‘I wasn’t spying,’ Alice said indignantly. ‘I knocked and you answered. I’ve been trying to speak to you or Felicity all week, but you’ve deliberately avoided me.’
‘What do you want to know?’ Poppy asked tensely, lighting up another cigarette.
‘You can’t stay here any longer,’ Alice said, determined to be business like.
Poppy dropped into a yellow brocade chair. ‘Felicity doesn’t want me to go. I’ll stay as long as she wants me here.’
‘That’s not the point.’
‘And you’re going to tell me what is?’ Poppy blew smoke at her.
‘Yes.’ Alice was brisk. ‘You’ve come between Felicity and Herbert. Your relationship with Tish - you don’t seem to realise the upset it’s causing.’
‘Who’s upset apart from dreary old Herbert?’
Alice felt annoyed. ‘He may be dreary to you - but he’s still very fond of his wife.’
‘Fond? He’s fonder of his damned hunting dogs!’
Alice tried a different tack. ‘What about your husband?’
Poppy let out a harsh laugh. ‘John doesn’t care a fig what I do or where I go, just as long as I put in the odd appearance at diplomatic functions. He tells everyone I go north for the air, for my delicate health.’
‘Well, I’m sorry you’re not happy, but that’s no reason to make things difficult for Herbert.’
Poppy clenched her cigarette and glared. ‘Good God, do you Pearsons ever think of anyone but yourselves? You haven’t the first idea about being stuck in a loveless marriage. But I know I’m the only person who can make Tish happy. We’ve always been close, ever since school. We love each other! But I don’t imagine you would understand that because you seem incapable of love. What good are all your great causes if you can’t feel love?’
Alice flinched under Poppy’s scornful look, winded by the accusation. Was she really so unfeeling? Did she not care passionately for her fellow suffragettes and would she not do anything for them if asked? A small voice of dissent niggled at the back of her mind. She hadn’t supported Emily in her desire to protest at the launch, the voice taunted her; she’d prefer her to demonstrate far away in Epsom than in her father’s shipyard. It struck Alice forcefully that she was a Pearson first and all else was secondary. That’s why Poppy Beresford had to go before a scandal broke to harm the family, Herbert’s political career, the business.
Controlling her anger, she said, ‘A scandal would be harmful to both you and Felicity. Until the rights of married women are improved, you are both dependent on your husbands for your survival. Remember that.’
‘You’re threatening me, aren’t you?’ Poppy said, agitated.
‘I’m pointing out the facts.’
To her embarrassment, Poppy began to sob. Alice hesitated, not knowing whether to try and comfort the distressed woman. She must not weaken now, the situation was far too volatile to allow Poppy Beresford a reprieve.
‘I’ll arrange for you to be taken into Newcastle tomorrow. I think it best you should be gone before Herbert and my mother return.’
Poppy gave her a murderous look through her tears but did not protest. Alice turned and fled from the twilit bedroom. She rushed downstairs again, calling for Rosamund. Leading the eager poodle out of the house, she escaped into the chill gardens, willing the darkness to swallow up her revulsion and shame at what she had done.
In the morning, she watched from her mother’s upstairs drawing room as the footman loaded up one of her father’s cars with Poppy’s cases and strapped a trunk on the back. Rosamund barked nervously at the signs of travel. Finally, Poppy appeared with an ashen-faced Felicity at her side. They walked arm in arm, until Poppy disengaged her friend gently and kissed her farewell. Alice looked away but heard Felicity crying as Poppy closed the car door. Suddenly Alice could bear the anguish no longer and raced downstairs to comfort her sister-in-law as the car rolled away down the drive. Alice held out her hands.
‘I’m sorry, Tish, but I promised Herbert ...’
Felicity flinched as she came near. ‘You’ve taken away the only person I’ve ever loved, truly loved,’ she said in a flat voice, ‘and I can never forgive you.’ She turned away and hurried up the stone steps, disappearing into the mansion without a backward glance.
Alice felt herself going cold inside. She had chosen Herbert’s side against Felicity although she was much fonder of her sister-in-law. Put to the test, she would always support her family and its business, she realised now. But she knew by doing so she had created an enemy in Felicity.
Alice hurried upstairs again to prepare her own swift departure, yearning to be back once more in Newcastle among people who did not despise her.
Chapter 9
The buzzer blared the afternoon release. Maggie, emerging in relief, caught sight of Rose Johnstone waiting for her and her heart sank.
‘The meeting’s tomorrow,’ Rose tersely told Maggie outside Pearson’s towering iron gates.
‘Not here,’ Maggie hissed, glancing at an inquisitive Eve Tindall.
‘Then where?’ Rose answered impatiently. ‘I haven’t seen you for three weeks. You’ve not been to the office, you’ve not been on the streets helping - ’
‘Shh!’ Maggie ordered. ‘I’ll come with you now to the park where we can talk.’ She raised her voice. ‘See you in the morning, Eve.’
Her colleague nodded and they were soon separated in the flood of workers pouring out of the factories. They walked in silence at Rose’s brisk pace until they gained the entrance to Daniel Park. Maggie thought how tame and orderly its flowered borders looked compared to the open meadows she had walked with George this past month. The thought made her glance guiltily at Rose, as if she could guess the reason for her truancy from newspaper selling.
Rose sat down abruptly on a park bench and Maggie followed suit like a meek schoolgirl.
‘I’ve even been to your home,’ Rose said ‘Susan told me you were courting, that you didn’t have time for the movement anymore.’
‘That’s rubbish.’ Maggie was indignant. ‘Our Susan just likes to stir up trouble for me.’
‘So you’re not courting George Gordon?’ Rose asked.
Maggie blushed. ‘We’ve been out together, to concerts and that. He likes Mozart and he reads history and poetry.’ George’s breadth of interests had been a revelation to Maggie. His words echoed in her mind, ‘One day, lass, Mozart and Handel will be for all the people, not just those born with money. When the workers run the world, we’ll throw the concert halls open to everyone with lugs to hear.’
‘So should I tell Emily Davison that you’re too busy to meet her with all this cultural activity?’ Rose was scathing.
‘Don’t be daft. The movement comes first.’
Rose gave her a searching look from behind her spectacles. Suddenly she put out a hand and covered Maggie’s.
‘I’m sorry,’ she said more gently. ‘It’s none of my business if you’re courting this lad. I’ve just been feeling left out and sorry for myself. If you’re happy, then so am I.’
‘I am happy,’ Maggie admitted, ‘but I’ve been selfish cutting myself off from you and the others these past weeks. I haven’t let myself think about it.’
Rose sighed. ‘You don’t have to go ahead with whatever scheme Miss Davison has planned for you. No doubt it’ll be dangerous. There are others who can undertake the task. I don’t want you risking everything when you’ve worked so hard to get where you are and support your family the way you do. If George can offer you happiness and security, I won’t blame you for taking it’.
Maggie was surprised by Rose’s words and allowed her thoughts to drift for a moment. It would be so easy to fade away from the movement now. She was content in her job, earning enough money for small luxuries above their basic needs, and it would mean no more carping from her family about her involvement in politics. Above all, there would be nothing to stand in the way of her blossoming friendship with George; she coul
d quietly cut the cords of loyalty that bound her to this futile cause for women’s suffrage. For was it not futile? Had George himself not told her that the only way to improve the lot of working women was to empower working men who would look after their interests?
Seduced by such thoughts, Maggie’s gaze strayed across the park, aware of the families enjoying the sunshine, picnicking in the fresh air while their children played with hoops and gourds. For the first time she entertained the idea of a husband and children of her own one day. Then, with a start, she realised that the man walking past her, grumbling at his wife, was familiar. He was berating her for some domestic imperfection, while she followed, her face resigned.
‘That’s the man who tore up me newspaper!’ Maggie gasped. ‘Do you remember, last month, in Newcastle?’
‘So it is,’ Rose confirmed.
And suddenly it was brought home to Maggie that the working man could not be relied upon to put his womenfolk’s interests alongside his own. Whatever women wanted, Maggie realised, they would have to fight for themselves and she must not shirk her part in the battle.
‘What time’s the meeting with Miss Davison?’ Maggie said at last. She saw the relief in Rose’s face.
‘Come to my house at three o’clock tomorrow,’ her friend smiled.
They gripped hands for an instant and then stood up, each departing swiftly through separate gates into the maze of terraced housing.
***
When Maggie met Emily Davison that Saturday afternoon, her doubts dissolved. There was something inspiring about the woman, an energy and conviction that still emanated from her gaunt face and piercing eyes. As she spoke, Maggie felt ashamed of her wavering resolve since her attack in the Bigg Market. This woman had been through countless ordeals for their cause and was about to embark on a dangerous and lonely mission at Epsom, not knowing how an excitable, hostile crowd might react to her protest.
‘I would undertake to demonstrate at the launch at Pearson’s myself,’ Emily was telling her in the quiet civility of Rose’s front room, behind the net curtains and the half-drawn blinds. Rose’s pleasant, florid-faced mother had made tea for them and withdrawn to the kitchen, not wanting to interfere. ‘But,’ Emily continued, ‘I am too well known in Newcastle and they will be watching for me. And in the meantime, I must protest at the Derby. I may not be here in July.’
Maggie looked sharply at the seasoned suffragette, alerted by something in her voice. For a second time she had a cold sense of foreboding.
‘You mean they will imprison you?’ she asked.
Emily Davison met her questioning look. ‘We must all take the cup of suffering when it is offered, no matter what the consequences,’ she answered resolutely. ‘This coming week I must drink mine. You must decide if demonstrating at the launch of HMS Courageous is to be yours.’
Maggie felt her throat drying as her fear returned.
‘I know I’m asking a lot of you,’ Emily continued; not allowing Maggie to glance away. ‘It will probably mean arrest. You may lose your job at Pearson’s. You will become one of the hunted and the banned. You will get no protection from Alice Pearson - she has already ordered that no action be taken. If you do this, you act alone, without authority from the WSPU. You will be doing it as a favour to me and the greater cause of women’s freedom. Alice Pearson is wrong to try and prevent us using this moment when it’s rumoured that Asquith himself will be present, along with half of Tyneside. It’s a God-sent opportunity. When I met you at Hebron House, Maggie, I knew you were the one to carry out the mission.’
‘How did you know?’ Maggie asked, excited.
‘I recognised the same passion of conviction in you as exists in me,’ Emily told her. ‘It was like encountering a long lost sister.’
Maggie felt her eyes smart at the generous words. She was unused to compliments and tried to make light of Emily’s.
‘Sisters! With you so grand and me as common as clarts?’ Maggie laughed.
‘Not common in the least,’ Emily said robustly. ‘Alice Pearson may have dismissed you as a working-class girl who wouldn’t have the backbone for such action, but not me.’
Maggie’s slim face turned crimson. ‘She said that about me, did she?’
‘Yes, but only because you scared her with your commitment. Alice is a robust campaigner, but she’s also a terrible snob.’
‘Well, Alice Pearson and all the other ruddy Pearsons have got it coming to them!’
‘Maggie, watch your language,’ Rose scolded.
‘Not on my account,’ Emily laughed. She smiled in encouragement. ‘I knew you wouldn’t let me down, Maggie Beaton.’
That last afternoon in May, Maggie went home with those words of praise from the great suffragette campaigner singing in her ears. Only later did she wonder if Emily Davison had deliberately riled her with Alice Pearson’s comments in order to secure her commitment to the task ahead. If so, she had succeeded, for she burned to show the mighty Miss Alice that this working-class lass had twice her courage and fortitude.
Over the next few days she spent her pent-up energy back on the streets selling The Suffragette, to the fury of her mother. For the first time in a month she avoided George, unable to decide what to do about him. But by the Wednesday evening when he called at the house, Maggie realised she had to make a choice.
As they walked through the crowded park, George was uncomfortably aware of her distant manner. He asked, ‘What’s on your mind, bonny lass?’
Maggie did not answer.
‘Trouble at home?’ George guessed. Maggie shook her head.
‘Work then?’
‘There’s nothing wrong at work.’
‘We could gan to Hibbs’ Farm,’ George suggested, bewildered by her moodiness. ‘Lie in the grass and read poetry?’ His grin was suggestive.
Maggie felt a twinge of longing at the thought. ‘No.’ She was adamant. ‘We can’t. I can’t ever again... I’m sorry.’ She looked at him unhappily.
Without another word, he took her by the arm and steered her from the park. Reaching a quiet back lane, he demanded, ‘Something’s bothering you. What is it?’
She looked at the handsome concerned man before her and steeled herself for what was to come. Maggie could no longer deny her growing love for George; she thought of him constantly and longed for his company. But love was selfish and all-consuming, she realised, and her growing preoccupation with the blacksmith was undermining her loyalty to the movement. She could not be true to them both wholeheartedly and so she must give up George Gordon.
‘I’ve been neglecting my duties to the movement,’ Maggie answered stiffly, ‘seeing you so much. I’ve been that wrapped up in me own pleasure.’
George smiled in relief. ‘I’m glad it’s a pleasure. It is for me an’ all.’ He ran a rough finger down her cheek.
Maggie flinched from the contact, turning away. ‘I can’t deny I have feelings for you,’ she said awkwardly, ‘but they can’t come to anything.’
George took her hands in the dismal lane, ignoring the boys who played nearby on the mossy cobbles.
‘I care for you, Maggie,’ he told her. ‘It doesn’t matter to me that you’re a suffragette, even if the other lads give me a hard time. Everyone’s entitled to their opinions.’
‘But it’s not just a matter of opinion,’ Maggie protested, drawing away from him. ‘The movement demands more than that. It needs total commitment from its members for us to succeed.’
George looked puzzled. ‘I’ve said before, lass, I don’t mind you getting involved. You can do your bit when I’ve got me union meetings.’
Maggie looked at him in dismay. ‘You don’t understand, do you? It’s not just a hobby to fill in time while you’re at your important meetings!’ she cried. ‘I’m a suffragette first and last. Nothing else can be as important - not even us, George.’
He stood back, rebuffed. Searching her face, he found nothing there to reassure him. Her grey eyes were angry, her mout
h stubborn.
‘Are you telling me you’re done with courting?’ he asked stiffly.
‘Aye,’ Maggie gulped. ‘I’ve been asked to do summat important, which you mustn’t know about - mustn’t even guess.’ She looked at him miserably. ‘It’d be better for you if you have nothing to do with me.’
George snorted in disbelief. ‘Well, I can tell when I’m not wanted. You don’t have to make up a fairy story for my sake, bonny lass.’
‘It’s true,’ Maggie protested, stung by his derision. ‘I’ve been given a mission.’
‘Oh aye?’ George sneered. ‘Orders from Mrs Pankhurst herself, is it? Trying to impress the likes of Alice Pearson? Watch your head, Maggie, you’ll not get it through your front door.’
‘Don’t scoff at me,’ Maggie was stung. ‘I’m just as important as you and all your union mates. You men just sit around and talk about revolution; we women are getting on and starting one!’
George turned away, laughing to hide his hurt. ‘I can’t wait to read about it in the newspapers.’
‘You will!’ Maggie yelled after him. ‘By God, you will, George Gordon!’
He walked away, furious at her rejection. He had neglected his rowing and his friends for Maggie Beaton, defending her from their derogatory banter. His friends and family thought her far too proud and self-opinionated for a young woman, but George had seen the tender and passionate Maggie who cared deeply about people. In the solitariness of his small lodgings he had yearned for her, impatient for their next meeting. With Maggie he found he could share his poetry and ideals; she was unlike any of the other girls with whom he had grown up and he would have done anything for her. But, George thought bitterly as he strode away, she had not cared for him after all. His friends were right, Maggie Beaton was mad with her own self-importance and vanity and he was better off without her.
Maggie watched him go, her nails digging into the rough brick at her back. Half of her wanted to rush after him and beg him to stay, while the other half smarted from his scathing remarks and cursed his going. So she stayed by the wall, shaking with anger until he was out of sight.
THE GREAT WAR SAGAS: Box set of 2 passionate and inspiring stories: A Crimson Dawn and No Greater Love Page 54