A Crimson Dawn

by Janet MacLeod Trotter

  ‘Your Uncle Jonas can’t forgive himself for raising his fists to his own son,’ Helen once confided, her plump face scored with sorrow.

  As Emmie made her way downhill, she thought she might look for work outside Crawdene. The bank was slippy from a week of heavy rain and she stepped cautiously, clutching her poetry books from Blackton library. Dr Jameson would help her if she asked. Nell was, by all accounts, a proficient book-keeper for the doctor. Yet, Emmie was reticent in asking for help. Nell still accused her of betrayal for not going to live with them after their mother died. They saw each other only when Emmie made the effort to travel into Gateshead. The last time had been to see Nell perform in a musical evening at the Settlement.

  Emmie had never seen her sister look so happy, nor realised what a beautiful singing voice she had. The MacRaes had made it a big outing and fussed over Nell, to lessen the strained atmosphere between the two sisters.

  ‘Next time,’ Emmie had enthused to Louise, ‘you and Tom must come too.’

  ‘If we tell me father it’s hymn singing,’ Louise had laughed with a roll of her eyes.

  Louise would always be more like a sister to her than Nell ever would, Emmie had to admit. They could tell each other anything. Except now there was Sam vying for Louise’s attention. Things were changing.

  Emmie was so deep in thought and concentrating on avoiding puddles that she did not see the demonstration until she was upon it. Outside the co-operative store, a group of women was standing on a flat cart bedecked in red, white and green bunting, exhorting the crowd.

  ‘Don’t vote for Hauxley, the Liberal! His party pretend to stand for freedom, when all the time they are denying women the right to vote. What equality do we have under the Liberal Government? None! We pay taxes yet have no say in how our taxes are spent.’

  ‘Why aren’t you at home looking after yer bairns?’ a man heckled.

  ‘Sir,’ a fresh-faced young woman on the cart rounded on him, ‘you men expect your wives to do the best for their children and families, don’t you? Yet they are not consulted over laws that affect those children and families. Is that fair? No, it is not!’

  There were murmurs of agreement as Emmie joined the crowd of onlookers.

  ‘Men!’ The older speaker took over again. ‘You have it in your power to send a message to the Government in this by-election. No taxation without representation. Vote for fairness for your wives and daughters. Women! It is your duty to persuade your husbands and fathers to vote against the Liberal. Don’t vote for Hauxley next week!’

  A few people clapped, others shook their heads. Canvassers began to mingle with the crowd, handing out leaflets before people hurried out of the biting wind. Emmie glanced around to see if Helen was there, but could not see her. She took a leaflet from the smiling young woman in a large-brimmed hat who had dealt with the heckler. Emmie turned for home, so engrossed in reading the leaflet that she quite forgot about going to the store to buy a new exercise book. Halfway up China Street, she remembered.

  The sky looked heavy with more rain. The first spatters arrived as she retraced her steps. When she emerged on to the main street again, she heard shouting further up the hill and the thud of feet in mud. A gang of men and young boys were bearing down on her, cursing and screaming.

  Emmie stood in stunned confusion. Had something terrible happened at the pit? Then a stone whistled past her head and smacked into the mud just beyond. They were on the attack. Whirling about, Emmie suddenly saw their target. The canvassers had halted halfway up the road, unsure of what to do. Their cart was in the middle of the street, the horse stamping fretfully at the noise of the mob.

  ‘Run!’ Emmie yelled, as a volley of stones and coal rained down the hill.

  The women scattered with screams of alarm. The horse reared up and bolted with the cart. Leaflets flew about on the wind and were trampled underfoot by the pursuing miners.

  ‘Get back in the kitchen, yer harridans!’ a man bellowed, barging past Emmie and knocking her books from her hold. ‘We don’t want yer here upsettin’ ower lasses.’

  Emmie was furious as she bent to retrieve her library books. Most of the attackers were young boys, but she was shocked to see some members of the lodge among them, goading them on. She watched horrified as they drove the canvassers down the hill and out of the village. One woman slipped and fell in the mud a few feet away. Emmie recognised the large hat. She dashed forward and yanked her to her feet. A group of youths saw her and doubled back. The woman protestor was cornered.

  ‘Quick, come with me,’ Emmie urged, pulling her into China Street.

  They ran up the lane, chased by the boys. Emmie thought she might outrun them, but the young woman was gasping for breath, her mud-drenched skirts weighing her down.

  Screwing up her courage, Emmie rounded on her pursuers.

  ‘Stop right there!’ she ordered, shielding the woman. ‘Any one of you touches this lass - you’ll have the MacRaes at your door.’

  They were crowding about, laughing at her threats.

  ‘Give her over - we’re not after you,’ one of them jeered. ‘She needs teaching a lesson.’

  Emmie gripped the woman tighter, hearing her whimper.

  ‘You should be ashamed of yourselves,’ she answered. ‘Big, strong lads picking a fight with one lass. Maybes you should listen to what she has to say before you kick her down the street like a dog. Would you tret your mams like that - or your sisters?’

  The faces in front of her seemed less certain. Abruptly, a voice from the back of the gang called out, ‘Haway, lads, that’s enough. Leave the lasses be.’

  Emmie felt her insides jolt. She knew the voice.

  ‘Tom Curran?’ she cried, as Tom pushed his way through. She stared into his slim good-looking face. ‘I never thought you’d be part of this shameful business.’

  Tom came close and whispered, ‘Get her inside.’ Immediately, he turned and began cajoling the others to leave.

  ‘You’ve seen them off, that’s all you were asked to do. Beatin’ up lasses isn’t part of it. Haway, scarper.’

  As Tom herded the boys away, Emmie gripped the woman tight and helped her along to number eighteen. They stumbled in at the door, Emmie calling for Helen to help. Within minutes they had the woman out of her sodden dress and wrapped in blankets by the fire, sipping piping-hot tea. Fair bedraggled hair hung down over her flushed pretty face. Her dark blue eyes looked around her, wide and curious. When she spoke, it was with an upper-class drawl that Emmie had only heard on the hustings or from visiting preachers.

  ‘It’s so kind of you to help me.’ She smiled for the first time. ‘Those awful boys - I thought—’

  ‘They’re more bark than bite,’ Helen reassured.

  ‘They were hoying stones,’ Emmie pointed out. ‘And that Tom Curran was one of them. If his da only knew.’

  ‘His da probably organised it,’ Helen retorted. ‘He’s a strong Liberal. He’ll hate the idea of lasses telling him how to vote.’ She leaned forward and patted the woman’s shoulder. ‘Good on you, pet. At least your da doesn’t stop you speaking your mind.’

  She gave them a sheepish smile. ‘Actually, he doesn’t know I’m here.’

  They all laughed.

  ‘What do they call you, miss?’ Helen asked.

  She hesitated. ‘Sophie.’

  Helen gave her a quizzical look. ‘I could swear I’ve seen your face somewhere. Ever been in Crawdene before?’

  She shook her head, then said, ‘Well, yes. I’ve been to the Guild.’

  Emmie saw Helen’s eyes widen as recognition dawned.

  ‘Eeh, it’s never you, Miss Sophie!’

  The young woman went puce and nodded. ‘But please don’t tell my father; he’d only worry.’

  Helen spluttered with laughter. ‘I’ve no more chance of talkin’ to Major Oliphant than growing wings.’

  ‘Major Oliphant?’ Emmie cried in disbelief.

  Sophie covered her face in embarrassment
. ‘Everyone looks at me differently once they know. You see why I like to go incognito?’

  Helen said, ‘There’s nowt to be ashamed of - you should use your connections to help women get the vote. Men like your father have influence in the world.’

  Sophie grimaced. ‘Yes, but it’s the wrong kind. His political friends don’t think women should trouble themselves with anything more taxing than menus and guest lists.’

  The women laughed ruefully. They drank more tea.

  ‘You know about my family then?’ Sophie asked.

  Helen shrugged. ‘You keep yourselves to yourselves, as far as I can see. Of course, we knew about your father’s heir dying in the first Boer War - there’s that big memorial to him in Blackton.’

  ‘My brother Liddon,’ Sophie sighed. ‘Mama never got over it - she took to her bed and now she’s an invalid. And Papa … We younger two are a bit of a disappointment to my father,’ Sophie confided.

  Emmie caught Helen’s embarrassed look. She didn’t want the role of confidante to Oliphant’s daughter. But Sophie seemed oblivious to their discomfort.

  ‘My brother Charles is trained as a vicar but refuses to take a good living in a decent parish. He’s running a mission in Gateshead. That’s where I help out too. There’s a printing press we use for the suffrage campaign.’

  ‘The Settlement?’ Helen queried.

  ‘Yes, you’ve heard of it?’

  Emmie nodded. ‘We know it well. Dr Jameson is a friend of ours - and my sister Nell sings in their choir.’

  Sophie clapped her hands. ‘Flora Jameson is a dear friend of mine! She’s known Charles for years. It’s Flora who got me interested in women’s suffrage. You meet such interesting people at the Settlement - women from all over Europe on lecture tours and conferences. It’s so much more interesting than stuffy old Blackton Heights. Course, Papa thinks I’m in town shopping or going to the theatre. He’s so terribly possessive since Liddon died - and because Mama takes no interest.’ She stopped, clapping a hand over her mouth. ‘I’ve said too much as usual. And I don’t even know you. It’s just you’ve made me feel so welcome.’

  Suddenly Emmie asked, ‘This printing press - do you need any help? I’m looking for work. I could do anything - sweep up, make the tea.’

  ‘Hold your horses,’ Helen protested. ‘You’re too bright to be sweepin’ floors.’

  ‘Please, Auntie Helen, it’s time I was bringing in a wage. I want to be like Nell - able to stand on me own feet - not like Louise just waiting to get wed.’

  Sophie looked between them. When Helen did not protest, she said to Emmie, ‘It’s run by a couple called Runcie. They’re Quakers. I just help out now and again - folding leaflets, that sort of thing. I’m not paid. You should call in some time and see.’

  Emmie looked appealingly at Helen. ‘Please can I go?’

  ‘I could put a word in for you,’ Sophie encouraged. ‘It’s the least I could do after you rescued me.’

  ‘But it’s such a distance,’ Helen fretted.

  ‘I’ll go on the bike,’ Emmie enthused.

  Helen sighed. ‘We’ll ask your Uncle Jonas.’

  They were startled by a knock on the back door. Emmie opened it to find Tom standing in the rain. He pulled off his cap.

  ‘What do you want?’ Emmie said curtly.

  ‘Came to see if the lass was all right.’

  ‘Aye, she is.’

  He flushed. ‘I’m sorry, Emmie - the lads got a bit lively.’

  ‘Fancy tretting defenceless lasses like that,’ she reproved.

  ‘Aye, but it’s not the way lasses should carry on, is it? Ganin’ around shoutin’ their gobs off like fishwives and telling men what to do.’

  ‘Well, men could do with listening to lasses a bit more often, in my opinion,’ Emmie sparked back.

  ‘You don’t agree with them, do you?’ Tom was incredulous.

  ‘Aye, I do,’ she declared. ‘In fact I’ve made up me mind to join them.’

  He gawped at her.

  ‘And if you want to make yoursel’ useful, instead of standing there with your mouth open, you can walk the lady safely out the village to find her friends.’ She challenged him with her look.

  Tom’s expression was stubborn.

  Emmie dropped her voice. ‘Unless you want Major Oliphant hearing about what you nearly did to his daughter?’ She saw his eyes widen in disbelief. ‘Aye,’ she hissed, ‘that’s Miss Sophie Oliphant sittin’ in our kitchen!’

  ‘Never?’ Tom exclaimed.

  Emmie put her finger to his lips. ‘Not a word, Tom Curran. She doesn’t want folk to know. Now will you help me or not?’

  To Emmie’s amazement, Tom nodded without any more protest.

  Tom was left in the scullery while Sophie got dressed again. She tried to press money on them, but Helen refused. Having learned Emmie’s name, though, Sophie promised to mention her to the Runcies. Together, Emmie and Tom walked Sophie down the lane, Tom completely tongue-tied in the presence of the older woman. The rain had driven everyone indoors and the light was fading fast. By the time they found the electioneering cart outside the inn at the Blackton crossroads, all three were soaked through. Sophie thanked them profusely and hurried inside to join the others. Tom and Emmie trudged back up the hill to Crawdene.

  By the time they neared China Street, Tom saw it all as a huge joke.

  ‘Fancy old man MacRae havin’ the boss’s daughter to tea,’ he laughed. ‘Mixing with the aristocracy, eh?’

  ‘Tom, you’re not to say a word,’ Emmie warned. But the more she protested, the more he teased her about it.

  ‘The socialists defending the bosses,’ he crowed. ‘Wish Rab MacRae was here to see it.’

  Emmie gave him a shove. ‘Wait till your da hears you’ve been attacking Oliphant’s daughter.’

  Tom swung an arm about her. ‘I won’t tell if you won’t tell.’

  She wriggled out of his hold. But he followed her along China Street.

  ‘I must see the lady safely home,’ he mocked.

  ‘Don’t bother,’ she said, hurrying ahead.

  ‘I want to.’ Tom kept pace. At her back door, he caught her hand. ‘You’re not like them lasses, Emmie. You’re one of us. One day you’ll make a canny pitman’s wife.’

  She looked at him, startled. Before she could answer, he planted a kiss on her lips.

  ‘Ta-ra, Emmie,’ he grinned.

  She turned in confusion and fled inside. Jonas was home and demanding to know where she had been in such foul weather. Her attempts to keep secret their important visitor were to no avail. By the following day, the whole village was talking about Emmie saving Oliphant’s daughter from a lynch mob and harbouring her at the MacRaes’.

  Jonas had to endure a week of jibes as the tale grew in length and exaggeration. Emmie was a suffragette. Jonas had no control over his militant women. They’d be chaining themselves to railings next. Emmie supposed it was Tom who had spread the news, or maybe Miss Sophie had been recognised by others in the village.

  Tom filled her with a mixture of annoyance and something else she couldn’t quite name. She often found herself thinking about his fresh-faced good looks, the way he looked at her with his hazel eyes as if he found her pretty, his quick smile, the feel of his lips on hers. She was unsettled by it, flattered even. Tom might look younger than his twenty years, but he was a man now and his teasing no longer felt like childish horseplay.

  On her sixteenth birthday, Tom came round with a bunch of daffodils and a bottle of lavender water. He endured Sam’s ribald teasing with good humour but bolted when Helen suggested he stay for tea.

  ‘I’ll see you at chapel, Emmie?’ he asked in hope, grinning when she nodded in assent.

  ‘Breaking hearts already,’ Jonas chuckled as they tucked into the birthday tea. ‘Pity it’s a Curran.’

  ‘He was brave to come,’ Helen defended Tom, ‘seeing as his da won’t allow either bairn over our doorstep.’

  ‘You
might poison them, Mam,’ Sam said, clutching his throat and gasping.

  ‘You wouldn’t poison Tom, would you?’ Peter asked in alarm.

  ‘No, pet, Sam’s being daft,’ Helen reassured. ‘Still, I think it’s a shame. We’d never stop any of you ganin’ round there, just because we don’t see eye to eye with the Currans. You can be friends with who you like.’

  ‘Aye,’ Sam said, winking at Emmie, ‘even the gentry.’

  Jonas gave him a thunderous look.

  Emmie said quickly, ‘No arguments on me birthday!’

  ***

  The Easter holidays came and Emmie left Miss Downs for the last time. The next day, she rode all the way into Gateshead on Jonas’s rickety bicycle to visit the Settlement. She had written to the Runcies about seeking work and they had invited her down for an interview.

  The elderly couple welcomed her into the cramped untidy room they used as an office behind the dining hall. Every inch of floor, table, chairs and filing cabinet was covered in mounds of paper. There was nowhere to sit, so Emmie perched on a chair arm while they talked to her about their work. She warmed to them and their courteous manner at once. Philip Runcie was small, wiry and full of vigour, with an engaging smile. Mabel Runcie resembled the late Queen Victoria, though with a calm, otherworldly air.

  ‘We produce a weekly news-sheet, the Gateshead News,’ Philip Runcie explained, scratching his nose with inky fingers. ‘You could help by finding new advertisers. And we print pamphlets for church groups and societies, such as the Women’s Suffrage Society. But you know that from Miss Oliphant.’

  Emmie nodded.

  Mabel Runcie gave a regal wave of her hand. ‘And you could start by finding a home for all this paper,’ she sighed. ‘We’re not the tidiest of people - and with my arthritic knees and hands I’m finding it harder to manage.’

  The Runcies looked at Emmie expectantly.

  ‘Now?’ she queried. ‘You mean I’ve got the job? Don’t you want to ask me any questions?’

  They looked at her in surprise. ‘No, dear, we know all about you from Dr Jameson and Sophie,’ Mabel smiled.

  ‘We can’t offer you much of a wage -’ Philip looked apologetic - ‘a lot of our work is voluntary - but you can take a percentage of the advertising revenue.’