The Silversmith's Daughter

by Annie Murray

  Blood rushed to her face. She had still not told him anything, not about Hester or how her life had changed. Den still thought she was the Daisy Tallis she used to be, Queen Bee, taking the world by storm, succeeding in everything she did. And she shrank inside from telling him the truth. Let him go on believing that – why not?

  She changed the subject, asking him how he was, about the hospital. There was a magazine on his bed and, desperate for something to say, she picked it up and asked about it. Southern Cross, it was called.

  ‘Oh, ar – gives us summat to read,’ Den said. ‘Only thing is, I don’t read any too well. Too much time bunking off school.’

  ‘Would you like me to read you a few bits?’

  ‘Go on then.’ He looked delighted and got back on to the bed, waiting, like a child eager for a story.

  Daisy smiled, relieved to find something to do. Other visitors seemed to be chatting away but she was not sure what they could talk about and she did not want to drown him in the family’s grief. He had worked with Georgie at the Watts’s works. But she did not feel like telling him the news. Not now. Why make things worse?

  She flicked through the magazine. It was obviously designed to be cheery: cartoons, a few skits on the hospital, reports of entertainments they had had. She read a few jokes about the food, hospital soup described as ‘an onion skin in water’, and Den smiled but he added, ‘It ain’t bad really.’

  A poem caught her eye. ‘From His Wife’, she read (a woman’s appreciation of the woman who nursed her husband). That didn’t seem quite the thing to entertain Den, but she could not help starting to read it herself:

  ‘Dear Sister in the ward to-day

  I could not speak or take your hand

  Tears choked the words I tried to say

  But think – and then you’ll understand.

  ‘To you he’s but a patient there

  One of a lot who come and go . . .’

  Her eyes skimmed down . . .

  ‘But he is all I have to love . . .’

  She stopped, because it was too unbearable to go on.

  ‘What’s that, Dais? Read it me?’ Den said.

  ‘No,’ she managed to say, husky voiced. Fighting her tears, she turned the page and smiled up at him. ‘I’m sure there are some more funny things in here – let me find those.’

  His hand was on her arm suddenly and, despite the tears in her eyes, she was forced to look up at him.

  ‘What’s up?’ he said. ‘Oh, Dais – don’t cry. I hate to see yer upset.’

  ‘Nothing.’ She swallowed. ‘It’s just a sad poem.’

  Den gazed at her. ‘D’you know, you’re so beautiful,’ he said wonderingly.

  ‘Don’t,’ she said, looking down again, so close to bursting into tears that she really wanted to run from the room. ‘Don’t, Den – please. Look, let me find something else to read.’

  Twenty-Eight

  3 September 1916

  Margaret woke to the sound of a church bell tolling in the distance. As happened every morning, she opened her eyes feeling comfortably content on the thick feather bed, enjoying those moments of freshness, of simply being and remembering nothing. When memory came, it brought down once more the dark weight of grief.

  Georgie. And the distress of his family. Clara was so upset, so angry at the war leaving her with no husband and her children with no father. Aunt Hatt wept and wept, almost a ghost herself with shadows under her eyes. But Uncle Eb was the one who Margaret found the most heartbreaking.

  ‘It hurts,’ he said to her quietly, in the days after they had heard the news. He pressed his belly. ‘Here. As if someone’s kicked me in the guts. And it never goes away. I can’t believe it – my lad, never coming back. Why did they have to take my one lad?’ His kindly eyes were full of pain and bewilderment.

  Feeling Philip stirring beside her, Margaret said quietly, ‘I still can’t believe it.’

  He turned on his side and drew her into his arms. His chin rested on her head. ‘Georgie?’

  ‘Umm,’ she said into his chest, already close to tears. He was so solid and comforting. ‘I don’t understand why we had to have a war. Why someone couldn’t just . . .’ She petered out. Just what? What, in the end, was it all for?

  Philip had no answer. There was no answer. They lay holding each other. From the attic they heard a high little wailing sound: Hester waking.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ Philip said suddenly.

  She moved her head to look at him. ‘What for?’

  ‘Being so hard on her. You were the one who . . . You’ve been a mother to her, Margaret. A real, loving mother.’

  ‘Shh,’ she said. ‘I do love her. Even if she can be a little madam sometimes. She made a mistake – but it wasn’t all her mistake. And in the end, she’s the one carrying the can for it all.’

  ‘A woman’s lot,’ Philip said.

  ‘Yes,’ Margaret flared. ‘Precisely – but why?’

  Her husband, realizing that his attempt at sympathy had backfired somewhere, kept quiet and cuddled close to her. He nuzzled her neck and she laughed as his beard tickled her.

  ‘Philip,’ she said warningly. ‘I’ve got to get up for church.’

  ‘No, you haven’t,’ he said teasingly, as he began to caress her.

  ‘I have. You wretched heathen.’

  ‘It’s early,’ he said, his hands moving over her body, his own eyes closing. ‘You don’t need to go yet.’

  ‘Umm,’ she conceded, turning to him and cuddling closer. ‘I suppose I don’t.’ She gave him a playful poke in the ribs. ‘You’re terrible – on the Sabbath as well!’

  Twenty-Nine

  ‘So – you’re ready?’

  Smiling, Annie stood by Den Poole’s bed, where he sat waiting, dressed in the blue uniform of a convalescing soldier.

  ‘Yeah. Think so.’ He looked self-conscious, patted the jacket’s wide lapels and then tried to pat his pockets until he looked up ruefully, realizing that there weren’t any. ‘Dunno where we’re supposed to put our smokes.’

  ‘I expect they were economizing on cloth,’ Annie said. ‘Anyway, you’ll be back in full uniform all too soon, I should think, by the look of you. You’ve done well, Den.’

  She could see he was nervous. Though he had healed quickly and was certainly well enough to leave the hospital, there was still some way to go. He was being sent for a few weeks’ convalescence at the army training camp in Sutton Coldfield.

  ‘Will you tell ’er where they’ve sent me?’ Den said.

  ‘Who – Lizzie? She already knows, Den.’ She knew really that he did not mean Lizzie.

  ‘No – Daisy. Thought I might go and call – when I’m up to it. It’d be nice to see Mrs Tallis again an’ all.’

  ‘Well,’ Annie said, without committing herself. ‘You need to go and make sure you rest first. We don’t want you overdoing it – do you hear, Den?’

  ‘Yes, nurse.’ He grinned up at her and she saw the little lad she had once known plodding barefoot round the streets, selling his pathetic little bits of firewood. She felt moved. Den had come a long way. In his uniform, smart and groomed army fashion, he looked an impressive, handsome man.

  ‘Best of luck.’ She held out her hand, trying not to get emotional. ‘Your transport must be here – come on.’ She led him to the door of the ward. ‘We don’t want to see you again, Den – not in here, anyway.’

  Annie stood watching him walk away with the orderly who had come to fetch him. He turned back for a moment and waved. Almost as if I’m his mother, she thought. She was just about to go back into the ward when another tall, RAMC uniform-clad figure appeared, striding along the corridor at a pace that could only mean something urgent. She waited, with a sudden feeling of misgiving as Fergus came almost running towards her.

  ‘Nurse Hanson!’ He drew closer and she could see the tension in his face. In a much lower voice, he said, ‘Annie – have you got a moment?’

  She hesitated. ‘Not real
ly. Whatever is it?’

  ‘Go and ask Matron if Dr Reid can borrow you for a few minutes – no, wait, I’ll go.’

  He strode into the ward. Matron, who almost melted into a puddle on the floor every time Fergus appeared, could hardly say no.

  ‘Come on.’ He led her at a gallop towards the front entrance and out into the autumn sunshine.

  ‘Fergus!’ Annie protested. ‘Just stop and tell me.’

  They paused at the corner of the building, away from the bustle of the front entrance.

  He hesitated for a second, then looked directly into her eyes. ‘I’m being posted.’

  Her heart seemed to stop, as if clutched in a tight hand. She remembered to breathe.

  ‘Where?’

  ‘France. Not sure where exactly yet. It’ll be one of the big casualty clearing stations near the coast – most likely Dieppe or Étaples.’

  She stared at him. It was no good saying, Don’t go. He was under orders. But oh, heaven, how she loved him and how she did not want him to leave! The idea of him no longer being here, striding about the hospital, went through her, an actual physical pain.

  ‘It’ll make all the difference,’ she said, looking squarely back at him. ‘You’ll make all the difference.’

  They had had numerous conversations about how many of their patients would have fared better if they had been treated sooner. The army was moving the treatment closer to the Front; more operating theatres were being set up, there was the new technique of transfusing blood, and specialists were on hand to deal with the wounds and injuries before too much blood was lost, before death-dealing infections set in. And Fergus, with all his expertise, was needed, she knew. It was so obvious that she felt surprised it had not happened before.

  ‘Come with me,’ he said, in a very low voice.

  Annie stared at him. Come with me. A world of possibility opened for a second. Had she not always wanted to travel further, wider than she ever had? She could volunteer to nurse in France, in one of the new nursing contingents who would cross the Channel to work nearer the Front. She and Fergus, together, striving to save the lives of all those boys, united in love of the work and love of each other . . . She almost said, Yes, yes, of course I will . . . But she knew it was not right. She loved her work here, wanted to give support to Lizzie, to Margaret and her family. It surprised her how much she did not want to go.

  ‘I couldn’t guarantee being close to you in any case, could I?’ she said. ‘You’ll be moved again. We might be at opposite sides of the country.’

  ‘In fact,’ Fergus admitted, ‘I’d really rather you were here, where I know you’re safe. I can picture you, keeping the home fires burning.’ He smiled, with a touch of irony. ‘And with your very nice family, I think that is just what you should be doing. They’ve lost enough lately.’

  They had still never managed to visit Margaret and Philip together. There had simply not been time. She had kept Fergus rather a secret up until then, but she had told him a lot about them and the business and all that was going on. But meeting them was obviously going to have to wait even longer. Their snatched time off had been spent in town.

  ‘When are you going?’ she said, struggling to be brave.

  ‘Next couple of days.’ He looked aside for a moment, across at the grand facade of the university buildings. ‘I imagine it will all be a lot more rudimentary than this.’ He reached for her hand. ‘My love – I know I have things to do there. I’m bound to go. But leaving you . . .’

  Annie’s eyes filled with tears. Annoyed at herself, she wiped them away. Heavens, she was becoming a soppy thing.

  ‘It’ll be a poor place here after you’ve gone,’ she said. Another tear rolled down her cheek. ‘At least I’ve got that photograph.’ Once, on one of their rare visits into Birmingham, it had been early enough for them to go into a photographer’s and have their portrait taken together. The idea had been Fergus’s and he had, in his usual way, persuaded her.

  Fergus smiled. ‘You’re a sweet little poppet after all,’ he teased. But he looked moved and tenderly put his arms round her for a moment.

  Annie frowned, wiping her face. ‘Go on with you,’ she said. ‘You dreadful man.’

  ‘Have you any time – can we be together?’

  She thought helplessly of her rostered hours over the next days. ‘Only at about five o’clock in the morning.’

  Fergus grinned. ‘Well – so be it. Tomorrow at five?’ He leaned over and tenderly kissed her cheek.

  They met in the mild darkness before dawn, out in the hospital grounds. Annie had been a bag of nerves creeping out of the nurses’ quarters again, terrified that someone would catch her. But once she was outside, she could breathe again. She saw Fergus coming towards her, the silhouette of his cap against the sky’s uncertain light.

  ‘Come, my darling,’ he whispered, his arm round her shoulders while they walked.

  After some moments so full of feeling that they could not begin speaking, Fergus said quietly, ‘I’m looking forward to seeing what kind of letters Nurse Hanson will write.’

  ‘I’ll write,’ she said, not in the mood for teasing. ‘Of course I will. I’ll write and write, and I want to hear everything from you – every detail.’

  ‘Well,’ he said. ‘I’ll do my best.’ He glanced at her. ‘I understand why you don’t want to come – and of course, we could have been sent miles apart. So I’ll have to describe it all for you. And then, when I come back . . .’

  ‘You’ll get some leave at some time, won’t you?’ she said, seeing months stretching before her, desolate, never knowing when she might see him. Like so many others who were waiting and longing, she realized, feeling it now, truly for the first time. MIZPAH, she thought.

  Fergus let the breath hiss out through his teeth. ‘Truth to tell you, I don’t know. There must be leave, but whether it would be only in France . . . We’ll just have to see. But Annie . . .’

  He stopped on the wet grass and turned to hold her. As she embraced him, feeling his back, his long body, him, here now, she tried to inhabit every second of it as it slipped away.

  ‘When I do come home – when all this terrible mess is over . . .’ He stopped. They had talked about the future many times, in tentative, half-joking terms. How many children was it wise to have? Was it better to have boys or girls? A point they could never agree on but, as Fergus said, fortunately it was something nature decided for you. Where was the ideal place to live? But now he was serious.

  ‘Annie, my dearest love – once we are living in a time of peace again, when life can go on without such fear as now – will you promise to be my wife?’

  Thirty

  ‘Oh – hello, Auntie Annie!’

  Daisy opened the door that Monday afternoon, Hester balanced on her hip.

  ‘Just popping in, Daisy,’ Annie said, stepping into the hall. ‘Hello, little lovely.’ She kissed Hester’s cheek and Hester chuckled and beamed at her. ‘Ooh, you’re a happy little soul, aren’t you?’

  ‘She is now,’ Daisy said ruefully. ‘You should have heard her at dinner time – she can blart for England when she puts her mind to it!’

  ‘Are you all right, Daisy?’ Annie said, hanging her hat and coat in quick, neat movements. The girl was changed, of course. Thinner, more subdued and mature.

  ‘Yes, I’m all right,’ Daisy said. What else was there to say? When so much sadness was all about them, and especially now such a terrible grief had come to the Wattses next door, what were her frustrations about hardly being able to do any of her own creative work set against that?

  ‘You just look a bit pale,’ Annie said, peering at her.

  Daisy was not about to tell her that she had been staying up very late. She would go into her workroom once Hester seemed settled and everyone was off to bed and work away for as long as she could on her smithing. It made her feel sane, handling her tools, doing the work that she loved, even if only for an hour or two. But it was very tiring and even ham
mering anything was tricky for fear of waking Hester in the next-door room.

  ‘Annie!’ Margaret came out of the office. It was only four o’clock – an odd time for Annie to appear. ‘Just in time for a cup of tea.’

  They usually took tea in the office with the staff, but as Annie was there, Philip, Margaret and Daisy went into the back room with her.

  ‘Well,’ Annie said, as Margaret poured for them all. Daisy saw how excited she was looking, and so pretty. It was as if the old, austere Annie had turned into a swan as the fable went. ‘I’ve not got a lot of time because I must go and see Lizzie after this. Her wages are better at Kynoch’s, but she’s worried to death about who’s looking after little Ann. She thinks the lady looking after her’s not feeding her properly – and she’s getting on a bit to handle a young child. Ann’s been poorly . . . But anyway. I’ve come to tell you some news.’

  ‘Oh.’ Margaret handed her a cup of tea and sat down, looking worried. With Annie, ‘news’ could mean anything.

  Daisy felt herself tighten inside as well. Was Annie about to announce that she was being sent to a hospital at the Front? That would be just like Annie, to go and do something extreme and heroic. And Daisy knew that Margaret would never have another good night’s sleep if she did.

  ‘It’s all right,’ Annie laughed. ‘It’s not that bad.’

  ‘Glad to hear it,’ Philip remarked drily.

  ‘No – it’s . . .’ She looked suddenly very bashful. ‘The thing is – I’m engaged to be married.’

  There was a stunned silence.

  ‘Married?’ Margaret said, looking truly discombobulated.

  ‘Yes,’ Annie said, laughing. It was obvious how happy she was.