The Blacksmith's Girl Read online

  Table of Contents

  Cover

  Recent Titles by Rosemary Aitken

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Dedication

  Author Note

  Part One: October 1915

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Part Two: January 1916

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Part Three: February 1916

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Part Four: April – August 1916

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Epilogue: October 1919

  Recent Titles by Rosemary Aitken

  FLOWERS FOR MISS PENGELLY*

  THE BLACKSMITH’S GIRL*

  Cornish Sagas

  THE GIRL FROM PENVARRIS

  THE TINNER’S DAUGHTER

  CORNISH HARVEST

  STORMY WATERS*

  THE SILENT SHORE*

  THE GRANITE CLIFFS*

  A CORNISH MAID*

  *available from Severn House

  THE BLACKSMITH’S GIRL

  Rosemary Aitken

  This ebook is copyright material and must not be copied, reproduced, transferred, distributed, leased, licensed or publicly performed or used in any way except as specifically permitted in writing by the publishers, as allowed under the terms and conditions under which it was purchased or as strictly permitted by applicable copyright law. Any unauthorised distribution or use of this text may be a direct infringement of the author’s and publisher’s rights and those responsible may be liable in law accordingly.

  This first world edition published 2016

  in Great Britain and 2017 in the USA by

  SEVERN HOUSE PUBLISHERS LTD of

  19 Cedar Road, Sutton, Surrey, England, SM2 5DA.

  Trade paperback edition first published in Great

  Britain and the USA 2017 by SEVERN HOUSE PUBLISHERS LTD.

  eBook edition first published in 2016 by Severn House Digital

  an imprint of Severn House Publishers Limited

  Copyright © 2016 by Rosemary Aitken.

  The right of Rosemary Aitken to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted in accordance with the Copyright, Designs & Patents Act 1988.

  British Library Cataloguing in Publication Data

  A CIP catalogue record for this title is available from the British Library

  ISBN-13: 978-0-7278-8638-5 (cased)

  ISBN-13: 978-1-84751-764-7 (trade paper)

  ISBN-13: 978-1-78010-830-8 (e-book)

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents

  are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.

  Except where actual historical events and characters are being described

  for the storyline of this novel, all situations in this publication are

  fictitious and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead,

  business establishments, events or locales is purely coincidental.

  This ebook produced by

  Palimpsest Book Production Limited, Falkirk,

  Stirlingshire, Scotland.

  To Kathy, with much love.

  Author Note

  All institutions in this story are entirely fictional and not intended to represent any individual military detachment, factory or sect.

  Part One

  October 1915

  One

  The woman who opened the police-house door in answer to her knock was so unlike anything that Verity had expected, that for a moment she could not find her tongue.

  Surely this couldn’t be the wife of Constable Dawes? Verity had heard that he was married, naturally. But she had a mental picture of what policemen’s wives were like. She had vivid memories of the last one: Sergeant Jeffries’ missus, always dressed in black, skinny as a rake, with a prune face and a disapproving stare and grey hair scraped into a bun. This woman was only a few years older than Verity herself, pretty as a peach, with glorious chestnut hair swept up around her face, and wearing a fawn costume – skirt and coat to match – that fitted beautifully. Must have been made to measure, and what policeman’s wife could possibly afford to dress like that? No, this must be a caller to the station, like herself.

  ‘Can I help you?’ the woman said, and Vee realized with a start that she’d been goggling.

  ‘I was looking for that young policeman that I spoke to once before. Name of Dawes. You come to see him, too?’ She found that she was nervous and her tongue – as usual – was rushing on all of its own accord. (‘Fluent, imaginative and intelligent’, they had said at school – though Mother said she simply talked too much.) ‘Some nice young man, he is.’

  ‘You think so?’ The young woman smiled.

  ‘I know so,’ Vee said stoutly. ‘Saved me a walloping when I lost my mother’s purse. Helped me trace my footsteps and we found it by the path with all Pa’s weekly wages still inside.’

  ‘That sounds like Alex,’ the voice was pleasantly amused. ‘Very keen on footprints and fingerprints and things.’

  ‘Well, it saved my hide that day – he walked me home and never said a word to Pa, ’cept that I’d had a nasty fright out on the path. I’m sure he would remember.’ Vee stopped short with a frown. ‘But if he isn’t back, I can’t well stop tonight. If you see him, tell him it’s the girl that lost her purse. Verity Tregorran – though they call me Vee for short. When they’re not calling me “larks legs”, that is, on account of I’m so thin.’

  The woman was giving her a peculiar little smile. ‘Well I’d tell him, Miss Tregorran, and with pleasure too, but I’m afraid that you’re too late. Constable Dawes is not here any more.’

  ‘Don’t tell me he’s already gone and left for France!’ Verity exclaimed. ‘I heard some talk that he was planning to go and join the war – but I never thought that it would be so soon. My father said that they weren’t asking for married men to go.’

  ‘They will take any fit man who volunteers. I’m sorry, Miss Tregorran. He left here months ago.’ The face was rueful now. ‘Would you like to speak to Sergeant Jeffries instead?’

  Vee shook her head. ‘That wouldn’t do no good! He thinks I’m flighty.’ She spoke with feeling. Sergeant Jeffries had known her since she was two years old, when she took a fancy to go and see the fair. She went off walking without telling anyone and was halfway to Sennon before he brought her back. It had earned her a good hiding for frightening her folks and the Sergeant had thought her ‘flighty’ ever since. ‘Besides,’ she went on, ‘he used to be friendly with my family – and Pa’d be madder than a bull if he knew that I’d been here. Toby Tregorran – keeps the smithy, up Rosvene. Know him, do you, or are you a stranger hereabouts?’

  The woman laughed. ‘Oh forgive me, I should have introduced myself. I’m Effie Dawes, the constable’s wife.’

  ‘Oh!’ Vee said, stupidly. Of course, she should have realized all along. She’d heard the rumours like everybody else. The police-house had been offered when the husband took the post – came as part of it – and that’s what allowed the Daweses to get married, people said. Old Sergeant Jeffries had been rattling round it, since his missus died, and had been more than happy to make room for them. ‘I heard you were to live here while your husband learned the ropes. Sergeant’s retiring in a few months, isn’t he?’

  ‘Should have done last Christmas, according to the plan, but then the war came – and Alex volunteered.
So the Sergeant delayed his retirement and agreed to hold the fort, at least until my husband gets back home again.’

  ‘You’re never living in the police-house with the Sergeant here?’ It sounded scandalous.

  Mrs Dawes laughed. ‘No. The Police Authorities have agreed to let the wives of volunteers stay on in their cottages rent-free, but I hardly think they would approve of that! I’ve moved into his retirement cottage down the street.’ She waved a hand at it. ‘You’re lucky to find me here, today, in fact. I’ve only come to pick up a few things I’d left behind.’

  Vee nodded, she knew White Cottage well. ‘Old lady used to live there, didn’t she? Had a wooden leg – used to wave it out the window, just to frighten us.’ Then she wished she hadn’t said that. It sounded impudent.

  ‘Sergeant Jeffries’ mother-in-law, that was.’ Mrs Dawes did not quite suppress a smile. ‘Came to him when she died, years ago, and he always intended to end up there himself. And it is only yards away. So he was happy to let me stay there, in the meantime anyway. Quite my Sir Galahad – without his kindness I would probably have had to leave the area and go to Alex’s people right up Falmouth way.’ She sounded as if the prospect did not please her much.

  Verity tried to imagine Sergeant Jeffries in the role of knight protector – she’d read about Sir Galahad in school – but try as she would she couldn’t manage it. ‘So, with your husband gone, there’s no chance of me talking to anybody else?’

  Mrs Dawes shook her head. ‘The Sergeant’s doing the policing on his own, again. Though that may not be for long. He’s finding it an effort, these days, cycling up the hills. They’re going to send a volunteer reservist to help out, when they can. But they’re so short of men that even that is difficult – so for the moment, he is all there is.’ She flashed that smile again. ‘So what was it that you wanted? Or would you rather wait and see the new man when he comes?’

  Vee thought about her errand and wondered what to do. ‘Thing is, something’s happened which don’t seem right to me – and I ought to tell someone in authority. Not Sergeant Jeffries, though, if there is any choice – he won’t pay no heed to me. But perhaps it shouldn’t wait until this other policeman comes. I think it might be connected to the war.’ You heard such dreadful stories: how spies were everywhere and the Germans were likely to invade at any time! The Government had even handed pamphlets out, about what to take with you if the Hun arrived. ‘Could I talk to you?’ she added, hopefully. Talking to a kindly face would make things easier.

  ‘I don’t think I could help you,’ Mrs Dawes replied. ‘You should see the Sergeant really, but he isn’t here just now – he’s out on his bicycle doing his patrol. But perhaps if you tell me what the problem is, I could advise you what to do. Come in for a minute.’ And she led the way inside.

  Verity had never been inside a police station before and she was rather nervous as Mrs Dawes ushered her across the hall. Was she going to be taken to a cell to wait?

  But no! The room they entered was an ordinary one, plainly furnished with a table and three chairs – and a sideboard with a photo lying flat on top of it. Was this the room they used for questioning criminals? Likely not – that photograph was obviously personal. Vee managed to get a squint at it as she went past. It was in a fancy frame and it showed a man she recognized. It was that nice young PC Dawes, though in the picture he wasn’t a policeman any more. He was sitting on a horse and wearing army uniform – a fancy one with lots of braid on it.

  The other woman had noticed what she was looking at and Vee turned scarlet to her very ears. ‘Your husband, isn’t it?’

  ‘That’s right,’ the woman said. ‘He had some portraits taken before he went to France but I couldn’t find this one when I came to move. I came back today to look for it, and found it in a drawer, up in the attic with some furniture we left. Alex must have put it there by accident.’

  Verity nodded, but her mind was following a different train of thought. ‘He’s not an ordinary soldier than?’ she said. ‘Ned Chegwidden, who used to live next door, has just gone off to join the army too. Sent home a photo but he doesn’t look like that.’

  The minute that the words were out, she wished them back again. What had possessed her to mention Ned, and to a stranger too? Suppose that news of it got back to Pa, or – worse – to Grandfather? They’d guess that she and Ned were sweethearts on the sly, and then the skies would fall because the Chegwiddens weren’t Strict Adherent Christians, like themselves. Might as well be heathens, as far as courting went. That would be the end of her going anywhere alone, so she’d never get a chance to speak to Ned again – and serve her right, maybe. Besides, her unguarded comment had sounded rather rude.

  But Mrs Dawes was not affronted in the least. She picked up the photograph and looked at it herself. ‘He’s in the dress uniform of his father’s regiment.’

  ‘His father has a regiment?’ Verity was stunned. ‘Like the Duke of Devonshire?’

  Mrs Dawes laughed outright, not unkindly though. ‘No! But my father-in-law always calls it “his” – or just “the regiment” as though there were no others in the world! Alex’s elder brothers are both in it as well, so when Alex volunteered, that was naturally the regiment he joined. And with his background in the police, he was given a commission straight away.’

  ‘So, is he in the trenches?’ Vee enquired, remembering the letters that Ned had sent home to his ma. He tried to be cheerful, though he could not say too much – and even then a lot was crossed out with censor’s pencil – but you could tell the trenches weren’t a pleasant place to be.

  ‘No!’ Mrs Dawes was looking at the photo, still. ‘They sent him on attachment to the mounted military police, so he’s escorting the wounded back to hospitals or riding guard for prisoners on the march.’ She put the picture back. ‘Personally I’m relieved to know he isn’t at the front, but from his letters he isn’t very pleased. Feels he’s “shirking danger”, which is obviously rot – but it’s not what he joined up for, I suppose.’

  Vee nodded, but her thoughts were still with Ned. He had talked about the military police the last time that they met, when he came home on embarkation leave. ‘Blomming redcaps – made up from the ranks just so they can boss us round!’ he’d said. But perhaps PC First Class Alexander Dawes was different from the rest. She rather hoped so: she had liked him very much. ‘He was a lovely policeman!’ was all she could reply.

  ‘Well, sit down,’ his wife was saying, pulling out a chair. ‘And then you can tell me what this is all about. Did I understand you thought it might concern the war?’

  Vee perched on the wooden seat and took her bonnet off, twisting the pink ribbons between nervous hands. Suddenly her mission seemed a stupid one. ‘I’m not sure. I don’t know where to start.’

  But Mrs Dawes said, ‘Start at the beginning.’ So she did.

  ‘Well, it’s like this, you see. I’m the third one in the family …’ And out it all came in a rush. ‘We’re nine girls altogether and the last one’s only small, so someone has to stop home and give a hand – but Ma has views about us taking turns. She was the eldest in her family, you see, and her own ma went on expecting her to stop and help at home, while her two sisters went in service and got paid for doing less. Unpaid skivvy Ma became, she says – and she isn’t going to let her own girls do the same.’

  ‘I see,’ said Mrs Dawes. ‘And what has this to do with whatever brought you here?’

  ‘Well, that’s how I came to be up on the cliff. My next sister, Constance, she’s just got old enough to give up school and take my place at home and I was hoping I could join the older two, working up at the steam-dairy factory out towards St Just – I ’spect you know the one?’

  Mrs Dawes nodded. ‘I’ve heard of it, of course. They’re taking girls, now, are they – with so many men away?’

  ‘They’ve always taken women, it’s cheaper I suppose, and now – with the Government putting females on this War Register – they’re taking
girls from there. But they’ve put in new machinery …’ she tailed off. Ma would say that she was running on again.

  But Mrs Dawes was clearly listening. ‘I think I’ve read about it. To sterilize the milk?’

  Vee shook her head. ‘They already did that – have done for several years – but now they’re expanding into other things. Used to do just fresh butter, cream and cheese and that was that – ’cept sell a bit of whey back to the farmers for their pigs – but with this new equipment they can evaporate the milk, or turn it into powder to send it to the troops. And salt down butter and put it into tins. All sorts of things like that. It makes a lot less waste, but it calls for extra hands. So one way and another there are often vacancies, but you can’t wait until you hear that there’s a job come free.’

  ‘Because they’ll just take someone from the War Register?’

  ‘Exactly! So I thought as how I’d go up there and ask – tell them I had sisters working there and see if there was any positions going. Our Patience (she’s the eldest) said it was a good idea, but I ought to try and see the general manager. Young Mr Radjel – that’s the supervisor of the creamery – doesn’t really have the final say. So I was to ask for Mr Grey, in person.’ She glanced at Mrs Dawes, in case she had that glazed look that Mother always got, when Vee was trying to tell her anything.

  But Mrs Dawes was smiling. ‘And did you?’

  Vee shook her head. ‘Not first off, I didn’t. I went up yesterday and asked to talk to him, but he wasn’t there. The factory’s working all the hours God sends, the fellow said, and the manager can’t be there all the time. More than likely he’d be back later on, when the night shift came on at seven o’clock, to oversee the loading of the carts. Well that seemed a bit awkward, first off, cause it would be dark by then and I didn’t have a lamp, and there wasn’t time to go and get one, so I nearly gave it up.’