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.
‘Are you all right, missus?’ asked a grimy-faced boy who had detached himself from the marble players and was staring at her in curiosity.
Maggie’s hands went to her face and found it was damp with tears.
‘Aye, Tich,’ she answered, wiping the tears roughly with her sleeve. She fished out a toffee for the boy. ‘Don’t you grow up treating lasses like they’re not important,’ she said, waving the toffee at him, ‘because we are.’
The boy gawped in surprise, then snatched at the sweet. ‘Ta, missus,’ he answered and sprinted off like a street-wise cat.
Swallowing her misery, Maggie walked resolutely through Elswick towards Rose Johnstone’s house. She would discuss tactics for the demonstration that only Rose and Emily Davison were to know about and forget all about the arrogant George Gordon who thought only his interests were important. Thinking of Emily, Maggie felt her optimism return. That brave woman had endured imprisonment, cruelty and pain without complaint, while all she was suffering was a bruised heart. And if George Gordon could not understand why the women’s cause was so important to her, then it was better that they parted now before their courtship went too far.
Arriving at Rose’s house, she found the heavy black door ajar. The house had once belonged to a wealthy merchant but like many on the edge of the West Road it had been sold and divided into more modest dwellings. Rose and her mother lived on the ground floor, in three rooms of crumbling grandeur, sharing the beautifully plastered hallway and the outside privy with three other families.
Maggie went in, knocking impatiently on the inner door. Mrs Johnstone answered.
‘Oh, my dear, come in,’ she said. ‘Rose thought you’d call.’
‘Did she?’ Maggie answered in surprise. ‘I hadn’t intended to.’
Rose rushed forward and hugged her. ‘I’m so glad you did. Isn’t it terrible news?’
‘What news?’ Maggie asked, bewildered.
Rose pulled away and exchanged looks with her mother.
‘We thought that was why you’d come,’ Mrs Johnstone murmured.
‘It’s in the evening papers,’ Rose said dully.
‘What is?’ Maggie demanded. ‘What’s so terrible?’
Rose handed her the newspaper. ‘Emily Davison threw herself in front of the King’s horse.’
It hit Maggie like a thunderbolt: today was Derby Day. Yet she had been too engrossed in her feelings for George to have remembered that this was the day their sister Emily was to face her ordeal at Epsom.
Maggie gasped in horror as she read the report about how their friend had been trampled under the horse’s hooves. The reporter seemed more indignant that the race had been ruined by her action than concerned for the woman.
‘Is she …?’ Maggie stared at Rose, feeling a cold fear gripping her insides.
‘We don’t know any more than you,’ Rose whispered. ‘Perhaps she’ll pull through.’
Maggie turned away. ‘Perhaps,’ she echoed hoarsely.
But in her mind’s eye she saw rank upon rank of women in mourning dress and feared that she had foreseen Emily Davison’s funeral procession.
Chapter Ten
Alighting from the train at Morpeth station, Maggie and Rose were awed by the crowds of mourners. Emily Davison’s coffin, borne from London the previous night, was guarded by suffragettes dressed in white and marked by black armbands, standing at dignified attention.
‘So many people!’ Rose gasped as they struggled down off the special train laid on from Newcastle.
The platform was covered in a sea of coloured wreaths and floral tributes that the funeral organisers were trying to clear. Maggie and Rose stood in the noon heat in their stiff black dresses and tricolour sashes as more and more spectators poured in on trains and traps and bicycles to join the funeral march.
But Maggie was hardly aware of the discomfort as the procession finally took shape and snaked off down the hill from the station. Thousands of people covered the steep banks and packed the roadsides as they strained for a view of the cortege, inching slowly forward. What were all these people thinking? Maggie wondered. Had Emily’s death finally made people realise the injustice women were suffering, or were they just here out of curiosity? Some looked on impassively but there were men who were removing their hats as the coffin went past and Maggie heard one shout out, ‘God bless the wild lass!’
Her throat swelled with emotion to see the striking ranks of suffragettes, dressed in flowing white to denote they had suffered imprisonment, carrying Madonna lilies and purple irises, leading the horse-drawn hearse. The coffin was covered in a purple pall, stitched with silver arrows to remind the mourners of Emily’s frequent spells in prison, and followed by a mourner carrying a furled union banner, draped in crepe.
‘Alice Pearson is holding a leading rope,’ Rose hissed to Maggie as they marched alongside members of the Newcastle WSPU.
Maggie peered on tiptoe to see the tall woman, head erect and face visibly upset, walking beside one of the four horses, holding on to a white rope. It struck Maggie that this aristocratic woman’s head was bare in a surprising gesture of humility, but she quickly smothered a feeling of sympathy. For was it not Miss Alice who had suggested the Derby Day protest? Maggie thought bitterly.
Emily Davison had lain fighting for life for four days, while Maggie’s hopes had hung on a thread. She had prayed feverishly for her recovery but to no avail and now she felt bereft and at a loss without her mentor.
That morning, she had asked Rose, ‘What should I do now?’
Her friend had known without asking that the launch of the Pearson battleship was preying on her mind.
‘Today we pay our respects to our dead comrade,’ Rose had answered firmly. ‘We can worry about the future tomorrow.’
Maggie felt overcome now by the sight of the marching women and their banners, stirred by the band from Newcastle that led the procession and played their marching song, The Women’s Marseillaise. There were young girls carrying white lilies, battalions of suffragists in purple and black, and carriages carrying family mourners, and hundreds of ordinary followers who had travelled the country to pay tribute to the suffragette martyr.
Maggie, noticing a photographer recording the event for all time from a nearby inn, felt pride and grief to be processing in front of the gathered thousands, under their banner bearing Emily’s own slogan: ‘Fight on and God will give the victory.’
Finally, they reached the path to St Mary’s churchyard and the welcome shade of ancient trees under the cloudless sky. The coffin was carried forward through the old lich-gate, the women forming a guard of honour, and then on into the parish church itself. Only family and close friends followed for the brief service, but straining to see who entered, Maggie was sure she saw Alice Pearson’s tall figure among the select few.
The tranquil graveyard was so overrun with mourners that Maggie and Rose could not get near to see the coffin lowered into the ground at the Davison burial mound, so they patiently waited their turn among the lofty pines. Some time later they were able to approach the iron-fenced memorial which was almost hidden under the heaps of wreaths and floral messages. The scent of the flowers was overpowering as Maggie tossed her own modest purple iris onto the coffin.
‘I’ll fight on, I promise!’ Maggie whispered, as around her women openly wept.
Maggie shared with them the sense of shock that their friend had sacrificed her life for the cause. It made their efforts seem so paltry, she thought. She was loath to leave the scene of mourning, as if it somehow gave her strength to be near Emily Davison’s body. But Rose decided it was time they made their way back to the station.
As they descended the path from the grave, the
y ran into Alice Pearson. Maggie was shocked to see her face flushed and eyes swollen from crying. She stopped as she saw them.
‘Rose Johnstone, isn’t it?’ she asked with a watery smile.
‘Yes, Miss Alice,’ Rose said with a deferential nod.
‘What a sad, sad day,’ Alice sighed.
‘Yes,’ Rose agreed. ‘You must be especially upset to lose a close friend.’
Maggie felt stung. ‘She was a friend to us all - an inspiration. Miss Davison wouldn’t have wanted us to stand around snivelling over her grave like bairns. She’d have told us to gan on fighting to victory.’
‘Maggie, show some respect,’ Rose said, aghast at her friend’s outburst, but it drew Alice Pearson’s attention as Maggie had intended.
‘No, your friend is right,’ Alice replied, feeling a fresh wave of guilt. ‘That’s exactly what Emily would have said. We’ve met before, haven’t we?’
Maggie looked at her defiantly. ‘Maggie Beaton. I’m in the Newcastle WSPU, same as you.’
Alice flushed at the young woman’s rudeness and remembered how Emily Davison had kept on irritatingly about this common girl.
‘Well, Maggie,’ Alice said stonily, ‘if you’re such a militant, then it’s time you participated more in our local campaigns. I don’t recall you’ve done much so far.’
As soon as she had uttered the reproof Alice felt ashamed, especially as she saw the tears well in the young woman’s eyes. If this working-class girl had not made her feel so guilty about Emily’s death, she would never have been so unkind. But it was too late; she could tell Maggie Beaton had taken offence.
‘Don’t you worry, Miss Alice, you’re going to see just how militant us working-class lasses can be!’
With that, Maggie stepped past her and stormed off down the churchyard path. In that moment, she determined to risk everything - her job, her home, her family, her prospects of love and marriage - to revenge Emily’s death and teach the haughty Alice Pearson a lesson. She would carry out the demonstration at the launch of the Pearson ship and take the consequences.
Having made her decision, Maggie found a new sense of purpose and the days began to pass quickly. She pushed all thoughts of George firmly from her mind and spent her free time at Rose’s house making plans for the demonstration over Mrs Johnstone’s endless cups of scented tea and pale Madeira cake. Maggie was to dress as an old woman and whiten her hair, so that people would allow the frail widow to the front of the crowds. Once there, she would attempt to clamber onto the launching platform and display a WSPU flag from under her cloak. Maggie grew impatient as she imagined the look of horror on Alice Pearson’s face at her action. She would reach Asquith and speak her mind, Maggie determined.
At home, there was bafflement at her abrupt finishing with George Gordon. To Maggie’s surprise, her mother appeared disappointed.
‘What have you said to put the lad off?’ Mabel demanded.
‘I thought you didn’t approve of him,’ Maggie countered.
‘You could have done worse,’ her mother huffed, ‘and at least it kept you away from your demonstrating. Now I don’t know what you’re up to half the time and you’re hardly ever here.’
‘She’s bringing in a wage. Mam, and that’s what counts,’ Susan said, coming unexpectedly to her defence. ‘If you ask me, I didn’t think our Maggie and George Gordon were suited.’
Helen gave a derisory laugh. ‘You were just scared she’d up and get wed before you.’
‘I was not!’ Susan denied hotly. ‘I just agree with Aunt Violet that the Gordons are a rough lot.’
‘Well, I think George was canny looking,’ Helen went on, ‘and our Maggie’s daft for giving him up. But then Maggie’s always been queer about lads. She’ll not get another one that easy.’
‘Wheesht, lassie!’ Granny Beaton interrupted, seeing Maggie’s furious look.
‘I don’t give tuppence for what you all think,’ said Maggie. ‘It’s got nowt to do with any of you what I choose to do.’
She stalked out and went off to see Rose. After that, George Gordon was never mentioned again among the family in Maggie’s hearing and she stayed out of the way as much as possible as the evenings grew long and people lived out of doors as much as they could. She hardly saw Jimmy, who disappeared for hours on end, only turning up briefly to be fed.
She felt that her brother was the only one who genuinely missed George’s company and sometimes she caught his silent reproachful look. George had taken him out in boats and let him hang around the forge at Hibbs’ Farm where he sometimes helped out for no recompense. Maggie had been surprised how George had treated Jimmy as an equal and not as an irritating little brother who was only good for errands. She had laughed when George had given Jimmy an old pair of long trousers, but he had been sharp.
‘You all treat that lad like he’s still a bairn,’ George had said, ‘but he’s not.’
‘He carries on like a bairn,’ Maggie had replied. ‘Can’t do owt for himself.’
‘Give him a bit of responsibility and watch the change in him,’ George had challenged. ‘Your Susan’s let him hang on to her skirts too long.’
Jimmy had thrown away his shorts and never taken off his long trousers since. Maggie suspected he still went up to Hibbs’ Farm and helped George, but as she never went there herself any more she could not be sure.
Susan, however, was more tolerant towards Maggie than she had been in years and did not scold her for being absent and not helping around the house. Maggie could see this softening in her sister was brought on by her happiness at being courted by Richard Turvey. Susan took extra care with her appearance and was almost skittish in mood whenever Richard was present.
Maggie made a huge effort to be civil and pleasant to the Londoner, although he irritated her with his constant banter and his ingratiating behaviour to her mother and Aunt Violet. And she still did not trust him after the incident in the Bigg Market. Although she wasn’t absolutely sure that the man who had run away and left her to be attacked was Richard, she still suspected him of the cowardice. He had protested a wounded innocence when her mother had confronted him and somehow Maggie had been blamed for his upset. Still, Maggie was thankful that he and Susan appeared happy together and Richard had stopped his flirtation with Helen.
On Saturday evenings he would come with his gramophone and records and Uncle Barny would bring his fiddle and pay for a jug of beer and the cramped flat in Gun Street would reverberate with noise, bringing the Smiths bounding up the stairs to join in. Reminded of similar evenings with George, Maggie would make excuses to help her grandmother make tea in the kitchen, but even so she found herself relaxing to the music and enjoying the rare harmony among her family.
As July came and the talk in the office was only of the launch of HMS Courageous, Maggie began to grow nervous about her task. Only Rose and her mother could calm and encourage her and she grew even closer to the Johnstone women as the summer wore to its height. Just once did they quarrel, and that was when Rose was outspoken in her relief that Maggie was no longer being courted by George.
‘You can do better than a pitman’s son with archaic views on what women should be allowed to do,’ Rose had pronounced. ‘What a waste it would have been to throw away your education and ambitions for such a man.’
‘George is no ordinary pitman’s son,’ Maggie had defended him.
‘He’s no different from the others, Maggie,’ Rose insisted. ‘I saw how much he hurt you with his ridiculing of your work. No, I haven’t brought you this far to have you throw yourself away for a man who’d keep you at home, weighed down with the drudgeries of married life. Too many of my old pupils have gone that way. I see them scrubbing their doorsteps, old and ill before they’re thirty. I’ll not let that happen to you, Maggie.’
Maggie had been incensed and a little frightened to think Rose might be ordering her life. ‘I’m not your pupil anymore,’ Maggie had protested. ‘Don’t treat me like a child who doesn�
�t have a mind of her own. It was my choice to finish with George, not yours, so don’t go thinking I do things just because you want me to.’
Maggie had stormed home and stayed away a couple of days, but she missed Rose’s friendship and support and had returned to apologise. They had never mentioned George again.
Then three days before the launch. Rose, now on holiday from teaching, came rushing out of the house to meet Maggie.
‘The police closed the office this morning! They’ve seized everything!’
‘Why?’ Maggie demanded as Rose pulled her into the house and slammed the door.
‘It’s obvious,’ Rose said heatedly. ‘They’re clamping down on us because Asquith’s going to be there. Jocelyn Fulford sent a note to say she’s been ordered to stay indoors for twenty-four hours while the Prime Minister’s in Newcastle. We’re all likely to be banned from the town during his visit.’
‘At least they’ll find nothing about our planned demonstration,’ Maggie said with relief.
‘But they’ll have the names and addresses of all our members,’ Rose reminded her. ‘You’ll have to make yourself scarce, Maggie, else all our plans are out of the window.’
Maggie felt apprehensive but answered stoutly, ‘They’ll not bother with a lass from Gun Street. If they find my name they’ll probably just think I’m the cleaner.’
‘We can’t risk it. You’ll have to find a safe place to stay before the protest.’
‘But I have to carry on at work, else they’ll be suspicious,’ Maggie replied.
‘Go sick tomorrow,’ Rose ordered. ‘Now we need to think of somewhere for you to go. We can’t risk you coming here and being caught - they may put a watch on the house.’
No Greater Love Page 15