The Silversmith's Daughter Page 10

  ‘Mrs Tallis – how very ni—’

  ‘You viper!’ Margaret strode, uninvited, past him into the room. ‘You vile, selfish, disgrace of a man!’

  James Carson reached out and swiped his hand feebly at the door. It failed to close but was no longer wide open for all to hear this altercation. ‘Mrs Tallis – whatever is the—?’

  ‘Have you no thought for anyone but yourself?’ Hands on hips she leaned towards him, blazing her anger at him, and even as she did so, was rather amazed at herself. ‘What in heaven’s name made you think that you could just toy with, just take and take whatever you wanted with no thought, no conscience? Well now, Mr Carson, she’s carrying your child – your bastard child. So what do you have to say about that?’

  He stood utterly still, hands paused in the act of tying the cravat, face stunned into shock.

  ‘Daisy?’ he said huskily. ‘Not Daisy?’

  ‘Yes – Daisy! Or is there a whole collection of young women of whom you’ve taken advantage, who I might have come to discuss?’

  James Carson sank down on to a chair.

  ‘It’s not like that.’ He looked up at her, face fraught with appeal. ‘You mustn’t think that of me. I am not that sort of man. I love her – I adore her.’ Agitated, he got to his feet again. I would never do anything to harm her – she’s . . . She’s brought me to new life. She’s an angel – she’s utterly astonishing.’ He stepped towards her. ‘I would never dishonour her. I want to marry her!’

  Margaret gaped at him in incredulity.

  ‘You’re already a married man. You have a wife – or had that inconvenient fact slipped your attention?’

  ‘But I didn’t . . . I mean, Victoria never . . . What I mean is, I thought it took longer – for a child . . .’

  ‘Oh, for goodness’ sake!’ She almost screamed the words, clenching her fists at this towering stupidity. ‘Don’t you know anything? Daisy is a healthy young woman – and now you’ve had your way with her she’s carrying a child for which you bear responsibility . . .’

  She was so caught up in her anger that she hardly heard the footsteps on the stairs. The door swung open and both of them looked round. Margaret was aghast to see her husband standing in the doorway, hatless and in his shirtsleeves. He looked huge, imposing. Margaret, bewildered at seeing him here at all, was also relieved. She had wanted to keep this from Philip, but in reality, how was this to be done? And Daisy was his child, the silly, ridiculous girl!

  All three of them stood, paralysed for a moment. James Carson’s face took on the look of a trapped animal. Margaret saw in her husband’s eyes a granite-hard expression which she had only glimpsed before on the rarest of occasions.

  ‘Did I hear right?’ His voice was quiet, but she could hear the terrible force behind it. She hesitated, then gave a faint nod.

  She watched as Philip stepped over towards James Carson.

  ‘My Daisy’s not been right these last weeks. Is that because of you?’

  James Carson clasped his hands together imploringly at his chest. ‘I love her, Tallis. She’s the pattern of all—’

  Philip Tallis drew his arm back and punched James Carson with full force so that he lurched backwards clutching his jaw and fell to the floor, hard up against one of the chairs. Philip stood over him.

  ‘Don’t you ever, ever come anywhere near my girl again, you filthy, jumped-up little bastard!’

  ‘But . . .’ James Carson tried to protest, scrambling to his feet, with blood running down his chin. ‘I mean – I want to—’

  ‘Don’t get up or I’ll hit you again!’ Philip roared, readying his fist. ‘That’s a girl who could knock the spots off you and your arty bloody poncing about a hundred times over – and now you’ve ruined her!’

  He lowered his fist again and strode out of the room.

  ‘Philip—’

  Margaret managed to catch up and grab his arm as he tore along the street. He was breathing heavily, his chest heaving. She could see how much rage and distress was locked up in her husband’s large frame. She found herself full of astonishing, disturbing feelings. Even amid her concern for Daisy, her anger, seeing Philip so stirred up, so violent, gave her a strange sense of excitement. If only they were alone now, in the privacy of their room, and she could take him in her arms, make love to him, comfort him. She was full of desire for him, and deeply shocked at this turn of events in her own emotions, she found a blush of embarrassment rising in her cheeks.

  ‘How did you know where I’d gone?’ she said breathlessly, as they made their way home. She had thought he had been asleep.

  ‘You made enough noise getting out of the house.’ A wagon passed laden with milk churns, wheels rumbling along the cobbles, so that she was not sure of the tone of his voice when he added, ‘Weren’t you going to tell me?’

  ‘Of course, dear. I was just so angry.’

  He allowed her to slip her arm through his and they walked back to the house. In the hall, from where they could hear Mrs Flett rattling about in the kitchen, they embraced, silently, pressing each other close.

  ‘I could kill him,’ Philip murmured into her ear. She could hear his ragged breathing.

  ‘I know.’ She had, in those moments, felt the same. It had been a terrible shock to her. She drew back and looked up at his kindly face, which was now darkened with anger and sadness. ‘The main thing is – we’ve got to think what to do about Daisy.’

  He drew in a deep, anguished breath. Then, to her horror, he said grimly, ‘And as for her . . .’ And before she could stop him he had raced up the stairs.

  ‘Daisy! Wake up!’ she heard him raging. ‘Sit up and look at me . . .’

  As Margaret reached the bedroom, she saw him standing over the bed where Daisy was hauling herself upright.

  ‘You stupid, wretched girl!’ he roared at her.

  Margaret tried to shush him – did he want the whole neighbourhood to hear?

  ‘You’ve thrown your life away on that fool . . .’ Words poured out of him. ‘After all you’ve done – you’re brilliant, wench, more than ever your mother was – and look at you now, nothing but a cheap tart . . .’

  Daisy, with her hair tousled, face white, looked like a terrified little girl. She pulled her legs up under the covers, hugging them as if trying to protect herself. She looked very unwell and she rested her head on her knees in a despairing way.

  ‘Philip . . .’ Margaret tried to stop him, feeling distraught now. This was not her Philip, this angry, blaming man. She could hear the pain he was in, and he did not know what to do except attack Daisy with it. She wondered, with a shudder, whether John and Lily could hear all this on the floor below.

  ‘What’ve you got to say?’ Philip raged, flailing his arms. ‘Are you pleased with yourself? Selling yourself like a cheap whore to that . . . that . . . that ridiculous popinjay.’

  ‘I’m sorry, Pa,’ Daisy pleaded. Her shoulders shook and the tears ran down her cheeks. She buried her face against her knees. ‘I’m so, so sorry . . .’

  ‘You’re sorry?’ he yelled incredulously. ‘It’s a bit late to be sorry, isn’t it? All that training, all your . . . All those days, thrown away. What d’you think your mother would have said? Eh?’

  Daisy’s head jerked up and Margaret saw the look on her face, like someone having a spear thrust into their side.

  Philip caved in then, suddenly, as if the sight of her was too much for him. He sank down on the bed, leaning forward, and rested his elbows on his thighs, head down.

  Margaret stood beside both of them, a hand on each of their shoulders, feeling as if her family was turning to wreckage in front of her and she could do nothing about it.

  ‘Ma . . .’ Daisy lifted her head suddenly. ‘I’m going to be sick.’

  Margaret grabbed the enamel bowl from the side of the bed and Daisy heaved over it, lying back afterwards with a little moan, limp and defeated looking.

  Philip sat up, wiping his face, looking stunned. He got up
and made a dismissive gesture with his hand. As he strode out of the room, they heard him say, ‘For God’s sake . . . I can’t . . .’

  ‘My life’s ruined,’ Daisy sobbed, curling up in her bed. ‘Now I’ll have a baby and no one will ever want to marry me and Pa hates me. I shan’t be able to do anything else ever again. And everyone’ll be gossiping about me!’

  Margaret stood beside her, unable to contradict. What the girl was saying was all too true. The extent of what had happened, the thought of Daisy’s disgrace, all the wagging tongues, the looks and condemnation that they would face. And now Philip – how was she to deal with her husband? She ached with sorrow and worry. She hated them falling out in any way.

  ‘He wouldn’t leave me alone, Ma,’ Daisy sobbed. Though reluctant to hear any more about this, Margaret sat down on the bed. ‘He said he loved me – and I thought . . . Well, I didn’t know anything. He flattered me, I suppose – and I . . . I didn’t know about . . . you know, babies, and . . .’ More tears ran down her cheeks. ‘I don’t want to have a baby – not like this. Not ever!’

  ‘Look.’ Margaret suddenly felt incredibly weary, as if all the fight had gone out of her. She laid a hand on Daisy’s shoulder for a moment. ‘I’ll deal with your father. But we’re going to have to face up to it now. This is how it is and we’ve got to think what to do.’

  Later, once she had got John and Lily out of the house to school and Philip had gone into the workshop, she carried a cup of tea up to Daisy, telling Mrs Flett that the girl was feeling unwell.

  ‘Our Daisy’s been looking a bit under the weather this last while,’ Mrs Flett said. ‘I hope there’s nothing wrong.’

  ‘Oh, I don’t think so,’ Margaret said lightly, while thinking with dread, My goodness, if Mrs Flett has already noticed! And what of the other women, in the office?

  Daisy, who had been dozing, sat up groggily. She drank down some of the tea quickly, gestured for the bowl, which Margaret had restored to its place by the bed, and was sick again, wiping her mouth miserably with a hanky as she lay back down. Margaret handed her the glass of water by the bed and moved the bowl with its tan contents outside the door.

  ‘Is it always like this?’ Daisy asked despairingly. She had hardly ever had a day’s illness apart from this. ‘I never knew it was so horrible.’

  ‘I don’t know,’ Margaret said gently. She had been quite sick herself with her babies. ‘Mostly, I think, yes.’ She waited, perched on the edge of the bed. ‘Daisy, what Pa – what we – didn’t tell you earlier, was that I went out, first thing this morning, to see that wretched Mr Carson.’

  ‘Did you?’ Daisy’s eyes widened. She seemed to be feeling slightly better and sat up hugging her knees again. She appeared comforted that someone had done something to intervene. ‘Whatever did he say?’

  ‘He didn’t get the chance to say much, as it turned out. I was angry and I said a few things – and then your father arrived. I hadn’t told him anything, but he heard me leave the house and . . . he must have heard what I was saying.’

  ‘Oh!’ Daisy breathed fearfully. ‘Whatever did he say?’

  ‘Well, he . . .’ She tried to recall exactly, and looking back on the scene, she felt a strange, incongruous feeling growing inside her. ‘He called him a few choice things and then he knocked him to the ground.’

  Daisy gasped. ‘Pa did?’

  ‘Yes – he absolutely thumped him one!’

  Their eyes met and the explosive feeling overtook her. She found herself breaking out into hysterical giggles and laughing so uncontrollably that Daisy started laughing as well.

  ‘He fell across the room and into a chair, and . . . he looked so ridiculous . . . and then . . . well, he tried to get up and your pa said . . .’ She was overcome by another gale of laughter, releasing some of the dreadful tension of the day. Daisy wiped her eyes, looking both appalled and overcome by mirth at the same time. ‘He said, “If you get up I’ll just knock you down again” – or something like that. And he called him a – oh, I can’t remember, but it was ever so rude . . .’

  She couldn’t believe herself, reacting like this, and it took both her and Daisy a while to calm down.

  ‘He did say he loved you,’ Margaret said, wanting to soften things. ‘But he’s married – and that’s that.’ The germ of a thought stirred in her mind. It was possible, on some occasions, for a couple to divorce . . . But she dismissed the idea. Carson was nearly old enough to be her father. It was all wrong, in every way. She looked hard at Daisy. ‘Did you think you loved him?’

  A bleak look came over Daisy’s face. ‘I thought I did. But I don’t know.’ She shrugged. ‘Not really.’ She was working herself up again. ‘Everything he did was for him, not me – I can see that now.’ With a despairing look she said, ‘And now it’s too late!’

  ‘Look, dear,’ Margaret said gently. A plan was beginning to form itself in her mind and a sense of conviction. She knew it was going to cost her dear in strength and determination, the way Philip was today. But she had to hold true.

  ‘Things are not going to be easy for you. When you have a child, your life is never the same again. But . . .’ She looked into Daisy’s face. ‘All those lives being lost over there – all those poor boys. It seems terrible to mourn a new life coming into the world. We’ll help you. We will find a way. It’s not going to be easy, but somehow we must do what we can for this child in love and truth – not shame.’

  Daisy’s beautiful eyes fixed hungrily on her.

  ‘How?’ she said.

  Fifteen

  Margaret went by herself to tell Aunt Hatt and Uncle Eb and Georgie and Clara what had happened, just a couple of weeks after they found out about Daisy’s condition. She was determined to deal with the situation truthfully, so far as close family were concerned. She chose a Sunday afternoon when most of them would be there, because Georgie and Clara usually took their children round for Sunday dinner.

  By the time she got to Handsworth on the tram and was shown into Aunt Hatt’s lavish parlour by the maid, Margaret was shaky with nerves. Even though her uncle and aunt – and Georgie and Clara – counted among the kindest people she had ever met, and were fiercely loyal to their own . . . Well, when it came to this sort of thing, people could be so cruel. They judged harshly – and above all they judged the woman. It was an awful feeling, going to their contented household where she had always been so warmly received with news like this.

  The house still smelt deliciously of roasted meat and the south-facing parlour was full of the promising light of early summer. When Margaret arrived, Uncle Eb was sitting back in his armchair, resting his eyelids, replete and content after Sunday lunch, his pipe on the table beside him. Aunt Hatt and Clara had been sitting chatting, Clara’s auburn head close to Aunt Hatt’s fading chestnut, on a small couch, and through the long windows Margaret could see Georgie out on the lawn with the three children and hear their shrieks and laughter as they played. She saw Georgie fling himself down sideways saving a goal as Jimmy groaned.

  ‘Oh, Dad! You always get it!’

  ‘Ooh, Margaret!’ Aunt Hatt cried as she was shown in. She struggled to her feet and came to kiss their niece. ‘What a lovely surprise! Whatever are you doing here? Didn’t you bring the family?’

  ‘I need to talk to you, Aunt,’ she said.

  ‘’Ello, wench – you all right?’ Eb said, waking muzzily and wiping a hand over his mouth.

  ‘She needs to talk to us, Eb,’ Aunt Hatt said, as if this was something anyone should know by now.

  ‘Oh ar, right.’ Obediently he pushed himself more upright in the chair and seized hold of his pipe as if for reassurance against anything the female sex might be about to launch at him.

  ‘You all right, Margaret?’ Clara said, coming and kissing her. ‘You look a bit pale.’

  ‘Look – I’d better say this quickly, while the children are outside,’ Margaret warned them as everyone found a chair again. Her heart was pounding. If she didn’t
say it now, she thought she might never begin. It would be so much more restful to pretend none of this was happening and just sink into a comfortable afternoon with the Wattses.

  ‘We’ve . . .’ Her face was ablaze with blushes suddenly and she looked down at the fluffy Chinese rug, clasping her trembling hands. She felt close to tears.

  ‘Oh, love – what is it?’ Aunt Hatt said. They were all looking at her in consternation.

  ‘A trouble shared,’ Clara said, in her rather important way. Since having her own three children, Clara, an energetic, freckled redhead, had become rather fond of pronouncing on things.

  Forcing herself to look them all in the face, one by one, Margaret said, ‘I’ve got to tell you. I don’t want to keep it from you all because no good will come of it in the end . . . It’s Daisy. She’s . . .’ It was a physical effort to get the words to leave her tongue. ‘She’s expecting a child.’

  There was a second’s bemused silence.

  ‘A child?’ Uncle Eb said. ‘You mean . . . ?’

  ‘You mean, she’s . . . ?’ Clara held her hands in a curve close to her belly, then looked at Aunt Hatt in an ominous sort of way.

  Cheeks aflame, Margaret nodded. The tears were so close to the surface that her throat was tight and aching. It felt as if Daisy’s shame was her own, as if she had not mothered her or protected her properly.

  ‘Not Daisy, surely?’ Aunt Hatt said, as if Margaret might somehow have mistaken her own stepdaughter for someone else’s.

  But seeing the sad confirmation in Margaret’s eyes, Aunt Hatt said, ‘Oh, my dear . . .’ She was hurrying to Margaret’s side to comfort her when Clara’s voice cut in and Aunt Hatt hesitated.

  ‘Well, how did that happen?’

  Margaret was chilled by the hard accusation in Clara’s voice.

  ‘Who’s the . . .’ Uncle Eb bit back more extreme words. ‘Who’s got her into that mess then?’

  Margaret explained, briefly, not shielding James Carson. Why should she, she thought? And she explained that she was planning to take Daisy back to the village near the end of the confinement, that until anything was showing she could continue to work at Vittoria Street and then they would have to see.