‘Mother . . .’ Mr King began. When he pleaded with his mother, Margaret noticed that her father’s voice was high and whining, which made her smile to herself. Only Queenie could bully Ralph King. This gave Margaret pleasure. She liked her grandmother, though she was somewhat odd, it had to be said.
‘Mother nothing. He was a nasty old goat. Everybody knew it. Everybody is thinking it, but nobody has the nerve to say it. I’m glad he’s dead. And so are you, Ralph. We all are. Good riddance to him. Now then, where are my meringues? I specifically asked Cook for some little hazelnut meringues.’
Queenie’s latest rant over, the guests resumed their hushed discussions, now peppered with smirks at the way the great Mr King could never control his mother. Margaret watched them – utterly ignored and content to be so – wondering how people performed this magical feat called conversation. If she could master it, perhaps she could find a friend. But, schooled at home and with only a cruel brother for company, kept closeted away from the world and its ruffians and blackguards – as her father described it – there wasn’t much chance of that.
Once the guests had departed, Margaret watched her father standing proudly before the fireplace, his shoulders back, his chest puffed out and his stomach sticking out the furthest before him. He was pleased with himself. The wake had largely been a success. The Mayor of the borough and his wife had attended, as well as a clutch of other local dignitaries. The service had been suitably sombre and the weather had held. She imagined Father would be most pleased that no summer rain had caused his new shoes to become muddied. He glanced over at his mother and his gaze narrowed. He would be annoyed at her, for embarrassing him. Margaret guessed her father had been hoping Queenie would have retired from a fit of fatigue, yet she had chosen to stay – nobody could tell Queenie what to do – but only because there were some hazelnut meringues left. ‘She could eat and eat and never get fat,’ he would say of his mother, with envy.
Then she saw her father pass his hand over his own rounded stomach and glance at his pretty young wife, Benjamina. This was the woman he had married two years ago, twenty years his junior. She was only nineteen years of age now, only seven years older than Margaret and five years older than Cyril. The Mayor had not been able to take his eyes off her. Her father smiled smugly, then breathed out quite sharply. Margaret wondered if he felt his trousers pinch under his bloated stomach.
Her father turned to look upon his beloved son. My little prince, her father would fondly call him. Cyril gazed up at him, awaiting his father’s next words. Cyril’s blond, unruly curls framed his permanently red, round cheeks. He was short of stature for fourteen, and Father sometimes told him he was ‘a bit of a runt’. Cyril was slim and lithe, yet Father once said, ‘I shall have to watch your treats. I can’t have a fat hog of a son.’ But despite his critical remarks from time to time, the boy seemed to fawn over him.
Then her father turned to look straight at her and grimaced. Whenever he noticed her, he made a face like that. She lowered her eyes, staring at her hands in her lap. She knew she was not unpleasant to look at. She could never be as handsome as Benjamina, of course, but she was considered quite pretty. She had the same blonde curls as her brother, yet much larger eyes. But she knew her lack of social graces was a bitter disappointment to her father. He said to her once, ‘When you are a bit older, you’ll have plenty of suitors. You are rich, after all. But will you be able to speak a word to them? Nobody wants a wife as silent as the grave. A quiet one, yes. That is agreeable. Nobody wants a scold. But not one who couldn’t say boo to a goose. What am I going to do with you?’
Sometimes she wondered if he might prefer it if she never married. That way, she could wait upon him and Benjamina as they got older. She would stay in this house for the rest of his life, a useful nursemaid. Best of all, being family, there was no need to pay her a wage. The thought of such a fate sickened her. If only her mother had survived. Her poor mother, who had died bringing her into the world.
Her mother was a shadowy figure in her life, as her father never spoke of her. All she’d heard from him was that she was a ‘weak, yellow-haired girl’. What a cruel description for the person who had been the centre of his world, who haunted Margaret with her loss. She thought she might cry then, as she considered her real mother, dying in childbed, lost forever. She wanted to slip away and go to her room, and weep quietly, alone.
But her father was clearing his throat, ready to make a pronouncement. Her grandfather used to stand just there and make those regularly. Now it was her father’s turn, and how gratifying it must be for him, to step into his dead father’s place and be the man of the family at long last.
‘My children,’ he began, closing his eyes for a moment to savour their attention. ‘There is undoubted sadness at my father’s passing, which I am sure you both feel keenly too. But I must say that this is also a new beginning for us all. For myself, it is an opportunity to honour his memory, to prove myself worthy and take his place in society, that of one of the original and most powerful ironmasters in Shropshire.’
‘Oh yes, Papa,’ said Cyril. ‘And I will take your place in years to come. Three proud generations of great and mighty gentlemen.’
‘That is the right and true way of things,’ simpered Benjamina, a picture in the latest fashions, lolling on the chaise longue. She could always be relied upon to agree with him. Margaret watched her stepmother pet her horrid little dog, a hot-tempered King Charles Spaniel called Chloe. She’d tried so hard to like her stepmother, as Benjamina was the only mother she had ever known. But this child-woman was as much like a doll as any woman who ever lived. She was in love with her lapdog and adored it more than anything else, apart from dresses and ribbons, and little cakes and sweets. Perhaps the worst thing about Benjamina was that she was another voice in the house that echoed Mr King’s every whim. Margaret knew that wives must obey their husbands, but Benjamina’s simpering ways seemed somehow false. She wondered what really went on in that empty head of hers. They rarely spoke to each other, because they had not a word in common. Margaret despised her. In fact, as she looked about her close family, she realised with a pang how much she hated all of them – excepting Queenie – and then she felt guilty about such thoughts. But the truth remained: her family was dreadful and it made her ache with loneliness.
‘Hmph!’ began Queenie. Margaret turned to her with interest, eager to see what her disreputable grandmother would come out with next. ‘There was nothing great about him. He was a sneak and a liar. Just ask the baby on the bridge. See what the baby on the bridge would have to say about this ‘great’ man, eh?’
‘Enough, Mother!’ shouted Mr King, then checked himself. ‘Perhaps it is time for an afternoon nap.’
‘I do not nap!’ said Queenie, with disgust. Everybody knew she did have unofficial naps all the time, but never admitted it as she seemed to see it as a sign of weakness.
‘Then perhaps you have consumed too much sugar and it has addled your brain. The things you come up with, I really don’t know. Some might say they were the ramblings of an eccentric woman. You’ll have to be careful, or others would say you need to be put away.’
Queenie turned her head sharply and narrowed her eyes at her son. ‘Whatever you think of yourself, you will never do that to me. I control the money in this house. This house itself and everything in it belong to me, not you. And I have the controlling interest in the iron business, too. Never forget that. That was the meat of your father’s will and well you know it. Despite being a weak and selfish man, he never liked you, and he trusted me. He knew I had a mind for business. So watch your step, my son. You and everything you think you own belong to me.’
Queenie’s eyes were full of fire. But in a moment, she sighed and suddenly did look very tired. Lately she had that way, of being feisty and defiant, then losing interest in it all and changing her mind. Maybe she was a little touched after all, thought Margaret. But then she thought of this ‘baby on the bridge’.
Margaret had heard Queenie speak of this before in recent months, only ever a brief mention and a hint of something bad. Her father always reacted angrily, then twisted the subject. Margaret had once plucked up the courage to ask her grandmother, who was the baby on the bridge? But Queenie had just smiled, tapped her nose with one long, bony finger and said, ‘That’s for the squirrels to know.’
Margaret watched Queenie leave the room, accompanied by her lady’s maid, Jenkins. Now was the time for her to slip out, too, but she knew her father would tell her off if she didn’t formally ask permission. She noticed Cyril had already left a few minutes before, bored of his elders and free to come and go as he pleased.
‘May I leave now, Papa? I am suffering from one of my headaches,’ she said quietly.
‘If you must, Margaret. You let me down again today. You did not even attempt to converse with our visitors. You really must improve yourself, or people will say you are indeed the weakling strain of the family.’
Her stepmother tittered.
‘May I go?’ Margaret whispered, desperate to escape.
‘Yes, yes.’ Her father dismissed her with a wave of his hand.
She left the room, crossed the hall and slipped outside into the courtyard. Her split lip was throbbing. Nobody had even noticed her injury, or at least no one had commented upon it. She was thankful for this, as she was not a confident liar and if she told the truth about Cyril, he would only make her pay for it later. But it left her feeling hollow, too, that nobody cared enough to ask after her. She tried to be a good girl, to do the things her father demanded of her. She did not defy him or anyone in the household for that matter. She was polite and helpful at all times. She tried not to get in anyone’s way, even the servants. But she never received any credit for these virtues. They were silent graces, she supposed. Not so easy to hear as fawning and flattery. It was as if her true self were invisible, a ghost of a girl in her own home, her own life. Time for a walk. Anything to get away from that house, that family. To find a moment’s peace.
She was permitted to take a turn about the gardens. She was not permitted to stray any further than that. Her father had expressly forbidden her from entering the woods ‘where the common people go’. She had walked about the grounds so often these past years, she knew every bush, every flower, every blade of grass in the place. Beyond the boundaries lay the woods, the river below. How she longed to wander there, free of the pull of the house, of her family. But she never had.
What was stopping her, really? Would anyone notice if she strayed from the grounds for a half hour? She looked behind her at the windows of Southover, blank like blind eyes. Nobody was there. It wouldn’t hurt, would it, just to have a quick look? There was no wall to climb over, no door to unlock. Just a quick step across the deep borders and around the boundary trees and she would be into the woods, deep, dark and unknown, as mysterious as an enchanted forest to Margaret. Many times she had thought of it, many times she had been too nervous to defy her father. But today, her hatred of her home and everyone in it was strong and the pull of the wilderness beyond equally so. Margaret decided to allow herself this small act of defiance. Today she would go into the forest. And explore.
Chapter 3
‘Anny!’
She whipped round and looked up.
‘Anny, get away from there!’
‘Oh, Father!’ she cried and threw herself at him, felt his strong arms wrap around her like they always had, ever since she was tiny and he could toss her into the air like straw. She was too big for that now – tall, lanky and a bit clumsy, as the other children often reminded her. But her father was tall, too, and he lifted her up off the ground and took her away from that place, that huddle of workers and the man with the ruined arm on the ground. He put her down away from the scene, nearer the river in a quieter place where they could talk.
‘What’re you doing here? You shouldna be seeing this, wench.’
‘I thought it was you, Father. Oh, I’m so glad it inna you!’
She hugged him again, then added, ‘That sounds wrong. That poor man. Is he . . . dead?’
Her father nodded, his eyes straying to the body on the ground. ‘He was from Broseley. Three chillun at home. He was only young.’
Neither spoke. Anny thought about the children, who would never know their father. And what would happen to their mother now? I’m still glad it inna my father, she thought, then wondered if she were wicked, thinking like that.
‘Here,’ she said, and passed him the lunch she had brought, almost forgotten about in the drama. ‘Open it.’
‘I’ve lost my appetite,’ he said, grimly.
‘Just open it up, please?’
He did so and out slipped the note. He smiled, despite himself and the gravity of the scene.
‘Oh, Anny, you silly wench. What does it say? You know I canna read a word of it.’
A man in a hat approached them. It was the foreman, Mr Pritchard. He was a nice man, despite being over her father. He never had airs and graces and he was fair with the men. Today he looked rather grim.
‘Drodsome business,’ said Father.
‘Yes, bad business. We’ll need to let the master know. He’ll want an inquiry. But it’s Mr King senior’s funeral today. He won’t want to be bothered with this. But he’ll have to be. Oh, hell.’ Pritchard drew his hand across his sweaty face, smudging the dirt, sighing all the while. Then he looked down at Anny and smiled. People always smiled at Anny. But then his face changed, when he remembered where he was and what he had to do.
‘Hello there, Anny. You shouldn’t be here, not now.’
‘I just brought Father’s bait. And a note.’
Pritchard looked to Woodvine’s hands and saw the note there. ‘A note, eh? You can read and write, can you, Anny?’
‘Oh yes,’ she beamed proudly. ‘My mother taught me.’
‘Well, no offence to your father, but it wouldn’t be him that taught you, eh, Woodvine? Not the brightest! But, by God, the strongest and the hardest worker I ever saw. Strong in the arm, thick in the head, so they say.’
Anny was not pleased with the slight to her father’s intellect. He wasn’t stupid, not by a long chalk. But Father didn’t seem to mind. The ironworkers always engaged in plenty of banter and never seemed to take themselves too seriously.
‘We’re mightily proud of her,’ he said and squeezed his daughter’s shoulder.
Pritchard said, ‘You seem like a clever’un then, lass. Can you do a job for me?’
‘Yes,’ answered the girl, curious and willing, but she looked to her father for some reassurance, and he gave a little nod.
‘I need someone to go straight up to the big house and give a message to the estate manager, tell him to tell the master about this poor man here. The estate manager’s office is behind the big house in a little brick dwelling. He’s called Mr Brotherton and his secretary is his wife, Mrs Brotherton. One or both of them is usually there this time of day. The name of the dead man is Lakelin. Can you remember all of that?’
‘Course she can,’ said Father.
‘Of course I can,’ she replied and again her father nodded, his eyes keen.
And off she went. A mission, a job for the foreman. She thought of the poor dead man and of his wife and children. But she was gladdened, too, that she could be of use and she was proud that the foreman had trusted her with such an important role. To carry a message to the estate manager, Mr Brotherton, that would be relayed to Mr King himself. She felt important. If I’d never written that note to Father, she thought, Mr Pritchard wouldna have seen how clever I am and I wouldna be on my way to the big house. Book learning does that, she realised. It was a ticket to the world of men.
Anny took the walk up the riverside towards the imposing King house – named Southover due to its aspect – situated high on the hillside frowning down upon the iron bridge. She thought of Mr King the ironmaster, who had a reputation for being stern and cold. She thought of King’s daug
hter Margaret, whom she glimpsed once from a carriage window; she looked beautiful and had ringlets in her golden hair. Anny felt a poke of envy for Margaret, remembering that she was born the same month as her. She wondered what might have happened if the babies had been swapped, and how different her life might have been. She’d have those ringlets now! But Anny knew that she’d rather have her poor old father than horrid Mr King any day of the week, for all his riches. The huge, dark King house loomed up before her, and as she went around the back to find the estate office, she swallowed her nerves and knocked confidently on the door.
Mr Brotherton looked confused to find a young village girl appearing at his door.
‘I carry an important message from Mr Pritchard. A man called Lakelin has been injured at the furnace. Very seriously injured. In fact, he has passed away from the serious nature of his injuries.’
‘Oh Lord,’ said Brotherton, his gaze shifting to consider all the things that must be done.
Anny went on, ‘He leaves his wife a widow and his children fatherless. They live in Broseley. He was only young. It is a drodsome business.’
Anny waited and eventually he recalled her presence and eyed her curiously.
‘You’re good with words,’ he said.
‘So my mother tells me,’ said Anny. ‘And father. He’s Mr John Woodvine. He works at the furnace.’
‘Good man, Woodvine,’ he replied.
Anny replied, ‘Would you like me to write a note down for you to take back to Mr Pritchard?’
‘You can read and write, child?’
‘I can. My mother taught me.’
‘No need to write it down on this occasion. You clearly have a good memory. Go and tell Mr Pritchard that he must send a man into town to arrange a cart to be sent for the . . . for Lakelin. Tell him that I will inform the master, and I’ll send Mrs Brotherton to Broseley to tell the family. Then I shall come down to the furnace directly. Are you sure you can you remember all of that?’
The Daughters of Ironbridge Page 2
