For a Father's Pride (3 page)

‘I can take you all the way up, if you want. We are in good time.’ Tom lifted his wife down from the buckboard.

‘No, get on your way. The earlier you are, the more trade you’ll get. Besides, it’ll do me good to stretch my legs.’ Martha gave Daisy a nervous glance as she picked her
skirts up and made her way along the dusty path.

Daisy felt her stomach churn. She was alone with her father, and all morning she’d felt sick with worry: had her mother said anything? She couldn’t have done, for he was acting too
normal.

‘Tha’s quiet, lass, what’s up?’ Tom looked at his youngest. She was dark and plain, but her heart was true. Not as flighty as her sister, and a better baker he’d
never known; his business would be in good hands, if it were left to her. With a bit of luck he could do that. Clifford Middleton had enough brass for Kitty and any family that she might have with
him. He patted Daisy’s hand and smiled at her. She looked worried and had made herself scarce all day yesterday, for some reason. Perhaps she’d fallen out with her mother. ‘Never
mind, keep it to yourself. I don’t want to know what you women get up to.’ He grinned and pushed his team into a trot.

Daisy kept silent on her trip down the dale. It was a beautiful late-spring day, without a cloud in the sky. The rolling fells of the Howgills looked like velvet, as the valley opened out to
reveal the small village of Sedbergh. She wished her mind was as calm as the day; it was a-swim with worry at the thought of her predicament. They entered the village to the usual greetings and
pulled up in the historic market place, her father quickly setting out their wares, leaving Daisy to sell them while he stabled the horses and talked to his fellow traders and friends. Business
went well. The Frasers had a good reputation for tasty bread and satisfying food, and by lunchtime their stall was nearly empty. Daisy enjoyed the banter; trading was all about making friends and
hearing the gossip – and how much your skills were valued. It had helped settle her nerves for a few hours, and she smiled as her father praised her way with the customers. She loved him
dearly; she felt closer to her father than her mother. He was quiet and steady, unlike her mother, who continually wanted a better life and was never satisfied.

‘Away, lass, let’s get back home.’ Tom folded up the wooden stall onto the back of the cart and turned to look at his daughter. ‘Tha looks white, are you sure
you’re all right?’

‘I’m fine, just a little tired. We were up early this morning.’ In truth, Daisy felt sick. She could feel a wave of nausea coming over her, and her head was light and her body
wanted to give in. She heard her father’s voice getting fainter as she tried to pull herself up onto the cart’s seat; the blood rushed to her head, making her feel dizzy, before she
collapsed and fainted in front of the market crowd.

‘Out the way – make way, my lass is ill.’ Tom parted the concerned crowd and lifted his daughter’s head. ‘Aye, Daisy, what’s wrong? You’ve looked bad
for weeks.’ He held her tight, while someone passed him a drink of water from the nearby fountain to revive her. Daisy spluttered as he forced the water into her mouth. ‘There, lass,
don’t move. I’ll lie you down in the back of the cart and then I’ll take you up to the doctor.’ Tom put his strong arm around his daughter in an attempt to pick her up.

‘No, no.’ Daisy, her head spinning, struggled to come to her senses. ‘I’m just tired, I’m fine.’ She grabbed her father’s arm and eased herself up onto
her legs, still feeling queasy. ‘See, I’m grand.’

‘Tha doesn’t look too grand to me.’ Tom helped his daughter to the cart, assuring the gathering crowd they were all right and that they could all go about their own business.
He didn’t like folk knowing their business.

‘I’m fine.’ Daisy sat next to her father, feeling shaky and guilty. She knew he was going to have to be told shortly, because this was just the start of her pregnancy and she
couldn’t fain being tired forever.

Tom looked at his pale daughter and whipped his horses into action. He’d have words with Martha when he got home; she’d happen get to the bottom of it. Perhaps they’d been
working her too hard since Kitty left.

Daisy lay in her bed cocooned by the warm feather mattress. Her heart was beating fast as she listened to her father going through his nightly ritual: the back door bolt being
slammed, the grandfather clock’s chain being wound slowly and carefully until the weight was at the top of the mechanism, the door of the case being carefully closed afterwards. The things
she heard every night of her life, but never feeling the way she did tonight. She counted his steps in her mind. The third step always creaked and then she watched for the candlelight to pass her
closed doorway. She listened through the age-old walls, too thick to hear normal conversation, but too thin to keep out the raised voices tonight. Daisy screwed her eyes tightly shut, hating the
noises from her parents’ room. She knew her mother was telling her father about her. Her father’s voice rose with anger, and her mother was screaming at him. Daisy had broken his heart,
and she knew it. The rumble of angry voices went on for hours and she cried lonely tears as she tried to sleep, eventually pulling her pillow over her head to cut out the noise. She hated the baby
she was carrying; she hated Clifford Middleton; and most of all she hated herself for being so shallow with her affections.

When the early-morning light broke through Daisy’s bedroom window she shook herself from sleep, but immediately the despair of the previous evening swamped her again as soon as her senses
awoke. Did she dare enter the bakery and act normally, or should she stay in her room? She walked across the bare floorboards and poured cold water from the wash jug into the matching bowl,
freshening her face. She felt drained as she pulled on her skirts while sitting on the edge of her bed, lingering there, not wanting to confront her parents.

‘You needn’t bother coming down today. Your father doesn’t want to see you. I’ve to lock you in your room, because he’ll not be responsible for his actions.’
Martha Fraser stood in the doorway. She was quiet – too quiet for her nature.

Daisy hid her head in her hands, before raising her tear-filled eyes to look at her mother. ‘What’s he like, Mam? He’s not going to cause bother for our Kitty, is
he?’

‘Nay, he’ll not be bothering them. I didn’t tell him who’d fathered your bastard bairn, and it’s enough that we’ve one daughter in disgrace, without having
two in bother. You’ll not say a word to him about Clifford either, else by God I’ll kill you and the baby myself.’ Martha looked dark and forbidding. ‘I’ll fetch you
something to eat later, when I’ve time. I’m doing two folks’ work this morning, thanks to you.’

With that she slammed the bedroom door shut, turning the heavy iron key in the lock and leaving a heartbroken Daisy sobbing on her bed.

‘By God, tha will tell who the bastard is!’ Tom Fraser came down hard with the leather of his belt across Daisy’s buttocks. ‘No matter how far gone tha
is, I’ll belt tha every day till tha tells me his name!’

Daisy had been enduring the near-daily belting for the last six months, but still she’d not told her father who was responsible for her plight. She’d lived in her bedroom, locked
away from the rest of the world in squalor, her hair cut as short as a man’s and her diet consisting mostly of bread and milk, due to the shame of her father, and with her mother not lifting
a finger to help her. Kitty had been told that she’d left home to work in Bradford, not suspecting for one minute the life that her younger sister was living.

Daisy held onto her round belly. The baby had been moving lately and she knew it was nearly her time. Another thrash and he’d be finished for the night – he usually only hit her
three times. What had happened to the father she loved and the mother who had protected her? She didn’t deserve all this, for the sake of being young and foolish. For the third time the air
rushed by the belt and the leather cut into her skin. Daisy held her breath. She would not tell him Clifford’s name. Another crack came down on her, this time even fiercer.

‘You’ll bloody tell me tonight, if I’ve to kill you.’ Tom Fraser had lost control of his temper and the belt came down fast and sharp on Daisy’s buttocks.

She screamed in pain and clung onto her unborn baby.

‘Tell me – bloody well tell me – who the bastard is.’ Tom was sweating and swearing as he lashed out with his belt. He’d rather lose both daughter and baby than
have another man get the better of him.

Daisy screamed in pain, begging him to stop, as she feared for herself and her unborn child.

‘I’ll not stop, lass, until I get a name.’

Another thrash came down and, as the leather cut deep, Daisy yelled out ‘Clifford Middleton’, in desperation for her life and that of her unborn child. ‘Clifford Middleton did
this to me – our Kitty’s husband!’

She lay uneasily on her bed, sobbing and beside herself with despair that her secret was now out. Her buttocks throbbed with the numerous lashings, and her baby kicked in protest. She buried her
head in the pillows, not daring to look at her father.

Tom froze in disbelief and anger. That charmer, Clifford – he’d welcomed him into his family with open arms. He quickly regained his wits. ‘When this bastard baby is born, you
both get the hell out of my house. You’ve let me down, Daisy. You could have had all this, but no, you’ve brought me shame. You’ve lain with your bloody sister’s husband
– have you no pride, lass? Your sister, for the Lord’s sake. He’s a red-blooded man, tha shouldn’t have encouraged him with your flirty ways. A man can’t help himself.
Well, you had your pleasure, now tha must pay.’

Tom Fraser buckled his belt tight around his trousers and stood, red-faced, in the bedroom doorway. He brushed his white hair back through his fingers and sighed, slamming the door and turning
the key. Once outside, he swore to himself. The bloody bastard, he’d make Clifford pay and all. He’d not let Clifford forget for one minute the day he’d had his way with his
youngest.

Daisy listened to his footsteps going down the stairs. Her body was rigid. She girdled her stomach, feeling the baby kick. Her skin was raw and she saw blood on her fingers as she felt the welts
on her backside. Well, her secret was out – whatever her father did with it was up to him. She prayed he’d say nothing, for Kitty’s sake.

The baby gave another kick, reminding her of its presence. Her mother had already told her that there was going to be no one to help with the birth. Old Mrs Dinsdale from the row of houses
called The Street in Garsdale wasn’t going to be called to assist. Her gnarled old hand had brought many a baby into the world, and she was well respected by all the women in the dale. A tear
fell down Daisy’s cheek. What was she to do? Thrown out with a baby to care for, where would she go? She looked at her bedroom curtains and at the disused bacon hook that was screwed into the
bedroom beams, from years past. Despair flooded over her – there was nothing else left to do. She’d hang herself; after all, neither of them was wanted. It would be the best end to a
bastard baby and a ruined woman.

She wiped her tears away, her heart beating fast and her thoughts running away with her. She rose from her bed and pulled up the woven-rush chair to the window. The shutters had been nailed up
months ago, blocking her beloved view of the fell leading up to the Quaker meeting house and the rolling hills beyond. She reached up to untie the cord that held the dusty faded curtains, her
fingers fumbling with the knot that she remembered tying when she had been given the bedroom a few years before, when she was young and trouble-free. Tears streamed down her face as she choked with
fear and hurt – nobody wanted her, it was for the best – and her legs wobbled like jelly when the chair tipped slightly as she reached too far. One last tug and the curtains would be
loose. Daisy balanced on the very edge of the chair, leaning on the wall as she tugged, and shaking as she checked that the knot she had tied was tight. The next thing she knew, the chair had
tipped from under her and she had banged her head on the edge of her dresser as she hit the floor.

She lay there, dizzy and dazed, tears pouring from her eyes and the torn curtains around her. Then the pain started, a gut-wrenchingly sharp pain, making Daisy cry out in a scream. Her skirts
were wet and the pain kept pounding. She dragged herself up, pulling her body across to her bed while the jabbing pains kept her bent double. She slumped on the bed. The baby was coming – she
knew the baby was coming – and she needed her mother. She let out another cry and lay on her bed, legs apart and with perspiration dripping from her brow. She raised her head as she heard her
mother turn the key in her bedroom door. She was so thankful Martha had heard her cries.

She carried a bowl of hot water and looked sombre as she bent down and regarded her daughter giving birth. She should have got Mrs Dinsdale to help her. First births were dangerous, and she knew
that because she’d lost her first. ‘Be brave, Daisy, grit your teeth – it’ll soon be over. Thank God your father’s not here. He’s flown out of the house like the
Devil himself.’ She looked at her daughter, who was in pain and frightened, and noticed the torn curtains and chair next to the window, guessing what she had been up to. Her heart melted for
a moment.

Daisy let out a scream and gripped her mother’s hand. The baby was coming fast, brought on by the shock of Daisy’s thrashing and the fall from the chair. She put her finger in her
mouth and bit on it hard, to stop her screams, as her mother looked at the progress of her birth. Never had she endured so much pain, and yet in some dales women had a baby each year. How did they
endure it? Another wave of pain hit her and her mother shouted at her to push.

‘It’s here, Daisy, I can see its head. Another push and you’re done.’ Martha Fraser wiped her forehead. Thank God Tom had left the house, for he’d not have put up
with the noise.

With the next big push the baby was out in the world. Its wrinkled red body lay still on the bed, showing no sign of breathing. Martha picked up the baby boy and cleared his airway, slapping his
bottom. There was no response or movement. The wrinkles on his tiny face didn’t move, and the angry little hands remained closed tight. Martha cut his umbilical cord and wrapped the little
body in a blanket that she had brought with her.