No Greater Love (32 page)

Mabel stared into the fire and thought of her long dead husband Alec. How he would have relished the wedding day of his firstborn and the excuse for a party. She still saw him as young, as he had been on the day he strode off to work whistling - and never came back. She had watched him from the scrubbed and chalked step of their neat, prosperous home and thought how lucky she was to be married to the tall, broad-backed Scot who commanded such respect in the street. It should have been Alec’s privilege to deliver his daughter into Richard’s care and not John Heslop’s, who would be taking his place in the chapel that day, at Susan’s request.

Mabel coughed and spat into the flames. John Heslop! The man who had given them friendship and help when she was first widowed and struggling to make ends meet, yet had drawn back from marrying her, Mabel thought bitterly. She had even promised to stop her drinking and to attend chapel if he would take her on for the sake of the children. But he had seen in her eyes that she did not love him and he told her as gently as possible that he did not love her either. So, humiliated, she had thrown him out and sworn that she would rely on no man’s charity; she would raise her children and survive in the world without a man in the house interfering.

The memory made her defiant. Today she would have a good skinful of booze and the devil take the long-faced teetotallers. Then she could forget that Susan was marrying a fly talker and spendthrift. And she could forget about Maggie and where she might be and what she might be doing, and the soreness in her heart would be dulled for a day.

‘What about me, Mam?’ A sleepy voice in the corner disturbed her thoughts. She had forgotten Jimmy asleep on the truckle bed.

‘What about you?’ Mabel answered shortly.

‘If Maggie got all the brains, Helen the looks and Susan’s the home-maker, what’s special about me?’ he demanded.

The little bugger had been eavesdropping, she thought in exasperation. Mabel snorted. ‘You, Jimmy? You’re just a daft lad.
^’

‘Mam, I’m serious,’ Jimmy answered in annoyance. ‘Tell us what was different about me?’

Mabel thought, but could only remember how ill she was the eight months she carried him and the terrible birth, after which she swore she would have no more babies.

‘You were the sickly bairn,’ she told him. ‘We expected you to die. But your father wouldn’t let you. He sat up all night and fed you teaspoons of whisky and said the Lord’s Prayer over and over till the sun came up.’ Mabel grunted. ‘So you’ll either be an alcoholic or a priest or both. Now get yourself up and gan and get some water from the pump if it’s not frozen.’

Jimmy got up and pulled on his trousers and jacket, his look bitterly disappointed. But Mabel had turned again to the fire and did not notice.

***

Susan looked around the room at the glowing faces. Her wedding day appeared to have gone well enough, she thought with relief. She knew she had looked becoming in her new outfit of blue and cream with the matching hat and gloves for which Richard had insisted on paying. Jimmy had managed to last until after the service before soaking his new trousers in a snowball fight with Tommy Smith, and Helen had looked demure in pink. Even her mother had made an effort to smarten her hair and looked quite handsome in a yellow dress and mustard tweed coat that she had salvaged from the second-hand stall.

Not that she was smart now, Susan thought with disapproval, eyeing her mother as she leant against the piano, her hair falling from its pins, her face flushed with drink as she ordered Richard to play another music hall score.

But no one else seemed to care, even Aunt Violet was clapping at the music and her quavering voice was joining in with Mary Smith’s. Uncle Barny was wedged in the corner with his cork leg, singing two bars behind the others, his nose a red beacon in the fading light. Behind the horsehair sofa Jimmy and Tommy were swigging beer out of the best china cups and giggling at their own jokes, while Granny Beaton sat beaming vacantly by the fire, sipping ginger wine. John Heslop had stayed only briefly to toast their union in tea and with his departure the wedding party’s inhibitions had relaxed.

Even so, Susan could not shake off the feeling that something was wrong. Richard, since the chapel service, had seemed preoccupied, almost sullen. He banged aggressively at the keyboard and was drinking twice as much as everyone else. Perhaps, like her, he was just emotional and exhausted. She wished they could now be alone together, so she could have him to herself.

‘Give us
The Blaydon Races
, Richard hinny!’ Mabel shouted, thumping her new son-in-law on the back.

‘I told you before, don’t know it, Mrs Beaton,’ he said curtly.

‘What! Don’t know... How long’ve you been in Newcastle? Eeh, Violet, get this lad of yours taught quick. He’s a Geordie now.’ She thumped him on the back again.

Susan stepped forward, sensing her husband’s irritation, and placed a possessive hand on his shoulder. She was sorry none of Richard’s own family had been able to attend the wedding, but if he had felt any disappointment he had not shown it.

When Susan had expressed regret at not meeting his mother, he had laughed ‘She thinks the Eskimos live up here, darlin’. Too far and too cold for the old doll to travel at this time of year.’

‘Perhaps we could travel down and see her in the spring,’ Susan had suggested tentatively, eager to meet Richard’s mother and visit London.

‘We’ll see,’ Richard had replied evasively.

Now Susan said, ‘It’s getting on, Richard. Perhaps we should be going.’

He looked round at her. ‘Go? We’ve just started celebrating, doll.’ His laugh sounded harsh.

‘Aye!’ Mabel waved at her daughter. ‘Gan and make some tea if you’re tiring. You’ll need to keep your strength up for the night. Eh, Richard?’ she cackled and slapped him playfully.

‘Mam!’ Susan exclaimed, blushing furiously. The thought of being left alone with Richard set her stomach churning with nerves, but she wanted to get the first night over with quickly, so that people would know she was fully a wife and a woman of the world and Helen’s smug smirking would be wiped from her face. It annoyed her that her sister was sitting close to Richard, balanced on the edge of his stool, flitting, and it niggled that Richard did not seem to mind.

Mary Smith surprised Susan by leaving the group around the piano and taking her by the arm.

‘You and me will get the kettle on, hinny. I’m parched and the beer’s running out. Haway!’

Susan felt a rush of gratitude towards their neighbour and regretted that she had so often dismissed Mary Smith as an inadequate mother and slovenly housekeeper. She had led a hard life with her strange, moody husband who was more often absent than present and yet the woman was always cheerful and generous with what little she had.

They made tea and brought out rice cakes and more sandwiches and the party continued. It grew dark and the beer and spirits ran out.

‘Let’s go to the Gunners!’ Richard suggested, to Susan’s dismay.

‘Richard...’

‘Don’t be a spoilsport, Susan,’ he cut off her protest, his smile tight. ‘If you don’t want to come, you go on home with Aunt Violet. Me and Uncle Barny will follow on. Eh, General Dodds?’

‘ With a ta-ra, ra-ra, ra!’ Barny sang and waved in agreement.

‘Aye, Mary,’ Mabel cried, loud with drink, ‘we’ll gan an’ all. Have a little jug in the snug, eh?’

Susan saw that her mother was hell-bent on a drinking session and wondered if she was deliberately trying to blot out her disappointment that Maggie was not here. John Heslop had been apologetic in failing to persuade Maggie to attend, but he would not disclose where she was hiding and this had annoyed her mother intensely. The whole question of whether Maggie would turn up for the wedding seemed to have irritated Richard too.

‘If the silly cow can’t be bothered to see her own sister married, then she’s not worth a farthing,’ he had snapped. Susan had firmly agreed, but she suspected her mother was drinking to forget about the wretched Maggie.

‘I’m right behind you, Mabel!’ Mary Smith cackled. ‘A hug in the snug!’ And she grabbed her son Tommy round the waist.

‘Gerroff, Mam!’ He wriggled out of her hold, embarrassed.

Violet loudly disapproved of the idea and the party soon collapsed into argument as to whether they should continue celebrations in the pub. Finally Richard got his own way and left with the drinkers. Violet stayed to help Helen and Susan clear up. She huffed and sniffed continual condemnation of her sister-in-law, blaming Mabel for leading her husband and young nephew astray. Jimmy and Tommy were scolded for draining the dregs of stale beer and escaped downstairs.

Helen sang and smiled infuriatingly as if nothing was wrong and Susan, on the edge of tears, announced that she was too tired to wait and would Aunt Violet please take her home? They left, carrying a small bag of clothes and possessions, with only a sleepy Granny Beaton and a smirking Helen to wish Susan goodbye. Trudging over the icy pavements, Susan could not help shedding tears of disappointment in the dark.

‘That’s men for you,’ Aunt Violet complained. ‘They think only of themselves and where the next beer’s coming from. I’ve put up with it for nearly forty years.’

‘Richard’s not like that normally,’ Susan sniffed, determined not to believe her aunt. ‘It’s just because it’s his wedding day - I’ve got to make allowances.’

Violet snorted in disbelief. ‘Richard can charm the birds off the trees, but when it comes to taking a drink, he’s just like any other lad. Before he got that good job he was for ever borrowing off me and your Uncle Barny to go supping in the town.’

Susan looked at her, disturbed. ‘You never said anything about his drinking,’ she accused.

‘I can’t be blamed if you don’t keep your eyes open, lass. You’ve known him as long as I have.’ Perhaps something in Susan’s dejected walk made her aunt feel a twinge of sympathy, because she added, ‘Never mind, that lad of yours is bringing in a good wage now and he’s generous when he’s got the money. You could have done a lot worse.’

Susan sighed. ‘Why didn’t any of your and Richard’s family come up from London, Aunt Violet?’

Her aunt shook her head and pursed her lips. ‘We’re not a close family, Susan. Haven’t been in touch with Richard’s mother for years. Me sister Ida’s moved about that much, so Richard says. I did write about the wedding, mind,’ Violet sniffed, ‘but Ida didn’t have the decency to reply. In fact she never even bothered to tell me Richard was coming to Newcastle last year - he just turned up on my doorstep all bright and breezy. But then Ida married into a bad lot - the Turveys.’

Susan felt her spirits plunge at her aunt’s depressing revelations.

Later, as she sat on the bed in the room she was to share with Richard, brushing out her fair hair, she told herself not to listen to Violet’s moaning. Her aunt never had a good word to say about anyone and seemed to thrive on other people’s misfortunes. She would just have to put up with living here for a short while until they could move into a house of their own.

Susan must have dozed off with fatigue, because she was startled awake by the door banging open and Richard stumbling through it in the dark. The waft of stale whisky as he came to peer over her made her feel nauseous.

‘Susan, doll,’ he slurred and lunged down to plant a wet kiss on her face.

‘Richard, the door ...’ Susan sat up in a panic. ‘My uncle and aunt can hear.’

‘A bloody cannon going off wouldn’t wake your uncle,’ Richard laughed. ‘The old bastard’s well pissed.’

‘Please, Richard,’ Susan pleaded, affronted by his language, ‘shut the door.’

‘I can’t see you if I shut the door,’ Richard answered. Susan fumbled to light the candle at her bedside. As it flared, Richard staggered over and slammed the door shut.

He turned round and ordered, ‘Take your nightdress off.’

Susan sat rigid.

‘You’re my wife now, do as I bloody well say!’

Shock seized her, paralysing her movements. Then he rushed at her, foul-mouthed and threatening. Susan, galvanised by fear, stood up and began to fumble with her nightgown. Richard watched her as he began to discard his wedding clothes about the floor.

She stood shivering in the cold, a sob lodged in her throat. Once naked, he ordered her into the bed.

The consummation was over quicker than a cup of tea, Susan thought in bewilderment. Seconds later, Richard rolled off her, slumped across the bolster and began to snore.

Susan lay quite appalled at what had taken place. No one had warned her of the ordeal. She lay in pain, too shocked by the assault to cry. How could she possibly endure such a disgusting act again? She would never be able to enter this icy room without thinking of the humiliation and animal behaviour that sex with her husband appeared to demand. She saw the nights stretching ahead to eternity, dreading the darkness and fearing the touch of this man whom she thought she loved.

Why was he so different in bed from the witty and charming man who had courted her? Then a worm of doubt wriggled in her mind. Perhaps he had not courted her at all; perhaps it was she who had done all the running and he had merely succumbed to pressure from the family to marry her as the eldest rather than the pretty but immature Helen. Maybe Richard had just been too lazy to resist, or perhaps he thought he could have them both . . . After what Violet had said about him, she wondered if she knew her husband at all.

Susan lay, torturing herself with doubts and fears about Richard. But she refused to cry. Thousands of women before her must have endured as much without complaint. She would just have to become pregnant as quickly as possible and then she would be left alone. With that small shred of comfort, she turned her back on her unconscious husband and prayed for the delivery of sleep.

The early weeks of 1914 were the happiest Maggie could remember. She was an outcast from her old life in the teeming streets of West Newcastle, yet she was experiencing the greatest freedom of her life. It seemed to mark the dawning of a new age of optimism and progression. Ready to continue her campaign of militancy when instructed by headquarters, she felt increasingly that they were winning the fight for the vote. More and more politicians were speaking out on their behalf and the publicity given to the treatment of women prisoners was beginning to sicken citizens with a conscience. She had been told to lie low for several weeks, until the furore over the arson attack at Hebron House had died down.