by Annie Murray
‘Do you know how much you’ll be charging?’ Daisy said anxiously. ‘I’m working for Pa for my keep, and I’ve taken on another class, but I’m only teaching three afternoons at the moment – although I’d be able to do more if she comes here.’
‘Oh, we’ll work it out,’ Clara said. ‘There’s her food, of course. But I want to be able to help people. Some of them are getting an allowance.’ She frowned slightly. ‘Maybe you could as well?’
‘I don’t know, what with me not being married and everything.’ Daisy blushed, looking down. ‘I doubt they’d give me anything . . .’
‘Well, I tell you what,’ Clara said. ‘I’m feeling my way here and you’ve the tram fares to pay as well. What if we start with two shillings to begin with, each time she comes? And I’ll see how it goes.’
‘Is that enough?’ Daisy said doubtfully.
‘Well, it’ll cover her food. And you’re family.’ Clara smiled. ‘I’ve already got a neighbour’s daughter coming – starting tomorrow! She was desperate. And she’s not much older than Hessie.’
The maid came in with a tray of tea and Clara patted the seat next to her. ‘Come on – sit down properly and we can talk about it all.’
Daisy, who was used to rolling out of bed and being able to go to work downstairs, did indeed have to get up earlier, but she rose from her bed on wings, knowing Hester would be safe and happy with Clara and she could go back to work feeling freer, younger.
And at last, one precious afternoon of the week, she climbed up to her little workshop at the top of the house. She had tried to work at night sometimes, though the light was bad and there had been a strange, dreamlike atmosphere being there alone in the small hours.
Now, for the first time, she was able to sit at her workbench in the slanting light of afternoon. She stared at her tools – her hammers and saws, snips and files – picking each up, renewing her acquaintance with it in daylight as if it were an old friend. She drew in a deep breath, hearing only the muffled sounds from downstairs, feeling the quiet around her, letting herself expand into it. Her younger self before Hester and who she was now – how far apart they seemed! – could begin to reach out to each other.
She looked at her mother’s little jewel box over on the shelf; the stones caught in the light and an ache filled her chest. It was so hard to remember her mother. She had no picture of her and she knew her as a presence, as lovely autumn-leaf hair, an arm about her back as they sat side by side, the smell of lavender.
‘I’m sorry, Mom. I let you down so badly. But I’m going to try – really try . . . I’m a mother now,’ she whispered. ‘And you’ll never see my little Hester . . .’ A tear fell like a gemstone on to her old grey skirt. ‘I wanted to make you proud of me and I don’t think you’re going to be now. But maybe Hester will make us both proud.’
Almost as if daring herself, she reached down to the lower cupboard and took out the silver tea set she had been making, the jug and sugar bowl, the troublesome teapot and the toast rack. She set them on the table in a thin patch of sunlight. They were solid silver and for now were tarnished and dull, but as the sun shone on them she took in their unusual shape that she had worked so hard to achieve, the angular spout of the jug, the simple lines and minute beading along the edges. She breathed in and out, almost a gasp of recognition. They were good. They were! More tears fell into her lap.
‘Oh, Mom,’ she sobbed. ‘I want to do well. I want to be better – to be the best.’
She froze, hearing feet on the stairs, and quickly, angrily wiped her eyes. Who could be coming up here, just when she at last had a few moments to herself, to commune with her own work?
‘Daisy?’ Margaret tapped apologetically at the door and walked in. As she stood by the bed, the slanting light brightened a panel of her emerald-green skirt. She took in Daisy’s sullen, tear-stained face.
‘I’m glad you’ve been able to come in here,’ she said carefully. ‘I don’t want to interrupt but – well, obviously now I have.’ She smiled. ‘Oh!’ She took in the sight of the silverware. ‘Those look . . . Oh, they’re delightful! And so unusual.’
Gratified, Daisy smiled. ‘Thanks. I’ve still got a lot to do.’
Margaret tilted her head. ‘You’ve been a brave girl, Daisy.’
Daisy felt her eyes fill again. She felt like a fountain of emotion this afternoon, as if suddenly there was space and time for it.
‘I know it’s been hard for you. But little Hester is – well, she’s such a love. Oh, don’t cry, dear. I didn’t come up to upset you. In fact, what I came for was to give you this. It came in the second post.’
Daisy took the little brown envelope from her. Glancing up at Margaret for a moment, she opened it. She found a note in badly formed writing, with poor spelling, the lines lurching down the page.
Dear Dais,
I hope this gets to you. I’ll try and write though I’m not much good at it. Make sure you write to me. You’ve got my number. Your letters are what I need.
It’s snowing here and we’re moving forward tomorrow so I don’t know what might be next exackly. Everyone’s in good heart.
I never said Daisy what you really are to me. Can’t really now sept I know Im your man and I hope that’s the way you see it now. I can be a father to your baby I know I can. So all I wont now is fer us to be toggether when this lot is all over.
Your mine Daisy I’ve always looked up to you since we was together all those years ago. Now I can look you in the eye and tell you I love you I would if you was here I’ve got my courage up now. I was going to ask one of the other lads what to say but ’ive done it myself.
Write soon won’t you Dais, my girl.
Your Den.
Her eyes moved as fast over the words as the poor handwriting would allow. One hand went to her throat. My girl. In confusion she looked up at Margaret, who was watching her face. She did not want to show her the letter. She was overwhelmed and appalled by it. Had she really given him reason to think he could claim her like this?
‘It’s from Den,’ she said, folding it quickly back into the envelope.
Margaret’s eyebrows arched in surprise. ‘Oh. He got round to writing! Anything to say? Is he all right?’
‘He seems to be,’ Daisy said. ‘He says they’re “moving forward”.’
She saw her stepmother wondering, then restraining herself from asking any questions, and was grateful for her disciplined nature. She didn’t want questions – she did not know how to answer them to herself, let alone to Margaret.
After a moment, Margaret said, ‘You must write back, obviously. Write to him every week.’
‘Every week?’ Daisy stared back, horrified. She knew Margaret had always had a soft spot for Den Poole, but really, this was a lot to expect. She started to protest, but Margaret cut her off with a movement of her hand.
‘You don’t need to say much, Daisy. Just write a brief note – tell him things you’re doing, day to day.’ Seeing Daisy’s deepening frown, she said firmly, ‘He’s not got much – I don’t suppose Lizzie writes often with all she’s got going on. Be kind to him, Daisy, that’s all I ask. We don’t know what’s going to happen from one day to the next, do we?’
Daisy watched her graceful figure move to the door and heard her feet descending the stairs. She picked up a handful of silver wires and started to twist them restlessly, artfully, concentrating until she saw the beginning of a shape.
Thirty-Six
Daisy hurried along Vittoria Street. The dinner hour was coming to an end, the crowds thinning out, everyone glad to get back inside out of the freezing weather. A trickle of snow was falling. She had her scarf wrapped round her nose and her hands pushed into her coat pockets.
‘Oh, why’s it still so cold?’ she muttered to herself. She was immediately filled with guilty feelings that she was to spend the afternoon in a classroom which, even if the heat from the stove was rather feeble, was indoors and safe and not exposed to the elements. So many gr
umbles these days were measured against the thought of soldiers in freezing, mud-filled trenches or sailors on the black, heaving sea. And now the sea was not just icy and terrifying in itself; it was patrolled thickly by German U-boats, trying to stop American ships bringing food across the Atlantic.
‘They’re trying to starve us out,’ people kept saying. And now the Tsar had abdicated in Russia and no one knew what the Russians were going to do . . . Every day, the war seemed darker and more frightening.
She did her best to write to Den, struggling to find things to say. ‘My life’s just always much the same,’ she told him. Her letters were short. His even shorter. He just seemed to need contact, seemed utterly delighted that she was in touch with him.
‘Your letters are everything to me, Dais. Its like having a lite in the dark.’ She was touched by this. The war had brought out a sweetness in Den – at least towards her – that she had never seen before. And now sometimes he mentioned a lad called Wilf, who came from Cannock. It seemed he had made a friend and she realized she had never known Den to have a friend before. In fact, she knew that lately she had been rather friendless herself. It was a very long time since she had seen May, who she had trained with, and now that she had Hester, May felt like someone from another life. Clara’s friendship, even though Clara was a good deal older, meant a great deal to her.
‘Ah, Miss Tallis! Just the person I was hoping to see.’
She had come in to help Mr Harper run the afternoon class in raising, chasing and repousée, but as she unwound her scarf in the corridor, she saw the head of the school hurrying towards her.
‘Good afternoon, Mr Gaskin,’ she said. She was always pleased to see him and had great admiration for him and for his own work. Since she had had Hester she felt awkward in his presence, uncomfortable with the fact that she had hidden her predicament from him. But now that Hester was older, and being cared for, she felt more relaxed again.
‘Spare me just a second, will you, Miss Tallis?’ he said, drawing her close to the wall to let the incoming students get past. He smiled sweetly at her. ‘I’m sure you can imagine what I am going to ask.’
Daisy smiled. ‘I think I might be able to guess,’ she said.
‘It may not be quite what you think. Of course, as you know, recruiting teachers is nigh on impossible at the moment. So, yes, it is about your perhaps taking on a little more. Might that be a possibility?’
‘Yes, of course I’ll help if I can,’ Daisy said, her heart lifting. How good it felt to be able to say yes so easily, without the explosive sense of panic she would have felt at the thought of who was going to look after Hester.
‘I realize you are already working with Mr Harper. But in fact, Mr Cuzner will soon be back to join him and I wonder whether I might poach you for something else?’
‘Which class would it be?’ Daisy asked.
‘At present, I think we can offer you a choice,’ Mr Gaskin said with a wry expression. ‘It’s either model drawing with Mr Bradley or clay modelling with myself.’
‘Oh –’ she didn’t hesitate – ‘clay modelling, please!’
Mr Gaskin smiled. ‘You never were very keen on the drawing side, despite your excellence at it.’
Daisy blushed. ‘I’ve always preferred shaping things. Like my mother, I suppose.’
‘I gather she was an excellent smith in her own right,’ Mr Gaskin said gently. ‘Anyway – yes, clay modelling. We may be getting some convalescent soldiers from Highbury Hall hospital into the school. But there is something else. Arrangements have been made for someone to go into hospitals in the area to work with some of the men who are able, teaching clay modelling there. Now, we did have someone lined up, but sadly she is rather unwell at present. I wondered if I might persuade you? We could rearrange it so that you teach your other classes during the evening session?’
‘Oh.’ Daisy was taken aback. Her heart began to thud harder. Arrangements for Hester spun round in her head. She would have to get to Handsworth and back – yes, that was possible – and did this still mean she could keep her precious afternoon for work? And to go and teach men with all sorts of injuries – that sounded frightening. But then she thought of Annie. And she could fit it all in – just.
‘Well, perhaps I could. Would it be the First Southern general hospital?’
‘That might be one of them – I’m not sure at present. If you are interested in principle, it would be a godsend, Miss Tallis. I can give you the details before long, of course.’
The thought was beginning to brighten inside her.
‘I’d like to do something for the war effort. I’ve never felt I could be of much use before.’
Mr Gaskin gave a wry smile. ‘Indeed. We do have a role in retraining men where that is appropriate for them. But I was going to mention another proposal for something more that the school might do for the war effort. We are preparing to install machines, lathes and so on, in various of the rooms, including the elementary silversmith’s room – for making Vernier and micrometer gauges.’
‘When?’ Daisy said.
‘Soon – next month, I believe. But the room should be free for the evening classes, if you could manage the three?’ He stopped, looking harassed. ‘It has yet to be worked out fully, but don’t worry – we all have to work round each other.’ He began to walk away as if another thought had occurred to him. ‘So you are prepared to do the convalescent work?’
He was gone before she could give an answer.
‘Come on, Hessie, stop messing about,’ Daisy urged her daughter early the next morning, trying to hurry her along Hamstead Road in Handsworth.
It was Friday and this morning she would be working for Pa. After that, there was no class to teach at Vittoria Street and she could have her one blessed afternoon in her workroom. She was already playing in her mind with the design she had begun of a wide, hand-beaten dish. And there was that twist of wire which was forming sinuously into the trunk of a tree . . .
Snowflakes tickled against their faces, although last night’s fall had been light and there were only a couple of inches of virgin snow, creaking under their feet as they walked. Hester was entranced by it and not to be hurried. She kept bending down, trying to pick up as much snow in her arms as she could and exclaiming crossly when it slipped back to the ground again. Daisy smiled, in a moment’s adoration of her little girl. But, adorable as she looked in a little crimson coat and cream woolly hat, Daisy had to get to work.
‘For goodness’ sake, we can’t fiddle about at this time in the morning! Your grandpa’ll be after me – he’s got a lot for me to do today.’ She scooped Hester into her arms and she squirmed and squealed, but Daisy hurried on to Aunt Hatt’s house.
She knew Aunt Hatt would have left by now. She was amazed by Harriet Watts, the way she had inserted herself back into Watts & Son. She no longer had the driver that Eb had provided for her. To everyone’s amazement she had said she would travel in on the tram.
‘It’s not far and I like being out and about,’ she said. ‘That’s how you meet people – not sitting on your own in some private conveyance.’
And now she had opened up her house to other people’s children.
Daisy let Hester down on the step of the big villa and was about to knock when the door opened.
‘Oh – hello,’ she said, smiling at Lizzie Poole. Lizzie, now in charge of all her family, still looked barely more than a child herself. In the bright, snowy light, her face was sallow and unhealthy.
‘All right?’ Lizzie hurried past, flustered as ever about getting to work. She was still on munitions at Kynoch’s.
Clara appeared, brisk and businesslike, an apron over her dress. There was a smell of warm milk and bread.
‘She’s had her breakfast,’ Daisy said, unbuttoning Hester’s coat.
‘I’ll do that,’ Clara said. ‘And Hessie, you can go and see little Ann.’ Clara smiled up at her. ‘I’ve got another new one coming later as well.’
�
�I’ll stop for a cuppa when I pick her up. See you later, Clara!’
As she hurried back along Chain Street, its soot-stained bricks and mucky pavements cheered by the icy whiteness, she felt excitement rise in her. This was her favourite day of the week. She might have to do some boring chores in the office, but Pa was letting her design a collection of silver bracelets in the workshop and then there was the afternoon . . . Although they were still steadily selling MIZPAH items, there was a regular demand for other gifts and other jewellery.
She looked along Chain Street, past the carts pulled up at the side of the road, the horses’ hot breath puffing into the air, the hurrying people; and as she approached their front door she felt happy, lucky, for the first time in a long while.
As she went to the door, she found someone else moving towards it at the same time. Glancing, she saw a dumpy little lady bundled up in a brown coat and shabby brown velveteen hat with a narrow brim. She thought for a moment the woman must have the wrong address, but Daisy saw her look up at twenty-four and twenty-six Chain Street as if to check, and then move towards the door of number twenty-four.
‘May I help you?’ Daisy said, from just behind her.
The woman whipped round, shocked. She was small, with a plain, jowly face and startled brown eyes. For a second she seemed so stunned that she could not think what to say.
‘I . . . yes . . . I . . .’ she began.
‘I’m Miss Tallis,’ Daisy told her, wondering if the woman was quite in her right mind. ‘This is my father’s business – Philip Tallis. Is there someone you want?’
‘Yes.’ She seemed pleased to grasp on to this. ‘That’s it. I want to see Edith.’
‘Edith Taylor? In the office?’
The woman nodded in a heartfelt way. Daisy was about to ask her name but thought this might be a bit much for her, she seemed so overcome, and it was very cold out there.
