Daisy’s Betrayal. Nancy Carson
for she knew she would loathe it.
‘I’ve missed you, Daisy,’ he said, and his welcome remark was like the direct hit of an arrow from Cupid’s bow. ‘I’ve thought about you a lot since Sunday.’
‘Have you honestly?’ Suddenly, her eyes brightened, delighted that he should admit it.
‘The only problem was that I couldn’t picture your face in my mind’s eye. Let me have a good look at you.’
As he drove he turned to look at her in the puny light from the town’s gas lamps. She tilted her face towards him with a self-conscious smile and was aware of involuntarily blinking.
‘Your eyes,’ he said. ‘So beautiful. So clear. I’ve been dreaming about your eyes.’ They turned right, into High Street then came to a halt by the crossroads. ‘Here we are.’
‘It was hardly worth getting in the gig,’ Daisy commented. ‘We could have walked.’
‘Why walk when we have a fine trap like this?’
They stopped outside a drab coaching house called the Old Bush. Daisy looked at it with apprehension. She recalled when she was a child her father telling her that the ‘Tally-Ho’ coach used to leave this inn every day for Birmingham and London. It was not the sort of establishment a wholesome young woman would consider frequenting, and she mentioned this to Lawson.
‘You’re with me, Daisy. People respect me. They won’t think any the less of you for being here. Anyway, it’s likely you won’t know anybody anyway, so it ain’t gonna matter.’
Thus chided, she followed him inside. In the public bar he asked her what she would like to drink.
‘Port,’ she said.
‘A port and brandy – your best,’ he ordered from the bartender.
‘I only asked for a port,’ she protested meekly.
‘It’s cold out there in the yard. The brandy will keep you warm.’
‘In the yard?’
He looked at her patiently and smiled. ‘Yes, in the yard. There’ll be a ring for the birds to fight in, with seats all around. There’s no room inside suitable for cockfighting … Thanks,’ he said, turning to the bartender. ‘And a large whisky …’
‘But if it’s outside in the yard, won’t some bobby hear what’s going on when he does his rounds?’
‘Be assured, Daisy,’ he said, whispering into her ear, ‘the beat bobby will turn a deaf ear.’
He handed her the port and brandy, which she sipped gingerly, then he took the watch out of his waistcoat fob and looked at the time.
‘We’ll finish these then go into the yard. Proceedings are due to start at half past eight.’
Daisy could feel the brandy warming her and was thankful for it. She looked around her. She felt grossly out of place in that smoke-filled bar, even with Lawson at her side. Although she was working-class herself she did not feel any empathy at all with the folk that surrounded her. They were not her equals. Most were ill-kempt, ill-mannered and rough. They yelled at each other across the room, they coughed asthmatically and spat rudely into spittoons that lay at strategic locations on the sawdust floor. Those folk closest to her stank, as if they hadn’t had a decent wash down for months. She longed to go outside into the fresh air of the yard, cold or not, so finished her drink much sooner than she normally would.
‘Another?’ Lawson asked kindly.
She nodded. ‘Please. Then can we go outside? I don’t like it in here. Some of these folk smell.’ She wrinkled her nose to emphasise her point. ‘There must be a big opportunity to sell tin baths in this town, but nobody’s addressing it, I venture to say. Maybe you should, Lawson, since you’re so enterprising.’
He laughed at her derision and paid for the drinks. He led her through a door at the back of the room, down a dismal passage and through another door. Already, about forty men and women were assembled, some standing, some sitting, arguing, laughing, hooting and bawling, nearly all smoking. As soon as one of the men saw Lawson he stepped up to him, shook his hand and led him to a bench that was evidently reserved for him. Other men acknowledged him deferentially as if he were the local squire, then looked Daisy up and down curiously. She could feel men’s leering eyes following her as she followed Lawson to their bench.
‘Tasty bit o’ fanny, that,’ she heard one man say.
‘Trust Lawson Maddox to come up with the goods,’ his companion replied venerably.
She smiled to herself as she sat down. Never had she considered for a moment that Lawson was entirely without sin. He was too good-looking and far too outgoing to have led a sheltered life. Perhaps he’d left a string of broken-hearted lovers behind him. That didn’t bother her at all. Men were men, and the more women they knew before marriage, the better. It was the way of the world. Even she understood that. The thing that pleased her was that right now Lawson was with her, nobody else. However many women he’d known, she was the one in his company that night. It was a stimulating thought. She thought of Fanny who wore her heart on her sleeve. Of course Daisy wanted Lawson to want her more than he’d wanted all the others, Fanny included, but the greatest stimulation came from knowing that all those other women must have desired him as much as she did herself, and that confirmed her own good taste. It also strengthened her determination to make him her own for all time, to make certain he wanted nobody else.
She turned to him and smiled, her eyes sparkling with adoration. ‘Tell me about cockfighting,’ she said. ‘Explain how it works.’
‘You’ll soon catch on. It’s just fowl trying to tear each other to shreds. Mind you, you have to realise they’re bred for it. Tonight it’s a Welsh main—’
‘Main?’
‘Contest. In a Welsh main we pair off sixteen birds. The eight winners are then paired off to decide the two semi-finals. Then there’s a fight between the best two birds left, to decide the ultimate winner. There’ll be plenty of betting going on, especially as we approach the final. I shall be taking bets.’
‘You?’
He leaned towards her and put his mouth to her ear. ‘Easy money.’ He pulled out his watch again and checked the time.
Daisy saw men carrying their birds in wicker baskets, like the ones pigeon fanciers used. One or two opened the lids and she saw them attaching what looked like knives to the backward-facing claws of the birds.
‘What are they fixing to the birds’ feet?’ she asked, nodding in the direction of the handlers.
‘Gaffs. They’re like spikes. Sometimes they use knives … To try and cut the other cock to pieces.’
‘Ugh, that’s terrible!’ Daisy protested. ‘No wonder cock fighting’s illegal. You surely don’t expect me to sit and watch it, do you?’
‘I told you, you’ll be all right.’
She had not noticed a queue forming in the gap between the benches at Lawson’s side. Those men who could write, and women too, were handing him slips of paper and coins. He pocketed the money, and handed the slips to Daisy.
‘Sort them by the name of the bird,’ he instructed, ‘and keep a tight hold of them. That’ll keep your mind off the cockfight,’ he said.
There were such names as Vulcan, Phoenix, Golden Eagle III, and others, all stupidly pretentious names as far as she was concerned. She sipped her drink and accepted another slip of paper; Razor Bill was the name written on that five-shilling bet.
Very soon the meeting was called to order by the pitmaster, who sat astride a chair facing the wrong way. The chair’s back had a lectern like a desktop attached to it. Daisy realised it was a library chair, but the incongruity of its use that night, compared with the more cultured purpose for which it had been made, struck