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

by Trotter, Janet MacLeod

  ‘To king and country!’ Alastair growled, raising his glass high.

  ‘To king and country!’ the guests repeated.

  ‘And to new beginnings!’ Vinnie added. The words echoed down the table as people drank the toast.

  Clara beamed at him happily, thinking he meant their forthcoming marriage. But when they sat down again, the men at once started to discuss Mosley’s fascist party as the start of a new dawn. The brigadier’s deep voice droned above the others.

  ‘He’s going to cleanse this decadent country — purify it! No more of this selfish individualism. We must have government based on muscular Christian principles — loyalty, unity and sacrifice. Fit in mind and body.’

  ‘Not sure you’ll get Christian principles from Mosley,’ Mabel Blake tittered. ‘I hear he’s openly having an affair with that Mitford woman, Diana Guinness.’

  Apart from a flicker of contempt, Alastair carried on as if she had not spoken. ‘He’s the man to take on the Red Front before it ruins the country and our Empire.’

  ‘I agree,’ said Ted Blake hastily, with a warning look at his wife. ‘We need tariffs to protect our agriculture and industries. Free trade liberal policies have got us into a right mess with all these cheap imports.’

  Vinnie joined in. ‘Aye, Mosley says the Empire can be developed to give us new markets.’

  ‘Precisely,’ said Ted. ‘But what does the Government propose? Start giving in to demands for dominion status from illiterate natives. They have to be stopped.’

  ‘Quite so,’ Alastair approved. ‘Bunch of degenerates. And they would be nothing without those cosmopolitan financiers who bankroll foreign firms with no thought of loyalty to their own country. But then how can they have loyalty when they are aliens among us — leeches sucking us dry — intent only on advancing their own position.’

  ‘Leeches?’ Clara burst into sudden giggles. ‘Sounds nasty, Ted.’

  Alastair shot her a suspicious look. Ted laughed uncertainly. ‘Yes, they are.’

  Clara felt fuzzy-headed. Aliens and leeches? It all sounded so silly. ‘Who are?’ she asked in amusement.

  Conversation around her died away as people turned to look. She must have spoken too loudly.

  Ted faltered, ‘Well, the plutocrats, the money-men—’

  ‘The Jews,’ Alastair said aggressively.

  Despite being tipsy, Clara felt a stirring of unease. ‘The Jews?’ she slurred. ‘The ones I know aren’t rich.’ She glanced around. People were beginning to stare. She struggled to master her thoughts. ‘I mean, there’s Max — he’s a lawyer — but if folk can’t pay he doesn’t charge. Lives in two rooms — bit of a tip. And there’s Mr Slater, but he’s not rich either.’ She looked across at Vinnie for help, aware that she was burbling. ‘And Vinnie s had Jewish lads train at the boxing — not a penny to their name. Haven’t you, Vinnie?’

  Vinnie fixed her with a look which she could not fathom. He shrugged but said nothing.

  ‘That’s it, you see, Clara,’ Ted said with an indulgent pat on her hand. ‘They’re either poor and a drain on our society, or extremely rich and robbing us blind. Leeches either way.’

  Clara shook her head. ‘Doesn’t make sense — can’t have it both ways, Teddy boy.’

  She heard someone say, ‘Tut-tut.’

  ‘Listen, young woman,’ Alastair barked, ‘you may be too muddle-headed to understand the danger, but luckily there are some around this table who are not. The Jews and the Bolsheviks are intent on bringing our country down. Revolution is what they want; their views are spreading like a contagion across Europe!’ His eyes bulged with indignation. ‘They tried to betray our country during the Great War with their pacifism while we were sacrificing our lives at the Front. They were behind the General Strike and the depression in trade. They’re at it now with so-called hunger marches, poisoning the minds of the unemployed, persuading them to give their allegiance to Red Russia. They’ve infiltrated every level of government and society.’

  He paused to draw breath, his thin lips flecked with spittle. Some recklessness in Clara made her argue on. She spoke with slow deliberation to mask how drunk she felt.

  ‘I remember — General Strike. Dad said — strikers were being loyal to the pitmen — and the pitmen were just trying to keep their jobs. How could it be to do with Red Russia or the Jews? It was a fight with the bosses.’ She looked again at Vinnie for support. ‘Vinnie, tell ’em! You ran a soup kitchen for the strikers at Craven Hall, didn’t you, Vinnie? It was about supporting working people.’

  Everyone turned to Vinnie. For a moment he looked uncomfortable, then gave a rueful smile. ‘We were helping out the families, Clara, that’s all. Whatever the rights and wrongs of the strike, you can’t stand by and watch your neighbours suffer — the women and their bairns. I was taking care of them.’

  There was a tense pause, then Ted announced, ‘You’re a fine man, Vinnie, just like your father Stan; he was a real gentleman.’

  The brigadier glared at Clara as if this proved his point. ‘That’s because he was a true Englishman. The real patriots are the backbone of this country, whether aristocracy or common man. We have the same ties to the land — have done for centuries. The bourgeois cosmopolitans don’t begin to understand what it’s like to be a patriotic Englishman; they cannot be a part of it.’

  Clara nudged James. ‘Do you think your father includes us with our Irish blood?’ she joked.

  There were intakes of breath around the table and murmurs of, ‘Disgrace — too much wine — no respect.’

  Cissie stood up abruptly. ‘Ladies, it’s time we retired to the drawing room and let the men get on with their port. In an hour our people will be arriving for the dancing.’

  ‘Mama,’ James piped up, ‘can I come with you and Clara?’

  ‘Certainly not,’ his father growled. ‘You’ve stayed up long enough.’ He wagged a finger at his wife. ‘See that the boy is sent to bed.’

  Crossing the gloomy hall, Clara felt dizzy in the sobering blast of cold air. By the time they reached the drawing room, she was already regretting her rash defiance of her host. She found him insufferably pompous and verging on the hysterical with his conspiracy theories, but she was aware that her words had not gone down well with the other guests either — especially her quip about being Irish. Vinnie had looked almost ashamed of her as she left the room.

  She slumped into an armchair by the Christmas tree. The other women glanced at her warily and gathered round the fireplace to chat about their children and arrangements for Christmas. Clara closed her eyes. Her head spun.

  ‘There’s no need to put yourself into Coventry,’ Cissie said with amusement.

  Clara opened her eyes and struggled to sit up. ‘I’m sorry. I’ve had too much wine. I didn’t mean to be rude about you being—-’

  ‘You weren’t,’ Cissie interrupted. ‘I rather enjoyed the look on Alastair’s face. It’s not often he’s stumped for words. We can’t let the men have all the say all the time, now can we?’

  Clara’s look was uncertain. ‘So I haven’t spoilt the evening?’

  ‘Not at all,’ Cissie assured her, patting her hand and perching on the chair arm. ‘Here, this black coffee will sober you up.’

  As Cissie lit a cigarette, Clara sipped at the hot bitter drink and eyed her hostess. She was slim and elegant in a black evening dress with silver straps, her hair neatly permed and a string of emeralds round her throat. Clara yearned to be as poised and sophisticated as her - and with a sweet-natured son who adored her as James did Cissie.

  ‘James is canny,’ she said.

  ‘Yes, he’s a dear thing.’ Cissie smiled. ‘Of course he’ll have to toughen up a bit now he’s at prep school.’

  ‘Don’t you miss him when he goes?’

  ‘Dreadfully. But Alastair wanted him to go to his old school, of course.’

  ‘Didn’t you have a say?’ Clara asked. ‘He’s just a bairn.’

  Cissie gave her a sha
rp look through a gauze of smoke. ‘I was in complete agreement. It’s a terrific school — they do lots of sport and military training. The young men leave the senior school ready to serve anywhere in the Empire. And by golly, they’ll be needed.’ She held her cigarette away and leaned closer. ‘You may look at my husband and see a man of strong convictions — maybe too strong in your opinion. But underneath all the bravado, he’s had a very hard time of it. All the gentry have. Land values have fallen and so have the rents the tenants pay. And do you know why? Because of cheap imports of American grain and foodstuffs from everywhere else under the sun. It’s ruined our agriculture. The only people who benefit are the speculators and big business. Maybe they’re Jewish, maybe they’re not.’ She stubbed out her cigarette. ‘All I know is that democracy has failed us. We need firm leadership and loyal followers if we are not to be overrun. A new world order, a reinvigorated Britain; that’s what we shall have under Mosley. And James will be a part of it.’

  Clara was taken aback by the sudden outburst. ‘Sounds like you should stand for Parliament,’ she teased.

  Cissie smiled quickly. ‘We women must certainly play our part.’

  ‘And what’s that?’

  ‘Support our men — and nurture our children to be strong and patriotic. Love the Empire.’

  Clara frowned. It all sounded too simplistic. She thought suddenly of the Lewises. They had loyalty to family in Germany, yet lived peaceably in England. Patriotism had seen their windows smashed. That’s why Frank had taken up boxing.

  ‘But isn’t patriotism sometimes a dangerous thing?’ she queried. ‘It divides people against each other.’ Cissie gave her a look of incomprehension. Clara ploughed on. ‘Well, what about the natives of the Empire? Aren’t they being patriotic by fighting for independence? Their patriotism is different from ours. So who is to say which one is right?’

  For a moment, Cissie’s hazel eyes regarded her coldly, her mouth tightening. Then suddenly she laughed. ‘Goodness me, Vinnie’s right. You never stop asking questions! Come on, girl, enough of politics. It’s time we got the dance under way.’

  Cissie pulled her to her feet, digging her nails into her bare arm, yet smiling as she did so. Clara was about to protest when Cissie let go and went to rally the other women.

  The coach house at the back of the Hall had been cleared of farm implements, swept and decorated with garlands of ivy. Paraffin heaters stood in each corner giving off heady fumes. A stage had been erected for the three musicians: two fiddlers and a melodeon player. Storm lanterns hung from the rafters, bathing the room in a soft yellow glow. Soon it was filling up with new arrivals: labourers and their wives, tenants from nearby farms and their families. The house guests stood out in their evening finery and gathered at one end of the room, watching the country dancing. Clara sat with Willa.

  ‘Don’t worry about the brigadier,’ Willa murmured, ‘he ranted on like that last year. It’s best not to say anything, though.’

  Vinnie stood for a long time smoking cigars with Ted and George, deep in conversation. Eventually, he came over to claim Clara for a dance. She felt relief as he led her in a waltz, his hand warm on her bare back. But as soon as they began to spin round, she staggered dizzily. Vinnie held her closer, his look assessing.

  ‘Keep off the booze in future,’ he said with a smile, but his tone held a warning.

  ‘I will,’ Clara said, feeling a little queasy.

  ‘You should listen a bit more, instead of saying the first thing that comes into your head,’ he advised. ‘Men like Alastair are not to be scoffed at, Clara.’

  ‘Oh, Alastair is it?’ she teased. ‘First name terms.’

  Annoyance crossed his face, then he gave a wry grin. ‘You are a little worky-ticket, Clara Magee. The sooner you’re married and brought into line, the better.’

  She smirked. ‘I go along with the married bit.’

  Vinnie kissed her nose. ‘We’re going to have a grand future, me and you. I promise you that.’

  As the night wore on, the house guests and the tenants began to mingle on the dance floor, exchanging partners in the fast-moving dances and chatting over the bowls of hot punch. Clara was asked to dance by several young men. She preferred to be up dancing than chattering with the house guests, some of whom were still giving her disapproving looks for her outburst at dinner. Only one man, a local vet who danced with her briefly in a progressive two-step, said, ‘Well done for standing up to Bell-Carr. His politics are odious.’

  ‘Why didn’t you say anything?’ Clara said with a reproachful smile.

  ‘We all have to rub along together out here,’ the man answered. ‘Besides, it’s only once a year — and he keeps a good cellar.’ With a smile, the man passed her on.

  Vinnie wanted to know who the man was.

  ‘Didn’t catch his name,’ she said, shrugging.

  After that, he allowed her to dance the large set dances with other men, but always claimed her in the slow intimate ones, stepping in if one of the local youths attempted to take her hand.

  Eventually, the musicians played their last tune and the visitors thanked their hosts and made off into the frosty dark. Alastair invited the men into the library for a nightcap. The women said their goodnights and made for bed. Clara flopped on to hers in exhaustion. Someone had put a china ‘pig’ into the bed to take the chill off the sheets, but they were still damp with cold. She shivered. It was too cold to lie around on top. She got into her nightgown, put on a cardigan, woollen tights, gloves, and a scarf round her head, and threw on all the blankets she could find.

  When she lay down, her head began to throb. Would Vinnie come to her? Her nose was freezing to the touch. She had never been this cold in Minto Street. Clara had a sudden image of an astonished Vinnie finding her lying bundled up like an old granny. A passion killer, Patience would call it. Clara began to giggle. She lay shaking under the covers, helpless with laughter. If anyone could hear they would think her quite mad, which only made her laugh the more.

  Eventually, her laughter exhausted, Clara fell asleep. She awoke to the sound of knocking on her door and wondered where she was.

  ‘Morning, miss.’ Jane bustled in, switching on the light. ‘Here’s some hot water. Communion’s in half an hour.’ She slopped half a jug of steaming water into the basin on the washstand, drew back the curtains and left. It was still dark outside.

  Clara lay back, head thumping and throat dry. Vinnie had not come to her after all. She did not know what to make of it. Was he being the gentleman or secretly angry with her for showing him up in front of the Bell-Carrs and their guests at dinner?

  Washing and dressing in a warm woollen suit, Clara winced at bruising to her upper arm. She looked in the mirror and saw scratch marks; Cissie’s nails. She tried to remember all that she had said the night before, worrying she had caused offence to her hosts. She recalled the brigadier getting enraged about Jews and calling her muddle-headed. And she had argued with Cissie about something to do with Empire. Clara went downstairs in trepidation.

  But everyone was polite and welcoming as they gathered in the hallway for church. Clara whispered to Willa, ‘Can’t we have a cup of tea first?’

  ‘Not before Communion,’ Willa replied. ‘Brigadier’s very strict about that.’

  Vinnie appeared and took her arm, giving her a peck on the cheek. ‘Morning. How’s the head?’

  ‘All the better for seeing you.’

  He gave her a satisfied look. ‘Good lass. Remember, best behaviour from now on. No being sick over the vicar.’

  Clara laughed under her breath. ‘Promise not to.’

  ‘And no more arguing with our hosts, all right?’

  Clara slid him an amused look, but his face was serious. Something puzzled her, but she let it go. The next moment, the Bell-Carrs arrived and Alastair called for everyone to follow him outside. Cissie and James walked behind him and the guests trooped after them down the drive. St Oswald’s stood in a clump of trees opp
osite Hoxton Hall gates. The incense in the small church made her nauseous and faint. To her horror, she had to dash from the church halfway through the service. Vinnie found her being sick into the frosty verge.

  Silently, he handed her a clean starched handkerchief. Clara’s look was contrite.

  ‘Too much rich food last night,’ she mumbled. ‘I’m not used to it.’

  He stood surveying her as if he was assessing one of his boxing protégés for match fitness.

  ‘You look terrible,’ he said. ‘I’ll take you home.’

  She felt a wave of humiliation. ‘I’m sorry. I’ve spoilt things, haven’t I?’

  ‘You’re young,’ Vinnie answered, ‘and you’ll learn.’ He led her back to the hall to pack her bag.

  Vinnie arranged for the Templetons to give the Blakes a lift back to Tyneside. He made excuses about needing to get back to sort out a business matter, but Clara was sure everyone knew it was her fault they were missing lunch. Alastair gave Vinnie a brief handshake and Clara a curt nod, but Cissie made a fuss of them.

  ‘That’s too bad; we’ve so enjoyed having you.’ She kissed Clara’s cheek warmly. ‘James is quite smitten. You’ll come again, won’t you?’

  ‘I’d love to,’ Clara said weakly.

  Vinnie gallantly kissed Cissie’s hand. ‘Thank you for a grand time.’

  ‘A pleasure,’ she smiled. ‘Have a happy Christmas.’

  On the drive home, Clara slept. She woke as they crossed the new Tyne Bridge into Newcastle. Vinnie put a hand on her knee.

  ‘How’s Sleeping Beauty?’

  She clutched his hand, suddenly tearful. ‘Oh, Vinnie, I’ve ruined things with the Bell-Carrs, haven’t I? They won’t come to the wedding.’

  ‘It’ll still be a canny wedding even if they don’t.’ He smiled. ‘Alastair isn’t God Almighty.’

  Clara looked at him in surprise. She thought he was as much in awe of the brigadier as the rest of them.

  ‘I love you,’ she said on impulse. He squeezed her knee.

  They drove towards Byfell. Just before they reached Minto Street she said shyly, ‘You didn’t come to warm me up last night. I - I hoped you might.’