by Diane Allen
‘Daisy, love, why the tears?’ Jenny looked at the woman she had come to think of as a younger sister and squeezed her arm tightly.
‘Just sad to leave here – you’ve been so good to me.’ Daisy wiped away the telltale signs of unhappiness.
‘Not nerves, then? Everyone gets them.’ Jenny fussed around her and then turned to look in the dresser’s mirror, at her own finely placed hat, its feathers drooping over one of her eyes.
‘No, it’s not nerves. I’m just . . .’ Daisy looked at the puzzled face, not wanting to tell her secrets.
‘Let’s go then. Mike’s waited long enough. The horses will be getting impatient.’
Daisy sniffed hard and pulled herself together. After today she would be Mrs Lambert – for better or for worse, for richer or for poorer – and she would have to be dutiful to her husband, no matter what he asked. No respectable woman could want more than that, and it was time to value what she had and not complain.
‘That’s my girl – go and get him! Even the sun’s come out for you.’ Jenny pulled back the lace curtains and knocked on the window, to let Mike know that the bridal party was on its way. She kissed Daisy on the cheek and whispered, ‘Be happy’, before Daisy descended Gearstones’ grand stairway.
‘Goodbye, room. I’ve been happy here.’ Daisy gave her home of the last few years a quick glance before following Jenny. Even though she knew she’d be back in the kitchen during the following days, things were going to change from the next hour onwards. She would no longer be free to do as she pleased, and she hadn’t realized how precious her freedom had been. Her thoughts were also with her parents. They wouldn’t know that on this day she was getting married, that she was to start married life without their blessing. A tear filled her eye as she remembered Kitty’s wedding day and the fuss that had surrounded it. She had no kin to walk her down the aisle, and no dowry. Still, what did it matter? She’d the Pratts as a good substitute for family, and a husband waiting for her. She steadied her nerves, wiping the tear away, and smiled. No good dwelling on the past. Today was her wedding day – a fresh start.
‘Come on, lady, your carriage awaits.’ Mike held out his hand and helped Daisy up the steps into the trap.
It was quiet on the road outside. Gone were the navvies’ huts and the makeshift hospital; gone the sound of hammers hitting the hard granite rock and the noise of workers that there had been in months past. Instead there was the solitary cry of a curlew circling the lonely fell, looking for its mate. The huge twenty-four-arched viaduct spanning the dale disappeared within the bowels of Whernside. Things were changing. Daisy was to be married and would make Blea Moor her home.
‘Come on, lass, let’s do it.’ Mike patted her hand and then jollied the horses into motion. He was going to miss the quiet Daisy, but she was marrying what he thought a good man, and that was all that mattered.
Daisy stepped down from the trap and entered the small Dales church on Mike’s arm. The ancient arch of the church doorway was decorated with nodding dog-daisies entwined with the blue of cranesbill, brightening the ancient stonework in honour of the marriage. In the ray of light amid the darkness of the small church a smiling Bob turned, as the organ started playing the wedding march. Daisy noticed his face cloud over slightly as he looked at the dress she was wearing, but thought no more of it, as the vicar sped through the wedding vows, with Bob dutifully repeating the vows after Daisy until the vicar finally declared them husband and wife in a gusty finish. Bob gripped her arm tightly as she walked down the aisle, smiling at people.
‘Where did you get that hideous dress? It looks like a cheap whore’s,’ he whispered, while smiling at the few guests who had witnessed the wedding.
‘Jenny . . .’ Daisy tried to speak.
‘Should have known. You get it off as soon as we are home, and I never want to see it again,’ muttered Bob under his breath, before shaking John’s hand and accepting his good wishes. He pulled Daisy to one side, out of earshot of the guests. ‘You’re my wife, and you’ll dress like a railwayman’s wife from now on, not like some tart.’
Daisy could feel the tears welling up inside her. What had happened to the sweet Bob she had known? Was this how he was going to treat her, now that she was his wife? He held his hand out and helped Daisy into the trap, not saying a word to her.
All through the wedding breakfast Bob kept looking at Daisy and her dress. Never had he seen such a waste of frills and lace. He loved his Daisy plain and pure; she didn’t need the flounces of a town girl. Good manners demanded that he comment to Jenny on how lovely the wedding breakfast was, only for him to curse her under his breath for being so over-the-top with her elaboration on what should have been a simple Dales wedding, whispering to Daisy that there had been no need for anything so decadent, and that it was all too vulgar for his taste.
Daisy was exhausted with anxiety by the time they left for their new home. Bob strode out along the fell track yards ahead of her, urging her onwards as she tried to catch him up in her petite wedding boots, which seemed to catch in every strand of heather.
‘You can take them disgusting rags off now. Every man was looking at you, dressed like that. I couldn’t believe it. I love you in plain, simple clothes; there was no need to dress like them at Gearstones. I love you for you, not your finery.’ Bob slammed the front door of their new home behind them.
‘I was the bride, Bob – that’s why.’ Daisy pulled her tightly laced boots off her aching feet. ‘Everyone admires the bride. That’s all they were doing. Besides, I’ve only got eyes for you.’ She snivelled as her fingers trembled, undoing the beautiful buttons of her tight-fitting bodice. She finally stood in her bloomers and corset on the cold stone flags of the kitchen, while Bob paced the floor, running his hands through his grey hair.
‘I thought you were different from other women. I thought you were sensible and would make a good wife. And now you want to keep working. I love you for how sweet and innocent you are, and today is tarnished by them at Gearstones making us out to be something we aren’t, and asking you to work, when I want you at home with me.’ Bob was nearly in tears, as he held his head in his hands over the kitchen table.
‘All I want is you, Bob. I love you. This dress and the fancy wedding breakfast mean nothing to me. It’s you I love, and if you want me not to work, then I’ll tell Jenny in the morning. Don’t let’s argue on our wedding day,’ Daisy sobbed.
‘I love you, Daisy. I’m sorry, but I’m an old-fashioned man, with old-fashioned ideas. I want roses round this cottage’s door, and three or four children for when I grow old, to look after me.’ Bob reached for Daisy’s hand and smiled as she came near him.
‘You know I love you, Bob. My heart’s yours, but perhaps I’m not ready for children, not yet.’
Daisy cringed as Bob ran his hand over her buttocks and his grip tightened on her firmly laced waist. Her thoughts went back to Clifford, and the rape she had endured at his hands.
‘Listen to us arguing. Come here and sit on my knee, and make me a happy man. It’s time to stop talking. Come and do what a newly married couple are supposed to do. We’ve both waited long enough; we’ve hidden our passions well, but our argument will be all the sweeter, if we make up by making love. Children will come, my love, and you may not want them now, but you’ll grow to love them once they are in your arms.’ Bob pulled Daisy down to him and kissed her hard on the lips, while his free hand felt its way down the front of her bodice, squeezing her pert breast.
‘No, Bob, I can’t do it this way. I’ll not have you treat me this way. We need to talk. I don’t want children. In fact I don’t want sex – never, ever! I hate a man’s hand touching me. I’m sorry. I love you, but I can’t have children. I won’t have children, not with you or anyone.’
Daisy pulled herself away and stood defiantly in her undergarments, her face red and determined.
‘What sort of wife are you to me? You show me up, by wanting to work; you won’t lie with me; and now yo
u are telling me you won’t bear me children? Perhaps we shouldn’t have got married today. Perhaps I’ve been an old fool, and I should have listened to my mother. She told me I was too old to wed.’
‘Perhaps you should have listened to your mother. I don’t think we should have married, if all you want of me is sex, and for me to be tied down with a baby every year. That’s not for me. And I’m away to my bed now, and you needn’t follow.’
Daisy gathered up her dress and decided to climb the stairs to their bedroom. There she changed into her nightdress and lay in the new marital bed. She waited, fretting about the tempestuous Bob. So his mother had told him not to marry; perhaps she had been telling Bob what to expect from his new bride, and Daisy was not fitting into his mother’s expectations of a perfect wife. She waited for Bob’s footsteps to mount the stairs. She didn’t want him to touch her, but with the temper he was in, she thought it better just to lie there and take whatever she was given. She felt tears welling up to the surface again; this was not what a wedding night should be like. Although she had not been looking forward to this moment, she had hoped he’d be kind and caring, if there was to be any lovemaking, but now she was alone.
She lay in the darkness, with the ticking of the clock passing the seconds, the minutes and then the hours. She couldn’t hear Bob. He wasn’t making a sound downstairs – he must be sitting sulking. Well, let him sulk, she thought, as her fear turned to anger with the passing of the hours. He’d ruined her day and shown his true colours. The cloak of sleep eventually got the better of her, although thoughts of a raging Bob clouded her dreams.
Dawn came quickly, and Daisy rose from her sleep to find the other side of her bed cold and empty. A late-summer mist hung around the house and trailed along the valley bottom, following the course of the river. The windows were cold and covered with condensation from the difference in temperature inside and out. She wiped a clear round on the wet window and noted that, once the mists cleared, it would be a fine day. She could tell that by the bit of blue sky that fleetingly made an appearance through the white cloud. She pulled her now long brown hair from behind her shoulders to the side of her face and, after using the chamber pot, quietly made her way down the stairs to the kitchen and living room.
The clock’s constant tick was the only noise, until suddenly the clatter of an early-morning train rattled past the house, making Daisy jump as her unclad feet hit the cold stone-flagged floor of the kitchen. The rocking chair was empty, and the grey embers of the fire were the only sign that someone had been in the kitchen the previous evening. Daisy pulled the green chenille curtain back. It divided the kitchen from the living room. The week before she had lovingly sewn the tassels that now hung from it, as she’d looked forward to seeing it hanging in their new home. She fastened it back with the hook that retained it, and shivered in the morning’s light.
‘Bob, I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have listened to Jenny. You are right. I should never have worn that dress – it wasn’t me. And as for children, we can have as many as you like, my love.’ Daisy spotted Bob’s hand overhanging the red padded sofa that had been placed in the living room in front of the marble fireplace.
There was no reply.
‘I’m sorry, really I am.’ She thought it better to submit to his feelings before approaching him.
There was still no reply, and his arm did not move or flinch.
‘Bob, you are just being stupid and stubborn now.’ Daisy could feel her temper rising as she walked towards him. ‘It was only a dress!’ She stood opposite him. He wasn’t moving. His mouth was open and his head was on one side, his body lifeless and still. He looked ashen and his hair was grey, and Daisy suddenly realized how old he looked, before she let out a scream like a banshee. Her groom was dead. He was dead in his chair. He’d never made it to bed because he was cold like the grave, leaving her alone in the world again!
Her scream echoed around the small settlement of Blea Moor, making Bert abandon the signal box and the womenfolk from the Iveson and Sunter households knock on the door and shout their concerns. Hearing Daisy weeping, they entered the clean, new marital home to find her on her knees, holding the dead man’s hand, constantly muttering that she was sorry, between her sobs.
‘Aye, lass, sit over there. Let me see if I can get a pulse.’ Bert urged Sally Sunter to sit Daisy down in a chair, while he ran his fingers down Bob’s neck, and felt his wrist, looking for a pulse. He shook his head, as Sally consoled Daisy. Betsy Iveson shooed her children out of the kitchen, their curiosity having got the better of them, as she did the only thing she could to help: lighting the fire and putting the kettle on to boil.
‘So you came down and found him here? Did he never come to bed last night?’ Bert scratched his head, with his cap in his hand, and looked at the heartbroken Daisy.
Daisy shook her head between sobs. ‘We had a row, and I went to bed without him. I was so upset I cried myself to sleep. And the next thing I knew it was morning, and he’d never come to bed,’ she wailed, as Sally put her arm around her.
‘He was an ill man. He were taking pills for his heart, but bloody hell – I didn’t think he was that poorly. Betsy, can you go to Gearstones Lodge and tell them what’s happened and that we need the doctor from Ingleton. I’ll have to get back in the box, else we will have more than one death on our hands.’
Bert hit his cap on the side of his leg, in defeat of death, and let out a long sigh.
‘By, it’s a hard one on thee, lass; you’ve not been married twenty-four hours. Sometimes you wonder if there is a God up there. He’s a bloody joker, if there is. I’ll miss Bob, he was a good man; always the same, no matter what his worries. Look after her, Sally. I’ll come back across – I’ll send word to Horton and Dent on what’s happened, and get someone to relieve me of my shift.’ Bert patted Daisy’s shoulder as he left the grieving house. He’d always known that Bob wasn’t that strong, but fate was cruel. That poor young lass: bride-to-be one day, and widow the next.
‘Oh, Daisy, my love, what are we to do?’ Jenny put her arm around the small frame of her good friend and employee, as the undertaker placed Bob in his coffin. ‘You’ll come back and stop with us tonight? You can’t stay here, with a corpse in the house, on your own.’
‘No, I can’t face the lodge tonight. I’m his wife – I belong here with him. I let him down, with my pride and my stubborn ways. I’ll not leave him now.’ Daisy dabbed her eyes with her hankie. ‘Besides, I’ll have to write and tell his mother. She needs to know – give her a chance to be at his funeral, if not at his wedding.’ Daisy breathed in deeply, thinking of the woman whom she now knew had partly ruled Bob’s life and had refused to see her son wed.
‘Don’t let her upset you. She sounds like an old dragon to me. She’s the one to blame for his death, if anyone – telling her son that he wouldn’t be happy wed. I think you are well out of it, my lass, and the sooner you get back to working for me, the better. Put all this behind you and get on with your life.’
Daisy looked at Jenny. Sometimes she was so uncaring it was unbelievable – her business being the only thing that mattered in her life.
‘I don’t know what I’ll do. I need time.’ Daisy looked at Bob laid out in his coffin. He’d raised his voice in life, but never his hand, and he definitely wouldn’t be doing so in death. She’d stay with him; the Sunters and the Ivesons were next door and they were good folk, just as Bob had said.
‘Well, no doubt you’ll suit yourself.’ Jenny pulled her hat on and stood in the doorway, waiting for a reply.
‘I’m all right. I’ll be fine – stop worrying. I’ll be back with you once the funeral’s over; after all, I’ll need the money. Is my room still vacant? The railway bosses will not want me to stop here, after I’ve buried Bob.’
‘Buried Bob’ – the words seemed unreal to Daisy, yet they were coming out of her mouth, just as the words ‘I do’ had done the previous day.
‘Aye, it’s all yours, lass, for as long
as you want it. I’ll welcome an extra pair of hands again.’ Jenny fumbled with her gloves, quickly reminding herself how lucky she was to have a husband – unlike Daisy.
Daisy closed the door behind Jenny. At last she was on her own. The evening’s shadows were beginning to close in, and she lit the paraffin lamps for light and comfort and stoked the fire’s embers into life. She walked into the living room and peered into the open coffin where Bob lay. His face looked more relaxed, and some of his age seemed to have disappeared with his death. The doctor had confirmed it was a massive heart-attack that had taken him and that Bob had, as Bert said, been taking pills for his heart for years. Why hadn’t Bob told her? But then, would it have made any difference? She’d still have married him.
She kissed him gently on the brow and a tear trickled down her cheek. It had been stupid to argue over a dress. She hadn’t even liked it, but Jenny had insisted that she wore it. And, as Bob had said, children would have come, with the love of a good marriage. She should not have been so stupid, and should have driven thoughts of the callous Clifford from her head. She stood transfixed at the side of the cheap coffin, before turning to the small desk, which held paper and envelopes along with a new wedding certificate and a death certificate. She’d write to Bob’s mother – a woman she had never met, but had grown to hate in the last few hours. What she would write she didn’t quite know. How did you tell someone her son was dead, the day after his wedding? Whatever she wrote, this woman was going to hate her, because it would be her – Daisy – whom she would forever blame for her son’s death.
