The Silversmith's Daughter

by Annie Murray

  ‘No-o-o,’ she moaned, head down.

  Annie felt her innards clench even tighter. Surely she wasn’t going to deliver in this position? It was like a dog! A blush spread over her.

  ‘It’s coming!’ Mary cried. ‘Get my drawers off . . .’

  The two young women fumbled about in the half-darkness, lifting Mary’s frock, pulling at her loose bloomers.

  ‘Oh!’ Lizzie gasped. ‘Look!’

  Annie could see, too, the dome of a head already bulbing from Mary’s body. Relief coursed through her. Very gently she guided the child as Mary’s body ejected it, twisting the little one out into the world and down on to the bed as Mary dropped forward again, panting, spent.

  ‘Mary?’ she said, as the streaked little child roared into life. ‘You’ve got another little girl.’

  ‘Oh . . .’ Mary said faintly. ‘Another . . . I seem to make girls . . .’

  Annie cut the snake of cord and tied it off, squinting to see what she was doing, and Lizzie held a candle high over her.

  ‘Lizzie?’ Ivy’s voice floated up the stairs. ‘It’s ’ere then? What’d she ’ave?’

  ‘Girl,’ Lizzie called back.

  There was a pause, then Ivy called, ‘Mrs Blount come round – said ’er couldn’t find Mrs Geech anywhere.’

  ‘Well, no need for ’er now – we’ve got Annie.’ Lizzie was laughing with relief.

  ‘I’ll call ’er Ann – after you,’ Mary murmured.

  Annie smiled. ‘How nice.’ She looked down at the little one who seemed remarkably vigorous, all things considered. ‘Now, little Ann, you go to your sister for a minute, while I see to your mother.’

  She massaged Mary’s belly while she gave out low sounds of discomfort. It took some time for the afterbirth to come away. The room was so dark, Annie could hardly see a thing. She scooped whatever had emerged into the sodden layers of newspaper and screwed it all into a bundle which she left by the door.

  ‘We’ll put that on the fire,’ she said softly to Lizzie.

  She opened the window wider to let some air into the fuggy room and covered Mary with the one blanket. The woman lay back, spent.

  ‘’Er’s sucking my finger, Mom!’ Lizzie giggled. ‘’Er wants you.’

  Annie helped prop Mary up a bit and the two girls watched as she introduced the little girl to her breast and she began to suck.

  ‘Well . . .’ Mary looked up between damp strands of hair, softer now, almost like a girl. ‘I thought I’d like another boy – but now ’er’s ’ere – lovely, ain’t ’er?’

  ‘I’ll go and make more tea,’ Lizzie said. She seemed full of energy now, so relieved that it was all over and that someone had come to share the responsibility. ‘And bring some water up.’

  ‘You just give her a little feed and then we’ll get you properly cleaned up,’ Annie said, sitting down beside Mary.

  ‘All right,’ she heard Mary say faintly.

  Annie realized she must have dozed herself, in the quiet, because later – was it just a few moments, or longer? – she opened her eyes and saw that Mary, with the child still tucked beside her, had fallen deeply asleep. She looked peaceful enough, her haggard face smoother now, free from pain. But there was something about her that caught Annie. And there was a smell in the room, unpleasant, like pennies, metallic and bitter. She felt a sudden eerie prickling at the back of her neck, a feeling of foreboding she could not make sense of.

  ‘Mary?’ she said sharply. Her heart began to pound and she leapt to her feet and leaned over the exhausted mother. Mary was breathing. Of course she was. It was all right – she was being ridiculous. And now she could hear Lizzie’s feet on the stairs again, bringing tea.

  But the feeling would not leave, like an icy premonition spreading through her. As Lizzie came into the room, saying, ‘’Ere yer go, Annie,’ she gently peeled back the blanket. In the flickering light the two of them took in the black stain which was spreading like a tide across the bed. ‘Ivy!’ Lizzie ran screaming down the stairs. ‘Get the doctor – quick!’

  In seconds she was back and joined Annie in trying to rouse Mary Poole.

  ‘Mom – wake up!’ Lizzie shook her shoulder and Mary gave out a slight, drowsy sound. ‘The doctor’s coming!’

  ‘Lizzie – get me anything you can to staunch it,’ Annie cried. Seldom had she felt such panic. She had fallen asleep and let this happen! How could she? She was full of fear and rage at herself.

  Lizzie ran to the room next door and came back with what looked like an old sheet which Annie rolled and pressed between Mary’s legs, desperate to stem the life blood which was pulsing from her. She had seen horrific things, the deaths of men far too young in her care, the terrible inheritance of war, their amputations and wounds, the poisoning of their bodies. But that was war and this was giving life and this was Mary who she had known for a decade. Unreality mixed in her with desperation. This could not be! Mary had had so many children. Why now, this sudden draining of life from a mother with five children and no husband . . . ? She felt like weeping, even as they waited and waited for the doctor.

  Dear Lord, she prayed desperately, grant us thy help, breathe the force of thy loving life into her and save her . . . And please, for heaven’s sake, let him get a move on – get him here now, please . . .

  Lizzie looked at her across the bed, ghost-faced in the candlelight. ‘What can we do?’ she said desperately. ‘Annie – help her. I don’t know what to do.’

  It was an hour and a half before the doctor came, a small, harried-looking man clumping up the rough stairs. He took one look at the woman on the bed beside her sleeping infant and flicked back the blanket. The sight of the mattress told him all he needed to know. Delicately he pressed his fingertips to her pulse. With a sorrowful tilt of his head, he replaced her hand on the bed.

  Thirteen

  Daisy could not eat her dinner. The smells of meat and gravy which she usually found delicious were making her sick. She had already got to her feet to slide open the window which gave on to the backyard and the workshop. She was desperate for some fresh air to thin the atmosphere inside.

  Normally she loved it when Auntie Annie came to visit. She adored having these older women around after so many years of living just with her father. She enjoyed hearing Annie’s stories and the way she made Ma blush at times, the things she came out with. And she would have been chattering away to Annie as well, about the school and her own latest projects. But the queasy feeling which had been plaguing her now for a couple of weeks rose up in her and she could hardly take in what any of them were saying.

  Annie had managed to arrive early enough to play with John and Lily, who adored their auntie, and she read them a bedtime story. They kept saying, Why can’t you come more often, Auntie? They knew Annie’s work at the hospital was so busy that it consumed most of her life; and Daisy knew that Margaret, who was a more measured, domestic person, worried about her passionate little sister. But Annie seemed in her element. Usually, over tea she regaled them with sad stories of lads who had come home and died of infections or told her about their girlfriends who had not waited for them – but also the jokes and pranks that went on in the wards. Philip, Margaret and Daisy would sit rapt, listening to her.

  But tonight, all Annie could talk about, tearfully, was Mary Poole, what had happened last week when she had meant to come to see them and never made it and how Mary had bled so much that she had sunk into unconsciousness and never come round again. The doctor had said it was not her fault, but she felt terrible, as if she should have been able to do something to stop it. She needed to talk and talk. And they all worried about Lizzie and what the family were going to do.

  ‘Even in these times, this seems worse somehow,’ Annie said miserably. ‘Nothing to do with the war. Just . . .’ She stopped, shaking her head. ‘I wish . . . Oh, dear, if only the doctor had got there sooner, or perhaps I should have . . . I don’t know.’ She shrugged helplessly.

  ‘I’m sure you
did all you could.’ Margaret tried to reassure her, but they all felt shaken up by what had happened and so sorry for Lizzie and the rest of the children.

  ‘They just all expect me to know everything about anything like that,’ Annie said.

  ‘But Lizzie’s not blaming you, surely?’ Philip asked.

  ‘No. Dear Lizzie – no, she isn’t . . .’ She frowned, suddenly catching sight of Daisy. ‘Are you all right, Daisy dear?’

  Daisy, who had been trying desperately to get any of her food down her without bringing it straight back up again, felt even sicker and more desperate on hearing what had happened to Mary Poole.

  ‘Yes, thanks,’ was all she managed to mutter. If she said anything else she thought she might either cry or be sick. How horrible this was – it was not like her! She kept her head down, a surge of heat going through her body, the blood singing in her ears. Her stomach began to clench and she knew for sure that she was going to have to run for it.

  ‘I don’t feel too good,’ she managed to say, before getting out of the room as fast as she could. She pulled the door closed and dashed on tiptoe into the scullery, just reaching a pail to lean over in the nick of time.

  Kneeling on the cold tiles, she retched until nothing else would come, then sat up straight, breathing heavily, listening. She had managed to close the kitchen door and no one had followed her, thank heavens. Getting to her feet, she hurriedly rinsed out the pail and took a drink of water, with the unpleasant feeling of sweat turning cold on her forehead and down her back.

  Creeping upstairs she readied herself for bed. She did not want Margaret coming up later, asking her more questions. She must pretend to be asleep, to be ill . . . When now the suspicion that she was not ill, that it was that other thing she still hardly dared think about, was taking over her mind.

  And tomorrow she would have to get up and struggle through another terrible day, feeling ill, and now, increasingly frightened to death, alone with her terrifying secret. And what happened to Mary Poole might easily happen to her . . .

  ‘Please God!’ Up in the attic, safe from listening ears, she let out a desperate moan. ‘Help me – please don’t let this be true! I know I don’t usually pray or anything, but please,’ she whispered tearfully, ‘if you’re there, please help me.’

  Lying in the dark, dozing queasily, she heard doors opening and closing below and knew that Annie must be setting off for home. Soon she heard someone coming up the attic stairs. The door opened and light appeared. Through half-closed eyes she saw Margaret with a candle, coming over to the bed.

  ‘Well, my girl, what’s going on?’

  There was a steely solemnity to her voice which Daisy knew meant that she was not going to get away with pretending to be asleep. Groggily, she sat up. Margaret stood over her, which was ominous.

  ‘There’ve been no rags in the bucket.’

  The words were brutally direct, like a slap. Daisy looked up at her. The terrible truth crashed over her like a wave. All this time she had felt this dirty secret locked inside her, but even so it had not felt real, not until she heard those words which exposed all her shame. She hugged her knees up close, curled up to press her face against them and burst into convulsions of tears.

  ‘Oh, Lord in heaven.’

  She felt Margaret sit on the bed beside her. Raising her head, she saw her stepmother lower the candlestick to the floor and sit staring at her, appalled, in the flickering light.

  ‘So it’s true?’ Margaret’s voice was still controlled, but it was like a trap about to spring.

  ‘I don’t know,’ Daisy sobbed. ‘I just know I feel bad – sick – and I haven’t come on, not for . . . I don’t know . . .’

  There was a silence. Daisy stared at her knees. She sensed that Margaret, virtuous Margaret, was trying to take this in. But she knew there was something in Margaret’s voice that she had never heard before from her firm but gentle, godly stepmother. Daisy heard it as anger, as condemnation of her – what else would it be? Only now, the weight of her disgrace reached her with full force.

  ‘You’ve –’ she could hear that it pained Margaret to ask – ‘been with someone?’

  Still not looking at her, Daisy nodded miserably.

  ‘Did he force you?’

  Her tone made Daisy look up again, truly startled. ‘Well . . . No. Yes. It was . . .’ Forced? Persuaded? She had not felt as if she had a choice. She was so confused. She had allowed something when she scarcely knew what it was . . . But could she say he forced her?

  ‘I couldn’t seem to stop him,’ she said, feeling small and foolish. ‘He was . . . Oh, Ma – you don’t know what men can be like!’ she cried dramatically.

  ‘Don’t I indeed – what makes you think that?’ The bitter force with which this came back at her startled Daisy to the core. The memory came to her of those days, years ago, before Margaret and Pa were married. Margaret had disappeared and her father had been deranged with worry. No one had ever explained to her then exactly what had happened but she did know it involved a man called Charles Barber.

  ‘Did he attack you?’ Her voice was steely, like someone determined to face the worst.

  ‘No,’ she said more quietly. ‘Not exactly.’

  Margaret looked away for a moment across the room, lost in thought. Her hands were clasped tightly in her lap as if it was the only way she could keep control of her emotions.

  ‘Who is it?’

  ‘I can’t tell you.’ Daisy’s tears flowed again. ‘I just can’t. Pa would . . .’

  ‘I didn’t say tell your pa. I said tell me. Is it still happening?’

  Miserably, she nodded, feeling awash with shame. It was as if he had taken her over; she was trapped by him and could not get away. At first, even though she did not like what he did, she had loved the way he held her afterwards and talked about art and famous people and made her feel chosen and exalted. And once she had crossed the bridge into letting him do as he pleased, out of her own romantic longings, her adventurous curiosity – there had been no going back.

  Margaret seized hold of her upper arm, hard, as if wanting to shake her.

  ‘Listen, Daisy. In – what? – seven or so months’ time, you are going to have a baby. A baby, born out of shame.’ She kept her voice low but the force of feeling behind it pierced into Daisy. ‘For the love of God, don’t you understand what that means? You are going to be mother to a bastard child. And you bring all of that down on all of us.’

  Margaret got to her feet, pacing back and forth in extreme agitation. For a moment she veered close and Daisy shied away, thinking Margaret was about to slap her. Instead she kept her hands gripped together.

  ‘Your life is going to change for ever and you will be changed for ever in everyone’s eyes! You stupid, stupid girl – how could you let this happen?’

  She sat again suddenly, bent over with her hands covering her face. Daisy was appalled to see Margaret’s shoulders shake with emotion. But in her disciplined way, she dragged herself back to self-control and sat up, hands in her lap, though Daisy saw the tears in her eyes.

  ‘I do not believe you are to blame – or not entirely. But your father . . .’

  Pa. What would Pa say? The thought of her father’s face froze her inside. And if he knew who it was?

  ‘And he –’ Margaret went on – ‘whoever he is, will go on with his life carelessly, just the same as he has carelessly used you.’ There was a silence and then, with such emphatic rage that Daisy jumped, Margaret burst out with, ‘And I am damned if I’m going to let that happen without whoever it is knowing and taking some responsibility for himself. I won’t tell your father, not yet. There is no need for him to know at this stage.’ In a quiet, gritty voice she said, ‘Tell me – and I shall help you.’

  Daisy gazed back at her with astonishment. She had never seen Margaret so hard or so alight with fury before. But she still could hardly bear to own up to it. He had known the family for so long, even known her own mother, and havin
g to admit it felt dirtier still. For a few moments their eyes burned at each other in the dim light. Until at last, in a whisper, she gave his name.

  Fourteen

  All night, Margaret lay awake. By seven the next morning she was dressed, her hair coiled hurriedly into a bun, a shawl flung over her blouse and skirt. Going out, she slammed the front door harder than she had intended and, in the pale spring morning, went storming along Chain Street.

  It was not many minutes’ walk. Even though she had not broken the night’s fast, her body was so full of pulsing energy that she could hardly contain it. She realized, as her feet pounded along the cobbles, that she was more explosively angry than she had ever been in her life before. So much so, she felt as if rage had taken over her entire being.

  That ridiculous, strutting, puffed-up idiocy of a man! . . . Thinking he can just take and lay hands on her with not a care . . . The thoughts boiled in her mind. It was made even worse by the dim memory that when she herself first set eyes on James Carson, she had for a time found him charismatically attractive.

  But this also brought back her memories of Charles Barber, the man who had assaulted her when she was a young woman. The feelings had rushed up like a water spout under pressure. All the more so because Barber had completely disappeared. There had been no consequences for him, no punishment. They realized he must have gone abroad.

  Let the Lord punish that one, she thought. But upon my soul, I’m going to have a word with this article here . . .

  Coming upon the door Daisy had described under her close questioning last night – where does he live? Upstairs? Does he live alone? – she hurried up the scruffy wooden stairs and without pause, slammed and slammed the flat of her hand on the wood of the door.

  ‘All right, all right,’ she heard grumpily from within as she kept pounding it. ‘I’m not deaf – coming, coming.’

  When the door opened she saw that he was only just dressed – still buttoning his shirt, a dark red silk cravat dangling loose about his neck. In the second it took him to register who it was, his expression flickered from irritated to startled and then, in bafflement, resorted to an ingratiating smile.