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

by Trotter, Janet MacLeod

  He climbed over her and kissed her hard on the mouth. Clara responded with urgency. He kissed his way down her neck, shoulders and breasts, nibbling and caressing. Clara grabbed his hair in her hands and dug her fingers into his back. Vinnie carried on exploring, kissing and probing until she could bear it no longer.

  ‘I want you, Vinnie,’ she gasped.

  Finally, he made love to her. She moaned with pleasure. Never had she imagined such physical ecstasy. When it was over, he rolled off her with a long sigh of satisfaction. Clara found herself weeping. At once Vinnie was pulling her into his arms.

  ‘What’s wrong, lass? Did I hurt you?’

  ‘No,’ Clara whispered. ‘I’m just that happy. I love you so much, Vinnie.’

  He kissed her tenderly on the lips. ‘Not half as much as I love you.’

  They lay in each other’s arms in contentment. As the fire died, Vinnie pulled the covers up round them. He reached to put out the light.

  ‘No,’ Clara said. ‘I want to go to sleep looking at you.’

  Vinnie smiled at her, stroking back her hair. ‘Me too.’

  She lay against him, fingering the hairs on his chest, wanting the flood of emotion she felt for him to go on for ever. Eventually, she fell asleep. A delivery van chugging in the street below woke her in the early morning.

  Vinnie was sitting up in bed reading. ‘Morning, Mrs Craven,’ he smiled.

  ‘What time is it?’ She yawned.

  ‘Five-thirty.’

  ‘Couldn’t you sleep?’

  ‘I always wake early,’ he admitted. ‘Did you know you talk in your sleep?’

  Clara blushed. ‘What did I say?’

  ‘Load of gibberish,’ Vinnie chuckled, closing the book. He snuggled down beside her again.

  ‘What have you planned for today?’ Clara asked.

  He ran a finger down her arm. ‘Nothing,’ he grinned. ‘Sunday’s a day of rest.’

  ‘Good.’ Clara smiled and pulled his head towards hers.

  Chapter 22

  To Clara, the days galloped by and their short honeymoon was over too soon. They took walks through the frozen parks, gazed at the opulent buildings and visited the sights. Outside Westminster Vinnie said contemptuously, ‘All that power and what do our politicians do with it? Nowt!’

  They took shelter from the bitter cold in Lyons tea rooms, eating well and listening to the orchestras. One night they went to a musical, The Cat and the Fiddle, the next to the pictures to see Greta Garbo in Mata Hari. On a third they went to a club where they danced until two. Vinnie’s energy was boundless. After a packed day of sightseeing and an evening out, they would retreat to their cosy bedroom and make love. Clara would fall into exhausted sleep, always to find Vinnie awake and reading in the early morning.

  On the final evening, they ate early at the hotel with the young men and went to hear Mosley speak. Clara thought how Reenie and her brothers would disapprove. She was a little uneasy too, but kept her scepticism to herself for Vinnie’s sake.

  The hall was full and heavily stewarded by bare-headed men dressed soberly in black. Clara noticed them on duty outside too. The drab interior had been decorated with striking black flags emblazoned with the fascist emblem, an axe and a bundle of sticks. They were early enough to get seats near the front. Clara was intrigued by a group of smartly dressed young women in black tops and grey skirts, sitting on the front row. A military band on stage played stirring music and the hall buzzed with excitement.

  Suddenly the band struck up ‘Rule Britannia’ and people around them rose to their feet. A phalanx of young men in black uniform marched down the aisle. In their midst was a tall, handsome, mustachioed man in a smart suit. Applause rippled down the hall as he made his way on to the platform. Clara thought he looked bigger and more imposing in the flesh than in newspaper pictures. Even before he spoke, Oswald Mosley had a strong presence about him, exuding authority.

  He smiled and held up his hands in greeting. His stewards and the eager young women on the front row raised their arms in a fascist salute. Clara thought them comical and tried not to laugh.

  ‘Bit over the top,’ she whispered to Vinnie. But he was still clapping and misheard.

  ‘Aye, grand, isn’t it?’

  Imperiously, Mosley signalled for everyone to sit down. The music stopped and the audience took their seats. He stood at the podium surveying them until there was complete silence; then, with a disarming smile, welcomed them for turning out on such a wintry night.

  He began by speaking about Britain’s heroic past, its many heroes and patriots who had sacrificed so much to make the country great. What would they make of the present mess? Democracy was failing them, Mosley pronounced, and politicians were corrupt and selfish.

  ‘They are only interested in lining their own pockets,’ he declared, ‘buying honours instead of earning them. Is that fair?’ He stabbed the podium with his finger as he reeled off the failings of the coalition government: ‘They care nothing for the plight of the people.’ He grew angry. ‘They have no pride in our country. But we do.’ He began to pace the stage, gesticulating at the audience. ‘Only Fascism cares. Only Fascism is rigorous enough to take on the great problems of the day — to stand up to the evils of Leninism, of divisive party politics, of self-interest—’

  ‘Fascism is dictatorship!’ a man shouted from a few rows behind Clara and Vinnie. ‘You care nothing for the working classes — you’re one of the privileged.’ There were murmurs of disapproval.

  ‘Sit down! — Shut up — Chuck the blighter out!’

  Swiftly, stewards muscled forward along the row and grabbed the heckler, who continued to shout. Clara turned her head and craned for a better view.

  ‘Just look at Italy and the Nazis in Germany — workers beaten up and worse—’ He was manhandled out of the row and thumped. A group of five or six black-shirted men dragged him to the back door and bundled him outside. From the open door, Clara heard the sound of raised voices and chanting. The door slammed shut. The murmuring in the hall continued.

  Mosley held up his hands for silence. ‘That man is misguided. I cannot blame him, for the national press is full of misinformation about Fascism, and the great changes for the better in Italian society under Mussolini.’ He shook his head in sorrow. ‘If he had bothered to listen — had the courtesy to listen — he would have learned the truth.’

  He told them of his visits to Italy and how Fascism had led that nation out of unemployment and slump, brought them together under a great Roman leader. ‘Fascism is not anti-labour, it is against class conflict. It will harness patriotic labour to the national cause.’ He came forward, eyes alight with passion. ‘We in the BUF want everyone in this country to be enriched, not the leisured few. Under us, opportunity shall be open to all, but privilege to none. Under us, great position shall be given to those of talent and reward shall be accorded only to service. Under us, poverty will be abolished.’

  There were murmurs of approval. Mosley’s voice rose and fell hypnotically.

  ‘We shall establish the corporate state, which will balance the needs of capital and labour for the benefit of both. There will be no profiteering. Workers will have a minimum wage. Their wives and families will be supported by a welfare system. The corporate state will allow modern science to flourish and have the power to tackle poverty once and for all. All men will have work. It is not only their right, but their lifeblood.’

  Cheers of approval rippled round the hall.

  ‘If that poor misguided man had stayed to listen,’ Mosley thundered, ‘I could have told him that we believe in destroying class barriers. They hamper progress. We want to release the energies of every citizen so they can be devoted to the service of the British nation. For we are a great nation! Thanks to the efforts and sacrifices of our forefathers, this country of ours has existed gloriously for centuries!’

  There were louder cheers. His eyes blazed as his voice rose in a crescendo of passionate words. ‘We need
strong leadership and firm government — not futile debate and hand-wringing. We must be prepared for personal sacrifice to defend our country and our people, just as the Lost Generation did, spilling their precious blood on the foreign soil of Flanders’ fields. We must be prepared to fight. Are you prepared to fight?’

  A roar of assent went round the room. Vinnie shouting as loud as any.

  ‘Citizens! We must be organised and disciplined like the great British legions of old. We must keep the flag flying forever high.’ He threw his arms wide. ‘We demand a free and greater Britain!’

  The young women on the front row jumped to their feet, shouting, ‘A free and greater Britain!’ Others followed, clapping loudly. Soon everyone in the hall was giving their speaker a standing ovation. Music erupted again. Mosley stood saluting them, smiling in approval. Vinnie clapped and clapped. Clara was mesmerised. She too felt stirred by the passionate words. It made her want to rush out and start doing something for her country. It made her proud to be British. She revelled in the shared warmth of feeling in the people around her. On this icy January night, they all hungered for optimism and new beginnings. This is what Mosley was offering.

  Clara thought of the Lewises and their endless discussions about putting the world to rights. They had been so negative about everything, full of warnings and gloomy predictions, whereas here in this hall everyone basked in the glow of Mosley’s heroic future. He made them feel special. Clara could imagine Reenie mocking that it was just rhetoric. But Reenie was not there to experience it and Clara felt it was much more than that. This man had a vision of a better world. He made Fascism sound exciting yet reasonable; there were none of the hysterical conspiracy theories or derogatory remarks about Jews that she had found so distasteful in Bell-Carr. He had a plan for social reform that was every bit as bold as the Socialists’.

  As Mosley strode from the hall with his entourage, Clara stood on tiptoe for a last glimpse. Vinnie put an arm about her.

  ‘Haway, Mrs Craven,’ he teased, ‘you’re supposed to have eyes only for me.’

  ‘I do.’ Clara kissed his cheek and grinned. ‘But he is rather good-looking.’

  As they filed out of the hall, they were met by a covering of snow and a barrage of shouting. Protesters who had stood outside in the freezing cold to heckle the fascists were determined to break through and confront them. A line of Blackshirts was attempting to push them back. Some ran after the armoured car taking Mosley away, thumping on its sides. Once he was gone, they turned back on the dispersing crowd. Stewards waded in and fighting erupted.

  Clara froze, recoiling from the angry scene, but others jostled her forward, separating her from Vinnie. Then a volley of icy snowballs came hurtling over their heads and hit a man behind Clara.

  ‘Damn Communists!’ he shouted in anger and barged forward, knocking into Clara who slipped on the steps. The next moment she was tumbling down and grabbing at people to break her fall. Another woman fell with her and someone trod on her hand.

  Clara yelled in pain. Someone beside her screamed. Stewards rushed forward to control the sudden panic of people rushing to get out of the way. She had to get on her feet or she would be crushed, but she was pinned to the ground by the force of bodies pressing from behind.

  ‘Vinnie!’ she cried out. A police whistle blew. There was screaming and shouting all around. Clara covered her head as legs clattered into her. Suddenly she felt herself being hauled to her feet.

  ‘I’ve got you, miss!’ It was Edwin from the hotel. She clung to him in relief as he steered her quickly to the side, barging through the crowd. Clara gulped for breath. Ahead, the police were rounding up a handful of protesters while the Blackshirts fell back.

  Moments later, Vinnie found her and she fell into his arms.

  ‘Clara, lass, are you hurt?’

  ‘No, I’m fine,’ she panted.

  ‘Bloody animals, that’s what they are!’ he said in sudden fury.

  ‘Let’s just get away from here,’ Clara pleaded.

  With a protective arm about her, Vinnie led her down a side street away from the confrontation and hailed a cab. They sat in the back in silence, holding on to each other. Clara felt numbed by the unexpected violence after the high emotion of the meeting.

  Back at the hotel, Mrs English fussed over her, bathing the cuts on her hand and sitting her in front of the fire with a mug of hot cocoa and a large glass of brandy.

  ‘There’s no need for it,’ she said indignantly. ‘They’re just low types causing trouble. Probably put up to it by the Bolshies and their Jew money. Whatever happened to an Englishman’s right to speak his mind?’

  When the other men came trooping back, they sat around warming themselves and discussing the events of the evening late into the night. Clara was exhausted and longed for bed, but Vinnie was deep in debate, enjoying the companionship of the young men, fired up by Mosley’s oratory and indignation at the anti-fascist yobbery. Clara said her goodnights and Vinnie promised to follow her upstairs.

  She lay in bed, staring at the flickering light from the fire and the way it receded across the ceiling as the fire died. Soon, their idyllic few days alone would be over and she would have to adjust to life in Larch Avenue and sharing Vinnie with Dolly.

  Sometime in the early hours, Vinnie came to bed and woke her with soft caresses.

  ‘I’ll never let that happen to you again, lass,’ he murmured. ‘I could kill those Bolshie troublemakers.’

  ‘It’ll take more than that to scare me,’ Clara declared.

  ‘That’s my lass,’ Vinnie said proudly and kissed her long and hard on the lips.

  They made love with heightened intensity, their kisses urgent and possessive. Afterwards, they lay for a long time, wrapped in each other’s arms.

  ‘I’m going to join the BUF, Clara,’ Vinnie told her. ‘I want you to join too. Will you, lass? There’s a Women’s Section.’

  Clara felt the strong beat of his heart under her cheek. Right at that moment, she would have done anything for him.

  ‘Course I will,’ she answered.

  Vinnie squeezed her against his chest and kissed the top of her tousled hair. ‘By heck, I’m proud of you, Mrs Craven. Together, there’s nothing we can’t achieve.’

  Clara wished they could stay like that for ever.

  Chapter 23

  The spring months flew by as Clara adapted to her new role as Vinnie’s wife. Her husband spent long hours at work, both at the boxing hall and taking care of his various business interests. From what Clara could gather, his consortium, Cooper Holdings, included Ted Blake and Mr Simmons. Vinnie told her he was also going into business with George Templeton.

  From the start Clara had insisted that she carry on at the newspaper after marriage and was thankful that she had done so, for she would have gone mad sitting around Larch Avenue with too much time on her hands. Dolly disapproved.

  ‘Don’t know why you want to work when my Vinnie provides everything you want. I wish I’d had it so easy when I was young.’

  ‘I work because otherwise I’d be bored.’ Clara was blunt. ‘Just as you do.’

  Dolly flushed under her heavy make-up. ‘I’m a widow. Vinnie and the boxing business are my whole world.’ Her look was reproachful. ‘Until you two give me grandbairns, that is.’

  Clara ignored her mother-in-law’s sly digs and got on with her full life. She was now Jellicoe’s main feature writer, covering social events and interviews. After the London trip she wrote about the Mosley rally and did follow-up features on the new BUF branch in Newcastle and their Women’s Section, run by Cissie Bell-Carr. There were a flurry of indignant letters at her articles, one from Reenie on behalf of the Women’s Co-operative Movement. But others wanted to know how to join and Jellicoe was jubilant when their circulation went up.

  ‘Populist, that’s what we are,’ he crowed, ‘and no bad thing.’

  Clara was pleased, though the angry letter from Reenie made her think twice about rene
wing contact with her former friend.

  Socially, she and Vinnie were as busy as in their working lives. They dined out frequently with friends or entertained at home. While Clara attended talks and socials with the Women’s Section, Vinnie went regularly to the Thursday Club at the Sandford Rooms for political meetings and dinners, finding it a fertile recruiting ground for the fledgling BUF. Vinnie was active in the Rotary Club; Clara went to Health and Beauty meetings with Willa. As the evenings lengthened, Vinnie taught Clara to drive.

  ‘It’s safer than you taking the tram,’ he said, but Clara believed it was to keep upsides with the Bell-Carrs because Cissie could drive. He gave her the use of his old Albion.

  On Sundays, they would fetch Patience and Jimmy for Sunday lunch. Clara was always glad to see her family, yet the meals could be awkward. She resented the way Dolly lorded it over her mother, constantly making reference to her menial clerical work at the garage and patronising Jimmy.

  ‘You must be so proud of your lad, Patience,’ Dolly declared, ‘when you think what a tearaway he was. And now he’s learning to be a mechanic. Vinnie’s done wonders for him, don’t you think?’

  Clara marvelled at the way Patience kept her temper and agreed with whatever Dolly said. If she complained about it to Vinnie he just laughed it off.

  ‘That’s just Mam’s way. Take it with a pinch of salt, lass.’

  Dolly’s overbearing attitude was the only complaint Clara had about her new life. She adored Vinnie and hated the hours they were apart. She loved the way he was always beside her when they were out together, never letting her out of his sight for a moment, holding hands, linking arms, squeezing her knee under the table.

  On rare evenings when they had no social engagements, she was impatient for supper with Dolly to be over so they could go to bed. While the radio below played dance band music, they would make love as quietly as possible and whisper their undying love for each other.