Daisy's Betrayal

by Nancy Carson

  ‘I never heard such nonsense, Alex. Where did you hear of such a thing.’

  ‘Our son knew Sickert, Ruth, during his time in London. He told me about it.’

  ‘John knew Sickert?’

  ‘It’s not beyond the realms of possibility that he might, Ruth. Both artists. Let’s face it.’

  ‘All the same, it’s a preposterous story.’

  ‘Never substantiated, naturally. Nor ever likely to be … Which reminds me, Lawson … My son John …’ He turned to Daisy. ‘Do you like art, Daisy?’

  ‘Oh, I do. That picture in our sitting room … The one your son painted … I think it’s the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen. We went into the National Gallery in London when we were on honeymoon but I didn’t see anything I liked anywhere near as much.’

  Alexander smiled and nodded his understanding. ‘I agree. His work has an undoubted charm.’

  ‘I’m baffled as to why you’d want to part with such a beautiful painting, Alex,’ Daisy remarked. ‘Especially since it’s the work of your own son.’

  ‘A gift to a friend, my dear …’ He turned to Lawson. ‘As to John … Something I wanted to discuss with you, Lawson, old man … He is returning home. Due back next Saturday. Naturally, we don’t want all his mucky artists’ paraphernalia around us at Paganel House. Nor will he want to be with us in any case, I daresay. He’ll want his own space to live and work in, unimpeded by us. So I wondered if you have a property available that I could rent for him. Not that he needs much in the way of accommodation. A bed upstairs to sleep in, a decent sized room downstairs he can use as a studio.’

  ‘As a matter of fact I have the very thing. A good sized house with a conservatory on the back that benefits from facing north. The only vacant place I have, as a matter of fact.’

  ‘And it’s available?’

  ‘Yes, it’s available. I could have it readied by next weekend. I’ll be away – another trek to the Continent as you know – but Daisy would be happy to show him the property, wouldn’t you my dear?’

  Daisy shrugged. ‘If you say it’s all right, Lawson. Of course.’

  ‘I must say, Daisy,’ Alexander said leaning towards her as if to impart a great secret, ‘I have never condoned his becoming an artist. Far too bohemian an existence to be respectable. We’ve had many an argument. Many an argument … However, he is my son, I feel a responsibility towards him, and he does possess an undeniable talent.’

  ‘Would that he painted pictures that I found less risqué,’ Ruth remarked. ‘So many scantily-clad gels.’

  ‘Oh, I don’t find them in the least improper,’ Daisy declared. ‘Just the opposite, in fact. They give me an impression of such peace and tranquillity. I think they’re beautiful.’

  ‘Quite right, my dear,’ Alexander said. ‘Ruth is a little over-sensitive to such subject matter. She had a very strict religious upbringing, you understand. Nowadays, it manifests itself in unwarranted prudery – decrying young ladies who flaunt what attributes they have. She forgets that she was young once.’

  ‘I certainly do not, Alexander. But when I was a young woman modesty was considered a virtue.’

  Daisy decided it was time to change the subject. She rang for Caitlin and ordered coffee to be served in the sitting room, where Alexander lit a cigar and proceeded to fall asleep in an armchair, to the further embarrassment of his wife.

  Chapter 12

  The entrance to Windmill Street, Shaver’s End, Dudley was an astonishingly steep but thankfully short climb that caused Lawson’s horse to lose its footing in places after the gig turned into it from Salop Street. Beyond the troublesome hill it became a cart track of black dirt, with potholes and random, jutting stones to trip people up if they didn’t look where they were walking. A patch of waste ground lay to the right; the sooty, red-brick ends of five rows of terraced houses abutted the left side. Anyone reaching the crown of that little rogue hill would realise just how elevated this spot was.

  As the rig progressed, the street opened out into what looked like a communal yard, shared by eight more small houses in a cluster around a rusting water pump. Another assemblage of dilapidated outbuildings, belonging to a worked-out coal mine, stood on the opposite side. Past the two groups of sorry constructions, the track narrowed again, funnelling into a rain-riven path that skirted the slag heaps, dismal and depressing even in the sunshine. Lawson’s vacant property, formerly a mine manager’s dwelling that he had acquired cheap, stood alone on the right in front of the mine. Beyond the slag heaps the sweeping vista over Shropshire was just visible from the house, with the Wrekin and the Long Mynd breaking the far distant horizon like the backs of sleeping animals.

  Ragged children, snotty-nosed and dirty-faced, stood barefoot and watched in awe as the handsome couple drove slowly along in a shining black cabriolet drawn by a glistening black horse. When the gig drew to a halt the children tentatively edged nearer until Lawson Maddox shooed them away as if they were animals. He fumbled in his pocket for the key and opened the door. Daisy followed him inside and her footsteps on the cold flags echoed in the emptiness.

  So this was to be the home of John Mallory Gibson.

  ‘This place isn’t furnished,’ she commented with disappointment. ‘I imagined it would be furnished.’

  ‘He can provide his own furniture,’ Lawson replied indifferently. ‘Why should I have the expense of furnishing it? I imagine he’ll use the floor for a bed and eat off his lap in any case. Queer lot, artists. Used to living in squalor. And, as I recall, John Gibson is particularly queer.’

  Daisy felt an illogical pang of sympathy for the poor artist, however peculiar he was, travelling all the way from London and ending up alone in a cold, rambling, empty house. ‘It’s not the prettiest of spots here, either,’ she said. ‘Especially for an artist. I mean, look at that slag heap and that derelict monstrosity looming over that coal shaft. I doubt whether he’ll get much inspiration from that.’

  ‘It’s not my problem, Daisy. Alex asked for a property to use as a studio. Well, that’s what I’m providing. Certainly, I’ll get Jimmy Costello to give it a lick of paint here and there and sweep it out, but that’s it.’

  Upstairs, their footsteps resonated on the floorboards in the hollow silence. Daisy peered through a side window at the immediate landscape, tragic and desolate. As well as the slag heaps she could see the chimney stacks of the London Fields Fender and Fire Iron Works, pushing out columns of grey, swirling smoke. The view from a rear window showed an expanse of waste ground with its stunted tufts of green grass struggling to thrive but still looking bright against the grey spoil of the old coal mine. She was filled with apprehension for poor John Gibson, and hoped he would turn out to be resilient enough to withstand it.

  ‘If I give you the key now,’ Lawson said, ‘I won’t have to remember to do it later. I mean, God forbid that you wouldn’t be able to let the poor bugger in.’

  As she took it Daisy said, ‘While you’re away, do you want me to collect any rents for you? Now I’ve got Blossom and the gig it’s a pity not to let them earn their keep.’ Since there was little for her to do now that she had a maid and a cook, the thought of idleness while Lawson was away filled Daisy with dread.

  He smiled. ‘Good idea. Yes, I’ll make a list of where to collect from, and how much. That should keep you occupied.’

  Outside her home in Albert Street, little Flossie Kettle sat alone on the step that led into the entry and wistfully picked moss from the criss-cross pattern moulded into the pavement bricks. The sky was overcast, causing the extended daylight of that June evening to fade early. She had been playing hopscotch with her friends in a rough grid they’d chalked out on the ground but, one by one, the other children, mostly younger than her, had been called in for bedtime or had drifted away in the relentless search for mental stimulation. Flossie had no wish to go inside yet and be bawled at for no good reason by her mother, for Molly would be well down a bottle of gin by this time. Why did her mo
ther have to drink so much? It made her so clumsy and bad-tempered.

  A black and white cat stole down the entry and slipped, unseen and unheard, down the step beside Flossie onto the pavement. When it brushed its sleek body against her bare shins, she gave a startled cry and jumped up, and the cat darted back into the entry. Sorry that she had scared the animal, she peered after it and saw its green eyes gazing forlornly back at her. It was a friendly, inquisitive little thing. Flossie approached it with soft, friendly noises and put out her hand as if offering it a morsel. Uncertain what to do next, the cat arched its back slightly, torn between distrust and a desire to reciprocate the attention. Flossie reached out cautiously and managed to stroke its silky coat with the side of her forefinger, whereupon the cat, at once won over, rubbed its head against her hand, closed its eyes and began to purr.

  ‘Am yer ’ungry?’ Flossie cooed, gently rubbing the animal’s neck. ‘I wish I could find you a drop o’ milk or summat. D’you want some milk?’ But she knew there was no milk in the house and, in any case, she was not going back in there yet.

  She picked up the warm bundle and as she walked through the entry with it to the backyard, she pressed it to her bosom, then bent her head to rub her cheek against the soft fur. The cat continued to purr, content with its new-found friend.

  Flossie heard footfalls in the entry and turned around to see a well-dressed young woman emerging. She wore a white summer dress, the skirt of which was narrow and tight at the waist, and a short jacket. Wisps of fair hair escaped from under a fine hat that was adorned with flowers. She looked elegant, and vaguely familiar.

  ‘It’s Flossie, isn’t it?’ the woman said with a friendly smile. ‘My, you’re quite the young lady now, and that’s the truth.’

  Flossie blushed at the compliment, smiled politely, and lowered her long lashes to hide her self-conscious eyes. She hoped that she would grow into womanhood as well dressed as this young woman, and appear so pampered.

  ‘Is this your cat, Flossie?’

  ‘I just found it,’ Flossie responded. ‘I think it wants some milk but we ain’t got none at our house.’

  ‘Well, what a shame. But cats are well known for being able to look after themselves, you know. So I shouldn’t worry. Is your mother in?’

  ‘Yes, I’ll take you to her.’ Still holding the cat, Flossie opened the back door and preceded the young woman into the house.

  Molly Kettle was slouching in a dilapidated chair in front of a dying fire, lost in a haze of nostalgic recollections of her youth. From the chair’s upholstered arms coarse tufts of horsehair sprouted riotously. A glass was in her hand and a half-consumed bottle stood on the hearth near her feet. She looked up at Flossie with eyes that glinted resentment at being disturbed.

  ‘Tek that soddin’ cat out,’ she yelled at her daughter. ‘Yo’ know as I caw’t abide cats.’

  ‘There’s somebody to see you, Mom,’ Flossie protested, and escaped outside with the cat.

  ‘Mrs Kettle …’ the young woman began.

  Molly squinted in the half-light to focus on whoever it was that had the lack of consideration to call at this time of a Wednesday night when she was trying to reach gin-soaked oblivion. ‘Why, it’s Miss Underhill.’

  ‘I hope I haven’t called at an inconvenient time, Mrs Kettle.’

  ‘No, sit yer down and mek yerself at ’um. I’ll light a candle so’s I can see yer better. I was just having a tot o’ gin. It helps me sleep, yer know. Would yer like a drop?’ she asked grudgingly.

  ‘No, no, thank you Mrs Kettle. I seldom drink.’ Miss Underhill sat down on a rickety wooden chair at the side of the equally rickety table.

  Molly stood up, then leaned over the fire to light a candle she’d taken off the mantelpiece. She sat down again and stood it on the table in a holder. ‘Struth, has it bin twelve month since last time yo’ was here?’

  ‘Thereabouts.’

  ‘Doh the time fly? I s’pose it’s our Flossie again?’

  ‘Having just seen her after a year I’d say she was ready, wouldn’t you? There are some golden opportunities for girls like Flossie. The well-to-do, especially in London, are still clamouring for good, hard-working girls for domestic service. And in London the rates are so much better. I’m certain I can place her in a very comfortable position where she will be well looked after.’

  Molly sighed. ‘I still bain’t so sure as I want her to go. Her’s still on’y just fourteen.’

  ‘The ideal age. The best houses like to train their domestic staff from an early age, you know. Flossie is such a pretty girl as well. With a bit of grooming she’ll be very presentable. She could end up working in the home of some duke or earl.’

  ‘D’ya really think so?’

  ‘I really do.’

  ‘So how much am yer offering for her?’ Molly asked and took another slurp of gin.

  ‘She’s worth three pounds, I should fancy, Mrs Kettle. A handsome sum.’

  ‘Three pounds? No, you’m pullin’ me leg. You’m not getting her for three pounds, Miss Underhill. Double it, and I’ll begin to talk.’

  ‘Six pounds?’ Miss Underhill shook her head. ‘Too much. I have to take into account my expenses, Mrs Kettle. I have to provide her board and lodgings till we find her somewhere to work. No, six pounds is far too much.’

  Molly looked ruefully at the dwindling gin in the bottle at her feet. It was her last and she had no money to buy any more till another cleaning job came along, for nobody would let her have anything else on tick. To make matters worse, Flossie was growing up and requiring clothes that fit, shoes that fit and even stockings, when there was no surplus money for anything. And even if Flossie went into service locally, whatever money she earned would be her own. She, Molly, would see precious little of it. Neither would she see Flossie for that matter. So she might just as well make some money out of her daughter’s going.

  ‘Five then – guineas.’

  The younger woman tightened her lips to signify that five guineas was still a hard bargain.

  ‘She is pretty,’ Molly urged. ‘Yer said so yerself. And a fine temperament. Yo’ll find her a place easy enough.’

  ‘All right then. Five guineas it is. But I must take her now.’

  ‘Tonight?’

  ‘Yes, tonight. As soon as she’s ready. I’ll wait.’

  Molly lurched slightly as she got up from her chair. She teetered towards the door, opened it and called Flossie.

  ‘Come inside and get you ready, our Flossie. You’m a-goin’ with Miss Underhill. Her’s gunna find yer a position in service down in London at the big house of some fancy duke or other. It’ll mek a lady of yer and no mistek.’

  Flossie put the cat down outside and entered the house, all of a sudden excited and yet uncertain at what this meant. ‘Do I have to go tonight?’ she asked, as if it was no more than a minor inconvenience. ‘Can’t I go in the mornin’?’

  ‘Miss Underhill wants you tonight. Go and fetch yer clean clothes from upstairs and put ’em in a bag. And don’t forget yer brush for yer hair.’ She turned to Miss Underhill. ‘Will her need any soap?’

  ‘We have soap, Mrs Kettle. All she needs is clean underwear and something to travel in.’

  Flossie went upstairs. As she collected her meagre belongings together, she pondered what this new life, which was being thrust upon her out of the blue, would offer. More than what life now offered, surely. She was about to leave school. She was expected to go in service anyway. London would be perfect. As far away from her drunken mother as she could get. Within two minutes she came downstairs carrying her clothes in a bundle. Molly stashed them carefully into a brown paper bag and handed them back to her.

  ‘There y’am, my flower. All ready to go then. Be a good wench and do as you’m bid for Miss Underhill, our Flossie. And write to me as soon as you get to London.’

  ‘I will.’

  ‘Thank you, Mrs Kettle,’ the young woman said. She took out her purse and handed Molly five go
ld sovereigns and five shillings. ‘I’ll see as she comes to no harm.’

  Flossie smiled to herself. The prospect of this new, unanticipated adventure was growing in appeal. She would meet other girls, learn how the rich and wealthy lived. Maybe some of their wealth and good fortune might trickle down to her. She might even meet a nice lad – a groom or something – and marry well … And there would be no more being shouted at by her inebriated mother.

  Flossie stepped outside with her bag. The cat was sitting at the top of the entry waiting for her. When it saw her, it glided towards her, its tail up, and looked at her appealingly. Flossie stooped down and stroked it once more. ‘Can I tek the cat wi’ me, Miss?’

  ‘No cats, I’m afraid, Flossie.’ Miss Underhill said.

  ‘It’s not usual to see somebody in your position cleaning, ma’am,’ Caitlin observed, standing on a wooden box as she reached up to clean the tall windows of the house in Windmill Street, in readiness for John Mallory Gibson’s arrival. ‘You should let me do that.’

  Daisy was on her hands and knees scrubbing the floor and, although Caitlin felt some resentment towards her, simply for being Lawson’s wife, she was inclined to admire her spirit.

  ‘Oh, I’m not above a spot of cleaning, Caitlin,’ Daisy replied, wringing out a floor cloth. ‘But Mr Maddox seemed content to rent this house in what I think is an unacceptable condition. It’s no hardship to me to do something about it on his behalf.’

  When she had mopped the floor to her satisfaction she went over to the maid who had just finished work on one casement. ‘I could easily make some curtains for these windows, you know, Caitlin.’

  Caitlin stood, contemplating the next room’s windows, unwittingly fingering a silver cross on a thin chain around her long, girlish neck.

  ‘Tomorrow, we’ll come back with a tape measure. When we’ve measured up I’ll go to the market and buy some material … Is that a new cross and chain you’re wearing, Caitlin? I’ve not seen it before.’

  ‘Oh, er … yes, ma’am.’ Daisy noticed how she coloured up. ‘I decided it was time I wore it. I hope you don’t mind, ma’am. It was given to me a while ago.’