The Silversmith's Daughter

by Annie Murray

  The gush of words finally ran out into tears. Philip stopped her, gazing urgently into her face. He looked very upset at the state in which he found his wife.

  ‘Margaret, you mustn’t think that. You’re just trying to do the best you can for everyone – and none of any of it has ever been your fault! You’ve . . .’ Here he sounded emotional. ‘Well, you’ve put the rest of us to shame.’

  ‘Maybe I was wrong to bring her here,’ she wept as they drew close to the house. ‘She’s so unhappy, and it’s not really Father – he’s been kind enough to her, all things considered.’ She pulled out a hanky and blew her nose. ‘I just thought it would be a good thing to get away from home – until it’s all over. For everyone. But now I’m not sure . . .’

  ‘And I think it is. She would have felt worse at home – cooped up, feeling she was hiding.’ He held her gently for a moment and looked, as if with difficulty, into her eyes.

  ‘Have you . . . found someone?’

  ‘Yes.’ She glanced away, then back at him. ‘I think so. For a sum.’ She saw him nod, taking this in. Their shoulders were already dark with rain. ‘Come on, love – let’s get in out of the wet.’

  As they pushed open the door of the little white house, John and Lily gave their father an uproarious greeting.

  ‘Pa, Pa!’ Lily danced on her toes. ‘Come and see the tree!’

  ‘I rode a horse!’ John announced.

  ‘Just let me get my coat off,’ Philip laughed, as they flung themselves at him. ‘You’ll get all wet.’ He looked like a giant in the low-ceilinged little house, Margaret thought, just as her father did, forever stooping to pass through doorways. At least Father was out, for the moment. It gave them some time just to reunite as a family.

  Philip looked across his younger children’s heads to see Daisy standing in the doorway. Her hair was loose in a sheet down her back. She hardly looked like the same girl, her face moonlike and puffy and now so big at the front in a way that made him blush a little on seeing her.

  ‘Hello, Pa,’ she said softly.

  ‘Daisy-Loo.’ Tenderly, her took her in his arms and kissed her cheek. ‘How’re you keeping, love?’

  ‘I’m all right,’ she said impassively. The tone hurt Margaret. She could hear all the girl’s helplessness and regret, knew the fits of sobbing terror that Daisy had shared with her at the thought of the birth – an event she did not even really want to happen. But now it was so close, she was quiet, as if resigned to it, as if nature gave that as a blessing.

  ‘It’ll be dinner time soon,’ Margaret said. ‘Let me take your pa up to unpack his things. John, Lily, you clear up the toys and we’ll all come and be together, all right?’

  She was sleeping in the old childhood bedroom which she had shared with Annie, looking out over the garden and towards the river. She had been struck by how low the ceiling was and by how much the trees had grown since she left.

  ‘I’m afraid it’s separate beds,’ she said lightly to Philip. ‘But at least we shall be in the same room.’

  He had splayed out his coat to dry near the fire downstairs. Now they were alone, he flung his little bag on the bed and faced her.

  ‘Come here, wench,’ he said softly.

  After these weeks of parting, she went to him, longing to be held and reassured. As her husband drew her close, she heard his intake of breath, felt his hunger for her in the way his hands moved over her, and in seconds they were both weak with desire.

  ‘Oh, my love,’ he whispered. ‘My dearest love . . . I’m sorry . . .’

  As one they moved to the narrow bed, lifting her skirt, tugging at clothes and buttons, everything so that they could be reunited and she was sobbing in his arms, clinging to his back, the big, generous body she knew so well. Moments later, their desire quickly satisfied, they were both laughing, his bearded cheek close to hers, and she could feel the ripples of it through his body.

  ‘I really don’t know what’s come over me!’ she whispered. ‘I feel like a terrible, wanton woman.’

  ‘You’re an astonishing woman!’ he said, raising his head to look at her, and they both laughed again.

  ‘But I used to be so . . .’ She searched for words to describe her younger self. ‘Proper. And . . . I don’t know. Grey and . . .’ She shrugged, amazed by the way life had broken her open.

  ‘You were marvellous,’ he said, still rocking inside her gently, his face full of joy and pleasure. ‘And you’re even more so now.’

  She raised her head to reach her lips to his. ‘I love you so much, Philip.’ Her face sobered and she lay back with a sigh. ‘Poor Daisy. Oh, heavens – we really do need to go back downstairs.’

  William Hanson had returned by the time she and Philip joined the others downstairs and she hoped her father could not see her blushes, still feeling her and Philip’s hurried lovemaking in her body. Her father stood, hands clasped behind his back, a rugged, granite-like figure at the end of the table, where the three children were already sitting. Miss Berry, a pleasant but rather stiff-jointed woman with wispy brown hair, was bringing in boiled carrots and leeks to go with a shepherd’s pie. As the two men shook hands, Margaret thought with a moment of panic, Oh, my goodness, I hope I haven’t caught for another child! Usually they tried to be more careful . . . And her blushes increased.

  ‘Hello, Philip.’ Her father inclined his craggy head as the two men shook hands.

  ‘Thank you for welcoming us, Mr Hanson,’ Philip said humbly.

  How awkward it all was, how embarrassing, Margaret thought, her cheeks burning as they sat down. But it was at the same time comforting to be in her old home for a while, away from the business. As her father intoned a prayer, she glanced at Daisy, who kept her eyes on her plate.

  Dear Lord, protect her and be with her through what is to come, Margaret prayed, suddenly full of tenderness for her. And bring us peace this Christmas-tide.

  Nineteen

  Christmas Day 1915

  ‘Annie – wait for me!’

  Annie turned as she let herself out of the nurses’ quarters, smiling at Susannah, one of her fellow nurses, whose face she could just make out against the shape of her white veil. They both slipped out into the darkness of early morning, closing the door quietly so as not to wake the others who were not rostered on until later.

  ‘My goodness, it was hard getting up today,’ Susannah yawned. ‘Oh, my, it’s windy out here again – I suppose it’s going to pour.’ She shivered. ‘It’s the only time of year I like having a veil to wear!’ Wrapping her cloak closely round her, she added, ‘I’m glad you’re on with me – you move faster than I do and otherwise it’s that blasted VAD.’

  ‘Oh, she’s not that bad,’ Annie said. The regular nurses sometimes made a point of resenting the volunteer VADs and she thought it unkind, especially as the VADs often got thrown in at the deep end. ‘Anyway, come on – let’s move a bit quicker now!’ She tugged on Susannah’s arm. The two of them trotted across towards the imposing university buildings which were now their hospital. The lights were burning inside and it looked warm and welcoming compared with the icy air of dawn, where their breath was snatched in white sworls. They could just make out the face of the clock on the university’s tower, which showed seven-twenty. Soon they were inside, going to greet the night staff and be debriefed about events through the hours of darkness.

  Annie walked into the ward, in the splendid surroundings of the university’s Great Hall, with a feeling of excitement rising in her. Though she had not admitted it to Susannah, she had not found it at all hard to get up. After what happened yesterday, during all the Christmas Eve excitement on the wards, getting up that morning had far been easier than usual – though she still could hardly admit to herself why this was.

  But Susannah never missed a thing.

  ‘You’re very chirpy this morning,’ she said, eyeing Annie with a teasing expression. ‘That wouldn’t be anything to do with the rugged Scots specialist of yesterday, would it? Oo
h, Annie Hanson – you can deny it as much as you like but I can see you blushing!’

  ‘Christians awake, salute this happy morn!’ they sang in the little Congregationalist church, as stormy light slanted in through the windows, flickering as clouds passed the sun.

  This place, which had at first felt so strange to Daisy, seemed almost comforting this morning, as she stood with her father on one side of her – at church as a rare concession to his father-in-law – and Margaret on the other. Around them were the devout villagers and farmers who assumed, rather than being directly told, that the ring on her finger meant that her man was away at the Front. In the weeks they had been staying out here, everyone had treated her with a respect that bordered on reverence. This made her feel both touched and deeply ashamed, like the imposter she was.

  Daisy knew she had been impossible at times over the past months, testing everyone to their limits, but she just could not help it. Pa’s anger and silence had made it all worse. She had been terribly moody, flown into rages; at other times dissolving into tears in front of her stepmother at the thought of what must happen to her. These facts Margaret had gently explained, one evening in the summer. They had been up in Daisy’s bedroom, sticky in their summer frocks after the working day. There were children playing outside which made Daisy feel even worse – all her childhood now seemed like a lost country to which she ached to return.

  ‘I can’t do it,’ she had wept, leaning despairingly against Margaret as they sat on the bed. ‘I don’t want to – it’s all so horrible. Doesn’t it hurt?’

  ‘Yes – I must admit, there is some pain,’ Margaret said carefully, hands folded in her lap. Daisy peered at her, feeling that something was being hidden from her.

  ‘A lot? Does it hurt a lot?’ Her eyes filled with tears. ‘My mother . . . she died,’ she sobbed stormily. ‘It’ll be the same for me – I’m going to die, I know I am!’

  ‘Look, dear.’ Margaret’s grey eyes turned on her and even as she was getting carried away with her panic, Daisy knew she would be given truth. ‘Your mother was very unfortunate. The baby she was carrying was breech – coming out feet first, in other words, which is very difficult. But it’s not like that usually. Just think how many women give birth to children every day of the year! So you see, it’s a very normal thing. And by the time the baby is ready to come, you will be ready too, I promise.’

  Margaret made a point of not saying anything about what would happen then, after the birth. So far as Daisy was concerned, it was still unreal, even now. She just wanted rid of it, to have back the life she had known. The life in which she had shone, had not let everybody down – most especially not her mother, Florence Tallis.

  The fierce protective feelings she had felt after James Carson’s callousness had come and gone. But when she started to be aware of the child quickening in her and, as time passed, the movements became more vigorous, despite everything she began to be a little curious. But she had pushed such feelings away. She did not want a baby – least of all James Carson’s. It was a horrible mistake and the sooner it was over the better. She would be able to go back home and forget about all of it.

  By the time they left Birmingham, she was relieved to go, although at first she had been horrified by the idea and fought with Margaret over it. She had been very nervous of Margaret’s father. She had met him a few times already over the years and she knew him to be deeply religious; he could be very stern and she wondered why Margaret had thought this would be a good plan. But when she arrived, the Revd Hanson had taken her hand – his head, magnificent as a granite statue, bowing stiffly over it – and said, ‘You are welcome, my dear. I hope we shall be able to give you a comfortable stay.’

  Apart from day-to-day pleasantries, he had said not another word about why she was there and for that she was grateful. She had been able to go about the village sometimes as Margaret reacquainted herself with her neighbours, and to rest. To hide from the busy life of Chain Street. It was as if she was in a secret, safe cocoon, just waiting to burst out of it.

  As she grew heavier, the movements inside her more insistent, she found herself becoming slow and dull, not thinking of anything at all with any sharpness. Nature had brought her to the point, after these long months, when she was ready to deliver up a child. It had to be – it was something larger and more powerful than herself and she bowed to it, having no choice.

  As they were rounding off the hymn, William Hanson moved stiffly, magnificently, towards the pulpit as if bearing the burden of heavy responsibility. And Daisy felt an odd warmth begin to spread through the lower portion of her body. It was so strange and striking a feeling, as if something within her was actually melting, that she was seized with panic. Was this it – was she about to start having a baby in the middle of the service?

  She sat down hastily, amid the rustling of the congregation as everyone settled to hear the preacher’s words. The feeling remained, like a low hum in her. Something had changed, but for the moment, nothing else happened. She let out a long breath and closed her eyes. It will be soon. Help me, she prayed to whatever God might be available. Please help me.

  Christmas on the wards felt even more special than last year. The staff were determined to make an enormous effort to put on a cheery show for the lads, all of them away from home – some further than others. And some were so ill or in such a wounded state that they could not enjoy it. But the others who were recuperating had revelled in all the fuss that was made of them.

  The beds already had cheerful coloured counterpanes and they had hung streamers and greenery along the walls as high as they could manage and brought in a Christmas tree. The festivities had started off on Christmas Eve with a carol party in the Great Hall. Everyone who was able had gathered to sing and volunteer in taking turns to play the piano – staff and patients alike.

  Annie, like the other nurses, had been trained to keep her emotions strictly at bay on the wards. And she had never seen herself as sentimental. But as they all sang, she had looked at the faces of the lads round her, some in bed, some in wheelchairs and a few gathered round the piano. Many of them she had seen at their very worst – feverish, helpless, in terrible pain. Now they were more comfortable and enjoying all of it. But then came thoughts of those who had not recovered, of all the other wounded boys – and the other nurses – in France and across the world, all perhaps stopping to sing a hymn, to pray for peace in the world. She was so moved that by the end of ‘Once in Royal David’s City’ and ‘Silent Night’, she and some of the others could not prevent the tears running down their cheeks, though they did their best to hide it.

  She recovered herself to perform her tasks on the ward and was in the middle of a round of observations when Susannah, a well-rounded girl with an eye for the boys, sidled up and nudged her.

  ‘Look!’ she whispered. ‘Who’s this then? Ooh, he’s nice-looking, he is.’

  Annie could only agree. The doctor, in his RAMC uniform with the red cross sewn on his left arm, was tall and lean with a neatly clipped moustache and brown hair, and seemed to exude competence and cheerfulness.

  ‘Go on, Annie – Matron’s not here.’ Susannah looked around. ‘You’d better go and speak to him.’

  ‘Me? Why don’t you go?’ Annie hissed. But it seemed so silly to be seen there squabbling over who should do what, that Annie squared her shoulders and went to speak to him, amid the excited chatter of the ward.

  ‘Good evening, doctor,’ she said, very formally.

  The man turned with a smile, seemed on the point of saluting her and thought the better of it.

  ‘Yes! Afternoon, and merry Christmas – well, almost!’ he said. ‘The war is no respecter of the season, I’m afraid. I’m here to take a look at a couple of your patients. But apparently I’m also to be given the onerous responsibility of carving the fowl tomorrow – on this ward.’

  The man’s crisp Scots accent felt like a fresh breeze and Annie, seeing his twinkling expression, couldn’t hel
p smiling. Out of the corner of her eye she saw Matron entering the far end of the ward, a fact she indicated to him with her eyes. She was half sure she had seen him give her a wink as she did so. Matron soon made her way along to speak to the new doctor and Annie slid away.

  Twenty

  Annie and Susannah took over from the night staff and the day began, everyone wishing each other ‘Merry Christmas’ and some of the cheekier patients daring to ask for a kiss: ‘Oh, go on, nurse – it is Christmas!’ Annie wagged fingers playfully at them and did not give in.

  The ward was given presents funded by the Birmingham Daily Mail, all handed out by a well-padded Father Christmas. Everyone enjoyed him so much that the whole day soon began to run late and they had to dash along to hear the Administrator’s address in the chapel and then rush back to make sure that everything would be ready for Christmas dinner. Later there would be more presents and mince pies and more singing . . .

  When the orderlies wheeled the trolley on to the ward bearing the turkey and trimmings, a cheer went up from the hungry lads in the beds and echoed round the hall. Annie, while irritated at herself, could not help turning to see which of the medical staff was to carve the turkey and have dinner with them. Would it be that rather interesting new Scottish doctor as he had said it would? When they saw his tall figure following along behind the trolley, Susannah whispered, ‘Aha – look who’s here!’ Annie was even more annoyed to find a blush rising in her cheeks.

  There was a moment when he stood staring at the trolley, slightly at a loss, and when he looked up, he met Annie’s gaze, so that she felt bound to go over and help him out, feeling the eyes of everyone on the ward beginning to fasten on the two of them.

  ‘Good afternoon, doctor,’ she said. ‘Have you come to do the honours for us?’

  ‘Yes – they’ve certainly thrown me in at the deep end. I’m here to do my best with this –’ he waved a hand at the upturned and well-roasted turkey – ‘or worst, perhaps, from the fowl’s point of view!’