by Anna King
‘I’ll be going up to bed now, Lily. I’ll see you in the morning.’
Lily jumped. She hadn’t heard Daisy come up behind her. ‘All right, Mrs Chadwick. Good night.’
Daisy smiled tiredly, then turned away, her feet taking her through the heavy door that led to the upstairs bedrooms. Picking up the lantern from the hall table, she began climbing the stairs slowly, watching her shadow dance in front of her from the light of the flickering candle. When she reached the top of the stairs, she came to a halt outside Ruby’s room.
Pushing the door open, she looked in on the silent figure. Satisfied that she was asleep, she went to the room next door. The two boys were huddled together in a heap, their arms and legs flung wide, the blankets barely covering their small bodies. The patchwork quilt she’d made herself lay in a heap on the floor. Shaking her head, she backed out of the room. It would be a senseless exercise to cover them up, as the offending blankets would be thrown off as soon as she’d left the room. Walking softly, she opened the door to her own bedroom, wondering why she was trying to be quiet. The noise from downstairs drowned out any movement she might make. Luckily, the children were used to the noise, not knowing any different way of life.
Closing her bedroom door, she leaned against it for a moment, her body slumped with fatigue, then, making a supreme effort, she moved towards the bed. This room was the largest in the entire building, which was just as well, as most of it was taken up by the enormous four-poster bed that Bernard had acquired some years before at a public auction, the previous owners having fallen on hard times. Placing the lantern on the bedside table, she began to undress. Her tired fingers undid the buttons on her blouse while her weary mind went over the day’s events. She had been awake since six-thirty, and between doing the washing and ironing, she had made the children their breakfast before settling them down with their school work for the morning in the small study next to the kitchen that they used as a classroom.
She herself had been taught in much the same way by her mother in the small but comfortable cottage in Essex. Her parents had never been well off in a financial sense, but they had been determined to instil knowledge into their only daughter. To this end they had spent every spare penny they had on books in the hope that if she were properly educated, she would have a better chance in life. The young Daisy had absorbed any new knowledge like a sponge, her keen mind soaking up the printed words in the books her father was forever bringing home. By the time she was 12, she had no longer needed any help with her learning, but rather than make her mother feel inadequate, had continued to ask for help with her lessons. Thinking back to those days brought a tired smile to her lips. All that education her parents had crammed into her for the sole purpose of ensuring that she have a good start in life – which to them meant her having the chance to marry well – and where had she ended up? Slaving away from morning to night in a pub in the East End of London. Sighing heavily, she removed her blouse, laying it carefully over the end of the bed. That her parents had been disappointed at their daughter’s choice of a husband would be an understatement, but once they’d assured themselves that Daisy was happy, they had let her go without further protests.
Despite her circumstances, Daisy had never regretted her choice, and the years of self-education had enabled her to teach her own children. She had taught them to read with the aid of the enormous Bible she’d had since a small child. She had brought all her books with her when she’d left home, and such works as Dickens, Thackeray and Sir Walter Scott played an important part in the children’s education.
Ruby in particular loved reading, especially Vanity Fair, a book she had herself enjoyed as a child, but would try all sorts of tricks to get out of her arithmetic lessons. Daisy had a strong suspicion that her recent improvement in fractions and long division was mainly due to the help she received from her brothers, who excelled in the maths lessons she set out for them each day.
Once the children were settled with their morning’s work, she would begin to make the piles of sandwiches and pies that the customers expected to greet them when they entered the bar. It was customary in most public houses to feed the working man on his way to work and provide supper for him on his journey home. Stifling a yawn, she pulled her nightdress over her head. She wished they could afford to hire more staff to help out in the pub, so that she would be able to spend more time in the home and with the children. She was so tired, her feet ached from standing in the bar all evening, and her head throbbed from the noise and smoke of the tap-room. As she reached out to dim the lantern, she wondered how other publicans’ wives had coped before the law stating that pubs be closed daily from the hours of one until four in the afternoon had come into effect nearly 20 years earlier. God knows it was hard enough now. Those few hours were the only times she could spend with the children; the rest of the day they were on their own.
Go to sleep, she chided herself. Stop worrying about things you’re powerless to alter. Go to sleep; you need as much rest as you can get. Obeying her inner voice, she laid her head back on her pillows and slept.
Chapter Two
Ruby shut her eyes tight against the harsh morning sunshine that streamed through her thin curtains, and burrowing under the covers, attempted to get back to sleep. A sudden loud clatter brought her eyes wide open. Resisting the temptation to stay where she was, she swung her legs over the side of the bed, shivering as her feet touched the icy floor. Pulling the blanket round her shoulders, she made her way down the thinly carpeted stairs into the kitchen and hurried over to sit by the roaring fire, thankful that neither of her two brothers had beaten her to the comfortable armchair as they normally did.
‘Morning, Mum,’ she called into the scullery, where she could see the back of her mother busying herself over the huge black cauldron full of porridge for the family’s breakfast.
Stifling a yawn with the back of her hand, she wriggled uncomfortably as the morning pressure on her bladder increased. Not yet able to face the trip to the outside lavatory on such a cold October morning, she tucked her legs under her bottom so that her mother wouldn’t see her fidgeting.
Daisy watched Ruby from the doorway of the scullery, noticing straight away the absence of the curling-rags she had painstakingly wound round her daughter’s hair the night before. Giving vent to a long sigh, she came into the kitchen, wrapping Bernard’s old overcoat around her, her long black hair, still braided, hanging in a plait down the middle of her back.
As she set the table for breakfast, she cast a quick look at Ruby and felt the wonder she always felt when looking at this child of hers. How, she asked herself, did I give birth to such a beautiful child? Her eyes took in Ruby’s long wavy chestnut hair and the large blue eyes always filled with laughter. She was the joy of her life. That the girl was a beauty there was no denying, but Ruby’s outward appearance belied her character. There was nothing girlish about her. Ruby scorned the frilly dresses Daisy loved to see her in, preferring to wear a pair of her brother’s trousers whenever she could. Her hair tucked up under an old cap, she would run with the boys in the street, her brothers trailing after her in case she got into trouble. Ruby ruled her two brothers with a velvet glove, inciting them to mischief when they would have preferred to sit quietly and study their books.
A sudden clatter on the stairs heralded the boys’ arrival. Bursting into the kitchen, their faces fell when they saw Ruby firmly ensconced in the treasured chair by the fire. George, the younger at nine years of age, gave his sister a watery smile and was rewarded by a large pink tongue poking out at him. Being of a placid nature, he decided to let the insult pass, but 12-year-old Bertie was made of sterner stuff.
‘Mother, she poked her tongue out at us,’ he cried in a plaintive tone.
Daisy sighed. It was the same every morning. Turning to the two boys standing before her clad only in their nightshirts, she answered tersely, ‘Can’t you ever be in the same room without arguing?’ And before either had time to answer, she
marched them from the room, issuing orders as she propelled them forward. ‘Upstairs, and get washed and dressed. You’ll catch your death of cold, and before you say it’ – here she held up her hand – ‘your sister will be joining you in a minute. Go on, away with you!’
George’s face fell, his plump baby features taking on a mulish look, then, shaking his mop of black curls, he turned and headed for the stairs. Bertie hesitated for a minute longer, and Daisy, seeing his dark eyes drawn together with anger, the lean features of his face working as if trying to say something in retaliation, could see what Bernard must have looked like at the same age. His face suddenly relaxed, and Daisy could actually feel the tension leaving his body. This was yet another way in which he took after his father. Quick to anger, that same anger just as quickly forgotten. Turning to Ruby, he gave her a wide grin and bent over in an exaggerated bow, then turned and left the room.
Daisy then walked over to the large wooden table and started laying the breakfast dishes. ‘You’d better get out of that chair now, Ruby. Your father will be down soon.’
At the mention of her father, Ruby slowly uncurled herself from the warm chair. She wasn’t afraid of her dad, but on the other hand there was no need to go looking for trouble. As she stood up, the urgent need to visit the lavatory overcame her, and now heedless of the cold, she pulled the blanket tighter round her shoulders and ran outside into the yard, telling herself that tomorrow she would use the chamber-pot under her bed before coming downstairs. Her brothers always used theirs, but she could never get used to it.
Back in the kitchen, Daisy’s eyes wandered around the room lingering on the much-fought-over chair. ‘Just for a minute,’ she told herself as she eased herself into the warm comfort of the old armchair.
She glanced fondly around her private domain, her glance taking in the large round table and the four wooden chairs, all solidly made, that housed them all for their meals. Bernard had demanded good furniture, and this table and chairs would surely last their lifetime. On the opposite side of the room, a large window let in the morning light, and from her chair she could see the stables where the two horses, Lady and Nobby, were kept, together with the smart carriage that Bernard had said was a must for business folk. Leading off from the large kitchen, which also served as a dining room, lay the scullery where all the cooking, washing and ironing were done. The smaller room next to it was used as a study for the children’s lessons and also as a store-room for the many books, papers and writing implements needed in their small private classroom. She bent down to pick up the heavy flat-iron she’d left there after pressing the children’s clothes and Bernard’s shirt the night before. Reaching up, she set it on top of the stone-built mantelpiece that surrounded the fire, the actual fire being contained in the middle with iron bars to stop the coal from falling on the hearthrug. The sound of the kettle whistling made her jump. As she picked it up from the hearth, she heard heavy footsteps coming down the stairs.
Bernard entered the now warm and cosy kitchen, his eyes searching for and finding his wife. Having made sure of her presence, he walked to the armchair, and as he sat down in the newly-vacated seat, he wasn’t surprised to find it warm, and not from the heat of the fire alone. He watched Daisy disappear into the scullery, her clothes clutched under her arm, and smiled fondly.
When Daisy came back, she had divested herself of the overcoat and was now dressed in what she called her day clothes. This outfit comprised a navy skirt and matching blouse, together with a rusty brown shawl fringed with black, which she wore over her shoulders, as was the custom. Her hair was now done neatly and tucked into a white cotton cap.
‘Good morning, Bernard,’ she welcomed her husband, a smile taking the plainness from her face. ‘I’ve got some nice bacon from old Mrs Jessop. Would you like some with an egg for your breakfast?’
‘That would be very nice, dear,’ he answered, as she busied herself getting the heavy black frying-pan down from the shelf in the scullery, all the while her eyes darting back and forth to Bernard’s face.
She noticed that his hair was still wet from his morning wash. It was his custom to wash from the pewter jug and bowl that stood on the dresser in their bedroom before descending the stairs in the morning. In all their married life, Daisy had only ever seen him in his nightshirt when he went to bed in the evening. He never wore it outside the bedroom. She, on the other hand, always laid her clothes out in the kitchen at night. In the morning, while she was preparing the breakfast, she would place the garments in front of the fire to warm, and as soon as she heard Bernard’s footsteps on the stairs she would dash into the scullery to put them on. Her morning wash also took place in front of the fire in warm water; she liked her comfort. As she made her way across the room, she was nearly bowled over by her daughter rushing to get back into the warmth.
‘Ruby, how many times must I tell you: walk, don’t run.’
‘Sorry, Mum! It’s freezing out there. Why can’t we have a lavatory in the house like the nobs do?’
‘Ruby!’ The stern voice caused her to jump. She hadn’t seen her father sitting there. ‘We do not talk about such matters in public, girl. And why are you still in your nightclothes?’ Leaning forward in the chair, he pointed to the stairs. ‘Go to your room and get dressed immediately.’ He took his gold watch from his pocket and looked at it intently. ‘If you are not back in this room, washed, dressed and ready in ten minutes, you will forfeit your outing to the park today. Do you understand me, girl?’
Clutching the blanket tighter round her neck, Ruby nodded and made for the stairs. ‘Sorry, Dad,’ she began, her words suddenly cut off by the sound of her father bringing his fist down on the arm of his chair.
Rising to his feet, he strode over to where his daughter stood, her face showing signs of apprehension, but not fear. No, never fear. For a moment Bernard was caught by the admiration he had for his daughter. If it had been one of the boys standing before him, it would have been a different story. Ignoring these thoughts, he shot his hand out and grabbed her arm. ‘Dad? What common talk is that? I am your father, and you will address me as Father at all times.’ For the second time he said, ‘Do you understand me, girl?’
‘Yes, Father.’
Removing his hand from her arm, he gave her a push towards the stairs. As she ran lightly up to her room, Bernard returned to the chair by the fire.
‘There was no need for that,’ Daisy said as she placed his mug of strong tea by his side. Yet, as she had said the words, she knew why he behaved as he did.
It was his own sense of failure that made him the way he was. The way he dressed and spoke, always trying to ape his betters, his insistence that the children be taught at home because he didn’t want them mixing with those from the poorer areas. He had never asked if Daisy minded taking on the task of teaching them; he had just assumed she would. Then there was the four-poster bed he had spent a small fortune on. It had cost more to hire the men to get it safely installed than it had to buy. She recalled the day it had been delivered, the looks of envy on the neighbours’ faces as they had watched the huge monstrosity being carried into the pub, and Bernard had watched and exulted in their envy. Then of course there were the two horses and the smart carriage, another expense they could have done without. She herself had been out riding in it only three times, preferring to walk. His rule that the children must not on any account mix with the children from the nearby tenements she heartily agreed with. The parents they had to deal with were poor, shabbily-dressed creatures who would have been better off spending their money on food and clothes for their families instead of pouring it down their throats. At this thought, Daisy felt a sharp pang of guilt.
She was no better than Bernard, for deep down she too felt distaste for her neighbours and customers. But if it wasn’t for the likes of the people they looked down on, what would become of them? If the brewery decided to revoke their licence, where would they go? Her parents had died ten years earlier in a fire that had destroy
ed the beautiful cottage she had grown up in and Bernard had been estranged from his father for many years. The bitter quarrel that had parted them long ago had driven a wedge between them that was never to be mended. She had only met Bernard’s father once – at their wedding – and she had a memory of a tall rather forbidding man, stern in his manner, a family trait Bernard had inherited. His mother she had never met, the unfortunate woman having died giving birth to Bernard’s younger brother David, now the apple of his father’s eye.
Shaking her head, she turned her attention to the frying-pan, laying two strips of bacon and one egg to the sizzling fat. She had just censured Bernard for his treatment of Ruby, but she was no better herself. If only Bernard had bought the pub outright instead of renting from the brewery, they could sell up and move to a better area, or if they had managed to save some money instead of throwing it away to keep up their pretentious style of living, they might have been able to escape from the squalor that surrounded them. Not for her own sake, but for that of the children. She didn’t want them growing up in this place, not that they minded. Why, only last week, George had brought a boy of his own age home with him, a filthy half-naked urchin from the gutter. Daisy had recoiled in horror at seeing the child sitting in her clean kitchen. Luckily he had sat on one of the wooden chairs, easily washed with carbolic after he had departed. If it had been the armchair, she would have insisted on it being burnt, for the boy had been crawling with lice. If it had been Ruby who had invited the boy home she would have thought it was out of devilment, but George was different. Any action on his part had stemmed from kindness. They were also picking up the local idiom, although they were careful not to use any Cockney slang while their father was present. Just for a moment, Daisy wondered if Ruby had deliberately called her father ‘Dad’ just to antagonise him. But, no, not even Ruby was that brave.
