‘But I can’t,’ Maggie said at once, wincing as she sat up. ‘I have to see . . .’ She stopped before Rose’s name was mentioned.
‘Whatever it is can wait,’ Granny Beaton was firm.
‘But it’s so important,’ Maggie cried weakly. ‘I’m not going to lie here when I should be...’
‘You know your mother won’t let you go out as you please anymore,’ Granny said quietly.
Maggie turned her head away as tears began to fall.
Granny Beaton leaned across in concern, stroking the dark hair away from Maggie’s pale forehead and bruised eye.
‘What is it, lassie?’ she asked gently. ‘You can tell me, right enough.’
Maggie looked into the old woman’s crinkled face, full of a lifetime’s suffering and wisdom, the faded brown eyes compassionate. She knew her grandmother was the only member of the family she could trust now, after her mother’s reprimand the previous night.
Maggie spoke low. ‘There’s an important meeting at Rose’s this afternoon - special work for me to do. If I don’t turn up they might think I’m too afraid to do it, they might offer it to someone else. They mustn’t think I don’t have the courage.’
‘Oh, you’ve got the courage, right enough,’ Granny said fondly, placing her smooth, dry old hands round Maggie’s face.
For a long moment they looked at each other in silent understanding and Maggie knew the old lady would support her.
‘A life of struggle is a hard one to choose,’ Granny said in her soft lilt, ‘but if that’s the one you’ve chosen, then may God give you strength.’ Then she added with a smile, ‘I’ll take a message to Miss Johnstone.’
Maggie leant over and kissed her withered cheek. ‘I don’t want to land you in trouble too.’
‘Your mother is not a hard woman at heart,’ Granny said, ‘she just worries for you. As for me, I’m not afraid of trouble because God has always provided. I’ll go after Kirk; Miss Johnstone only lives a few minutes away.’
‘Thanks, Granny,’ Maggie said hoarsely, overcome by the old woman’s gesture, and leaned back on the hard bolster. It was routine for her grandmother to go to her own Presbyterian church while Susan led Helen and Jimmy to the Methodist’s on Alison Terrace every Sunday, so no one would suspect if the old woman was a few minutes late. They would just assume the sermon had been a long one. Maggie often accompanied her grandmother to the Kirk in Elswick, more out of habit than conviction, knowing that the old Highland lady liked her company walking to church. She knew where Rose lived because on several occasions they had visited the schoolteacher after guild meetings in the Kirk hall.
Maggie dozed and fretted until Granny Beaton returned at lunchtime. She went over in her mind the terrible events of the previous night as if they were the bizarre happenings of a nightmare. She began to doubt if she had indeed seen Richard at all, for if it had been him, would he not have spoken her name? She wished now she had never mentioned him, for it seemed to have inflamed her sisters and set everyone against her. Even Tich was not speaking to her this morning. It sickened her that they should see her attack as being her own fault.
Then Maggie thought of George Gordon’s concerned face staring down at hers in the tram and sent up another thankful prayer that he had intervened on her behalf. He at least had not condemned her.
‘Miss Johnstone said you’re not to worry,’ Granny Beaton managed to whisper to her while Susan and Jimmy set the table for lunch. ‘She’ll send a message when her visitor calls again.’
Maggie took the old woman’s veined hand and kissed it. ‘Thank you,’ she mouthed, swallowing her disappointment that her meeting with Emily Davison had been thwarted.
To Maggie’s distress, the family behaved as if the incident had never happened and never referred to it again. On Monday, Maggie struggled to work, pretending she had fallen downstairs and evading the curious questions of Eve Tindall and the wary looks of Mary Watson.
That evening, George Gordon called. Maggie felt ridiculously tongue-tied and gauche as she sat across the kitchen table from him. He had changed out of his grimy work clothes and was wearing the faded suit she had seen him in when they had sparred outside the pub on Alison Terrace. She remembered how scornful she had been of him then and blushed now at his awkward attempts at small talk.
‘Brought you some oranges,’ he said, pushing a bag across the rough scrubbed table top.
‘Oranges!’ Susan exclaimed ‘That’s kind of you,’ she answered for Maggie. ‘Oranges are that expensive.’
‘Didn’t know what else to bring,’ George said with an embarrassed shrug.
‘No need to bring anything,’ Susan said, sweeping the package from the table and emptying the bright fruit into their best bowl, usually kept for nuts at Christmas time. ‘But thank you all the same.’
Maggie saw her sister look approvingly at George, her suspicion of his visit subsiding. She bustled over to the stove to replenish the teapot.
George cleared his throat. ‘You’re looking better,’ he said.
Maggie smiled. ‘Just a bit stiff, that’s all.’
Her mother eyed them over her sewing. ‘It could have been a lot worse. We’re grateful to you, George.’
‘Town’s a rough place at night,’ George grunted. ‘Better to sell your papers in the daytime, I reckon.’
‘There’ll be no more selling papers at any time of the day.’ Mabel was sharp. ‘Maggie’s to have no more to do with the suffragettes.’
George looked at Maggie in surprise and saw her mouth firm into a stubborn line. Her bruised grey eyes beseeched him.
‘I can’t see Maggie being put off by a bit of a scuffle,’ he found himself saying.
Maggie felt the lethargy of the past two days shaken by his words. She had had enough of bowing to her mother’s wishes. ‘I’m not put off,’ she spoke up defiantly, ‘and I’ll carry on supporting the cause as long as there’s breath in me lungs.’
She heard Susan clatter the kettle behind her in shock. Her mother glared. ‘I thought I made it clear to you—’
‘Aye, Mam, I know what you want,’ Maggie said quickly, ‘but I can’t stop believing in something just because you say so. It’s the most important thing in my life, can’t you see that?’ she pleaded.
Mabel’s face puffed out indignantly. ‘And what about your family? Are we to take second place behind your hoity-toity friends?’
‘Aye,’ Susan agreed, ‘you’ve got above yourself with all this nonsense.’
‘It’s not like that, Mam,’ Maggie insisted, ignoring Susan’s sour words. ‘I joined the movement because I want to make things better for widows like you, for young lasses like Susan and me, so we can have a better life than our mothers and grandmothers had.’ She looked at Granny Beaton for support and saw the old lady nod gently.
‘Aye, Mabel,’ she intercepted quietly, ‘the lassie should be admired for trying to change things. And I don’t see that selling a few wee newspapers does any harm to anybody.’
Mabel looked at her mother-in-law with annoyance, irritated that she should once again be taking Maggie’s side against her. If she had not been such a support to her in the early months after Alec’s death, she would have packed her back to Glasgow years ago. She had been too soft in letting her stay, Mabel realised now.
Maggie saw her give Granny Beaton a dismissive look and turn to George for support.
‘You’re a man, George Gordon,’ Mabel wheezed. ‘You talk some sense into this daughter of mine. I shudder to think what her father would have made of all this.’
George shifted uncomfortably on his hard chair, bewildered by the bickering.
‘Don’t bring me dad into this,’ Maggie said hotly. ‘You don’t know what he would have thought.’
‘I know he wouldn’t have approved of all this violence and carry-on by women,’ her mother huffed. ‘You don’t hold with these suffragettes, do you, George?’
‘George has got nothing to do with our quarrel,’ Mag
gie said defensively, afraid of what he might say.
‘Let him speak,’ Susan said, refilling his cup. ‘It’s time we heard a man’s opinion around here. It might have curbed your rebellious nature, Maggie, if we’d had a man around these past ten years.’
George met Maggie’s stormy look. She was quite different from her fair, plump-faced sister or her querulous mother. Maggie’s features were slim and feline, her hair dark and wiry, her eyes angry and restless. Whereas the others seemed to have tired, blighted spirits, Maggie seemed full of a fierce energy. He found it exciting, disturbing. He admired the warrior within her and he knew if he joined the censorious band against her he would lose her respect and the possibility of friendship for ever. All at once, he realised that he minded what she thought of him and yearned for the chance to know her better.
‘I think Maggie’s naive to think giving women the vote will change things for working-class women,’ George began cautiously. Mabel and Susan nodded in approval. ‘But I don’t think there’s anything wrong with a bit of militancy. You can’t deny the suffragettes have got guts and I admire them for keeping on at the government, being prepared to be unpopular, suffering in prison for what they believe. There’re not many men would do as much, least of all those in power. I think Maggie should be allowed to keep on at her work for the women’s movement - long as she avoids the Bigg Market on a Saturday night.’
George stopped, wondering where he’d got the courage to speak up against the opinionated Beaton women. He was not used to arguing with women, nor had he ever expressed such support for the women’s cause before. He wondered briefly at his motives for doing so, but the look of surprise and admiration on Maggie’s face made it worthwhile.
‘You see,’ Maggie said quickly, swallowing her shock at George’s support, ‘not all men are against us. Many are coming round to the opinion that we’re right, that we must have justice for all.’
‘Well, I must say!’ Mabel blustered. ‘I didn’t know you were one of them, George Gordon, or I would have thought twice about letting you through our door.’
‘And I think it’s a downright disgrace, encouraging our lass,’ Susan said with disapproval, removing his cup swiftly.
George decided it was time to leave. ‘Thank you for the tea, Susan,’ he said, picking up his cap from the table. ‘Mrs Beaton.’ He nodded at Maggie’s mother and grandmother, noting how the elderly Scotswoman gave a faint smile of amusement as she answered his goodbye.
‘I’ll see you out,’ Maggie said, coming round the table quickly.
In the semi-privacy of the landing, she put out a hand and touched George on the sleeve.
‘You could have knocked me down with a feather!’ she laughed. ‘But ta very much, all the same.’
‘Surprised myself,’ he grinned back.
Maggie suppressed another laugh. ‘I’ll have you at one of our rallies yet.’
George took her hand briefly. ‘I didn’t say I was that won over, Maggie Beaton,’ he grunted. After a moment’s hesitation, he added, ‘But I’d be pleased if I could see you again.’
Maggie’s amazement was tinged with a shiver of pleasure at the thought. She could hardly believe that the man she had so recently been at loggerheads with wanted to see her again. Was George Gordon asking to court her? Maggie wondered suspiciously. She had never had the slightest interest in being courted by the lads she knew at work or at church and had always dismissed any tentative overtures. She had determined long ago that courting would only interfere with her work for the movement. She was still hesitant about letting any man come close to her, even though George Gordon had shown himself sympathetic to the cause.
‘Maybes,’ Maggie answered cautiously. ‘I’ve that many meetings, mind, and meetings come first.’
George gave a short laugh and dropped her hand. ‘Maggie Beaton, you’re a strange lass.’
He fixed his cap over his cropped hair and said goodnight. As he descended the stairs into the gloom, Maggie felt suddenly deflated.
‘Maggie, come in now!’ her mother shouted fretfully from the kitchen.
‘George,’ Maggie called after him impulsively. The tall blacksmith stopped and turned, his strong, lively face accentuated by the thick moustache. All she could think of to say was, ‘Thanks for the oranges.’
He nodded and waved and was gone into the street.
Returning to the flat, she faced a barrage of critical comments.
‘Well, I’ve said it before, I always thought the Gordons were a wild lot,’ Mabel panted and reached for the glass of beer Susan had fetched from the pantry. ‘I can see that George hasn’t changed - agreeing with lawbreaking and violence, indeed!’
‘Aye,’ Susan said. ‘It makes you wonder what he was doing among the drunks on Saturday night, doesn’t it?’
‘Mind, they always had a reputation for being unruly, having no mother around,’ Mabel added, smacking her lips on the beer. ‘And old Gordon’s as rough as they come.’
‘Aye,’ Susan agreed. ‘Irene Gordon’s got her hands full looking after that lot.’
Maggie confronted them. ‘Hypocrites! You were both nice as ninepence to George Gordon until he stood up for me just now.’
‘Hark at you!’ Susan retaliated ‘You’re the one who wanted nothing to do with him until he came out with that fancy speech.’
‘Well, I was wrong about him,’ Maggie admitted. ‘He saved me from a bad beating and I’m grateful to him.’
Her mother slurped her beer, suddenly tired of argument. ‘He’s gone now and that’s an end to the trouble. We’ll talk no more about what happened on Saturday, do you hear?’
But the dismissive words only served to goad her second daughter. Maggie’s irritation erupted at being continually put down by her mother and elder sister. ‘He may be gone now,’ she told them, ‘but you’ll have to get used to seeing George Gordon around this house.’
Her mother spluttered over her drink and Susan asked sharply, ‘What’s that supposed to mean?’
‘Me and George Gordon are courting,’ she announced.
As soon as the words were out, she wished they had not been uttered, but she had been provoked beyond endurance.
They all stared at one another, and Maggie wondered which of the three of them was most shocked.
Then Granny Beaton broke the tense silence. ‘Gordon. Aye, it’s a good Scots name. And George seems worthy of it - a nice laddie.’
Maggie looked gratefully at her kind grandmother and smiled with relief.
Chapter Seven
For nearly a week, Maggie did nothing, hoping that George would call on her. She felt her family watching and waiting to see if her threat about courting the blacksmith was true. On Wednesday she caught her mother and Susan speculating about it on the back stairs in the sunshine when she came in from work. All week, Helen delighted in dropping sceptical remarks about his lack of appearance and by Friday even Jimmy was asking when George was going to call.
‘None of your business, Tich,’ Maggie told him testily and strode off to work wondering what she was going to do about the mess she had created.
During the half-hour break at midday, Maggie slipped out of the office, saying she had an errand to run. Emerging from the workshop shed, she picked her way over the rail tracks and out of the gates. The forest of scaffolding that marked out Pearson’s shipyard was a good quarter of a mile away and she knew she would have to hurry to get there and back within her short dinner break.
The early summer sun was surprisingly warm and beat down on her dark hat and clothing, increasing her discomfort as she set a brisk pace. There were no trees to offer shade along the bare brick streets and as the yard gates came in sight, Maggie’s apprehension grew. She had not been down to the yard since her father had died, though as a girl she had often stood at the gates after school, waiting for his release. What would she do once she got there? She had no idea which of the many vast sheds housed the forge or whether she would be allowed to leave a m
essage for George Gordon.
Her courage failed her. What on earth was she doing chasing after a man anyway? She would rather go home and face her family with the admission that she had made up her story of courting George Gordon in a fit of temper. She would take their teasing, Maggie resolved, turning back, it would be better than making a fool of herself in front of the shipyard workers.
But when Eve Tindall suggested a walk through the park after work, Maggie agreed quickly, keen to delay her return home.
‘Mr Tindall can wait another ten minutes for his tea,’ Eve told her, sitting down on a bench and patting the wooden slats beside her.
Maggie needed no persuasion to linger in Daniel Park and watch the children playing with their hoops and tops. A game of quoits was going on in the distance and the trees were bursting into a lustrous green. Maggie breathed in the fresh air, thankful to be away from the dust and noise of the workplace.
‘So, what’s troubling thee?’ Eve finally asked her, perched on the bench. Maggie stalled by handing over her untouched dinner to the barefoot children who hovered around them.
‘Ta, missus!’ they cried and ran off with the stale bread and cheese.
‘Nothing’s troubling,’ Maggie answered.
‘Tut! Auntie Eve can tell when something’s bothering you, so spill the beans.’
Maggie laughed and allowed herself to be coaxed into telling the story of George Gordon’s rescue of her and his subsequent visit.
‘But I’ve decided it’s not worth the bother,’ Maggie concluded. ‘I’ll just swallow my pride and admit I’m not courting.’
‘Nonsense!’ Eve answered roundly. ‘Sounds to me like this Gordon lad is worth going after.’
‘I’m not going after any lad!’ Maggie said.
‘Don’t be so stubborn. It’s time you had a bit o’ fun in your life, Maggie. You’re too serious by half. But I know there’s a spark of devilment in your nature; I’ve seen it now and then. You go and find George Gordon. I doubt he needs much encouragement.’
‘And then what do I do?’ Maggie laughed. ‘Take him to a branch meeting?’
No Greater Love Page 10