Daisy's Secret (3 page)

‘But Mam. . . ‘

‘No buts. You’re lucky it’s turned out as well as it has. A fine healthy boy is always easiest to place. It’ll all be done privately, very hush-hush. But you must never mention a word of this business to anyone, do you understand, Daisy? Not a single word,’ and she wagged a finger in her daughter’s face, to emphasise the point.

Daisy stared at her mother, wide-eyed with shock. ‘Never mention him? Whyever not?’

‘Because it’ll make you look cheap, that’s why. This business could ruin your reputation. No chap would have you as a wife if this ever got out. Men don’t like used goods.’

For once in her life Daisy was struck speechless. Such a prospect had not occurred to her. She’d never, in fact, thought beyond the moment of the birth itself, of worrying about how she would feel when the baby was taken away from her. She’d given no thought to how her life might change thereafter.

Rita gave her a little shake, urging her to pay attention. ‘This has to be our little secret. Do you understand, Daisy? It must never be mentioned, not to anyone. Ever! Is that clear?’

Eyes glistening with fresh tears, Daisy could do nothing but nod.

Perhaps she’d assumed, if she’d thought about it at all, that once the baby had been safely delivered to its new parents she might be able to visit it from time to time, and when she was old enough, get him back and take care of him herself.

But Daisy saw now how very naive that dream had been, both in allowing herself to trust in Percy’s love in the first place, and in imagining she could in any way keep the baby. She’d behaved very foolishly and her only excuse was that she’d been young and innocent, had felt desperate for some breath of freedom away from Rita’s stifling control.

Having signed the adoption papers, as demanded of her, Daisy learned she wasn’t about to be forgiven for her transgression. She was not even to be allowed home.
 

‘Why can’t I go home?’ she begged, desperation in her voice as her longing for Percy, for someone to love and care for her, almost overwhelmed her. She imagined him marching in, saying he’d changed his mind and they could get married after all. Then he’d carry her off to the pretty cottage in the country, baby and all.

‘Because you can’t. You can’t go back home and shame us all.’

Nor would she be allowed to speak to her father. Though why should she care? When had he ever cared about her? If her dad wasn’t out on his cart, he’d be in the pub or with his mates. He’d never had much time for a daughter. A son would have been much more use to him. Yet Daisy worried she might never see him again. ‘I want me dad.’

‘Be quiet, you silly girl,’ Rita scolded. ‘Anyroad, the exodus has already begun.’

‘Exodus?’

‘The Great Trek, the evacuation, what d’you think I’m talking about? Stop arguing, girl. My nerves are in ribbons already, what with the war and everything, let alone worrying about you. Like I say, you’re nowt but trouble, just like Florrie.’

 
‘I’m not a bit like Aunt Florrie,’ Daisy hotly protested. ‘I haven’t run off and got wed, more’s the pity. I did as you asked, even though it’s not my choice to have the baby adopted. I want to keep it. And why shouldn’t I? I’ve nobody else to love. No one gives a tinker’s cuss about me.’

Rita Atkins flicked out a hand and smacked her daughter smartly across her cheek, leaving an imprint of four red lashes where her fingers had made contact. ‘Don’t you dare use such language with me! I’ll have none of your lip, madam. I’ve had as much as I can take. Now then, get your coat and hat on. It’s time to go. I’ll not be responsible for you a minute longer, not with a war starting. The bus leaves at twelve sharp.’

‘Bus, what bus? Where am I going?’ Tears stood proud in Daisy’s eyes but she refused to let them fall, holding on to her defiance for as long as she could.

‘Stop asking so many fool questions. I’ve told you already, you’re fortunate they’ll take you, great girl like you. Anyroad, I’ve fetched a few things from home what I thought you might need, and your gas mask.’ She indicated a cardboard box and a small brown suitcase whose presence Daisy had taken to mean she was going home, until she’d learned different. ‘Don’t sit there like a lump of soft dough, start packing yer night things and get yerself ready.’

Having issued this instruction, Rita herself began to fold Daisy’s nightdress, and opening the bedside cabinet began to draw out the few personal items she’d brought with her to the Home. Soap bag and flannel, brush and comb and a small satchel of handkerchiefs which she’d painstakingly stitched for herself, fussy madam. Rita followed this with a book and magazine Daisy had been reading, snapped shut the suitcase and hooked the strap tight.

‘Right then. That’s you ready for off.’

‘But off where?’ Daisy once more appealed, naked misery in her tone.

‘How many times do I have to say it? Evacuated. Off to these pastures new you’ve always pined for. Well, now you’ll get your chance to live in the country, though it’s more than you deserve in the circumstances. You should thank your lucky stars you’ve got off so lightly. And remember, not a word about this business to anyone. Not ever!’

At the bus stop, Rita handed the case to Daisy, together with a bus ticket and instructions over what time she needed to be at London Road Station where she would be joining dozens of other evacuees, mostly children younger than herself. ‘When no doubt all your questions will be answered and somebody in charge will tell you where it is you’re to be sent.’

The bus arrived seconds later, the wheels churning through a puddle that splashed Daisy’s clean stockings, coat and skirt, speckling them with spots of mud.

Rita clicked her tongue in dismay, spat on her hanky and began to rub frantically at the offending marks. ‘Why didn’t you step back, you great gormless lump? Why have you never any sense? It’s time you took your head out of the clouds, girl, and started to think about what you’re doing. You can’t go on being Daisy Daydream, you really can’t.’

The bus conductor, watching this display of motherly fussing for some seconds with wry amusement, finally remarked, ‘Do you do short back and sides an’ all?’

Rita Atkins gave her daughter a little push, to urge her on her way. ‘Get off with you. They won’t wait all day,’ just as if it had been Daisy holding up the bus, and not herself at all. But now Daisy did hesitate, hopeful perhaps of a goodbye kiss, a fond hug, good wishes for the future, or even an assurance that her mother would write.

But Rita was busy tucking away her now grubby handkerchief in the big black handbag she always carried on her arm. Then with hands clasped tight at her waist, mouth compressed in its usual firm line of censure she took a step back, clearly mindful of a possible repeat of the unfortunate incident.

Reluctantly, Daisy climbed on board but even then stood clinging to the rail on the conductor’s platform before finding a seat,. ‘I’ll write Mam, when I get to wherever it is I’m going.’

The engine chose that very moment to rev up and roar as the bus jerked forward, and Daisy was never afterwards entirely sure whether she had heard her mother correctly, but it sounded very like, ‘Don’t bother. I’ll not be answering no letters from you, madam. Your father neither. Not if I’ve any say in the matter.’

Chapter Two

The house at Lane End Farm was large and rambling and old, probably built some time during the seventeenth century with slate walls nearly four feet thick, a storm porch at the front to keep out the worst of the Lakeland weather, and a confusing array of circular chimneys. Its most historic feature was a priest hole off one of the upper rooms that Laura remembered Daisy saying had once been used as the family chapel, as well as some rather nice linen-fold panelling in the dining room.

The sound of her footsteps sounded hollow on the uncarpeted stairs and upper landing, throwing open doors as she went along. The silent, empty bedrooms, of which there were six, not including the attic, were furnished in a somewhat outmoded, nineteen-fifties style. It was like entering a different world. There must have been eight at one time but two of the smaller rooms had been turned into bathrooms. Nevertheless, Daisy had done well here in her day, particularly taking into account that she’d started with absolutely nothing, and most of her youth had been blighted by war.

But it was the atmosphere of the house which moved Laura the most. It wore a sad air of abandonment. Wheelbarrows, harrows and a myriad of other farm tools rusted quietly away in the huddle of broken-down outbuildings, from which issued no happy squawking or other farmyard sounds. The house itself seemed to weep and mourn, wearing a shroud of sorrow for the woman who had loved it and lived within its four walls for more than half a century, generously sharing her home with all who wished to find sanctuary there; a place to nurse wounds, dream dreams and mend broken hearts.

Today, it was Daisy’s own granddaughter in dire need of such care and it seemed to be opening its arms to her, offering Laura peace, almost like a warm embrace as a solution to all her troubles.

Wouldn’t it be good to repay that generosity by bringing the house back to life?

Wouldn’t it be fun to open up the guesthouse again, Laura thought. To do up the faded rooms and welcome a new generation of walkers and lovers of the Lakes. She certainly had no fears about producing good food for them. Even Felix had nothing but praise for her dinner parties, and she did love to cook.

Of course it would be hard work. There would be beds to make, bathrooms to clean, and very little privacy with guests coming and going all the time. She’d need help of some sort, and money to get started. She would have to advertise, yet it was a popular route for walkers and those stressed out by their jobs in need of peace and fresh air, as well as folk who didn’t care for air travel or beach holidays. Many people loved to escape to a place like this, so was it such a crazy idea? Could she make it work?

Laura went back to the kitchen and made herself a mug of coffee. Cradling it in her hand, she sat at the kitchen table and thought about this plan with mounting excitement.
 

She could surely refurbish and update the place without spending a fortune, though she’d need to make one or two of the larger bedrooms en-suite by installing shower rooms. And the entire house would need redecorating, of course. After a while she abandoned the coffee half drunk to continue with her exploration, moving restlessly about the house, picking things up, putting them down again and going on to the next room. And all the time turning the idea over in her head, examining it from every angle, weighing up likely costs and finally admitting that if she went for it, she would effectively be declaring her marriage to be over. She would have to leave Felix.

Was she ready for that?

The thought doused her enthusiasm and brought back the depression, as if a cloud had passed over, blotting out the sun. She had loved him so much. Why had it all gone so badly wrong? And would he even notice she was gone? For all his claims to jealousy and constant declarations that he needed her to be there for him, Felix was rarely at home. He spent almost every waking hour working either at the gallery, meeting clients, making contacts, or travelling.

Laura flopped on to a sofa. Perhaps it might have been different if they’d had children, but Felix had made it clear quite early on that they were not to be a part of the picture. Laura’s wishes on the subject were, apparently, to be ignored.

Felix had one daughter already: Chrissy, the child of his first marriage who had brought nothing but worry and anxiety into his life, so he’d no wish to repeat the experience.
 

Chrissy was fourteen and lived with her mother, Julia, who claimed to be a diligent and caring parent while generally seeming to be in a perpetual state of dissension with her rebellious child. Reminding Felix if Chrissy had a birthday coming up, or of a school function he must attend, was one of Laura’s chief functions in life, although there were occasions when she was required to stand in for him.
 

In theory, Felix was expected to take most of the flak when things went badly wrong; in practice whenever he was summoned to unscheduled meetings with the girl’s despairing teachers, he was more often than not mysteriously occupied elsewhere and so the task would fall upon Laura’s shoulders.

But this was Laura’s main roll in life, to smooth the path for Felix: to remove unnecessary obstacles of stress which seemed in danger of wasting his valuable time, or causing undue annoyance. To say she resented this fact was putting it mildly, but then Laura had come to privately resent a good many aspects of her life.

If the gallery was ever overloaded with work because of an upcoming exhibition, Laura would be permitted to deal with simple correspondence and any non-specialist matters considered too trivial for Miranda’s expertise. She would be the one expected to ring the press and marshal interest; the one who kept fretting artists at bay when they constantly rang to see why their work wasn’t selling quite as well as they’d hoped. And when everything proceeded smoothly as a result of her efforts, it was generally the lovely Miranda who took the credit.

‘She’s such a marvel, that girl. How could I manage without her?’ Felix would say.

Laura knew, instinctively, that he was unfaithful. She tried to be adult about it, modern and forward thinking, but it hurt deeply. She’d given Felix her all, every scrap of her being, her love and loyalty, and yet whenever she confronted him with her suspicions he simply laughed them off, accusing her of being over emotional, as if she were unstable in some way, which usually resulted in Laura apologising for not trusting him, as though she were the guilty one.