from the glassworks on which he was betting beat the mighty Pearson’s in the semi-final. But noticing Susan’s growing coolness, he quickly pocketed his winnings and bundled them back on a tram to Daniel Park.
‘I’m going to treat you to tea at that open-air stall,’ he smiled broadly at Susan. ‘It’s the only reason I wanted to bet in the first place - spend a bit extra on you, dear.’
Maggie found this hard to believe but Susan seemed mollified and slipped her arm through his again. A colliery brass band from Benwell played stirring music under the copper-domed and gilt-painted bandstand as they tucked into cream cakes and a jug of tea in the park. Richard talked expansively. ‘I must take you to tea at the new Terrace Tearoom in Fenwick’s - they have an orchestra playing every afternoon, you know.’
‘Every afternoon!’ Susan exclaimed in pink-faced wonder.
‘Then we could go and see Houdini at the Empire.’
‘Who’s Houdini?’ Susan asked, through a mouthful of sticky cake.
‘Don’t tell me you haven’t heard of Houdini, girl?’ Richard laughed in disbelief. ‘The world-famous self-liberator, that’s who. Has Helen not told you about him?’
‘Helen?’ Susan flushed. ‘Why should she?’
Richard hesitated, then nudged her playfully. ‘No reason, it’s just that sister of yours seems to live in the theatre, as far as I can see.’
‘She may well,’ Susan said with disapproval, ‘but I seldom get the chance to go out like she does, though how she finds the money to go to the pictures all the time defeats me.’
Maggie slipped away, musing that money appeared to be no obstacle to Richard either. What exactly was he doing in Newcastle? She wouldn’t be surprised if he was just living leech-like off Aunt Violet and making money at gambling, then chided herself for being uncharitable. Just because she disliked him did not mean he made a living by dishonest means. Still, she found it hard to believe that he was anything as responsible as a manager of a prestigious new cinema.
Leaving through the wrought-iron gates, Maggie debated briefly whether to return to Scotswood to see the outcome of the regatta, then dismissed the notion as frivolous. If she walked into town now, she would still have time to sell copies of The Suffragette and on Saturday evening the markets, public houses and cafes were always teaming with people. Pushing thoughts of George Gordon’s glistening and muscled arms firmly from her mind, she walked purposefully towards the city.
***
All afternoon, George had been conscious of the Beaton girls standing on the landing in their pale dresses and straw hats watching the races. Not that that had spurred him on to greater exertions, or been responsible for his crew gaining a well-fought place in the semi-finals of the regatta, but nonetheless he had been aware of their presence. The raising of a pale hand to shade her flint-grey eyes, an amused inaudible comment to her sister, a cat-like yawn in the sunshine were glimpses that had made him conscious of Maggie Beaton throughout the afternoon.
The distraction had been annoying and incomprehensible, and even now he found himself thinking of Maggie’s slim, determined face and slender neck framed by her thick, untidy black hair. Now, if she had had Susan Beaton’s pleasant feminine manner, he could have understood his stirring attraction. But Maggie Beaton was too forthright and self-opinionated for any man to find attractive and too knowledgeable about manly pursuits such as politics. She would come to no good, that one, George thought, with a shake of his head.
‘Haway, George man,’ said Bob Stanners, a fellow rower, slapping him on the shoulder. ‘We’re off into town for a few. You coming?’
‘Gan on without me,’ George replied ‘I’ll catch you up later.’
His pale, red-headed friend groaned. ‘You going to sulk about losing the cup to Armstrong’s for the next year?’
‘I’m not sulking,’
‘I’m going to treat you to tea at that open-air stall,’ he smiled broadly at Susan. ‘It’s the only reason I wanted to bet in the first place - spend a bit extra on you, dear.’
Maggie found this hard to believe but Susan seemed mollified and slipped her arm through his again. A colliery brass band from Benwell played stirring music under the copper-domed and gilt-painted bandstand as they tucked into cream cakes and a jug of tea in the park. Richard talked expansively. ‘I must take you to tea at the new Terrace Tearoom in Fenwick’s - they have an orchestra playing every afternoon, you know.’
‘Every afternoon!’ Susan exclaimed in pink-faced wonder.
‘Then we could go and see Houdini at the Empire.’
‘Who’s Houdini?’ Susan asked, through a mouthful of sticky cake.
‘Don’t tell me you haven’t heard of Houdini, girl?’ Richard laughed in disbelief. ‘The world-famous self-liberator, that’s who. Has Helen not told you about him?’
‘Helen?’ Susan flushed. ‘Why should she?’
Richard hesitated, then nudged her playfully. ‘No reason, it’s just that sister of yours seems to live in the theatre, as far as I can see.’
‘She may well,’ Susan said with disapproval, ‘but I seldom get the chance to go out like she does, though how she finds the money to go to the pictures all the time defeats me.’
Maggie slipped away, musing that money appeared to be no obstacle to Richard either. What exactly was he doing in Newcastle? She wouldn’t be surprised if he was just living leech-like off Aunt Violet and making money at gambling, then chided herself for being uncharitable. Just because she disliked him did not mean he made a living by dishonest means. Still, she found it hard to believe that he was anything as responsible as a manager of a prestigious new cinema.
Leaving through the wrought-iron gates, Maggie debated briefly whether to return to Scotswood to see the outcome of the regatta, then dismissed the notion as frivolous. If she walked into town now, she would still have time to sell copies of The Suffragette and on Saturday evening the markets, public houses and cafes were always teaming with people. Pushing thoughts of George Gordon’s glistening and muscled arms firmly from her mind, she walked purposefully towards the city.
***
All afternoon, George had been conscious of the Beaton girls standing on the landing in their pale dresses and straw hats watching the races. Not that that had spurred him on to greater exertions, or been responsible for his crew gaining a well-fought place in the semi-finals of the regatta, but nonetheless he had been aware of their presence. The raising of a pale hand to shade her flint-grey eyes, an amused inaudible comment to her sister, a cat-like yawn in the sunshine were glimpses that had made him conscious of Maggie Beaton throughout the afternoon.
The distraction had been annoying and incomprehensible, and even now he found himself thinking of Maggie’s slim, determined face and slender neck framed by her thick, untidy black hair. Now, if she had had Susan Beaton’s pleasant feminine manner, he could have understood his stirring attraction. But Maggie Beaton was too forthright and self-opinionated for any man to find attractive and too knowledgeable about manly pursuits such as politics. She would come to no good, that one, George thought, with a shake of his head.
‘Haway, George man,’ said Bob Stanners, a fellow rower, slapping him on the shoulder. ‘We’re off into town for a few. You coming?’
‘Gan on without me,’ George replied ‘I’ll catch you up later.’
His pale, red-headed friend groaned. ‘You going to sulk about losing the cup to Armstrong’s for the next year?’
‘I’m not sulking,’
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