The Silversmith's Daughter Read online

  Contents

  Glossary

  Twenty-Four Chain Street, Hockley

  I: 1915 One

  Two

  Three

  Four

  Five

  Six

  Seven

  Eight

  Nine

  Ten

  Eleven

  Twelve

  Thirteen

  Fourteen

  Fifteen

  Sixteen

  Seventeen

  Eighteen

  Nineteen

  Twenty

  Twenty-One

  II: 1916 Twenty-Two

  Twenty-Three

  Twenty-Four

  Twenty-Five

  Twenty-Six

  Twenty-Seven

  Twenty-Eight

  Twenty-Nine

  Thirty

  Thirty-One

  Thirty-Two

  Thirty-Three

  Thirty-Four

  Thirty-Five

  Thirty-Six

  Thirty-Seven

  Thirty-Eight

  III Thirty-Nine

  Forty

  Forty-One

  Forty-Two

  Forty-Three

  Forty-Four

  Forty-Five

  Forty-Six

  Forty-Seven

  Forty-Eight

  Forty-Nine

  Fifty

  Fifty-One

  Fifty-Two

  1918 Fifty-Three

  Fifty-Four

  1919 Fifty-Five

  Acknowledgements

  ‘The art and craft of the silversmith calls for appreciation and understanding of something more than the technical and materialistic elements. A true craftsman, one whose work is his [sic] own conception and for the execution of which he is directly responsible, puts all his being, body, mind and spirit into his work.

  . . . The value of all the things men and women make must be measured by the degree they succeed or fail in satisfying their whole being.’

  Bernard Cuzner, silversmith, 1935

  Glossary

  annealing Heat treatment of metal to alter its composition and make it more workable.

  burnishing Rubbing metal with another hard metal surface to remove marks – work, like polishing, often undertaken by women in the jewellery trade.

  chasing and repousée Ways of moving the surface of metal with hammers and punches – chasing is done from the front side, pushing metal inwards, while repousée is done from the inside, pushing a design shape outwards.

  damascening Decoration made by cutting incisions into metal and introducing a thread of gold or silver wire, which is beaten into the cut for embellishment.

  die-sinking The process of carving a shaped cavity into a steel block to make the pattern into which a thin sheet of metal can be stamped. The dies are in two halves and the metal is stamped between them.

  doming-block Wood or metal block with concave cavity in it, used for shaping a sheet of silver into a curve.

  drop-stamping The same process for larger objects where the shaping of the metal is deep, for example a salt cellar or sugar sifter. The weight, worked by ropes, drops from a greater height to hammer down on to the metal.

  enamelling Laying colourful powdered glass substances on to metal and fusing with heat.

  champlevé A design is cut down into the metal’s surface and the powders laid within the indented shapes.

  cloisonné Compartments are created on the metal surface by soldering shaped wire on to it, and the spaces are filled with the vitreous powder, then heated.

  engraving Cutting of an image or writing on to a metal plate.

  flux A white fluid made from mixing solid borax with water, used to assist in the soldering process.

  gem A precious or semi-precious stone, especially when cut and polished or engraved.

  lemel Metal filings.

  mandril Curved wooden or metal block round which metal can be hammered into shape, for example a bangle.

  metal stamping The shaping of sheets of metal using, in those days, a heavy iron stamping press to make the basic metal shape, for example for a brooch. The metal is pressed between the two halves of a steel die into which the pattern has been carved.

  muffle Receptacle into which items are put to go into a furnace to protect them from the direct flame.

  niello A black decoration made by use of a compound of sulphur with silver, lead or copper, used for filling in engraved designs in silver or other metals.

  peg A specially curved workbench with a leather pouch attached to catch metal waste and a wooden ‘peg’ fixed on the bench for the worker to rest objects on as they sawed, hammered, etc.

  pickle A liquid compound used to remove oxidation and flux from newly soldered jewellery.

  raising Creating a vessel from a flat sheet of metal by hammering it.

  setting and mounting (gems) A prong setting has three or more metal tines, or prongs, that stick up and hold the gemstone in place. Gem settings that contain prongs are called heads. A head can be soldered or welded on to a piece of jewellery, such as a ring or pendant, to allow the mounting of a gemstone.

  shopping Local name for a workshop, often in the back yard of a business.

  smithing The treatment of metals by heating, hammering and forging.

  snips Hand pliers for cutting wire.

  Twenty-Four Chain Street, Hockley

  Birmingham, 1898

  ‘Take the child out of the house. For pity’s sake – get her away from here!’

  Pa was on the landing, not with a candle but in strained, dawn light, his eyes red. He must have been weeping, but in her mind those eyes were shocking as glowing coals and that was how she remembered it afterwards. Pa with hot coals in his eyes as he stood outside his own bedroom door.

  Mrs Flett was there and he said in a rasping voice, ‘Get her dressed, will you? Take her away ’til it’s over.’

  Daisy had woken suddenly, knowing that something wrong and terrible was happening. She could hear footsteps hurrying up and down the stairs and along the passage and the muffled, urgent sound of voices.

  And there was another faint noise, not like anything human or that she recognized, yet even then she knew instinctively it was her mother. She climbed out of bed and crossed the floorboards barefoot, in the freezing dawn, taking her comforting scrap of cream wool shawl, an old one of Mom’s which had been torn into strips a few inches wide. She hugged it to her with one hand, reaching the other up to turn the door handle.

  Dear Mrs Flett, who helped in the house, had mouse-brown hair in those days. She dressed Daisy and hauled her out and along the iron-cold streets until they saw the light of a little coffee house just opening its doors in the winter gloom. There was a dog inside, with a white hairy face, but that was all Daisy ever recalled of it.

  The next thing, she was standing outside Mom and Pa’s bedroom door again, later in the morning because it was properly light. Pa was there and Mrs Flett and this time it was his hand turning the handle. They went into this room which until now had been a place of morning love, where she went to snuggle between them for a few minutes while they drank a cup of tea before the day of work began. They would laugh and tell rhymes. Before the three of them got up, Mom, her coppery hair falling loose and thick and smelling of soap and lavender, would kiss her on one cheek and Pa on the other. His whiskers tickled and made her giggle and often his beard gave off the metallic smells of the workshop because that was Pa’s smell.

  But this morning, Mom was in bed by herself. All items connected with the bloody struggle to produce that second little baby had been cleared away by then. Mom was just Mom to Daisy, but her outside name was Florence Tallis and this morning she d
id not look much like Mom; she looked public and formal, like Florence Tallis.

  She lay with her auburn hair brushed straight, her eyes closed. Everything except her hair was white: the sheet, her nightgown, her face. It was so cold: the room, the silence. Daisy could hear her father’s broken breathing as he tried to stifle his weeping behind her.

  ‘Mom?’ she said, her voice very small. She didn’t understand. With a finger she tapped her mother’s leg, wanting her to wake up and smile, sit up and draw her on to her lap as she would have done before, to smooth her finger over the little silver bracelet on Daisy’s arm which she had made for her, with her name engraved in tiny letters: ‘Daisy Louise Tallis’. But the leg was cold and lifeless.

  ‘Your mother’s resting now,’ Mrs Flett said kindly, but firmly, drawing her away.

  Daisy was four years old then.

  The gravestone, in the new cemetery in Warstone Lane, read:

  FLORENCE MARY TALLIS b. 1870 d. 1898

  Beloved wife of Philip Tallis

  ‘But Pa,’ Daisy asked, when she was a little older and people had talked to her about her talented mother. ‘Why didn’t you put on it that she was a silversmith?’

  He considered for a moment, burly like a bear beside her in his coat as they made their Sunday visit to the grave.

  ‘Well . . . people don’t do that really, do they? Not on stones like these – they don’t tell much of us in the end.’ He turned and looked down at her, smiling gently. ‘Maybe it’s for the best.’

  ‘Can she see us?’ Daisy asked. It was something she often wondered and it troubled her.

  Her father looked away for a moment, breathing deeply.

  ‘I don’t know, is the truth,’ he said and his voice was so sad, a sadness that every day she longed to make better. ‘I’d like to think so, but I just don’t know the answer to that. But –’ he looked down at her, eyes smiling – ‘just in case, we’ll have to do her proud, won’t we?’

  I

  1915

  One

  January 1915

  The front door of number twenty-four Chain Street closed with a bang, followed by the sound of feet hurrying past the front office and along the passage.

  Margaret looked up at Philip across the front office and saw him roll his eyes.

  ‘Now what’s the matter?’ he said wearily.

  Margaret got to her feet with a careful smile. Her gentle, bearded husband was the most loving man she had ever met, but he was baffled by the moods of his daughter, Daisy. Over their ten years together, Margaret had become used to the girl’s mercurial temperament.

  Now aged twenty, Daisy had grown into a beauty. She stood five and a half feet tall, thick hair of a soft gold swept stylishly back from a strong, lovely face, the blue-grey eyes looking out at the world with passionate solemnity or, at times, with challenging amusement. She was also a talented artist and silversmith, having grown up in the trade. In addition, her father had sent her, at fourteen, to train at the School of Jewellery and Silversmithing in Vittoria Street, where she was now skilled enough to be a teacher.

  The classes at Vittoria Street were done on a part-time basis, for young people already employed in the trades. It was what Daisy was born to – they all knew that – and she had loved her years at the school. Even so, when she came charging into the house, they were never sure whether it was going to be a furious crashing in through the front door or an ecstatic deliverance of good news.

  ‘It’s all right.’ Philip smiled at his wife. ‘You’re going out. And it didn’t sound too much like trouble. I’ll pop in and see in a few minutes. Give her time to calm down, whatever it is.’

  Daisy sat waiting excitedly for her father in the back room, with a cup of tea all ready for him. She had told Mrs Flett she would do it herself and set out a tray: a nicely swaddled pot and cups and, as ever, the silver milk jug with the beaded edge, made by her mother, Florence Tallis. As she had grown older, she and Pa had had their disagreements. Daisy knew that a lot of this was due to her own stormy nature. But Pa expected a lot of her as well. Whenever she could she tried to find something to tell him that would please him. She liked to be able to give Pa good news and see his face crinkle and his eyes glow with pleasure.

  Only a few months ago, just after the war began, she had waited for him here just like this, jumping up when she heard him coming.

  ‘Guess what, Pa?’

  She had only just got home herself from Vittoria Street and was bubbling with excitement. Pa was going to be so proud of her!

  ‘What, Daisy-Loo?’ he said. He had never called her this when she was a little girl, but for some reason – perhaps to reassure her when her two half-siblings came along – over the past few years, he had adopted it as his pet name for her. As he said it, she could hear all the fondness in his deep, rumbling voice.

  ‘They’ve made me a full teacher!’ She bounced on her toes in her black boots. ‘Mr Carter from the smithing department has gone to join up, and they’re short-handed. Mr Gaskin came and told me himself!’

  She saw her father take in this news and his face broke into a smile. Though she had finished her five years of study at Vittoria Street in the summer of 1914, she had only expected to work as a student teacher because there had been no vacancies. But the war was quickly changing a lot of things.

  ‘Well, well,’ Philip Tallis said.

  He came closer to her and looked into her face. In his own features, fleshy cheeks half concealed by a bushy brown beard, she saw something: a twitch, a hint of inner emotion. It passed in a second but she knew he was thinking of her mother, beautiful, talented Florence and the baby sister for Daisy who had died with her. The small cloud passed and she saw a smile light her father’s grey eyes. Even though Pa was happily remarried to Margaret, those last moments of her mother’s life haunted them both.

  ‘It’s what you wanted, isn’t it? You’ve just got there a bit quicker than you expected.’ He put his hand on her shoulder. The smells of acid and metal came from his clothes. ‘You’ve done well, wench.’

  Daisy smiled, glowing at this. Her father was never one to gush compliments, but she could hear all the pride in his voice. She felt as if she was flying, riding the wave of her life to where she was meant to be. Daisy Tallis, prizewinning student and designer, talented silversmith. A Tallis – worthy of her mother.

  And now she had more news that she thought would please him.

  This time she heard him coming from the front office of ‘Philip Tallis, Silversmithing and Engraving’ and she jumped up to pour him some tea.

  ‘All right?’ she said, smiling as he came through the door. The room was cosy, the fire crackling. ‘Where’s Ma and the others?’

  ‘Oh, she’s in the front – but she’ll join them round at Kitty’s house in a minute, I think.’

  Daisy’s stepmother, Margaret, had given her father two more children, John and Lily, now nine and seven. Daisy was pleased they were out visiting friends. It was nice to have Pa to herself for a while.

  ‘And guess what else?’ she said, beaming as she put his tea on the table beside him.

  Nodding his thanks, he looked up at her.

  ‘You know I’m teaching in the elementary smithing room? Well, Mr Snell from the advanced room has joined up – and guess who’s coming back to teach advanced?’ Pa was going to be so pleased. ‘Mr Carson!’

  ‘Carson?’ Philip Tallis said, offhand. ‘Oh – that old fop.’ It was spoken with a smile, but Daisy could hear an edge of something in his voice.

  She frowned, feeling crushed. She had been hoping he would find this news exciting.

  ‘He does wear some funny clothes,’ she said. She had always found Mr Carson very dashing. ‘He’s an artist.’

  A muffled ‘huh’ came from her father as he reached down to shovel some more coal on to the fire.

  ‘But Pa,’ she reproached, ‘I thought he was your friend?’

  ‘Well . . .’ He shifted the poker about in the e
mbers with an expression of distaste. ‘I’ve known Carson a long while, that’s true.’

  Which, Daisy realized, for the first time, might not be quite the same as being friends.

  She had started her classes at the Vittoria Street School in 1908. Vittoria Street was a short walk along the blue brick pavements away from Chain Street in the heart of the Jewellery Quarter, a district that, among many other powerhouses of Birmingham, provided the world with a vast number of items of beauty and utility. The school was founded in 1890, especially to develop the skills of young smiths and jewellers coming up in the trades. There were classes in the afternoons and evenings and Pa had said that Daisy could go in the afternoons, while working for him in the workshop in the mornings. He did not want her going there in the evenings, he said. She would get too tired.

  How excited she had been the first day she started there aged fourteen, almost running to the imposing brick building in Vittoria Street! She knew this was what she was born for. Her memories of her mother, Florence Tallis, were of a woman who knew this trade, someone skilled, an artist. In Daisy’s mind she was a pale beauty with glossy auburn hair and a tall, slender figure like her own. She had stood at her workbench, hands busy with a hammer and mandrel, snips and rounding dome, shaping some lovely object, be it a ring or a jug, a bowl or a necklace. Florence had learned her skills from her father and married another silversmith. Daisy wanted to be just the same. If anything, she had to be better, to show Pa she could live up to her mother. And Daisy had been designing and making things already since she was very small, as soon as her little hands could grasp the tools.

  Though it was perfectly normal to Daisy that a silversmith should be a woman, in the school she found herself to be one of only a handful of girls amid a great crowd of lads all apprenticed in the jewellery trade and coming to classes on release from their employers. But it meant that the girls stuck together and soon she was good friends with Gertrude and Ida and especially with May Gordon, who became her best friend of that time, though now, sadly, life was so busy that they rarely saw each other. She had loved every day of her training – or almost every day.