Hilda looked at the scrawny old woman lying on the narrow bed. She stared at her blankly for a few moments, and just when Daisy was thinking it was going to turn nasty, Hilda turned to her daughter who had risen to her feet. ‘I’m sorry, lass, but that’s the way of it,’ she said, looking straight into Margery’s tense face. ‘We are what we are.’
‘Doesn’t that apply to me too, Mam?’ There was a note of deep bitterness in Margery’s voice. ‘All my life I’ve tried to be what you wanted me to be, tried and failed. Oh, you might not have said so in so many words but it’s been there right enough, in your eyes. When I wasn’t top of the class, when I wasn’t May Queen, when I wasn’t bright enough to go on and train as a teacher like you wanted, and
especially
when I didn’t want to start courting the lads you and Da picked out for me as “good enough”.’
‘Aye, an’ look where that’s got you now,’ Hilda shot back.
Margery felt her stomach pulling itself tight as if recoiling from any contact with the woman who had given her life, and her voice reflected her feelings when she said, ‘If Tom were here I would be the happiest lass alive today, bairn or no bairn. I loved him, Mam. I’ll always love him, and I’m glad I’m carrying his child if you want to know. At least I’ll have something of him for always.’
‘How can you talk like that when you’ve shamed us all? An’ before you start I don’t mean because he’s a fisherman. I’d say the same if it was John Lindsay or the doctor’s son.’
‘Would you, Mam?’ Margery brought her head forward, her pale eyes piercing as they held those of her mother. ‘Would you really? I don’t think so, not for a minute. You’d be falling on my neck with thanksgiving if I’d said I was expecting and one of them wanted to marry me.’
‘That’s wicked.’ Hilda was trembling as if consumed with rage. ‘Wicked!’
‘I don’t want to argue with you, Mam, and I’m pleased you brought my things, but we’ll never see eye to eye on this, or anything else come to that.’
‘You’ve never said a truer word, girl.’ All thoughts of conciliation gone, Hilda was now every inch her husband’s wife. She turned on her heel, and as Daisy opened the door for her walked through without a nod or a goodbye. And then she paused, glancing over her shoulder at the white face of her daughter as she said, her voice harsh, ‘You’ve got all your things so there’s no need for you to come to the house again, not ever. As far as your da an’ me are concerned, we never had a daughter.’
And then she was gone, marching off fairly bristling with self-righteous anger.
‘Don’t upset yerself, lass.’ Nellie spoke up as Daisy shut the door again and walked over to Margery to hug her. ‘She’ll likely come round when the bairn is born.’
‘I don’t want her to, Mrs Shaw. And I’m not upset about my mam and da, it’s not that. I knew when I first met Tom that I was making a choice between him and my parents and that wasn’t hard. It’s just that I can’t believe he’s gone and I didn’t even have a chance to say goodbye.’ Margery’s face crumpled and tears began to stream from her eyes.
‘Aye, I know, lass, I know. Life don’t play fair. An’ you’d better be after callin’ me Gran like our Daisy does now you’re part of the family, all right?’
It was a massive peace overture by Nellie who had been covertly hostile since the moment the girl had arrived. As Daisy drew back from Margery and made a little face at the other girl, expressing amazement, Margery smiled through her tears. ‘Thank you . . . Gran, I’d like that,’ she said shyly.
‘An’ when you’re all finished blubbin’ I’d like me sup tea?’ Nellie added in her own indomitable style. ‘Me tongue’s bin hangin’ out the last half hour. Not that anyone’s noticed the poor old gal in the corner, of course.’
If Hilda Travis had delayed her departure by fifteen minutes she would have been very surprised to see a smart carriage drawn by two fine chestnuts approaching the village. As it was, she missed the spectacle which set heads turning and curtains twitching.
A tall neatly dressed woman was sitting at the front of the vehicle next to the driver which left the two long seats within the open carriage empty. As the driver said, ‘I reckon this is the one, Ellen. Bernard said it was the tenth along,’ the woman glanced about her with interest.
So this was where the lass who had caused so much trouble back at the house lived, was it? Ellen Mullen nudged the first coachman, who was also her intended, as she whispered, ‘Pongs a bit of seaweed an’ that, doesn’t it?’
‘Aye, well, that’s mebbe because we’re yards away from the big stretch of water they call the sea, lass.’
‘Oh, you.’ As top-floor maid Ellen was privy to most of the intimate goings-on of her employers. Although Sir Augustus’s wife Gwendoline had her own personal maid, the two daughters remaining at home were assisted in their toilette by Ellen. She had learnt very early on to say nothing and to listen hard and both women chatted quite freely in front of her. Ellen knew, therefore, that once the young master had come to himself he had been furious that nothing had been done for the fishergirl who had rescued him from the water. Mr William hadn’t been satisfied with the suggestion that a sum of money along with a cursory note of thanks be delivered to the village. And once he got the bit between his teeth he was a devil for having his own way, was Mr William. Just like his father.
And so here she was with a summons to bring the fishergirl to the house, but what made this whole episode really interesting was the fact that this lass had thumbed her nose at Mr Kirby by all accounts. By, but he’d been in a fit when he’d come back after visiting the village. They had all wondered what was what but no one had dared ask, though from what Bernard had heard when Mr Kirby was leaving the fishergirl’s cottage and then the snippets which had filtered through via Harriet, Lady Fraser’s personal maid, it appeared this Daisy Appleby was a right one. Aye, a little madam with a mouth on her like a cesspit, Mr Kirby had told Sir Augustus and his wife, according to Harriet.
Ellen adjusted the collar of her serge coat nervously. ‘You coming to the door with me, Donald?’
‘Don’t be daft, lass. What’d I do that for?’
‘Because I want you to.’
‘Oh, get yourself down an’ don’t be so wet. I’m here, aren’t I? I’m not going nowhere. Just say what you’ve got to say an’ then get yourself back up here. I tell you one thing, if this lass has got half the sense she was born with she’ll be out that door an’ in this carriage like a dose of salts. An’ when all’s said an’ done she deserves something for her trouble. I’d think twice about throwing meself into the sea for me own mam, let alone a bloke I’d never met, I tell you straight.’
Ellen sent her betrothed a look which would have quelled a lesser man and flounced down from the carriage. Donald heard the door open after she’d knocked but kept his eyes studiously to the front the way Bernard, the head coachman, had taught him. In less than a minute Ellen had climbed up beside him again. He waited but she said nothing, so after a moment he glanced at her.
‘Well?’
‘Well what?’
‘
Ellen
.’
‘Oh, all right, all right. She’s coming in a minute or two.’
‘I told you.’
‘Aye, but . . .’ Ellen’s voice trailed away, and when Donald said, ‘What’s up?’ it was a second or two before she answered and then her voice was puzzled. ‘She’s not what I expected, not from what Mr Kirby said anyway. She’s . . . nice.’
‘Nice?’ Donald wanted to throw his head back and laugh at her naivety, but he was here in the capacity of Sir Augustus’s coachman and propriety had to be maintained. He therefore contented himself with saying, his voice scathing, ‘Look, Mr Kirby reckons she’s as bold as brass and typical of some of the fishing girls down at the docks who’d go with anyone. ’Course she was nice, you’d brought her news the master wants to see her. Besides, that type know how to turn on the charm with men
and
women. There’s some as cater for both, you know.’
‘
Donald!
’ Ellen’s cheeks were scarlet, and the coachman, realising he had gone too far, was suitably chastened.
He was still apologising when Daisy exited the cottage, standing for a moment by the carriage until Ellen said, her voice clipped now, ‘Climb up then, we haven’t got all day.’
Daisy wanted to fiddle with her hair and clothes - she had noticed a black blob which was obviously tar on her skirt - and not least her nails on the way to Greyfriar Hall. She had scrubbed and scrubbed them in the few hectic minutes she had had before she’d left the cottage, but the minute or two with the big scrubbing brush and washing soda had only served to make her red hands even redder, and still her broken nails were black-rimmed.
She only had one change of clothes which fortunately had been clean, or as clean as the poss-stick and plenty of elbow grease could make them, and her calico cloak covered the worst of the darns in her thick linen blouse. She couldn’t do anything about the tar stain though.
She restrained herself from fidgeting, painfully conscious of the two stiff backs in front of her. The others might not be looking at her but she felt as though they had eyes in the back of their heads. Consequently Daisy sat as still as the deep potholes in the road would let her.
It was the first time she had ever ridden in a vehicle - unless you counted Farmer Gilbert’s great hay wagon which was pulled by his two huge shire-horses - and in spite of her nervousness at what lay ahead, the experience was thrilling. The fields on either side of the lane fairly sped by, and they passed East Boldon and West Boldon and then Laverick Hall before turning sharply south, and within a short time were passing through the massive iron gates of Greyfriar Hall and into the estate.
The wheels of the carriage scrunched on the gravel drive and then Daisy saw the big house which seemed to stretch away endlessly beyond the smooth lawn in front of it. The carriage skirted the lawn, driving round the side of the house and into a huge courtyard in which were two more carriages, a covered coach, and what was clearly the stable block by the number of horses peering out of their stalls.
The carriage stopped, and Daisy noticed the woman in front jumped down quickly without waiting for the assistance of the man next to her, ignoring his, ‘
Ellen
, please. I’ve said sorry, haven’t I?’
When Daisy was standing on the cobbles the woman said, her voice still abrupt, ‘You’ve got to come with me to the kitchen and then they’ll ring when they want you upstairs. And wipe your feet well on the cork mat outside the door. Cook doesn’t like her floor messed up.’
Daisy looked down at her heavy hobnailed boots which were very different from the maid’s neat trim ones, and something in her expression caused a softening in Ellen’s tone when she said, ‘Don’t worry, it’ll be all right. They’ve got a lot to thank you for after all.’
‘I only did what anyone’d do if they saw someone drownin’ in front of their eyes.’
Did she really mean that or was she just saying it for effect? Ellen stared hard into the unusually lovely young face before her. ‘Lass, I can assure you few would do what you did,’ she said, her tone very dry. And when no reply was forthcoming added, curiosity overcoming the need to keep herself at a distance, ‘The authorities told the master that a number of fishermen were drowned in the same storm that sank the
Aquitania
. Did you know any of them?’
The smoky grey eyes with their thick lashes gave the maid her answer, even before Daisy said quietly, ‘Me da an’ two of me brothers, an’ another three from our village.’
‘Oh, how awful.’
Daisy’s heart was beating painfully as she scraped the mud off her boots before following Ellen into the house. She found herself in what appeared to be a large scullery, part of which seemed to be used as a cloakroom by the number of rough coats and shawls hanging on wooden pegs along one wall, under which stood lines of boots, large and small. She watched as Ellen stopped at one peg, taking off her coat and hat and smoothing her hair before she changed her footwear for a pair of thin-soled shoes. Then they walked past the big boiler, poss-tubs and deep white sink set to one side of two large rough tables piled high with vegetables and a number of dead chickens, pheasants and other game.
‘The cook’s name is Mrs Preston but she’s mostly just called Cook. Keep on the right side of her, she can be a tartar if you start off on the wrong foot.’ Ellen whispered this in an aside just before she opened the kitchen door, leaving Daisy no chance to enquire why she should be expected to keep on the right side of anyone in the house. She was only here for a brief visit after all.