Chapter Fourteen

Maggie stood in disbelief. Alice Pearson was the last person on earth she wished to see.

‘How are you?^’ the tall aristocrat asked. She was dressed in expensive day clothes: a green velvet cape with a black Medici collar and a belted lilac dress. Maggie wondered bitterly if the suffragette colours were deliberately chosen.

‘Why are you here?’ Maggie asked stonily.

‘Maggie,’ Sister Robinson interrupted from behind, ‘Miss Alice has come at great personal risk. There’s no need to be uncivil.’

‘Oh, I’m sorry,’ Maggie answered with disdain, ‘and me thinking she’d come to spy on me for the Pearsons.’

Sister Robinson was about to protest again when Alice asked for them to be left alone.

‘Please let’s sit down,’ she said when the nurse had gone. Maggie stayed leaning on her stick, her anger ready to boil. Alice hesitated, unsure, and then lowered herself onto a straight-backed chair by the window.

‘I can’t say how sorry I am for what you’ve been through. My life has changed too. I’m constantly watched by my family and no longer free to associate with the movement,’ Alice told her hostile listener.

‘I got the impression you’d turned your back on us anyways,’ Maggie said, her whole body tense. ‘The last I saw of you, you were hobnobbing with Asquith.’

Alice’s powdered face flushed at the accusation. She was about to deliver a stinging rebuke to the young woman before her for daring to speak so insolently, when she checked herself. Maggie was so thin and vulnerable, her wasted face and body like that of a child and it made Alice ashamed of her robust size and health. This woman had started with so little in life and yet had been prepared to sacrifice what freedom and security she had for the millions of women better off than her, even for those women who despised her for trying.

‘You’re right,’ Alice answered with a meekness that cost her greatly, turning to stare out of the window, unable to face the girl’s huge, haunted grey eyes. ‘I pretended to myself that I, the great Alice Pearson, could reason with the Prime Minister, that I alone could persuade him to change his mind about women’s suffrage. Others had tried and failed, but I would cause his Damascus, a blinding conversion. What vanity!’ Alice mocked herself.

She caught sight of a rabbit running across the frosted lawn and disappearing under the root of an oak. It would be so easy to run away now without telling the whole truth, Alice thought, but somehow she felt compelled to confess to this working-class woman. She was startled to realise that she wished to win Maggie’s approval.

‘So I went along with police plans to keep the local militants quiet,’ Alice continued in a low shaky voice. ‘I played into their hands. I did what my father wanted. I told myself it was for the good of the movement, but deep down I knew that it was a lie. I did it for myself, for my own self-aggrandisement and that of all Pearsons. But then you evaded and defied us all,’ Alice said, turning round to look at Maggie. She saw that the young woman had moved quietly to sit in the armchair opposite.

‘I wondered why the police had bothered to search for me,’ Maggie said, as realisation dawned. ‘You put them on to me, didn’t you?’

Alice nodded bleakly.

‘Was I that much of a threat to you?^’ Maggie asked in bewilderment.

‘Oh, yes, Maggie. I could tell the first time we met that you were dangerous - outspoken, unafraid, subversive. Emily saw it too. She said you had the makings of a fearless militant. Deeds not words, she used to say to me and, by God, she was right.’

Maggie smiled weakly. ‘Miss Davison put me up to it - disrupting the launch. She approached me before she went to Epsom. After she died - well, I had to carry it out, didn’t I?’

‘Oh, Emily!^’ Alice cried, ‘I suspected as much.^’ She looked at the remarkable girl before her but could not bring herself to confess how she was burdened by the death of Emily Davison, weighed down by guilt at despatching her to the Derby so that she would think no more of the launch. Dear Emily, how she had wrought her revenge, Alice thought with regret as she remembered her friend.

‘Why have you told me all this?^’ Maggie asked, still suspicious.

Alice gave her a frank look. ‘I wanted you to understand the remorse I feel at what you’ve had to endure while I remain in relative ease and freedom. No one else knows what I’ve told you. I thought if I explained everything to you, you might trust me. You see, I want to help you.’

Maggie sat mutely wondering whether to believe a Pearson. Perhaps it was some elaborate game she played to ensnare her and send her back to prison.

‘Give me a reason to trust you,’ Maggie challenged.

Alice leaned forward eagerly. ‘I come as a messenger from Rose Johnstone. I’ve been in touch with her and we’ve concocted a plan to get you away from here.’

In spite of her reluctance to be won over by the powerful Alice, Maggie felt her interest quicken. Over the past days she had come to dream of escaping the clutches of the police, dreading the thought of returning to prison. A life in hiding was preferable to a creeping death in gaol.

‘Tell me,’ Maggie demanded. ‘Please.’

Alice, sensing Maggie’s distrust towards her thawing, smiled with relief.

‘First, let me call for Sister Robinson. We need her co-operation.’

***

A few days later, word got out that one of the residents at the nursing home was seriously ill. A sister and niece came to visit their dying relation and exchanged a few anxious words with the policeman at the gate.

‘Poorly, very poorly,’ the sister told him tearfully as she left. ‘Mary doesn’t know who I am. Me daughter’s staying to help nurse her for a day or two. Eeh, poor Mary...’

A week later, the constable was told that the old woman had died and that the gates must be opened for the undertaker. Flicking through the Newcastle Journal announcements on his break, he found a touching tribute to Mary Halliday from her sister Millicent and family members. The funeral was to be held at a church in Fenham.

Later in the day, the undertaker and his helper arrived in a horse-drawn hearse and carried an expensive polished coffin into the nursing home. The constable was glad of the diversion after days of cold and boredom keeping a watch on the wretched pampered criminal sheltering inside. He could see her now, a thin stick of a young woman, sitting in the upstairs window, half-hidden by the curtain, reading. He saw her every day, creeping around the garden, looking as if one gust of wind would blow her over. Whatever they had done to her in prison, he thought, had punched the stuffing out of her. She wasn’t going anywhere fast, of that he was sure.

One of the maids brought him out a cup of tea and chatted with him for a minute while the undertakers emerged, shouldering their burden.

‘Old lady’s sister’s taken it badly,’ the girl confided. ‘Wants to have the coffin at her place overnight so family can pay their respects.’

The constable grunted. ‘Funny how they all get upset after the old wife’s gone. I’ve never seen that sister visit once since I’ve been here - not until Mrs Halliday was at death’s door.’

‘Aye,’ the maid agreed. ‘Most likely after what’s in the will. You see it happen all the time.’

The policeman slurped his tea gratefully and watched the undertaker with the bushy side-whiskers climb back on the hearse while the other man led the horse gently round by the bridle. The constable followed them back down the short drive and made sure the gate was bolted behind them. Glancing up at the far bay window, he saw the suffragette still engrossed in her book and went back to pacing the pavement and stamping his feet to keep warm.

The hearse trotted down the tree-lined avenue, crossed over the busy high street and veered into a back lane. John Heslop jumped down, but his helper was already prising the lid off the coffin.

Maggie gulped for breath as strong hands reached in to pull her up. Blinking in the daylight, she gasped with shock to see George Gordon peering at her in concern.

‘Are you all right, Maggie?’ he asked.

She stared at him with a mixture of disbelief and joy. She had thought she would never see George again to talk to or touch and yet here he was somehow involved in her escape.

‘George, I . . .’ she stammered, then saw John Heslop watching them. ‘Mr Heslop. Miss Alice told me you were going to help. Thank you. I don’t know what to say!’ She grinned, light-headed from the sudden rush of fresh air and the startling appearance of George Gordon.

‘Maggie,’ John Heslop said, smiling but businesslike, ‘I’m to take you to Millie Dobson’s in my van - it’s waiting up the lane. George will return the hearse that Miss Alice hired. We must move quickly before the police discover that the figure at your window is really Annie Dobson.’

George took Maggie’s arm and helped lift her out of the coffin. She felt exhilarated by his touch and resisted the urge to bury her face in his chest and cling to him. Instead she allowed him to place her on the cobbles and merely rested a hand on his arm as he walked her to Heslop’s meat van.

George was shocked by her appearance. He had expected to find her affected by her ordeal but not this waif-like thinness, the almost translucent face and hands. Only her dark grey eyes, which were huge in her wasted face, shone with familiar spirit. Her voice, too, had the same strong richness of tone that he remembered and it gave him hope that Maggie would recover.

‘You’ll come and visit me, won’t you, George?’ she asked him. ‘So that I can thank you properly. I don’t have a clue why you’ve helped me, but I’m that grateful.’

‘I did it ’cos you showed me up, Maggie Beaton,’ George grunted in embarrassment, yet relieved she seemed genuinely pleased to see him. ‘What you did, standing up for yourself - well, it was bloody marvellous.’

Maggie gave him a wide smile. ‘Does this mean I’ve made a convert?^’ she teased. ‘I hope so, ’cos I’d hate to think three months in prison were for nowt.’

‘By heck! Not for nowt,’ George insisted. He wanted to say more, that he had missed her and was sorry for quarrelling, but Heslop was beside them now and impatient to be away.

‘Come on, Maggie, we mustn’t linger here, it’s not safe,’ John Heslop advised. ‘George can come to the mission sometime soon.’

‘As long as you don’t expect me to pray,’ George answered gruffly.

‘No,’ Maggie laughed, ‘we can do that for you.’

He helped her into the van and waved her away, envious of the lanky, middle-aged butcher into whose protection she gave herself without question. George felt a fierce desire to care for Maggie himself, to see her grow strong again so that they could once more walk up to Hibbs’ Farm and talk poetry and politics and ... He forced himself to end his daydreaming. No one quite knew what lay ahead for Maggie, except the certainty that she was wanted by the police and could not enjoy such simple pleasures as walking or going to the music hall without the risk of re-arrest. Deep inside, George was filled with foreboding for Maggie.

Maggie and Millie Dobson hugged each other warmly in the safety of the Dobsons’ tiny flat.

‘How can I thank you?’ Maggie laughed, close to tears.

‘Eeh, hinny, I enjoyed every minute of it - having that copper on about me dying sister. I tell you, I should’ve gone on the stage!’

‘There’s still time, Mrs Dobson.’

‘Call me Millie. We’re partners in crime now, hinny,’ Mrs Dobson cackled.

‘But what about Annie?’ Maggie asked in concern, flopping down thankfully on the bed.

‘She’ll come out after dark dressed in a maid’s outfit - they’ll have changed coppers by then - and the dozy buggers won’t notice the difference,’ Millie reassured her. ‘Tomorrow they’ll start to wonder where the hell you’ve got to, but they’ll have a job finding you. My Annie’s good with the scissors and a spot of hair dye. Your own mam won’t recognise you once we’ve finished.’

Maggie thought suddenly of her mother and the heartache she must be causing her. Yet, perhaps in Annie’s disguise, she might be able to return and visit briefly, Maggie comforted herself with the thought.

Millie poured brandy into two chipped mugs and handed one over.

‘Get that down your neck and feel it do you some good,’ she ordered, swigging greedily at her own.

Maggie did as she was told, spluttering as the liquor burned its way down her throat and set fire to her chest. Yet with it came a feeling of elation that she was free and had hoodwinked the authorities. They had tried to destroy her body and soul with imprisonment, force-feeding and degradation. But they had not succeeded in breaking her, Maggie thought with fierce pride, and she would regain her strength to fight. She was filled with a new sense of purpose, finally seeing a way out of the terrible blackness of the past weeks.

‘To us lasses!’ Maggie raised her mug again. She clinked it against Millie Dobson’s.

‘To us lasses!’ Millie echoed and let out a joyful cackle.

***

By December, Maggie’s health had improved dramatically under the care of the Dobsons and the nutritious fresh food regularly brought by John Heslop. The butcher was kind and concerned and tried to divert Maggie’s impatience at being inactive by encouraging her to help at the mission.

‘You have great talents that could be put to good use,’ Heslop told her. ‘Such enthusiasm, and a wonderful singing voice. You’ve done your bit for women’s suffrage, Maggie. There are other equally worthwhile causes.’

He seemed pleased whenever Maggie appeared from the Dobsons’ hideaway and lent a hand in the kitchen. As Christmas drew nearer, Maggie threw herself into organising a special meal for those who were out on the streets, enjoying the rousing carols being sung at the mission meetings. It all helped to occupy her mind which was increasingly drawn to thoughts of her family preparing for the festive season. She had heard from Heslop that Susan was engaged to Richard Turvey and despite misgivings about the man, she was pleased for her sister. Through Heslop she had conveyed messages to her family that she was safe and well and hoped to see them before long.

John Heslop was reticent when Maggie asked him what Susan had said at chapel about her escape.

‘I’m sure she’s reassured to know you’re well cared for,’ he said rather awkwardly. ‘You’ll understand that at the moment her thoughts are rather occupied by her engagement to Mr Turvey.’

‘Aye, of course,’ Maggie replied, disappointed.

Several times, Maggie slipped out of the Dobsons’ flat and mingled with the Saturday crowds on the quayside, edging towards Sandgate market where she knew her mother would be selling clothes. On the first occasion it had taken all her willpower to restrain herself from rushing over and flinging her arms round her mother. She had looked quite old and grey-faced, her movements slow as she bent down to spread out her wares. But Helen had been with her and Maggie did not trust her sister to be discreet, so she had crept away in frustration. The market was quite possibly watched. They might be expecting her to contact her mother there.

Since then, to Maggie’s concern, her mother had not been at the Saturday market. Helen had been in charge of the second-hand clothes and shoes, though she appeared more interested in gossiping with the other stallholders than attempting to sell her stock. Maggie’s alarm had increased when, on one occasion, she spotted Richard Turvey emerge from a nearby public house and help Helen load the unsold coats and dresses onto the barrow. She was too far away to hear what they said, but their manner seemed teasing and over-intimate.

When she told John Heslop of her worries, he was dismissive.

‘Mr Turvey is soon to be one of the family, isn’t he? It’s very commendable that he’s willing to help out when your mother is ill.’

‘How ill is she?’ Maggie asked in real concern, forgetting her unease at Helen’s behaviour.

‘A chest infection, Susan tells me,’ the butcher replied, ‘but nothing to worry about. They’re just being cautious keeping her indoors during this cold spell.’

She was restless and Millie Dobson began to complain it was like having a wild cat pacing around her room. She was a cheerful, kind-hearted woman but Maggie could tell she was getting on her nerves, cooped up with not enough to do. Her daughter Annie, however, was fired with the cause of women’s rights after her involvement in Maggie’s escape from the nursing home and constantly shadowed Maggie. It was like having an earnest and attentive ghost, silently following and watching her every move, she told George Gordon on one of his visits. For it was his visiting, and that of her friend Rose and even Alice Pearson, that kept Maggie sane in her cramped, fusty hideout.

‘Teach her something,’ George suggested, amused.

‘I’m not a teacher,’ Maggie laughed.

‘You’ve all the makings of one - intelligent, bossy, loud-voiced…’

Maggie took a playful swipe at her companion as they meandered among the maze of tenements near the quayside. He grabbed her hand and locked it into the crook of his arm.

‘You could teach her book-keeping, shorthand or whatever you clerks do.’

‘Did,’ Maggie corrected wryly.

‘Well, here’s a chance to keep up your skills - teach them to Annie. Her mam would kiss your feet if Annie managed to get a good job.’

‘I suppose I could,^’ Maggie considered. ‘She’s a bright lass. Thanks, George,’ she smiled up at him, ‘it’ll give me summat to do till the movement comes up with some real work.’

He felt troubled as he watched her determined face with the restless, searching eyes looking beyond him. He had grown used to the new Maggie with her neat wavy blonde hair framing her brow under an enveloping hat, although it gave her a misleadingly placid look, like her sister Susan. Blonde or dark, the sight of her lively upturned face still filled him with longing.

‘You’re serious about wanting to do more for the movement then?’ George asked.

‘Course I am,’ Maggie answered roundly. ‘I’m already the wrong side of the law so what does it matter if I carry on breaking it for the sake of greater justice? I need a new mission - not just brick throwing, something bigger.’

‘Heslop’s mission not enough for you then?’

‘You know I don’t mean that kind of mission,’ Maggie retorted. ‘Anyone can peel tatties and sing hymns; not everyone can be a militant protester.’

George sighed. ‘I worry for you, bonny lass. But this time I won’t try to stop you.’ He leaned over and kissed her cold pink cheek and saw the colour deepen.

‘Ta,’ Maggie answered with a smile and tightened her grip on his arm. She was flooded with sudden tenderness for him, a deeper feeling than the physical ache that his nearness always provoked. Outwardly, George Gordon was a blunt miner’s son, a hard-grafting blacksmith, rower and drinker like many working-class lads with whom she had grown up. But inwardly he nurtured a passionate belief that their brutal world could and would be bettered, if the common people were empowered to change things. He was a romantic, Maggie suddenly realised, with his secret love of history and poetry and music and his whimsical idealism. And standing in the cold damp fog that stole in from the Tyne, she was certain that he cared deeply for her, as she cared for him.

Without another word they walked on contentedly, arm in arm, listening to the cry of the chestnut-seller whose brazier glowed orange through the December mist.

***

It was Christmas Eve and Hebron House was spectacularly bedecked in holly wreaths, sparkling tinsel and large coloured baubles, and an enormous Christmas tree filled the hallway with glittering waxy light from dozens of candles.

Richard Turvey was hardly aware of Felicity’s elaborate gestures to prove to the world that she was mistress of the Pearson mansion as he was hurried down a dimly lit passageway and through a series of doors to a smoke-filled study.

He had met Herbert Pearson on a previous occasion, when the portly businessman had been chummy and offered him a cigar in this trophy-filled private room. Richard had thought fleetingly that it looked like a props room for some exotic play, with stuffed heads, spears and rifles pinned against the walls. He had almost made a joke about it, but stopped himself in time, recognising that his employer had little sense of humour.

Tonight, though, there were no cigars on offer and no boastful chat about hunting in Africa or being on the verge of a glittering political career. Herbert Pearson was inebriated and aggressively threatening.

‘Nothing?’ he demanded.

‘I have some idea—’

‘Idea? I don’t want your bloody ideas, Turvey! I want this woman found and locked up. You’re engaged to her sister, for God’s sake. A halfwit would have found her by now!’ He poured himself another brandy, his breathing laboured, then continued, ‘There’s been a hammer thrown through the window of our quayside offices with a copy of The Suffragette wrapped round it. That picture house I opened a month ago had a brick thrown into the foyer in the middle of the night. It’s a blatant attempt to sabotage my election campaign. Don’t you read the bloody papers?’ Herbert threw a copy of the Newcastle Journal at Richard’s feet and gulped back the large brandy.

Richard wished it was for him, he was desperate for a drink himself. Restraining the urge to grab the heavy bulbous glass, he picked up the newspaper and adopted an expression of concern.

‘Terrible.’ He shook his head. ‘But how do we know it’s Maggie Beaton?’

‘We don’t!’ Herbert snapped. ‘But the other militants are under careful watch. It’s got to be Beaton - and she’s got to have friends protecting her. Her stupid antics are damaging our business as well as my political hopes - people are beginning to ask why we’re a target. You would think she had some personal vendetta against us, but I’m told we used to employ the little baggage! Terrorism scares people, Turvey, especially business people. So get off your arse and find her. Otherwise you’re fired.’

Richard was jolted by the threat. He looked around the comfortable, ostentatious room with its leather sofas and wool carpets and the roaring coal fire that could have heated all the ranges in Gun Street. He was sick with envy for this over-fed, overbearing man who could have every luxury he cared for without thinking twice about how to pay for it. All his life he must have got what he wanted, when he wanted it, and Richard was determined he was going to grab a portion of his wealth.

After all, he deserved it, Richard thought resentfully. He had fed back information on a rival export business by befriending an elderly clerk and getting him drunk and with Helen Beaton’s help he had the potential to blackmail a prominent councillor. Yes, Helen Beaton had been a useful find. She was impressionable and desperate for love, and it had been easy convincing her that there would be rich rewards if she did as he asked and compromised the respectably married councillor. It was their secret, he had told her when he had seduced her that afternoon in the modest Jesmond hotel; they would work together in secret and one day they would be rich enough to run off together, to London or Paris or Florence... She had been seduced by the very names and he had found her the easiest conquest of his career.

But the fat Herbert, Richard thought with disdain, was ungrateful for all his hard work so far. He was obsessed by the wretched Maggie and the damage she inflicted upon his Pearson pride.

‘She’s bound to come sneaking round now it’s Christmas,’ Richard said. ‘They’re clannish, these Beatons, for all they’re at each other’s throats half the time. She’ll not be able to stay away. Don’t you worry, sir.’

‘Well, you better be right,’ Herbert growled, dismissing him with a wave. ‘Now go, and don’t return until you’ve found her. If you don’t deliver her by the New Year, you’re out on your arse, Turvey, and back in the gutter where we found you.’

‘Yes, sir.’

Richard left, inwardly fuming at his master’s rudeness. He would hang on to Pearson like a leech and suck the bastard dry of his wealth, he determined. But first he would have to flush out the elusive Maggie. He would get to her through her family, he vowed.

Deep in thought, he nearly walked straight into a tall woman emerging from what looked like a broom cupboard under the back stairs. He moved aside just as she moved aside, blocking each other again. Her face was completely shadowed in the dim corridor and he took her for some maid.

‘Look at the mistletoe!’ he said, gesturing above. As she looked up, Richard grabbed her behind the neck and kissed her roundly on the lips. ‘Happy Christmas darlin’!’

He walked on, whistling Alexander’s Ragtime Band.

Alice stared after the thin young man in the loud checked suit, speechless with outrage. She was further mortified to note that there was not a single sprig of mistletoe to be seen in the passageway. She had no idea who he was, only that he had presumably come from the back entrance to Herbert’s study. Some ghastly drinking friend, she assumed, shuddering with distaste, who had taken her for one of the servants.

Perhaps it had done her good to know for an instant what it was like to be treated as an inferior woman, Alice thought. No wonder Maggie Beaton was so at war with the world. Well, she had a present to warm her militant heart this Christmas, Alice smiled, locking the darkroom door behind her to keep her secret safe.