Candles in the Storm by Rita Bradshaw Page B

Tom wasn’t good enough for their daughter. It wasn’t only that Margery was in the family way, it was who had put her there they objected to. Her voice cool, she said, ‘What does your da do, Margery?’
     
    ‘He’s a miner.’ And then the other girl’s head shot up as the frostiness of Daisy’s tone registered, and she said, her eyes still spurting tears, ‘Don’t take offence, please. My mam and da have no cause to be like that. I . . . I loved Tom, I did. I would have been proud to be his wife.’
     
    ‘Oh, lass.’ Daisy felt awful, and it was by way of apology that she said, ‘You sit still an’ I’ll make a nice sup tea an’ somethin’ for you to eat. You look done in. An’ we’d better see about gettin’ you into some dry clothes before you catch your death.’
     

     
    It was eleven o’clock at night. Daisy had all but fed Margery the cold pease pudding and shive of bread and dripping she had persuaded her to eat, and now the other girl was tucked up in what had been Tom’s bed with a hot stone bottle at her feet, fast asleep. Daisy had hesitated about putting her in Tom’s bed before she’d told herself not to be so daft. It was more comfortable than her da’s and the niceties didn’t apply in the current situation, not with the girl carrying Tom’s bairn.
     
    It was with this thought in the front of her mind that Daisy plonked herself down on one of the chairs after coming downstairs again, looking across at her grandmother as she said quietly, ‘I can’t believe our Tom could have been so stupid.’
     
    ‘Well, it weren’t another immaculate conception, hinny, that’s for sure.’
     
    Daisy couldn’t raise a smile. She sighed heavily. ‘I feel responsible for her somehow, with Tom bein’ the father.’
     
    ‘Don’t talk wet, lass.’ Nellie’s voice was sharp now. ‘You’ve enough on your plate without takin’ on more. They were old enough to do what they did, they’re old enough to take the consequences.’
     
    ‘But it’s not they, is it, Gran? It’s her, by herself. She told me a bit about her mam an’ da when I was settlin’ her in bed. Seems she’s the only one, somethin’ to do with her mam havin’ a bad time when Margery was born, an’ they’ve sent her to piano lessons an’ all sorts. They even paid for her to have lessons out of school with the teacher in Whitburn to learn how to speak proper.’
     
    ‘You’re jokin’?’ Nellie stared at her granddaughter, wagging her head in disbelief at the folly of some folk. ‘Bloomin’ hell, lass, our Tom could pick ’em, I’ll say that. All the nice ordinary lasses that’ve bin after him in his time an’ he has to go an’ dally with her. An’ not only dally but fill her belly an’ all.’
     
    ‘I think Margery is a nice lass, Gran.’
     
    Nellie brought her chin into her scraggy neck. ‘Mebbe. But all them fancy piano lessons an’ such didn’t teach her how to keep her knees together, did they? An’ all right, all right, you might purse your lips at me, Daisy Appleby, but can you truthfully tell me a lass like that is cut out to be a fisherman’s wife? Them upstart parents of hers had their sights fixed high, that much is for sure, an’ you go an’ see ’em tomorrow an’ you’re as likely to leave with a boot in your backside as a thank you for comin’. You think on, lass, I know what I’m talkin’ about.’
     
    Daisy stared at her grandmother. If she had spoken the truth she would have said she felt dazed by it all. Nothing was as it had been, nothing. She grieved for her da and Tom, and for Peter of course, and Tilly’s misery was pitiful to see. Peter’s widow was dreading the thought of being a burden - as she kept putting it - on George and Martha, and of her three older bairns going to Ron and Rose, but the alternative of the workhouse was an ever-present spectre at Tilly’s shoulder. And there was Alf, poor Alf, who in a funny sort of way was presenting more of a