The Silversmith's Daughter Read online

  Servicemen with canvas bags slung over their shoulders jostled among all the civilians; trains came and went, their whistles shrieking, trailing banners of smoke and steam; voices called to each other and the air was full of acrid cigarette smoke mixed with the smuts from the trains. A poster on the wall nearby showed a uniformed man holding a rifle: ‘Join the Volunteers and Be Ready’. Here, never for a moment could you forget the war.

  But for Margaret, that war had been a distant thing compared with the one going on in her own house for the past months. She felt exhausted, wrung out with emotion and glad finally to be on her way, away from here.

  Their train pulled in with a trail of steam and smoke, brakes squealing.

  ‘Can we get on?’ John was alight with a ten-year-old boy’s passion for locomotives.

  ‘Wait, dear.’ Margaret barred him with her arm. ‘We have to let the other passengers out first.’

  They emerged lumpily, children and bags lifted down the steps, only adding to the chaos on the platform. Margaret noticed, tenderly, that Daisy laid a hand protectively round her belly in the crush. There had scarcely been a moment of the last months when she had not worried about Philip’s daughter, despite all the pain and shame brought to their door by the situation.

  ‘Come on now, dears. John – you’ve got your and Lily’s cases, haven’t you?’ She picked up the bag she was sharing with Daisy in one hand and with the other, steered the girl by the elbow. ‘John, Lily – keep behind me. That’s it, hold tight to Lucy-Jane, Lily. Let’s get into this one.’

  Daisy quietly obeyed. They managed to get seats by the window, and John sat beside his mother, Lily next to Daisy.

  ‘I hope there won’t be too much smoking in here,’ Daisy whispered, leaning across as Margaret sat down. ‘It makes me feel sick.’ She had not had an easy time with sickness and only now, towards the end of the pregnancy, had she stopped looking gaunt and strained.

  Though quite neatly pregnant, in this last month she had swelled uncomfortably, her face and ankles thickening, making her feel heavy and exhausted. Margaret, though often enraged by the situation, felt terrible seeing the effect it had all had on a talented girl who had once been so confident. Now, apart from some flare-ups of anger over the weeks in the face of Philip’s stubborn anger, she was like a poorly little shadow. All of this was breaking Philip’s heart. Margaret could feel the weight of it on him in the set of his shoulders, as if a great burden rested there.

  ‘I wish I’d flaming killed him,’ he said to her once, early on. It was Daisy he could not come to terms with; he could barely look at her, as if the very sight of her was an agony for him. And the agony had also become Margaret’s.

  The carriage filled with civilians, people fussing with their belongings until they settled down.

  Margaret looked across at Daisy. She had removed her scarf and rested her head back, her hat tilted further over her face. Lily looked round hopefully at her big sister, but seeing that Daisy was already falling into a doze, she turned her attention back to her squiffy-faced rag doll. Margaret smiled approvingly at her. John settled with the Funny Wonder comic she had bought him, grinning to himself.

  Margaret felt herself relax just a fraction. With all the emotion and carry-on in the house over the last few months, it was a relief to leave – even though it now meant facing her own father.

  Philip had been sealed like a stone tomb. He would not discuss the matter with Margaret, however hard she tried. He worked long hours and tried to avoid Daisy at all costs. Margaret, caught between them, trying to keep things as normal as she could for her younger children and hide Daisy’s secret for as long as possible, had felt overwrought, pulled in all directions. It was taking a toll on how things were between herself and Philip. The easy talking had become strained. They made love far less often, a relief only in that she did not wish to bring forth more children, but in every other way, a loss of their closeness. He was angry, locked into his rage with James Carson and with Daisy.

  We can’t stay here, Margaret thought. She felt distraught all the time, was bowed down under the strain of it all. She’ll manage to hide it for a good while, but at the end, I must get her away from here. And I’ll find someone who’ll take the baby – there are good people in the village, people who will be kind . . . And when we return, all can be as normal . . .

  ‘Dear Father,’ she had written, back in June, when they were all trying to adjust to the situation, ‘I am writing to you about a delicate matter. I hope I can appeal to both your sense of charity and your human kindness, when I relate the events that have led me to turn to you . . .’

  She had not minced her words. Her father, William Hanson, was still in his post as a Congregationalist minister in the village several miles north-east of Bristol where Margaret and Annie had spent their childhood. In a few, direct words she told him of Daisy’s situation, that it was causing great tension and explaining that for the last month or so of her confinement and for the birth, they would all benefit from some privacy and for her to be away from home.

  Margaret knew that her father owed her a debt of compassion and apology after doubting her, taking the side of his protégé in the church, Charles Barber, against that of his own wronged daughter. It was this rift that had sent Margaret and Annie to Birmingham in the first place, escaping from home to twenty-six Chain Street to stay with Uncle Eb and Aunt Hatt, who had been kindness itself in taking them in. Only much later, faced by more of Charles Barber’s depravity, had her father apologized.

  As she wrote the letter, she was filled with swirling cross-currents of feeling. In part she was sorry for the shame she was asking to bring to her father’s door. Yet mixed with that was anger: ‘This is real life, Father,’ she thought, ‘for women in this world, a life of men and pain and blood and milk and . . . It’s how it is! This is the test of the pure, religious fortification in which you would prefer to hide yourself. And faced by this calamity, this slice of what Annie calls “the lot of women” – are you going to refuse us?’ What she actually wrote was more measured and polite, but she did not leave him much room for refusal.

  His reply was stiff, formal – but he had agreed. He had even promised to make discreet enquiries in the village. They were to let him know when they were planning to arrive. He would see to it that they were made comfortable. She could imagine his own discomfort at this. He had a new housekeeper, Miss Berry, a spinster in her late thirties. Whatever was she going to make of it all?

  Margaret sat back in her seat, letting out a long emotional breath. The past months had been very hard. One moment Daisy would be full of rage and helplessness in the face of what had happened to her, making the household a far more fraught place than her moods had ever made it before. The next she was sick and upset, or sweet and confiding. And though she tested Margaret’s tolerance to the very limits, they had had some very tender times together and she felt desperately sorry for the girl and for what had happened. After all – it could so easily have happened to her, had things gone just a little differently.

  Her husband was the only one who had truly angered her. It was with Philip where the true healing was needed. Last night, he had sat on the side of the bed for a long time, facing away from her as she lay there. As ever she was caught between rage and tenderness. It’s your daughter – find it in yourself to climb down and look after her . . . And yet she was aware of all his pain, and longing to reach out and touch him, to hold him and be held. To make love, to be how they had always been . . . At last she could bear it no longer.

  ‘Philip,’ she said softly.

  He must have heard her tone, the way she was appealing to him to turn to her, to come back to her, hold her, before they were parted for most of the next month. But he sat on, in silence. Margaret felt herself recoil inside, deeply hurt.

  Eventually Philip had stood up and got into bed with a long sigh.

  ‘You’ll be wanting to get going early tomorrow, I suppose,’ he said. He gave her a s
tiff kiss and turned away on to his side. And this morning, there had been another peck on the cheek, when they all said goodbye, though he had at least shown Daisy more emotion.

  As she sat now in the railway carriage, Margaret’s eyes filled with tears. She looked across at Daisy, who already seemed to be asleep. How peaceful it would be to have a nap herself. In these quiet moments, while her younger children were occupied and amid the murmured conversation of the other passengers, Margaret leaned back and let her lids slide over her eyes.

  Daisy sat with her eyes closed. She felt exhausted but wound tight with emotion. She could still feel her father’s arms holding her close when they had said goodbye. It was the first time he had shown her true affection in all these months and her throat ached, thinking of it. It must have come home to him that they were really leaving, that they were all to be parted.

  ‘I’ll be down to see you all very soon,’ he said. She felt his beard against her hair as he held her, then he drew back to look at her. ‘There’s my girl.’ His face had been full of emotion. He squeezed her shoulders. Suddenly, looking into her eyes, he said, ‘Never mind – you’ll be back soon, and . . .’ He couldn’t finish the sentence. She would return. Everything could be put back to how it had always been? Was that what he meant? And then, forcing himself, he said, ‘Everything I’ve done has been for you, Daisy-Loo.’

  When she started to cry, held by him as if by a big bear, he made soothing noises. ‘It’s all right . . .’ His own eyes wet, he looked into hers and said, ‘It’ll be all right, wench.’

  But he had looked frightened and it was only then that she really realized how afraid he was. He was angry and ashamed – but most of all he was afraid. He had lost her mother in childbirth and now he was afraid he would lose her too.

  Tears stole out of her closed eyes now as she thought about it and she quickly wiped her face. How much trouble and strain her stupidity over James Carson had brought to them all. She had got carried away with his adoration, had let herself be sullied, used . . . These thoughts turned in her mind. But she felt so small and helpless with it all and deeply ashamed, as if she had lost sight of the person she had been before with all her ambitions. She was always so tired that it was months since she had sat happily at her peg in the attic, dreaming and working beautiful things into being.

  These months had been full of emotion. As well as her grief and anger, she had been humbled by an even deeper respect for her stepmother. Many another would have seen her put out on the street. But no.

  Margaret was adamant about one thing.

  ‘No lies,’ she said, right from the beginning. They were all sitting round the table only a day or two after she had been to see Aunt Hatt and Uncle Eb. Margaret actually banged her fist on the table, so hard that Daisy jumped. ‘There are things people don’t need to know unnecessarily – but I won’t live with endless lies. And I won’t have it that a man has his carnal way and everyone else pays with shame!’

  This was such an outburst and so candid in character that they all sat stunned. Daisy saw her father look away for a moment with a pained expression. She at least understood that this was as much to do with events in her stepmother’s past as it was with her.

  ‘This is a child, not a dirty secret.’ Margaret was leaning into the table to make her point. ‘And how will it be in the end if we all lie? There’ll be nothing but trouble.’

  ‘I suppose we could . . .’ her father began hesitantly. He never looked at her, not through all the conversation, as if she wasn’t there. ‘I mean, someone else might . . . She doesn’t have to bring it up . . .’ He trailed off into silence.

  ‘We’ll have to decide that when the time comes.’ Margaret sat up tall, magnificent, as if to say, There will be a decision, but you needn’t think you are the one to make it.

  Daisy grew more bewildered. It was as if they were talking in riddles she could barely understand. This was something she had no experience of at all. It was not as if people talked about it.

  ‘No one in the business needs to know, not yet,’ Margaret went on. ‘Although I don’t think we can keep Mrs Flett in the dark. And as for the family – well, they’ll have to know. But I’m sure they’ll keep it to themselves.’

  ‘But,’ Pa protested. ‘They’ll talk – you know what people can be like . . .’

  ‘Well, damn them!’

  Daisy had never seen Margaret like this before – so flushed and worked up, so profane! In fact, she had never seen or heard anything like it anywhere.

  In the early days she had soldiered on at the Jewellery School, once Mr Carson had gone. Until Vittoria Street broke up for the summer, things were much as usual. The sickness abated and she continued work, though she felt constantly exhausted. Over the summer she worked in the Tallis business and designed a new MIZPAH brooch, which went into production in the firm.

  By the time the Jewellery School went back to work in September, she was six months pregnant.

  ‘You’re so slim that you seem to hide it well,’ Margaret told her. ‘You really are not showing much.’ She had still not let anyone on the staff in on the secret, not even Mrs Flett – yet. Sufficient unto the day is the evil thereof was Margaret’s way of looking at it. They would deal with all that when it became necessary.

  Daisy had gone on with her work at Vittoria Street. Even after the summer break, she was not so big that she could not easily disguise her condition. It was only in this, the final month, that she had suddenly grown obviously large. She had led the school to believe that she was suffering an illness that would take her away for the remainder of the term.

  It was a relief to stop teaching. She had found standing all that time utterly fatiguing. But at least it had been her normal routine. Now she was heading off to this strange place in the country which she had only visited a couple of times before. And at the end of the road there was just one terrifying certainty – of having to give birth to this child.

  Eighteen

  23 December 1915

  Once again, the sky was a cauldron of boiling grey, the rain pouring down. The black branches whipped in the wind and the river rose and rose. There would be a few days of calm mugginess before the winds returned and the rain came bucketing down once again. It gave all of them an increased sense of calamity.

  By the time Philip was due to arrive for Christmas, Margaret was so pent up with nerves at living with her father, William Hanson, and Daisy, and with John and Lily cooped up inside because of the wet weather, she felt ready to explode. It felt as though they were all living in a bubble, the walls of which were growing tighter and tighter. It was a struggle to remain calm and self-controlled.

  As well as all the other emotional tensions, being in the village had brought her awareness of the war much closer. Her father followed the news very closely, his tall, hawk-like figure bent over the newspaper each afternoon, peering through his spectacles. The evacuation of Gallipoli, which had just been accomplished, felt to him like a personal defeat.

  And in the village, two brothers from one family, the Pearsons, who Margaret and Annie had known as children, had both been killed at the Battle of Loos. Their sorrow, their crêpe-draped windows, hung like a pall over the whole village. It made life seem so brief and frail. Even though, before she left home, there had been some degree of making up with Philip after all the tensions and sorrow of that year, all she could feel now was a longing for him to be there, for them not to waste another moment of precious life apart and at loggerheads.

  They had been separated now for nearly three weeks and she was waiting, following him in her mind every second of the time from when the bus was due to leave Bristol on its way to the village. As the hour of its arrival approached, she could no longer contain herself. She put on her hat and coat and hurried up to the road, regardless of the weather.

  When she saw him step down from the bus, a small bag in his hand, it felt like the sun coming out, even though the rain was still falling relentlessly. She saw h
is eyes light into a smile under the already dripping hat brim as they walked to greet each other.

  ‘Oh, my love!’ She almost threw herself into his arms, not caring who saw. ‘Thank heavens you’re here!’ She found herself in tears.

  Philip looked startled, then concerned, as she drew back and they linked arms, setting off along the streaming road.

  ‘Eh, love.’ He squeezed her arm. ‘This isn’t like you. Is it that bad?’

  ‘Yes,’ she said, pouring out all her pent-up frustrations. She had written home, of course, every few days, but she had tried to keep all her letters light-hearted and cheerful. But now she could no longer contain the strain of it all.

  ‘Honestly, the number of times I’ve nearly packed us all up and come home again! But John and Lily have enjoyed the village school and I’m glad that they’re having a chance to live a little differently, as I used to. But oh, dear – Father! I know he felt he had to accept us coming here – and he never says much. But it’s there in every line of him, that ramrod back of his, making us all say grace at table and doing a lot of that gazing into the far distance that he does. The children are rather afraid of him. And poor Daisy! She’s so sad and angry – and so big now that she’s gone into a sort of trance, like a dozy great cow. She just sleeps and doesn’t say much, as if she’s shutting everyone out. And then there’s Miss Berry, his housekeeper–she’s such a strait-laced soul that I . . .’ She stumbled over her words, upset by what she was having to admit.

  ‘We did tell some untruths in the end – about Daisy. I even put my mother’s wedding ring on her finger and so far as the village is concerned she has a young husband in France. But it’s all so awful – and I keep asking myself whether I’m wrong coming here and whether this is just a way of rubbing things in Father’s face after the way he treated me, like a sort of retribution, and I feel terrible . . .’