No Greater Love (60 page)

‘Tell me the story, Mam.’

After that, Christabel wanted the tale of Granny Beaton and the house made of heather where they cooked on an open fire. Finally Maggie got her settled with a kiss goodnight and a promise of more stories in the morning. She hurried below to tell John. He was sitting dozing in his fireside chair, head bowed, his book dropped on the floor.

‘I can’t believe it; she’s called me Mam without any prompting! It’s much better than being called Mama, isn’t it? To her, it’s two different people.’ She crossed the room and touched his shoulder. ‘John?’

She tensed, falling to her knees and grabbing his hands. They were cold. In panic Maggie touched his cheek, his brow; both were stone cold. She leaned against him but there was no breath, no heartbeat. He looked so peaceful.

‘Oh John!’ she cried and buried her face in his chest.

While she had been spinning family tales for Christabel, John’s heart had finally given out.

***

So many turned out for John’s funeral that the aisles of the chapel were full of people standing. Maggie had attempted to leave Christabel at home with Millie but the girl had screamed and flung herself at her legs, refusing to be parted.

‘She’s terrified of losing you ’an all,’ Millie had said.

To the disapproval of some, Maggie took the child with her and drew comfort from the small warm hand that gripped hers throughout. Jimmy stood at her other side and linked arms when later they stood by the graveside and the final prayers were said.

Susan helped Maggie and Millie lay on a tea at the house afterwards. The parlour was heavy with the scent of hot-house lilies sent from Alice Pearson with a message of condolence.

Later, an exhausted Christabel fell asleep on Maggie’s lap. Susan helped clear up while Jimmy stoked up the fire.

‘Will you stop round here?’ he asked.

They regarded each other. Maggie wondered if her brother was thinking her thoughts: with John gone would she try and find George Gordon? She felt ashamed to be contemplating such action with her husband only dead a week. But she had wrestled with such thoughts through the long sleepless nights since John’s death. Yet she had never heard from George since he had sailed over nine months ago. Had he made it safely to Canada? Perhaps he had found someone else to help him forge a new life in a new country? She had to admit the bitter truth that she had given up any claim on George’s affections when she had refused to go with him.

The only one who could comfort her this past week had been Christabel who had climbed into her bed every night with Bella the rag-doll and snuggled into her hold. She would always have her daughter as a tangible reminder of the man she loved.

‘Aye,’ she finally answered, ‘me and the bairn will stop here where me family are.’

Jimmy nodded in approval.

‘What will you do with Millie?’

Maggie gave him a look of surprise. ‘She’s family too; she’ll always have a home with me.’

‘That’s what I thought,’ Jimmy smiled. ‘Susan says she’s worried you might not need a housekeeper anymore and that she’ll have nowhere to go. I told her she was being daft but she’s getting’ on in years and frettin’ about the future is Millie.’

Maggie felt terrible that Millie should harbour such fears. ‘Well she can stop her frettin’.’

At that moment, a seed of an idea took root in her mind.

***

It was spring-time before Maggie acted; mulling things over in her mind and doing everything she could to reassure both Christabel and Millie that she wasn’t going to suddenly desert them. It was Jimmy who became her greatest confidante and encouraged her plans.

She had the house valued telling Millie, ‘we don’t need a house this big for the three of us, do we?’

‘I can tell when you’re plottin’,’ Millie was suspicious. ‘What you thinking of doin’?’

‘Selling the house to buy some’at with a bit of land – enough for a garden and to grow a few vegetables.’

‘What you want with land?’

‘I want Christabel to know how to grow her own food, to get her hands dirty.’

Millie shook her head in disbelief. ‘And I suppose you’ve got your eye on some’at?’

‘Maybes.’

‘Well don’t expect me to do all the diggin’.’

‘Jimmy’s ganin’ to help,’ Maggie smiled.

***

A week later, Maggie braced herself for the journey up to Hibbs’ Farm. It was over a year since she had last stood in its forlorn field and part of her dreaded returning. But Jimmy had scouted round and said it was vacant; she was determined to discover if the farmer would sell the plot with its tumbledown cottage. It would be her first choice – the home where her beloved daughter had been conceived – but if not there then some other smallholding on the edge of the city that they could turn into their little Utopia. It would be a lasting tribute to her departed George.

‘We’ll grow flowers,’ she told Christabel, ‘and keep bees.’

‘And eat their honey,’ her daughter said, skipping along to keep up. ‘And can Beattie come and live with us?’

‘She can come whenever she wants,’ Maggie promised.

Her mind raced. She had other ambitions. She’d offer a gardening job to the disfigured veteran with the missing eye who came asking for food and cigarettes in return for shovelling coal or clearing the pavements of snow. And if the old farmhouse came up for sale she would buy that too and set up a retirement home for women like Millie who had no home to go to once they were too old for service. Rose would help her raise funds.

‘When are you going to tell me the story?’ Christabel’s eyes shone with impatience.

‘When we get to Hibbs’ Farm.’

‘Tell me now Mam.’

‘We’re nearly there.’

Christabel liked nothing better than one of Maggie’s tales about real life. This way Maggie had told her about the brave suffragettes and Emily Davison, and going to prison but winning in the end. Just as Granny Beaton had not shied from telling the hard truth of the world to a young Maggie, she would teach her daughter about life through stories.

Maggie’s heart pounded as they made their way uphill. Today Christabel would hear the story of her real father.

‘Once upon a time,’ Christabel prompted impatiently.

Maggie squeezed her hand. As they climbed above the smoke of the town she began. ‘Once upon a time there was a man with dark hair and kind eyes called George Gordon.’ She spoke of a strong man who could row boats faster than Londoners; a brave, passionate man who loved poems and music and fought to make things fairer for ordinary working people.

‘Was he your friend Mam?’

Maggie’s throat watered. ‘Yes, he was a special friend.’

‘Did he help you escape from prison Mam? Like Uncle John?’

‘Aye, he did. And we came to live at Hibbs’ Farm.’

She paused to catch her breath and pointed up to the cottage in the distance.

‘Just you and George?’

Maggie nodded. ‘Just me and George.’

‘Not Millie?’

‘No, but Granny Beaton came to live with us – and Uncle Jimmy for a while – before he went off to war.’

‘Did George go away too?’

Maggie nodded, tears welling in her eyes as she remembered. ‘But before he went, he gave Mam something very special; a baby.’

Christabel frowned. ‘A baby? But you don’t have a baby.’

‘My baby was taken away from me and given to other parents,’ Maggie said gently, squatting down and facing her. ‘But she grew into a bonny little lass and thanks to Aunt Alice I got my bairn back.’

Christabel gazed at her with intent grey eyes. For a long time she said nothing, then, ‘Is it me?’

‘Aye,’ Maggie said, reaching out to brush wayward curls from her daughter’s face. ‘You’re my bairn and I’m your Mam. And George Gordon was your Dad.’

‘Can I see him?’

Maggie shook her head. ‘He sailed away on a big boat to a faraway land called Canada. If he’d known that you would come back to me, I think he would have stayed.’

The girl reached out and put her arms around Maggie’s neck. Maggie hugged her, smothering a sob.

‘Can we go to Canada one day?’

‘Maybes.’ Maggie stood up, keeping an arm about her daughter. ‘Haway, let’s go and have a peek at the house, eh?’

As they gained the brow, Maggie saw smoke billowing from the chimney. It didn’t look as unkempt as the previous year. Someone had fixed the fencing and the boarded up window had been replaced. Maggie’s heart sank; Jimmy had been wrong. It looked as if it had already been sold or leased out.

‘There’s someone in the garden,’ Christabel said, shaking off her hold.

‘Wait–’

The girl ran ahead. Maggie panted after her. Christabel stopped at the fence. Maggie squinted into the glare of the pearly sky, trying to make out the man in the garden. He left his spade and walked towards her daughter. She was asking him something. He pushed back his cap as he answered. Maggie’s heart began to thump. He walked out of the gate and up to the girl, hunkering down to speak to her.

Maggie stared, her breath trapped in her chest. Then the man stood again and turned towards her. She forced herself to keep moving, not trusting her own eyes.

As she reached them, she knew. Christabel slipped to her side, suddenly shy.

‘Geordie?’ she trembled. ‘How is it possible?’

He gazed at her, struggling to find his words.

‘I got as far as Tilbury Docks. I couldn’t stay away Maggie – couldn’t live me life half a world away from you –’ His voice cracked. ‘Or the bairn.’

She looked into his dark eyes, his look both fierce and tender. A sob rose in her throat.

‘I thought I’d never see you again. And here of all places. Jimmy said –’

‘Jimmy’s the only one who knows I’m here working for Hibbs’. He brings me news.’

Maggie cried, ‘Where you ever going to let me know?’

‘I knew you were in mourning. I was prepared to wait but your brother wanted to push things along.’ George smiled at last. Her heart soared.

‘Jimmy always looked up to you,’ Maggie said, her vision blurring with tears. ‘Hold me, so I know I’m not dreamin’.’

George pulled her into his arms and gripped her tight. ‘I love you lass!’

‘Oh Geordie, we must never be parted again – me heart won’t stand it.’

‘Never,’ he promised.

Maggie felt Christabel pulling on her skirt. The girl was staring up at them. She put an arm around her daughter.

‘Christabel; this is George, the man in the story. This is your dad.’

‘You’ve told her about me?’ George asked in amazement, quite overcome.

Maggie nodded.

Christabel stared at him with large curious eyes. ‘Will you live with us too?’ she asked.

‘Aye, lass.’ He ruffled her hair. ‘Do you want to look inside?’

The girl nodded.

He held out his hand to her. She hesitated; looked up at her mother. Maggie nodded in encouragement. Christabel put her hand into George’s. Maggie’s heart was so full she couldn’t speak, and she saw the same emotion reflected in George’s loving expression.

Either side of their daughter, they walked towards their home, together.

~**~

If you have enjoyed NO GREATER LOVE, you might like to read another of The Tyneside Sagas – FOR LOVE & GLORY.

Warm-hearted, fun-loving Jo Elliot grows up on Tyneside in the 1960's with her widowed father and older brother Colin and his friends. She has a special bond with the lively but rebellious Mark Duggan who is rejected by his violent father and ignored by his hostile brother Gordon, to whom he can never measure up.

Mark longs for acceptance, but it is mature and masculine Gordon for whom Jo falls dangerously in love. Tragedy unfolds that leaves Jo outcast from her old friends. As she forges an acting career and tries to rebuild her life, war breaks out in the Falklands and both Colin and Mark are called up to fight before she can make her peace. As terrible family secrets come to light that have blighted the two families for years, Jo realises she must act to stop tragedy ruining the future. Emotional, entertaining and utterly engrossing, this magnificent saga explores the depths of love and undying loyalty.

Four stars - Very good.
Peterborough Evening Gazette

A good read.
Shields Gazette

I have just spent a sleepless night because I couldn't put your book 'For Love and Glory' down. It is fantastic!
H.B. - Peebles, Scotland.

I just wanted to let you know I thoroughly enjoyed your book. I was totally absorbed to the very end. My congratulations.
D.G. - Newcastle, England.

I have just finished reading your latest book, which I enjoyed so very much. Wonderful! You tell such a good story that I can't wait to get to the next chapter - but then I don't want to finish the book too quickly. Thank you for yet another great read. I now look forward to your next book!
M.C. - Durham, England.

How very much I, and our 16 year-old daughter, have enjoyed 'For Love and Glory'. She literally couldn't put it down yesterday evening. We both loved the local recent history fascinating - please continue writing!
C.B. - Brandon, England.

I can't adequately begin to tell you how thrilled and impressed I am with 'For Love and Glory'. Throughout one identifies with Jo in all her trials, troubles and triumphs. The Falklands chapters are excellent; they ring true. Fortunately I finished the book reading it here on my own, when everyone else was out, because I was in tears at the end. What a really splendid book it is - so powerful, so wise, so compassionate, so deeply moving. One 'lives it' from start to finish.
N.M. - Invernesshire, Scotland

Jo ran out of the school gates, dragging her friend Marilyn with her.

‘Race you to Dodds!’ Jo grinned, giving herself a head start.

‘I’ve got no money,’ Marilyn complained, her attempts at sprinting hampered by her new slip-on plastic shoes.

I’ll treat you,’ Jo called over her shoulder, kicking up neat piles of orange leaves that the road sweeper had collected. ‘Dad gave me a tanner.’