A Crimson Dawn

by Janet MacLeod Trotter

  Mrs Curran nodded agreement. Barnabas took control.

  ‘I’ll take his bag, thank you, Danny. Come along, let’s get Tom home.’

  Mr Attwater offered Tom’s companion a lift.

  ‘No, ta,’ he laughed. ‘Ganin’ to quench me thirst on the way home.’ He punched Tom playfully on the shoulder. ‘Meet up later, eh? Like I said, Blacksmith’s Arms on Croft Street.’

  Tom nodded, glancing defiantly at his family. ‘Aye, later, Danny lad.’

  With his friend gone, Tom’s bravado faltered. His eyes were suddenly bleary, his head sagged. Barny twisted and whinged in his arms.

  ‘Want Mammy,’ the boy whined.

  Tom gave Emmie a resentful look and thrust the boy back at her. ‘Have him, then.’ He swung an arm around his sister instead. She staggered at the sudden weight. Tom laughed as Barnabas steadied them. ‘Haway then, little sister, tell me all the gossip.’

  The rest trooped out of the station behind Tom and Louise. Emmie caught the look of dismay that passed between Tom’s parents. She was surprised Barnabas had not taken his son to task for being so openly drunk and in front of the minister. But nothing was said. All of them except Barny were pretending that Tom was the same. They climbed into the trap and squeezed up next to each other. Maybe it was high spirits and too much time on the slow journey north with Danny that was to blame.

  Before they were out of Newcastle, Tom was asleep on Louise’s shoulder, snoring softly. Emmie gazed at him. He looked peaceful and younger again, the redness in his eyes hidden, the tightness around his mouth eased. No one spoke as they jostled home. Just before they arrived in the village, Mrs Curran leaned forward and put a hand on Barny’s knee.

  ‘Isn’t it grand to have your daddy back, pet?’

  Barny did not answer. He continued to watch his sleeping father with the caution of a hare to a hunting dog. Emmie felt his small hands tighten on hers.

  ‘Course it is,’ Emmie answered for him.

  The trap had hardly pulled to a stop at the end of Denmark Street when Barny was scrabbling over the side. Half the street had come out to greet Tom. One of the neighbours lifted Barny down and the boy disappeared into the sea of legs and skirts.

  Tom woke with a start at the noise of cheering, his eyes and mouth wide with alarm. When he realised where he was, he relaxed and grinned. His father and the minister helped him down, Barnabas waving people aside.

  ‘The lad’s very tired - needs to rest before doing anything,’ he decreed. ‘Make way, make way.’

  The neighbours fell back, with only the occasional whispered comment about the state Tom appeared to be in. But they were forgiving. He was back from war and a son of Barnabas Curran could be excused much. Who were they to begrudge the lad a little tipple on his first day of leave?

  Emmie followed the small procession, peering out for Barny. She wished she had insisted to the minister that he drop them off at Berlin Terrace. Instinctively, she felt that these first few hours would be important to how the rest of Tom’s leave went. They needed time together, just the three of them, in their own home, getting to know each other again. But the Currans were not going to allow it.

  It was then that Emmie wondered what Louise and her parents might have written to Tom in their letters over the past months. Had they told him disapprovingly of her work for the Fellowship and the tribunals, of the petitions and leafleting outside chapels and churches? How much of her anti-war work did he know about? As they guided a weary Tom through the door, Emmie wondered if that was why Tom had stopped writing to her.

  Her husband was put to bed in Louise’s room and left to sleep. Emmie went out and found Barny playing in the street with the other children. The game was English vs Germans. Some of the older boys were arguing as to which side Barny should be allowed to join.

  ‘His da’s a hero,’ one said; ‘he’s on our side.’

  ‘Na, we’re not havin’ him,’ argued another, ‘his mam’s a Hun-lover.’

  ‘Aye, German spy!’

  ‘Traitor!’ One of them pushed Barny aside. As the boy fell back, Emmie rushed forward.

  ‘What d’you think you’re doing, picking on a bairn half your size?’ she demanded, hauling Barny to his feet.

  ‘Sorry,’ one of them muttered. The others stared at her sullenly.

  ‘You don’t know what you’re saying,’ Emmie said more gently. ‘You shouldn’t call people names. How can a lad of barely five years old be a traitor, eh? And I’m not a spy - unless you call interfering in your game spying.’ She smiled at them. ‘It’s just some of us in this village believe that war is a bad thing - and it’s the likes of you and Barny that suffer the most. There’s not enough food any more, is there? And I bet you all know someone who’s gone to war and not come back.’

  The children were nodding at her now.

  ‘It’s not fair on you bairns,’ Emmie went on. ‘That’s why lots of us think it’s time the fightin’ stopped. We’re not traitors - we love our country and our people - and we want to make it better for all of us, not just the few rich ones. So,’ she brightened, gazing round, ‘can Barny join in? Doesn’t matter which side he’s on, does it? You’re all friends when it comes down to it.’

  ‘He can be on my side,’ Jacky, one of the biggest boys, said at once. ‘Haway, Barny, over here. Have to run fast, mind.’

  Barny grinned and nodded, running over to join him.

  Emmie wandered back to the Currans’ to see if she could help prepare the tea.

  Later, Barny came running in the house, crying.

  ‘Did you fall over, pet?’ his grandma exclaimed over his bleeding knees.

  ‘P-pushed me!’ he sobbed.

  ‘Who did?’ Louise demanded, as the women crowded about him. ‘I’ll box their ears.’

  ‘Jacky’s m-mam.’

  ‘His mam?’ Emmie said in disbelief. She sat the boy on her knee while Mrs Curran fetched water to bathe his scrapes.

  ‘Tell us what happened, Barny,’ Louise encouraged.

  The boy gave a juddering sigh. ‘We was playing English and Germans. I was on the English. We got the Germans and put them in Jacky’s coal shed - and Jacky makes them come out one by one. And we have broomsticks and Jacky says shoot.’ Barny stopped, craning round to look at his mother.

  ‘Go on,’ she said gently.

  Barny said, ‘I drop the broomstick ‘cos I don’t want to play any more. And Jacky says I’m a yella conchie and his mam comes out and says I can’t play with him ‘cos …’ he gulped.

  ‘Cos what?’ Emmie asked, fearing the answer.

  ‘Cos you’re me mam,’ Barny mumbled.

  Emmie went cold. She had been at school with Jacky’s mam. They had sewn together at the Guild. Now, because of this war, this ordinary, sensible woman was teaching hatred and intolerance to her son. It was spreading among the children like a poison.

  Louise gave Emmie a resentful look. ‘See what you’re doing?’ she accused. ‘They’re pickin’ on the bairn ‘cos of your meddling.’

  ‘You’ve got to stop,’ Mrs Curran said fearfully.

  Emmie would not be cowed. She cuddled Barny. ‘Jacky’s mam was wrong to say and do what she did,’ she told her son firmly. ‘And you were right to put down your broomstick if you wanted to.’

  ‘No he wasn’t!’

  They all jumped in shock. Tom filled the doorway, his face creased and haggard.

  ‘You should’ve got yer stick and gone bang, bang, bang!’ he cried, lunging at them with a pretend rifle. He laughed at their gasps of horror. Barny burst into tears again.

  ‘Tom!’ Emmie admonished.

  ‘Haway, nipper,’ he commanded, ‘come to yer da.’

  Barny clung to Emmie, wide-eyed in alarm.

  ‘He’s had a scrape,’ Emmie explained.

  Tom regarded them with bloodshot eyes. ‘Don’t be so soft. Come on, Barny.’ He held out his arms impatiently.

  ‘Go to Dadda,’ Emmie coaxed. ‘He’s waited a long time for
a cuddle.’

  Barny slipped off her knee but went no further. Tom lurched forward and scooped him up, pressing him tightly to him.

  ‘Still your dadda’s little soldier, eh?’ he said, scraping his bristles against his son’s soft cheek. Barny squealed and pushed away. Tom laughed harder. ‘I see I’ll have to toughen you up, little nipper. Been with lasses too long. Mammy’s boy, are you?’

  Barny put a hand to Tom’s chin and shoved it away from his. ‘You’re scrapy like a matchbox.’

  They all burst out laughing at once. ‘Still bright as a button,’ Tom said in delight. ‘Got yer mam’s looks and yer da’s brains.’

  He pretended to drop Barny. The boy gasped in shock, then Tom gripped him tight, laughing. He did it again, but Barny struggled to be let free. He twisted round and gave Emmie a pleading look. She stood up.

  ‘Why don’t you have a wash before tea?’ she suggested. ‘Barny could help you fill the basin. He loves playing with water.’

  He gave her a dismissive look. ‘I’ll not have my son learnin’ women’s work. Our Louise can fill the tub.’ He held on to Barny. ‘Haway, nipper, we’ll gan and play dominoes in the parlour with Grandda till me bath’s ready. Get away from all these lasses.’

  He lurched out of the kitchen, Barny clutched in his arms. The small boy looked unhappily over his shoulder at his mother. She nodded at him in encouragement. If only they could get home and be alone, she wished fervently. Tom was just showing off in front of his mother and sister.

  She helped Louise fill the tub with hot water and set up a screen of towels over the clothes horse, then called Tom in.

  ‘I’ll gan round to Berlin Terrace and fetch clean clothes,’ she said quickly.

  ‘Empire Terrace,’ Mrs Curran corrected.

  Emmie ignored her and went. She took her time walking down the bank, breathing in the faint smell of new growth through the reek of coal fires. She loved the moment when spring took a grip on the fell, sprinkling the ditches with primroses. Back at the house, she banked up the fire and put a china ‘pig’ in the bed to warm the chilly sheets. Tonight Tom would lie beside her for the first time in over a year and Barny would have to stay in his own truckle bed. Emmie felt a surge of nervousness. She had grown used to life without Tom. Swiftly, she looked out a clean shirt, underdrawers and trousers, and returned to the Currans’.

  Tom’s mother had done her best to put on a special tea of boiled ham and vegetables, ginger steamed pudding and custard, tea and fruit cake. Emmie had contributed cabbage and potatoes from the MacRaes’ allotment. The cake she knew was saved from Christmas, the tea and ginger must have cost a fortune. All foreign foodstuffs were many times the pre-war price. Emmie now drank tea made from herbs that she could grow.

  Tom ate quickly as if time were short. He glanced up awkwardly from time to time.

  ‘What you all staring at?’ he asked defensively. ‘Got gravy on me chin or some’at?’

  ‘Just so happy to have you home, lad,’ his mother reassured.

  No one else ate half as much; they were no longer used to such big meals.

  ‘We’ll take a walk up to the Temperance Club afterwards,’ Barnabas decreed.

  Emmie’s heart sank. She glanced at Tom and for a moment thought he would protest. He shrugged.

  ‘If you want,’ he said, his mouth full.

  Barnabas nodded and began to list all the other events he had planned while his son was home.

  ‘There’s the party for the neighbours on Saturday, thanksgiving service Sunday, talk at the club Wednesday - thought you’d want to say a few words about your experiences - and the Attwaters want us round for tea on Friday—’

  Tom banged down his teacup with a clatter. ‘No! This is my leave, not yours. I’ll decide what I do.’ He glared at his father. ‘And I’m not givin’ any damn talk to the club - or anyone else!’

  They stared at him in astonishment. For once, Barnabas was lost for words.

  Tom stood up. ‘Haway, Emmie, we’re ganin’ home,’ he ordered.

  Emmie glanced at the others. ‘Thanks for a grand tea, Mrs Curran,’ she said, feeling sorry for her crestfallen mother-in-law.

  ‘Aye, Mam,’ Tom muttered, as he pulled on his jacket and picked up his kitbag.

  They trooped out, the Currans following them to the door in silence. Barny attempted to kiss them goodbye, but Tom yanked him by the hand.

  ‘Don’t be so soft,’ he snapped. ‘It’s not like you’re never ganin’ to see them again.’

  They set off without a word, Barny clamped to Tom’s free hand, running to keep up with his urgent pace.

  ‘Slow down, Tom,’ Emmie said. ‘You’ll trip him up.’ Tom ignored her and quickened his step. ‘Let me carry him,’ she offered, seeing the panic on Barny’s face.

  ‘Got legs, hasn’t he?’ Tom muttered. ‘Walk’ll do him good - he’s skinny as a runt.’

  ‘He walks plenty,’ Emmie replied. ‘We gan all over. But he’s skinny ‘cos we don’t have as much food these days. That meal your mam put on was special - we don’t normally see half that amount on our plates.’

  He bristled. ‘You get me pay. You say I don’t earn enough?’

  ‘I’m not saying that,’ Emmie replied. ‘I mean it doesn’t go half as far as it did a year ago - even six months ago. If it wasn’t for the MacRaes’ allotment—’

  He turned on her, pulling Barny to a stop. ‘Aye, I wondered how long it would take before their name came up,’ he snarled. ‘From what I hear you’re practically living round there. Why do I bother paying for a place to keep you in, eh?’

  Emmie flinched under his hostile stare. ‘The only time I’ve been there for more than a night was when Aunt Helen had the flu,’ she answered in a hushed voice, trying not to attract attention in the street. ‘I love our flat. Come on, let’s get Barny to bed.’

  But Tom did not want to be mollified.

  ‘And what’s all this about you helpin’ at tribunals? You tryin’ to shame me on purpose?’ he cried.

  ‘Let’s talk about this at home,’ Emmie cajoled.

  ‘We’ll talk about it now,’ he shouted. Children playing in the twilight stopped to stare. A couple of men standing on the corner smoking turned to watch. ‘You’ve been helpin’ the conchies, handing out them bloody leaflets again, takin’ my son down to that Settlement, haven’t you?’

  Emmie faced him. ‘Aye, I have.’

  ‘I’ll not have him mixin’ with them yellow-bellies,’ Tom thundered.

  ‘Those “yellow-bellies” are some of the bravest people I know,’ Emmie argued back, ‘and they’re the only people attempting to keep you alive by bringing this war to an end.’

  They stood glaring at each other.

  Suddenly Barny piped up. ‘No more shouting. I want to gan home.’

  Tom looked down at him angrily and Emmie thought he would shout at the child too. Suddenly, the fight went out of him. He sighed and hunched his shoulders. Without another word, he stomped off down the street, Barny in tow and Emmie following.

  Once at the house, Tom appeared to calm down. Emmie quickly got Barny ready for bed. When they came back into the kitchen, Barny in his nightclothes, Tom was swigging from a whisky bottle. He must have brought it in his kitbag.

  ‘Give Dadda a kiss,’ Emmie said, hiding her dismay, ‘and maybe he’ll tell you a bedtime story.’

  ‘No stories,’ Tom said firmly. But he put down the bottle and held out his arms. Barny hesitated then went across and craned up to kiss his father. Emmie felt a wave of relief. Tom was so volatile that any slight from Barny might trigger off another rant. Tom patted his son’s head and sent him off.

  ‘Keep to your own bed, mind,’ he warned. ‘No comin’ in Mammy and Dadda’s bed the night.’

  Emmie’s insides lurched. They would have to wait until Barny fell asleep before going to bed. She pulled on another cardigan and sat by the banked-up fire. Tom carried on drinking from the bottle.

  ‘Get the fire blazing,’
he chivvied.

  ‘We have to be careful with coal,’ Emmie said quietly. ‘We don’t get it free any more.’

  ‘My fault again,’ Tom said with a sneer.

  ‘People help us out,’ Emmie murmured.

  ‘Bloody MacRaes, no doubt.’

  Emmie looked at him. ‘I told you about Jonas having a stroke, remember. They have little to spare. And now Peter’s been called up—’

  ‘Peter?’ Tom spluttered.

  Emmie nodded. ‘Tried to appeal, but Hauxley and his cronies decreed he must go.’

  ‘By, they must be desperate if they’re takin’ that dafty.’

  She watched him drink. He was sunk in thought. Eventually he shook his head. ‘They shouldn’t have picked him. He’ll be scared out his wits - what’s left of them.’ He sounded quite sober, sorrowful even.

  Gently, Emmie asked, ‘Tell me what it’s been like for you, Tom. I’ve wondered so much, but you tell so little in your letters. I know it’s out of kindness—’

  ‘Kindness?’ He spat out the word. ‘I don’t write ’cos there’s nowt to write about.’ His look was savage. ‘Just one day like the next, tryin’ to stay alive, tryin’ to kill a few more bastard Germans.’

  Emmie tensed. He seemed full of a cold anger. Fruitless to argue with him - they stood on either side of a gaping chasm of belief. She tried to change tack.

  ‘What would you like to do tomorrow? We could take Barny up the fell.’

  ‘I want to sleep,’ Tom said impatiently.

  ‘Afterwards then,’ Emmie encouraged. ‘Barny would like—’

  ‘Shut up about bloody Barny,’ he shouted. She stared, open-mouthed. He went on aggressively, ‘Why’s everyone tellin’ me what to do? I’ll decide, all right? And I’m not ganin’ to any teetotal bloody party. If they want to see me they can come here. I want a bit peace and quiet in me own home. Is that too much to ask?’

  ‘No,’ Emmie answered quietly, ‘that’s what I want an’ all.’

  ‘Champion!’ he shouted and took a swig. The bottle was almost empty.

  ‘Let’s gan to bed, Tom,’ Emmie suggested.

  He looked wary. ‘You go, I’ll come in a minute.’