A Crimson Dawn (34 page)

‘It's Bill Osborne, isn't it?'

He nodded. ‘I'd like to learn more about this,' he said eagerly. ‘I've been called up and want to resist. Can you help me?'

Emmie told him to come down to the Settlement in Gateshead and they would help him present his application.

‘We've helped plenty lads avoid this war,' Emmie assured him.

Bill took her aside. ‘I don't just want me call-up put off a month or two,' he whispered. ‘I want to go on the run. I heard women like you can help a man get away.' He looked at her expectantly.

Emmie felt uneasy. She did not want to talk about such things in public. Besides, she did not know this man well enough.

‘I don't know anything about that,' Emmie told him. ‘But I suggest you come down to the Settlement and we'll see what we can do.'

‘Aye, I'll do that,' he replied, touching his cap and quickly walking away.

Rab shivered in the bitter January cold of the exercise yard.

‘Get moving,' the guard shouted at the prisoners. Rab shuffled around in heavy shoes with broken laces, feet like numb stumps, pulling his brown jacket tight around his shaking bony shoulders. His fourth prison in nearly nine months. He no longer cared where he was any more; each small cell, each grey yard was the same purgatory.

In York, his first prison, in the euphoria of still being alive, he had taken delight in fighting the system. The COs were segregated, forbidden to talk to anyone, ate alone in their cells and were punished for merely smiling at each other on their brief exercise outside.

Rab had communicated by tapping on the wall to his neighbour, Ernie Tait. Together, laboriously, they had worked out a code. He had stolen paper from the latrines and with a pencil stub begged from a sympathetic warder, had written messages to the other inmates to keep up their spirits. Another CO had been on slops duty and had taken the paper bulletins to distribute.

The COs went to chapel to see each other, and under cover of the hymn singing, sang messages about news they had gleaned from outside. This way Rab learned that the War Secretary, Kitchener, had died at sea, that married men were now conscripted and that there had been bread riots in Liverpool.

The warder who had given Rab the pencil was caught speaking to him, fined and moved to a distant wing. Shortly afterwards, Rab was sent to a different prison, split from his comrade from Chopwell. Just before he went, a letter came from Emmie. His joy at reading her news was dashed at her lukewarm response to his declaration of love. She was embarrassed by it. He was a fool ever to have written it. He must put Emmie out of his mind if he was not to go mad.

At his new prison, Rab had refused to do hard labour - the stitching of sandbags - as it was directly helping the war effort. For two months he was confined to solitary, slept on a plank bed without mattress or pillow, was forbidden daily exercise and put on a restricted diet. All he could do was sleep and think, yet he was constantly tired and his mind tortured with thoughts of home and how they were coping.

He emerged weakened and depressed, to be transferred again to a prison in East Anglia. Here he was given a slate and pencil to write with, but not allowed to send letters. He could read the Bible or improving tracts that the prison chaplain provided, but nothing from the prison library. Along with other convicts, he was given needle, string and black wax and put to stitching mailbags; eight stitches to the inch, ten feet to each bag, nine bags a day.

By the end of the first day, Rab's fingers were covered in black wax, blistered and bleeding. He had finished only three bags, two of which were rejected because of only five stitches to the inch. He was punished with half-rations.

The prison commandant liked to call him in for chats, challenging his beliefs.

‘You're wasting your life away in here,' he told Rab, ‘an educated man like you. And what for? You've made not the slightest bit of difference to the war effort. And what of your poor family? Don't you think it's unfair to put them through all this? You're safe in here from any backlash, but I bet they're facing hardship every day — extra hardship and vilification because of you. How are they surviving, do you know?'

Six months ago, Rab would have argued back, given as good as he got. His family supported him; COs were making a difference, he would not be tempted to give in. Instead he stayed mutely defiant and the commandant grew bored with baiting him. At the turn of the year, in deep snow and along treacherously icy roads, Rab was transported in a freezing prison van to yet another prison.

As he stamped around the frozen yard, chilled to the bone, eyes on the ground, someone coughed and bumped into him. He ignored it. On the second circle, it happened again. Rab glanced up in annoyance. A slight man with cropped hair stared at him with large hollowed eyes. He mouthed, ‘Chin up, comrade,' and moved on.

Rab shuffled after him, in half recognition. As they circled a third time, he realised in astonishment who it was. As they passed the guard, he drew alongside and fell into step.

‘Laurie Bell?' he whispered. The man gave a ghost of a nod. ‘You bugger!' Rab exclaimed. The guard looked his way and he spluttered into a cough. With their backs to the guard, they slowed their pace long enough for another exchange. ‘Thought you'd be dead by now,' Rab teased.

‘You look like you are,' Laurie joked back. ‘Prison not suiting you?'

Rab grinned. The cold on his teeth made him wince, but it felt good. He could not remember the last time he had smiled. They had no further opportunity to talk. Rab was returned to his brown-washed cell with its stinking jerry can in the corner and flea-bitten mattress. He paced around the cell, no longer listless, glancing at the barred window and the grey smudge of sky beyond. The window was too high up to see out of, and the view would be of blank stone wall, but it reminded him there was a world beyond. Under that same sky his family and friends carried on living.

The brief encounter with Laurie had jolted him back to life. He could not wait until tomorrow when he would see his comrade again, perhaps glean some news as to where he had been and what he knew of outside. Laurie, the timid, terrified postman! Rab had worried he would never survive two minutes in the penal system, yet here he was, giving him renewed hope. It was Laurie, not he, who was the strong one. Rab felt humbled and grateful.

A pale glimmer of light flared at the window for a moment: a ray of winter sun. Impossibly, a bird - a blackbird? - trilled out of view. It was over in a moment, but Rab felt his heart squeeze in pain at the unexpected beauty. Nature had ceased to matter to him these past months. He had grown used to a life without music or sunshine, just as he had grown used to going without tea, or sugar or tobacco. He thought he no longer missed them.

Crouching down on his hunkers, Rab bent his head. A sob rose up in his throat. They did matter, by God they did! Everything mattered. How he missed the world, missed walking the fell, arguing with his father, reading, music, his mother's touch - how he missed Emmie and Barny! Rab buried his head in his arms, not caring if they watched him through the peephole of his cell door. He gave in to tears. He cried for what he had lost and regained, cried because he could feel joy and pain once more.

That winter was the coldest Emmie could remember. The flat never seemed to warm up, and she felt constantly hungry and tired. Barny had a permanent runny nose and chesty cough, no matter how many clothes she put on him. They went to bed wearing everything they had, piling Tom's old clothes on top of the covers, yet still she woke with a frozen nose and ice on the inside of the window.

She worried about Helen, who went down with influenza and took weeks to recover. For a while Emmie moved into China Street to nurse her and cook for Jonas and Peter, but Helen fretted that Barny or she would catch it too, and made them move back to Berlin Terrace.

Then March brought startling news. Jonas rushed in from work, brandishing the newspaper, his mouth pulled into a crooked smile.

‘Ey done it!' he cried incoherently. ‘Gone - bloody - Tsar!'

Emmie took the paper from him while Helen made him sit down before he had another seizure.

‘Revolution in Russia,' Emmie gasped. ‘They've got rid of the Tsar!'

‘What - I - said!' Jonas laughed, catching Barny round the waist with his good arm and tickling him. The boy giggled and squealed to be free.

The mood in the village was jubilant for days. Socialist revolution had come to autocratic Russia without bloodshed. There was much talk about what it would mean. The Russians had declared the war over; they would no longer fight the Germans.

‘This is the beginning of the end,' Emmie said gleefully to the MacRaes. ‘With our biggest ally, Russia, out of the war, we have no reason to carry on.'

But despite the celebrations among trades unionists and Labour members, nothing changed. The Government was more bullish than ever. The Central Powers were now free to fight on one front - the Western one. Still, the MacRaes were buoyed by the news of change and determined to be optimistic.

Then came an unexpected blow. Peter was summoned by the recruiting office. Men under twenty-six were no longer allowed exemption on grounds of business or employment. Mr Speed was told to give up his delivery boy. The MacRaes appealed on medical grounds. After a cursory medical examination, Peter was reclassified as fit for active service.

‘I'll be just like Sam,' Peter said proudly, pleased to be classed as a soldier and confused by his parents' opposition.

‘The lad won't survive away from home.' Helen was distraught. ‘He'll get picked on.'

Emmie hurried to Gateshead to help rally support for his appeal. At least they could try to get him exempted from frontline combat to serve on the home front.

Flora looked gaunt with strain. She had helped nurse Mabel through a bout of influenza, as well as carrying on Charles's work for the Fellowship. Philip was convinced they were under surveillance and was wary of taking in CO runaways at the Settlement.

Emmie thought of Rab's old room at Mannie's, or his workshop. They could be accessed from the woods without being overlooked by the street. She would ask Mannie whether he would take such a risk.

‘It's possible I could find you somewhere in Crawdene,' Emmie told Philip, ‘if it was just a holding place for a day or two.'

Philip put a hand on her shoulder. ‘Dear Emmie, don't put yourself in danger. You have the boy to consider.'

‘We all have someone to consider,' she answered stoutly. ‘I'll do my part if I can.'

She thought of Rab and his comrades incarcerated in a distant prison. If she could save just one man from that fate she would do so willingly. None of them had heard from Rab for months. All they knew was that he was being held in East Anglia and that there were restrictions on COs writing letters. But their own ones had gone unanswered and they did not know if any of the winter clothing and food they had scraped together to send had ever reached him. After nearly a year of hard labour, his state of health was a cause for worry.

Helping in the soup kitchen, Emmie found the miner Bill Osborne, who had approached her at Christmas. She had put him in touch with the Runcies.

‘So you're still here?' she said in surprise.

‘Got a medical exemption,' he smiled. ‘Didn't have to join the “flying corps”.' He winked at his mention of the Quaker underground network.

‘That might not stop you being conscripted,' Emmie warned. ‘Peter MacRae's being reclassified. It's a nonsense sending a lad like him to the Front. He talks a good fight, but he couldn't harm a fly.'

‘Aye,' Bill agreed, ‘he's not quite twelve pence in the shilling, is he?'

‘No,' Emmie sighed. ‘He'd run a mile if he heard gunshot.'

Bill shook his head in disgust. ‘Must make you really angry. If I was you, I'd get him away quick. Couldn't you hide him somewhere? You've got connections, haven't you?'

Emmie thought again of Mannie's. They could hide Peter and he would think it a big game. But for how long?

Emmie shrugged. ‘Maybe … there is somewhere I have in mind.'

‘Let me know if I can help,' Bill said earnestly.

‘Thank you.' Emmie was grateful. ‘The more of us at the appeal, the better.'

The day of the appeal came, and Jonas and Helen brought Peter down from Crawdene. They hung around for hours, Peter soon tiring of standing in the corridor and wondering why they could not go home. Helen was close to tears when their turn was called.

As a JP, Reginald Hauxley sat in judgement, flanked by two other officials. He began by questioning Peter, his voice soft and considerate.

‘You're a good worker, Mr MacRae,' he smiled. ‘Your employer speaks highly of you.'

Peter looked behind him, thinking the man was talking to his father. Hauxley nodded at him. ‘I'm referring to you, Peter. Mr Speed says you are very reliable.'

Peter grinned as realisation dawned. ‘Never missed a day's work,' he said proudly.

‘And you manage to remember the instructions he gives you?' Hauxley pressed. ‘You can follow orders easily?'

‘Aye,' Peter nodded vigorously.

‘And you're good with horses, especially,' Hauxley smiled in encouragement.

‘I feed and groom Lily and Farmer every day,' Peter answered. ‘Lily's me favourite - known her since she was a foal on Mr Speed's holding. Farmer's a bit contrary - takes a bit of handling - but he's a grand—'

‘Yes, quite so,' Hauxley interrupted him. ‘Obviously very good with horses. How would you like to handle horses for the army, Peter?'

Flora sprang up. ‘His parents are appealing the decision to send Peter MacRae into active service. He does not understand that looking after horses for the army will necessitate being at the Front in a combatant role. Peter has no concept of what war is actually like. He has the mind of a child - the innocence of a child.'