Daisy's Secret (11 page)

‘I realise you don’t know any better dear, but I do prefer the napkins to be folded into triangles. A square is so common, don’t you think?’

And although Daisy had no objection to doing her share of household tasks, she had not come to them as a housemaid but as an evacuee, and she was fully aware that the Chapmans were being paid to accommodate her, partly by the government, and partly by a contribution from her own parents. The Chapmans’ were legally obliged to open their home to someone, and it really wasn’t Daisy’s fault that there was a war on, so constant proof of her gratitude shouldn’t be expected of her.

But Daisy said nothing, uncomplainingly bearing the burden of more and more chores each evening, despite having spent a long day addressing envelopes for the various secretaries and clerks Mr Chapman employed, while Mrs Chapman sat in her comfy chair and read her
Woman
magazine. She told herself that she didn’t mind the extra work, as it gave her something to do and kept her mind fully occupied.

It was the quiet moments alone in her room which were the worst. Those were the times when she thought of what might have been, of how things could have been so different if Percy had not let her down, if she hadn’t had her lovely baby taken from her. But where was the good in self pity? it only ever ended in Daisy sobbing into her pillow, which left her red eyed and exhausted the next day and did her no good at all.

Yet it was hard not to feel abandoned. Despite all her valiant efforts to keep cheerful and to cope, Daisy was lonely.

Sometimes she even found herself thinking fondly of Marigold Court with its back entry cluttered with dustbins, groups of gossiping women pegging out threadbare washing and men hanging around street corners smoking dimps, hoping their each way bet on the dogs would come up. Daisy hated to admit it but, like Megan and Trish, she was homesick for the familiar streets and markets, for her ineffectual, ever-silent, hen-pecked father who’d never stood up to his domineering wife in his entire life, not even when his own daughter had been shown the door.
 

To her shame she didn’t miss her mother one bit, but, one evening alone in her room, Daisy wrote a letter, addressed to them both, giving her current address and telling of her adventures to date. She cried as she wrote it, for all it made her feel better afterwards when she’d popped it into the post box. Perhaps, one day, her father at least might send a reply. It would be something to look forward to.

In the weeks following, she watched every morning for the postman but no letter came for her and Daisy strove to accustom herself to her new life, pondering on how easily promises were made - and broken. Percy’s promise to love her for always had certainly meant nothing. Percy had been a mistake, a bad one, and she would take much more care in future over where she bestowed her love.

The image of a pair of steady grey-green eyes sprang instantly to mind. Harry Driscoll, the young airman she’d met on the bus.

She’d once considered writing to him. Daisy had carefully copied out the address he’d written on her hand because, after all, if it hadn’t been for him she might never have got into town that day and they’d have been forced to spend another night in that awful house with poor Miss Amelia dead upstairs. Unfortunately, she’d never quite plucked up the courage to actually put pen to paper, which made her feel a bit guilty about breaking her promise.

But where was the point, she asked herself? He would no doubt be sent out on ops soon, or whatever they called them, and she might well be moved again herself. Daisy still dreamed of finding her Aunt Florrie. If only she knew where to look, and under what name. You’d think her mother would be prepared to help her, but no, not a word.

Her own parents’ obligation of love and care had failed her too, just when she needed them most. Daisy was quite certain, deep in her heart, that she might never have made that dreadful mistake and fallen pregnant, if her mother had properly explained to her the facts of life. It had been her own ignorance, in comparison to Percy’s obviously superior experience, which had been her downfall.

Even poor Miss Pratt, who’d promised to ‘do her bit’ and look after them, had broken her word through no fault of her own. But then that was the problem, wasn’t it? How did anyone know what was going to happen next? You could cross your heart, spit on your hand as they used to do in the school playground, write a promise in your own blood and nail it to a tree but lightening could strike the tree, or someone in higher authority could simply pick you up and move you on, just as if you were an insect to be plucked from one place and dropped somewhere entirely different. It was really most alarming how very little control Daisy had over her own life.

And those two little ones, homesick for their mam, must feel even worse. She was glad that at least she’d been able to do something to help them.

In the event the two children settled in remarkably well. Mrs Marshall was a kind hearted woman and although at first she was alarmed and distressed by the state of them, in no time at all she persuaded Megan into the bath with the lure of a rubber sailing boat, and soon had the pair of them shining clean, their hair cut and glowing like a pair of polished chestnuts. Each day as they walked the dog Trish would describe, in painstaking detail, every scrap of food they had eaten and Daisy would ask Megan about school. She still wasn’t the most forthcoming child, but she was getting better and sometimes could be quite entertaining.

‘The other children say we talk funny, so I said they did too. At least we don’t ask someone, ‘Are you gaily?’ and she did a fair imitation of the Westmorland accent.

‘So how would you ask someone how they were?’

She thought about this for a minute and then said, in her broadest Lancashire. ‘Hey up? Howarta?’ and then collapsed into a fit of giggles. Trish put her hand to her mouth and giggled too, though she wasn’t entirely sure why or what she was laughing at.

Daisy joined in with the hilarity, mainly because it was good to see the children happy for once, and tried to think of more silly words. ‘What about lish for lively? Or thrang for busy? They say that too round here.’

‘Mrs Marshall calls her bread knife a gully. I thought that was the same as what we would call an alley,’ Megan said. ‘And porridge she calls poddish. That’s the silliest word I ever heard.’

‘I know a sillier one. How about powfagged?’ Daisy said, wiping tears of laughter from her eyes. ‘My grandma complained of being that all her life.’

‘What does it mean?’ Trish asked.

‘Weary, which is what I am now after this long walk. Come on, let’s see if Mrs Marshall can supply some lemonade.’ And she hugged them both, feeling a huge relief and sense of satisfaction that all was going well with them at last.

Megan thought the war was overrated. There were no aeroplanes dropping bombs on them and flattening their houses, no tanks thundering through the village streets. They never had to run for their lives to an air raid shelter, only creep down into a dark, damp cellar where there were spiders and goodness what else. Not even any enemy soldiers invading to take them prisoner or shoot at them, as she’d been led to expect. War was boring.

Everyone was calling it the phoney war and Mr Marshall said that more people were being injured falling over in the black-out than by enemy action. ‘The common bicycle is turning into a lethal weapon,’ he mourned, as he went out every morning on duty.

Each night they all had to listen to the news on the wireless and a man talked about an aircraft carrier being torpedoed by a U-boat. It was called Courageous which Mrs Marshall said was a most appropriate name.

Megan had asked if this meant that the war would end soon, and Mr Marshall assured her that hostilities would all be over by Christmas.

 
Megan was glad to hear it. Perhaps then she could go home. Many of the evacuees in her class at school had started to go back already because they were missing their family too much. Megan was annoyed that she wasn’t allowed to go too, for not only did she think the war boring but so was living in this village with nothing more exciting to look forward to than collecting newspapers for the Armed Forces, though how the soldiers would find time to read them with all that fighting and shooting they had to do, Megan couldn’t imagine.

Soon, they were going to have something called a Weapons week. Megan had got quite excited about this at first, thinking that at last she might get to see some real guns, or even have a go at shooting with one. But then Mrs Marshall had explained that it meant they were to hold a rummage sale and coffee morning, and do other things like pay to guess the weight of a pig in order to raise money for the war effort. Megan had lost interest at once.

For months she’d been moved about from pillar to post, with nobody really wanting either her or Trish, calling them ‘little nuisances’ or dropping dead on them. And then they’d landed up here, stuck in the dullest place on earth.

On that first morning they’d stood together, she and Trish, in the school hall together with a load of other vacees from Tyneside while they’d been allocated classrooms and given instructions about not trespassing into the next door farmer’s field, and to remember always to bring their gas mask to school. One day Megan forgot and Mrs Crumpton, their teacher, made her walk all the way home again to fetch it. It felt like miles! What a waste of time, as if the Germans might suddenly decide to land on that particular morning. Megan hated her gas mask. It smelled funny and made her feel sick every time she had to put it on during gas mask drill. It was red and looked like Mickey Mouse but Megan wasn’t fooled. She knew perfectly well that if she wore it for too long, she’d stop breathing all together.

The week before Christmas something exciting did happen. Megan had been looking out of the window when she suddenly gave a yelp of joy. ‘That’s Mam. Look, it’s our mam. She’s in the street outside.’

Trish instantly burst into tears and Mrs Marshall didn’t know whether to pick her up and cuddle her, or dash outside to bring the poor woman in. Megan solved her dilemma by flinging open the front door and careered across the street to be swept straight up into her arms.

When all the hugs and kisses had been exchanged and Trish was safe and warm on her mother’s knee, a cup of tea before her on the kitchen table, the tale of her nightmare journey began. ‘The train were that full of soldiers, airmen and civvy workers, I had to stand up most of the way, squashed up in a corner of the corridor. We stopped at every set of signals, broke down near Preston when we all had to get off and go onto another train. Then we were re-routed to Wigan for no reason I could see. Eeh, I thought I’ll never get there. Still, it were worth it to see my little lambs again.’

All of this was related later to Daisy, together with how Mrs Marshall had brought out her best biscuits as well as a Dundee cake, and then had left them quietly on their own so they could talk. To her shame, Daisy felt a burst of envy at their good fortune. ‘Mam stayed nearly two whole hours,’ Megan told her, breathless with excitement. ‘It was wonderful.’

‘And she give us Christmas presents,’ Trish added.

‘Which we mustn’t open until Christmas Day,’ Megan sternly warned her. ‘I saw you trying to peep, our Trish, so I gave them to Mrs Marshall. She’ll make sure you don’t, so think on you behave. Right?’

Trish slowly nodded, looking suitably chastened.

‘And how did you feel when she had to go back home?’ Daisy gently enquired.

Both little girls exchanged a glum look before, eyes cast down, Megan gave a little shrug of her thin shoulders and quietly admitted. ‘I cried, and our Trish was sick. But I’m glad she come, Daisy. I am that. I’m right glad she come to see us. We know she’s all fine and dandy now, don’t we, and she’s given that sailor his marching orders she says, because he was a mucky tyke.’

‘Don’t say that Megan. It’s not a nice word.’

‘And Mam’s promised she won’t die, hasn’t she our Trish?’

Again Trish solemnly nodded.

‘Of course she won’t die,’ Daisy said, shocked by the very idea. ‘Whatever made you think such a thing?’

‘Well, that other lady died, and me gran did, though she were old, and Kevin Lupton, a boy in my class said that when the Germans start dropping their bombs, we might all die.’

‘What a very silly boy he must be.’

Trish was nodding again but her little mouth was turning down all the same and Daisy judged that it was time to change the subject, the conversation having taken a somewhat morbid turn. ‘Well then, we’d better give this little rascal his walk. He must have felt a bit neglected today, what with the Christmas preparations, and all these tea parties going on.’

The two little girls ran for the dog lead, eager to cast their worries aside. And, because they were children, that’s exactly what they were able to do. Daisy could only envy them their innocence.

Christmas came and the two children had a marvellous time with presents from Mr and Mrs Marshall in addition to the small gifts their mother had brought. Neither of Daisy’s parents came near, nor even sent her a present. She received a card, of course, with the simple, unsentimental message, ‘Hope this finds you well, as are we,’ in her father’s best handwriting but nothing more. Mrs Chapman gave her a pair of knitting needles and some wool so she could knit balaclavas for the soldiers.

‘How very kind,’ Daisy said, thinking quite the opposite.