Daisy’s Betrayal. Nancy Carson

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      ‘London and Bath, eh? Very nice. Yower husband must be as wealthy as folk mek him out to be then, eh?’

      ‘Wealthy? I wouldn’t know. I’m not privy to his financial affairs.’

      ‘Well, ignorance is bliss, or so they say. Eh, Mrs Maddox?’

      ‘I daresay you’re right, Mr …’

      ‘Turner. At your service. Would yer like me to call tomorrer?’

      ‘Please. Every day, if you would.’

      ‘No trouble. I collect me money of a Saturday.’

      ‘I’ll have it ready … Tell me, Mr Turner, is there a butcher locally you could recommend. And a grocer?’

      ‘There’s Randall’s in Salop Street.’ He nodded in the direction he’d come from. ‘Top of the hill and turn left. They say his meat’s all right. Next to him there’s a grocer and greengrocer.’

      ‘Thank you, Mr Turner. I’ll see you tomorrow.’

      Mr Turner returned his ladle to his milk churn, touched his cap and stepped up onto the float again.

      Back inside, the fire had caught nicely. Daisy filled her kettle from the tap in the brewhouse outside and hung it on a gale hook over the fire. She looked around the freshly whitewashed scullery. It was all new to her and she had to find her way around. She located the teapot, the caddy, and spooned tea-leaves into the pot ready, then searched the cupboards and the cellar head for food. There was nothing she fancied; only stuff she would have to throw away. She made a note of the kitchen utensils, which were a legacy from Lawson’s father’s days, and decided she would need everything new.

      Lawson came down and stood in the door frame, smartly dressed.

      ‘I see you’ve lit a fire already.’

      ‘There’s not much coal in the cellar, Lawson. We’ll need more. We’ve nothing for breakfast either, save for some milk I just got from the milkman I saw coming down the road. I asked him to call every day. I think I’d better run up the road and get some bacon or something.’

      ‘There’s some ginger biscuits in a biscuit barrel in the sideboard,’ he said. ‘They’ll do for now. I’m not particularly fussed about breakfast, to tell the truth.’

      ‘I’ll need some money, Lawson,’ she said apologetically. ‘For meat and bread and provisions. I could do with finding a hardware shop as well. We don’t have any pots and pans to speak of. Nor knives and scissors and such like. Lord only knows how that cook you hired managed.’

      ‘You’re the housekeeper. How much do you want?’

      She shrugged. ‘Hard to say. But I do need to stock up.’

      He fished his wallet out of his pocket and rummaged through the coins. He began picking out gold sovereigns. ‘Will ten pounds do?’

      ‘Ten pounds? Good God, yes. Ten pounds should be plenty.’

      He handed her the coins.

      ‘Are you able to drive me there and back, Lawson?’ she asked. ‘I’m only thinking about carrying all that stuff.’

      ‘Not today, Daisy. I’ve got a busy day today. First I’ve got to fetch the horse from Jones’s stables. Then I’ve got business to attend to, people to see. I’ve been away more than a week, remember. You’ll have to manage as best you can.’

      ‘What time shall you leave?’

      ‘As soon as I’ve wet me whistle.’

      The kettle started boiling, spitting water into the fire and hissing impatiently. She took a cloth and lifted it from the gale hook and poured water into the teapot.

      ‘So when shall I see you back?’ she enquired pleasantly.

      ‘I’ll be back for tea, I daresay.’

      She stirred the pot, put the lid on and smiled at him. ‘And I’ll have a lovely hot dinner ready for you … Now, let me see if I can find that biscuit barrel …’

      When she returned, Lawson said, ‘I can see that you’re going to need a maid, Daisy. Remind me to see to it.’

      ‘Oh, I can see to it, Lawson. I’m used to it. I’ll put a notice in the window at the post office or something. A maid-of-all-work is what we need.’ The thought of having a maid enthralled her. A maid would underline her own uplifted social status. ‘A maid-of-all-work would be very useful … and wouldn’t cost a fortune either.’

      A long queue of women waited to be served in Randall’s, the butcher’s shop the milkman had told her about, and Daisy just managed to squeeze through the door at the end of it. Rabbits, chickens, and half pigs hung stiffly from galvanised steel hooks attached to the ceiling on the other side of the counter. In the window was displayed a pig’s head made of plaster and painted in glossy paint, with a painted plaster apple in its mouth and surrounded by sprigs of real parsley, all on a white enamelled tray. Near it were some plaster representations of pork pies and sausages. The chopping block, a cylindrical section of a thick tree trunk, stood upright in a corner behind the counter, its top scrubbed and uneven with wear, but now spattered with blood, flecks of meat and shards of bone from the day’s butchering. Sheets of tripe draped the far wall like thick curtains, and two strips of fly paper, dotted with dead flies, hung three feet apart above the wooden counter. The wooden floor was strewn with sawdust.

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