The Silversmith's Daughter

by Annie Murray

  Signed Josie O’Toole.

  She set off the next morning.

  ‘I know what to do,’ she had said to Margaret. ‘Now we’ve been once. I’ll do just what we did last time – I’ll be back tomorrow.’

  Margaret did not ask anything, did not start handing out advice or instruction. She just gave one of her calm, penetrating looks and said, ‘Think carefully, Daisy. You have made a promise, remember. Promises are easily made.’

  ‘I know.’ She did not, could not, say any more, except, ‘Thank you for looking after Hessie for me.’

  She kissed her little girl goodbye and set off for the station.

  Sitting on the train, as rain streaked the windows, she tried out words she might have said to Hester. I’m going to see your daddy – the man who will be a daddy to you. Den Poole. Den, the man who had always loved her, who had been there waiting for her all the time. That was what she should have said.

  All the way down, she thought soberly about her life. She made herself replay the weeks when she was in the thrall of James Carson, the horrible months of her pregnancy, of sickness and shame and hiding, having to go off to that village with Margaret’s stiff, disapproving father, the thought that she might have just handed Hester over to a stranger who would be raising her now, out of sight.

  And all the time, Den had moved in and out of her life. Den who had lost his father, his little sister, then his mother, all so tragically. Den, who she had treated with a sort of amused condescension. She saw his handsome, smiling face, heard all the things he had said, Write to me, Dais . . . But she also recalled the look on his face when he saw Hester for the first time. The look of . . . triumph? Was that what it had been? As if something had shifted, had brought her down. As if he had known then that he was in with a chance.

  He knew her all right. Den knew her both good and bad, the truth of her and what she had done. And he was prepared to stand by her. He was a skilled man – he could have a great future after the war. He and she would make a good team, could run a business as she had always wanted . . .

  She stopped herself. Sufficient unto the day is the evil thereof . . . One of Margaret’s sayings. First, she had to deal with today. And, it seemed, Den had regained his sight, and she must keep her promise.

  But why, she wondered, did he get this person Josie, who could barely shape her letters, to write for him? Could he really see again, or was it just an excuse to get her to come . . . ?

  Den was still in the hospital at Eastern Terrace. She hurried there through the blowy drizzle, again having to keep a tight hold on her hat. She was glad to get inside. The same woman was sitting at the table downstairs, and as before invited her to leave her bag. But it was a different nurse who guided her upstairs, this time to a different room. Down at the end, she said, on the left.

  Daisy hesitated in the gloomy light of the passage outside the ward and drew in a deep breath. She could hear a murmur of talk and when she found the courage to step into the room, with a feeling of fate, she saw someone standing beside the bed at the far end to which the nurse had directed her.

  She stopped, narrowing her eyes. She recognized the girl in her overall, leaning on the handle of a broom or mop, talking to Den. She had been cleaning the ward last time. In that second, she took in that Den was looking back at the young woman – there were no bandages about his head this time – and it was certainly the look of a person whose eyes were taking in what was in front of him. He was smiling, his face lit up. He could see.

  Den could see, and she was here as she had promised.

  It was the girl who spotted her. She said something and Den looked round. As Daisy walked towards him, his face lit up.

  ‘Daisy!’ He was beaming at her as she reached the bed.

  ‘I’ll leave you then, so,’ the girl said, moving away with the broom.

  ‘Ta, Josie,’ he said as she went off along the ward. ‘That’s the girl who wrote the letter for me,’ Den said, his eyes alight with life. And it was only in that second, finally, as his eyes followed the young Irish woman along the ward, the smile still playing about his lips, that she knew she had done the right thing coming here, that she knew what she must do.

  ‘Hello, Den,’ she said. ‘Look –’ she could say ‘look!’ – ‘I brought you a bun from a shop along the road.’

  ‘Ooh, ta – Chelsea, is it?’ He was boyishly enthusiastic. ‘My favourite.’

  She put it on the table beside the bed and looked round for a chair. There was one at the far end of the ward and she fetched it.

  ‘How’re you feeling, Den?’ she said quickly as she sat beside him, perching on the edge. She felt strong, she realized. Much stronger than she could ever remember.

  ‘I’m all right,’ he said, sounding surprised. ‘You’d never’ve thought, would yer? I mean, I’ve got all sorts of bits and pieces of scrap in me somewhere, they say. Right mess to begin with. But the burns are better – and as it turns out it didn’t finish off my eyes though it might’ve done. When I was lying out there, after I was hit, I managed to get my mask on in the end but it burns through your uniform, see? But when they took them bandages off – oh, I can’t tell yer what it were like.’ He beamed at her. ‘Like being a little babby again and seeing everything for the first time. It were bostin, it were. That girl – she were one of the first things I saw!’

  ‘But does that mean . . . ?’ She frowned at him, still finding it hard to believe. ‘If you’re all right, will they send you back? Not again, surely?’

  ‘Most likely,’ he said, with surprising cheer. ‘Wouldn’t put it past ’em. Eh, Dais – pass me that bun, will yer? I’ve got a hunger on me now – eating like a horse.’

  Laughing, she passed him the bun. It was nice talking easily like this and seeing him better, looking like the old Den, and she thought, Maybe we can just go on like this, chatting like friends without having to go into anything else just yet.

  But almost immediately, Den, after some enthusiastic chewing and swallowing, said, ‘I don’t mind what happens, Dais – all I need to know is that you’re there. That you’re going to be my missus. That’s enough to keep me going through anything.’

  She felt everything in her tighten and she pulled in a deep breath, having to gather herself swiftly. Now. She had to say it now. Reaching out she laid her hand on his, on the arm of his chair.

  ‘Den.’ She looked very directly at him, feeling herself tremble, but she had to go on. ‘I need to talk to you – to be truthful with you . . .’

  And, from eyes which looked out from a scarred face, he gazed steadily back at her.

  To her surprise, she slept soundly that night in the guesthouse where she and Margaret had stayed before, with the kindly landlady. When she lay down, it was like a light being switched off and the next thing she knew, it was morning.

  And all the way back to Birmingham, she felt her mood grow lighter.

  ‘Hello, Dais,’ her father greeted her as she walked into the house that afternoon. His face altered from being glad and relieved to see her, to concerned. ‘Everything all right? Good journey?’

  Hester heard her voice then and came running out, with Margaret and Lily in pursuit.

  ‘Mama!’

  Daisy scooped her into her arms and kissed her soft, warm cheek. ‘Careful, Hessie, you’re nearly throttling me!’

  ‘There’s tea in the pot,’ Margaret said. ‘Come on in and tell us all about it.’

  Even though the children were in there playing, Margaret and Philip sat down with her and it all felt like a special occasion.

  ‘So,’ her father said, stiff with shyness on these matters. ‘What’s been going on, love?’

  ‘Are there to be wedding bells?’ Margaret asked, carefully.

  Daisy’s heart skittered in her chest. She felt suddenly girlishly nervous.

  ‘I think so,’ she said. Blushes rose up her cheeks as she allowed all her feelings of love and hope to flow. ‘I hope so – if he’ll have me. But Pa, M
a, you must come and meet him first because I don’t think he’ll be able to come here and see you just yet. His name is Stephen Ratcliffe.’

  1918

  Fifty-Three

  24 Chain Street

  Hockley

  Birmingham

  15th December 1918

  My dearest Annie,

  Well, my darling sister, the first thing for me to say is that we are missing you! The weather has been foul and each time I set foot outside the door I wonder how much worse might it be in Scotland? But I fear (selfishly and to my dismay) from the tone of your last letter that yourself and Edinburgh are already on fond terms, you and the Royal Infirmary even more so, and that you are settling alarmingly well. And that you now have a new sister in Isobel Munro and have quite discarded your old one . . .

  There – all my grumbles and pettiness from missing you are out of the way. What I really want to say is I am so happy that these terrible years of war which brought you so much darkness and pain might be brought to a close. I am pleased for you that you have found a place where you can start afresh, may remember your beloved Fergus with the friendship of his loving family and cast off the shadows of death and grief, of which being here in Birmingham could only constantly remind you. So you see, my dear, I do understand.

  But still. John and Lily keep asking, when is Auntie Annie coming for Christmas? And Philip and Aunt Hatt are nearly as bad. (I think Philip misses your terrible stories.) So – we shall be patient as it is not too many days now. And even if we were not inducement enough I know you would never miss Lizzie’s wedding. She is like a lily in bloom these days, that poor little waif who you befriended. And she is impressive, this young woman she has become. She is, as ever, full of organization and is to have Ivy, Ethel and little Ann as bridesmaids and Tom Higgins’s boy Joe as their little page. There is such a shortage of men that she has asked old Mr B to give her away! This all sounds rather lavish, but she is being very sensible as Lizzie always is – but just wanting to let everyone possible play a part. It is sad to think how many members of her family are missing when she is still so young. And Tom has not much family either, but I believe his father and brother will be there to support him.

  Aunt Hatt is well, though I do worry about her and keep telling her to slow down and employ more help in running the business. She assures me that Watts & Son is now her life and she wouldn’t know what to do without it. Clara is also well, although now she is no longer needed to do anything for the war effort and is on the loose in Aunt Hatt’s house. At first she was relishing a more tranquil life, but lately I notice her becoming rather restless. Jimmy, Ella and Gina are of course all at school and Clara says she finds the days hang heavy. Is there something wrong with that? I asked her – but in fact I am very occupied myself and would not take to having too many idle hours. She has begun talking about becoming a teacher of young children. Aunt Hatt is rather horrified, but I can see Clara being very good at it.

  I have saved a good piece of news until last. Daisy has just heard that the silver tea set she has been labouring over for so long in between all else, which she sent down to South Kensington, has just won a Gold Medal in the silversmithing category. It is very beautiful and was much lauded by the judges as an exemplary piece of Arts and Crafts smithing. I’ve hardly ever seen her – or Philip for that matter – look so happy!

  We are well under way looking for new premises for her, but for now I rejoice in our very full, but happy household. And our workshop which no longer contains any trace of the manufacture of war, but only of utility and beauty.

  And, my dear Annie, I am waiting with great excitement for your arrival and overjoyed that you are meeting new friends and gathering a new life about you. We shall see you very soon to hear all about it.

  My fondest love for today and may the Lord bless you abundantly,

  Margaret

  Fifty-Four

  That Monday, last year, after her visit to Brighton, Daisy had been to see Stephen Ratcliffe at Hollymoor.

  The orderly wheeled him into the visitors’ room. As he was brought across the room to the table, he did not meet her eye. His face had a hard, tight look as if he was clenching his jaw.

  Even when the orderly had settled him, sideways on to her, and left them together, he sat, staring ahead of him. Daisy had been full of words, of explanations and heartfelt apologies for her cold behaviour to him, but at this moment none of them would seem to come out of her mouth. For long moments they sat in uncomfortable silence. Daisy, hands in her lap, lowered her head and rubbed one thumb again and again across the other so hard that it hurt.

  ‘Why have you come to see me?’ Stephen said at last. He sounded hard, almost aggressive. She dared to look up, but he still could not meet her eye. ‘After all, you don’t seem to be able to stand the sight of me in the classes any more. And you haven’t been . . .’ He shrugged. This was her first visit on a Monday for some weeks now.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ she said. How weak it sounded to her.

  It would have been so easy to make something up, to keep him in the dark about Den as she had so far about Hester. But it would not do. Complete honesty and have done with it, she told herself. That was the only way and if he rejected her when he saw who she really was, well, that must be what she deserved. She would have to accept it. It still did not mean that her life was meant to be with Den.

  ‘Stephen?’ She forced herself to speak into the uncomfortable silence. ‘May I just talk to you for a few moments? Just tell you some . . . things, that you need to know. I think you’d better just let me talk, or I’ll never do it.’

  She could see he was listening. He still did not look at her, but he gave a nod.

  Where to begin? She took a breath.

  ‘On Saturday, I had to go to Brighton. Back to Brighton, I should say. Someone I know, who I grew up with, sort of anyway, is in hospital there. He was wounded – for the second time. He’s in the artillery and he’s come back from Ypres. While he was lying wounded, he was also gassed – and blinded.’

  Stephen was sitting very still and she could feel that she had his complete attention. The murmur of other voices in the room seemed to fade and they were intent on each other.

  ‘It was the second time I had been to see him. I went in the summer, and he was . . . he looked terrible. You could hardly see him for bandages and no one knew whether his eyes would recover. And while I was there I promised him that if his sight returned, I would marry him.’

  Stephen did not move but she sensed something from him, like a kind of inner flinching.

  ‘At least – I didn’t exactly promise. But somehow he believed that I had.’ As she spoke she realized how peculiar this sounded. If his sight returned? Did she love the man or not? Surely it was not dependent on his sight?

  Stephen cleared his throat. ‘And did it return? His sight?’

  ‘Last week I got a letter from him, telling me that it had. That he could see again. But even though I had . . .’ She hesitated, looking down for a second. ‘Promised – or he thought I had . . . He didn’t exactly force me, but he put me in a position where he just kept believing I had said . . . Anyway, I went to see him to tell him that I could not marry him – even though he had his sight. That it just wasn’t right, or where I . . . I wanted to be . . .’

  She saw Stephen’s chin lift slightly, as if at the impact of this. He turned and looked at her then and she saw the hurt and bewilderment.

  ‘But why did you promise?’

  ‘Because . . .’ She looked away for a moment, trying to find the courage. ‘I’ve known Den for years and he’s been fond of me for a long time – or so he said. The truth is, I never thought about him seriously, not like that. I wasn’t the most humble of people back then, Stephen. And then later . . . Well, I thought he was the only man who would ever want me and so when he kept on about marrying him I didn’t say yes, but I didn’t really say no, either. Because I thought, things being the way they are, that perhaps I sh
ould marry him. But by then I had met you . . .’

  Their eyes met for a second and she looked away, her face lit with blushes. She felt washed in shame.

  ‘Daisy,’ he said slowly. ‘What on the earth are you talking about? Here you are, the most beautiful, the most—’

  ‘Stop!’ She spoke urgently, and too loudly. She looked round for a moment then lowered her voice almost to a whisper so that Stephen leaned in closer. ‘Please, Stephen. This is the trouble. You think I’m so good or pure or something . . . That’s so false – you’ve got completely the wrong idea.’

  They were close together now and she made herself look into his eyes, her gaze intense and fearful.

  ‘I know you think you want me, but you don’t know anything about me.’ She couldn’t stop now. ‘I am not what you think, Stephen. What if I told you that I already have a child – a little girl who is two years old?’

  She saw it register in his eyes, the look of hurt, of disillusionment.

  ‘You’re already married?’

  She shook her head. ‘No.’

  ‘A widow then?’

  She just looked at him.

  ‘I see.’ He looked away. ‘No, in fact I don’t really understand. You’ll have to tell me.’

  ‘He was a teacher, at the school in Vittoria Street. He’s dead now, Stephen. He was killed on the Somme. I was young – in fact I’d known him since I was a child. I thought I was in love with him and he thought he was in love with me. But he was already married even though they were living separately. He was rather absorbed in himself, but I really think he did love me – or thought he did. And I . . .’ She stumbled into silence, cheeks burning with shame and embarrassment. ‘I allowed . . . it to happen. A kind of affair, I suppose. Not for long. But for long enough. And he went away and then he was dead.’

  She did not feel like going into all the ins and outs. Her father’s rage, James Carson’s callousness about the child. What did it all matter now? She could not look up, not until she heard his voice.