by Diane Allen
Fighting back welling tears, she sniffed and wiped her nose with the back of her hand. There was no need to cry yet – she might just be late. After all she’d been helping her father a lot more than usual, and she was probably just tired. With brighter thoughts in her head now, she smiled as she watched a mother blue-tit bring her new family to the back door of the bakehouse to look for crumbs. The little chicks were not yet showing their full colour, with the odd fluffy feather looking out of place.
‘There you go, Mum: a few crumbs for your brood; you’ve got a right handful there.’ Daisy threw a handful of bread from the pine kitchen table and stood back as the mother bird and her brood tiptoed nearer, pecking delicately at the crumbs and then flying into a nearby honeysuckle bush.
‘Talking to yourself, Daisy? Is that second batch of bread out yet, and have you started those apple pies, ready for the market in the morning?’ Martha Fraser shouted out the orders as she quietly entered the room and poured the day’s milk through muslin, to catch any dirt that might be in it, then stood at the sink of the bakery.
‘They need another minute or two.’ Daisy turned and started to rub the fats for the pastry into the flour, without thinking; she’d been baking since she was barely able to talk, and it was second nature to her. She looked at her mother. Dare she say anything to her, while they were alone? Dare she speak of things that were private and usually went undiscussed in the Fraser household?
‘I’m not going to the market with you tomorrow. Kitty has sent word she wants to see me, so perhaps it’s good news.’ Martha scrubbed the bread board, before sighing and looking longingly out of the kitchen window. ‘You never know, there may be a baby on the way, but it’s early days yet. Still, I live in hope.’ She carried on cleaning her dairy utensils without turning to look at Daisy. ‘You’ll have to go with your father tomorrow. You can drop me off on the way down to Sedbergh with the horse and cart.’
Daisy patted the pastry dough hard, the flour rising into a fine cloud as she let it fall from the huge earthenware bowl. It was no good – she couldn’t keep her worries to herself any longer. She let out a sob as the pastry hit the pine table, her hands caked with sticky pastry.
‘Daisy, what on earth is wrong with you? You’ve been acting strange since Kitty’s wedding. You shouldn’t be so jealous of your sister – someone will come along for you.’ Martha stopped her scouring and looked across at her daughter, who was clearly upset. ‘Now come on, let’s get this bread out of the ovens, before your father gets back.’ She looked at her younger daughter. She found it hard to talk to Daisy, for she wasn’t as open-hearted as her firstborn, and showing emotion towards her was difficult.
‘Mam, I need to talk. I need to talk now, before my father comes back.’ Daisy pleaded with her eyes.
‘Well, I’m listening. Get on with it!’ Martha opened the big oven doors and pulled the first few loaves of bread out, nearly burning her fingers as she placed them on the shelves to cool.
‘I’m late, Mam. You know – it’s what we don’t talk about.’ Daisy sobbed, not daring to look at her mother.
‘Aye, lass, you’re young; you’ll just be settling down into your stride. That’ll be nothing to worry about – you’ve not been with a fella, so you’ll be fine.’ Martha sighed and pulled the last batch of bread out of the oven, patting the bottom of it to test it, not bothering even to look at Daisy’s face. ‘I was all over the place when I was your age.’ She placed the bread on the shelf, then turned to look at her daughter, whose fretful face told her everything.
Daisy’s face was red with tears and betrayed her anxiety.
‘You’ve not, have you, Daisy – you’ve not been with a man? Your father will kill you, and me, if you have. He’ll make our lives hell, you know that?’ Martha felt sick. She knew the answer already. She’d had a sulky daughter for the last eight weeks, now that she thought about it. It made sense, what with Daisy’s moods and the odd comment when she’d mentioned wanting to be a grandmother. Martha felt herself flush from head to toe with fear at how her husband would react. She knew Tom Fraser would never handle the shame of his youngest, most precious daughter being with child. Daisy was his favourite, and the apple of his eye. He boasted about her to friends, saying that Kitty was bonny, but Daisy had the brains. Martha knew he’d never be able to handle it. Sex outside marriage was not even thought about, let alone practised. In fact anything in that department was simply not talked about, full stop.
‘I’m sorry, Mam, I couldn’t stop him. He’d done it before I knew, and besides, I couldn’t say no to Clifford.’ Daisy thought her heart was going to burst; the sobs filled her throat, and she felt sick as she tried to explain. ‘I’m sorry, Mum, I’m sorry. I know he’s Kitty’s . . . I couldn’t stop him.’ The words tumbled out of her mouth between breaths.
‘Clifford! You mean, Kitty’s Clifford? Bloody hell, lass. This gets worse by the second. Oh my God, the shame! Your father will go mad, and Kitty’s trying for a bairn and having no luck. And there you are, pregnant by him. It couldn’t get much worse! We’re ruined, that’s what we are.’ Martha sat down at the table and watched her bawling daughter. ‘Shut your mouth, girl! You fluttered your eyelashes at him all the time he was courting Kitty – well, you’ve certainly got what you deserved.’
Martha’s face was flushed with anger and embarrassment, and with fear at having to tell her husband. She quickly gave a glance out of the window as she heard the noise of the garden gate.
‘Get yourself out of here. Your father’s coming up the path – I’ll have to choose my moment to tell him.’ Martha knocked Daisy out of the way and started to roll the pastry. Daisy ran out of the back door. It was one thing telling her mother, but quite another telling her father. He loved her dearly, but he ruled the family with a rod of iron.
She ran up through the yard. The family’s goose gave its alarm call as she sped through the yard and up the outside steps that led to the tack room and the storage room for flour and seasonal fruit. There she threw herself onto a pile of hessian sacks and sobbed to herself. She wanted to die. Even worse, she wished the baby inside her would die. She curled up and rocked her body. What was she to do? She had nowhere to go. Nobody would give a pregnant lass house-room; not even the workhouse would want her. The cat that had been asleep in the window stretched its back and yawned, showing all its discoloured teeth, before walking casually across to her and winding its body round her arms, nudging its head against hers. Daisy pulled it towards her and held the furry, purring body close, stroking the cat’s chin, as it appreciated being loved.
‘Smoky, what am I going to do? I wish I could die.’ Tears poured down on the grey fur of the cat as it purred its sympathy. ‘I wish I’d never set eyes on Clifford Middleton. Look what he’s done to me!’
‘Have you made sure we have everything?’ Tom Fraser looked at his youngest lass as he checked that the harness was tight. ‘You look pasty this morning – what’s wrong with you?’ He stood tall and proud at the side of his horse, watching his daughter as she finished loading the cart for Sedbergh. He was a tall man of six foot or more, clean-shaven, with wisps of white hair showing from below his chequered cap. He talked as straight as a clean-living man should, and his clear blue eyes never missed a thing.
‘I’m all right, Father.’ Daisy couldn’t look at him. She knew the shame he was going to feel and was dreading the consequences. She knew that Tom was usually a calm man, but she’d also seen him in a rage, when he’d taken on the world and won.
‘Tell your mother we’re ready. I don’t know what’s wrong with you womenfolk this morning. I can’t make head nor tail of her, either. I swear she never slept a wink last night.’
The journey down to Sedbergh was silent. Martha Fraser sat nervously next to her husband, her head spinning with the knowledge that Daisy’s predicament could not be kept hidden forever and that she would have to tell him sooner or later. The big question was whether she would tell Tom who the father was? It wo
uld mean shame for Kitty, and she dreaded to think what her husband would do to Clifford Middleton. Soon they were at the end of the lane leading to Grouse Hall. Tom pulled on the horse’s reins and brought them to a halt.
‘I can take you all the way up, if you want. We are in good time.’ Tom lifted his wife down from the buckboard.
‘No, get on your way. The earlier you are, the more trade you’ll get. Besides, it’ll do me good to stretch my legs.’ Martha gave Daisy a nervous glance as she picked her skirts up and made her way along the dusty path.
Daisy felt her stomach churn. She was alone with her father, and all morning she’d felt sick with worry: had her mother said anything? She couldn’t have done, for he was acting too normal.
‘Tha’s quiet, lass, what’s up?’ Tom looked at his youngest. She was dark and plain, but her heart was true. Not as flighty as her sister, and a better baker he’d never known; his business would be in good hands, if it were left to her. With a bit of luck he could do that. Clifford Middleton had enough brass for Kitty and any family that she might have with him. He patted Daisy’s hand and smiled at her. She looked worried and had made herself scarce all day yesterday, for some reason. Perhaps she’d fallen out with her mother. ‘Never mind, keep it to yourself. I don’t want to know what you women get up to.’ He grinned and pushed his team into a trot.
Daisy kept silent on her trip down the dale. It was a beautiful late-spring day, without a cloud in the sky. The rolling fells of the Howgills looked like velvet, as the valley opened out to reveal the small village of Sedbergh. She wished her mind was as calm as the day; it was a-swim with worry at the thought of her predicament. They entered the village to the usual greetings and pulled up in the historic market place, her father quickly setting out their wares, leaving Daisy to sell them while he stabled the horses and talked to his fellow traders and friends. Business went well. The Frasers had a good reputation for tasty bread and satisfying food, and by lunchtime their stall was nearly empty. Daisy enjoyed the banter; trading was all about making friends and hearing the gossip – and how much your skills were valued. It had helped settle her nerves for a few hours, and she smiled as her father praised her way with the customers. She loved him dearly; she felt closer to her father than her mother. He was quiet and steady, unlike her mother, who continually wanted a better life and was never satisfied.
‘Away, lass, let’s get back home.’ Tom folded up the wooden stall onto the back of the cart and turned to look at his daughter. ‘Tha looks white, are you sure you’re all right?’
‘I’m fine, just a little tired. We were up early this morning.’ In truth, Daisy felt sick. She could feel a wave of nausea coming over her, and her head was light and her body wanted to give in. She heard her father’s voice getting fainter as she tried to pull herself up onto the cart’s seat; the blood rushed to her head, making her feel dizzy, before she collapsed and fainted in front of the market crowd.
‘Out the way – make way, my lass is ill.’ Tom parted the concerned crowd and lifted his daughter’s head. ‘Aye, Daisy, what’s wrong? You’ve looked bad for weeks.’ He held her tight, while someone passed him a drink of water from the nearby fountain to revive her. Daisy spluttered as he forced the water into her mouth. ‘There, lass, don’t move. I’ll lie you down in the back of the cart and then I’ll take you up to the doctor.’ Tom put his strong arm around his daughter in an attempt to pick her up.
‘No, no.’ Daisy, her head spinning, struggled to come to her senses. ‘I’m just tired, I’m fine.’ She grabbed her father’s arm and eased herself up onto her legs, still feeling queasy. ‘See, I’m grand.’
‘Tha doesn’t look too grand to me.’ Tom helped his daughter to the cart, assuring the gathering crowd they were all right and that they could all go about their own business. He didn’t like folk knowing their business.
‘I’m fine.’ Daisy sat next to her father, feeling shaky and guilty. She knew he was going to have to be told shortly, because this was just the start of her pregnancy and she couldn’t fain being tired forever.
Tom looked at his pale daughter and whipped his horses into action. He’d have words with Martha when he got home; she’d happen get to the bottom of it. Perhaps they’d been working her too hard since Kitty left.
Daisy lay in her bed cocooned by the warm feather mattress. Her heart was beating fast as she listened to her father going through his nightly ritual: the back door bolt being slammed, the grandfather clock’s chain being wound slowly and carefully until the weight was at the top of the mechanism, the door of the case being carefully closed afterwards. The things she heard every night of her life, but never feeling the way she did tonight. She counted his steps in her mind. The third step always creaked and then she watched for the candlelight to pass her closed doorway. She listened through the age-old walls, too thick to hear normal conversation, but too thin to keep out the raised voices tonight. Daisy screwed her eyes tightly shut, hating the noises from her parents’ room. She knew her mother was telling her father about her. Her father’s voice rose with anger, and her mother was screaming at him. Daisy had broken his heart, and she knew it. The rumble of angry voices went on for hours and she cried lonely tears as she tried to sleep, eventually pulling her pillow over her head to cut out the noise. She hated the baby she was carrying; she hated Clifford Middleton; and most of all she hated herself for being so shallow with her affections.
When the early-morning light broke through Daisy’s bedroom window she shook herself from sleep, but immediately the despair of the previous evening swamped her again as soon as her senses awoke. Did she dare enter the bakery and act normally, or should she stay in her room? She walked across the bare floorboards and poured cold water from the wash jug into the matching bowl, freshening her face. She felt drained as she pulled on her skirts while sitting on the edge of her bed, lingering there, not wanting to confront her parents.
‘You needn’t bother coming down today. Your father doesn’t want to see you. I’ve to lock you in your room, because he’ll not be responsible for his actions.’ Martha Fraser stood in the doorway. She was quiet – too quiet for her nature.
Daisy hid her head in her hands, before raising her tear-filled eyes to look at her mother. ‘What’s he like, Mam? He’s not going to cause bother for our Kitty, is he?’
‘Nay, he’ll not be bothering them. I didn’t tell him who’d fathered your bastard bairn, and it’s enough that we’ve one daughter in disgrace, without having two in bother. You’ll not say a word to him about Clifford either, else by God I’ll kill you and the baby myself.’ Martha looked dark and forbidding. ‘I’ll fetch you something to eat later, when I’ve time. I’m doing two folks’ work this morning, thanks to you.’
With that she slammed the bedroom door shut, turning the heavy iron key in the lock and leaving a heartbroken Daisy sobbing on her bed.
3
‘By God, tha will tell who the bastard is!’ Tom Fraser came down hard with the leather of his belt across Daisy’s buttocks. ‘No matter how far gone tha is, I’ll belt tha every day till tha tells me his name!’
Daisy had been enduring the near-daily belting for the last six months, but still she’d not told her father who was responsible for her plight. She’d lived in her bedroom, locked away from the rest of the world in squalor, her hair cut as short as a man’s and her diet consisting mostly of bread and milk, due to the shame of her father, and with her mother not lifting a finger to help her. Kitty had been told that she’d left home to work in Bradford, not suspecting for one minute the life that her younger sister was living.
Daisy held onto her round belly. The baby had been moving lately and she knew it was nearly her time. Another thrash and he’d be finished for the night – he usually only hit her three times. What had happened to the father she loved and the mother who had protected her? She didn’t deserve all this, for the sake of being young and foolish. For the third time the air rushed by the belt and the leather cut into her
skin. Daisy held her breath. She would not tell him Clifford’s name. Another crack came down on her, this time even fiercer.
‘You’ll bloody tell me tonight, if I’ve to kill you.’ Tom Fraser had lost control of his temper and the belt came down fast and sharp on Daisy’s buttocks.
She screamed in pain and clung onto her unborn baby.
‘Tell me – bloody well tell me – who the bastard is.’ Tom was sweating and swearing as he lashed out with his belt. He’d rather lose both daughter and baby than have another man get the better of him.
Daisy screamed in pain, begging him to stop, as she feared for herself and her unborn child.
‘I’ll not stop, lass, until I get a name.’
Another thrash came down and, as the leather cut deep, Daisy yelled out ‘Clifford Middleton’, in desperation for her life and that of her unborn child. ‘Clifford Middleton did this to me – our Kitty’s husband!’
She lay uneasily on her bed, sobbing and beside herself with despair that her secret was now out. Her buttocks throbbed with the numerous lashings, and her baby kicked in protest. She buried her head in the pillows, not daring to look at her father.
Tom froze in disbelief and anger. That charmer, Clifford – he’d welcomed him into his family with open arms. He quickly regained his wits. ‘When this bastard baby is born, you both get the hell out of my house. You’ve let me down, Daisy. You could have had all this, but no, you’ve brought me shame. You’ve lain with your bloody sister’s husband – have you no pride, lass? Your sister, for the Lord’s sake. He’s a red-blooded man, tha shouldn’t have encouraged him with your flirty ways. A man can’t help himself. Well, you had your pleasure, now tha must pay.’
