Emmie nodded.
‘Then that’s what we must arrange.’
They talked about Rab and the possibility of getting messages to him.
‘From what we can gather,’ Charles said, ‘the COs have been given a year’s imprisonment with hard labour.’
Emmie was shocked. ‘Like a convict?’
Charles nodded. ‘He’s in for a very grim time.’
Jonas was moved to the miners’ hospital. It was too distant for his family to visit easily, but Emmie knew the knowledge that Rab still lived would be the best tonic his father could have. She returned to Crawdene with mixed emotions: delight that Rab was alive, embarrassment at the letter she treasured and confusion about what she should make of it now. He had written it believing they would never meet again. He was free to say whatever he wanted, however fantastical. It was not written with the knowledge that he might one day return. Emmie had not told anyone of its contents, not even Helen, who must have wondered at her son’s writing especially to Emmie.
She decided not to say anything, hiding the letter away under her clothes in the deep bottom drawer of the wardrobe. She would wait to see if he wrote again before she expressed her own feelings.
The weeks that followed were filled with helping Helen cope without Jonas’s wages and being resourceful amid mounting prices and shortages. British Summer Time was introduced towards the end of May and Emmie took advantage of the longer evenings to forage in the woods with Barny and work in Jonas’s allotment. She took over the digging and planting, while Barny helped Peter look after the hens and collect the eggs.
There were moments of deep contentment, sitting in the evening sun, drinking elderflower cordial with Helen, listening to Peter playing his tin whistle to Barny as the boy laughed and ran around the small garden.
But such moments were fleeting. The net of conscription was being cast ever wider. That month, military service was extended to all men between eighteen and forty-one, including married ones. Helen shared her worry that Peter might yet be conscripted.
‘All those that didn’t pass their medicals last time have to be re-examined,’ she fretted.
‘But Peter’s exempted ’cos of his job with Speed’s,’ Emmie pointed out. ‘Besides, he’d never pass his medical or any tests. It’d be like sending a bairn to fight. Any doctor will see that. So stop your worryin’.’
The following month, Emmie got word from Flora that Charles had received call-up papers. She hurried to the Settlement to support her friends, taking Barny with her. Charles applied for absolute exemption on moral grounds, based on his Christian beliefs. The tribunal, on which Reginald Hauxley sat, refused. Two days later, before an appeals tribunal, the JP granted partial exemption and told him to report for non-combatant duties.
A furious Flora applied on his behalf to the Central Tribunal in London and the Pelham Committee that oversaw work schemes. Meanwhile, Charles failed to turn up at the recruiting office and was arrested. The local newspapers were full of his case, relishing the notoriety of a wayward son of the staunchly pro-war coalowner.
All appeals for absolute exemption failed, but Charles agreed to non-combatant work that was not directly related to the war effort. He was sent to a prison camp in Wales and set to forestry work and quarrying. Flora was bereft at his going and threw herself relentlessly into her anti-conscription work and doctoring. The whole future of the Settlement was in doubt now that, without Charles, the mission had to close. The food kitchen struggled on, but they relied entirely on donations and the Runcies’ dwindling pension. Seeing how Flora drove herself, Emmie spent two days a week at the Settlement, helping her deal with appeals and meetings, and keep in contact with the incarcerated men.
Wherever they could, they contacted local Fellowship members to visit COs in prison. If, as was usually the case, they were refused, bands of supporters would stand outside the prison walls and sing songs of encouragement.
Emmie organised one such group outside Newcastle Prison when she discovered two COs had been moved there. While they sang ‘The Red Flag’ and assorted hymns, they flew a white kite over the prison walls, in the hopes that the men might see it or be told of it. Emmie imagined it was Rab inside and stood her ground when bystanders came to jostle and berate them.
But no word did come from Rab. Either it was too difficult for him to get a letter out, or he thought better of it. Perhaps he now regretted such a candid letter and was embarrassed to think of it. Finally she wrote to him, saying she was thankful he was alive and passing on news of the family. She alluded to Jonas’s ‘bad spell’, but did not mention his long weeks in hospital or uncertain future at the pit. It was a chatty, neutral letter. At the end, she made reference to his letter from France.
… I understand it was written under great strain and you may now regret being so frank. Don’t worry, I shan’t repeat any of it, or mention it again. I know you wrote such things because you thought you were about to die. I was touched by your words, but as you say, I’m married to Tom. That’s the choice I made, and for Barny’s sake that’s how it always must be.
Fond regards,
Emmie
With the summer came the grimmest of news from Flanders. The British had launched a huge offensive along the Somme in early July. At first, reports were vague. But as the month wore on, the toll of dead and wounded spoke of carnage on the Front. Within a few short days, tens of thousands of men had died, whole battalions reduced to handfuls of survivors. The lists in the newspapers were endless, a day hardly went by without someone in the town or surrounding pit villages receiving a telegram of regret. People grew to dread the knock on the door.
Emmie waited anxiously for news of Tom. Was he in the midst of it? Had he been spared? She felt pity for Louise, when her former friend plucked up the courage to come round and ask her for news.
‘Have you heard owt about our Tom?’ she asked nervously. ‘You will tell us the minute you hear from him, won’t you?’
Emmie promised she would. She had not been to the Currans’ since refusing to go to chapel and they no longer invited her round. Finally, in early August, she received a postcard from her husband. There’d been an outbreak of summer fever. He’d been in hospital during the Somme offensive and returned to find his company wiped out. He was being sent to a new battalion, in which most of the lads came from the West Country. They could not understand him and thought he was Scottish.
Emmie went round to the Currans at once with the news. Even the humourless Barnabas smiled in relief at the joke about being Scottish. Tom’s mother pressed her to stay to tea, delighted with the news and to see her grandson again. After that, Emmie resumed her weekly visits, so that her mother-in-law could see Barny.
Increasingly, her time was spent at the Settlement. The casualties at the Front mounted relentlessly, and the Settlement workers knew that the pressure would be all the greater to supply more men for the war machine. Restrictions on height and physical fitness were lowered, so desperate was the army for more recruits.
Whenever there were glimmers of hope in the press or from their friends, Flora and Emmie would share them with the Runcies at the end of the day. The Herald reported that peace meetings had been held in thirty-five German cities.
‘And President Wilson is calling for a “league of nations” to keep peace in the world,’ Flora read out to them one evening.’ “… to guarantee freedom of the seas, protect small nations and stop wars where there is violation of treaties”,’ she continued. ‘At last, a politician with common sense and vision!’
‘Not like that Lloyd George,’ Philip grimaced, ‘demanding Germany’s complete downfall. And now he’s Secretary for War.’
There was increasing unrest around the country, with strikes among engineers and in factories at working conditions. In late August, thousands of trade unionists converged on Hyde Park to protest against high food prices. By the early autumn, the price of bread had risen to tenpence a loaf.
Emmie and Hele
n were cheered by Jonas’s return, but he was no longer strong enough to work in the pit forge. He was given a menial task on the bank, sorting stones from the coal among the boys and old men. His pay was reduced and his spirit seemed to wither with his fading physical strength. Helen and Emmie jollied him along as best they could, but it was only Barny who could bring a spark to his lacklustre eyes.
When Emmie had a spare moment, she would sit and read the newspaper to him while Barny sat at his feet, playing with the spinning top Jonas had once made him out of scraps from the forge.
By the end of the year, there was stalemate in the trenches. The country was battered by the loss of hundreds of thousands of men, and huge rises in the cost of living. To the dismay of Emmie and her friends, the bullish Lloyd George took over as Prime Minister, rejecting the peace overtures sent by President Wilson. There would be no stated peace terms, for Britain and her Allies were striving only for ‘the knock-out blow’ and Germany’s total defeat.
With rising despair, Emmie stood outside the chapel that Christmas and handed out leaflets to the congregation.
‘Join us in the demand for a negotiated peace,’ she urged. ‘Ask the ministers of religion why they are doing nothing.’
She did the same outside the parish church in Blackton. Some heckled and jostled her out of the way, but one man approached her and took the leaflet with interest. Emmie recognised him as a one-time member of the Clarion Club.
‘It’s Bill Osborne, isn’t it?’
He nodded. ‘I’d like to learn more about this,’ he said eagerly. ‘I’ve been called up and want to resist. Can you help me?’
Emmie told him to come down to the Settlement in Gateshead and they would help him present his application.
‘We’ve helped plenty lads avoid this war,’ Emmie assured him.
Bill took her aside. ‘I don’t just want me call-up put off a month or two,’ he whispered. ‘I want to go on the run. I heard women like you can help a man get away.’ He looked at her expectantly.
Emmie felt uneasy. She did not want to talk about such things in public. Besides, she did not know this man well enough.
‘I don’t know anything about that,’ Emmie told him. ‘But I suggest you come down to the Settlement and we’ll see what we can do.’
‘Aye, I’ll do that,’ he replied, touching his cap and quickly walking away.
Chapter 27
1917
Rab shivered in the bitter January cold of the exercise yard.
‘Get moving,’ the guard shouted at the prisoners. Rab shuffled around in heavy shoes with broken laces, feet like numb stumps, pulling his brown jacket tight around his shaking bony shoulders. His fourth prison in nearly nine months. He no longer cared where he was any more; each small cell, each grey yard was the same purgatory.
In York, his first prison, in the euphoria of still being alive, he had taken delight in fighting the system. The COs were segregated, forbidden to talk to anyone, ate alone in their cells and were punished for merely smiling at each other on their brief exercise outside.
Rab had communicated by tapping on the wall to his neighbour, Ernie Tait. Together, laboriously, they had worked out a code. He had stolen paper from the latrines and with a pencil stub begged from a sympathetic warder, had written messages to the other inmates to keep up their spirits. Another CO had been on slops duty and had taken the paper bulletins to distribute.
The COs went to chapel to see each other, and under cover of the hymn singing, sang messages about news they had gleaned from outside. This way Rab learned that the War Secretary, Kitchener, had died at sea, that married men were now conscripted and that there had been bread riots in Liverpool.
The warder who had given Rab the pencil was caught speaking to him, fined and moved to a distant wing. Shortly afterwards, Rab was sent to a different prison, split from his comrade from Chopwell. Just before he went, a letter came from Emmie. His joy at reading her news was dashed at her lukewarm response to his declaration of love. She was embarrassed by it. He was a fool ever to have written it. He must put Emmie out of his mind if he was not to go mad.
At his new prison, Rab had refused to do hard labour - the stitching of sandbags - as it was directly helping the war effort. For two months he was confined to solitary, slept on a plank bed without mattress or pillow, was forbidden daily exercise and put on a restricted diet. All he could do was sleep and think, yet he was constantly tired and his mind tortured with thoughts of home and how they were coping.
He emerged weakened and depressed, to be transferred again to a prison in East Anglia. Here he was given a slate and pencil to write with, but not allowed to send letters. He could read the Bible or improving tracts that the prison chaplain provided, but nothing from the prison library. Along with other convicts, he was given needle, string and black wax and put to stitching mailbags; eight stitches to the inch, ten feet to each bag, nine bags a day.
By the end of the first day, Rab’s fingers were covered in black wax, blistered and bleeding. He had finished only three bags, two of which were rejected because of only five stitches to the inch. He was punished with half-rations.
The prison commandant liked to call him in for chats, challenging his beliefs.
‘You’re wasting your life away in here,’ he told Rab, ‘an educated man like you. And what for? You’ve made not the slightest bit of difference to the war effort. And what of your poor family? Don’t you think it’s unfair to put them through all this? You’re safe in here from any backlash, but I bet they’re facing hardship every day — extra hardship and vilification because of you. How are they surviving, do you know?’
Six months ago, Rab would have argued back, given as good as he got. His family supported him; COs were making a difference, he would not be tempted to give in. Instead he stayed mutely defiant and the commandant grew bored with baiting him. At the turn of the year, in deep snow and along treacherously icy roads, Rab was transported in a freezing prison van to yet another prison.
As he stamped around the frozen yard, chilled to the bone, eyes on the ground, someone coughed and bumped into him. He ignored it. On the second circle, it happened again. Rab glanced up in annoyance. A slight man with cropped hair stared at him with large hollowed eyes. He mouthed, ‘Chin up, comrade,’ and moved on.
Rab shuffled after him, in half recognition. As they circled a third time, he realised in astonishment who it was. As they passed the guard, he drew alongside and fell into step.
‘Laurie Bell?’ he whispered. The man gave a ghost of a nod. ‘You bugger!’ Rab exclaimed. The guard looked his way and he spluttered into a cough. With their backs to the guard, they slowed their pace long enough for another exchange. ‘Thought you’d be dead by now,’ Rab teased.
‘You look like you are,’ Laurie joked back. ‘Prison not suiting you?’
Rab grinned. The cold on his teeth made him wince, but it felt good. He could not remember the last time he had smiled. They had no further opportunity to talk. Rab was returned to his brown-washed cell with its stinking jerry can in the corner and flea-bitten mattress. He paced around the cell, no longer listless, glancing at the barred window and the grey smudge of sky beyond. The window was too high up to see out of, and the view would be of blank stone wall, but it reminded him there was a world beyond. Under that same sky his family and friends carried on living.
The brief encounter with Laurie had jolted him back to life. He could not wait until tomorrow when he would see his comrade again, perhaps glean some news as to where he had been and what he knew of outside. Laurie, the timid, terrified postman! Rab had worried he would never survive two minutes in the penal system, yet here he was, giving him renewed hope. It was Laurie, not he, who was the strong one. Rab felt humbled and grateful.
A pale glimmer of light flared at the window for a moment: a ray of winter sun. Impossibly, a bird - a blackbird? - trilled out of view. It was over in a moment, but Rab felt his heart squeeze in pain at the unexpected beauty.
Nature had ceased to matter to him these past months. He had grown used to a life without music or sunshine, just as he had grown used to going without tea, or sugar or tobacco. He thought he no longer missed them.
Crouching down on his hunkers, Rab bent his head. A sob rose up in his throat. They did matter, by God they did! Everything mattered. How he missed the world, missed walking the fell, arguing with his father, reading, music, his mother’s touch - how he missed Emmie and Barny! Rab buried his head in his arms, not caring if they watched him through the peephole of his cell door. He gave in to tears. He cried for what he had lost and regained, cried because he could feel joy and pain once more.
Chapter 28
That winter was the coldest Emmie could remember. The flat never seemed to warm up, and she felt constantly hungry and tired. Barny had a permanent runny nose and chesty cough, no matter how many clothes she put on him. They went to bed wearing everything they had, piling Tom’s old clothes on top of the covers, yet still she woke with a frozen nose and ice on the inside of the window.
She worried about Helen, who went down with influenza and took weeks to recover. For a while Emmie moved into China Street to nurse her and cook for Jonas and Peter, but Helen fretted that Barny or she would catch it too, and made them move back to Berlin Terrace.
Then March brought startling news. Jonas rushed in from work, brandishing the newspaper, his mouth pulled into a crooked smile.
‘Ey done it!’ he cried incoherently. ‘Gone - bloody - Tsar!’
Emmie took the paper from him while Helen made him sit down before he had another seizure.
‘Revolution in Russia,’ Emmie gasped. ‘They’ve got rid of the Tsar!’
‘What - I - said!’ Jonas laughed, catching Barny round the waist with his good arm and tickling him. The boy giggled and squealed to be free.
The mood in the village was jubilant for days. Socialist revolution had come to autocratic Russia without bloodshed. There was much talk about what it would mean. The Russians had declared the war over; they would no longer fight the Germans.
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