The Silversmith's Daughter Page 7

  ‘Might I . . .’ He faced her, laying his hands on her shoulders. She saw a little twitch of the flesh under his right eye. ‘May I take the liberty of holding you, my sweetest dear?’

  Her heart thudded. She answered with her eyes, while hardly knowing what she was supposed to do, but wanting to find out. A moment later she was in Mr Carson’s arms and by instinct she wrapped hers timidly about his long, wiry body, amazed at what was happening. She could feel the beat of his blood, smell on him the odours of the teaching rooms. He drew in a breath and released it, his lips touching her hair.

  ‘Oh, Daisy, Daisy.’ Releasing her slightly he looked into her face, his own full of longing. When he kissed her, his lips were warm, buttery, extraordinary. She was not sure if this was exactly enjoyable. The desire, the idea of being wanted by this man, felt somehow separate from these lips, this tongue probing at her. She was full of confusion, but her arms pulled him tighter to her because she felt that was the right response. She loved him, didn’t she? James Carson took this as encouragement and kissed her all the more.

  When he released her that night, after they had stood for some time in each other’s embrace, he running his hands over her body, she walked home to Chain Street in a daze. Had that really happened . . . she and James Carson? But her bruised lips told her it had. Reaching the front door, she straightened her shoulders and smiled secretly to herself.

  I am a woman now, she thought. I know now – and no one else knows that I know.

  Days later, she realized her mistake – she had not, in fact, known anything at all. After that first afternoon it was as if a bridge had been crossed. There seemed no way to go back to how things had been before, sitting drinking tea by the fire, talking and joking.

  As soon as she went into his room the next time, James Carson pulled her into his arms.

  ‘My dear girl – I can’t think of anything but you.’ His body pressed hard against hers and she could feel a kind of tremor in it.

  ‘Your heart,’ she said, pressing her hand over his chest. ‘It’s beating so fast!’

  ‘I’m crazed with wanting you.’ He spoke quietly, into her hair. ‘I can’t help myself.’

  But you’ve got me, she thought, bewildered. What more did he want? She embraced him more tightly, trying to show that she too was in love, she too felt desire. She felt things, in her body, a longing, a burning – such a mix of her body and soul that she could hardly decide which. But she had no real idea what was to be done with this desire.

  ‘Do you feel the same?’ he asked, looking urgently down at her.

  She looked into his eyes and solemnly, hoping for the best, like a leap into the unknown, she whispered, ‘Yes.’

  ‘Oh, my dearest.’ He looked emotional. She almost thought for a second that he was going to weep and she was deeply moved by the effect she had on him. ‘Would you . . . does this mean that you would really give yourself to me – lovely young thing that you are?’

  Give yourself to me? Was this what she was supposed to do? And how could she answer no now, anyway?

  ‘Yes, James,’ she said, overcome by him, by her own emotions and the pull between them, her heart, her body and the force of his wanting.

  He took her face between his hands gently and kissed her. ‘You are astonishing,’ he said. ‘I shall worship at the throne.’ Seeing her uncertainty, he said humbly, ‘You are a sweet young innocent, aren’t you, my love? Come, we must be gentle. May I?’

  He helped her unfasten her dress. At first, she felt panic. What were they doing? What was happening? Seconds later as he pulled the garment from her shoulders, added to this came a burning embarrassment. She never showed herself to anyone else naked, ever. She wanted to ask him to stop but she felt she could not now. She had said yes, hadn’t she? How could she suddenly change her mind after that? He peeled the blue material down slowly, unveiling her so that she could step out of it, and she stood in her corset, her white camisole and petticoat, her wool stockings, feeling foolish and passive, her cheeks hot with blushes. Goose pimples rose on her flesh and she shivered.

  ‘It’s all right,’ he said soothingly. ‘This is how it’s done. This is how I worship your body. I know it’s strange at first – it takes a little getting used to. But it is of the soul, Daisy my beauty. And I love you, dearest. I shan’t hurt you. Come . . .’

  She felt a little encouraged by this. He took her hand and led her, still in her undergarments, into the second room that until now she had never seen, and to his bed, the bedclothes untidily peeled back and open, as if waiting.

  Lying in her own attic bed that night, she felt confused and very alone. What had happened had not taken long. Mr Carson fondled her breasts for a few moments – the best moment of the whole encounter, which had been a revelation of sensation, though still so very mortifying to be suddenly naked in front of a man. After that he had seemed to go into a sort of trance, quickly undressing himself so that now she was subject to the shock of a naked male, with all those dark, shadowy places, and smells and that astonishing thing . . . She had only ever seen male private parts in the form of little John when he was a baby and they had looked nothing like that.

  And then he had done that to her, forcing into her even though it hurt when he had said it wouldn’t and she had writhed under him, trying not to cry out, thinking, This can’t be normal, can’t be . . . He kept saying, ‘It’s all right, it’s all right,’ until he gasped and made odd sounds, lost in his own world. After his seizure of pleasure, he had been utterly sweet to her, holding and stroking her, whispering adoring words which had, in the end, made it all feel a bit better.

  But now she felt dirty and shamed, even though she had managed a quick wash. She had come home feeling soiled, with a terrible, whelk-stall smell about her that she felt everyone must notice. All she had wanted was to run a bath and climb into it. But though Pa and Ma had put in a bathroom on the floor below, they had certain days for baths and today was not hers so she had done the best she could with a basin of water.

  She lay curled up small, longing for comfort, for someone to talk to. It was not true that it had not hurt and she wondered, was this love? This thing which left her sore and slimy and desperately embarrassed? Surely this was not what Pa and Margaret . . . ? No, it could not be. If only she could ask someone whether this was really how it was.

  Years ago, when Margaret had first had John, Daisy had asked her where babies came from. She had not meant the birthing of them – her own dim memories of her mother and other overheard snippets of conversation had given her some clue that babies came from a woman’s body; that giving them life entailed pain and mortal danger. What she really wanted to know was how they got there in the first place. But she had scarcely known what words to use. Margaret had given her a guarded look which said, I’m going to give you an answer and don’t you dare ask any more.

  ‘Well, dear,’ she said. ‘A baby is made from the love of a man and a woman. It’s all a rather private thing and you’ll know more about it when you’re older.’

  So was that what had happened? Or was there something else, completely different, that you had to do?

  She pulled her knees up even tighter, close to tears, feeling the dull burn between her legs. Mr Carson had been so sweet and kind afterwards. He had helped her dress again with all the care in the world. He was kind – he was a marvellous man. She loved him – didn’t she? But she was still shocked at the thought of his body. Was this something he would expect her to do again? And why did they have to go on keeping everything a secret? Surely soon they should declare themselves and get married if this was love? But even that didn’t feel right. It filled her with panic. At last the tears came and she lay quietly sobbing out her confusion, before sleep arrived to relieve her.

  Ten

  At the end of her class the next Tuesday, Daisy hustled the students out, put her coat on and looked cautiously into the corridor. There was no sign of James Carson and she hurried out along the corridor a
nd into Vittoria Street, still buttoning her coat. She tugged her collar up, hunching her shoulders, and strode along in the late afternoon gloom.

  She had not seen him since they had parted at the door of his rooms last Thursday and the thought of meeting him gave her a sick, nervous feeling. Her mind was in a total state of confusion.

  ‘Whatever is the matter with you, wench?’ her father had snapped eventually the day before when she seemed to be constantly in another world. No Daisy-Loo these days. She was driving them all mad.

  But her mind felt shattered. What she had done with Mr Carson – or rather what he had done to her, that animal thing, crude yet with pleasure coiled somewhere in it, most especially the pleasure of being wanted, adored . . . But a terrible chill reality had come to her. Was she now a fallen woman? Was that what it meant? Was this supposed to be love? And now what should she do? These terrifying questions boiled in her mind.

  The thought of seeing Mr Carson again filled her with horror. If they could have gone back to how it was before, those times when she had sat with him, his eyes alight with humour and adoration as they drank tea – that was one thing. She had thought of them as innocent but in some instinctive way she had known she was being courted, that there was a flare of attraction in the air between them at all times. But the shock of that man who had stripped naked in front of her, who had laid his forcing body on her, his eyes rolling back as if she were not really there . . .

  She knew she could not avoid him for ever. Her next class was only two days away.

  ‘Today we’re going to begin something new,’ she said.

  The class were all seated at their pegs, light from the windows falling on their expectant Thursday faces. She walked up and down as she addressed them, trying to wrench her mind into concentrating on the class. Was he in the next room now, teaching?

  ‘We are going to start on a small cup – for a child, let’s say. The main body of the mug will be made of a seamed tube – a neck, we call it. Now with any piece, when we start thinking of the design, what do we first have to bear in mind?’

  Several hands went up and she pointed at one. ‘The capacity,’ the boy said.

  ‘Yes. And what else? Simple, but vital?’

  David, the rather slow boy, raised his hand, his face flushing pink.

  Today, she knew it would not be possible to avoid him. He was bound to be waiting for her – what would she say?

  ‘Sorry.’ She felt a mortifying blush rise in her own cheeks. ‘Could you repeat that please, David?’

  Now he looked worried. She had not heard a word but he thought it was his fault.

  ‘It’s all right,’ she reassured him, feeling foolish. ‘I’m sure you’re right. What did you say?’

  ‘The shape,’ he said timidly. ‘I mean – it needs to look like what it is, don’t it?’

  ‘Yes,’ she said. ‘That’s right – simple, but true. Good.’ For goodness’ sake, she chastised herself, dragging her mind to the task ahead. ‘So – we need to cut our blanks and prepare them for soldering – very much as you did for the boxes you made. Make your template out of card first . . .’

  Somehow, she made it through the afternoon of drawing and sawing and hammering. The lads packed up, thanking her. As four o’clock drew closer, her nerves took over. The moment she stepped out of the room – as she had somehow known she would – she saw him hurrying towards her.

  ‘Miss Tallis!’ he greeted her from a distance. It felt false, as if they were acquaintances and that had never happened.

  ‘Mr Carson,’ she said coolly, turning to face him. There were lads swarming all around them.

  He seemed taken aback. ‘All well?’ he said lightly.

  ‘Yes, thank you,’ she said with a formal nod.

  She turned to walk from the building, her skin prickling all over. She knew he would follow, that she would be affronted if he did not, while dreading it at the same time.

  ‘Daisy,’ he murmured, the moment they were out in the chilly air. ‘Don’t be cold with me, my sweet. I can’t bear it.’

  She looked round to find his eyes fastened on her, full of affection and longing. He smiled and she could not help smiling back.

  ‘That’s better – I don’t like to see you looking glum,’ he said. ‘By the way – did you notice that that poor lad, David, has the most enormous crush on you?’

  ‘No!’ Daisy said with a little laugh. ‘I hadn’t. He’s a clumsy lad – well-meaning, though. He’ll be a good workman in the end.’

  Mr Carson gently took her elbow and steered her towards his house. They talked of day-to-day things while underneath there was that, that waiting because she knew what he wanted, why he was leading her . . . And she, who was so forceful about what she wanted normally, could not seem to refuse him. She felt changed – a Daisy Tallis who she did not recognize, who had lost her will. Soon, they were climbing the stairs into his room.

  This time he went through the motions of making tea once again, but as soon as the fire was burning well, he came to her, where she was sitting tensely by the hearth, took her hands and gently pulled her to her feet.

  ‘My, what cold hands! Come to bed, my little angel.’ He gazed down at her. ‘Let me release your lovely hair again.’ His fingers were already working at the pins in her hair. ‘Oh, you are so beautiful, I can hardly believe it.’ He stroked her cheek. ‘All I can think of is kissing you – having you. You make me new again, Daisy – I feel years younger when I’m with you, d’you know that? Come, my dear – give me one of those dazzling smiles of yours.’

  His face was so impish that she could not help but smile back at him, while shrinking inside.

  ‘I don’t . . .’ She tried to protest. ‘I don’t think we should – that I should have . . .’

  ‘Shh, my dearest. Come to me – that’s right!’ Laughing with joy, he pressed himself close against her. ‘What is all this shivering? Come, let me warm you. My dearest, sweet one, don’t you worry. There’s nothing to be concerned about. It’s all the most natural thing in the world. You’ll see – it takes a little practice. But it is where the body and the realm of the soul clasp hands together, my little love – it is nature, the two of us dancing naked together. It is the Garden of Eden for we artistic souls. Let us lie together – come.’

  How could she refuse? Was it right – that he was introducing her to a realm of art, of the soul? Here was a man who had met William Morris, who was a painter, an artist . . . And was that not what she wanted more than anything, a life of art, of creating?

  Once more, some moments later, she was almost naked, and he, already overwrought with desire, fumbling out of his clothes and bearing down on her. And she told herself, even with the smell of him, this alien, forcing body, this was right – she was an adventurer of the soul, an artist. And she held him tight.

  Afterwards, she stepped out into the dusk, her collar once more pulled high up round her ears, the feel of him still on her body. It felt as if there must be a sign above her head shouting to everyone what she had been doing. And when, after a few paces along Vittoria Street, a familiar face came towards her among the afternoon crowd, she was so startled that she almost screamed.

  ‘Oh!’ Her hand went to her racing heart. ‘What are you doing here?’

  Den planted himself in front of her. He was dressed in uniform, his hair cut very short. Looking him up and down, at the strong boots and gaiters, the army cap, she felt suddenly awed. Though there were many more men about in uniform these days, it seemed so strange to see Den wearing khaki like that and he seemed older, appeared to stand taller.

  ‘All right, Dais?’ he said. ‘I was waiting for yer. Where’ve yer bin?’

  ‘Oh – just . . .’ She waved a hand vaguely. ‘Had a few things to do. Are you on leave, or what?’

  ‘Yeah. Done basic training, like. I’ve been to see our mom and the others,’ he said.

  ‘How are they?’ Daisy had met most members of the Poole family. She suddenly reme
mbered what Annie had said about Mrs Poole expecting a baby, but she didn’t think she had better mention that.

  ‘Ar – they’re going along all right,’ he said gruffly. He seemed stiff, on his dignity and somehow like a much older man, she thought. She remembered he had sometimes been like that as a boy, as if the weight of the world was already pressing down on him. She waited, not sure what to say.

  ‘Will yer write then? They’re sending us away – tomorrer.’

  ‘I couldn’t write,’ she said guiltily. ‘I didn’t know where to send it.’

  ‘You just send it to the army.’ He kept his eyes on her face, reaching into a pocket, then handed her a scrap of paper. ‘That’s my service number – for the post. I think you need it – with my name, of course, but that should find me.’

  ‘I’ll try,’ she said guiltily. Den’s face lit up as she said it and she was touched. If it meant so much to him she really must remember to do it. Suddenly she realized she was pleased to see him. It was a relief being with someone closer to her own age. And all he wanted from her was a letter or two. As she folded the piece of paper and slipped it into her pocket, she smiled and said, ‘Where are you going to?

  ‘Oh – up the cut in a coal boat.’ He shrugged, with a wry expression. ‘Dunno. More training, I think. You just do as yer ruddy told. Any road – wherever it is, I’ll be able to think of you, here, like normal. Making all yer fine things. It’ll be nice to think of that.’

  To her surprise, tears filled her eyes at the sweet simplicity of the way he said it. She was so caught up in herself all the time that even the lists of dead and wounded in the papers did not get through to her very often. But now someone so close was in uniform.

  ‘Oh, Den – good luck,’ she said, moved.

  ‘Ta.’ If he saw her tears he did not say anything. He kept his eyes steadily on her, beginning slowly to back away. ‘You keep on being our Daisy Tallis,’ he said. As he turned away he added, ‘T’ra for now, Dais.’