Uncle Jack drove the Austin, while Uncle Mart sat in the passenger seat, telling him how to drive, and counting off the miles to Jarrow. He was seemingly unaware that Jack’s knuckles were becoming ever whiter on the wheel. Bridie and James, with Charlie – the Easterleigh Hall gamekeeper who had been a POW with her da, Jack and Mart – sat between them, daren’t look at one another, and instead stared out of the window at the scenery. Any minute now Charlie would chip in, and then Jack would yell, ‘Who else wants to bloody take the wheel, or do you want to walk?’
At that point Mart and Charlie’s game would finish, and the drinks would be on Uncle Jack.
Her da had been in Newcastle overnight with Uncle Richard on business, and they’d be making their own way. If there was too much of a crowd in Jarrow, they’d not even meet, but at least they’d each know the other was there. Perhaps Tim would come on his motorbike. If he did, would he be alone? If he wasn’t, would the fascists make trouble: another Cable Street, with its fascist marchers heading for the East End of London, until they clashed with protesters? It had better not be, or the Blackshirts would be on a hiding to nothing.
Bridie watched the raindrops course down the windows; some were faster, some were smeared by the wind and never reached the bottom.
Were the fascists surprised when the protesters barred their way? The newspapers said that bricks, chamber pots and heaven knew what had been thrown. ‘You shall not pass,’ a witness reported hearing one Jewish woman say. It had caused the police to require the fascists to disperse, for the sake of law and order. They’d finally ended up in Hyde Park, where she presumed they hadn’t fed the ducks. She tried to laugh but couldn’t, because of the question in all their heads, no doubt: had Tim been there?
They were passing through a small pit village now, the terraced houses blackened, the unemployed loitering on the corner, or in doorways, sheltering from the steady rain.
Charlie leaned forward, saying, ‘Watch the corner, man. You’re storming into it too fast, bonny lad. We’re not charging across no-man’s land into the jaws of death.’
Mart yelled over his shoulder, ‘Not so sure about that. He thinks he’s driving a canny tank.’
At that, Uncle Jack did the inevitable, drawing into the kerb and slamming on the brakes, so that they were all thrown forward. Bridie caught at the door handle as Charlie flung a protective arm across her and James, just as Tim had done when they were bairns. Everyone waited. Jack said, ‘Any more ruddy nonsense and you’re walking, the lot of you. Not another word, got it?’
‘Aye,’ Charlie said. ‘Aye, think we got that, didn’t we, troops? If we’re good, the drinks are on you then, if I hear you right, Jack?’
The men were laughing as Jack drew away from the kerb, cursing under his breath. James leaned forward, looking past Charlie to Bridie, shaking his head. ‘Same as always. Bairns, the lot of them.’
‘Enough of your cheek, fellow me lad,’ Jack called, changing gear and winding his way through the village. They were travelling in the wake of other cars now, and a few charabancs, all heading for Jarrow, it seemed.
Bridie grinned suddenly. She loved her da’s marras, loved them so much it gave her a pain in her gut. They made her feel good. ‘I spy with my little eye something beginning with “C”,’ she said.
Everyone groaned. ‘Not that old chestnut,’ Uncle Mart complained.
Bridie called, ‘No, wrong, not a chestnut.’
The others groaned again. Charlie called, ‘Church.’ The spire she had seen in the distance was now on their left.
‘Too clever by half.’ Bridie could hardly speak for laughing.
‘Your turn, Uncle Mart,’ James shouted. He chose ‘S’.
Bridie grinned at Uncle Jack as he snatched a look at her in the rear-view mirror, his eyes crinkling, his pit scars still visible. But scars like that stayed, because the coal became embedded. She thought it was like a sign saying, I’m a member of a gang, I have marras. We live together, and die together.
Perhaps it was a bit like that at Easterleigh in the kitchens. She smothered a grin. With her mam and Mrs Moore shouting the odds, sometimes it seemed as if death really was close.
Between James and Bridie, Charlie sat hunched with his big hands on his knees, trying to make himself smaller than he was, such was the tight fit. His hands had coal scars from the German mines where he’d worked with Jack and Mart until her da had got them out, and moved them to his officers’ prison camp as orderlies and tunnellers. It was Jack and Mart who had developed the tunnel through which they led many to freedom.
‘You started this, so join in,’ James ordered. She listened then yelled, ‘School. Too easy for the master of the game.’
‘Ah ha, pride comes before a fall, pet,’ Charlie said. ‘So find us a corker then.’
Bridie snatched a look. He hadn’t shaved too well this morning. ‘I spy with my little eye, something beginning with “W”.’ That would keep them at it for a good while.
‘No, no, no,’ she kept replying, but her concentration was wavering. Seeing Charlie’s scarred hands, and recalling the German mines, had made her think about what it was like for the miners. If she was Mine Manager, she knew that she’d do what Jack and Mart did, and go down the pit every few months, just to hear the grumbles, check the props, and listen to the creaking of the seams or whatever it was Uncle Jack said.
Perhaps all bosses should work with the men, so they could understand? Maybe, while they were waiting for the marchers to get going, she’d ask him and Mart what they thought about that idea, though what she really wanted to know was whether they were going to make the men shareholders. She wouldn’t ask them that yet, though. Slowly, she was beginning to learn to wait for the moment. It could be something to do with her having turned sixteen a week ago.
At last James said, ‘I haven’t a clue, you horrid little worm.’
‘Say you give in then, toad.’
They were drawing into Jarrow now, set on the River Tyne. Gulls were overhead, the rain was still pouring, the traffic was slow. Uncle Jack said, ‘We’ll park on the edge of town and walk in.’
‘I give in,’ James said, leaning forward. Charlie pressed himself back for her to answer.
She did so: ‘Whiskers. To be exact, Uncle Charlie’s; he missed some this morning when he shaved.’
James’ howl of protest was drowned by the guffaws of the men, as Charlie ran his hand round his chin.
‘Too tricky by half,’ he murmured. ‘We’ll have to watch you, bonny lass. Mischief in the making, I reckon.’
They walked to Christ Church in the rain, and stood outside with hundreds of people who filled the workless town that day. Those inside were mainly the marchers, while most outside were well-wishers. Bridie wondered if this march would change things. Would Palmer’s shipbuilders open up again, and if they did, who would buy their ships? If Hitler had the money in his pocket to buy a few, would Palmer’s sell to the Nazis? The rain was dripping off her hair, and down her face. Gulls squawked.
Inside, an ecumenical dedication service was conducted, and prayers were said for a safe and successful conclusion to the march. When the marchers reached the House of Commons they aimed to present a petition, signed by more than eleven thousand people. Bridie said, ‘It should weigh really heavy, with so many names, because they’re more than names, aren’t they, Uncle Jack? There’s a lot of hope there, and pain.’
Uncle Jack nodded. He looked thoughtful. ‘Aye, lass, you’re right there.’
Uncle Charlie put his arm around her shoulder. ‘Not just a mischief maker, then?’
James was putting up his umbrella, borrowed from his father. It was black and large, and more suited for a Durham club or the streets of Newcastle, or even London. He held it over Bridie, as well as himself. Jack, Mart and Charlie shook their heads at the offer to squeeze beneath.
‘Caps will do the job, lad. Always have, always will,’ said Uncle Mart, as the rain grew heavier and doused his cigarette. He threw it into the gutter. They all watched it shred.
Her hair probably looked like the tobacco, Bridie thought, because it was already soaked, and the water was running down her neck. She muttered to James, ‘You could have put it up sooner, you daft beggar.’
He shook his head. ‘No, I couldn’t. I forgot about it, and besides, I like you looking like a drowned rat, it will keep you in your place.’
She dug him in the ribs. He seemed more himself today, though for the last few weeks he’d been scouring the newspapers, reading about the fighting in Spain as the Nationalists, who were fascists in all but name, staged a coup against the elected Republican, or socialist, government. She’d grown tired of hearing him mutter, day after day, ‘How bloody dare they?’
The service finally ended, and the marchers began to sort themselves out, the front rank holding the banner ‘Jarrow Crusade’. There was one more, further back. The crowd was talking quietly, and so too was James, who looked over his shoulder to check that Jack was not within hearing distance. ‘Father says that the talk is that the BUF will be told they can’t wear uniforms to strut about in any more, after the trouble at Cable Street. In fact, no civilians will be able to, so that’s a shot in the foot for the silly beggars. Serve ’em damn well right.’
The march was beginning with Ellen Wilkinson, Jarrow’s red-haired MP, leading the way. The cheering was ragged to begin with, but then it grew strong, and as determined as the marchers. Bridie could see very little because of the press of people, but she did see the top of the banner jogging past.
Mart called to Jack, ‘Are we walking along for a bit?’
‘Aye, lad, reckon we are.’
They set off, arranging to meet back at the car if they lost one another. The marchers were heading for Ripon, over sixty miles away, and destined to be there by the weekend. They would stay at village halls overnight. Their boots sounded like a company of soldiers marching. Still the gulls swooped. Bridie wondered how they would know if Tim had come. As they walked with the tide of men, women and children, she turned to James. ‘Do you think Cable Street will have changed his mind and brought him back?’ she asked.
It was Jack who answered. ‘It won’t be that easy.’
Jack and Mart had caught them up and were walking either side of the youngsters, with Charlie at the back. ‘To stop you two getting up to mischief,’ Charlie said.
Bridie knew it was to keep them safe. Rain still fell, the shops and houses looked dark and dreary, but after all, it was October in Britain. She said to Uncle Jack, ‘We should do something. He could get hurt, he could—’
‘Hush your noise, lass,’ Jack said, peering over the heads of the crowd. They were keeping pace with the banner. ‘Give it a rest. Let the lad find things out for himself.’
James almost shouted now, ‘But what if he doesn’t? What do we do then? He’ll be one of us, but not one of us, and how can he not see what’s happening out in Germany, to the Jews, to the communists, socialists, all those who fought his lot at Cable Street? When I met him for a drink, he said that I didn’t understand how inefficient democracy was, that a leader was needed to drag the country out of depression, that it was the good of the whole that mattered, not the individual.’
Bridie turned on him. ‘You met him, and didn’t tell me?’
James shook his head, irritated. ‘I can meet him, if I want to, but I bloody don’t any more. Beggin’ your pardon, Uncle Jack.’
They were out of the town now, and a gap opened in the crowds. James ploughed a way through, taking his umbrella with him, heedless of the rain falling on the others. They followed until they were walking alongside the marchers. Ahead of her Bridie saw James and a young marcher talking together. She heard James replying, ‘A doctor, really? Looking after them on the march, are you? Oh, you’re going over?’
She didn’t hear what the man said, but she knew from the set of James’ shoulders and the way he moved that it was something interesting. Other marchers were pressing forward, and James fell back, calling, ‘Thanks for that. I’ll have a good think, now I’ve a contact.’
Uncle Jack called from behind, ‘What’s he up to now, our Bridie?’
‘I’m not a mind reader, Uncle Jack, but don’t you worry, I’ll get it out of him.’
His laugh was so like her mam’s. ‘I’m right glad you’ve got the lad to keep you company these days,’ he said. ‘It’s hard when you lose a friend, even if it’s only for a while.’
She looked at the marchers, already thin and tired. What on earth would they be like after a march of three hundred miles? She hoped they would be well fed in the towns they rested in overnight, but two hundred men was a lot to take on. When they got there, would it do any good? Would the government listen? How many of the MPs knew what unemployment and poverty meant? What the men needed was a safety net for when they were out of work. It would make things so much better.
She found herself saying to her uncle, ‘Tim’s not right, is he? We mustn’t get rid of our parliament, our democracy, or our law. Would one Führer, like Mosley, make Britain fairer and more efficient?’
He put his arm around her shoulders. She was soaking. The rain was running down her face and squelching in her shoes. ‘Aye, well, Bridie, they’d have your mam and your Aunt Ver to deal with if they tried that trick. Those women fought long and hard for their suffrage, and remember it took a war to give men of all classes the vote too. By, Bridie, I remember that call after the war – “If they are fit to fight they are fit to vote.” Aye, it’ll not be given up easily, you mark my words. As I say, give him time.’
He squeezed her to him. She said, ‘You are so calm, so certain.’
‘Maybe I’m certain, but calm? Not sure your Aunt Gracie would agree with that, but I know my boy has a good heart. One day he’ll see past the blather, and know that though Britain is slow, no-one is locked up for what he is, or turfed out of the country.’
James was alongside them now, holding the umbrella over Bridie. ‘But what if he doesn’t see, Uncle Jack?’
‘Then we’ll have to show him, but until then, you two, let it lie. Promise me?’
His voice was so serious, so sad, that they both nodded. Uncle Jack dropped back then, as James and Bridie walked along together, and slowly the marchers drew ahead until finally, they were left looking after them, feeling gormless and useless. Uncle Mart suggested they head for home, and have their drink at the Miners’ Club in Easton, with James too. They could drop Bridie back at the Hall. She had to be back for a patient who was going to try his hand at riding for the first time.
As they reached the car, James surprised Bridie by telling the marras that he’d like to be dropped at the Hall too.
James leaned back against the fencing around the exercise paddock and listened as Bridie read out details of David Weare’s injury, weight and height. Poor beggar, James thought, hurt in a steeplechasing fall – how quickly life could change. The canny thing was that all David wanted was to get back on a horse.
James said, ‘I wonder if it’s just bravado, and once he’s done it, he’ll walk away. Well, roll away?’
Bridie shrugged. ‘Not if Prancer’s got anything to do with it. I reckon his daughter Fanny has the same gift. Wonder if Primrose will have it too?’ She tucked the clipboard under her arm.
James watched as David Weare, who looked about thirty, appeared, pushing himself along in his wheelchair while Matron walked beside him on the concrete path from the Neave Wing. David’s arms looked strong, but you never could tell. ‘It’ll be a total lift, I think, don’t you, Bridie?’
She nodded. ‘Can you?’
He smiled. ‘These muscles can do anything, but just in case, I’ve asked Young Stan along. He’s happy to leave sweeping the leaves for now.’
Matron waved, and now Sister Newsome appeared, walking across from the Hall laundry where she’d left sheets to be laundered. She was never far away when needed, and James thought that the two women worked by some sort of telepathy. That would be a useful tool where he’d decided to go, especially after the talk with the doctor who was on the march. He just wished telepathy would work with Bridie, and then he wouldn’t have to actually tell her of his decision to go to Spain with the International Brigade.
He stopped lounging, and walked with Bridie along the path to meet David. James called, ‘Good to see you. We’ve Young Stan on his way to help with the lift; we might just need him. He’s used to lifting sacks of spuds, and you’ll be a damn sight easier than that, with those arms. Look like they could knock a few blocks flying.’
David laughed. Bridie had started this therapy by being polite and kind, but James had said if he’d lost the use of his legs, not to mention possibly his willy, he’d much rather be treated as an ordinary bloke. It seemed to work. They all chatted as they headed for the ramp and in between explained the procedure.
While they did so, Bridie and James studied him. People might say they were fine, but often, deep inside, they were petrified. It sometimes showed at the foot of the ramp, or when they saw Prancer, who was large; it was a long way to fall, after all. Clive, the groom, was standing with Prancer at the platform of the mounting ramp. He’d put on the double saddle. This time they’d decided James would get on board with David. It was Matron’s suggestion, and she was always right.
‘Two blokes together,’ she’d said. ‘We’re one man down now Tim’s busy, so you’ll have to do a bit more, James. Bridie can’t do it all. Well, she can, but it’s good for you, young man.’
So that was that, James thought ruefully. She was right, of course, but fairly soon Bridie would have to do it on her own. Or he’d have to train someone up; perhaps Young Stan?
Bridie called, ‘Are you going to stand there catching flies all day, James? Come on, don’t know when the rain’s going to start again, and we don’t want David getting soaked.’
Matron said, ‘We need an undercover paddock. I will talk to Sir Anthony.’
Oh dear, James thought, poor Sir Anthony. Bridie winked at him.
They were at the foot of the ramp, and now James shoved the chair up it, while David thrust at the wheels. Bridie slipped into the paddock and moved to Prancer’s side, ready to guide David’s leg. Young Stan was here now, but James said he would try to do it, if Stan would just wait in case he was needed.
James and David reached the platform, and again talked through what was to happen. Stan positioned the chair facing Prancer’s head. James faced David, putting his arms securely around the rider, and knee-to-knee he lifted David forward, swivelled him around and lowered him onto the centre of the saddle in a side-sit position, never letting him go for a second. ‘How are you, David?’
James’ back ached; well, let it ache. At least he could feel it. This young man had broken his. Bridie helped James to ease David’s right leg over the front of the saddle, while Young Stan supported David’s back. All the time Bridie and Clive talked quietly to Prancer, who never moved a muscle, but waited, as though willing the rider to have faith and courage.
‘Right, Clive,’ Bridie panted. ‘Let’s slip this left leg just where it should go. David, Clive will ease Prancer forward and then help me put your feet into the stirrups. They’re wooden, with a bigger platform, which seems to work better.’
James had left Young Stan on the mounting platform, where he was holding on to David’s shoulders, and jumped down into the paddock. He took Prancer’s head, moving him forward a bit, to make room for Clive to take up position by David’s right leg. ‘How are you feeling? Sick, dizzy, in a bit of a tizzy?’
David grinned. ‘Bloody marvellous. I never thought I’d mount a horse again. Bit of a palaver, but worth it. Thank you.’
James let Prancer nuzzle his hand. ‘Prancer is special. Bridie’s da came home from the war minus a leg, and my dad left his arm and leg behind. Very careless. They both ride now. Prancer seems to know things we don’t. Dad also drives a car and we wish he wouldn’t. He seems to think if he drives it fast enough he can take off. A frustrated pilot, I reckon.’ All the time he spoke, he kept his eye on David, monitoring him for sweating, paleness, panic. There was none. This man was bred for riding.
Bridie and Clive finished fixing David’s feet in the broad stirrups, which Grandpa Forbes and Tom Wilson had designed. Bridie was at David’s right knee. Clive at his left, and James at his front. Bridie asked, ‘How’s your balance? Should Young Stan release your shoulder?’
David nodded. Young Stan had followed David as James eased Prancer forward just a bit, but now he let him go, hovering a bare inch above his shoulders. Young Stan was a natural, James felt, with relief – for how could he leave Bridie without help? – and there was time to train him, on the quiet. They all watched, alert to rush to David’s aid. Bridie was supporting his back from her side, and Clive was doing the same from his.
‘Can I walk him?’ David asked.
James laughed quietly. ‘Thought you might say that. Clive will give me a leg up, and then I’ll sit behind you; they’ll walk either side. How does that sound?’
Clearly, rather good. Clive boosted James on board, and Prancer strolled around the paddock, once, twice. As they neared the ramp, Matron and Sister Newsome waved their hands. ‘Enough,’ Matron called. ‘We don’t want to wear him out. When he’s back in his chair he can go and have a look at Primrose and Marigold, and meet Fanny and Terry, and then that’ll be his lot for today. There’s always tomorrow, young man. Bridie combines kitchen duties with this, and James is intermittent, but it looks to me like Clive and Young Stan are coming along nicely – not that you knew you were in the picture, Young Stan. You are.’
The same procedure occurred, but in reverse. This time it was Young Stan who helped David roll down the ramp, pulling back so he didn’t head down at a rush. As Clive slung Prancer’s stirrups over his saddle, prior to walking him back to his stall, David said, ‘He’s a good horse; not that young, though.’
Bridie snapped, ‘He’s not that old, either.’
David and James exchanged a look. Something passed between them. David said, ‘No, he’ll never be that old. Horses like that aren’t. They’re always with us.’
Bridie wouldn’t listen to this and strode ahead to check on Marigold and Primrose, and give carrots to Fanny, Prancer’s other daughter, and Terry, who had come from a friend of her da and was absolutely trained up now, and ready to join Prancer in his work. As Clive took Prancer to his stall, to remove his saddle and bridle and replace it with his halter, she called back to Clive, ‘Make sure he has a play in the pasture, won’t you, Clive? He’s been such a good boy.’
She leaned on the stall barrier looking at Primrose, who had been brought in with her mother because of the rain. ‘She’s a good mum, isn’t she, Primrose?’ she muttered to the foal, who was developing nicely. ‘Bet your da’s pleased with you, little Primmy.’
James and David were at her side now, with David peering through the horizontal slots. ‘She’s a belter,’ he muttered.
‘Prancer’s foal,’ Bridie said.
‘She’ll have his spirit, you can tell.’ Primmy had come to David, who leaned forward and extended his hand through the gap. She nuzzled it.
Bridie smiled. ‘His other daughter, Fanny, is the same, but she’s out in the pasture right now. We’re going to be able to help more people once we have them all trained. Fanny is five now, and almost ready. I do that in the evenings, or the odd hour off. Terry is just perfect, and we’re already using him.’
They stayed for a while longer but then heard Matron calling, ‘Time.’
David turned his wheelchair and trundled out of the stable, stopping at the doors. ‘If you ever need someone like me to help, perhaps to give people confidence, I have my own money, but I have no life. I’d like to make mine here.’
Matron was waiting for him just outside and said, ‘Good heavens, you’re here five minutes and taking over, young man. Let’s see how you do over the next few weeks, or months, and if Bridie and James can get you to the stage of a shining example, then it might be worth considering.’ She pushed him out into the drizzle that had begun.
Bridie laughed. ‘Well, no need to make a decision on that one then. Matron will tell us when the time is right, and will also say what it is we are to do, James. So we’ll see you up on Prancer tomorrow, then, David.’ They waved him goodbye, and Bridie said to James, ‘I’m having a cup of tea before I get the dinner sorted. Come in and have some with me. You left your bike in the garage, didn’t you?’
As she began to walk into the yard he pulled her back. ‘I was talking to someone on the march.’
‘Yes, I saw that. You looked interested. Come on.’ She walked away, and he watched her go.
Perhaps he didn’t have to tell her, not yet? But then he heard the words pouring from his mouth, ‘Wait, Bridie, I have to tell you. Just wait, will you, and stop rushing everywhere.’
She stopped, and turned. He saw the consternation on her face and rushed on. ‘We were talking about Spain. He’s going out with the International Brigade to support the Republicans against Franco.’
‘What?’
‘Oh, don’t look so dim, Bridie. You’ve read about it in the newspapers. You know the Nationalists are fighting the Republicans because Franco doesn’t agree with the election results. The Nazis and Italian fascists are supporting Franco, and no-one but Russia is doing much to supply the Republicans. I’m tired of just complaining about Tim and the fascists here, so this is my chance to actually do something about the bastards. Arthur’s given me a contact in London.’
‘Arthur, who’s Arthur?’ Bridie said, right up close now, gripping his arms. ‘Fight, you mean? You don’t know anything about fighting, you idiot.’
She was shouting now, an inch from his face. He didn’t move, but shouted back, ‘Oh, don’t be so bloody difficult, Bridie. Tim’s up to his neck in something, and I’m just ploughing your da’s fields, looking at horses’ arses, and being useless.’
She was shaking him now. ‘You’re mad. Tim’s not fighting; he’s having the odd ruckus and being obnoxious. Don’t. You mustn’t. We’ll heckle the fascists here.’
‘I’ve been thinking about it, Bridie, since the Nazis started, and then there was the news about Franco, and someone has to do something. It’s meant to be, can’t you see? I wouldn’t have met Arthur if it wasn’t.’
‘When?’ she asked. ‘When are you going?’ She’d released his arms, and stalked towards the garage yard. It was only then he realised the drizzle had stopped and there were patches of blue in the murky grey.
He hurried after her. ‘I’m not sure, Christmas or thereabouts. You mustn’t say anything.’ Now he was the one gripping her arms. ‘Promise me, Bridie. Say nothing.’
She hesitated, checking his face. Could she see the determination he felt? ‘I won’t, but only because you might change your mind.’
He knew he wouldn’t. He was so angry at everything that had happened, and was happening. Democracy was everything, he knew that now; he’d known it when he saw Tim in his uniform, and when he’d heard Jack talking about his mother and Aunt Evie fighting for the vote. He knew Lady Margaret had been force-fed as a suffragette, though she had only done it for limited suffrage – votes for the well-bred – but nonetheless, she had done it. His da had fought for it in the war, and his uncles.
Bridie gripped his hand. ‘I’m coming with you.’
He burst out laughing. ‘Don’t be so bloody silly, you’re only sixteen. And a girl.’
‘You’re a pig, James.’ She dropped his hand and ran towards the kitchen steps, James in pursuit. At the top of the steps leading to the kitchen, she said fiercely, ‘Only a girl, eh? I expect that’s what they said to my mother.’
She ran down the steps. At the bottom James caught up with her again, holding her back, whispering, ‘Don’t say anything. Promise me. Let me do it in my own way.’
She said, ‘I promise I won’t tell, but I haven’t said I’m not coming. You’re my best friend, James.’
He wished that was true, though he suspected Tim was the one who really mattered to her. Perhaps that was part of why he wanted to go – she might miss him.