‘Can Mannie fix a seat for the bairn on the front?’ she asked Rab.
Between the two men they cobbled together a seat made of old saddle leather and half a basket, and lashed it to the handlebars. The old saddler coughed and spat in satisfaction as Emmie and Barny gave it a trial run down the lane. Barny screamed with delight and shouted, ‘Gain, a-gain!’
‘Who made this?’ Tom asked suspiciously that evening.
‘Mannie, the saddler in India Street - the one Rab lodges with,’ Emmie admitted boldly.
‘Did it cost owt?’
‘No, he just made it out of scraps from his workshop.’
To Emmie’s amazement, that was all Tom asked. He seemed pleased to have something for nothing.
Two days later, Emmie rode down to Gateshead with Barny. Wheeling in under the arch to the Settlement quad, she felt a lifting of her spirits at the familiar brick buildings and the chapel bell tolling midday. Mousy hobbled to greet her, calling for his wife to come and see. The cook bustled to the door of the kitchen and clamped the visitors in a floury hug. Barny was immediately led away to be fed. In the dining room, Emmie found her old friends gathered for lunch. She was shocked to see how Mabel had aged and could only walk with the aid of two sticks. But they were overjoyed to see her again.
Afterwards, Flora and Charles took Emmie to their flat. It smelled of Frau Bauer’s Turkish cigarettes. In the privacy of their sitting room, Emmie told them about Nell’s reappearance two years before. Flora looked harrowed.
‘No, she never came to see us. I’m thankful she’s still alive, but saddened that…’ her voice trailed off. ‘I’m sorry if she made trouble between you and Tom. Everything’s all right now, I trust?’
Emmie nodded. ‘He doesn’t know about me carrying a Friend’s card, mind. He wouldn’t approve. He doesn’t see why lasses want a say in things.’
‘He’s not the only one by far,’ Flora sighed.
‘And it’s not just men of his class,’ Charles said ruefully. ‘My father is as stubborn an opponent as you’ll ever find.’
‘How is Miss Sophie?’ Emmie asked.
‘Still defying my father,’ he smiled.
‘And refusing to marry Hauxley’s son until women get the vote,’ Flora added with a laugh.
Emmie plucked up courage to ask,’Do you think Rab lost his job because of Miss Sophie? Did she tell Major Oliphant about him?’
Charles and Flora exchanged uncomfortable glances. ‘I’m afraid she might have said too much in anger,’ Flora conceded.
Charles sighed. ‘It was more to silence my father’s pleas for her to marry Captain Hauxley. She said something rash about being in love with an anarchist and how they were going to run off together. Father, being the man he is, soon got out of her who the supposed lover was. It didn’t matter how much she then denied there had ever been a liaison, Rab was black-marked. He’ll never be employed by the company again, I fear.’
‘That’s why Charles offered him work here,’ Flora explained, ‘he felt so responsible.’
‘And because he’s such a good teacher,’ Charles added swiftly.
Emmie nodded. ‘He’s much happier here, I know that. I don’t think he’d gan back to work for your father if they offered him twice as much.’
‘No, you’re right,’ Flora agreed. ‘Money’s of little interest to Rab.’
As Charles played bagatelle with Barny, Flora, Emmie and Frau Bauer chatted about the likelihood of women gaining the vote at the next election.
‘We’re pushing at an open door now,’ Flora was convinced. ‘Think of recent successes at by-elections.’
‘This time next year, maybe you have ze vote, ja,’ Frau Bauer nodded.
‘And now I’m twenty-one I’ll be of voting age!’ Emmie cried.
Flora asked her, ‘Can you help out at the Durham Gala this year, Emmie? We need plenty of help with leaflets and selling Common Cause.’
Emmie hesitated. Tom would be against it. ‘I’ll have to see … I’d like to … but with Barny …’
Flora gave her a long look. ‘I know it’s difficult for many women with families - and husbands who don’t want them getting involved. But even just for half an hour while our speakers are on would be a great help. Try if you can.’
Emmie left, promising to meet up with them in Durham if she could.
***
June came and Emmie took Barny out as often as possible. They explored the woods and brought back sticks and cones and jam jars of caterpillars for Tom to admire. On Saturday afternoons the three of them would take a picnic tea and climb above Blackton Heights, Barny on Tom’s shoulders. Not once did they speak of the rumours of war that Emmie picked up from the MacRaes, nor did she pluck up the courage to ask his permission to leaflet in Durham for the Friends of Women’s Suffrage. They talked of Barny’s ability to kick a ball, what Mrs Curran would be serving up for Sunday dinner, Tom’s hopes of becoming a hewer on more pay by next year.
Emmie kept to herself the times she and Barny dropped by Mannie’s on the way back from the woods, to sit drinking tea with Rab and discuss what was going in the Messenger that week. While Barny played in the yard with a hobbyhorse made out of bits and pieces from the workshop, she listened to Rab’s passionate views, occasionally voicing her own.
‘If you feel that strongly about lasses like you signing up with the Friends, why don’t you write a piece for the Messenger?’ Rab challenged. ‘I’ll give you a free advertisement.’
Emmie exclaimed, ‘Aye, and the Currans would have a blue fit if they found out.’
‘I remember a time when you didn’t give two hoots what people thought - not even the Currans.’ Rab scrutinised her. ‘Where’s the lass that went on rallies and printed leaflets for the suffragettes?’
Emmie held his look. ‘She got wed and had a bairn.’
‘Doesn’t mean you can’t have opinions of your own,’ he answered.
‘No,’ Emmie sighed,’but it’s easier not to.’
Rab leaned close and covered her hand with his. ‘I warned you marriage was bondage for a lass, didn’t I?’
Emmie snatched away her hand. ‘Maybes it is for my generation - but not the next. Once lasses get a say in how things are run, we’ll change all that.’
‘Change it now,’ Rab urged. ‘Stand up to Tom and his father. Don’t leave it to women like Sophie Oliphant - they’re just seeking power for their own kind, not ordinary women like you and Mam. A new world order, that’s what we need! Turn the world on its head - the workers in charge, not ground down and old at forty.’
‘“Workers of the world unite - you have nothing to lose but your chains”,’ Emmie quoted drily.
‘Exactly,’ Rab said, jumping up and striding to the piano. He lifted the lid. ‘Listen to this.’
He began to play the same slow, haunting tune he had played before her marriage. As the music filled the room, Emmie felt her eyes prickle.
‘Schubert,’ Rab said, his blue eyes ablaze. ‘They should be playing it in the streets for all to hear - not just in the posh concert halls. When we change the world, Emmie, it’ll not just be for better pay and working conditions - we’ll have music and books and learning - so lads like Barny will have what Oliphant and Hauxley take for granted.’
Emmie’s heart hammered at his words. In Rab’s company she could believe in such a Utopia. Unable to speak, she hurried into the yard to fetch Barny, blinking away tears.
On the point of leaving, she turned to Rab and said, ‘I’ll write some’at for the newspaper. Long as you print it under a made-up name.’
He grinned at her in approval. ‘That’s my lass.’
***
No one knew who Artemis was who wrote in the Blackton Messenger, advocating women’s suffrage and urging pitmen’s wives to pledge themselves to the cause. The pieces were written in plain language and some said the author must be Radical Rab’s mother, known for her outspoken support. But Helen laughed it off, flattered but baffled at the
suggestion.
‘It’s someone better with words than me,’ she declared.
Then, one week in early July, she called on her son to find Emmie writing at his kitchen table. A flustered Emmie swore her to secrecy.
‘I’m amazed you’ve kept it secret this long,’ Helen laughed. ‘Folk cough one end of Crawdene and the other end catches cold.’
‘We come through the woods,’ Emmie blushed. ‘Barny gets to play with the hobbyhorse. It’ll have to stop once he’s talkin’ more.’
‘That won’t be long,’ Helen observed. ‘You can write at my house and I’ll bring it round if you want.’
Emmie nodded, not wanting to admit that these regular visits to Rab’s were the highlight of her week. She would miss them badly if Tom ever found out and put a stop to them.
With the writing of her column, Emmie found her confidence increase. One evening, while she and Tom were chatting about going to Durham Gala on the special train, she faced up to him.
‘We’ll follow the band with Barny,’ Tom said, ‘get a good spot on the racecourse for the speeches. You can help Mam and Louise in the temperance tent this year - I’ll keep an eye on the bairn if you like.’
‘I’m ganin’ to help Dr Flora for a bit,’ Emmie blurted out.
‘What d’you mean?’ Tom asked.
‘She’s speaking on Women’s Suffrage - needs leaflets handin’ out and pledge cards.’
Tom gawped at her. ‘You’re not doing that!’
‘I said I would. What’s the harm in it?’ Emmie replied.
‘Harm in it?’ Tom spluttered. ‘It’s lasses gettin’ above themselves.’
‘Most people don’t think like that any more,’ Emmie argued. ‘Labour and the pitmen’s leaders are backing us now. Plenty Liberals do too. It’s only the Government—’
‘Currans have always voted Liberal,’ Tom snapped, ‘and the party’s against such nonsense. God made Adam in charge of Eve. It’s just human nature.’
‘And it’s human nature to want the best for your family, for your bairns. Lasses should have a say in such things. We’re fightin’ for all working people,’ Emmie insisted.
‘You sound like a MacRae,’ Tom scoffed. ‘I’ll not have you makin’ a fool of yourself at the Big Meetin’.’
‘And you sound like one of the bosses,’ Emmie said in frustration.
Tom leaped up and grabbed her arm. ‘Don’t you go against me, or I’ll take me belt to yer.’
‘Ow, Tom, you’re hurtin’ me.’ She tried to shake him off.
Barny looked up in alarm. ‘Mammy!’
Tom quickly let go. ‘Do you want to spoil Barny’s first Big Meetin’?’ he accused.
‘I just want to hand out a few pledge cards for half an hour.’ Emmie spoke as calmly as possible.
His eyes narrowed in suspicion. ‘Have you got one of these cards?’
She coloured. ‘Aye, I have.’
‘Give it here,’ he demanded. When she hesitated, he marched to the pegs by the door and started searching her coat pockets, throwing bits of string, handkerchiefs, scraps of paper, pencil stubs on the floor. Any minute he might discover some scribbled notes to do with the Messenger. Emmie sprang after him.
‘It’s in the kitchen drawer,’ she said, pulling it open and scrabbling for it under matches and candles. She held it out to him. He snatched it and stared at her carefully written name, Emmeline Curran.
‘How dare you use the name of Curran on such a thing?’ he shouted. Maddened, he tore it into tiny pieces and threw them on the fire.
Emmie watched in anger and dismay. She bit back the retort that it made no difference what he did; she had signed and her name was counted. He could stop her campaigning, she thought bitterly, but he could not stop the momentum that hundreds of thousands of women had begun. Without another word, Emmie picked up Barny and marched into the bedroom to dress him for bed. Burrowing her face into his warm, soft neck, she kissed him fiercely.
‘I won’t let you become like the other Curran men,’ she whispered. ‘I swear to it!’
They went on the early train, Emmie banishing the ugly argument from her mind and resigned to a day of doing as she was told. Soon the excitement of being in the grand medieval city, of following the thousands of pit folk with their hundreds of bands and banners, took hold. It was a day when working people took over the narrow streets of the town (the shops boarded up in fear at their coming), and marched to the riverside to listen to their leaders speak. Emmie felt a surge of pride to be part of the sea of people who poured down the narrow streets behind the massed brass bands, the colourful banners flapping like huge sails above them. Jonas held one of the banner ropes, the longest-serving official of the Crawdene lodge.
Arriving at the racecourse, where the bandsmen laid down their instruments and families picnicked, Emmie helped her mother-in-law spread out their tongue sandwiches and slabs of pork pie. Not far away, the MacRaes sat with others from the Clarion Club. She could not see Rab; he was probably among the crowds, selling copies of the Messenger.
Guiltily she craned for a sight of the women’s platform. It was on the far side of the field, bedecked in the red, white and green bunting of the North East Society of Women’s Suffrage.
Suddenly, Sam stood up and stretched. ‘Haway, Tom, we’ll miss the speeches.’ He turned to Louise and winked. ‘Why don’t you and Emmie take Barny for a swing on the shuggy boats?’
The men went off to listen to the miners’ leaders.
‘We’ll meet you in the temperance tent, Mam,’ Louise said, taking Barny by the hand.
Swinging the little boy between Louise and herself, Emmie could hardly believe that slipping away from Tom had been so easy. They made towards the far side of the field and the rows of amusement stalls, coconut shies and fortune-tellers. As they queued to go on the shuggy boats, Emmie strained to hear what they were saying on the women’s platform.
Louise nudged her. ‘Gan and have a listen. I know that’s what you want.’
Emmie gave her a startled look.
Louise laughed. ‘Sam’s in favour, even if my family isn’t. He told me to get you over here while he kept an eye on Tom and Father.’
Emmie grinned and squeezed her friend’s arm. ‘Ta, Lou. You’re a canny friend.’
She slipped off to listen to Dr Flora and Frau Bauer, and a visiting speaker, Catherine Marshall, who spoke with passion of their successes.
‘It may be the militants prepared to go to prison who grab the headlines,’ she cried, ‘but it is the dedication of the ordinary thousands who will turn the tide. Year after year, we have marched, petitioned and walked from the provinces to London. We have argued our case on the hustings, in hundreds of town halls and out on the streets. And we are being listened to! The new dawn is coming; the tide is on the turn!’
Emmie came away with a new optimism, scribbling down what she could remember on a scrap of paper before she forgot Marshall’s words.
‘What’s that you’re writing?’ Louise asked in curiosity.
Emmie stuffed it in a pocket. ‘Nowt important.’
Louise gave her a knowing look. ‘Nowt to do with writing for the Messenger, then?’
Emmie looked at her friend in alarm. ‘The Messenger?’
Louise smiled in triumph. ‘I’m right, aren’t I? Sam let it out that he knew who Artemis was. I put two and two together. MacRaes aren’t very good at keepin’ secrets.’
‘You’ll not tell—’ Emmie gasped.
‘Course I won’t,’ Louise promised. ‘Good on you, I say. Anything that’ll make things better for lasses. I’m sick of being at Father’s beck and call and not allowed to speak me mind on owt - just like Mam. You don’t know what it’s like, Emmie.’
‘I do.’ Emmie pulled a face. ‘Tom’s gettin’ more like his da by the day.’
Louise laid a sympathetic hand on her shoulder. ‘Still, you’ve got your own place. I sometimes think me and Sam will never get away. It’s the only thing we argue a
bout - enough money to have a couple of rooms to ourselves. Sam thinks Father should help us out, but I know he never will; he’s that tight with money. And Sam’s beginning to argue back more than he used to. I tell him to work harder like Tom and get a hewer’s job, then maybe we can get out and start a family …’
Emmie looked at her friend. ‘I didn’t realise it was so difficult. I’m really sorry, Lou.’
The next week, Artemis’s column gave a full account of the women’s speeches at the gala. Emmie bought a copy, intending to send it to Dr Flora. Tom found it in the kitchen.
‘Where’s this come from?’ he demanded.
Emmie looked up from rolling pastry. ‘I bought it.’
‘What d’you do that for?’ he asked, horrified. ‘It’s anarchist rubbish - dangerous, me father says.’
‘Have you ever read it?’ Emmie asked.
‘No, but I don’t have to,’ Tom blustered. ‘It’s ungodly. Everyone knows Radical Rab wants to start a revolution - kill all the bosses in their beds - and not just the bosses, but respectable types like us and the minister.’
‘He wants nothing of the sort,’ Emmie said, trying not to laugh. ‘Revolution yes, but social not bloody. Read it, Tom. There’s all sorts of different opinions in it.’
He eyed her suspiciously. ‘How do you know so much about it? Have you read this before?’
‘Aye, I have.’
‘Well, you’re not spending my wages on this filth,’ Tom declared. ‘It’s ganin’ on the fire.’
She watched him tear it up and feed it to the fire, her words about Marshall turning to black ash. Emmie bent her head and continued thumping with the rolling pin, venting her frustration on the pastry. Tom was so narrow-minded he would not even consider reading the newspaper, just because his father had censored it. Well, she would not be censored! Emmie determined she would carry on writing for the Messenger for as long as it took to win the vote. She quelled any fears about what Tom might do if he ever discovered she wrote for it.
Chapter 14
The talk of war came suddenly in late July, like the hot summer weather. Only those handful who had followed events in Europe were not taken unawares. Nobody could really believe it possible.
THE GREAT WAR SAGAS: Box set of 2 passionate and inspiring stories: A Crimson Dawn and No Greater Love Page 15