A Crimson Dawn (8 page)

‘His da probably organised it,' Helen retorted. ‘He's a strong Liberal. He'll hate the idea of lasses telling him how to vote.' She leaned forward and patted the woman's shoulder. ‘Good on you, pet. At least your da doesn't stop you speaking your mind.'

She gave them a sheepish smile. ‘Actually, he doesn't know I'm here.'

They all laughed.

‘What do they call you, miss?' Helen asked.

She hesitated. ‘Sophie.'

Helen gave her a quizzical look. ‘I could swear I've seen your face somewhere. Ever been in Crawdene before?'

She shook her head, then said, ‘Well, yes. I've been to the Guild.'

Emmie saw Helen's eyes widen as recognition dawned.

‘Eeh, it's never you, Miss Sophie!'

The young woman went puce and nodded. ‘But please don't tell my father; he'd only worry.'

Helen spluttered with laughter. ‘I've no more chance of talkin' to Major Oliphant than growing wings.'

‘Major Oliphant?' Emmie cried in disbelief.

Sophie covered her face in embarrassment. ‘Everyone looks at me differently once they know. You see why I like to go incognito?'

Helen said, ‘There's nowt to be ashamed of - you should use your connections to help women get the vote. Men like your father have influence in the world.'

Sophie grimaced. ‘Yes, but it's the wrong kind. His political friends don't think women should trouble themselves with anything more taxing than menus and guest lists.'

The women laughed ruefully. They drank more tea.

‘You know about my family then?' Sophie asked.

Helen shrugged. ‘You keep yourselves to yourselves, as far as I can see. Of course, we knew about your father's heir dying in the first Boer War - there's that big memorial to him in Blackton.'

‘My brother Liddon,' Sophie sighed. ‘Mama never got over it - she took to her bed and now she's an invalid. And Papa … We younger two are a bit of a disappointment to my father,' Sophie confided.

Emmie caught Helen's embarrassed look. She didn't want the role of confidante to Oliphant's daughter. But Sophie seemed oblivious to their discomfort.

‘My brother Charles is trained as a vicar but refuses to take a good living in a decent parish. He's running a mission in Gateshead. That's where I help out too. There's a printing press we use for the suffrage campaign.'

‘The Settlement?' Helen queried.

‘Yes, you've heard of it?'

Emmie nodded. ‘We know it well. Dr Jameson is a friend of ours - and my sister Nell sings in their choir.'

Sophie clapped her hands. ‘Flora Jameson is a dear friend of mine! She's known Charles for years. It's Flora who got me interested in women's suffrage. You meet such interesting people at the Settlement - women from all over Europe on lecture tours and conferences. It's so much more interesting than stuffy old Blackton Heights. Course, Papa thinks I'm in town shopping or going to the theatre. He's so terribly possessive since Liddon died - and because Mama takes no interest.' She stopped, clapping a hand over her mouth. ‘I've said too much as usual. And I don't even know you. It's just you've made me feel so welcome.'

Suddenly Emmie asked, ‘This printing press - do you need any help? I'm looking for work. I could do anything - sweep up, make the tea.'

‘Hold your horses,' Helen protested. ‘You're too bright to be sweepin' floors.'

‘Please, Auntie Helen, it's time I was bringing in a wage. I want to be like Nell - able to stand on me own feet - not like Louise just waiting to get wed.'

Sophie looked between them. When Helen did not protest, she said to Emmie, ‘It's run by a couple called Runcie. They're Quakers. I just help out now and again - folding leaflets, that sort of thing. I'm not paid. You should call in some time and see.'

Emmie looked appealingly at Helen. ‘Please can I go?'

‘I could put a word in for you,' Sophie encouraged. ‘It's the least I could do after you rescued me.'

‘But it's such a distance,' Helen fretted.

‘I'll go on the bike,' Emmie enthused.

Helen sighed. ‘We'll ask your Uncle Jonas.'

They were startled by a knock on the back door. Emmie opened it to find Tom standing in the rain. He pulled off his cap.

‘What do you want?' Emmie said curtly.

‘Came to see if the lass was all right.'

‘Aye, she is.'

He flushed. ‘I'm sorry, Emmie - the lads got a bit lively.'

‘Fancy tretting defenceless lasses like that,' she reproved.

‘Aye, but it's not the way lasses should carry on, is it? Ganin' around shoutin' their gobs off like fishwives and telling men what to do.'

‘Well, men could do with listening to lasses a bit more often, in my opinion,' Emmie sparked back.

‘You don't agree with them, do you?' Tom was incredulous.

‘Aye, I do,' she declared. ‘In fact I've made up me mind to join them.'

He gawped at her.

‘And if you want to make yoursel' useful, instead of standing there with your mouth open, you can walk the lady safely out the village to find her friends.' She challenged him with her look.

Tom's expression was stubborn.

Emmie dropped her voice. ‘Unless you want Major Oliphant hearing about what you nearly did to his daughter?' She saw his eyes widen in disbelief. ‘Aye,' she hissed, ‘that's Miss Sophie Oliphant sittin' in our kitchen!'

‘Never?' Tom exclaimed.

Emmie put her finger to his lips. ‘Not a word, Tom Curran. She doesn't want folk to know. Now will you help me or not?'

To Emmie's amazement, Tom nodded without any more protest.

Tom was left in the scullery while Sophie got dressed again. She tried to press money on them, but Helen refused. Having learned Emmie's name, though, Sophie promised to mention her to the Runcies. Together, Emmie and Tom walked Sophie down the lane, Tom completely tongue-tied in the presence of the older woman. The rain had driven everyone indoors and the light was fading fast. By the time they found the electioneering cart outside the inn at the Blackton crossroads, all three were soaked through. Sophie thanked them profusely and hurried inside to join the others. Tom and Emmie trudged back up the hill to Crawdene.

By the time they neared China Street, Tom saw it all as a huge joke.

‘Fancy old man MacRae havin' the boss's daughter to tea,' he laughed. ‘Mixing with the aristocracy, eh?'

‘Tom, you're not to say a word,' Emmie warned. But the more she protested, the more he teased her about it.

‘The socialists defending the bosses,' he crowed. ‘Wish Rab MacRae was here to see it.'

Emmie gave him a shove. ‘Wait till your da hears you've been attacking Oliphant's daughter.'

Tom swung an arm about her. ‘I won't tell if you won't tell.'

She wriggled out of his hold. But he followed her along China Street.

‘I must see the lady safely home,' he mocked.

‘Don't bother,' she said, hurrying ahead.

‘I want to.' Tom kept pace. At her back door, he caught her hand. ‘You're not like them lasses, Emmie. You're one of us. One day you'll make a canny pitman's wife.'

She looked at him, startled. Before she could answer, he planted a kiss on her lips.

‘Ta-ra, Emmie,' he grinned.

She turned in confusion and fled inside. Jonas was home and demanding to know where she had been in such foul weather. Her attempts to keep secret their important visitor were to no avail. By the following day, the whole village was talking about Emmie saving Oliphant's daughter from a lynch mob and harbouring her at the MacRaes'.

Jonas had to endure a week of jibes as the tale grew in length and exaggeration. Emmie was a suffragette. Jonas had no control over his militant women. They'd be chaining themselves to railings next. Emmie supposed it was Tom who had spread the news, or maybe Miss Sophie had been recognised by others in the village.

Tom filled her with a mixture of annoyance and something else she couldn't quite name. She often found herself thinking about his fresh-faced good looks, the way he looked at her with his hazel eyes as if he found her pretty, his quick smile, the feel of his lips on hers. She was unsettled by it, flattered even. Tom might look younger than his twenty years, but he was a man now and his teasing no longer felt like childish horseplay.

On her sixteenth birthday, Tom came round with a bunch of daffodils and a bottle of lavender water. He endured Sam's ribald teasing with good humour but bolted when Helen suggested he stay for tea.

‘I'll see you at chapel, Emmie?' he asked in hope, grinning when she nodded in assent.

‘Breaking hearts already,' Jonas chuckled as they tucked into the birthday tea. ‘Pity it's a Curran.'

‘He was brave to come,' Helen defended Tom, ‘seeing as his da won't allow either bairn over our doorstep.'

‘You might poison them, Mam,' Sam said, clutching his throat and gasping.

‘You wouldn't poison Tom, would you?' Peter asked in alarm.

‘No, pet, Sam's being daft,' Helen reassured. ‘Still, I think it's a shame. We'd never stop any of you ganin' round there, just because we don't see eye to eye with the Currans. You can be friends with who you like.'

‘Aye,' Sam said, winking at Emmie, ‘even the gentry.'

Jonas gave him a thunderous look.

Emmie said quickly, ‘No arguments on me birthday!'

***

The Easter holidays came and Emmie left Miss Downs for the last time. The next day, she rode all the way into Gateshead on Jonas's rickety bicycle to visit the Settlement. She had written to the Runcies about seeking work and they had invited her down for an interview.

The elderly couple welcomed her into the cramped untidy room they used as an office behind the dining hall. Every inch of floor, table, chairs and filing cabinet was covered in mounds of paper. There was nowhere to sit, so Emmie perched on a chair arm while they talked to her about their work. She warmed to them and their courteous manner at once. Philip Runcie was small, wiry and full of vigour, with an engaging smile. Mabel Runcie resembled the late Queen Victoria, though with a calm, otherworldly air.

‘We produce a weekly news-sheet, the Gateshead News,' Philip Runcie explained, scratching his nose with inky fingers. ‘You could help by finding new advertisers. And we print pamphlets for church groups and societies, such as the Women's Suffrage Society. But you know that from Miss Oliphant.'

Emmie nodded.

Mabel Runcie gave a regal wave of her hand. ‘And you could start by finding a home for all this paper,' she sighed. ‘We're not the tidiest of people - and with my arthritic knees and hands I'm finding it harder to manage.'

The Runcies looked at Emmie expectantly.

‘Now?' she queried. ‘You mean I've got the job? Don't you want to ask me any questions?'

They looked at her in surprise. ‘No, dear, we know all about you from Dr Jameson and Sophie,' Mabel smiled.

‘We can't offer you much of a wage -' Philip looked apologetic - ‘a lot of our work is voluntary - but you can take a percentage of the advertising revenue.'

‘And eat as much as you like in the refectory,' Mabel added eagerly. ‘Mrs Mousy is an excellent cook.'

Emmie beamed. ‘That's grand. I'll start right away.'

It was dark by the time Emmie wheeled the bike back into the village. Helen was watching out anxiously, convinced she had had an accident. Flopping in exhaustion into a chair by the fire, Emmie gabbled about her first day at work.

Helen looked at her wistfully. ‘You're not ganin' to live down there, are you? You're not unhappy here?'

‘Course not!' Emmie exclaimed. ‘This is me home. But there aren't the jobs here for lasses. And I want to work at the Settlement. It's grand what they're doing - helpin' the working class. We're ganin' to make a difference.'

Jonas and Helen exchanged glances. Jonas laid a hand on Emmie's head and nodded.

‘Oh, lassie, I'm proud of you.'

Flora made umpteen excuses not to go to Blackton Heights with Charles. She could not leave her practice. She could not leave Nell for two days after the last time, when she had drunk a bottle of sherry and been sick and ruined her only valuable Persian carpet.

‘You don't need me there,' Flora said in panic.

‘I want you there,' Charles laughed. ‘Sophie wants you.'

‘Your father detests me,' Flora retorted. ‘He blames me for Sophie's pleurisy yet won't let me near her, as if I'm not a proper doctor. And I had no idea she was going campaigning round the mining villages.'

‘He doesn't blame you,' Charles insisted. ‘Anyway, he'll be in a good mood because Hauxley got in.'

Flora looked at him and sighed. When he smiled at her like that it felt churlish to refuse. He worked so hard for others, day and night, that she did not want to spoil his brief respite in the country. She knew that, despite his complaints about his father and his obscene wealth, Charles loved him and his old home. He always looked younger and more relaxed as soon as he was back on the fell, walking the grounds with the major's dogs.

And he liked to sit in his mother's sunny bedroom, chatting quietly about life and work with his reclusive mother in a way he never could with his father.

Flora also knew that the only reason Charles asked her was to have someone else there to deflect his father's criticisms at his lack of ambition. It would be two days of relentless pressure from Major James on Charles to give up his mission work and be groomed as heir to Blackton Heights and its business interests.

‘If you won't end up a canon at Durham Cathedral,' Major James had said on one occasion, ‘then the Church be damned! You'll come home and learn to be a country gentleman.'