The Girl with the Silver Bangle

LINDA FINLAY lives on the Devonshire coast and is the author of nine novels. From lacemaking to willow weaving, each one is based on a local craft which, in order to write authentically and place herself firmly in the shoes of her heroines, she has learnt to do herself. However, it is people and their problems that make for a good story and, with so much interesting material to work with, it is easy for Linda to let her imagination run as wild as the West Country landscape, which has inspired her writing. The Girl with the Silver Bangle is her tenth novel.

Also by Linda Finlay

The Royal Lacemaker

The Girl with the Red Ribbon

A Family For Christmas

The Sea Shell Girl

Monday’s Child

Orphans and Angels

The Flower Seller

The Bonbon Girl

The Girl with the Amber Comb

Copyright

An imprint of HarperCollins Publishers Ltd

1 London Bridge Street

London SE1 9GF

First published in Great Britain by HQ in 2021

Copyright © Linda Finlay 2021

Linda Finlay asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work.

A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.

This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental.

All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on-screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, downloaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins.

Ebook Edition © March 2021 ISBN: 9780008392659

Version 2021-02-11

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To My Family

Silver Stars Shining Brightly in the Bangle of Life

Contents

Cover

About the Author

Booklist

Title Page

Copyright

Note to Readers

Dedication

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

Chapter 27

Chapter 28

Chapter 29

Chapter 30

Chapter 31

Chapter 32

Chapter 33

Chapter 34

Chapter 35

Chapter 36

Chapter 37

Epilogue

Acknowledgements

Extract

Prologue

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

About the Publisher

Chapter 1

1910 – Camberwell, London

Although sixteen-year-old Daisy Tucker had worked at the Fun Factory in Camberwell for nearly a year, watching the scene builders assembling sets in the yard and the props being loaded onto carts ready to be transported to The Hippodrome still filled her with excitement.

The Guv’nor, Fred Karno, a successful theatre promoter, had directed the terrace of five houses in Vaughan Road be knocked through, affording plenty of indoor and outside space for performers to practise, staging and costumes created and paraphernalia stored. Now he employed many local people and offered opportunities for advancement. Although Daisy had started off washing and ironing the costumes, she had a dream and was working hard to achieve it. She’d already been promoted to one of the runners for the overseers, but her passion was drawing and painting, her ambition to work with the artists. Soon there would be a vacancy coming up in their studio and she was determined to secure the position, even if it meant competing with her fellow runner and arch-rival, Arnie Bragg. With his pointed face and dark hooded eyes, he reminded Daisy of a rat, pushing his nose into everything and telling anyone who’d listen how good he was.

Daisy, meanwhile, had decided to take a more direct approach, and as soon as she’d seen the scenery artists were under pressure to meet their deadline she’d offered to help prepare their backdrops. Now, having found a corner out of the way, she began thinly spreading primer over the large canvas, wrinkling her nose at the pungent smell of ammonia as she carefully ensured it went right to the edges.

As she worked, her imagination ran wild. She could picture the scene she’d create as clear as the sunny day. Except hers would be nocturnal. A sliver of silver moon emerging from the midnight sky, shooting stars with spangles winking to the audience from the stage and, in the bottom right-hand corner, her own trademark: a tiny white daisy.

Absorbed in her task, she didn’t notice the sky darkening or the scene builders hastily pushing their sets back into their workshop until a big fat raindrop landed on her painting. ‘Bloomin’ August weather,’ she muttered, jumping to her feet. One minute there wasn’t a cloud to be seen, the next the heavens opened.

‘Look sharp, Daisy, and get that out of the wet straightaway or it’ll be your backside the Guv’nor’ll have for his backdrop,’ Stan the overseer ordered, appearing at her side and snatching the brush from her hand. Impatiently, he gestured to the props piled inside the double doors. ‘And when you’ve done that you can get them custard pies loaded onto the cart.’

‘Yes, sir,’ Daisy replied, struggling under the weight of the enormous canvas.

‘Oh, dear,’ Arnie smirked, scrutinising the board hopefully as he passed Daisy in the corridor. ‘Didn’t get it wet, did yer?’

‘No, thank heavens,’ Daisy replied.

‘Shame,’ he muttered, transferring the furs and furbelows he was carrying from one arm to the other. ‘Anyhow, you’re a runner and should be helping me with this lot, not sucking up to them artists. And don’t think you’ve a chance of getting that job in the studio. That’s mine.’

‘Been offered it then, have you?’ Daisy asked, eyeing him speculatively.

‘I will be,’ he said, puffing out his chest importantly.

‘I wouldn’t be so sure about that,’ she told him.

‘Well, they’re not going to offer it to you. Everyone knows girls get married and have babies.’

‘Haven’t you heard the world’s changing, Arnold Bragg,’ she retorted. ‘And in case you hadn’t noticed, some of the artists here are female.’ Refusing to let him get under her skin, she hefted the canvas higher and continued on her way. Despite what Arnie said, she intended getting that position. Already the artists were asking for her as they knew she would do a thorough job. Her father had impressed upon her that a task, however menial, was worth doing properly or not at all, and she took great pride in her work. Arnie, by contrast, was slapdash, hurrying through his tasks so he could sneak outside for a smoke, for this was not allowed on the premises. He also had a mean streak and there was nothing he’d have liked better than for Daisy’s canvas to have been ruined.

Daisy wrestled her way into the artists’ airy studio, breathing in the heady smell of paint. It was her favourite room, with a bench running the entire length, its wide shelves covered in huge jars of pigments, bottles containing liquids in every hue, and bristle brushes of varying sizes. Dodging the scenery that had been left to dry, she propped the primed canvas against the wall, ready for the design detail to be added.

‘Goodness, Daisy, surely you didn’t manage that all by yourself?’ Scarlett asked, frowning as she looked up from her easel.

Daisy nodded, not willing to admit her arms felt as if they’d been wrenched from their sockets.

‘You are a dear helping out like this.’ Scarlett delved into the front of her bright-red smock, drawing out a sheet of paper and stub of pencil. ‘I know how you love to draw so have these for your trouble.’

‘Bet that pretty little head of yours was busy designing its own set while you were splashing on the primer,’ Blue, her fellow artist, teased.

‘I’ll have you know I took great care to prime your canvas properly,’ Daisy retorted. ‘Although you know me only too well,’ she ruefully admitted, pocketing the proffered gifts, which they’d assured her were perks of the job.

‘Well, come on then, spill the beans; what did you dream up?’ Scarlett asked, green eyes studying her curiously.

‘It was a night sky, with twinkling stars and …’ she stuttered to a halt as the two artists exchanged amused glances.

‘The reality won’t be half as romantic, I’m afraid.’ Blue sighed. ‘We have to create another stage upon a stage for a performance up country.’ Daisy watched as he distractedly wiped his hands on his own brightly coloured smock and wished she had something brighter than her white pinafore to wear.

‘We’ve another canvas needing priming but you can do it in here, if you’d like,’ Scarlett told her.

‘Daisy, where the hell are you? I’ll not tell you again.’ Stan’s roar reverberated around the high-ceilinged room. As he appeared at the open door, arms folded across his ample belly, they shot her a sympathetic look.

Dodging past him, she dived into the props room and snatched up the pies required for the slapstick comedy.

‘Today, girl,’ he growled.

Daisy narrowed her eyes, tempted to lob one at his pate with its combed-over wisps of greying hair. Obviously she wasn’t called a runner for nothing, she thought, racing down the corridor as fast as she could manage.

It was satisfying helping the sets for the productions come together, but the mundane tasks were repetitive and she itched to be creative. Still, she’d have to bide her time. With her parents needing her wage, Daisy hadn’t had the luxury of receiving any formal training, unlike Harry, her follower, who was studying at the Camberwell College of Arts and Crafts.

Although that institute was council-funded, as her father had told her, if you’re learning you ain’t earning. Still Daisy couldn’t grumble, for her school teacher, recognising her talent, had suggested she apply for a job here, telling her father that she would then be earning while learning. Despite wanting her to work alongside him at the ginger beer factory, he’d finally given in, admitting he wanted her to be happy. She loved her job but, after paying her mother for her keep, she could hardly afford a pencil let alone a sketch pad, which was why she was so grateful for the odd bits and pieces Scarlett and Blue gave her. However, the position in the studio would mean a rise in wages, which was another reason why she was determined to get it.

Despite not having much money for luxuries, the three of them were a close-knit family, scrimping to pay the rent on a modest two-up two-down terraced house off the Northway Road close to the Fun Factory. ‘We might be working class,’ her mother always declared, ‘but that doesn’t mean we can’t live in a respectable area.’ It meant that Daisy could help out at home, for having damaged her legs in a bad fall, which had cost her the baby she was carrying, her mother had been forced to give up her busy job as a seamstress. Although she took in sewing, they were mainly alterations and mending jobs, which didn’t make the most of her talents. However, she prided herself on keeping their house nice and serving up a hot meal when Daisy and her father returned each evening.

‘Hey, look out.’ The warning shout stirred Daisy from her thoughts and she just managed to duck in time to avoid being hit by a long wooden plank. As the props clattered to the floor, three apprentices emerging from the carpentry workshop grinned sheepishly.

‘Sorry,’ Billy shouted, endeavouring to be heard above the sounds of sawing and hammering. ‘We’ve spent all afternoon shaping this specially to fit the backdrop for tonight’s act at the Hippo. Give us a moment to load it onto the cart then we’ll come back and help you with that lot,’ he added, nodding to the pies that were still rolling along the corridor.

‘Good job they’re only meant for throwing,’ she told them, grimacing at the large dent in the top of one.

‘It’s a shame they’re not real; I’m starving,’ Slim Jim said, reaching out his hand as if to check the one she was still holding wasn’t edible.

‘Oi, you lot, get yourselves cleaned up before you touch any of them props,’ Stan bellowed, pointing to the sawdust clinging to their overalls. ‘Some of them’s worth more than your wages,’ he added.

‘That’s not difficult, know what I mean?’ Ted smirked, winking at Daisy as they manoeuvred the timber through the doors to the yard, where once again the fickle summer sun was shining.

‘It could soon be arranged that you don’t get any at all,’ Stan called after them. ‘Don’t just stand there gawping, girl,’ he added, turning back to Daisy. ‘Got another canvas to prepare for them prima donnas, haven’t you?’

‘Yes, sir,’ she muttered. Honestly, the man had ears like an elephant and missed nothing. She couldn’t help smiling at Stan’s scathing remarks though, for, much to his chagrin, the artists insisted on being called Scarlett and Blue instead of their real names. When he’d complained, Mr Karno had told him that if it helped them get into character that could only be beneficial for their creativity and having, once been a performer himself, he obviously knew about these things. Catching sight of the clock on the wall, she bit down her impatience. She’d have to hurry to get that canvas done if she was to get home in time for tea. Her mother didn’t have many house rules but supper at six was a given.

‘Here, let me help,’ Kezia offered, appearing seemingly from nowhere. Her dark curls danced like a halo around her head as she scooped the pies up from the floor. Daisy smiled gratefully. It still surprised her that, despite the difference in their status, the glamorous trapeze artiste had taken Daisy under her wing, showing her where things were and introducing her to everybody. Consequently, Daisy had soon been accepted by everyone. Now they were firm friends and when she had a rare free moment, there was nothing Daisy liked better than watching the lithe figure swinging high above the practice room as she perfected her act. ‘Come on, let’s get these loaded before it rains again,’ Kezia urged.

‘Should you be here helping me, though?’ Daisy asked, glancing anxiously at the overseer.

‘Oh, don’t take any notice of him,’ Kezia whispered, giggling when she saw the man gazing appreciatively at her long legs. ‘Yer like a big pussycat really, ain’t you, me ‘andsome,’ she purred, in her attractive West Country drawl. A flush spread up the man’s neck and he turned quickly away. ‘See, yer just has to stand yer ground,’ Kezia told her as they made their way outside.

‘Thanks,’ Daisy murmured as they packed the pies alongside the other props.

‘Yer Harry back yet?’ the girl asked.

‘No, he’s spending the summer holidays working at his family’s ironmongers in Woolwich. I can’t wait until he comes back.’ Daisy sighed. Although he’d only been gone a couple of weeks, already she was missing him more than she’d thought possible.

‘Well, he certainly be a fine specimen of manhood if you don’t mind me saying.’ Kezia chuckled, giving her a nudge. Daisy felt her face grow hot. The summer evenings had been so sultry, they’d taken to strolling around the park after supper and Harry’s kisses behind the bandstand had become increasingly passionate. The night before he’d left, he’d asked her to marry him once he’d finished his course. He’d even promised to design a posie ring and engrave it with a message that signified his feelings for her. Being a talented jewellery maker, she knew it would be something really special. Recalling the tender expression in his cornflower blue eyes as he’d stared deeply into hers sent delicious tingles of excitement shivering down her spine.

‘Oh Daisy, yer face is a study,’ Kezia teased. ‘Listen, it’s my night off so why don’t yer come and see the new show with me?’

‘Well, I er …’ Daisy mumbled, knowing she had no money.

‘Timbo’s promised to sneak me in, so meet me by the stage door before the performance starts,’ Kezia winked.

‘Alright then,’ she replied enthusiastically, her spirits rising at the thought.

Hurrying back to the studio, she set about priming the other canvas. If she worked quickly, she’d have time to change out of her plain work pinafore then eat supper before meeting her friend. She hadn’t had an evening out since Harry left and an opportunity to see the first night’s performance would be a real treat.

She was still smiling an hour later when she joined the press of tired workers surging through the double doors. It never ceased to amaze her how many people worked at the Fun Factory, and they were all such a mix. Important-looking men in their bowler hats and dark suits pushed past boys in flat caps and rough woollen jackets, while young girls wearing bonnets, with white pinafores covering their dark dresses, smiled coyly at them. Then there were the artists, with their flamboyant smocks and berets. How she dreamed of dressing like that too.

‘What are you looking so happy about?’ Arnie asked, shooting Daisy a suspicious look as he appeared at her side.

Daisy shrugged. ‘Just pleased to be going home.’ Then she frowned, all thoughts of people’s attire vanishing, as she spotted her parents waiting on the pavement beyond the gates. They were both looking anxious, and, despite the warm weather, her mother was wearing her coat. Her heart sunk to her boots, for her father was gripping the handles of a barrow, which was piled high with their possessions. Something terrible had occurred.

Chapter 2

‘What’s happened?’ Daisy asked her parents when she finally managed to reach them.

‘Come on, love,’ her mother said, ‘we’ll talk on the way.’ Ignoring the curious looks being cast in their direction, she took Daisy’s arm and urged her along the street.

‘But …’ she began, staring at the barrow, which had obviously been loaded in a hurry.

‘It’s a rum do, love, and all of me own making,’ her father groaned, his grey eyes bleak.

‘Now, Arthur, remember no airing our linen in public,’ Mabel reminded him, eyeing the crowd still spilling from the Fun Factory, before determinedly crossing the road. Although her mother’s limp was pronounced, a sure sign that she was stressed, it was all Daisy could do to keep up.

‘But we’re going in the wrong direction,’ she protested as her mother veered left into Coldharbour Lane. ‘Our home’s the other way.’

‘Not any more, it isn’t.’ Mabel sighed, peering around. ‘Tell her, Arthur.’

Daisy stared at her father who grimaced.

‘Been given the elbow, haven’t I? Didn’t even get me full pay.’

Daisy frowned. ‘That can’t be right. You’re good at your job, and as leading hand everyone looks up to you.’

‘The bosses don’t now. Screwed up good and proper. I’ve really let you and your mother down,’ he muttered, giving the handle of the barrow a thump.

‘Arthur Tucker, we’ll have no more of that. A hero is what you are,’ Mabel protested.

‘Doesn’t pay the rent or put decent food on the table, though, does it?’

‘Will someone please tell me exactly what’s going on,’ Daisy cried, stopping abruptly in the middle of the pavement.

‘Your father stood up for a young widow who was being bullied.’

‘They were playing on her vulnerability, trying to make her do things that, well …’ He shrugged, his expression telling her more than the words he couldn’t formulate.

‘He got sacked for saving a woman’s honour,’ her mother exclaimed, indignation making her voice sharp.

‘Keep your voice down, Mabel. This creaking barrow’s drawing enough attention as it is,’ Arthur muttered, as people on the other side of the road turned their heads to stare. ‘We’re having to move, girl, in case you hadn’t realised. Come on, I’ll explain fully when we reach our new home. Not that it’s much, mind,’ he added, giving Daisy a warning look.

‘Home is where the heart is, Arthur,’ Mabel told him, and he smiled gratefully.

‘But where’s the rest of our furniture and things?’ Daisy asked, frowning at the few bits in the barrow.

‘Not getting paid meant I couldn’t pay the rent so the landlord kept your mother’s favourite possessions in lieu.’ Her father’s mouth tightened into a line and Daisy knew better than to question him further.

As they turned down Denmark Hill, Daisy was so busy trying to take in what she’d been told that she hardly noticed the horse-drawn trams and carts, the cries of costers peddling their wares or the shopkeepers pulling up their awnings. It was only when her parents stopped outside the Cock public house and began looking around that she realised their surroundings were less than salubrious.

‘We’ve obviously taken the wrong route,’ she cried. ‘What street are we looking for?’

‘Tiger Yard, and if Cock Yard is by this public house then it must be over there by that one,’ her father muttered, pointing ahead. ‘Come on,’ he added, as Daisy stared at him in disbelief.

Without waiting for a reply, he pushed the barrow through the narrow alleyway towards two terraces of run-down houses where tattered rags flapped listlessly at the windows and paint peeled from the doors. Urchins kicking a pig’s bladder up the street eyed their possessions speculatively, whilst grubby toddlers playing in the dirt ignored them completely. A group of frowsy women gathered around a water pump stopped their chatting and watched as Daisy and her parents walked towards them.

‘Good afternoon.’ Mabel smiled. ‘We’re looking for number six Tiger Yard.’ There was silence as the women eyed them suspiciously then finally a tall, dark-haired woman in her twenties stepped forward.

‘Who wants to know?’ she snapped.

‘We are Arthur and Mabel Tucker and this is our daughter Daisy,’ Mabel explained. As the woman gave each of them a searching stare, Daisy shivered but managed a tentative smile.