by Diane Allen
She closed the door silently, almost reverently, and made her way down two flights to the kitchen and the small room that was to be her home. To her delight, the kitchen had running water with a huge white pot-sink directly beneath the small window that let in light from the pavement above. There was even a built-in pot-boiler, so that she could heat water as and when she wanted. Such luxuries were unheard-of at Gearstones Lodge. But most of all her eye was taken by the fireplace. It was blackleaded, with an oven and a warming drawer at the top, and it proudly boasted on the fireback of being ‘A YORKSHIRE RANGE’. Daisy just stared at it and thought of the things she could cook in the oven, and the pans she could put on the fire, on the trivets that dropped down for just such a purpose.
She stood and looked around at the china and the glasses that were in every cupboard. This was a different, finer world from the one at Batty Green. Finally she opened the door to what she had been told was to be her room. William Mattinson had been right – there wasn’t a lot of natural light, but the room was clean, with a bed, a chest of drawers, a chair and a mirror. It would suffice. After all, most of her time would be spent in the kitchen. She sat on the edge of the bed and pushed her sodden shoes off, then folded the few clothes that she had brought with her away in the drawers, hiding what money she had left underneath her clothes. Well! Here she was in a fancy house in Leeds on her own, with no one to tell her what to do. Tomorrow she’d find William Mattinson’s brother and establish how ill the boy was. But for now she’d just have a lie-down. She’d not slept last night, after finding out that her lodging was a brothel, and the hard street-walking had made her legs ache; the cobbled streets were not like the soft fells of home.
She lay on her single bed and closed her eyes. She could hear the trotting of horses and carts going by in the street above, and the laughter of children playing and their mother chastising them for making so much noise. She was a long way from home, but now all she wanted to do was sleep.
William rushed along the streets of Skipton to Caroline Square. He knew most of the people who lived in the area, from his old job of delivery boy for his uncle, who traded in groceries on Sheep Street. By the time he turned the corner into Caroline Square he knew that things were not good. People who would usually have said hello were going out of their way not to talk to him, crossing to the other side of the road so as not to show their sorrow to the unknowing father. The heavy velvet curtains were pulled closed at number 2 Caroline Square and, at the sight of the drawn curtains, William’s heart broke. He pushed the garden gate open and turned the brass door handle as he entered the home of his grieving sister-in-law.
‘William, my darling William, you are too late! Our angel, James, was taken from us this morning. The doctor could not save him; he could not fight the pneumonia that racked his little body.’ Angelina sobbed and cried as William held her close to him.
‘My love, I’m sorry. I tried to come earlier, but things got in the way. I’m sorry you have had to bear this grief without me by your side. Where is my little man? Let me see him.’
‘He’s in the front room, looking just as if he is asleep on the sofa. We’ve left him there until the undertaker comes later this afternoon. I nursed him there until his dying breaths. Oh, William, it was terrible – my firstborn, my James.’
‘Hush, my dear. Come, we will look at him together, and will say our farewells before he is touched by the hands of the undertaker.’
The heartbroken couple kissed the cold, white skin of their first child and sobbed together. The loss of a child was the greatest loss of all. Angelina’s sister watched the couple as she nursed the month-old baby that Angelina had been so proud to show her, along with her two-year-old, the previous week. She shook her head in disbelief at the terrible death that had happened in her house. Smiling, she placed her finger in baby Charles’s hand, and his fingers clutched tightly to hers as he gurgled contently, undeterred by the surrounding grief. ‘God protect you, my little one. He has another angel this day.’
‘Now there’s a fine sight on a cold, wet day.’
Daisy turned round quickly as the man’s voice startled her from cleaning up the ashes from the coal fire.
‘A prettier ankle I’ve never seen.’ The tall, well-dressed man grinned at her as she straightened her skirts and brushed her hands clean of the fire’s dust, rising to her feet.
‘If you are looking for Mr Mattinson, I’m afraid he’s not here. And I’d like for you to note that I’m in mourning, and your comments are not becoming.’ Daisy was both startled and annoyed that someone had walked into her new home without knocking on the door.
‘That I know, my dear. I’m his brother, Jim. He’s sent me round to make sure that you are holding the fort and haven’t robbed him of the family silver, after his hasty departure yesterday.’ Jim pulled up a chair next to the table and studied the slim-figured Daisy, before placing his bowler hat on the table. ‘I’m afraid his son died yesterday, and he will be staying in Skipton for the next few days. The boy’s to be buried at the church there. So you will be on your own for a while. That is, unless you want me for company?’
‘I’ve not a problem with being on my own, sir. And I’m sorry to hear of the family’s loss – it will be a hard one to bear.’ Daisy stood and looked at Jim Mattinson. His face was round and his cheeks were red, and he had a playful glint in his eye as he stroked his sleek hair back into place.
‘Aye, it’s a sad do. He was a grand little lad, and Angelina must be heartbroken. Still, she’s got the new baby to concentrate on – that must help a bit. You don’t have to call me “sir”. We don’t stand on ceremony in this family. It’s Jim, especially if you’ll be cooking for our new venture. What do they call you anyway? Our lad never said, and I can’t remember from the letter he showed me prior to your arrival.’
Daisy looked at Jim, who had started glancing through the pile of papers that she had carefully stacked earlier on. ‘I’m Daisy. You mentioned a new venture that I’m to cook for, but I’ve never been told anything about that. I thought I was here for the family.’
‘Daisy, eh! Has our William not told you anything, the scatterbrain? But then again, forgive me; he did have other priorities yesterday. Well, let me tell you. He’s bought himself a grocery shop – the one around the corner – which he’s left me with for the next few days, as I’m his business partner. He intends to fill it with home-made delights. And you, my dear, are his secret weapon. From what his friend Bert has told him, you are a top cook – just what he has been looking for. A Dales lass who knows good food, and how to make it. Just like our dear aunt, who runs The Bull at Broughton, if you know it? A finer dining place you’ll not find that side of Skipton.’
‘I’d no idea – I’ve not been told. What does he expect of me?’ Daisy didn’t know what to think. ‘I’m nobbut a straightforward cook, nothing fancy.’
‘Well, that’s just what he’s wanting. Somebody who can make something from nothing. In fact the less, the better – after he’s spent all his money on fancy surroundings and playing the perfect father. He can make fun of my lifestyle, but at least I take pleasure in life. You see, my dear, we are like chalk and cheese. He’ll tell you I’m the black sheep of the family and to stay away from me, so before he dirties my name, I’ll tell you myself.’ Jim picked up his bowler hat and fumbled with it, balancing it on his knee and then looking up at Daisy.
‘I don’t think I need to know family matters, sir. I just came here to work.’ Daisy felt uncomfortable with his admission of guilt. Besides, she would take as she found, and make up her own mind about things.
‘I’ve told you before, Daisy – it’s Jim. Now, how about you light that fire and put the kettle on? I’m fair parched.’ Jim stood up and walked to the window. ‘Just look at that bloody weather; it’s always bloody raining in Leeds, and it’s so grey. God, I wish I was back home in Skipton, just to look out on those open fells and breathe in the air. All you get here is a lungful of coal dust and
smoke. Still, there are more attractions here, and I suppose you can’t have everything. I suppose I’d better look through these papers while you get the kettle to boil. Someone’s got to keep an eye on the coffers.’
Daisy busied herself lighting the fire and putting the kettle on. She tried not to look at Jim, even when he kept tutting at the paperwork he was working through. Earlier Daisy couldn’t help but notice the number of unpaid bills that had been in the pile of papers, and even though she was no financier, she knew there was a lot of money owing. She made tea in one of the good china teapots that she had found in the beautiful china cabinet, then poured it into a cup for Jim, walking quietly around him so as not to disturb him.
‘Just look at this! What does he want with all these lemons – the man’s a fool. He’s had to have them sent from Italy, and who’s going to buy them? He’s only trying to curry favour with his wife’s family, by buying the lemons from them.’ He clasped the offending bill tightly in his hand and looked at Daisy. ‘Are you not joining me? Get another cup and saucer, and sit down and tell me a bit about yourself.’
Daisy took another cup and saucer from the cabinet. Curiosity was getting the better of her now, and she wanted to know more about the family she had just joined. The cup rattled in the saucer and the tea slopped slightly as she stirred it. Her nerves were getting the better of her, but at the same time she had an urge to find out more about this forthright man sitting across from her. Besides, it sounded as if he missed the countryside, and that was a vote in his favour.
‘So, Daisy petal, you lost your husband lately. I’m sorry for my careless words when I arrived. I should have known better. They must have been a shock. My brother let me read the letter that his friend Bert sent, so I do know a little about you. You must miss your husband, and coming to live with my brother must be a big move for you. Are you sure you’ve done the right thing? Town life is different from the country, you know. I still find it hard.’ Jim placed his cup down, after taking a long sip from it, and looked at the still-young widow. She was quite pretty, in a plain way; her ice-blue eyes looked honest and true, her mousy brown hair seemed healthy and clean, and her face was openly kind.
‘I had to get away – start a new life. I didn’t want to stop at Gearstones Lodge for a minute longer, for there were too many memories.’ Daisy took a sip of her tea and looked at one half of the partnership that she was obviously going to be answerable to. She plucked up the courage to ask him a question, as the conversation seemed to have been all one-way up to that minute. ‘Is Mr Mattinson’s wife Italian? And you – are you married?’ Daisy quickly wished she had not been so forthright with her last question, because it was followed by a huge bellow of laughter.
‘Me – married? Nobody in their right mind would have me, my dear. I look and perhaps touch a lot, my dear, but so far nobody has caught me. No, the life of my brother is not for me. And yes, my bloody stupid brother married an Italian from Skipton. Just to get his hands on some money, I must add. Both her uncle and her father own grocery stores, on Swadford Street and Sheep Street. They’ve even built their own houses, and now our Bill is following in their footsteps. But I’m not complaining. He’s made me a partner – just as long as he keeps his head and doesn’t run up too many bills, like this bloody pile on the table. Now, what are we going to do with five hundred bloody lemons, when they land down at the canal wharf? Any suggestions?’
Daisy was beginning to realize that there was no love lost between the two brothers and perhaps she had joined a family at war. She couldn’t help but think that William Mattinson would not be happy about his brother airing his dirty washing in public, so she decided to be discreet. ‘How about lemon cheese? It’s a lovely preserve and keeps well, once potted. That would take a lot of the lemons, and you can charge a good price for it.’
‘What the hell is lemon cheese? I’ve never heard of it, and it sounds revolting.’ Jim pulled a face and leaned back in his chair. ‘Still, we can try it. Come round to the shop for a lemon or two in the morning, and then surprise me with your concoction. If it gets rid of the bloody lemons, I’m willing to try it.’
‘Lemon cheese is lemons that are grated and squeezed, with eggs and butter and sugar. You bring it to the boil and then, once it’s thickened, you cool it down and pot it. Then you can spread it on bread and butter, or even in the middle of a cake, if you want.’
‘Never heard of it. Doesn’t sound that good to me, but we’ll give it a try.’
‘You’ll like it – honest, you will. Everyone does.’ Daisy laughed at his reaction. Lemon cheese had been a favourite for afternoon tea back home, so it was a sure bet and she knew it.
‘Well, Daisy, that’s why we took you on. We wanted some new ideas from a country lass – and a bonny one at that. You should laugh more; it brightens up your face.’
Daisy blushed. She hadn’t been called bonny for a long time, and for a few moments she’d forgotten that she was a grieving widow. Oh, she’d have to watch Jim Mattinson. He was nothing more than a silver-tongued cad, and she’d seen plenty of them in her time.
‘Thank you, Jim . . . I’ll do the best I can for all the family.’
‘I’m sure you will, Daisy petal. I’ll see you in the morning and supply you with all that you want for the lemon cheese.’ He grinned as he lifted his bowler hat onto his head. He’d taken a fancy to the little cook. She could be a bit of sport, widow or not.
8
Daisy didn’t bother putting on her hat and coat. Unlike the previous few days, the sun was shining and the street felt warm as she closed the house door behind her. She walked down the few steps onto the street. Some children were playing hopscotch while their mothers talked to each other, one with a donkey-stone and scrubbing brush in her hand from cleaning her three steps. Both were busy with gossip as Daisy passed them; both watched and nodded as she walked quietly by them. She could hear one woman say, ‘He’s dead, you know?’ and the other gasp, but neither approached Daisy to find out any more.
Daisy pulled her shawl around her and hurried along the sun-soaked pavement. She looked at the terraced row that she now regarded as her home. It was well built and she could tell the residents were proud of their homes, because the steps were scrubbed and the brass door knockers shone. It wasn’t like some of the back-to-back mill homes she had walked past on the way to Newtown Terrace. There she had seen true hardship: women standing in doorways, thin and lifeless with hungry bairns on their hips. Why anyone would want children if they couldn’t feed them, she just didn’t know. And how could they live with a sewer running past their front door? She might have had it rough, but never that bad – her pride had never abandoned her, if nothing else.
She turned the corner and arrived at Burley Road. This was a busier street with shops on either side and traders yelling as they sold their wares. It was quite a shock for Daisy. The greatest number of shops she had seen had been in Settle or Ingleton, both of which were small villages with as many shops as there were in the first few yards of Burley Road.
‘Bunch of flowers, missus – here, sweet-smelling phlox, marigolds; they would look a picture, they would, in your home.’ Daisy shook her head and declined the insistent flower seller. She’d little enough money on her without spending it on flowers, no matter how much they reminded her of home.
She wandered down the street, looking in the windows, amazed at the goods each shop was selling. There were haberdashers, butchers, dressmakers and cobblers, but the one that caught her eye most was the hat shop, where she gazed into the window, admiring the feathers and flowers that adorned the large, sweeping brims and the beautiful ribbons that tied them together.
‘Daisy, Daisy, are you deaf? I’ve been calling you for the last ten minutes.’ Jim Mattinson came running across the street, dodging a horse and trap just in time to grab her arm before she moved off. ‘I should have known: women and hats, that’s more important than anything else in the world!’
‘I’m sorry, I’ve ne
ver seen anywhere as busy as this. I got delayed, and I couldn’t help but admire this window.’
‘Never mind that. We are over here. The signwriter’s just finished our business sign. Come and tell me what you think of the lettering.’ Jim grabbed her by the arm and propelled her across the street to stand outside the shop’s doorway, above which was newly painted on light-green boarding the words:
W. & J. MATTINSON,
Purveyors of Fine Foods, Est. 1875
‘Very good – it looks wonderful, you must be very proud.’ Daisy smiled at the man beside her, who looked as excited as a five-year-old with a new toy.
‘I just wish our William was here to see it. Him losing James has come at a bad time and taken a bit of the shine out of it, poor bugger.’ Jim stood back and gazed quietly for a while before blowing his nose. ‘You’ve come for those lemons. I’ve some in the back. I’m just stacking the shelves with dry goods. We had hoped to be open next week, but with the funeral, it will have to be delayed. William sent word this morning: the funeral is on Friday, so you’ve only another three days, and then William and Angelina will be back. I’ll not be around on Thursday and Friday, so I don’t know what to suggest you do. I’m not used to giving orders. William is the one for that. But tomorrow why don’t you come down to the wharf with me? Those bloody lemons will need to be picked up, along with some fresh produce and other groceries. You could unpack them while we are away.’
