THE GREAT WAR SAGAS: Box set of 2 passionate and inspiring stories: A Crimson Dawn and No Greater Love

by Janet MacLeod Trotter

  ‘Why should we fight the Germans’?’ Tom asked his father in bafflement. ‘We’ve nowt to do with the carry-on in the Balkans.’

  ‘The Liberal Government won’t allow it.’ Barnabas was adamant. ‘Grey will do his best to pour oil on troubled waters.’

  Emmie itched to point out that the Foreign Secretary had bound them up in alliances with France and Russia that would drag them into war if their allies were attacked. This she knew from Rab. But she was not allowed to hold her own opinions, especially ones that differed from the Currans’.

  When she visited the MacRaes, they talked excitedly of plans for a peace rally in Blackton the following Sunday. Rab was to be one of the speakers. They thought Charles Oliphant was to address the rally too.

  ‘All over the country, there’ll be marches and church services against war,’ Jonas told her. ‘Nobody wants this.’

  ‘Aye,’ Helen agreed, ‘the Guild are marching with the suffrage societies. Will you come with us, pet?’

  ‘I’ll try,’ Emmie said.

  At chapel, Mr Attwater announced the peace march.

  ‘We must send a message to our Government that we do not want war. We must urge restraint. Remember the commandment, Thou shall not kill. All those wishing to join the march should assemble outside the Co-operative Hall after morning service. I can offer transport for those unable to walk all the way to Blackton.’

  Emmie was greatly encouraged by the minister’s support. If the leaders of the Church were behind them, then the politicians might listen.

  It was discussed around the Currans’ table at Sunday dinner.

  ‘The lodge are sending a delegation,’ Barnabas confirmed. ‘But I’ll not march on the Sabbath.’

  Tom looked torn. Emmie knew he liked the idea of a trip out, somewhere they could take Barny rather than be cooped up indoors on a summer’s afternoon.

  It was Sam who suggested they go.

  ‘If the union supports the rally then some of us should gan,’ he argued. ‘We can take a picnic - a canny afternoon for the bairn.’

  Emmie yearned to say she agreed, but knew this might provoke the Currans to say no. The words had to come from Tom. She gave him a look of appeal.

  ‘Aye,’ Tom nodded, ‘and the minister’s in favour.’

  Barnabas grunted. ‘That young man has some strange notions about what’s proper and what isn’t.’

  They all knew he was referring to when Mr Attwater had encouraged Nell to sing in the chapel.

  ‘Please, Father,’ Louise pleaded.

  Finally Barnabas nodded in assent. ‘As long as you conduct yourselves respectably.’

  That week’s Messenger carried a message from Artemis urging all women to take their families on the peace rally.

  ‘It is women who take the brunt of any war. Do we go through the pain of birth and spend years nurturing our sons just to see them sent off to war as cannon fodder? Support the peace march. We have no say in Parliament, but we can vote with our feet next Sunday.’

  The day arrived fine and blustery. Emmie was overjoyed at the sight of so many villagers gathering in the main street behind an array of banners, many home-made. The Guild was there, the lodge, the Clarion Club and Jehovah’s Witnesses. The socialist Sunday school had a banner alongside the Methodists, and the Suffrage Society rubbed shoulders with the Crawdene brass band.

  Emmie waved at Helen as they moved off, Barny riding high on Tom’s shoulders. She felt the same stirrings of solidarity as she had a month ago at the gala. If this was being replicated across the land - across the Continent - then their rulers could not make war.

  The nearer they drew to Blackton, the bigger the crowds grew. People had tramped for miles around, from smaller pit villages to converge on the larger one. They congregated in the Board School playing field where a makeshift platform had been hastily erected. Barny ran around with the other children as the adults rested and ate their picnics.

  Tom was in good humour and bantering with Sam. Louise lay back, sunning herself in the grass. Barny was attempting to play a big drum and laughing in delight at the sound. It was all so light-hearted that Emmie could not imagine they could be on the brink of war with people just across the North Sea.

  The speakers began to assemble on stage and people drew nearer to hear.

  Charles Oliphant began, his fair tangle of hair whipping across his ruddy face, still boyish-looking in his late thirties. His words wafted into the wind.

  ‘… the Christian way is the way of peace … there is no just war … pull back from the brink … our German brothers in Christ not our enemy … we are all God’s people in the eyes of the Lord …’

  He was given polite handclaps, many curious to see the son of the mighty coal-owner dressed in faded tweeds like a down-at-heel gamekeeper.

  ‘Bet the major’s not turned up to hear him,’ Tom scoffed. ‘Looks a right state.’

  ‘Na,’ Sam chuckled. ‘Boss probably hopes there’ll be a war so he gets conscripted.’

  ‘Sam!’ Emmie chided. ‘He’s a canny man - married me and Tom, don’t you forget.’

  Louise sat up, her face anxious. ‘There won’t be conscription, will there?’ They all exchanged glances.

  ‘Course not,’ Sam assured. ‘They only do that in countries with despots.’ He swung an arm around his wife and kissed her boldly. Emmie’s heart twisted. Tom had not shown her such open affection in a long time.

  Flora followed her husband on the platform, speaking for the women’s movement and their international friends. She introduced Frau Bauer.

  ‘There are many like her who are working for peaceful change. We women do not want war between our men. It will undo all our efforts over the last few years to gain justice and equality. We have no quarrel with Gemany - she is a natural friend of England. Our government should be fostering friendship with Germany, not war.’

  Two other speakers followed, their voices too faint in the strong breeze to be heard. The crowd was growing restless, drifting away. Then Emmie heard Rab’s strong voice boom out and felt the back of her neck prickle.

  ‘Haway,’ Sam said, ‘let’s get nearer to hear.’

  Rab strode up and down the stage, no notes to prompt his passionate denouncement of war.

  ‘This is not our fight! This is a scrap between the imperialists, the money-grabbing, land-grabbing capitalist class. They are the ones who start wars for their own ends, but we are the ones they use to do their fighting! The working classes on both sides fighting the bosses’ battles, while they sit back and count all the money they make out of war. Do you want to be dragged into war just because our government has made a pact with a despotic tsar? Course you don’t!’

  Some of the crowd shouted out in agreement. He had caught their attention.

  He shook his fist in the air, his bearded face full of urgency, exhorting them like a prophet.

  ‘But they cannot fight their wars if we refuse to fight - if our comrades in Germany refuse to fight, if our Russian brothers refuse to fight. Give them the lead and they will have the courage to follow. Stop the war!’

  There was a burst of applause. Suddenly, Emmie caught sight of Barny. Somehow he had clambered on to the stage and was throwing his arms around Rab’s legs.

  ‘Wab! Wab!’ he giggled.

  Rab swung him up and tickled him. Tom looked dumb-struck.

  ‘What the hell’s he doing with Barny?’

  Before Emmie could stop him, Tom was shoving his way through the crowd to the stage. He held up his arms.

  ‘Give him o’er,’ he ordered.

  Rab smiled and handed the boy down. Tom returned, his face thunderous.

  ‘What’s he sayin’ about Rab and grandfather clocks?’

  Emmie went puce. ‘Must be some’at he sings to him.’

  ‘Sings to him?’ Tom was indignant. ‘When does he sing to him?’

  ‘When I gan round to China Street on Friday evenings.’ Emmie tried to make light of it. ‘Barny’s that qui
ck at pickin’ things up.’

  ‘Didn’t know Rab was there. You’ve never said,’ Tom accused.

  ‘He isn’t often,’ Emmie said, aware that people were beginning to stare.

  ‘I’ll not have him fillin’ the bairn’s head with his rubbish.’ Tom was shouting now. ‘You’re not to take him round there if that anarchist’s gannin’ to be there, you hear me?’

  Sam and Louise arrived beside them, their glances embarrassed. Emmie knew they would say nothing about the Messenger, but it worried her that a slipped word might land her deeper in trouble.

  ‘Haway, Tom,’ Sam cajoled, ‘don’t be hard on the lass. All Rab did was pick the bairn up. Let’s gan back, eh?’

  ‘Aye, it’s getting chilly,’ Louise agreed, hastily packing up the picnic.

  They tramped back to Crawdene, a more subdued band than had set out a few hours earlier.

  As she lay in bed that night, wrestling with whether she should give up writing for the Messenger, Tom reached for her hand.

  ‘Emmie,’ he said awkwardly, ‘I’m sorry for shoutin’ at you earlier - about the bairn.’

  She shifted to look at him in the half-dark, his expression contrite.

  ‘It’s this talk of war - puts me on edge,’ he continued. ‘Then the sight of that man holding our Barny in his arms - and the bairn lookin’ all happy - it made me jealous, like.’

  Emmie puzzled. ‘Barny’s your son - he could never love anyone like his daddy. Why should you be jealous of Rab?’

  Tom gazed at her for a long time before answering. "Cos of the regard you have for him - have always had. Remember that time you told me in the woods how Rab was your favourite MacRae? I’ve never forgotten that, Emmie.’

  Emmie went hot with embarrassment. ‘I was just a bairn - and the question wasn’t fair. I just said owt to get me ribbon back.’

  Tom drew her hand up to his lips and kissed it. ‘Me sister tells me I’m too hard on you - too possessive. But it’s ‘cos I love you. Can’t bear the thought of you being with any other lad - even if it’s just for a bit crack. It’s just the way I am, lass.’ He squeezed her hand. ‘Tell me I’m being daft and that there’s nowt ganin’ on between you and Radical Rab.’

  Emmie’s heartbeat was drumming in her ears. She thought guiltily of the times she had spent at Mannie’s place working, chatting, laughing and arguing with Rab. But even if she had wanted more from Rab, he would not have given it. To him, she was the same young Emmie he had grown up with; teased, played with, protected and ignored. He had up and left Crawdene and her for over two years. There had been a music teacher in Glasgow for whom he still grieved, she was sure of that.

  Emmie tried to keep the tremor out of her voice. ‘If you mean, is there more than childhood friendship between me and Rab, then no, there’s nowt ganin’ on - never will be.’

  Tom let out a sigh and pulled her towards him. He kissed her on the lips.

  ‘You make me that happy, lass, you and Barny,’ he smiled. ‘I never want to lose you. Don’t know what I’d do if—’

  ‘Don’t talk daft.’ Emmie silenced him with a kiss back. She felt differently towards him when he was tender and loving like this, like the old Tom of their courting days. She knew that the other Tom, who bossed her around in front of others, was all about impressing his father and his marras that he was a firm husband and a true Curran.

  Through the night, she held on to the Tom that she loved. This was the man she had chosen and the one she had to make her life with, whatever happened in the future.

  It was two days later that the news reached the village. Britain was at war with Germany and her allies.

  Chapter 15

  Flora worried about Charles. He worked tirelessly, a lone voice preaching against the war in a town that was filling up with men in uniform and Union flags. So many had flocked to the recruiting stations, hastily set up in halls and hotels, that they were issued with armbands to show they had volunteered until enough uniforms could be provided. During those first feverish days of patriotism, mobs of young men smashed the windows of German pork butchers and grocers, baying for them to come out while their families cowered in upstairs rooms.

  Alerted by one of the dockers, Charles rushed round late at night to the Werners’ in Olive Street to find their delicatessen a sea of glass and their stock raided. Mrs Werner, a Durham woman, was calming her children while her bewildered husband stood among the debris.

  ‘But they are my customers,’ he said, throwing his arms wide with incomprehension, ‘my neighbours. Why do they do this?’

  Charles could offer no reason to the grocer who sang in the Settlement choir every Sunday. His children came to the Sunday school. Every year, the Werners donated the ingredients for the Christmas pudding and sweets for the poorest families. All Charles could do was help them clear up the mess and offer a bed for the night in case the mob returned.

  Flora organised bedding and gave Mrs Werner a sedative to help her sleep, but the tearful children kept them all awake. After a couple of days in hiding, the Werners returned to their home, but few people dared to be seen going into the German’s shop and business rapidly dwindled. A week later, Mr Werner was detained as an enemy alien. His frightened wife boarded up the shop and fled with her family to cousins in Durham.

  While student helpers at the Settlement enlisted and left, Charles drove himself to work ever harder. The docks teemed with shipping and their soup kitchen was overrun with an influx of merchant seamen and migrant workers. As well as her medical work, Flora was preoccupied with helping families left to cope without money by their wage earners abruptly joining up.

  Amid all the dislocation, Flora received a despairing letter from Frau Bauer. She rushed to find Charles.

  ‘Maria’s been arrested in London!’ she gasped, waving the letter at him. ‘They’re threatening to deport her or keep her in prison.’

  Charles took the letter and read it, his face grim. ‘Dear God . . .’

  ‘Can’t they tell the difference between a spy and a respected academic?’ Flora blazed. ‘She’s an Anglophile, for goodness’ sake! Spends as much time here as in Germany. Maria has nothing to do with this ridiculous escapade - quite the opposite. Can’t they use their common sense?’

  Charles sighed. ‘Common sense was the first casualty of this war, as far as I can see.’

  ‘We must do something.’ Flora grew more agitated. ‘They can’t just throw her out of the country. There’s no guarantee she’d get safely back to Munich - she could be blown up at sea or attacked on the road—’

  ‘We’ll send a telegram right away,’ Charles reassured, rushing to hold his wife. She hugged him, wishing they could awaken from the deepening nightmare.

  They wrote letters to officials, trying to find out more about Maria Bauer’s case, and sent a friend from Toynbee House, a settlement in London’s East End, to visit Maria and take her food and clothing.

  Then an unexpected summons came to Charles from Blackton Heights.

  ‘My father wishes to see me,’ he told Flora, tugging nervously at his wavy hair.

  Flora was impatient. ‘To tell you off for speaking at the Blackton rally, no doubt. Don’t go.’

  Charles shook his head. ‘No, it’s about Sophie.’

  ‘Is anything wrong?’ Flora asked quickly. Charles shrugged. Flora said at once, ‘I’ll come with you.’

  They made hasty arrangements to visit the Heights the following day, borrowing the Runcies’ pony and trap. Flora felt guilty that they had seen nothing of Charles’s sister for months, only reading about her suffragette protests and letters in the daily newspapers. Perhaps her health was suffering from overwork.

  But when they arrived at Blackton Heights, Sophie came bounding out to meet them, flushed with excitement.

  ‘It’s so good to see you!’ she cried, almost pulling Charles from the carriage.

  He beamed in relief. ‘We thought something awful had happened—’

  ‘No, silly,’
Sophie laughed. ‘Didn’t Papa tell you? Oh, come on. We’re all on the terrace - even Mama - the weather’s so glorious.’ She kissed Flora warmly. ‘I’m glad you both came.’

  Charles and Flora exchanged encouraging glances as they handed over the trap to the footman and followed Sophie round the side of the ivy-covered mansion. Flora’s heart sank to see the Hauxleys seated around the tea table. The MP and his son had already organised local recruitment drives with military bands around the area, and she part-blamed their jingoistic appeals for the ugly attacks in Gateshead. Arthur Hauxley was sitting in his captain’s uniform. He rose to greet Charles.

  Charles kissed his mother and shook hands with his father and neighbours.

  ‘Well, tell him,’ the major ordered, before the pleasantries were over.

  Sophie smiled and went to stand by Arthur. To Flora’s surprise, she slipped an arm through his and announced, ‘We’re engaged to be married. Arthur proposed the day after war was declared - and I accepted.’

  Charles and Flora stared at them in astonishment. Charles managed to stutter, ‘That’s wonderful. Congratulations.’ He shook Arthur’s hand again.

  Arthur beamed. ‘Never thought she’d say yes.’

  ‘We want to marry straight away,’ Sophie declared, ‘before Arthur has to leave.’

  ‘September,’ Arthur added.

  ‘Just a small do for family,’ Sophie insisted.

  ‘Small do be damned,’ the major laughed. ‘My only daughter finally sees sense and marries an officer of my old regiment - we’ll invite the whole county!’

  ‘No, we won’t, Papa.’ Sophie was firm. ‘I’ll not have us squandering the harvest in such a time of national need. Arthur and I want a service in Ongarfield and a small luncheon here.’

  ‘With a guard of honour,’ Arthur added.

  The major eyed his son. ‘So if you can drag yourself away from that mission for a few hours, your sister and mother will be very happy.’

  ‘Of course,’ Charles agreed.