Read Candles in the Storm Online
Authors: Rita Bradshaw
Tags: #Romance, #Sagas, #Historical, #Fiction
Candles in the Storm (47 page)
However, given the choice she would do the same thing over again. And she wouldn’t apologise for setting her own course either, or Tommy’s. He would have an education, a good one which would enable him to hold his own with anyone. She wasn’t denying her da or Tommy’s for that matter, and she would make sure he fully appreciated the unique breed he’d come from, a people who were strong and sound with the ability to survive the most appalling adversities, but she wanted more for him. A fisherman’s life was one long harsh battle for survival and the North Sea a cruel master. She hated it. The sea had taken her da and Tom and Peter, it wasn’t going to have Tommy too.
The child was still sitting on the counter when she walked through with Mr Shelton and it appeared he had won over the dour Septimus. The postman was showing the little boy how the scales worked and smiling at Tommy’s fascination. As though he had been caught at something shameful, Septimus wiped the smile off his face and straightened immediately he saw them. ‘Time I was getting on,’ he said gruffly. ‘Haven’t got time to waste.’
‘Aye, you go then, and thanks, man.’ Cecil Shelton’s voice was brisk but Daisy had noticed the twinkle in his eye and guessed his thoughts had been similar to hers.
‘Thank you again.’ As the postman left, Daisy lifted Tommy down and took the child’s hand. ‘I’ll be here at eight on Monday then.’
‘Righto, lass.’
As Daisy left the post office, Tommy still clutching the bag of bullets which Mr Shelton had said he could keep, her mind was spinning with elation. She felt bright and eager, like she’d got the top job in Sunderland, and she didn’t care if that was daft, she told herself happily. She suddenly whisked Tommy up into her arms and spun round a few times, making the child squeal with excitement and causing passers-by to tut-tut at such a spectacle or smile indulgently, depending on their disposition.
‘I love you, Tommy Appleby. Do you know that?’ Daisy said softly as she stopped her spinning and held the little boy close to her heart, his arms tight around her neck.
‘Me love you, Dadi.’ It was his pet name for her, first spoken when he couldn’t pronounce her name properly.
‘We’re going to show them, you and me. We’ll show them all, Tommy.’
He grinned at her, his rosy red cheeks plumping out still more as he strained back in her arms to touch her face, one of his most endearing habits and something which never failed to touch Daisy’s heart.
Yes, she would show them. She was going to make something of her life and she would succeed. It was time to say goodbye to the old life and embrace the new.
Tommy was now wriggling in her arms, anxious to be off to the burn, and she set him down, saying, ‘Instead of going to the burn, would you like to see the goldfish and the birds again in town?’ and then laughing at his rapturous response.
Mowbray Park was about half a mile from the post office but the Museum and Library stood at the far end which put another quarter of a mile on the walk for Tommy’s little legs. Daisy knew to the farthing how much she had in her purse, and the tram fare would pay for enough scrag ends to make a good broth for the two of them which would last for two dinners, eked out with stottie cake. She decided to walk, even though it would mean slipping and sliding on the frozen snow for most of the way, probably with Tommy in her arms. But it wouldn’t always be like this.
She caught him by the hand, her head high, and together they set off for Mowbray Park.
Chapter Twenty-five
‘So she’s come out into the open and has got the child with her now, has she? Well, well.’
‘It might not be hers, Mr Kirby.’
‘Don’t tell me you’ve been taken in by that cock and bull story about it being her brother’s bairn? The servants who worked with her at Evenley House weren’t, and they should know. I’d say with the grandmother gone who ran the house for her she’s decided to set up somewhere else and taken her flyblow with her.’
‘She’s not running a - well, one of them places, Mr Kirby. I told you.’
Josiah shook his head at Ellen Mullen. ‘Girl, you’re too trusting by half. Her type don’t soil their hands, they get others to do it for them. She had the grandmother as the madam in the other place. Likely she’s got the same set-up with someone else in Hendon and the post office is just a cover.’
Ellen Mullen’s teeth dragged at her lower lip for a moment. Why hadn’t she kept her big mouth shut about seeing the fishergirl yesterday? she asked herself miserably. It was only because she had saved her last two half-days so she could visit her sister in Hendon who had just had her first baby that she’d seen the Appleby lass in the first place. She’d been right surprised to notice her walk out of the post office just as she and Delia had passed, and perhaps because she’d been pushing little Millicent in her perambulator, the fishergirl hadn’t spotted her. Then once she’d let on to Delia that it was the lass she’d told her so much about in the past, nothing would content her sister but that they should go in the post office and find out what the girl had been doing so far from Whitburn. Delia was like that, nosy as they come. And it being her local post office and the postmaster knowing her, she had soon found out the lass was the postmaster’s new office girl starting Monday, and that her and the little lad had lodgings in Hendon.
Ellen now glanced across the huge kitchen table where the servants were sitting at breakfast. As Donald caught her eye he shook his head ever so slightly. She knew what that meant - don’t argue with Mr Kirby. Ellen’s lips pressed together. Next step down from God Himself was Mr Kirby, or that’s the impression he liked to create anyway.
‘She’s a wrong ’un, Mr Kirby, that much is for sure.’ Cook was determined to put her two pennyworth in. She hadn’t forgotten how the fishergirl had talked to her, and in her own kitchen! ‘Looks like butter wouldn’t melt in her mouth but she’s got a tongue on her like Sheffield steel. Hard as nails, that one.’
Josiah nodded slowly. ‘You’re right, Mrs Preston.’ ‘Worst thing the master’s sister ever did, taking that one on,’ said Mrs Preston, warming to her theme.
‘Well, Mr William wouldn’t be here now if it wasn’t for the fishergirl.’
As though connected by a single wire, all eyes turned to Ellen.
‘Well, he wouldn’t,’ she said again, noticing that Donald had shut his eyes for an infinitesimal moment and wishing she was near enough to kick him.
‘That is neither here nor there.’ Josiah’s voice was cold. ‘Although personally I feel the incident in question was grossly exaggerated.’
‘I disagree.’ Stuart Middleton the butler didn’t care about the fishergirl one way or the other but he couldn’t miss this opportunity to bring Josiah down a peg or two. ‘I was present when the doctor examined Mr William and he was in no doubt the girl had saved his life at, I might add, the risk of her own. It might stick in your craw, Josiah, but those are the facts. What do you say, Miss Finlay?’
The housekeeper seated opposite the butler at the prestigious end of the table inclined her head in agreement as everyone knew she would. Stuart Middleton had been visiting her room in the middle of the night for years although they were under the illusion they were the only ones who knew of the arrangement.
‘You could have twenty doctors swearing on oath but I know what I know.’ Josiah glared at his old enemy before rising abruptly to his feet. ‘Have you got the master’s breakfast tray ready, Cook?’
‘Nancy?’ Mrs Preston turned and spoke to the youngest kitchen maid who had been scurrying about like a mouse while the others ate, having been forced to bolt her own meal as she did every morning. ‘Let’s look at it.’
‘I’ve done it right, Cook.’ It was said anxiously and there was a tense moment as the cook surveyed the silver tray and its contents.
‘It’ll do.’
It was the highest praise Nancy was likely to hear but she beamed as though she had been awarded the most gracious accolade.
Once Josiah was in the hall his thoughts returned to the matter of the fishergirl. He had seen the way Mr William’s eyes had followed her on the day of the funeral when the chit had left with her fisherman friend and the former maid, and the look on his face when he had returned to his father. Of course the master’s son was in France and out of harm’s way at the moment, but it stood to reason he would be visiting his father now and again. There must be no searching her out. Young men could be foolish where women were concerned, he’d had proof of that himself. He hadn’t wanted to believe the signs that his own sweetheart was carrying on, but when May had run off with someone else on the eve of their wedding he’d been forced to. Josiah made a sound of irritation deep in his throat. Why on earth was he thinking of May now? Possibly because the fishergirl reminded him of her, a separate part of his brain answered. They had the same indefinable power to attract, something more than mere beauty. Something dangerous. He had sensed there was something between the young master and the fishergirl from the first moment he had set eyes on her. And that being the case . . .
The valet had reached the master suite now, but paused for a moment outside Sir Augustus’s rooms. There was bound to be an opportunity to let the young master know the fishergirl had a child the next time he saw him but if not he would make one, Josiah decided. Of course it wouldn’t do to intimate the girl’s precise circumstances, not with Mr William. Young men sometimes made the mistake of thinking they could reform a fallen woman, and in view of the fact that Mr William insisted the girl had saved his life . . . He would suggest she was happily married, hint at it, that would do the trick. If Mr William thought she was settled and playing happy families, he wouldn’t interfere. He knew the young master well enough to know that, as he’d known how that fool of a parson would react to that letter too. The parson! By, she’d have eaten him alive and not bothered to spit out the pips.
Josiah nodded grimly to himself, opened the door and walked briskly into the room beyond.
Part 5
And Then There Was War
1916
Chapter Twenty-six
The last thirteen years had seen Daisy’s life and that of the people of Britain in general change irrevocably. The country was at war, and with thousands of men volunteering to fight each month, women were taking over their jobs.
They were working in the dangerous munitions factories, becoming tram drivers, porters, window cleaners. Still others worked on the land, in shipyards, drove ambulances, lorries and motor bikes.
There were some in government circles who worried less about the war than about what sort of country their brave soldiers would be coming back to. Before you knew it women would be granted the right to vote, and then they would go on to demand political equality with men. Unthinkable? Don’t you believe it! Give the suffragettes an inch and they would take a mile. And as Lord Curzon had said, what sane man, in the face of great issues like war and peace, would like his destiny at such a moment to be decided by a
woman
?
woman
?
Daisy had busily carved out a career for herself some time before the war began, but the widespread change in women’s work brought fresh unexpected benefits. Women all over the country ceased seeing themselves as tied irrevocably to hearth and home, worthy only of being paid a mere pittance compared to their male counterparts, or yet again - for the upper classes - as fragile social ornaments. They no longer felt they needed male company if they wished to eat or drink out. Suddenly it was acceptable for even ‘nice’ girls to dine alone or with each other, to smoke cigarettes in public, and to wear make-up.
Clothes became more practical, hemlines rising dramatically until the glimpse of a lady’s ankle ceased to thrill. Women had reached out and seized a measure of liberation, but not even the fiercest suffragette would have wished this freedom to have come into being at the cost of thousands of England’s finest young men.
Word of the terrible reality of this war, which had begun with working-class men enlisting in a flood of swashbuckling patriotism, was seeping back from the front. Men were dying in unbelievable numbers in France, and the awful results of the German Army’s use of mustard gas at Yypres had quenched the public ardour for such songs as ‘Keep the Homes Fires Burning’ and ‘Belgium Put the Kibosh on the Kaiser’ for some loved ones at home, of which Daisy was one.
Already George’s two eldest boys had been reported missing and Art’s youngest killed in the first few weeks of the war. George had two more sons in France and Ron’s twin boys hadn’t long since left for the front.
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