her heart at the idea. She could still recall what a hold he had once had over her.

  ‘You’ve got a daughter,’ Jo said pointedly, feeling a surge of envy at the reminder. ‘It would be impossible to start again.’

  Thankfully Alan returned to put an end to the dangerous conversation. They left quickly, but the evening had been marred by the encounter. Alan, who was not usually bothered by criticism other than for his drama, seemed put out, and sulked as she dragged him around Wallsend. It suddenly struck her that he was jealous. He didn’t like being confronted by another man from her past.

  ‘Gordon means nothing to me,’ Jo insisted as they munched a Chinese takeaway on the way back to the flats.

  ‘Well, the feeling’s obviously not mutual; he couldn’t keep his eyes off you,’ Alan complained.

  ‘Oh, rubbish!’ Jo protested, uncomfortable with the thought. But Alan went on.

  ‘And you were the same with the other one in the summer − making jokes about things that happened years ago that I couldn’t feel part of. Have you any idea how maddening that is for me?’

  ‘Mark?’ Jo looked at him in astonishment. She’d had no idea he had felt excluded. ‘But you have loads of friends from your past. I’ve never once complained at having to socialise with them. In fact I enjoy meeting them − it helps me know you better.’

  He gave her a satisfied look. ‘That’s the difference, Jo. I don’t think your old friends are particularly interesting. You rise head and shoulders above them. I can see how drama has helped you blossom, while your so-called friends have remained ordinary. I mean, that Marilyn − as goody-goody as Mary Poppins. And Brenda’s like a Venus flytrap when it comes to men.’

  ‘Stop it!’ Jo said, hurt. ‘You hardly know them.’

  ‘I’ve seen as much as I want to. Like many of the proletariat, their souls are corrupted by petit bourgeois ambitions and desires,’ Alan said. Jo wondered if he was drunker than she’d imagined. She would excuse him because of that; he was normally so charming to her friends.

  ‘You sometimes talk a load of crap, Alan,’ she answered, tossing her carton into a bin and walking up the path.

  ‘Well, prove that you feel nothing for either of those Duggan boys,’ he shouted after her. She turned round to shush him. ‘I won’t be silenced!’ he cried, dropping to his knees dramatically. ‘Declare yourself, or I’ll fall on my sword this instant.’

  Jo started to giggle. ‘Get up and come here. Melodrama doesn’t suit you.’

  But Alan rolled around in the frost, groaning and gasping, until Jo went back to haul him up. He seized her hand and pulled her down on to the frozen concrete, kissing her urgently. ‘Prove it,’ he challenged. ‘Move in with me. We’re meant for each other. I could do so much to help you in your acting career.’

  Jo smiled, flattered by his persistence. Maybe it was time she made more of a commitment. Gordon’s predatory face came to mind. She did not like to think of him hanging around the pub, tempting her with another affair, bringing the past alive to haunt her again. And she resented his insinuations that Alan was too old for her. Moving in with Alan would be a clear signal to Gordon that she was not interested, that she was over him forever. Suddenly it seemed the best way to put the past firmly behind her. She and Alan had much in common and she could learn so much more from him. It excited her to think that with Alan’s help and contacts she could go far in the theatre.

  ‘Okay.’ She kissed him. ‘I will.’

  ‘Wonderful!’ he cried in triumph. ‘Let’s go and break the news to your doting father.’

  Chapter Fourteen

  1982

  That spring, Jo found contentment. Dismissing her father’s concerns at her drifting into a live-in relationship with Alan, she was enjoying being at the Sandyford flat, where people were always dropping by for a late drink after performances or for cups of Alan’s thick black espresso coffee. They would discuss politics and art late into the night and often she would get up in the morning to find friends sleeping on the sofas or floor. Things were never as tidy or as ordered as at her father’s, but the homely chaos reminded her vaguely of Jericho Street.

  Most exciting of all, Alan had secured her a part as a First World War nurse in a new play to be premiered in Newcastle, based on the life and writings of the poet Siegfried Sassoon. ‘In Counter-Attack, I become a peace campaigner after nursing Sassoon and other war veterans,’ she told Pearl. ‘It has a very strong pacifist message, highlighting the futility of war. Alan helped work on the script. He’s very excited about it too.’

  Pearl sounded less enthusiastic on the telephone than Jo thought she should. ‘It’s lucky for you pacifists that there are those willing to fight to protect you,’ she said drily.

  ‘But if everyone took on the pacifist message, we wouldn’t need people to kill each other − or spend the ridiculous amounts of money we do on arms,’ Jo pointed out impatiently. ‘That’s why I joined CND; to fight for nuclear disarmament. We’re in the middle of the world’s worst arms race − a nuclear one that’s going to blow us all off the planet if we don’t stand up and say enough is enough.’ Jo thought proudly of the rally they had been to in Hyde Park to listen to Michael Foot, where she had taken courage from the thousands of ordinary people like her who wanted to stop the madness.

  Pearl, however, refused to argue with her further and Jo was frustrated by her aunt’s apparent lack of interest. Her aunt ended with a wistful, ‘Well, it would be grand to see you when you get a spare minute. Take care, pet.’

  The early spring was taken up with rehearsals, and Jo thrilled at this chance to be noticed more wi
dely. It was intoxicating to be living with a man who had so much experience in the theatre and to be the centre of attention wherever they socialised.

  At Alan’s suggestion, Jo gave up her job at the pub to concentrate on her real work, so her visits to Wallsend became infrequent. When she did go back to her father’s flat, there was an awkwardness between them that had never existed before. Jo saw that he did not share her new interests in art and politics and felt herself growing away from him. Perhaps, she consoled herself, it was merely a period of adjustment they were going through, but it made her less enthusiastic about visiting and she tended to ring him up instead.

  ‘I’m rehearsing all weekend, ‘she would say, making excuses not to come down, knowing that Alan would find a reason not to go with her.

  ‘Pearl’s missing you,’ Jack would say reproachfully. ‘A visit from you would cheer her up.’

  ‘Why does she need cheering up?’ Jo asked, masking her impatience. ‘I speak to her every week, she sounds fine.’

  ‘She’s been a bit off colour lately − you’d be just the tonic,’ her father persisted.

  ‘Pearl always hates the cold winters,’ Jo said. ‘But it’s nearly spring, and you can both come and see the play when it opens − I’ve got tickets. Tell Pearl I’ll give her a ring soon.’

  To her relief, Pearl sounded her old self the next time they spoke, and Jo concluded it was just her father fussing as usual.

  ‘Don’t listen to Jack,’ her aunt said breezily. ‘There’s nothing wrong with me. I know how busy you are. You just come when you can and we’ll see you at the play anyway. Got a bit of a surprise for you!’

  Pearl would not tell her what it was, but Jo was reassured that all was well and dismissed her guilt at not seeing them more often. When the end of March came, bringing with it the opening week of the play, Jo was at fever pitch. There were favourable press reviews of the opening night, but what really mattered to her was what her father and aunt thought of her performance. Friday night came, and she knew they were sitting out in the audience. It gave that extra edge to her performance, and instinctively she felt she had done her best. Alan had arranged that they would meet in the bar afterwards, but when Jo emerged, her stage paint hurriedly removed, she gasped in shock.

  ‘Colin!’ she cried in delight. ‘I didn’t think you’d be back in time!’ She rushed to her brother and gave him a hug.

  ‘Hello, bonny lass. Wouldn’t have missed this for anything,’ he grinned. ‘You’re quite good, aren’t you?’

  ‘She was fantastic,’ Marilyn corrected, patting her friend on the back.

  Jo beamed and turned to kiss her father and Pearl. It was then that she realised there were other familiar faces in the throng around the bar. Brenda’s flushed face beamed at her. And there stood Mark and Skippy. Jo was overwhelmed by the support.

  ‘You were great,’ Brenda said, shoving a half pint of lager into her hand. ‘I didn’t think I’d enjoy it − all about war and that − but I did.’

  Alan said indulgently, ‘Actually, it’s not about war at all. It’s anti-war. The battle sequences are just to highlight war’s brutality; how ordinary people are exploited by greedy tyrants and benign rulers alike.’

  Brenda gave him a dismissive look. ‘Well, there were plenty of soldiers in uniform, as far as I could see.’ Jo laughed with her.

  Mark put a hand on his wife’s shoulder and smiled shyly at Jo. ‘Anyway, you were grand.’

  ‘Aye,’ Skippy agreed, leaning over and kissing her cheek, ‘we all enjoyed it.’

  ‘Thanks.’ Jo smiled gratefully, basking in their approval. A couple of drinks later, she suggested impulsively, ‘Why don’t you all come back to the flat for a last drink? Cup of coffee?’

  She saw from Alan’s look that he was not enthusiastic, but he quickly smiled. ‘Of course you must.’ When her father seemed reluctant, Alan insisted. ‘Come on, Jack, it’s time you saw where I’ve locked up your daughter.’ Pearl needed no persuasion, and the others seemed happy to extend the evening. Jo slipped her arm happily through Colin’s and they hurried out into the dank night, hailing taxis to take them to Sandyford.

  Back at the flat they lit the fire, put jazz on the record player and a pot of coffee on to boil. Jo got a thrill to see her family and friends settling into Alan’s comfortable worn sofas, while he handed round tumblers of wine or whisky. She saw Colin and Mark exchange amused looks, but they took what they were offered. She did not like to admit how glad she was to see Mark again, to have him here in her new home, squatting near the fire with her brother. It reminded her of old times, long before fate had driven them apart. Noticing that Brenda was in loud conversation with Skippy and Marilyn on the couch, she plonked herself down by Colin on the floor.

  ‘I didn’t think you’d be home,’ she said, smiling tentatively at Mark.

  ‘Skippy and me are joining a new ship in April − HMS Gateshead. We’re heading for the Med,’ he said, his eyes lighting up as he spoke.

  ‘That was built at Wallsend, wasn’t it?’ Jo asked.

  ‘Aye.’ Mark nodded. ‘Launched at Wallsend, then fitted out at the Walker yard.’

  ‘How long will you be away?’ Jo asked, wondering what Brenda thought of the move.

  ‘Till the summer probably,’ Mark said. ‘So I’ll be back in time to see your summer performance, whatever it is.’ He winked.

  Jo’s insides twisted at his warm look and felt a disloyal pang of longing. ‘I’m glad you came to the play,’ she said quietly and got up quickly to pour out the coffee.

  Later, after they had all gone, Alan flopped on the sofa. ‘Stop tidying up, for God’s sake, and come and sit down.’

  Jo joined him, overwhelmed by exhaustion. ‘Thanks for having them all back,’ she smiled, settling under his arm.

  Alan snorted. ‘You don’t need my permission, girl. This is your home too, remember?’

  ‘Of course,’ Jo said hastily. ‘I know that.’

  ‘Don’t see that you have anything in common with that brother of yours,’ Alan mused. ‘He’s such an old reactionary.’

  ‘We are quite different now, I suppose,’ Jo said, thinking privately that they had never regained their old closeness since the fall-out over Mark. ‘But he’s still me brother and I like to see him when he’s home.’

  Jo did not see much of her family the following week because of the play, but arranged that they would go out for a meal together once it was finished. She was just getting ready to go to the theatre for Friday night’s performance when she caught the end of a news bulletin on the radio. Alan preferred radio to the TV and Jo had got used to listening to Radio Four. She was still rubbing her hair dry when they announced that Argentina had invaded the Falkland Islands and that Parliament was to sit in emergency session on Saturday to consider a response.

  ‘Emergency session?’ Jo repeated in astonishment. ‘Why should they do that?’

  ‘Because the Falklands are a British territory, I suppose,’ Alan answered distractedly. ‘Come on, it’s time we went.’

  ‘Where are the Falkland Islands?’ Jo said, puzzled.

  ‘Somewhere near Argentina, presumably. Hurry up, girl,’ Alan urged, grabbing his cigarettes and jacket and heading out of the flat. Jo followed him, feeling uneasy but not quite knowing why. Soon she was immersed in the performance and thought no more of it, but once home she flicked on the television for the late news. Scant details were given, except that a company of British Royal Marines had surrendered to an Argentine force that was now in control of the Falklands capital, Port Stanley.

  ‘I’m glad Colin’s not in the Marines,’ Jo said, feeling strangely depressed.

  ‘Come to bed,’ Alan advised. ‘You seemed tired in your performance tonight. Let’s give it your best for the last night, eh?’ He seemed so unconcerned about the news of invasion that Jo thought she must be overreacting. She knew her nerves were stretched by the past two weeks of adrenalin and late nights and the best thing would be sleep. Curlin
g up next to Alan’s warm body was comforting, and she was soon in an exhausted sleep.

  Jo slept right through to lunchtime and was only woken by the telephone. She heard Alan have a short conversation and then put the receiver back.

  ‘Who was it?’ Jo yawned.

  ‘Jack,’ he said shortly. ‘I said you’d ring him tonight after the play.’

  ‘What did he want?’ Jo asked.

  Alan shrugged and poured her coffee. ‘Just getting a bit het up about this Falklands lark. Thinks it’ll mean Colin’s leave might be cancelled.’

  ‘Has Colin heard anything?’ Jo asked, suddenly anxious, going for the telephone.

  ‘No,’ Alan assured her, ‘and I can’t imagine he will. Even macho Thatcher won’t think of going to war over a few rocks in the South Atlantic. Don’t worry yourself.’

  But Jo rang anyway. She felt reassured to hear Pearl’s sunny voice. ‘Alan’s right to say not to worry. But we thought it might be nice to all meet up after your play and go out, just in case Colin’s recalled.’

  Jo agreed immediately, but Alan was cross when she told him. ‘For goodness’ sake, we’ve got the party afterwards − it’s a big thank-you to everyone.’

  ‘Big booze-up, you mean,’ Jo answered shortly. ‘I’m not stopping you going, but I want to see Colin tonight. Pearl’s arranged to meet at the Rawalpindi because she knows you love curry.’

  Alan went out in a huff to put a bet on the Grand National, but by the time he came home the news was growing more serious. It was being announced that a Task Force was being assembled to send to the South Atlantic. The aircraft carriers Hermes and Invincible were already being prepared. Diplomatic relations had been broken off and the UN Security Council had called for the Argentinians to withdraw.

  That evening Jo could not concentrate and missed out a whole speech that ruined one of the scenes. ‘Damn Thatcher and her Task Force,’ Alan said afterwards, putting a consoling arm around her shoulders. ‘Let’s get this meal over with and then we can meet up with the others at the party and let our hair down a bit.’