‘Kissing in the street,’ she said in disgust. ‘What came over you, Clara?’
‘I’m nearly eighteen,’ Clara exclaimed. ‘I’ve been earning a wage for years and keeping our heads above water. Don’t treat me like a bairn.’
‘But with that lad!’ Patience scolded.
‘What’s wrong with Benny?’
‘What’s right with him?’ Patience cried. ‘He’s the worst of that Leizmann lot, always out to cause trouble with his placards and his leaflets. Dolly says he tries to stir up the lads at the hall about going on hunger marches. I wonder he has time to cut anyone’s hair. Course, his parents have no control over him.’
‘Probably agree with what he’s doing,’ Clara answered.
‘Exactly my point,’ Patience said. ‘They’re a strange lot and he’s a troublemaker. The Cravens agree with me. You deserve a better lad than him.’
Clara was stung. ‘You’ve told the Cravens about this?’
‘They care about you. Dolly says—’
‘I don’t care what she says,’ Clara said crossly. ‘And Mr Craven’s hardly one to talk. He’s courted half of Tyneside according to the Tyne Times.’
‘Can’t believe what you read in the papers,’ Patience said, flustered. ‘Especially that one. I’ll never forgive the things they said about your father . . .’ Her voice quavered.
The criticism riled Clara even further. The paper was going to be her way out of drudgery whether her mother liked it or not.
‘Benny’s canny,’ she said defensively, ‘and I’ll see him if I want.’
‘Clara!’
‘And by the way, I’m going to write for the Tyne Times. I’ve had enough of cleaning to last a lifetime.’
Clara turned her back on her mother’s shocked face, glared at Jimmy for making trouble and marched into the bedroom, slamming the door. That night, she sat up late, writing an article on hiking on scraps of brown paper. The next day, after work, she went straight round to the Lewises’ to interview them about the hiking club. Frank was out delivering a second-hand book to a housebound customer, but Benny was more than keen to give his comments. Reenie appeared yawning, having come off her shift.
‘There’s a meeting in town of the Women’s League of Health and Beauty,’ she told her friend. ‘They’re keen on exercise. You could cover that for your story too.’
‘When?’ Clara was eager.
‘This evening, seven o’clock at the Hippodrome.’
‘Can you come?’ Clara asked.
‘I’d like to but I’m working,’ Reenie sighed.
Clara regretted that she saw so little of her friend these days. But they were both lucky to have jobs at all and she knew Reenie’s steady income was a great help to her family.
As she left, Benny followed her out. ‘Can I see you Saturday? There’s a dance on at the town hall. Fundraiser for the Minority Movement.’
‘What’s that?’
Benny rolled his eyes. ‘Thought you were supposed to be a reporter?’ he teased. ‘The Movement supports the unemployed. Do what the big unions should be doing for their members but aren’t.’
‘Sounds political.’ She frowned.
‘It is,’ Benny replied. ‘But we can just dance and talk about health and beauty if you like.’
Clara laughed. ‘Now you’re talking. What time?’
‘I’ll come and fetch you at six; you can have your tea here first.’
Clara nodded. She felt a small twinge of guilt that her ready acceptance had more to do with the chance of seeing Frank at Saturday tea than dancing with Benny.
Clara walked all the way into Newcastle to save on the tram fare and attended the meeting at the Hippodrome. The downstairs was half full, mostly of young women in their twenties. She exchanged names with the well-dressed, dark-haired woman sitting next to her. Willa Templeton laughed nervously when Clara asked her why she was there.
‘My husband thinks it will do me good. Get my figure back after having Baby.’
Clara glanced enviously at the woman’s shapely figure. She felt scrawny in comparison. ‘You don’t look like you’ve just had a baby,’ she exclaimed.
Willa looked pleased. ‘Well, Baby’s nearly two and I still can’t get into most of my wedding trousseau. George has a point, but he’s a bit of an exercise fanatic, if you ask me. Takes cold baths and long runs. Ex-army. What about you?’
Clara paused while this torrent of information sank in. ‘I’m here to write about it for the local paper,’ she said boldly.
Willa arched her plucked eyebrows. The hand she put on Clara’s arm was well manicured, the nails immaculately polished in pink.
‘You’re a journalist?’ she gasped. ‘How exciting. Will I be able to read about myself? George would like that. He’s always got an eye out for publicity. Thinks it’s good for business. That’s why he likes me to be involved in charity work too. Dogs’ homes and veterans’ clubs are his favourites.’
‘What sort of business?’ Clara asked.
Willa waved a hand. ‘Some sort of manufacturing — machine tools. I’m not very up on it all. George doesn’t talk about it with me, of course.’
‘Is that Templeton’s at Wallsend?’
Willa looked impressed. ‘You’ve heard of it?’
Clara did not like to say she had overheard Frank and Benny fulminating over the firm’s refusal to allow in the unions. ‘Oh, yes, it’s well known.’ She smiled.
‘My, my.’ Willa preened. ‘George will be pleased.’
After that, the presentation began, followed by a fitness display to music. The cheerful organiser promised both better health and sociability to those who joined. Their regime was a mix of remedial exercises, Indian yoga and Greek dance, she enthused, which would aid ‘graceful deportment and figure training’.
‘Movement is life,’ she said eagerly, ‘and as you see, we have exercises suitable for all women no matter what their age or ability.’
Clara scribbled down her words as best she could in the darkened auditorium. Afterwards, she spoke to two or three others for their opinions. On the way out, Willa caught her up.
‘Clara, will you join?’
Clara was frank. ‘Can’t afford to at the moment.’
‘That’s a shame.’ Willa looked disappointed. ‘Listen, I could lend you the subscription if you like.’
‘That’s very kind, but I couldn’t accept it,’ Clara replied. ‘I might join later in the year.’
‘I hope so,’ Willa said. ‘I’m rather nervous of joining on my own.’ She rummaged in her handbag and handed Clara a card. ‘Here’s my number. Telephone me if you decide to go for it.’
Clara took it with a smile. ‘I will, I promise.’
It was only later, on the tram home, that she studied the card more closely. The Templetons lived in Jesmond, one of the most well-to-do areas of Newcastle. Their home was so grand it had a name not a number: Madras House. The nearest Clara had ever been to Jesmond was walking in the steep-sided dene that lay at its foot. Carefully, she tucked the card inside her notes and thrust them deep into her pocket.
That night, she could not sleep for the excitement of the evening. She lit a candle at the kitchen table and wrote her impressions of the meeting. In the morning, she waited impatiently at Max’s office to show him the article.
‘What do you think?’ she asked anxiously. ‘Is it good enough for the Tyne Times?’
He frowned. ‘Some of it’s good - the quotes from people - that’s lively. But it’s a bit jumbled.’ He waved the scraps of brown paper at her. ‘And it’s in a thousand bits.’
Clara sighed in disappointment. ‘It’s rubbish, isn’t it?’
‘No, not at all,’ Max encouraged her. ‘Look, why don’t you rewrite it on fresh paper — you can have some of mine. Then we’ll get Miss Fisher to type it up for you.’
‘Ta, Mr Sobel. That’s grand.’ Clara grinned.
‘And why don’t you make it into two articles - one on the hiking, one on the Women’s L
eague of Health and Beauty? Keep them short. Jellicoe can’t read long sentences,’ Max said dryly.
Clara set to rewriting. With smiles and pleading and offers to make the tea, she persuaded Max’s secretary, Miss Fisher, to type up the articles.
As she was on the point of rushing off, Miss Fisher asked, ‘Would you like to borrow my coat and hat? Smarten yourself up, eh?’
Clara was grateful. Her own coat was a shabby second-hand one and her best felt hat had been pawned. The secretary’s style was a little old-fashioned, but smart, and they were a similar size. Miss Fisher helped her pin up her hair under the plain black hat.
‘Gloves,’ Miss Fisher said as a final suggestion.
Clara pulled on a pair of black gloves over her work-roughened hands and went straight round to the newspaper offices. She asked to see the editor. Neither Miss Holt, the secretary, nor Adam Paxton, the reporter in the main office, appeared to recognise her.
‘What name shall I say?’
‘Miss Magee,’ Clara said, dry-mouthed.
Miss Holt squinted at Clara. ‘You’re the cleaner! I’m sorry, Mr Jellicoe s very busy—’
‘Just a few minutes,’ Clara urged. ‘Please.’
‘If you’re after more pay, you’ll not get it.’
‘It’s nothing to do with that. I’ve got information.’
The woman gave her a disbelieving look, but went and asked. She came back saying, ‘He’ll see you for two minutes, no longer.’
Clara rushed into the inner office, pulling her typed articles out of Miss Fisher’s coat pocket and thrusting them across the desk of the craggy-faced editor.
‘Afternoon, Mr Jellicoe. Would you take a look at these? I know you’re interested in sport.’
He scowled at her from under shaggy grey eyebrows.
‘Miss Holt tells me you’re the cleaner. What’s all this?’
Clara took a deep breath. ‘They’re articles. I wrote them. I think your readers will be interested.’
He jammed on his spectacles, took the sheets of paper and glanced over them suspiciously. Clara held her breath.
‘Hiking? Health and Beauty? This isn’t sport, Miss Magee,’ he said dismissively, dropping them on the desk. Clara gulped.
‘They’re very popular pastimes,’ she answered, ‘growing in numbers all the time. The Hippodrome was nearly full.’ She knew he was not listening, had already gone back to reading something in his lap. ‘Mrs Willa Templeton wants me to join the League. You know Templeton’s of Wallsend, don’t you, Mr Jellicoe?’
He looked up. ‘Templeton’s?’
‘Yes. The League is full of interesting people like Mrs Templeton. I thought I could write a few articles about pastimes and hobbies; things that interest younger lass— ladies like Mrs Templeton.’
He looked dubious, but picked up the articles again and read them more closely.
‘Did you type these yourself?’
Clara hesitated. ‘I’m learning to type.’
‘They’re not bad,’ he said grudgingly. ‘I like the chatty style.’ He eyed her over his spectacles. ‘But I don’t need another reporter. Can’t afford one.’
Clara said quickly, ‘I’m not asking for a job — just the chance to write bits and pieces now and again.’
‘Freelance?’ he queried.
Clara nodded, not quite sure what he meant. ‘And I’ve other contacts in the sporting world,’ she added. ‘I know Danny Watts and the Cravens.’
He looked at her with more interest. ‘How do you know them?’
‘My father was a welterweight. Vincent Craven’s an old family friend.’ Clara felt herself blushing as she used Vinnie’s name to her advantage.
Jellicoe scrutinised her. ‘How is it that someone with business friends like you is working as a daily help?’
Clara held herself with dignity. ‘I’m a businesswoman by training. But things have been a struggle since my dad died last year.’
Realisation dawned on his jowly face. ‘You’re Harry Magee’s daughter?’
She nodded.
He looked away. ‘Terrible business.’ He shuffled the papers and cleared his throat. ‘I can’t offer you anything at the moment, but I’ll hang on to these. I’m sorry about your father. He was a popular man.’
Clara clenched her hands. The editor did not look up. The interview was obviously over. ‘Thank you, Mr Jellicoe,’ she forced herself to say as she left.
As she crossed the main office her spirits plunged. Adam the reporter called over, ‘Clara, pet, make us a cuppa before you go.’
‘Make it yourself,’ she muttered and marched out.
Chapter 13
On Saturday, Clara’s battered spirits revived at the news that Reenie would be able to go to the dance with them and Frank would be playing in the band. At Saturday tea, Frank was encouraging.
‘Jellicoe hasn’t turned you down. He’s a hard-nosed boss testing you out to see if you’ll stick at it. Keep pestering him with articles. And don’t let him publish them without paying.’
Clara gave him a grateful smile. She had felt like giving up on the whole idea.
‘But what else could I write about?’
‘What about something really important,’ Benny enthused, ‘like uncovering the scandal of low pay in Craven’s garment factory? You could gan and talk to the lasses, hear their side of the story. Find out why Craven won’t let them join a union.’
‘Yes,’ Reenie agreed. ‘You said yourself you would never work there.’
‘I don’t know...’ Clara felt uncomfortable. ‘It’s not Jellicoe’s kind of story.’
‘It would be if it was news,’ Benny argued.
‘But it’s not,’ Clara pointed out.
‘Well, maybe it will be,’ he muttered.
Marta served them more meatloaf and vegetables and the conversation turned to other issues. Oscar was worried about news from his brother Heinrich in Germany. The right-wing Nazi party had made big gains in the March elections.
‘Heinrich said it was a farce,’ Oscar said in contempt. ‘Most of the polling booths were in public houses.’
‘Not respectable,’ Marta tutted.
‘And Hitler’s bully-boys could throw their weight around,’ Oscar growled.
‘At least they don’t have a majority in the Reichstag,’ Frank pointed out.
‘That’s right,’ Benny agreed. ‘And Uncle says the Communists have made gains too. The Left will hold together and keep the little bastards out.’
‘Benjamin!’ Marta scolded.
They talked on about family in Germany and the situation there as if it was really important. To Clara it seemed too far away to matter very much. Britain had its own problems. She did not want to think about such depressing things and tried to catch Benny’s attention.
‘Clara’s gone very quiet,’ Reenie teased. ‘She’s trying to tell you she’s bored, Benny.’
Clara blushed. ‘I don’t want us to miss any of the dance, that’s all.’
Frank glanced at the clock and jumped up. ‘I should be there.’ As he grabbed his jacket and pushed back his wayward hair, he told Reenie, ‘Keep an eye out for Lillian. She said she’d meet you at the entrance.’
Clara’s face fell. ‘Oh, is Lillian going?’
Benny laughed. ‘Don’t worry, I’ll keep you safe from the Head Mistress.’
‘Benjamin,’ Marta clucked. ‘Lillian is a nice girl.’
Benny winked at Clara. ‘Course she is, Mam. Just right for our Frank.’
***
The town hall ballroom was packed, but then the entrance was by donation and many people had streamed in for free. The band was made up of volunteers and an anonymous wealthy Socialist had donated pie and peas suppers that were being served in an upstairs room.
Lillian stood waiting for them with two others from the YS. Clara noticed that the young teacher had put waves in her straight hair, and was wearing lipstick and a new dress. Her insides clenched. Benny was right. How could Fr
ank not fall for Lillian’s dark looks and intelligence? Clara slipped her arm through Benny’s, determined to make the most of this precious night out. She felt his answering squeeze.
‘Haway, lass,’ Benny grinned, ‘time for some Health and Beauty.’
They danced non-stop until the interval when there were speeches and buckets were passed round. To Clara’s surprise Frank got up to speak.
‘I have news from our comrades on the Continent.’ He got straight to the point.
‘Speak up!’ someone shouted from the back. ‘Can’t hear you.’
Frank’s fair face reddened. He raised his voice. ‘In Germany the Socialists and trade unions are uniting in an “Iron Front” against the Nazis. Even the Catholics are worried enough to join. The fascists are on the rise with their swastika signs. They claim to be pure Aryans, but it’s just an excuse to spread hatred of anyone who’s different or disagrees with them. Their main targets are the unions and the Left, just like the fascists in Italy. And Hitler is their new Mussolini.’
‘The Nazis have a fascist salute, Heil Hitler. The Iron Front has a freedom salute, Freiheit!’ Frank raised his arm straight in the air and clenched his fist. ‘When Nazis threaten them in the streets, our comrades shout, “Heilt Hitler vom Grossenwahn!” Cure Hitler of big-headedness!’
A ripple of laughter went around the room. Then someone shouted, ‘Speak Geordie, man.’
Another heckler joined in. ‘Hurray up. The pies are gettin’ cold!’
Clara saw Frank’s agitation. Hot-faced, he ploughed on.
‘Some of you think it can’t happen here,’ he shouted, ‘but it can and it will. Look at Mosley, breaking up the Labour Party, promising a kind of socialism like Hitler. But fascists aren’t interested in socialism; they’re only interested in grabbing power and rounding up those who stand in their way.’
Around them, people began to talk restlessly. Clara told them to be quiet but the noise grew.
‘They exploit the poor and the unemployed — turn them against each other. In Germany—’ Frank tried to shout above them.
‘Thank you, comrade,’ one of the organisers interrupted, starting to clap. ‘Vote for Socialist revolution! Put what money you can spare in the buckets. Thank you.’
A HANDFUL OF STARS An enthralling story of poverty, passion and survival: one of the Tyneside Sagas Page 13