“No good will come of this,” Patrick said to his companions. “I’m not here to take part in a riot. This was supposed to be a peaceful rally.”
Two of the men agreed with him and the trio turned their backs to the impassioned speaker, John De Morgan, a radical agitator with Marxist views. He was standing on the steps of the Market Cross in Stockton, dodging missiles as he delivered his speech to thousands of people. To make matters worse, a number of unruly local youths had pushed their way into the crowd, inviting trouble.
Used to the hard physical labour of quarry work, Patrick and his companions were broad shouldered men, well able to cut a path through the heaving mass packed tight around them.
Some pushing and shoving had broken out at random among the crowd and a loud hissing and booing could be heard, as the Stockton police made their presence known. Reinforcements had been sent for by telegram and when the officers from Middlesbrough arrived they had their cutlasses drawn. By the time Patrick and his companions had forced their way from the centre of the crowd, sporadic fighting was taking place between some of the marchers and those who were antagonistic towards them and their cause.
As the speeches were brought to an abrupt end the crowd began to move towards the Victorian Bridge, spilling over into South Stockton, where even more rioting took place. Patrick could see a man in the distance on horseback, who appeared to be leading the marchers. He rode into what looked like a mass of flying fists and caps.
“Who’s that on the horse?” asked Patrick.
“That’s one of the organizers. It looks as if he’s trying to break up a fight.”
“Good luck to him, I’m not waiting around to get arrested,” Patrick changed direction, pitting himself against the flow of marchers, his two friends close on his heels.
Many of those taking part in the rally were of the same mind as Patrick and had already left the street. This helped to thin out the edges making it easier for them to break free of the crowd. From the roof of a nearby building a rock was thrown, catching Patrick on the side of the head and he sank to his knees. Instantly, more missiles followed and the men tried to shield themselves as they dragged their unconscious friend to the safety of a narrow laneway.
“What happened?” asked Patrick, coming round on the rain-soaked cobblestones.
“Some young blackguards on a rooftop are slinging rocks at the crowd. I’ve half a mind to go up there and knock their heads together,” said one of the men.
“Best leave them to it, anyone with an ounce of sense will be doing the same as ourselves and heading for home,” Patrick replied.
The rain beat down for most of that cold December day and by the time he arrived at his muddy street, Patrick was soaked to the skin and frozen to the bone.
“You’ll catch your death. Get out of those wet clothes,” Catherine pulled a sodden cap from her husband’s head, revealing a large gash on his temple.
“Now don’t go fretting about it,” Patrick winced as he touched the wound. “It looks worse than it is. I was only knocked out for a few seconds.”
“Knocked out? I told you there would be trouble. There’s always trouble at those rallies. Now look at the state of you. Will you never learn, Patrick Gallagher?
As Catherine tended his cuts, placing a cold wet flannel on a rapidly forming bump, Patrick told her about his eventful day.
“There were thousands there, as many as ten thousand I’ll wager. I’ve never been in a crowd that big. I was excited and fearful all at the same time.”
“It would have served you better to accompany your wife and children to Mass. This is what you get for your sins,” chided Catherine.
“Well, I’ll tell it in confession, if it makes you feel any better. Did you keep me some food, or am I to be sent to bed early without supper for my penance?” Patrick gave his wife a mock frown.
Catherine could never stay angry at her husband for long. She dished up a bowl of stew from a pot on the small stove that Patrick had salvaged from a derelict building. It had made all the difference to their tiny damp home, helping to dry out the air. Opening the door to the only other room in the house, Catherine peered into the darkness.
“I’ll leave the door ajar, the children have been coughing all evening. I’ve given them some elixir but we had best keep our voices low so as not to disturb their sleep, Patrick.”
“It’s living in these back to backs that has them sick so often. We should move, Catherine. There are better houses not too far from here.”
“The rents are too high. We would never be able to save a penny or buy decent food. No, we can’t afford a better house, unless you agree to me finding employment. The bit of sewing I get doesn’t amount to much.”
“What, and have your father say I cannot support his daughter? Never.”
“Then will you please consider Maggie’s offer of a place to stay?” asked Catherine.
“Have you lost your senses, woman. Do you think your father and myself could live in the same parish? He cannot stand the sight of me, and that was plain for all to see the last time he was over. Besides I have work here, most days at least.”
Patrick was referring to James and Mary’s last visit to see their newest grandchild, his two year old daughter. She had been given her maternal grandmother’s name but was called Maisie by the family.
“If you feel crowded in this house at present, it’s soon to become even smaller. I’m with child again,” Catherine delivered her news as if she was remarking on the wet day outside.
Patrick spluttered on a mouthful of watery stew.