by Diane Allen
Tom Fraser buckled his belt tight around his trousers and stood, red-faced, in the bedroom doorway. He brushed his white hair back through his fingers and sighed, slamming the door and turning the key. Once outside, he swore to himself. The bloody bastard, he’d make Clifford pay and all. He’d not let Clifford forget for one minute the day he’d had his way with his youngest.
Daisy listened to his footsteps going down the stairs. Her body was rigid. She girdled her stomach, feeling the baby kick. Her skin was raw and she saw blood on her fingers as she felt the welts on her backside. Well, her secret was out – whatever her father did with it was up to him. She prayed he’d say nothing, for Kitty’s sake.
The baby gave another kick, reminding her of its presence. Her mother had already told her that there was going to be no one to help with the birth. Old Mrs Dinsdale from the row of houses called The Street in Garsdale wasn’t going to be called to assist. Her gnarled old hand had brought many a baby into the world, and she was well respected by all the women in the dale. A tear fell down Daisy’s cheek. What was she to do? Thrown out with a baby to care for, where would she go? She looked at her bedroom curtains and at the disused bacon hook that was screwed into the bedroom beams, from years past. Despair flooded over her – there was nothing else left to do. She’d hang herself; after all, neither of them was wanted. It would be the best end to a bastard baby and a ruined woman.
She wiped her tears away, her heart beating fast and her thoughts running away with her. She rose from her bed and pulled up the woven-rush chair to the window. The shutters had been nailed up months ago, blocking her beloved view of the fell leading up to the Quaker meeting house and the rolling hills beyond. She reached up to untie the cord that held the dusty faded curtains, her fingers fumbling with the knot that she remembered tying when she had been given the bedroom a few years before, when she was young and trouble-free. Tears streamed down her face as she choked with fear and hurt – nobody wanted her, it was for the best – and her legs wobbled like jelly when the chair tipped slightly as she reached too far. One last tug and the curtains would be loose. Daisy balanced on the very edge of the chair, leaning on the wall as she tugged, and shaking as she checked that the knot she had tied was tight. The next thing she knew, the chair had tipped from under her and she had banged her head on the edge of her dresser as she hit the floor.
She lay there, dizzy and dazed, tears pouring from her eyes and the torn curtains around her. Then the pain started, a gut-wrenchingly sharp pain, making Daisy cry out in a scream. Her skirts were wet and the pain kept pounding. She dragged herself up, pulling her body across to her bed while the jabbing pains kept her bent double. She slumped on the bed. The baby was coming – she knew the baby was coming – and she needed her mother. She let out another cry and lay on her bed, legs apart and with perspiration dripping from her brow. She raised her head as she heard her mother turn the key in her bedroom door. She was so thankful Martha had heard her cries.
She carried a bowl of hot water and looked sombre as she bent down and regarded her daughter giving birth. She should have got Mrs Dinsdale to help her. First births were dangerous, and she knew that because she’d lost her first. ‘Be brave, Daisy, grit your teeth – it’ll soon be over. Thank God your father’s not here. He’s flown out of the house like the Devil himself.’ She looked at her daughter, who was in pain and frightened, and noticed the torn curtains and chair next to the window, guessing what she had been up to. Her heart melted for a moment.
Daisy let out a scream and gripped her mother’s hand. The baby was coming fast, brought on by the shock of Daisy’s thrashing and the fall from the chair. She put her finger in her mouth and bit on it hard, to stop her screams, as her mother looked at the progress of her birth. Never had she endured so much pain, and yet in some dales women had a baby each year. How did they endure it? Another wave of pain hit her and her mother shouted at her to push.
‘It’s here, Daisy, I can see its head. Another push and you’re done.’ Martha Fraser wiped her forehead. Thank God Tom had left the house, for he’d not have put up with the noise.
With the next big push the baby was out in the world. Its wrinkled red body lay still on the bed, showing no sign of breathing. Martha picked up the baby boy and cleared his airway, slapping his bottom. There was no response or movement. The wrinkles on his tiny face didn’t move, and the angry little hands remained closed tight. Martha cut his umbilical cord and wrapped the little body in a blanket that she had brought with her.
‘What’s wrong, Mam? Why is it not crying, Mam – tell me, is it dead?’ Daisy pleaded. She was exhausted and fretful for her baby. She hadn’t wanted it, in fact she’d wished it dead over the months, but now she felt responsible for the child that she had brought into the world.
‘I’m sorry, Daisy. Happen it’s for the best – he’d only have brought shame to us.’
‘It’s a boy! I’ve had a little boy, let me look.’ Daisy tried to sit up, but cried out in pain.
‘Lie still. You’ve to lose your afterbirth yet, and it’s best you don’t see him.’ Martha picked up the baby in the blanket and began to leave the room. ‘I’ll be back in a minute.’
‘Don’t leave me, Mam, don’t leave me!’ She was exhausted, and heartbroken at her loss.
‘I’ll be back. You’ll want a change of clothes and a wash-down, when you’ve lost all.’ Martha walked out through the door with the bundle under her arm. She cradled the stillborn baby in her arms, tears falling as she made her way down the stairs to the kitchen. Poor baby – he had done nothing wrong; he just hadn’t been wanted. She placed him next to the sink and unwrapped the blanket slowly. The child was still warm; he was a good size, with a tuft of black hair, bless him. At least she could wash him before burying him in the orchard, in an unmarked grave, unbeknown to anyone other than herself and Tom.
She filled the sink with warm water and picked the baby up, gently placing him in the water and washing him gently. Did he move? Had she imagined it? No, there it was again. His arm moved and his mouth began to make movements, his little eyes screwed up, wrinkling at the warmth of the water. He was alive! He made a silent cry and opened his dark eyes, staring at the woman who had nearly buried him.
‘By God, man, if tha doesn’t make this right, I’ll ruin you. I’ll tell every dealer – every farmer for miles around – what an underhand bastard you are! Your reputation will be ruined.’ Tom Fraser held Clifford Middleton by the throat, at the side of Grouse Hall.
Clifford grinned at the old man, whom he was finding surprisingly strong for his age. ‘You can’t hurt me. She was asking for it, your precious Daisy, not like her useless sister – Kitty’s never going to give me an heir; useless in bed, she is. Tell whoever you want. Money talks, and it won’t be long before all this farm is mine, and then I’m off.’ Clifford grinned at the angry old man.
Tom Fraser lifted his free hand and made a fist, ready to come down hard onto the grinning face, but stopping inches from his nose. ‘You’ve no scruples, have you, you bastard? By God, I should make you greet your maker. But I can’t, for you’re my daughter’s husband, and father to the baby that will soon be in the world. You want an heir? Well, you’ve got one. When that baby is born, you’ll take it into your house and bring it up as your own. You’ll not tell Kitty where it’s come from – you can have found it, or taken pity on a penniless woman in need. But if you ever tell her the truth while your father’s alive, I’ll get his solicitor to witness what I tell him; and by God, if that baby lives, he’ll make it the rightful heir of Grouse Hall. Everyone knows there’s no love lost between you both. In fact, to keep your father’s life safe, I’ll see my solicitor in the morning and tell him of our conversation tonight.’ Tom watched as the grin disappeared from the cocky Clifford.
‘You bastard, let me go.’ Clifford gripped Tom’s arm and wrenched it off him. ‘I don’t want to keep the runt. You wouldn’t dare say a word to my father.’
‘Try me!’ To
m walked away from Clifford’s side and made steps towards the garden gate.
‘Wait, you old bastard! Send word when the runt’s born, and I’ll take it in.’ Clifford thought quickly of all the debts he was amassing in the Dales. He couldn’t live without his father’s inheritance.
‘Right, I’ll send word. It’ll not be bloody long now, by the looks of her, so you’d better get ready. Tell our Kitty I’ll see her on market day. I’m in no mood to talk to her tonight.’ Tom reached over and took the reins of his horse, which had been waiting patiently, and rose up into the saddle. ‘This is a gentleman’s agreement. Not that you are any gentleman, sir!’ He whipped his horse and rode down the road into the dusk, his hatred for the man he thought no gentleman growing with every yard towards home that he galloped.
Martha Fraser looked at the baby, now wrapped tightly in a blanket. She’d not yet told Daisy of his miraculous recovery. She held him close to her: this was her grandchild, her blood. A tear dropped on the baby’s head. She held the perfect little hand and gazed at the angry red face.
‘She’s had it, then?’
Martha jumped in fright, for she’d not heard Tom enter the kitchen.
‘Aye, she’s had a rough time, but we’ve got a grandson – look at him.’ She held the baby up for Tom to see.
‘I don’t want to look at that bastard.’ Tom turned his head.
Martha knew better than to push it – he’d come round. ‘I’ll go and tell Daisy he’s alive, and give him to her.’ She rose from her chair, ignoring Tom’s hard words.
‘She thinks he’s dead?’
‘Aye, he didn’t breathe for a good few minutes – not until I washed him, for what I thought was his burial.’ Martha smiled at the little face.
‘Well, tell her no different, because the baby goes to Grouse Hall in the morning. His father is going to have him, and our Kitty will never know he’s her sister’s. Now take him out of my sight. I can’t abide to think of how he got brought into the world.’
‘And Daisy?’ Martha looked at her husband.
‘I’ll give her till the end of the week, and then she goes. Every time I look at her I think of what she’s done to this family. She’s nothing but a whore!’ Tom’s face turned red, remembering the smiles he’d seen Daisy give to Clifford Middleton and her near-tears at Kitty’s wedding. ‘She’s no daughter of mine, and she’s not welcome under my roof.’
The wind howled and the rain lashed down on the silent couple huddled on the seat of the cart. The horse’s harness jangled and shook, as it pulled the cart of misery up the steep hill-climb out of Widdale and onto the rough moorland of Dent Head, the horse’s head bent lowly, as if in shame itself, as it used each muscle on the steep fell-climb. Tom Fraser had said nothing as his wife had helped Daisy up beside him; he’d seen the tears in his wife’s eyes and heard her sobs from under her shawl. It was no good – his mind was made up. The lass had to find her own way in the world. She was no longer welcome under his roof, and he’d not go back on his word.
He’d not said anything when Martha had forced a florin into Daisy’s hand; after all, he’d have to be Christian about it, and make sure she didn’t starve until she found work. Daisy had said nothing, cringing from her father’s hand as he tried to help her up to her seat next to him. All the trust had been beaten out of her, and where there had been love in her eyes for her father there now burned hate. Not a word had been spoken since leaving Grisedale at first light. The horse and cart made their way out of Grisedale up the broader sweep of Garsdale, skirting through the sleeping village of Appersett, over the bridge and up the gillside road to Widdale and Dent Head. It was there that Tom was going to abandon Daisy; she could make her own mind up about where to go from there. She could either turn right down into Dent or go on to Ingleton, or even further if she’d a notion. The horse eased itself back into an easier stride as the summit of Widdale was reached and they steadily pulled the cart past the dwelling place of Dent Head. The house looked in darkness as the mist and rain tried to envelop it in nature’s cloak.
‘Right, down you get. This is far enough – tha’ll not be walking back home in a hurry.’ Tom pulled on the horse’s reins and put the brake on.
Daisy pulled her cloak’s hood back and removed the sacking that had been giving her a bit of protection from the elements. She looked around her at the bleak setting: the mists shifting and banking around the looming fells, and the rushes bent double in the wind and rain. She was used to Grisedale looking like this on a wild day, but she always knew there was a warm, dry home waiting for her. Today she was on her own against the elements, with no home and no one to love her. But no matter how wild the weather was, she would not attempt to walk home, so her father needn’t be afeared of that.
Tom never stirred from his cart as his daughter climbed down onto the cobbled road. He watched her for a minute as she looked around her, deciding where to go. His heart hurt as he saw her take the first few steps down the road to Ingleton, never once looking back at him, but his pride forbade him to stop her, beg her forgiveness and take her home. He clicked his tongue and pulled at the reins, turning the horse and cart homewards on the road. A tear filled the big man’s eyes and a silent prayer was said for his daughter’s safety, before he whipped the horse into a trot to take them quickly down the dale and home. Tom hoped that the sooner he was away from Daisy, the quicker he could forget, although he secretly knew that would never happen.
Daisy heard her father click the horse into action. A wave of panic came over her. Had she been that bad – should she ask for his forgiveness and beg to go home? Her heart beat fast and she felt sick. No! There was nothing at home for her: just a dead baby buried in the orchard, a baby she’d never seen, and an unloving family. She’d make her own way in the world. She wrapped her cloak and shawl around her and set off down the dale. Somewhere out there would be a new life. She’d find a job and earn her own living, and Grisedale and the lecherous Clifford Middleton would be forgotten.
4
The rain came down and the wind was so fierce it nearly blew the weak Daisy off her feet. She stumbled down the twisting downhill road to the village of Ingleton, looking only forward, to the great looming sight of Whernside Fell and a brief glimpse of the Ribble valley, with the sleeping lion of Ingleborough Fell in her midst. Occasionally in the wind she could hear what sounded like the noise of thunder and wondered what it could be. This was new land to her. Although not really far from home, she was only used to her own patch and had never travelled more than the five miles to Sedbergh and Hawes on market day.
Feeling weary, she stopped for a moment under the seeping eaves of a gamekeeper’s small shooting lodge by the side of the swelling river. Dare she knock on the door? Walking quietly around the low building, she noticed that it looked empty, as she peered through the windows. She knocked on the door, quietly at first, but then more noisily. All she wanted was a moment away from the lashing rain. No answer came, so she tried the door. It was locked – there would be no sanctuary here. She stood in the doorway and watched the peat-filled pools at her feet, the wind making ripples on them and shaking the purple heather that covered the wild moorland. She’d have to move on, for it would soon be dusk and she didn’t want to be on the fell alone. She’d not seen a soul since her father had left her. Nobody would even send their dog out on a day like this. Her body was aching and her stomach felt empty as she rounded the bend. The sound of singing and of men laughing came from a rough-looking building set just below a well-built square grey house by the side of the road. She quickly went down the bank and looked in through the window.
‘Now then, little ’un, looking for a bed for the night? Tha can share mine.’ A huge man burst out laughing, showing his badly blackened teeth as he patted her on the back. He’d come from nowhere and was now urging Daisy inside, to what she knew to be a drinking hole, full of the roughest men she had ever seen.
‘No, leave me be – let me go.’ Daisy pulled her arm
out of the grasp of the huge beast of a man and turned to flee, only to bump into his weasel-like mate.
‘Now, you can’t turn Jake down. He’s a one with the women.’
Daisy shrieked, as the smaller of the two grabbed her arm.
Jake growled at his mate, ‘Let her go. She’s nobbut a young lass – there’s nowt on her. She’d not keep me warm on a night like this.’ Then he grabbed his mate, nearly throwing him into the foul-smelling drinking den, leaving Daisy shaking with fear.
She composed herself quickly and walked back up to the main road, making a note of the name on the house: GEARSTONES LODGE. If she was ever offered work there, she’d certainly not accept; it wasn’t for the likes of her. In the distance she could hear the sound of pickaxes and men’s voices in the wind and, when the fog and mists permitted, she could make out the shape of huts and a strange structure that spanned the Dales. She wondered what it could be. It was a strange place, and she’d be glad to get off the wild moorland road. She walked on, the rain seeping to her skin, making her shiver and feel feverish. It had only been a few days since she’d given birth, and she was exhausted. As she neared the outskirts of what looked like a hut settlement, an old woman came out of one of the cabins.
Daisy ran and caught her arm to ask her where she was.
‘Tha’s at Ribblehead, lass, or Batty Green as we call it. Come to help build the railway, have you? Wildest spot you could have picked. Today’s like a summer’s day; wait until a December’s day, when it’s a blizzard and you can’t see your hand in front of your face.’ She laughed and shook her head, before scurrying off like a busy hedgehog.
