A HANDFUL OF STARS An enthralling story of poverty, passion and survival: one of the Tyneside Sagas

by Trotter, Janet MacLeod

  ‘Benny?’ she reminded him.

  ‘Aye, Benny,’ Vinnie said. ‘I was told about the trouble this morning. I’ve been to see the lad.’

  ‘You’ve seen him? They wouldn’t let me,’ Clara gasped. ‘How is he?’

  ‘He’s all right. Don’t think there’ll be much of a case to answer.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘The most serious charge was assault on another lad,’ Vinnie explained. ‘He’s the brother of a lass who works for me at the factory. I’ve had a word and he’s prepared to drop the complaint. If you ask me who was at fault, it was six of one and half a dozen of the other.’

  Clara gawped at him. ‘You mean they’ll let Benny go free?’

  ‘Not exactly,’ Vinnie cautioned. ‘He’ll still have to go in front of the beaks on Monday morning for breach of the peace. But it’s a first offence. Mostly likely they’ll let him off with a caution.’

  She stared at him, not knowing whether to be angry or grateful.

  ‘Some folk are saying you paid men to stir up trouble,’ she accused him. ‘Did you?’

  He gave her a hurt look. ‘Do you really think that little of me?’

  ‘It doesn’t matter what I think.’ Clara was abrupt. ‘People have a right to join unions if they want — and to hold meetings without being intimidated.’

  ‘I quite agree,’ Vinnie replied. ‘Do you think I’d concern myself over a handful of hotheads? Everyone’s entitled to their own views.’

  Clara found him infuriating. She was still angry at him yet he was being surprisingly reasonable. She found it hard to believe Reenie’s accusations that Vinnie was behind the violence.

  She advanced on him. ‘You want me to be grateful for you helping Benny. But none of this would’ve happened if you hadn’t gone and stirred things up at the barber’s.’

  ‘What do you mean?’ Vinnie gave an incredulous laugh.

  ‘Getting Benny to shave you and telling him you were taking me out,’ Clara said hotly.

  ‘But it was true, wasn’t it?’ Vinnie challenged her.

  ‘Yes, but you knew it would provoke him. Benny went out and got drunk, then got himself arrested.’

  Vinnie jumped up and came close. ‘So you’d rather have done it behind Benny’s back — risk him finding out later?’

  ‘No,’ Clara said, feeling confusion. ‘It wasn’t like that. There was nothing to find out.’

  Vinnie reached out and took her hand. ‘You wanted to go out with me, I didn’t force you,’ he reminded her. ‘You enjoyed yourself and so did I. I don’t have any regrets. What happened to Benny had nothing to do with us — he would have got into trouble anyway.’

  She tried to pull away, but Vinnie held her in a firm grip. ‘Look at me, Clara,’ he commanded. ‘Tell me you didn’t enjoy yourself last night. Tell me you would rather have been with Benny. Just say it and I’ll go — not bother you again.’

  She looked into his dark mesmerising eyes. They blazed with emotion — dangerous emotion. She forced herself to look away.

  ‘See,’ Vinnie said in triumph, ‘you can’t say it ’cos it wouldn’t be true.’ His hold tightened. ‘You feel something too, Clara, just like I do. I’ve been waiting all my life to feel this way about a lass. Now I’ve found you, Harry’s daughter, right under me nose all the time. A war hero for a father, a classy mother. Good Geordie stock. By heck, lass, together we could conquer anything.’

  ‘Stop it!’ Clara flung him off. ‘I don’t know how I feel about you.’

  A flash of impatience crossed his face and was gone. He smiled disarmingly, raising his hands in surrender. ‘Fair enough. It’s early days and I’m not going to push you into anything you don’t want.’ He retrieved his jacket and tie and jammed on his hat. Picking up his stick, he tossed it in the air and caught it. He fixed her with his look. ‘But I know what I want — and I’m prepared to wait for it.’

  Clara clutched her arms to stop herself shaking, staring at him in mute confusion as he made for the door. Turning, he swept her with a final look. ‘You suit the kimono,’ he winked. ‘I’ll see myself out.’

  ***

  Benny appeared in court on Monday, and was bound over to keep the peace for twelve months and warned to stay away from Craven’s factory. Clara was in court, but too embarrassed to sit with his family. To her, Benny had the miserable but defiant expression of a young boy being reprimanded by his elders.

  Outside, she hurried over to see him as he left the court with Frank and his parents. Frank nodded a greeting. ‘We’ll leave the pair of you to have a word,’ he said, steering his parents away. ‘See you at the shop, Benny.’

  Alone, Clara and Benny glanced at each other awkwardly.

  ‘Sorry I wasn’t there on Friday night,’ Clara said quietly.

  Benny grunted. ‘No, Greta Garbo’s much more important than the revolution,’ he mocked.

  Clara sighed. ‘Do you want to tell me what happened?’

  His tone was brittle. ‘It was a fix-up. Those lads were waiting for us — all organised. Meeting had hardly started when they began heckling and hoying stones. He put them up to it.’

  ‘Who did?’ Clara asked, tensing.

  ‘Craven, who else?’

  ‘I don’t believe it,’ Clara said. ‘He’s not going to bother over a few activists handing out leaflets. Said himself everyone’s entitled to their say.’

  ‘Course you’d know all about what Vinnie Craven thinks,’ Benny said bitterly.

  Clara huffed with impatience. ‘All right, I deserve that. I’m not proud of the way I went out with him and didn’t tell you. It didn’t seem important—’

  ‘Not important?’ Benny cried. ‘But you’re my lass.’

  ‘No, Benny, I’m not,’ Clara replied. ‘I’m not anyone’s lass. I’m very fond of you and I want to stay friends. But it’s never going to be more than that.’

  ‘It’s your mam, isn’t it?’ Benny said angrily. ‘She’s put the block on you seeing me.’

  ‘It’s not just Mam,’ Clara said, ‘it’s me. Look, Benny,’ she appealed to him, ‘we’re not suited. We’re always arguing — look at us now. You’ve got very strong views about things which I don’t share. I’m interested in things that you dismiss as shallow and daft.’

  ‘Like Vinnie Craven?’

  Clara lost patience. ‘If it wasn’t for him, you’d probably be in prison by now. Don’t blame Mr Craven for what’s happened.’

  Benny glared, ‘Never thought you’d be taken in by his type. He’ll not stop till everyone on Tyneside’s working for him or in his debt. Right little Mussolini.’

  ‘If you’re jealous of him, that’s your problem,’ Clara said with a pitying look. ‘I’m sorry I’ve hurt you, Benny. I love your family as much as my own, but I won’t pretend any longer that I’m in love with you.’

  She walked away from him, digging her nails into her palms to stop herself crying. She felt wretched at his unhappiness, but Frank was right: it would be worse to drag out their fraught courtship any further. Benny did not call her back.

  Clara busied herself all day with assignments and worked late into the night. She pushed herself all that week, getting up at the crack of dawn to clean Max’s office and sitting at her desk in the newspaper office before anyone else came in. She drove herself with work. She volunteered to cover every flower show, garden fete and society meeting possible. But hardest of all was stifling her longing for Frank. She avoided Vinnie Craven and did not allow herself to dwell on Benny.

  ***

  Two weeks later, Clara got a call at the office from Willa Templeton inviting her to a charity tea party at Madras House, in aid of crippled veterans. Brigadier Bell-Carr, their patron, would be there and would she like to do a report for the newspaper? Patience was as excited by the news as Clara was and told her she must buy something pretty to wear for the occasion. Since Clara had broken up with Benny and no longer went round to the Lewises of an evening, her mother had perked up considera
bly. She showed a keen interest in what her daughter was doing and no longer retreated to bed at six in the evening.

  Clara went round to Slater’s pawnshop and bought a pale blue dress and bolero jacket she had eyed in the window that no one had reclaimed. She wanted to look her best for tea at Madras House.

  Mr Slater took her aside and said, ‘I’ve something for you.’

  He was growing forgetful and the shop was a chaos of boxes of clothes and household goods. He rummaged around in an old suitcase, then pulled open some drawers in a tallboy.

  ‘I put it away safe,’ he mumbled.

  ‘Mr Slater, I’m in a hurry,’ Clara said. ‘I could call back later.’

  ‘Found it in the lining of your father’s coat,’ he continued.

  Clara froze. ‘What did you say?’

  That coat you brought in: blue serge, large collar, silk lining.’

  Clara remembered the coat. Her father had worn it for best and they had held on to it for Jimmy until two months ago when he had suddenly grown too tall.

  ‘The lining was frayed, so the missus was mending it when the necklace fell out,’ he rambled on. ‘Must’ve fallen through a pocket. I said to the missus, I’ll not take what I’ve not paid for. I’ll keep it for Miss Magee, it might be sentimental.’ He poked inside a faded satin jewellery box. ‘Ah! Here it is.’

  Mr Slater fished out a chain with his arthritic fingers and held it out to Clara. She took it, full of curiosity. It was a locket. She peered at it in her hand. It was lightweight, slightly dented, the ornate engraving worn thin. She did not recognise it at all. The catch was faulty and the locket fell open easily. On one side was a lock of pale blond hair, almost white; on the other, a fuzzy photograph. Clara looked closer. It was of a woman, her hair parted and tightly bound behind, her eyes solemn but her mouth blurred as if she was breaking into a smile. Clara had never seen her before.

  She handed it back with a frown. ‘There must be a mistake. It’s not one of my family.’

  Mr Slater slowly shook his head as if it was just as big a mystery to him. ‘It came out of your father’s coat, so by rights it’s yours.’

  All at once, it hit her. This must be the woman with whom her father had had an affair. It was his tawdry secret, a cheap locket probably given by his lover with her hair and picture to remind him of her when they were apart. Revulsion welled up inside her. Clara nearly flung the locket across the room. Her family’s problems had stemmed from the moment that angry unkempt foreigner had dogged them and caused her parents to row. He had been something to do with this woman and had wanted her father to pay for his indiscretions. Perhaps he had wanted the locket back too. He’d said that Harry had something that belonged to him. Her father had never been the same afterwards. That’s when the drinking and the gambling had started. That’s when his debts had begun to mount until they had engulfed him like a tidal wave and shattered all their lives.

  Clara stared at the woman’s photograph with hatred. She was convinced this stranger was the cause of all the trouble between her parents.

  ‘Keep it,’ Mr Slater said, ‘or sell it to a collector.’

  ‘It can’t be worth anything,’ Clara said in disdain.

  ‘It’s foreign. I’ve only seen one like it before — belonged to a White Russian from the time of the last tsar.’

  Clara stared at it with indecision. Despite her distaste, curiosity flared again. She pocketed it. Perhaps she would find out more about this woman. Or keep it as a nest egg. One thing was for certain; she would never tell her mother about its existence. Patience’s nerves were so fragile, such a revelation would plunge her back into melancholy. Clara thanked the pawnbroker and left.

  Chapter 18

  Madras House was a solid Victorian villa set back from the street with large bay windows and ornate ironwork balconies at the upper storeys. To Clara’s surprise it was austerely furnished in an art deco style of geometric wallpaper and angular furniture. A pair of tall Chinese vases filled with ferns gave a splash of colour in the hallway and a series of modern paintings of muscular figures in bold colours hung on the pale yellow walls of the sitting room.

  Clara tried not to stare open-mouthed as a housemaid ushered her through French windows to a large walled garden. A vast tea of sandwiches and buttered scones was laid out on trestle tables. The linen tablecloths snapped in the breeze, dazzling the eye. Behind, a dozen uniformed maids were pouring tea into dainty Chinese-patterned cups. Scores of guests stood around chatting. The majority were well-dressed women; a few were men in wheelchairs or propped up on crutches. Clara felt out of place and quickly pulled out her notebook and pencil to look professional.

  Willa Templeton called for everyone’s attention. She sounded nervous.

  ‘On behalf of the committee, I’d just like to say - we’re all very grateful for this splendid turn-out. Well done everybody. It’s a — it’s a huge honour to have with us our patron, Brigadier Bell-Carr, and his lady wife, to open our tea party this afternoon.’ Willa began an enthusiastic hand-clapping that was quickly taken up by her guests.

  The brigadier began to speak, but his delivery was mumbled. Clara eased her way closer through the crowd to hear.

  ‘. . . heartening that in such depressed times as these the English don’t forget their wounded comrades ...talking of the true Englishman . . . unbeaten by foreign armies . . . disgrace that our government gives nothing to these brave men . . . left to fend for themselves all these years. It’s what happens when you let Bolsheviks run the place.’

  Clara saw his wife put out a restraining hand and squeeze his arm. The brigadier cleared his throat. ‘Anyway, we must never forget the brave battalions who sacrificed everything to make England great. We’re of their blood — we spring from the same soil.’ He warmed to his theme, his voice growing stronger with conviction. ‘We must stand together against vested powers. We’re all in the same boat - instead of a land fit for heroes, we’ve seen our incomes fall and our investments wiped out, while others have grown rich on other people’s misery.’

  ‘Alastair,’ Cissie Bell-Carr reproved with a throaty laugh, ‘they’re here for tea, not a political rally.’

  There was a ripple of awkward laughter. Clara could not work out if it was over their patron’s speech or his wife’s interruption.

  ‘My wife is right, of course,’ he said stiffly. ‘Give as generously as you can to these splendid chaps — our ex-servicemen — and enjoy this wonderful tea.’

  There was polite applause and the hubbub of voices rose again as people began to tuck into the large mounds of sandwiches. Clara had never seen so much food. Her mouth watered. Just as she was on the point of helping herself to a sandwich, Willa pounced.

  ‘Clara, darling, come and meet our guests of honour.’ She waved frantically. ‘I told them you’d give us a good write-up.’

  Clara found herself shaking hands with the tall brigadier who had ignored her at the Hippodrome. He gave her a distracted nod.

  ‘Hope you’ll be able to put in everything I said,’ he told her gruffly. ‘Or does your newspaper suffer the usual Bolshie bias?’

  Clara gave him a baffled look. ‘We tend to stick to sport and stories about cats stuck up chimneys.’

  He grunted at her and turned away to talk to a man with an eyepatch.

  Cissie Bell-Carr gave her a warm smile. ‘Don’t worry,’ she whispered, ‘his bark’s very much worse than his bite.’ She had a trace of an Irish accent. ‘Haven’t we met before, Miss Magee?’

  ‘At the Hippodrome; Watts versus Kain,’ Clara reminded her. ‘You were off to the Sandford Rooms. Did you have a good dinner?’

  ‘Oh, yes! Marvellous dinner.’ She assessed Clara with shrewd hazel eyes. ‘And you mentioned my outfit in the article. I believe you called me glamorous. You see, I’ve remembered. Flattery will get you far.’ She laughed.

  ‘And are you still interested in boxing, Mrs Bell-Carr?’ Clara asked.

  ‘Oh, yes.’ She smiled. ‘I jus
t love watching those fit young men and their muscled bodies, don’t you?’

  Willa squeaked with nervous laughter. ‘Cissie, be careful. Clara will quote you.’

  ‘And you, Miss Magee,’ Cissie asked, ‘what do you like to do for entertainment?’

  ‘Clara adores the cinema,’ Willa answered for her. ‘Did you enjoy Grand Hotel the other week?’

  ‘Very much,’ Clara said. ‘I’m a Garbo fan. My friend Reenie and I used to practise speaking as low as Garbo to give us an air of mystery. But lads just thought we had colds.’

  Cissie and Willa laughed with her.

  ‘I love Garbo too,’ Cissie told her. ‘Some day, Clara, you must come out to Hoxton Hall and we’ll watch old films. We have a film projector in the library. We don’t use it nearly enough.’

  ‘Do you really mean that?’ Clara gasped.

  ‘Of course I do. Willa could bring you out. We’ll have our own film show.’ She lowered her voice for just the women. ‘It’s deadly dull at Hoxton most of the week now that James is off to boarding school. I can tell you’d brighten it up no end.’

  ‘Super!’ Willa enthused. ‘Nanny could bring Baby. He loves Buster Keaton.’

  ‘So do I.’ Clara grinned. ‘Reminds me of my brother Jimmy — he’s just as clumsy.’

  ‘And what does Jimmy do?’ Cissie asked.

  Clara hesitated. ‘He works at Craven’s boxing hall. Wants to box professionally someday.’

  ‘One of Vincent Craven’s young men?’ Cissie asked. Clara nodded. ‘My husband thinks highly of Vincent and what he’s doing for the unemployed boys.’

  ‘Clara’s a good friend of Mr Craven’s,’ Willa said eagerly. ‘They went to see Grand Hotel together. Isn’t that right, Clara?’

  Clara reddened. ‘He’s a family friend.’

  Cissie put a hand on her arm. ‘Well, you keep good company. The brigadier thinks Vincent is a man for the future. We need more ambitious young men like him who care about the state this country is in.’ She gave a conspiratorial smile. ‘Besides, he’s quite the charmer.’