No Greater Love

by Janet MacLeod Trotter

  ‘We’ll grow flowers,’ she told Christabel, ‘and keep bees.’

  ‘And eat their honey,’ her daughter said, skipping along to keep up. ‘And can Beattie come and live with us?’

  ‘She can come whenever she wants,’ Maggie promised.

  Her mind raced. She had other ambitions. She’d offer a gardening job to the disfigured veteran with the missing eye who came asking for food and cigarettes in return for shovelling coal or clearing the pavements of snow. And if the old farmhouse came up for sale she would buy that too and set up a retirement home for women like Millie who had no home to go to once they were too old for service. Rose would help her raise funds.

  ‘When are you going to tell me the story?’ Christabel’s eyes shone with impatience.

  ‘When we get to Hibbs’ Farm.’

  ‘Tell me now Mam.’

  ‘We’re nearly there.’

  Christabel liked nothing better than one of Maggie’s tales about real life. This way Maggie had told her about the brave suffragettes and Emily Davison, and going to prison but winning in the end. Just as Granny Beaton had not shied from telling the hard truth of the world to a young Maggie, she would teach her daughter about life through stories.

  Maggie’s heart pounded as they made their way uphill. Today Christabel would hear the story of her real father.

  ‘Once upon a time,’ Christabel prompted impatiently.

  Maggie squeezed her hand. As they climbed above the smoke of the town she began. ‘Once upon a time there was a man with dark hair and kind eyes called George Gordon.’ She spoke of a strong man who could row boats faster than Londoners; a brave, passionate man who loved poems and music and fought to make things fairer for ordinary working people.

  ‘Was he your friend Mam?’

  Maggie’s throat watered. ‘Yes, he was a special friend.’

  ‘Did he help you escape from prison Mam? Like Uncle John?’

  ‘Aye, he did. And we came to live at Hibbs’ Farm.’

  She paused to catch her breath and pointed up to the cottage in the distance.

  ‘Just you and George?’

  Maggie nodded. ‘Just me and George.’

  ‘Not Millie?’

  ‘No, but Granny Beaton came to live with us – and Uncle Jimmy for a while – before he went off to war.’

  ‘Did George go away too?’

  Maggie nodded, tears welling in her eyes as she remembered. ‘But before he went, he gave Mam something very special; a baby.’

  Christabel frowned. ‘A baby? But you don’t have a baby.’

  ‘My baby was taken away from me and given to other parents,’ Maggie said gently, squatting down and facing her. ‘But she grew into a bonny little lass and thanks to Aunt Alice I got my bairn back.’

  Christabel gazed at her with intent grey eyes. For a long time she said nothing, then, ‘Is it me?’

  ‘Aye,’ Maggie said, reaching out to brush wayward curls from her daughter’s face. ‘You’re my bairn and I’m your Mam. And George Gordon was your Dad.’

  ‘Can I see him?’

  Maggie shook her head. ‘He sailed away on a big boat to a faraway land called Canada. If he’d known that you would come back to me, I think he would have stayed.’

  The girl reached out and put her arms around Maggie’s neck. Maggie hugged her, smothering a sob.

  ‘Can we go to Canada one day?’

  ‘Maybes.’ Maggie stood up, keeping an arm about her daughter. ‘Haway, let’s go and have a peek at the house, eh?’

  As they gained the brow, Maggie saw smoke billowing from the chimney. It didn’t look as unkempt as the previous year. Someone had fixed the fencing and the boarded up window had been replaced. Maggie’s heart sank; Jimmy had been wrong. It looked as if it had already been sold or leased out.

  ‘There’s someone in the garden,’ Christabel said, shaking off her hold.

  ‘Wait–’

  The girl ran ahead. Maggie panted after her. Christabel stopped at the fence. Maggie squinted into the glare of the pearly sky, trying to make out the man in the garden. He left his spade and walked towards her daughter. She was asking him something. He pushed back his cap as he answered. Maggie’s heart began to thump. He walked out of the gate and up to the girl, hunkering down to speak to her.

  Maggie stared, her breath trapped in her chest. Then the man stood again and turned towards her. She forced herself to keep moving, not trusting her own eyes.

  As she reached them, she knew. Christabel slipped to her side, suddenly shy.

  ‘Geordie?’ she trembled. ‘How is it possible?’

  He gazed at her, struggling to find his words.

  ‘I got as far as Tilbury Docks. I couldn’t stay away Maggie – couldn’t live me life half a world away from you –’ His voice cracked. ‘Or the bairn.’

  She looked into his dark eyes, his look both fierce and tender. A sob rose in her throat.

  ‘I thought I’d never see you again. And here of all places. Jimmy said –’

  ‘Jimmy’s the only one who knows I’m here working for Hibbs’. He brings me news.’

  Maggie cried, ‘Where you ever going to let me know?’

  ‘I knew you were in mourning. I was prepared to wait but your brother wanted to push things along.’ George smiled at last. Her heart soared.

  ‘Jimmy always looked up to you,’ Maggie said, her vision blurring with tears. ‘Hold me, so I know I’m not dreamin’.’

  George pulled her into his arms and gripped her tight. ‘I love you lass!’

  ‘Oh Geordie, we must never be parted again – me heart won’t stand it.’

  ‘Never,’ he promised.

  Maggie felt Christabel pulling on her skirt. The girl was staring up at them. She put an arm around her daughter.

  ‘Christabel; this is George, the man in the story. This is your dad.’

  ‘You’ve told her about me?’ George asked in amazement, quite overcome.

  Maggie nodded.

  Christabel stared at him with large curious eyes. ‘Will you live with us too?’ she asked.

  ‘Aye, lass.’ He ruffled her hair. ‘Do you want to look inside?’

  The girl nodded.

  He held out his hand to her. She hesitated; looked up at her mother. Maggie nodded in encouragement. Christabel put her hand into George’s. Maggie’s heart was so full she couldn’t speak, and she saw the same emotion reflected in George’s loving expression.

  Either side of their daughter, they walked towards their home, together.

  ~**~

  For Love and Glory

  If you have enjoyed NO GREATER LOVE, you might like to read another of The Tyneside Sagas – FOR LOVE & GLORY.

  Warm-hearted, fun-loving Jo Elliot grows up on Tyneside in the 1960's with her widowed father and older brother Colin and his friends. She has a special bond with the lively but rebellious Mark Duggan who is rejected by his violent father and ignored by his hostile brother Gordon, to whom he can never measure up.

  Mark longs for acceptance, but it is mature and masculine Gordon for whom Jo falls dangerously in love. Tragedy unfolds that leaves Jo outcast from her old friends. As she forges an acting career and tries to rebuild her life, war breaks out in the Falklands and both Colin and Mark are called up to fight before she can make her peace. As terrible family secrets come to light that have blighted the two families for years, Jo realises she must act to stop tragedy ruining the future. Emotional, entertaining and utterly engrossing, this magnificent saga explores the depths of love and undying loyalty.

  Four stars - Very good. Peterborough Evening Gazette

  A good read. Shields Gazette

  I have just spent a sleepless night because I couldn't put your book 'For Love and Glory' down. It is fantastic! H.B. - Peebles, Scotland.

  I just wanted to let you know I thoroughly enjoyed your book. I was totally absorbed to the very end. My congratulations. D.G. - Newcastle, England.

  I have just finished reading y
our latest book, which I enjoyed so very much. Wonderful! You tell such a good story that I can't wait to get to the next chapter - but then I don't want to finish the book too quickly. Thank you for yet another great read. I now look forward to your next book! M.C. - Durham, England.

  How very much I, and our 16 year-old daughter, have enjoyed 'For Love and Glory'. She literally couldn't put it down yesterday evening. We both loved the local recent history fascinating - please continue writing! C.B. - Brandon, England.

  I can't adequately begin to tell you how thrilled and impressed I am with 'For Love and Glory'. Throughout one identifies with Jo in all her trials, troubles and triumphs. The Falklands chapters are excellent; they ring true. Fortunately I finished the book reading it here on my own, when everyone else was out, because I was in tears at the end. What a really splendid book it is - so powerful, so wise, so compassionate, so deeply moving. One 'lives it' from start to finish.

  N.M. - Invernesshire, Scotland

  Read a bonus chapter from FOR LOVE & GLORY

  Chapter One

  1966

  Jo ran out of the school gates, dragging her friend Marilyn with her.

  ‘Race you to Dodds!’ Jo grinned, giving herself a head start.

  ‘I’ve got no money,’ Marilyn complained, her attempts at sprinting hampered by her new slip-on plastic shoes.

  I’ll treat you,’ Jo called over her shoulder, kicking up neat piles of orange leaves that the road sweeper had collected. ‘Dad gave me a tanner.’

  Marilyn panted behind. ‘Wait, man, I’ve got a stone in me shoe.’

  Jo turned, hands on hips, her unruly red hair glinting like burnished copper in the October afternoon sun. ‘You were daft to buy them,’ she pronounced, watching her friend hopping along the pavement, one shoe in hand, fair ponytail bouncing. It was the one thing they differed over; clothes, Jo thought. She was content to run around in wellies and her brother Colin’s old gabardine. Shorts in summer, dungarees in winter were the only choices worth bothering about. Every Sunday her father tried to coax her into a dress for Sunday School at the Methodist Hall, and every Sunday she refused. Jo would deign to put on a tartan skirt whenever her Auntie Pearl returned from sea, but they were rare and special occasions. She would do anything for her beloved aunt, except wear a frock of course. Whereas Marilyn showed a baffling amount of interest in the latest craze for miniskirts and plastic clothing. But then her mother, Mrs Leishman, was a seamstress at the co-op and was doing a nice side-line at home, taking up the hems of fashion-conscious neighbours.

  Jo linked her arm through her friend’s and pulled her into Dodds’ corner shop where they spent her sixpence on sherbet fountains and a piece of bubblegum each. Thanking the cheerful Mrs Craney, they sauntered out into the late sunshine, blowing large bubbles that popped in the sharp air.

  ‘Let’s gan to the park,’ Jo suggested, passing the end of Jericho Street where they lived.

  ‘Mam’ll be expecting us,’ Marilyn replied, unsure.

  ‘We’ll not stay long,’ Jo assured, steering her forward, ‘just pick up a few bits for the bonfire.’ She was reluctant to return too early, for Mrs Leishman would keep them in the house and fuss if they made a mess or knocked into her nest of tables and china ornaments. In her own house, she and Colin could leave things lying about or make crumbs on the bed without anyone telling them off. Her father did not seem to notice and she did not have a mother. Jo thought she was lucky that her mother had died so long ago she could not remember her, so it did not hurt. In fact she gloried in having one tragic parent who had died of a ‘weak heart’, as her father put it, while her friends had mothers who nagged at them to brush their hair and tidy the house.

  Besides, she had Auntie Pearl, who, when she wasn’t sailing the world on a merchant ship, breezed in with exotic presents of painted camels and gaudy dolls and took them out to Carrick’s for tea. And there was Ivy Duggan, Mark’s grandmother, who lived in Nile Street down by the docks and opened her door and biscuit tin to all her grandson’s friends.

  Thinking about Mark Duggan seemed to conjure him up, for as they took a short cut across the Green, they found him playing football with Colin and Skippy. All summer, the streets of Wallsend had resounded to the thud of ball on brick as boys re-enacted England’s four-two win over Germany in the World Cup. Jo ran forward and whacked the loose ball so hard her wellie flew off and hit Skippy Jackson.

  ‘Nick off!’ Skippy yelled and hurled the boot back at her. ‘Girls can’t play footie!’

  ‘Well I can,’ she replied, pulling a face at him. He had never been as friendly towards her since his year away in Australia. His parents had gone out on a £10 ticket but grown homesick so quickly they were back in thirteen months. Mark had nicknamed him Skippy after the TV kangaroo and now no one ever called him Billy. He took a swipe at Jo.

  ‘Leave her alone, Skippy man,’ Colin intercepted at once, but gave his sister a warning look. ‘Shouldn’t you be round at the Leishmans’?’

  Jo gave him an evasive shrug. ‘We’re looking for firewood, want to come?’

  Just then, the window of the house opposite flew open and old Ma West bawled out, ‘I’ve warned you lot about playing on there! Be off with you!’ Mark spun round, flicking the ball in the air, and headed it provocatively towards the angry woman. ‘Clear off, you little beggars or I’ll call the police!’ she yelled.

  Colin, seeing their time had run out, picked up the ball. ‘Haway, we’ll go and look for firewood down the Burn.’ As they drifted off, chucking the ball between them, Mark turned, determined to have the last word.

  ‘There’s only one thing worse than you, missus,’ he shouted over, ‘and that’s two of you!’

  Jo sniggered and caught Mark’s look. He grinned back and threw the ball at her. She caught it and ran ahead. ‘Race you to the park!’ she cried, giving herself a head start and hurling the ball back at her brother’s friend.

  Mark took up the challenge, knowing that Jo always won the sprinting races in the Jericho Street games. She was fast, but her wellies slowed her down and they reached the park gates in a dead heat. They raced each other through the park and on down the dene, heading for their favourite tree. Hauling each other up into the branches of a horse chestnut, they prepared to shower the others with conkers when they caught up.

  Of all her brother’s friends, Jo got on best with the restless, quick-talking Mark. He had always treated her like one of the lads, which was what she wanted, preferring to hang around with them than play ‘houses’ or skipping games with the girls in Jericho Street. Mark was cheeky and funny, his dark eyes full of mischief under a fringe of coarse black hair.

  And she sensed that they shared something else, that the world saw them both as being slightly different. She was a girl without a mother, a tomboy set apart from the other girls. Marilyn was her friend because she lived next door and was easy to lead, but apart from her, all Jo’s friends were boys. As for Mark, he looked different from the rest of his family, leaner and darker-skinned. She had once heard Mrs Leishman say to Auntie Pearl, ‘That one’s touched with the tar brush,’ and had wondered what she meant. It sounded unpleasant and her neighbour had said it with that disapproving downturn of her mouth that Jo knew so well. But Mark was a Duggan, a fighter like his bad-tempered father and handsome older brother Gordon. He had a wild streak in him, as if a slow fire burned away under his laughing exterior and occasionally burst into flames, like the time he had bloodied Kevin McManners’s nose for suggesting Mark had been left on his parents’ doorstep by the gypsies.

  ‘I heard you got sent to Toddy’s room today,’ Jo said, swinging her legs to keep warm. Mark grunted and cracked open a horse chestnut. ‘What for?’ Jo persisted, interested to know what had annoyed the headmaster this time.

  ‘Set off a banger behind the girls’ toilets,’ Mark sniffed.

  Jo looked at him admiringly. ‘Have you got any left?’

  ‘Aye, but I’m saving them to use on me dad,’ Ma
rk said with a bitter little smile.

  Jo felt a twist of unease in her stomach. She knew that big Matty Duggan, who worked off and on at the yards, had a ferocious temper and a large leather belt that he used on both his sons. Gordon, at fourteen, was growing tall and brawny, his hair touching his collar. He was at the grammar school and beginning to stand up for himself. But lately, Jo had noticed that the red weals on Mark’s upper legs were appearing more frequently and she felt he should be keeping out of his father’s way.

  ‘Why your dad?’ Jo asked.

  ‘To stop him hitting me mam,’ Mark said in a low voice that Jo could hardly catch.

  Jo felt queasy. The last time she had called at Nana Ivy’s, Norma Duggan had been there, sitting smoking by the open fire with dark glasses on. Jo had wanted to laugh, thinking Mark’s mother was trying to be trendy. Her hair was always blonder and more lacquered than anyone else’s, her skirts shorter, her nails brighter. Jo had assumed the sunglasses with the sparkling winged frames were just the latest fashion. Only when Jo was leaving, munching one of Ivy’s rock buns, had she glanced back and seen Norma take off her glasses. One eye had looked closed and ringed with colour like Chi-Chi the panda at London Zoo.

  ‘Eeh, Mrs Duggan!’ Jo had gasped. Norma had quickly slipped the glasses back on and reached for another cigarette.

  ‘It’s nothing. I banged into the doorframe,’ she said quickly.

  ‘Looks sore,’ Jo had continued, glancing at Ivy to see what she made of it.

  ‘It’s not,’ Mark’s mother had snapped. ‘And it’s none of your business.’

  Jo had felt rebuked and rather baffled that Ivy had remained silent. Mark’s grandmother usually had an opinion on everything, especially matters which went on in her own kitchen.