Daisy's Secret (31 page)

Clem again considered the array of crockery and cooking utensils stacked on the kitchen table. ‘Much of that stuff must be my mother’s. Haven’t set eyes on it in years.’

Daisy stared at it too. ‘It was right what you said earlier. We could feed an army here, at least, not literally an army but several other people besides ourselves and Miss Copthorne. If we wanted to, that is. And she’s been no trouble, has she?

‘Out with it. What are you getting at?’

‘Nothing, only. . .’ Daisy took a deep breath. ‘Well, I was thinking mebbe we could take in more lodgers. We’ve plenty of room, what with all those unused bedrooms.’

Clem looked dumbstruck by the suggestion, which Daisy didn’t wonder at.

‘What sort of lodgers?’ he asked, ever cautious.

‘Oh, I don’t know. Evacuees maybe.’ She cast him a sidelong glance, wondering if she dare risk making her request to have Megan and Trish with her, but thought better of it. It was too soon. She didn’t want to rush him. But she could perhaps plant the start of the idea in his head. ‘Aren’t you supposed to take one for every spare bedroom you have? It’s something we might have to consider later.

‘As for guests, well, I know this isn’t Windermere or Silloth, and there’s a war on so the holiday trade is pretty slack, but there are so many people looking for accommodation and we have it here in plenty.’ She began to get excited as the ideas tumbled out of her head. ‘Those who’ve been bombed out of their homes, young married women who are coming to visit their sweethearts, or sons, stationed nearby. Folk who don’t want to risk living in the city. Oh, there must be loads of people. And we have - er
you
still have plenty of empty bedrooms, which seems such a waste. I know folk would have to go out the back for the privy but I’m sure they wouldn’t mind. It doesn’t trouble Miss Copthorne, does it? And in time we could perhaps put in a proper toilet and bathroom in that little box-room on the first landing. Oh, and it would be fun, don’t you think?’ Daisy finally stuttered to a halt in order to draw breath.

Clem was chuckling, entranced by her enthusiasm. ‘Thee’s getten it all worked out, eh?’

‘I’ve been thinking about nothing else for ages, and then when I started counting plates it all came pouring out.’ Daisy giggled. ‘Oh, do say we can. Mebbe it would do Aunt Florrie good to have a bit of company around the place.’

‘It’d mean a lot of work.’

‘But I must do something to earn my keep.’

‘Thee’s no need to worry on that score,’ he said, his face closing into that all too familiar tightness. ‘Thee may only be my niece by marriage, but so far as I’m concerned thee’s family, and I’ll not have you feel beholden. I’m sure I can afford to feed one li’le lass.’

Daisy, regretting her tactlessness, hastened to soothe his hurt pride. ‘I didn’t mean it in that way. I’m used to working, and we’re all expected to do our bit, we women, what with the war and all. And if I don’t pull my weight here, I’ll have to join up as soon as I turn twenty. Which would you prefer?’

‘Nay, heaven help us. We’ve come to a pretty pass when we has to get women to fight us battles fer us. Do as you wish, lass. I won’t stand in yer way. But if we’re going to take in lodgers, I reckon we should clean t’chimley before you wash all them pots. It’s fair thick wi’ smoke in here.’

This seemed like a wise precaution to which Daisy swiftly agreed. ‘Ooh, you’re right Uncle Clem. Best get on with it then.’

‘What, now?’ In a voice high pitched with astonishment.

‘Why not now? No time like the present, as they say.’

It might well be true, but for Clem this was a revelation. Work on the farm moved at the measured pace of the changing seasons. Being rushed into a job went against the grain, particularly one which would be of no benefit to his animals. But already he had learned to recognise the light of determination in Daisy’s eye. Besides, he was quite taken by the idea of taking in lodgers. He’d no objection to Miss Copthorne, a quiet sort of body who wouldn’t say boo to a goose, and he found he quite enjoyed a bit company about the place. So with a resigned sigh, he went to fetch the necessary equipment.

Chimney sweeping was a complicated task which involved Clem climbing up on top of the house via the outbuildings and dropping a rope, weighted by a stone, down the chimney. Daisy waited at the bottom to tie on a sack filled with an old pillow to plump it out. Once it was secure, she gave a couple of tugs to indicate that all was in place and Clem pulled the sack up the chimney. The result was predictable. Daisy had forgotten to properly block off the chimney opening and as Clem tugged the sack up and down, a great whoosh of soot and dust came roaring out into the kitchen, covering not only the unwashed pots and pans but also Daisy from head to foot. By the time he arrived back in the kitchen, it was to find huge swathes of the stuff billowing over every item of furniture, and Daisy equally black with it.

‘Well, we might have a clean chimney and have come up with a brilliant idea,’ she said, wiping a smear of soot from her face along with the tears of laughter. ‘But I reckon we’ve put hours more work onto the Spring cleaning.’

Intermittent but regular air raids continued throughout January, February and March of 1941. The Docks, Ship Canal and Trafford Park were obvious targets and naturally suffered the worst of the bombing, which made local housing vulnerable. Several shelters were available close to Marigold Court, including one behind Ariel Street, another on a piece of spare land near Guide Street and a third on the corner of Weaste Road provided by Winterbottom’s Book Cloth Company, which was the one Joe preferred as it was larger than the others, with more trenches to sit in. All had reinforced concrete slabs by way of a roof with earth piled on top, walls that were at least fourteen inches thick well protected by sand bags, and designed to hold forty or fifty people. In Joe’s opinion it was little enough protection against a German bomb, but better than nothing. Better than cowering in their back entry under a makeshift shelter but, proud as the city fathers might be of these facilities, Rita was scathing.

‘I’ll die in me own bed, ta very much.’

‘That’s all right. You do that love, if you must. Just don’t expect me to be with you.’ Joe was taking no chances. Just inspecting the damage wrought upon his beloved city was terrifying. The market place had turned into a heap of rubble, though he was pleased to note that the Wellington Inn was still largely intact, which proved to Joe there was some justice left in the world. The Victoria Buildings and the Bull’s Head, among others, had vanished off the face of the earth. Even the Royal Exchange had been hit. The smell of cordite was in the air, and fear was in his heart.

‘Why don’t we all go back with our Florrie to the Lakes? We’d be a lot safer there,’ he said one morning as he viewed pictures of the damaged Cathedral in his morning paper.

‘No,’ Florrie said, quick as a flash. ‘I’ve had enough of that place. We’ll be all right here, if we keep us heads down.’

Rita rolled her eyes heavenwards, as if saying, didn’t I tell you how impossible she was. ‘Well I’ve certainly no wish to intrude where I’m not wanted. Not while I have a home of my own, humble though it may be, thanks very much,’ she tartly remarked, determined not to appear needy.

Joe said, ‘the pair of you want yer heads looking at,’ and stumped off to check on the Anderson shelter as he did every morning, for all he held even less faith in it than in the municipal ones.

Joe was no hero and carefully followed all the rules, those that benefited him anyway, and obeyed all the posters such as, “Your country needs scrap for shells.” Keen to do his bit he collected all the scrap iron he could, and some of it he even let the government have for free. “Rats and pilferers, both steal rations” said one poster on Salford Quays. Joe wouldn’t dream of stealing but he was not averse to getting a few bob for the odd ration book which happened to come his way. He was particularly fond of one poster asking if his journey was really necessary, which generally persuaded him to stop at home and not go to work after all, even though he never travelled by train or bus anyway.

And as for “Be like Dad and keep Mum.” He was an expert on that one.

Florrie felt occasional bouts of guilt over evading her responsibility at the farm, yet not enough to make her decide to go back. Not yet. She needed Clem to understand why she’d left, how badly he had neglected her. A part of her hoped that he might come to Salford looking for her, to urge her to come home, declaring that he missed her far too much to live without her. But these were simply fanciful romantic dreams. Clem had too much on his plate to have time for romance these days, even had he been given cause to believe that such a gesture would be welcomed. But the longer Florrie put off returning, the harder it became. Perhaps the opposite might happen and Clem find that he was quite happy living without her. Florrie couldn’t quite make up her mind whether this would be a relief or not. It was all too confusing.

Throughout that long, cold, dangerous winter, she’d continued to feel like a stranger, a spare part about the place. Salford might have been her home once but it didn’t feel like that now. She wasn’t settling. Perhaps she’d stayed away too long, or it was asking too much for the two sisters to live comfortably together in one house but Rita was driving her barmy. She’d seek any way she could to create an argument. ‘Shape yourself,’ she’d say in bitter tones, the minute Florrie put up her feet for two minutes. ‘You’ve done nowt since you came here.’

‘That’s only because I needed the rest.’

‘What would you need rest for when you don’t work?’

‘I certainly do work. I’ll have you know. . .’

‘What? What will you have me know? You told us that you live the life of Riley.’

Realising she was about to make a bad mistake by revealing more than she should about her life, Florrie desperately tried to retrieve it, putting on her posh voice. ‘Clem might be well off but he doesn’t believe in wasting money. He doesn’t mean to be hard on me but I’m not nearly so cosseted as you seem to imagine. He doesn’t really understand how fragile I am. In fact, it’s been quite a hard life,’ and pulling out her handkerchief, she manufactured a tear in the hope of winning sympathy.

Rita’s expression was one of dubious disbelief and she pumped Florrie all the more with questions about this fancy life she supposedly led in the Lakes, about which she’d kept so quiet. ‘How many maids have you got then? I bet you get breakfast in bed every morning. I’ve told you not to expect anything of that sort here. And when’s your Clem going to come? Or is he too grand for the likes of us now?’

Fervently wishing she’d never embarked on this conversation, Florrie made all manner of excuses to fend off Rita’s persistent questioning as best she could, finally blurting out some nonsense about Clem holding a vitally important job, all very hush-hush and high-up; the implication being that it had something to do with the war effort and was very well paid.

Even Rita was impressed. Utterly stunned, she asked, ‘What - he works for the government? By heck, which department? What does he do?’

Irritated by her own foolishness, Florrie’s tone was harsh. ‘Didn’t I just tell you, it’s all hush-hush. Much too secret. He doesn’t even talk about it much to me, and I’m his wife.’ The trouble with telling lies was that one always seemed to lead to another, and another one after that. It was all very worrying. Florrie would really like to be rid of the whole mess, wishing she’d never got herself into such a tangle and simply told the truth from the beginning. She seemed to have achieved very little by coming back to Salford. She hadn’t even succeeded in helping Daisy.

Desperate to evade any further questions, she made a dash for her coat, claiming she had a hair appointment. ‘I'll get us a nice bit of mackerel for our tea while I’m out, shall I? And I’ll cook for once. Give you a little break.’

‘Ta very much, I’m sure. Do you want me to bow and scrape with gratitude?’

Florrie fled. At least one good thing about being back in the city was that she could console herself with shopping. Florrie treated herself to some of the new utility clothes which she found to be really quite smart, certainly a pleasant change from the dull old working skirt and blouse she wore day after day on the farm. She’d had her hair cut and waved more stylishly and bought several new hats to show it off to advantage. She could eat fish and chips whenever she’d a mind to, or go to the flicks, just as she’d longed to do when up on the fells. But despite all of these much longed for pleasures, she was still lonely. Her old friends were conspicuous by their absence and although Rita had agreed to accompany her on the odd occasion, more often than not she made an excuse not to go.

‘It’s safer stopping at home. You can come a cropper walking around in the blackout.’

‘We’ll go to a matinee then,’ Florrie would suggest.

‘Do you think I’m made of brass?’ Rita never failed to get in a dig at her sister’s supposed wealth.

Florrie realised she was running low on money herself, having used up all the savings she’d been secretly stowing away over the years, and was forced to write and tell Clem exactly where she was staying so that he could send her some more. To her surprise he replied within a week, enclosing a postal order for her to cash and a short note expressing his hope that she was enjoying her stay with her sister, and that he would soon see her back at the farm, when she was ready to come home.

The door was still open then. But was she ready to walk through it?