For him she had braved her parents’ wrath for daring to plight her troth to a foreigner from four or five miles down the coast, knowing that was how Abe’s family and friends would view her too. But they had never regretted it, not once. Abe had loved her like few men loved a woman, and even though she had only given him the one bairn, their Mary, he had continued to love her until the day he had died.
She still missed him. Nellie’s deep grey eyes - which could be as bland as a newborn babe’s on occasions when she deemed it prudent, especially when Mary and her husband were in disagreement over something or other - fixed themselves on the thin gold band on the third finger of her left hand. But at least Abe had lived long enough to see the first of his lusty grandsons before the sea had taken him, as it took so many.
Oh, she hated the sea; it was cruel, wicked. It might surrender its riches to the men it called but it demanded a high price in return, and wasn’t chary about taking it neither. The miners had it hard all right, but there were more old miners to the pound than there were fishermen, and no mistake.
Nellie felt the sick unease within her rise up as bile into her mouth. She kept this fear buried most of the time - it was part and parcel of a fisherwoman’s life, first learnt as a bairn at her mother’s knee - but there were times when it wouldn’t be contained, like now. A fresh torrent of rain hammered at the window and she glanced towards the candle again, whispering, ‘Let it light their path home, Lord. Please.’ And then her wrinkled brown face, the delicate features still holding a faint vestige of the beauty which had captivated the young Abe so many years before, was bent towards her daughter again as Mary stirred and groaned.
The child was born an hour later and it was a girl, a strong-limbed and lunged infant who squawked in protest as its grandmother cut the umbilical cord and wiped the tiny face before wrapping the baby in a clean piece of old blanket.
‘It’s a little lassie, hinny, an’ bonny. Right bonny. Here, love.’ Nellie settled the baby, who had stopped crying and was surveying the world through surprised wide-open eyes, into the crook of Mary’s arm.
‘A girl.’ Mary’s voice held a note of wonder. ‘After seven lads I never thought I’d have a daughter, Mam.’ And her tired face was shining.
‘Aye, well, don’t reckon on it bein’ all plain sailin’, lass, not with her bein’ born amid tempest an’ strife. It’s a sign she’ll be as headstrong an’ self-willed as the elements that saw her given life. This one will never sail in calm waters.’ And then Nellie’s voice softened as she added, ‘But she’s bonny. Oh, aye, she’s bonny all right.’
It was just after Nellie had cleaned her daughter up, washing her and changing the soiled covers on the low narrow bed in a corner of the living room - normally Nellie’s own - that the women heard sounds outside the door and their heads turned as one. And then a deep rumbling voice and other, younger male voices filled the room, along with big bodies covered in filthy clothes and stinking of fish. But it was a smell sweeter than apple blossom and wild hyacinths to Nellie and the exhausted woman lying in the bed, because it meant their menfolk were home and they were safe.
George Appleby was a giant of a man, with a fine bass voice and springy tufts of grey hair which could never be tamed, but his big square face with its deep mahogany tan was tender as he looked down at his wife and new offspring.
‘It’s a wee lassie, George.’ Nellie had moved aside as her son-in-law approached, the lads standing somewhat awkwardly behind their father. ‘An’ I was sayin’ to Mary, born on a night like this she’ll have a mind of her own. Iron-willed an’ as obstinate as a cuddy this ’un will be, you mark my words.’
George’s callused hands were like great hams, the baby’s minuscule as he reached down and touched the tiny white fingers for a moment after smiling at his wife. ‘Aye, mebbe,’ he said softly, his red-rimmed eyes scoured by salt spray and lack of sleep looking deep into his daughter’s wide gaze as he searched the tiny face which was already distinctly feminine. ‘Mebbe. But to my mind that’s no bad thing. Yer don’t get nowt handed to you on a plate in this world, an’ them with the strength to fight for what they want are the ones who come through. What one might call iron-willed an’ obstinate, another might name determined an’ steadfast. Eh, lass?’ The last two words were directed to the baby, and he touched the downy fuzz on the small head as he murmured, ‘Determined an’ steadfast, that’ll be you.’
‘Already got you wrapped round her little finger then, has she, Da?’ one of the lads quipped, as another said, ‘What you callin’ her anyway?’
‘Aye, that’s a thought. We’d planned on David but that won’t do now.’
‘Daisy.’ It was the first time Mary had spoken and her gaze was for her husband.
‘Aw, lass.’ He had only ever spoken of his twin sister - who had died of diphtheria when they were eight - to his wife, and now his voice was even softer as he said, ‘Daisy. Aye, I reckon that’ll do right enough, an’ if this little ’un is half as bonny as the other one she’ll turn a few heads when she’s older. What say you, Miss Daisy Appleby? Yer granny says you’re goin’ to charter your own course an’ I say you’ll be a beauty. ’Tis a combination that’ll leave its mark for good or ill, I’ll be bound.’
Smoky blue eyes held his a moment longer before the baby yawned delicately, settled herself further into the crook of her mother’s arm and went to sleep.
Part 1
The Shipwreck
1900
Chapter One
She would feel buried alive, living in one of those stinking hovels in Cross Row or Wells Row.
Immediately the thought surfaced Daisy found herself apologising for it. It wasn’t them poor folk’s fault the way they had to live, but the smells seemed to stay up your nose for ages after leaving a bad street. Mind, some of the wives kept their houses cleaner than others and saw to it the privies stayed fresh, but that must make it all the more galling for them if they were stuck between two who couldn’t care less.
Daisy took another great lungful of cold sparkling air, relishing its sharp bite after the stench in some areas of the town she had recently left behind. She hoisted her empty wicker baskets higher on her slender hips and continued to stride on.
Her da said the townsfolk thought fishermen stank, but the worst of the fish smells - even the guts and offal and such - was nothing compared to what some human beings were capable of. She hated the towns.
Daisy stopped for a moment, flexing her cold feet encased in heavy black boots with thick cobbled soles. It was a four-mile walk from home into Boldon and hard going in places but she didn’t mind the journey back when the baskets were empty. She could always get a better price for the fish in Boldon, it being inland, than when she tried to sell the contents of her baskets door to door in Whitburn, and every farthing was precious.
She flicked back her two shining braids of raven-black hair before tilting her head and gazing up into the blue sky. It was a grand day. Not as nice as late spring when bluebells and cow parsley dappled the hedgerows and the heady perfume of wild lilac scented the lanes, but nice nevertheless.
And to see the sun shine again . . . Everything was better when the sun shone; people were nicer, kinder. There were castles in the clouds today, and even though the ground was still rock hard and frozen solid with the last of the winter snow, you could sense spring was on its way at last. It had been a hard winter, this one. Several times she’d had to clamber and lurch her way into Boldon on the crest of the snow-packed hedgerows, terrified she was going to find herself falling into one of the snow drifts which had been over seven feet or more deep. Her da would have gone mad if he’d known the risks she’d taken, but they’d needed the pennies selling the fish round the doors brought in, especially with one of the nets being lost recently. That’d been a blow. Her da had been like a bear with a sore head for days after that.
Daisy set her gaze forward again, jingling the coins in the pocket of her thick serge skirt before adjusting her calico cloak more securely on her shoulders. She loved this cloak. It had taken her hours to sew but when she’d finished her da had taken it to the tank and tanned it along with his nets, and it was the only garment she possessed which was a nice warm colour. Alf had said she looked bonny in it. But then Alf always said nice things to her, not like their Tom. Her small nose wrinkled at the thought of her youngest brother, the only one still living at home. Her granny said she and Tom were like cat and dog, and she was right.
Daisy started walking again, slipping and sliding on the icy ground as one part of her brain appreciated the stark white beauty all around her, and another began to list the multitude of jobs awaiting her on her return to the cottage.
She had collected a nice lot of driftwood along with nearly a bucketful of coal and coke first thing yesterday morning, and it would all be dried out enough by now. She’d banked the fire as best she could that morning with slack and damp tea leaves, but no doubt that would be her first task on walking through the door again. She had to make sure her granny was kept warm with the old woman’s chest being so bad this winter. She would warm a few drops of the goose grease she’d bought from the farm the week before, and get her granny to rub it on to her chest, before heating a bowl of the broth she had made yesterday.
Good stuff, that broth was, as it should be considering she had boiled the big marrow bone the farmer’s wife had let her have for hours. Her granny could always stomach a little broth when she couldn’t manage anything else. The rest of them could have a mardy cake with the fat she had skimmed off the bone, and the flour and a few currants she had left in the larder, and she’d salt herrings to go with the cake. That’d do the night. And with what she’d earned today she could go to the mill and get a half-stone of flour tomorrow, and bake some bread. That would tempt her granny to eat, the smell of freshly baked bread. Daisy gave a little skip at the thought of it.
The lanes were winding, dipping and curving their way towards the coast, but Daisy’s steps were light in spite of the conditions and the weight of her boots. She had sold all the fish, and none at a knockdown price either. It had been a good day. And summer lay in front of them. That meant calmer weather for the boats and all manner of extra food she could gather.
In the spring she could collect sorrel leaves from the lanes and hedgerows to flavour their food, and hunt out pheasant and partridge eggs and even the smaller guillemot eggs when she could manage to reach them.
The summer brought crab apples, haws, blackberries and sloes, and she knew just where to collect the best of them as the days shortened again. Farmer Gilbert, whose fields bordered the outskirts of Boldon, always let her have a supply of potatoes, swedes and turnips in return for a few bloaters and fresh cod, and he was always happy for her to go into the gleaning fields too. She liked that, the gleaning, with the scent of hay clinging to the warm breeze and the blue sky above. It might be back-breaking work, going along the stubble and picking up what was left to tie in bunches and sell to people who kept chickens, but she enjoyed it, especially when a bushel could be got together and she would take it to the mill and end up with a bag of fine wholemeal for cooking at home.
Farmer Gilbert never refused to take the sacks of acorns she collected for his pigs either, and always paid above the odds for them. She got a canny deal with Farmer Gilbert - he liked her, he did. ‘Daisy Flower’ he called her, and always with a twinkle in his eye.
Daisy smiled to herself at the thought of the stocky little man, her small white teeth gleaming against the honey-tinted skin of her face. Farmer Gilbert wasn’t like Farmer Todd whose farm was much nearer the village. Her smile faded. She had had a run in with him the week before over the price of the goose grease. He had known she needed it quickly and had traded on that. Farmer Todd wouldn’t give you the drips from his nose, and her da always said the milk his farmhand brought to the village every morning in backcans on panniers on the old donkey was watered down. Daisy nodded in agreement, thinking of it now.
Her mind full of the unfairness of miserly Farmer Todd, she continued to slip and slide her way along, keeping her gaze fixed on the black ice beneath her feet now. Consequently she nearly jumped out of her skin when her name was spoken very loudly just behind her.
She swung round, in danger of losing her footing on the treacherous ground. As she took in the chunkily built young man in front of her, Daisy’s voice was unusually sharp when she said, ‘Alf! You scared me half to death.’
‘Me?’ There was a grin on his tanned, good-looking face. ‘Sorry, lass. I was leanin’ against that tree over yonder waitin’ for you, but you were far away.’