Candles in the Storm

by Rita Bradshaw

  She caught him by the hand, her head high, and together they set off for Mowbray Park.

  Chapter Twenty-five

  ‘So she’s come out into the open and has got the child with her now, has she? Well, well.’

  ‘It might not be hers, Mr Kirby.’

  ‘Don’t tell me you’ve been taken in by that cock and bull story about it being her brother’s bairn? The servants who worked with her at Evenley House weren’t, and they should know. I’d say with the grandmother gone who ran the house for her she’s decided to set up somewhere else and taken her flyblow with her.’

  ‘She’s not running a - well, one of them places, Mr Kirby. I told you.’

  Josiah shook his head at Ellen Mullen. ‘Girl, you’re too trusting by half. Her type don’t soil their hands, they get others to do it for them. She had the grandmother as the madam in the other place. Likely she’s got the same set-up with someone else in Hendon and the post office is just a cover.’

  Ellen Mullen’s teeth dragged at her lower lip for a moment. Why hadn’t she kept her big mouth shut about seeing the fishergirl yesterday? she asked herself miserably. It was only because she had saved her last two half-days so she could visit her sister in Hendon who had just had her first baby that she’d seen the Appleby lass in the first place. She’d been right surprised to notice her walk out of the post office just as she and Delia had passed, and perhaps because she’d been pushing little Millicent in her perambulator, the fishergirl hadn’t spotted her. Then once she’d let on to Delia that it was the lass she’d told her so much about in the past, nothing would content her sister but that they should go in the post office and find out what the girl had been doing so far from Whitburn. Delia was like that, nosy as they come. And it being her local post office and the postmaster knowing her, she had soon found out the lass was the postmaster’s new office girl starting Monday, and that her and the little lad had lodgings in Hendon.

  Ellen now glanced across the huge kitchen table where the servants were sitting at breakfast. As Donald caught her eye he shook his head ever so slightly. She knew what that meant - don’t argue with Mr Kirby. Ellen’s lips pressed together. Next step down from God Himself was Mr Kirby, or that’s the impression he liked to create anyway.

  ‘She’s a wrong ’un, Mr Kirby, that much is for sure.’ Cook was determined to put her two pennyworth in. She hadn’t forgotten how the fishergirl had talked to her, and in her own kitchen! ‘Looks like butter wouldn’t melt in her mouth but she’s got a tongue on her like Sheffield steel. Hard as nails, that one.’

  Josiah nodded slowly. ‘You’re right, Mrs Preston.’ ‘Worst thing the master’s sister ever did, taking that one on,’ said Mrs Preston, warming to her theme.

  ‘Well, Mr William wouldn’t be here now if it wasn’t for the fishergirl.’

  As though connected by a single wire, all eyes turned to Ellen.

  ‘Well, he wouldn’t,’ she said again, noticing that Donald had shut his eyes for an infinitesimal moment and wishing she was near enough to kick him.

  ‘That is neither here nor there.’ Josiah’s voice was cold. ‘Although personally I feel the incident in question was grossly exaggerated.’

  ‘I disagree.’ Stuart Middleton the butler didn’t care about the fishergirl one way or the other but he couldn’t miss this opportunity to bring Josiah down a peg or two. ‘I was present when the doctor examined Mr William and he was in no doubt the girl had saved his life at, I might add, the risk of her own. It might stick in your craw, Josiah, but those are the facts. What do you say, Miss Finlay?’

  The housekeeper seated opposite the butler at the prestigious end of the table inclined her head in agreement as everyone knew she would. Stuart Middleton had been visiting her room in the middle of the night for years although they were under the illusion they were the only ones who knew of the arrangement.

  ‘You could have twenty doctors swearing on oath but I know what I know.’ Josiah glared at his old enemy before rising abruptly to his feet. ‘Have you got the master’s breakfast tray ready, Cook?’

  ‘Nancy?’ Mrs Preston turned and spoke to the youngest kitchen maid who had been scurrying about like a mouse while the others ate, having been forced to bolt her own meal as she did every morning. ‘Let’s look at it.’

  ‘I’ve done it right, Cook.’ It was said anxiously and there was a tense moment as the cook surveyed the silver tray and its contents.

  ‘It’ll do.’

  It was the highest praise Nancy was likely to hear but she beamed as though she had been awarded the most gracious accolade.

  Once Josiah was in the hall his thoughts returned to the matter of the fishergirl. He had seen the way Mr William’s eyes had followed her on the day of the funeral when the chit had left with her fisherman friend and the former maid, and the look on his face when he had returned to his father. Of course the master’s son was in France and out of harm’s way at the moment, but it stood to reason he would be visiting his father now and again. There must be no searching her out. Young men could be foolish where women were concerned, he’d had proof of that himself. He hadn’t wanted to believe the signs that his own sweetheart was carrying on, but when May had run off with someone else on the eve of their wedding he’d been forced to. Josiah made a sound of irritation deep in his throat. Why on earth was he thinking of May now? Possibly because the fishergirl reminded him of her, a separate part of his brain answered. They had the same indefinable power to attract, something more than mere beauty. Something dangerous. He had sensed there was something between the young master and the fishergirl from the first moment he had set eyes on her. And that being the case . . .

  The valet had reached the master suite now, but paused for a moment outside Sir Augustus’s rooms. There was bound to be an opportunity to let the young master know the fishergirl had a child the next time he saw him but if not he would make one, Josiah decided. Of course it wouldn’t do to intimate the girl’s precise circumstances, not with Mr William. Young men sometimes made the mistake of thinking they could reform a fallen woman, and in view of the fact that Mr William insisted the girl had saved his life . . . He would suggest she was happily married, hint at it, that would do the trick. If Mr William thought she was settled and playing happy families, he wouldn’t interfere. He knew the young master well enough to know that, as he’d known how that fool of a parson would react to that letter too. The parson! By, she’d have eaten him alive and not bothered to spit out the pips.

  Josiah nodded grimly to himself, opened the door and walked briskly into the room beyond.

  Part 5

  And Then There Was War

  1916

  Chapter Twenty-six

  The last thirteen years had seen Daisy’s life and that of the people of Britain in general change irrevocably. The country was at war, and with thousands of men volunteering to fight each month, women were taking over their jobs.

  They were working in the dangerous munitions factories, becoming tram drivers, porters, window cleaners. Still others worked on the land, in shipyards, drove ambulances, lorries and motor bikes.

  There were some in government circles who worried less about the war than about what sort of country their brave soldiers would be coming back to. Before you knew it women would be granted the right to vote, and then they would go on to demand political equality with men. Unthinkable? Don’t you believe it! Give the suffragettes an inch and they would take a mile. And as Lord Curzon had said, what sane man, in the face of great issues like war and peace, would like his destiny at such a moment to be decided by a woman?

  Daisy had busily carved out a career for herself some time before the war began, but the widespread change in women’s work brought fresh unexpected benefits. Women all over the country ceased seeing themselves as tied irrevocably to hearth and home, worthy only of being paid a mere pittance compared to their male counterparts, or yet again - for the upper classes - as fragile social ornaments. They no longer felt they ne
eded male company if they wished to eat or drink out. Suddenly it was acceptable for even ‘nice’ girls to dine alone or with each other, to smoke cigarettes in public, and to wear make-up.

  Clothes became more practical, hemlines rising dramatically until the glimpse of a lady’s ankle ceased to thrill. Women had reached out and seized a measure of liberation, but not even the fiercest suffragette would have wished this freedom to have come into being at the cost of thousands of England’s finest young men.

  Word of the terrible reality of this war, which had begun with working-class men enlisting in a flood of swashbuckling patriotism, was seeping back from the front. Men were dying in unbelievable numbers in France, and the awful results of the German Army’s use of mustard gas at Yypres had quenched the public ardour for such songs as ‘Keep the Homes Fires Burning’ and ‘Belgium Put the Kibosh on the Kaiser’ for some loved ones at home, of which Daisy was one.

  Already George’s two eldest boys had been reported missing and Art’s youngest killed in the first few weeks of the war. George had two more sons in France and Ron’s twin boys hadn’t long since left for the front.

  Daisy raised her head from where she was busy slicing a freshly baked loaf into thick slices and glanced round the kitchen table. Tommy and three of his pals were busy devouring great wedges of ham and egg pie, meat roll, shives of cheese and pickles, and hot potatoes in their jackets. They had already drained three pots of tea. He caught her eye and grinned. ‘Been thinking of this all day.’

  ‘Go on with you.’ She flapped her hand at him, laughing, but the thought that her lad and his three pals could have been at the front if they had been just three or so years older was frightening. The four of them had been beside themselves when German cruisers had shelled the towns of Hartlepool, Scarborough and Whitby just down the coast, killing a hundred and thirty-seven people and wounding hundreds more in an attack just before Christmas last year, and the incident had sent a stream of northern lads to the recruitment offices. Thought he’d frighten us, the Kaiser, did he? had been the general opinion among Tommy’s age group and the older lads. Barking up the wrong tree then, wasn’t he? Didn’t know the British bulldog very well, did he, but he’d soon learn.

  When Daisy had first heard Tommy and his friends talking this way she had taken him aside when the others had gone home. War was a terrible thing, she’d told him soberly, and it was frightening. Only a fool wouldn’t be scared. Men and lads were being killed and maimed and leaving their womenfolk half-demented with grief.

  ‘Aye, I know, Mam.’ He had taken to calling her this just after they had moved to Hendon from the fishing village. ‘But someone’s got to stop the Kaiser.’

  She had just nodded while offering a silent prayer of thanks it wasn’t her boy engaged against the forces of that madman. And then she had prayed for the ones who were.

  ‘And where are the four of you off to tonight?’ she said now, as the last of the loaf was finished and she put a baked jam roll and a plate of gingerbread on the now virtually empty table.

  ‘The Palace. Jimmy’s got free tickets again,’ Tommy said, his mouth full of gingerbread. On leaving school he had secured an apprenticeship in the machine shop of the North Eastern Marine Engineering Company on the South Docks in Sunderland, along with his pal Joe. Phil had been taken on at the Castle Street brewery, while Jimmy had pulled off the by no means easy feat of inveigling himself into the Palace Theatre as general dogsbody and jack-of-all-trades. Consequently the four of them enjoyed many evenings of free entertainment, usually after a meal at Daisy’s. The other boys all came from large poor families, and having started feeding them after school when the four of them had chummed up while still knee-high to a grasshopper, Daisy had never really stopped. But she loved doing it, she loved them, and there was rarely an evening went by when the house didn’t resound with their laughter and chatter.

  And Tommy appreciated it, like now. As the others all said their thank yous and left the house by the back door, he hung back until he and Daisy were alone. ‘Thanks, Mam.’ At fifteen years old he was an inch taller than her and still growing strong, but he never left without kissing her. ‘That meal was grand, an’ the lads love it round here, especially poor old Joe.’

  Daisy nodded. Joe’s father was the type who thought nothing of using his fists on his family, and as a little lad Joe had often been black and blue. Many were the nights he had slept on a shakedown by the side of Tommy’s bed; in fact, Daisy thought Joe had lived more with them than he ever had with his own family. She just thanked her lucky stars she had been able to offer all Tommy’s pals a free meal and hospitality when it was needed.

  Twenty months after starting work for Mr Shelton at the post office, equipped with new certificates for excellent speeds in shorthand and typing, she had left the kindly postmaster - with his blessing and good wishes - and taken a job with Woods & Company, bankers, for twice the salary. Swift promotion had followed, and by the time Miss Casey had decided to move to Newcastle to live with her recently bereaved sister, Daisy was in a position to take out a mortgage and buy a property of her own. The house had been modest, a two-up, two-down terrace in Maritime Terrace opposite the Almshouses, but when Tommy had just turned eleven another change of job and increase in salary had meant the two of them being able to move to a bay-fronted end of terrace with a tiny railed front garden and a patch of lawn at the back in Grangetown, in view of the old windmill which had ceased operating some time before.

  Tommy first and then work was Daisy’s life. Although in latter years she had had several men friends they had always remained just that - friends. There had been two she had thought she might grow fonder of, but in the event the more serious they had become the more she had withdrawn. Tommy often teased her, saying she was too particular, and he might be right at that, but she couldn’t force feelings that weren’t there and that was that as far as Daisy was concerned. And it wasn’t as though her life wasn’t busy, what with him and his pals, work, friends including Alf and Kitty and their four children and the rest of her family at the fishing village, and now the fund-raising and such she was involved in for the war effort. Tank Week, Gun Week, Cruiser Week - they all demanded time and attention, and as a member of the Grangetown Women’s Support Group Daisy was heavily involved in delivering food and clothing to needy families whose menfolk were missing or killed, helping to man the twice-weekly soup kitchen, opening up her home for committee meetings and organising ongoing aid for the old folk.

  It was the thought of the last venture that now made her say, ‘The others’ll be waiting, Tommy,’ as she gave her lad a hug and sent him out the door. She had three visits to make and the old folk didn’t like being disturbed too late at night, even if she did come bearing gifts!

  The February night was raw, and Daisy was glad to get home again once she had done the rounds. By the time Tommy came in at half-past ten she had the kettle on and some scones singing on the girdle, which she and Tommy ate hot and dripping with butter while he told her about his evening.

  ‘Bought you a few sweets, Mam.’ His voice was casual but his eyes were bright as he sent a box of chocolates skidding across the table into her hands as he left the kitchen.

  ‘Thanks, hinny.’ Daisy’s voice was soft. It was rare a week went by that he didn’t buy her something: a bunch of flowers, a women’s magazine, sweets or chocolate, in spite of an apprentice’s wage being next to nothing.

  He thought of her as his mam, she knew that, and it was precious, although she had been careful to talk often about Margery and Tom to the boy, trying to draw a mental picture for him of how they had looked, what sort of people they had been and so on. She had waited until she’d felt he was old enough before she had told him the full story about his parents not being married - she hadn’t wanted him to find his birth certificate some day and see the bald details in black and white, or for some kind soul to acquaint him with the facts before she had had a chance to do it properly. She had stressed that Ma
rgery and Tom were planning to marry, that they had loved each other with a love known to few people, and that Margery had been comforted after he had died to learn that she was bearing his child and in that way Tom would live on.

  Tommy had taken it well but had been quiet for a few days. After that he had come to her one day when she was in the kitchen preparing a meal and said very softly that he wished he had a picture of his da. ‘We never had the money for things like photographs or pictures,’ Daisy had said gently, ‘but if you look in the mirror, hinny, you’ll be seeing your da. You are the spitting image of him, anyone would tell you that. Your hair might be a bit curlier but that’s all.’ And after that Tommy had been his old self again, although she had noticed from that point he spent some time each morning trying to straighten his hair with brilliantine.