by Annie Murray
‘Yes,’ Daisy said faintly.
She lay back, limp and empty. It was over.
Twenty-One
Pain woke her. Her breasts were tight, with that terrible, bursting tingle. When she slept she dreamt that something was sucking on her, both easing and hurting her, and when she woke, again and again she had to discover that there was nothing there. She hurt down below, feeling as if she had been bludgeoned in the privates. Her body sweated at odd times and in odd places.
She had been prepared with all her being for something and was now abandoned, unable to fulfil it. The ache inside her exhausted her, bewildered her. She had not known, had no idea – about any of it. And that weight she had felt lying on her arm, that face, that tiny face . . .
‘I’m going to have to go back.’ She heard her father’s voice, very low outside the bedroom. He sounded distraught. ‘I can’t leave the business any longer. Bring her back when you think she’s ready.’
‘All right.’ Margaret sounded distressed. ‘I suppose that’s how it is. I can’t . . .’ She trailed off, perhaps finishing the sentence with a gesture. ‘It feels . . . It’s wrong. That’s how it all feels now. And it does to her, I think, only she won’t say so.’
There was a silence. Daisy felt that sensation again, the feeling that kept haunting her dreams, of something warm and heavy lying on her arm, of something gnawing at her nipples.
‘It was what she wanted,’ she heard Pa say. ‘It’s done now. What can we do? She’s young. She’ll get over it soon enough.’
‘Spoken like a man.’ Margaret’s voice was harsh.
Even in her odd state, Daisy was shocked. A little face appeared in her mind, the mouth pursed, searching. The face she had glimpsed just for a few seconds.
‘I didn’t mean . . .’ Her father sounded distraught.
‘Look – you go. I’ll deal with her,’ Margaret said. Her voice was weary.
When Pa came in to say goodbye, Daisy pretended to be soundly asleep. He stood by the bed for what seemed a long time, then came close, leaned over and kissed her. She could feel that he was about to creep away and she made herself open her eyes.
‘Hello, Pa.’ She pretended to wake.
She saw the look of panic on his face for a moment, but he stood, attempting a gentle smile. For a moment he looked like a boy, lost and unsure.
‘Are you going back?’ she said.
‘Reckon I’ll have to, yes.’ He rubbed one hand down the opposite arm, as if it was aching, though perhaps it was just something to do. ‘You’ll be home soon?’
She nodded, her eyes filling as they seemed to do endlessly, as if her whole body was weeping. And she saw that he could see and that he could not bear it.
‘It’ll be good to have you all back,’ he said. He patted her shoulder. ‘Best get going.’
And he was gone. She lay, weak and bereft, weeping.
‘Daisy?’
It was Margaret’s voice, soon after. Daisy opened her eyes.
‘How are you, dear?’
She hauled herself up, everything hurting, her breasts hard. She could not speak, but her face must have said something so clear that Margaret looked away as if she could not stand to see it.
‘What did you tell John and Lily?’ Daisy said.
‘That you had the baby and that this baby was going to be looked after by someone else. I told them that sometimes it’s like that.’
‘Did they . . . accept that?’ For some reason this seemed burningly important, as if her half-siblings’ judgement might be purer and more instinctive than that of the adults.
‘John did.’ Margaret looked down at her hand, which was resting on the blanket.
‘What about Lily?’ Earnest, sweet Lily.
‘She’s finding it harder to understand.’ Margaret looked up at her then, her face full of sadness and uncertainty.
Their eyes met and they sat like that for a few moments, neither wanting to speak, but as if searching each other’s gaze for something. Daisy saw her stepmother’s expression change, her eyes take on a fearful questioning look. And in the silence, her heart beating with need, her eyes blurring with tears, Daisy nodded.
Margaret went by herself. She knew the family. The eldest daughter, who had one child of a few months old, had agreed to take another, for a sum of money.
‘You don’t need to give the money back,’ Margaret told her. ‘But she just can’t do it.’
It was unbearable, the way Daisy had just been lying there, as if half dead.
‘I never knew ’ow she could do it in the first place,’ the young woman said, in her cottage kitchen. She insisted she was not a money-grabbing person, that she would give most of it back, but Margaret insisted she keep it for her kindness and trouble.
Within an hour, Daisy heard the door and she leapt up in the bed, her blood coursing so hard that she could hear it in her ears. It was as if her whole body was coming back to life and turning towards its purpose. Nothing was the same as before. Since that night when she had been torn open by that little body, she had not been the old Daisy Tallis. She had become someone new. Someone who was bound, body and soul, to another being.
Feet came up the stairs and the door opened. Margaret stood with the swathed child in her arms, her own face open and tender and smiling as if released.
‘Here she is,’ she said.
And Daisy held out her arms, knowing that now everything was truly changed for ever.
II
1916
Twenty-Two
January 1916
‘Let’s go and see some of the town,’ the note from Fergus said. ‘I’ve scarcely ever had time to see the place at all. Bull Ring? I think this is something you should show me!’
It had been difficult enough trying to find a time when both he and Annie could be sure of a few hours off, and everything had to be organized by a series of notes. At first, even though she was pleased he had asked, she felt so nervous and inexperienced that she almost wanted to back out of seeing him. But he had said he might not be at this hospital for long and – well, it might be enjoyable, she told herself. And she knew, really, that she was not going to refuse.
It was nearly the middle of January by the time Annie found herself scrambling on to the tram to get into Birmingham. By that time she had hardly seen Fergus Reid again, except once in the far distance, a distinctive, tall figure, hurrying across the grounds to the hospital.
‘Why on earth did I say I’d go?’ she complained to Susannah in the nurses’ quarters, searching her scant possessions for something even halfway respectable to wear. Annie had never done fripperies and most of her life was in any case spent in uniform.
‘Because you were asked – by one of the most handsome men in the whole hospital?’
‘Handsome is as handsome does,’ Annie said. She sat brushing her hair, looking at Susannah in the glass.
Susannah rolled her eyes. ‘I’ll go for you if you’ve got cold feet?’
‘Perhaps you should,’ Annie said desperately. But it came to her then, with a shock, how disappointing it would be not to meet Fergus Reid tonight. ‘All this sort of vainglory is not me in the least. I look such a mess and it’s even worse when I make an effort. I wish I was like my sister Margaret – she always looks beautiful without even trying!’
‘Annie,’ Susannah said, serious now, sympathetic. She took Annie by the shoulders and turned her towards the mirror again. ‘Just give me that brush.’ Brushing and twisting and pinning, she arranged Annie’s hair into a soft coil at the back of her neck, lecturing all the while. ‘You have no idea just how astonishing your looks are, you silly. I mean, it’s as if you’ve never once even seen a mirror. Look at you!’
She put her head next to Annie’s. Annie, looking reluctantly, saw a figure with rather romantically arranged hair, a heart-shaped face with impishly prominent cheekbones, and large hazel-green eyes.
‘You’re so busy trying to save the whole world that you never pay yourself an ounce of atte
ntion,’ Susannah scolded. ‘Why do you think the most astonishingly interesting man in the whole hospital headed straight for you, when he could have –’ she made a comical scything movement – ‘he could have mowed down most of the female population in one stroke!’
‘Including Matron – did you see her face when he turned up on Christmas Eve?’ Annie was laughing now, trying to push away her feelings of panic. Men – she just did not tangle with men! They were all out to control and manipulate you in the end.
‘Oh, definitely including Matron!’ Susannah giggled. ‘Now go on – enjoy yourself for once. And tell me all about it when you get back.’
And now that she was on her way, wearing Susannah’s black hat with a wider brim than Annie had ever worn in her life before, she felt like a complete imposter. Annie, normally bullishly brave, was full of foreboding. She sat on the tram, perspiring in her wool coat – for the weather, after days of being wet and very blowy, was now unseasonably mild. Her hands and feet were clammy with nerves. She pulled off her worn leather gloves and sat clutching them.
When had she ever been interested in men? she ranted inwardly, peering out at the dark streets. Never – most of them were dolts, or worse! And she was never going to get married. So what was she doing here? She allowed the image of Dr Fergus Reid RAMC into her mind and was hit again, inwardly, by that magnetic, baffling feeling that she had to see him.
Once, she thought. Just this once – and never again.
She had scarcely stepped down from the tram in Navigation Street than she saw his unmistakably tall, uniformed figure waiting in the light of a lamp. As soon as he spotted her he strode over and halted smartly, giving a little bow with a slight raise of his cap.
‘Good evening, Nurse Hanson.’
‘Oh!’ She felt startled and unready. She had forgotten the impact of him, his height, the crisp accent. ‘Good evening! My goodness, you’re very . . . punctual.’ Annie realized she had made this sound like a criticism, when in fact she would have been most unimpressed had he not been on time, but it was too late now so she hurried on, ‘And yes – it is quite a good evening. Not raining for once.’
‘Quite. Those gales brought down rather a lot of trees, I believe.’
They stood facing each other in the gloomy street, Annie still clutching her gloves, feeling foolish and nervous as a kitten. If Fergus Reid was nervous too, he was showing it a good deal less than she felt she was. Oh, heaven, she groaned inwardly, what am I doing here? A cup of cocoa and her bed suddenly felt incredibly attractive.
‘Now,’ he said, looking round. ‘I think it might be a little dark for a tour, even of something as intriguing as a Bull Ring.’
‘It’s really just a market,’ Annie said. ‘And it’s lively in the daytime, but nothing much will be going on at this time of night, I don’t think.’
‘Well, in that case, let’s go and find a cosy spot somewhere, shall we? Would you prefer the Midland – or the Queen’s Hotel, perhaps? I’m sure I can secure a good drop of malt in one or the other.’
‘Oh – no!’ Annie said, realizing this meeting had been a terrible mistake. This was a whole realm of things she had not even thought about! ‘I’m afraid I’m only prepared to go into a Temperance establishment. I don’t hold with drinking.’
‘Ah,’ Fergus Reid said, nonplussed for a moment in the face of this adamant resistance. He clasped his hands behind his back and she was not sure, in the dark street, whether she imagined the twitch of amusement in his expression. He seemed to be examining her as if she were one of his more perplexing medical cases. ‘Well, I’m afraid you’ll have to help me out there. New to the city and so on – and not my area of expertise.’
Annie realized, with burning cheeks and a sinking heart, that it was not hers either. In all the years she had lived in Birmingham, she had never once been out on the town like this.
‘Well, in fact,’ she admitted stiffly, ‘I’m afraid I don’t know where we might go.’ She felt very foolish and apologetic. And she realized suddenly how much she did not want Fergus Reid to despise her, or call the evening off.
‘Look,’ she said, fighting all the prejudice of her upbringing. After all, did even stepping into one of those places necessarily make you the most flagrant sinner ever? It was not as if she was unable to resist the blandishments of temptation. ‘I daresay if we went into one of the hotels you mention, they might find me something other than alcohol?’
‘Yes,’ he agreed solemnly. ‘I imagine they might.’
As she followed Fergus Reid into the warm, fuggy atmosphere of the bar at the Queen’s Hotel, the ruinous stenches of sin seemed to burn their way into her nostrils: the air was thick with smoke from pipes and cigarettes and, snarled into it, the filthy whiffs of beer and spirits from all those bottles of evil, intoxicating liquors . . . Most of the tables were crowded with a mix of khaki uniforms and civilian greys and most were men, though there were a very few women among the throng. She looked at Fergus’s long, khaki-clad back walking ahead of her and compared herself to Daniel walking into the den of lions.
And then she felt rather silly. Nothing much was going on. It was true that alcohol had been the ruination of many a family, but here everyone seemed to be sitting having amiable conversations. There were bursts of laughter which teetered on the edge of losing control and this made her uneasy, but it was not as if the place was full of brawls and people lying barely conscious on the floor with bloodied faces. She raised her chin as if bracing herself.
‘Shall we sit here?’ Fergus turned, having found a small table tucked away from the noisiest drinkers.
He brought over a tumbler of whisky and for her, a blackcurrant cordial. They settled at the table, chat and laughter all around them, Fergus sitting opposite her, their coats hung on the stand close by, his hat on the spare chair beside him. The lighting was soft and Fergus’s face was slightly in shadow, his well-clipped hair a dark line round his brow.
‘Cheers!’ he said, twinkling at her as he raised his glass.
Annie smiled, doing the same, though feeling that he was mocking her. ‘Cheers,’ she said, gamely clinking glasses. The drink was horribly sour when she took a sip and she tried not to grimace.
‘So – a Temperance upbringing,’ he said, sitting back. ‘There’s quite a bit of that in Scotland – on the east side especially, where I come from. Very strict.’ Again, he was smiling.
‘My father is a Congregationalist minister,’ Annie said. ‘He became more rigid after our mother died. Sadder, too.’ She realized, uncomfortably, how sadness and self-denial had joined hands in their family. She had never seen it quite that way before.
‘And how old were you?’ he said gently.
‘Eleven.’
‘How very sad,’ he said with genuine sympathy, which for some reason put her more at ease.
‘Well,’ Annie said, ‘we managed. My sister Margaret and I.’
He acknowledged this with a small tilt of his head. ‘Look,’ he said mischievously, ‘you might as well know the worst – I smoke as well. Can you bear it?’
It was her turn to tilt her head. She held his gaze. ‘Well, let’s see, shall we? Try me.’
He drew a silver cigarette case from his pocket and lit up, blowing the smoke away from her. ‘I find it helps me concentrate.’
‘And the drink?’
‘Oh – well, that’s just . . .’ He looked at her with a serious air. ‘I suppose I don’t believe there are many things which are inherently bad. Bombs, perhaps – those have destruction as their very purpose. Guns, even. But most things – it’s the purpose to which we put them. This –’ he held up his glass with its finger of golden liquor – ‘comes from a long and honourable tradition. Did you know it was originally called “water of life”?’
‘No. That sounds blasphemous to me.’ But she managed a smile.
Fergus Reid sat back, crossing one leg over the other in a way which made Annie, just for a second, imagine his skeleton, the lon
g tibias and femurs. ‘Well,’ he said, twinkling at her, ‘you are at least in agreement with my dog, who turns his nose up mightily if I offer him a sniff of my glass.’
‘You have a dog?’
‘Yes – old Seamus. An Irish wolfhound – had him for years now. He’s a good old chap.’
This was somehow endearing. Annie liked animals.
‘Anyway,’ Fergus went on, ‘I solemnly promise not to turn into a drunken wastrel in the next hour or so. All right? Now, Miss Hanson – do tell me about yourself. Is that a slight touch of the West Country I hear in your voice?’
She told him, briefly, about her family, about the loss of their infant brother John, about their coming to Birmingham – though she slid over the details of why.
‘Margaret and I came to stay with our uncle and aunt and never left,’ she explained. She found herself telling him about the Pooles, about how she gradually realized she wanted to be a nurse.
‘So – I trained at Muddley Road, as we call it. Dudley Road Hospital to most people. And I volunteered to change over to the First Southern General as soon as the war began. That’s about it. Please – tell me about yourself.’
She listened in amazement as Fergus Reid told her, quickly, quietly, with no bombast, about his life. He seemed fond of his parents and sister Isobel, had grown up in Fife, in Auchtermuchty. He had trained in Edinburgh, and was employed at the Edinburgh Asylum before working his way to Australia as a ship’s surgeon. After that he studied in Frankfurt and was then taken on by the National Hospital for Nervous Diseases in London. As he talked, modestly but with a keen interest in the subject he loved, Annie, herself now nearly twenty-nine, saw that he must be close on ten years older than herself. He had a long, serious face, but which flared into animated life while he was talking. By the time he had finished she was deeply impressed. More than impressed.
‘Another?’ he asked, getting up. The thought of more of the blackcurrant was not especially inviting, but she nodded.
‘I was well settled in London,’ he said, once seated back at the table again. ‘Thought I’d be there for life, more or less. And then the war came along.’ He leaned an elbow on the table and gave a smile which somehow reached into her. There was a vividness to the man, an intensity. ‘I wonder how many conversations over the years will contain that statement. “And then the war came along . . .”’