A Crimson Dawn

A Powerful Story of Love and War

Janet MacLeod Trotter

One of the Tyneside Sagas
: Gripping and impassioned stories set in momentous times –votes for women, world wars, rise of fascism – with the backdrop of vibrant Tyneside and heroines you won't want to leave behind.

Praise for A CRIMSON DAWN:

‘It's another action-packed, emotionally-charged page-turner from the Morpeth author.'
Newcastle Journal.

‘Another cracking tale from the author of the trilogy based on the life of Catherine Cookson.' [4 star rating]
Sunderland Echo.

‘Dramatic, powerful story of love and war.' [5 star rating]
Bournemouth Daily Echo.

Copyright © Janet MacLeod Trotter, 2005, 2011

All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on-screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, downloaded, decompiled, reverse-engineered, or stored in or introduced into any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of the Publisher.

Published by MacLeod Trotter Books

New edition: 2011

ISBN 978-1-908359-15-5

www.janetmacleodtrotter.com

(The photograph used on the cover is of Janet's maternal grandmother and great-grandmother)

eBook conversion by
www.ebookpartnership.com

Janet MacLeod Trotter was brought up in the North East of England with her four brothers, by Scottish parents. She is a best-selling author of 16 novels, including the hugely popular Jarrow Trilogy, and a childhood memoir, BEATLES & CHIEFS, which was featured on BBC Radio Four. Her novel, THE HUNGRY HILLS, gained her a place on the shortlist of The Sunday Times' Young Writers' Award, and the TEA PLANTER'S LASS was longlisted for the RNA Romantic Novel Award. A graduate of Edinburgh University, she has been editor of the Clan MacLeod Magazine, a columnist on the Newcastle Journal and has had numerous short stories published in women's magazines. She lives in the North of England with her husband, daughter and son. Find out more about Janet and her other popular novels at:
www.janetmacleodtrotter.com

By Janet MacLeod Trotter

Historical:
The Jarrow Trilogy
The Jarrow Lass
Child of Jarrow
Return to Jarrow

The Durham Trilogy
The Darkening Skies
The Hungry Hills
Never Stand Alone

The Tyneside Sagas
The Tea Planter's Daughter
The Suffragette
A Crimson Dawn
A Handful of Stars
Chasing the Dream
For Love & Glory

Scottish Historical Romance
The Beltane Fires

Mystery:
The Vanishing of Ruth
The Haunting of Kulah

Teenage:
Love Games

Non Fiction:
Beatles & Chiefs

To Donald, Torquil, Rory and Angus - the very best of brothers - with all my love and hopes for peace

Emmie lay on the straw mattress in the tiny back room struggling for breath. She felt as if iron weights pressed down on her chest. She had used up all her strength sitting up for the doctor - the tall lady with the shock of red hair, who had come to see her and was now talking to her mother just beyond the half-open door.

‘She won't improve as long as she stays here, Mrs Kelso. The river air is damp - this place is terribly damp - making her chest worse.'

Emmie marvelled at the woman's strong voice. She had breezed into their home, unjamming rags from windows and throwing them open. Emmie had no idea women could be doctors, but Dr Jameson carried a brown leather bag just like the doctor who had visited their neighbours when they had lived up the hill in Gateshead. Long ago, when her father had been alive, they had lived in a proper house with an outside closet and a parlour, and Emmie had had her own bed. Sometimes she wondered if she really remembered it or whether it was her older sister Nell's constant harking back to better times. To Emmie, home was two rooms in a tenement among a warren of old cottages and workshops under the dripping staithes, by the oily River Tyne.

Emmie heard her mother mumble something then sniff as if she had a cold. The doctor's voice came clearly again.

‘I do understand, Mrs Kelso. It's not your fault you have to live in this sl— have to live here. Widows have a very raw deal. You shouldn't have to be scrimping like this, making brooms and dusters for a pittance. It makes my blood boil to see it. But the atmosphere - the dust from the cloth - it's only making things worse for Emmie. What she could really do with is a few months in the country - clean air and exercise. Do you have any relations she could go to?'

Emmie, suddenly alert to the urgency in the doctor's voice, strained to hear her mother's reply.

‘Do you think I'd be living like this if I had family to go to?' her mother said despairingly.

‘I'm sorry. Perhaps I could find a family to take her for a while … It's just, I can't see her lasting another winter here. Her health is very delicate.'

Emmie lay feeling light-headed. Was the doctor saying she was going to die? She wished she had the energy to get up and ask, but she could not even lift her head off the scratchy bedding. She watched a large black beetle scuttle across the stone floor and disappear under a bale of cloth that awaited her mother's cutting and stitching. Perhaps in heaven she would meet her bearded father, who stared down at them from the photograph on the kitchen mantelpiece. She would like to see him, but she would also like to live beyond her tenth birthday and stay in Miss Dillon's class, where they read poetry and never got the strap. It was the smiling Miss Dillon who had sent the doctor round to check up on Emmie.

Through the crack in the door, Emmie thought she could see Dr Jameson with an arm around her mother's hunched shoulders as if she was helping her stay on her feet. Nobody ever touched her mother like that, least of all an important person like a doctor; but then nobody came to their house except the rentman, and the salesman who collected the brooms and dusters. They could never bring friends in, because their mother fretted that she could not feed them and there was nowhere to play.

‘The MacRaes,' Mary Kelso said suddenly, ‘they live up Crawdene way. But I couldn't ask them - they're not family.'

‘Tell me about them,' Dr Jameson urged.

‘Jonas MacRae and my late husband were old friends - came from Glasgow together to find work.'

Emmie tried to quieten her laboured breathing to hear.

‘My John ended up on the keel boats - Jonas moved around the area helping to sink pits. Both strong men - good men, with a bit of learning. The few times they got together they'd be putting the world to rights.'

‘And does he have a wife?'

Mary nodded. ‘Helen MacRae - pitman's daughter. Don't know her well, but she came with Jonas to John's funeral and sent money for the girls. But I couldn't ask her. She's got her own lads to feed - and she's not family; it wouldn't be right.'

‘For Emmie's sake you could. It's a wonder they haven't tried to help you more,' the doctor exclaimed.

‘They don't know where I live,' Mary confessed. ‘I was that ashamed at having to move to a place like this. But I'll not have folks pitying me and telling my business to all the world. Besides, they might not be in Crawdene any more. John's been dead over five years and Jonas could've moved on again.'

‘Let me try and find them,' the doctor suggested. ‘I'll do the asking.' She patted Mary on the shoulder. ‘In the meantime, keep rubbing the ointment on Emmie's chest and back, and try to get her to sit outside. Please don't let her help you with the dusters.'

Dr Jameson explained her idea to Emmie and gave her a reassuring smile. Just as the doctor was leaving, Emmie heard Nell humming a tune as she crossed the courtyard. The humming stopped abruptly as their mother explained the presence of the stranger.

‘Afternoon, Doctor,' Nell said, putting on a posh voice.

‘Hello, Nell. I've heard about you from my friend Miss Dillon too. Says you're very good at arithmetic.'

‘Thank you,' Nell preened. ‘Is our Emmie all right?'

Emmie's heart pounded as she heard the doctor explain to Nell how fragile was her sister's condition and how Nell would have to help her mother more. Nell would only take it out on her. She blamed Emmie for keeping her awake at night with her wheezing; blamed her for their poverty because any spare pennies went on ointments and unctions for her chest; blamed her for shirking the heavy jobs of fetching water, clothes washing and emptying the chamber pots into the stinking communal midden.

‘You're just putting it on to get Mam's attention,' Nell would hiss behind their mother's back and pinch Emmie hard in resentment.

‘Course I'll help, Doctor,' Nell was saying sweetly.

‘Good girl,' Dr Jameson replied.

Nell watched the doctor walk briskly away across the shared courtyard, side-stepping a dog and a baby playing in the dirt. A gaggle of curious children followed her as she stooped under the archway into the narrow alley that led back to the main street, where women were patiently queuing to fill pails at a standpipe.

As soon as she was gone, Nell brushed past her wary-looking mother and barged into the back room.

‘Doctor's little pet, eh? How come you get to stay off school? It's not fair! And why's the window open? I'm not ganin' to lie in a draught and catch me death. You're just doing it so you don't have to help Mam with the dusters. Well, I'm not ganin' to either. There's a fair setting up by the Burn, and me and Dolly are ganin'. Might run off with a gypsy lad and then you'll be the one Mam picks on to do all the chores. See how you like that.'

Emmie lay as quietly as she could, knowing it was best to say nothing even if she had the breath to answer back. Nell would rant until she ran out of complaints and insults, and then turn her resentment on her mother. It had not always been like this. Emmie had faded memories of her strong-armed sister carrying her around like a doll and pushing her in a large pram beside some park railings, singing to her and giving her kisses. But that was in another life, before the wheezing and breathlessness had turned Emmie into a pale, skinny invalid.

Now Nell's fair face was screwed into a permanent scowl and her maturing body at odds with the threadbare childish dresses she was forced to wear. At thirteen, Nell only seemed happy when she was with her friend Dolly, the two of them wandering the riverbank arm in arm, giggling over some shared confidence.

There was no use in telling Nell that she longed to be back at school in the high-ceilinged classroom, reading and writing, or sitting with Miss Dillon reading storybooks when she could not join in games in the yard.

Emmie listened to Nell arguing with her mother, then slam the door as she stormed out. She thought she heard her mother crying softly, then blow her nose and start work at the kitchen table. Cut and snip. A while later, she came in with a cup of water and a piece of bread smeared with dripping.

‘The doctor'll sort some'at out for you,' her mother said wearily. ‘Be like a holiday - going to the country. The last time you were just a babe. Your da carried the pair of you all the way up the fell for a picnic - you in his arms and Nell on his back …' Her voice faltered.

‘Don't… remember,' Emmie panted.

‘No,' her mother said, her face twisted in sorrow, ‘and it's just as well. Makes it easier to bear this place. That's why our Nell takes it so bad - she's got memories.'

Emmie did not like to say she had memories too, like snatches of music that came to her when she was half awake: a smiling, bearded face, Nell's wet kisses, her mother tucking her into a proper bed …

The idea of going to the country frightened her. Who were these mysterious MacRaes her mother had never mentioned before? And what would Nell say if she found out what the good Dr Jameson was plotting? Fear of her sister fought with the dread of being sent away to strangers. She lay in the fetid room, her eyes tightly closed, trying to conjure up in her mind a world of park railings and sunlight flickering through a canopy of leaves.

That evening, Flora Jameson hurried to the Gateshead Settlement to find Charles Oliphant, one of the idealistic young clergymen who helped run the Settlement Movement. The building was busy with evening classes and clubs for the working classes, and she knew Charles might not have a minute to spare. Mousy, the caretaker since an accident at the docks made him disabled, greeted her warmly.

‘If you're lookin' for Mr Oliphant, he's in the meetin'. They'll be finished in twenty minutes. Come in the kitchen and Mrs Mousy'll fetch you some'at. Bet you haven't stopped to eat all day, eh?'