The Silversmith's Daughter

by Annie Murray

  ‘I never know whether to dread the post arriving these days,’ she exclaimed, perched on a chair as Miss Allen brought in the day’s letters. ‘At least I know Georgie’s safe while he’s still here training. I hope they keep training him right ’til the end of the war!’

  ‘I don’t think any bad news comes in letters anyway, does it?’ Margaret said, eyeing the clutch of post. ‘I thought they sent a telegram.’

  ‘Yes.’ Aunt Hatt’s plump face sank into woe. ‘Mrs Illingworth, along the road from us . . . A son and a nephew . . .’ She fanned her face with a sheet of card from the desk. ‘I just didn’t know what to say to her.’

  ‘This is for you, Daisy.’ Margaret held out the envelope, then looked at it more closely again, frowning. ‘That looks like Annie’s writing. How odd.’

  Daisy opened it immediately.

  ‘Den Poole in hospital here,’ Annie had scrawled, evidently in a great hurry. ‘Wants you to visit. Come as soon as possible, Daisy – he’s on the ward in the Great Hall at present. Love to all, Annie.’

  ‘Den Poole?’ Aunt Hatt’s brow wrinkled. ‘Oh, yes – of course! Mary Poole – how could I forget? Oh, he must be injured. But he’s got plenty of family of his own – why would he want to see you, Daisy?’

  ‘I don’t really know,’ Daisy said. She felt uneasy. She remembered the last time she saw Den, almost outside James Carson’s house, but could hardly recall anything about it. He had said he was leaving, but she had been so wrapped up in James Carson, she had barely given it a thought. And, she realized with a pang of guilt, she never had written to him as he asked her to.

  ‘You’d better go,’ Margaret said. ‘If Annie’s found the time to write to you it must be important. It’s Saturday tomorrow, you can go then.’

  She was humbled by the place. The buildings were enormous and grand, the corridors echoing with activity, orderlies and nurses hurrying about, telephones ringing. Suddenly she felt small and rather useless.

  ‘Are you lost, miss?’ A middle-aged man in a St John’s Ambulance uniform asked her. When she explained, he pointed: ‘Just keep going along here. It’s the biggest room – can’t miss it.’

  She paused in the doorway. It was like walking into a church, something she scarcely ever did in any case. A long room with a beautiful, arching ceiling and alcoves all along the sides, culminating in the bright, curved glory of a stained-glass window. Had the room been empty, she might have stood for a while and taken in the beauty of it.

  However, before her was a packed array of beds, four deep across the floor, a corridor up the middle, with a little table on which stood a fern in a pot, and a nurse’s desk to one side. She could feel the eyes of some of the men beginning to take her in and she started to feel self-conscious. Nurses bustled about, a small number of men were also on their feet and more and more heads began to turn. She heard a low, appreciative whistle which seemed to be coming in her direction across the room.

  ‘Daisy!’ Annie appeared, walking towards her at high speed. ‘I’m glad you came.’

  ‘Oh, hello.’ She smiled, relieved to see Annie. She was struck by the sight of her. Annie had always looked unusual – a vivacious, impish face and those big, dancing eyes. But Annie had always been so occupied with rushing about helping the poor and generally trying to be virtuous that there had also been a drabness about her. Now though, she looked changed. Her face, under the white veil, was glowing with life and she beamed at Daisy. She did not kiss her as usual, though – she was on duty.

  Daisy was about to ask why Den wanted to see her, but Annie was already talking.

  ‘Lizzie’s here at the moment – his sister. Remember her?’ Daisy did, though they did not really know each other. ‘I know she’s got to rush back and look after little Ann – the baby. As you have, of course.’

  Daisy wondered if she heard disapproval in Annie’s tone. She must think very badly of me, she thought, being so religious. Annie had always been like a missionary. But she had spoken matter-of-factly, her face giving nothing away. ‘Come along – you’d best come and say hello.’

  As they walked down one side of the ward, Daisy now began to take in the smells of the place on this warm day: whiffs of private, bodily things, something sickly, iodine and sweat and disinfectant. She began to feel queasy, not at anything she actually saw or smelt but at the thought of what might be underneath the bedclothes of that man, lying so still, his face wrapped in bandages, or another with a cage over his legs holding the sheet and blankets away from his legs. And Den – what state was Den in? She felt sweat prickle under her arms.

  ‘Annie,’ she said desperately. ‘Before I see Den – what’s happened to . . . ?’

  But it was too late. They stopped by a bed in the middle section of the ward and she saw Lizzie Poole’s slender figure perched on a chair beside it, leaning to rest her hands on the mattress as she talked. And in the bed, Den, catching sight of her so that Lizzie turned to look as well. Lizzie, Annie’s old workmate from the pen factory, was a pale, sweet-natured girl who now only looked a little older than the way Daisy remembered her.

  ‘Oh, Annie – it’s time I was going.’ She stood up and smiled, though Daisy could see the tension in her face. ‘Hello, Miss Daisy,’ she said shyly. ‘It’s very nice of yer to come and see our Den.’

  Daisy murmured that it was no trouble, but Lizzie was already saying to Annie, ‘’E don’t look too bad, Annie, though I hope he’ll be better soon. Least I know where ’e is, though, as ’e’s in ’ere.’

  ‘He’s going to be all right, Lizzie,’ Annie told her.

  Daisy felt Den’s eyes fixed on her, but it was not until Lizzie had said her goodbyes and she and Annie had walked away together, that Daisy dared look him in the face. She stood by the bed, not knowing what to say. His hair was army short, face unblemished except for one small dressing on his left cheek. But his chest and arms, all lying outside the bedclothes, were bandaged and he lay very still as if moving caused him pain.

  ‘’Ello, Dais,’ he said. His voice was quiet. Perhaps it hurt him to breathe. ‘Sit down, will yer?’

  She obeyed, trying to pull herself together. Heat rose in her body. The place was beginning to make her feel faint. She lowered her head for a moment.

  ‘You all right?’ Den asked.

  ‘Yes.’ She took a deep breath and looked up, feeling truly foolish. Here was Annie working all the time, and Den injured and she could barely cope with a visit. ‘How are you, Den? What . . . what happened?’

  ‘I, er . . .’ He looked vague for a moment. ‘I ’ave a job remembering exactly. Last thing was . . .’ He had to keep pausing to draw in a breath. ‘I was by the gun – I’m in the Machine Gun Corps, see . . .’

  ‘Where?’ Daisy said. She knew so little of France, of where anything was.

  ‘Some place called Serre. The Somme. Attached to the Terriers . . .’

  ‘Have you had an operation? Perhaps you shouldn’t talk if it hurts.’

  Den shook his head, then nodded faintly. His eyes seemed about to close, but he forced them open and gazed at her.

  ‘It’s all right. But there’s a bit they can’t get. Shrapnel. I was full of it. I got knocked for six.’

  ‘Oh,’ Daisy said. She did not know what to do or say. ‘Are you comfortable here?’ she asked.

  ‘Yeah.’ He swallowed, looked away a moment. ‘Mom died. After I left. Nurse Annie were there – it’s a comfort having her ’ere.’

  Oh, heaven, Daisy thought. I’d clean forgotten. She felt very badly. How could she have been so wrapped up in herself, so selfish? Only now she remembered fully why Lizzie was so burdened, what had happened. Lizzie’s own problems made hers look very pale in comparison. Not just losing her mother but having the baby to look after and her other sisters, and the house to take care of – all while trying to keep a wage coming in.

  ‘I’m ever so sorry, Den. Poor you – and your sisters.’

  He grimaced. ‘Yeah. I feel bad. I just went –
never even knew ’er was having the babby . . .’

  Tears ran down the sides of his cheeks suddenly and his face crumpled. But the sobs that wanted to rise in him hurt so much that she could see him struggling not to give rein to them.

  ‘Oh, Den!’ Moved, she gently took the hand nearest to her that was lying on the counterpane. It felt large and strong, and he grasped her hand with surprising force. She saw him fight to compose himself. He was brave, she thought. A brave man.

  ‘I wanted to see yer,’ he said. ‘Wanted to see your face looking at me.’

  Tears rose in her eyes. He seemed so young, a child that had lost its mother, while so old and battle-hardened already. The pages and pages of deaths from the Somme belied the cheerful headlines which had made it sound as if the battle was going well. More and more households had lost someone, felled on the Somme.

  ‘There’s a lad over there . . .’ Den nodded faintly. ‘Trained with us . . . Horace, his name is.’

  ‘Oh?’ she said. ‘How is he?’

  ‘Not so good,’ Den said. ‘Poorly, he is. But I can’t get out to see him – not yet. Would you go, after? Say hello from me?’

  Though appalled by the thought, she nodded. ‘Course, Den. Of course I will.’

  ‘How you been, Daisy?’

  He still had hold of her hand, and now it felt too intimate and she would have liked to pull away. He had tilted his head to look into her eyes. She wanted badly to lie, to say all was good, that she was working, making lovely things, winning prizes for her smithing – that she was the old Daisy Tallis who was going somewhere. Not the humbled, shamed person she felt. She lowered her eyes. The truth trembled behind her lips, but she could not tell him.

  ‘Dais – what’s up?’

  ‘Nothing!’ She raised her head, forcing a smile. ‘I’m all right. Everything’s perfectly all right – except for the war, of course, I mean.’

  Den was watching her. She saw his eyes begin to close once more, as if he was losing the battle to stay awake, but he forced them open again.

  ‘That’s good.’ He spoke faintly and she had to lean closer to hear him. She smelt the disinfectant from his bandages. ‘It’s nice. Things being good . . . being the same.’ He was fading into sleep. ‘You just stay the same, Daisy . . .’

  It wounded her, the sad way he said it. And even more, his belief that she was somehow pure and unchangeable. Her face burned, but he did not see it. She desperately did not want him to know of her shame and embarrassment. She felt terribly stirred up, as if she needed to weep and weep.

  ‘I’d better go,’ she said stiffly, feeling she might break down if he said anything else and pour out everything that had happened.

  ‘Come again?’ Den pleaded.

  Standing up, not meeting his eyes, she nodded. ‘I’ll try.’

  ‘And say hello to Horace from me, will yer?’

  ‘All right.’ Going and speaking to another wounded boy was the last thing she felt like, but she knew she must agree.

  Den seemed to be sinking into sleep again. But as she gathered herself to leave, getting to her feet, she heard him murmur something.

  ‘I can’t hear you, Den?’

  She leaned down. He did not open his eyes but must have sensed her shadow close to him.

  ‘I’ve always loved yer, Dais – you know that, don’t yer?’

  She straightened, quickly, in shock. She was not sure exactly what he meant – in love with her, or what exactly?

  His eyes opened then and met hers, with a look of such devotion that suddenly she felt the prickling of tears, because it was sweet, hearing someone say they loved you – and it was something she thought no one would ever say to her now.

  ‘Well – thanks, Den . . .’ She forced her lips to smile. ‘See you soon, eh?’

  But he reached out and seized her hand with startling force.

  ‘Love me back, Daisy? Say yer love me?’

  ‘I . . .’ She floundered. What could she say? Annie had said Den would be all right, but how could she be sure? How could she deny him?

  ‘Course, Den,’ she said lightly. ‘Of course I love you.’

  His face settled into a relaxed joy. ‘Come and see me again soon, won’t yer?’

  She wandered along the rows of beds in the direction he had indicated. Some of the lads lay prostrate, asleep. Others watched her curiously and one or two, daring to be cheeky, called out to her.

  ‘Eh!’ The voice had a foreign accent she could not recognize. ‘Come and sit with me, pretty lady!’

  She smiled faintly, but she was beginning to realize she had no idea how to identify this Horace person when Annie came back to rescue her.

  ‘Where’re you off to, Daisy?’

  ‘Oh . . .’ She turned gratefully. ‘Den sent me to send his good wishes to a Horace Sanders. Can you show me where he is?’

  Annie’s face became grave and she gave a tiny shake of her head. She drew on Daisy’s arm. ‘Come with me a minute, dear.’

  They stood to the side of the echoing corridor as orderlies and nurses passed back and forth.

  ‘I’m afraid Horace died last night,’ Annie told her. ‘His wounds were worse than they had thought.’

  ‘Oh,’ Daisy said. ‘Oh, God.’ She dissolved into tears, then tried to control herself. The war came up close, battering her with its realities. ‘Is Den going to die?’

  ‘It’s been touch and go,’ Annie told her. ‘When they operated they found he has a piece of metal lodged an inch from his heart. It’s too close to go in there and get it out. So we’re hoping . . .’ She shrugged.

  This was her every day, Daisy saw, with awe. Until now, everything going on across all those battlefields felt to her mysterious, far away. And suddenly here were these boys, these broken bodies. And when she walked away from Den, was that the last time she was to see him? Thank heaven she had said something kind to him, even if it was a lie.

  She forced down the urge to sob and sob, and wiped her eyes.

  ‘It was nice that you came, Daisy. ‘Annie smiled and touched her shoulder. ‘Pop in and see him again, eh?’

  Twenty-Six

  August 1916

  Sitting in the office in Chain Street on a hot, muggy afternoon, Margaret bent her head over the books, perspiring and struggling to concentrate.

  Edith Taylor came and laid a sheaf of orders in front of her.

  ‘Thank you, dear.’ Margaret glanced up at her.

  Edith was an attractive young woman with honey-blonde hair, and of a cheerful disposition. But Margaret could not help noticing how pale and strained she looked. Her fiancé, Arthur, was an artificer in the merchant navy and Margaret knew she had barely a moment when she was not worried to death about him. As if the wind and sea were not enough to fret about, now there were the German U-boats prowling the waters. Even Margaret found it almost too terrible to think about.

  She dragged her mind to the orders Edith had put before her, eyeing the top one. MIZPAH again. It really was proving popular, one of their bestselling lines now. Clara was wearing a brooch version, two interlocking silver hearts with the word MIZPAH across them in ornate writing and delicately entwined round with flowers. Georgie had given it to her when he went to begin his training and Margaret could see how much it meant to her.

  It was a good job the MIZPAH line of brooches and bracelets and lockets had been such a success, because the jewellery trade had shrunk back and so many of the staff had gone off into the forces. They had taken on a number of women to replace them where they could, three of them girls quite newly trained at Vittoria Street and wanting new positions. Thank heaven old Tom was still here to do drop stamping. The whole atmosphere of the place was shifting and they all had to adjust.

  As the months passed, factory after factory in Birmingham was going over to the war effort. ‘Total war,’ they were calling it. The city was like one great, throbbing machine of war production. There were the big munitions firms like the BSA in Small Heath, making Lewis guns
by the thousand, Kynoch’s in Witton who made explosives, where Lizzie Poole had now found work, and the Mills grenade factory at Aston. As well as these there were countless other smaller ones. And the jewellery trade was trying to do its share. This great concentration of precision skills was adapting to turning out small parts to help bigger firms meet the targets demanded by the hungry government war machine. Uncle Eb’s workshop next door, as well as still making jewellery, had taken on war work, producing huge numbers of brass tapes to go into bomb fuses.

  And now ‘Philip Tallis, Silversmiths’ was about to embark on war work of its own. A couple of weeks ago, Philip and the others had rearranged the workshop, moving the workbenches with their pegs closer together and further towards the back of the workshop to make room for a lathe at the front end. A select few of the workforce – all female – had been trained up to make small components for a factory in Oldbury, tooled up now to make the new armoured vehicle called a tank. They were told it was a thing with caterpillar tracks instead of wheels which enabled it to travel across the mud and other rough ground. Margaret knew that Philip loathed this new development. He scowled every time the thing was mentioned, but they all felt they must do something to support the war effort.

  She started to sort the orders, but her mind was on other things. Daisy was so quiet these days, so closed in on herself, that she did not know what was going through her mind. The girl looked exhausted. Of course, Daisy was having to face up to real life with a baby and no one was going to give her any prizes for that, Margaret thought drily. And naturally, a lot of attention was now focused on little Hester . . . Sure enough, even though she had been trying to think about whether Daisy was in fact all right and whether she should be worried about her, her musings were interrupted by the squeaking sounds of a small child waking up in the back room.

  ‘Oh – shall I go and get her?’ Edith’s face cleared and she looked quite happy for a moment. But already they were treated to a back view of Muriel Allen’s grey hair in a tightly pinned bun, disappearing through the door. Edith shrugged and made a half-comical face at Margaret, as if to say, Who would have thought?