Daisy's Secret (37 page)

Laura was staring at the woman, stunned. ‘Megan? Of course. You and your sister Trish travelled with her to the Lakes on the train.’

The woman beamed with remembered pleasure then burst out laughing. ‘That’s us, in our over-long trailing mackintoshes and dreadful berets. Trish emigrated to Canada after she married but I used to come here quite a lot. Became quite a regular until well into the sixties, till I started a family and life got too hectic, you know how it is. Daisy and I would reminisce about old times. Quite a pair of old gossips we were.’

Laura’s eyes were shining. ‘I certainly have heard all about you. How wonderful to meet you in person. Perhaps, when you’ve settled in, you’d come and have a gossip with me. I’m always happy to learn more about Daisy.’

‘Be glad to. I can tell you how she came to open this place, and how she found your father?’

‘Found?’

‘Didn’t you know that Daisy had a son who was given away for adoption? Didn’t your father ever tell you?’

‘Heaven help me, what are you saying? You mean Daisy found him again? Could that be possible? That my father was actually her lost son?’

‘Of course it could. Whyever not? How old he is?’

‘Excuse me?’
 

‘When was he born?’

Laura considered. ‘I’m not sure. He’s seventy-something, born during the war, no, just before it, I think.’

‘There you are then. Daisy’s lost son. The age fits.’

A moment’s silence while Laura absorbed the implications. ‘How can you be sure? I’ve practically taken the place apart and found no sign of any birth or marriage certificates, no documentary evidence of any kind.’

‘Well, you wouldn’t, would you? What with the adoption and the war and everything.’

‘But I don’t understand any of this. How did it all come about? How did she find him?’

‘You could always ask him that.’

‘You don’t know my father. Having warned me off poking and prying into Daisy’s life, he’d simply blow his top again. There has to be some other way.’

‘Shall I tell you what I know? It might help. I could tell you how
we
found Daisy again.’

‘Oh, please do. Perhaps we could get together this evening, over supper? What happened after the bomb? And tell me more about how you came to know my father.’

So what d’you think you’re going to do with the babby then? You can’t keep it. It’s not yours.’

Florrie looked at the baby and began to cry. The pair were sitting on a pile of broken bricks and splintered window frames, all that remained of their home. From the harshness of her tone a stranger might be fooled into thinking that Rita didn’t care that her husband was probably buried somewhere beneath it all. Florrie knew different. Rita was always at her nastiest when she was most upset. Besides, her eyes were red, her nose was running and she could barely get the words out through the tightness of the pain constricting her throat. ‘How should I know what we ought to do with it, but right now it needs feeding. God almighty - and changing.’ She lifted the baby, curled up her nose and shook her head in despair. ‘Aw, poor little love.’

‘Never mind the baby being a poor little love, what about us? We’re homeless. Bombed out. Or haven’t you noticed?’

Florrie looked with pity on her sister. And you’re a widow, but didn’t have the courage to say as much in so many words. Between first finding the ruins of their home, not to mention all of the other houses in Marigold Court, to them arriving back here and seating themselves upon its smoking remains, the two women had trailed from one air raid shelter to another in search of Joe, not missing a single opportunity to ask if anyone had seen him, or check out a place where he might have taken cover.

‘He’s a goner,’ Rita had finally admitted. ‘I bet he stayed put, peeling that flippin’ potato, stupid man. Never did know what was best for him, the silly old fool. Now what am I supposed to do? No home, no husband, no job, no money. What now?’ She rooted in her pocket for a bit of grubby rag that passed for a hanky and blew her nose upon it, loud and hard.

‘And we’ve the bairn to think about, don’t forget.’

Rita shot a venomous glare at Florrie. ‘Aren’t you listening to a single word I’ve said? We’ve bigger problems to consider than a lost child. Anyroad, there’s some nappies on that line over there. I reckon they’ll be dry by now,’ Rita’s black humour seemed stronger than ever as she gazed upon the ruins of her world.

Florrie stared in dismay at the washing line with its row of terry napkins. Who had washed them, and where was the child? Had it, or the mother, survived? Even if they had, she could surely spare one nappy in the circumstances. Propping the baby on her hip, Florrie picked her way over the heap of loose chunks of plaster and burning debris to unpeg the cleanest one from the line, deciding to take a second as well, just to be safe. Milk for the baby was another matter.

Back beside her sister, Florrie pointed out this problem as she cleaned the baby up as best she could and pinned on the clean nappy. ‘He must be weaned by now, mustn’t he, but a bairn still needs milk.’

‘Never mind milk for the babby, what are
we
going to eat? Dirt, I suppose.’

A woman who happened to be passing by as Rita asked the question, answered it for her. ‘We’re to go down to t’Council school. There’s soup on offer from the WVS, and summat fer t’child an’ all, I reckon.’

Rita didn’t thank her but simply nodded by way of a greeting when she saw whom she addressed. ‘That’s what I face now, is it? A blanket and a bit of hard floor in an old schoolroom, and handouts from a soup kitchen. It’ll be the flamin’ workhouse next.’

‘It’s a boy, a fine one at that,’ Florrie said, quite inconsequentially, paying no attention to Rita’s complaints as she buried the dirty nappy amongst the rubbish around her.

The woman stared at the baby with bleak eyes. ‘At least you can be thankful he’s too young to fight. Unlike my lad. Got near shot to pieces, he did. You’d think he’d be safe on a big ship, wouldn’t you?’

‘What about your Annie and the nippers?’ Rita asked, but the woman only jerked her head in the direction of the destruction behind them, and even the hard hearted Rita seemed moved by the gesture. ‘Joe an’ all,’ she said, acknowledging their mutual loss. Both women looked away, embarrassed by their own vulnerability and not yet able to cope with pity.

‘I’d best be going.’ Without pausing to linger, she went on her way, dragging her feet as if the effort even of walking were too much for her, her face pinched and drawn with suffering.

Reality was beginning to penetrate. An entire area, all the entries and yards and courts with their fanciful names and long history of gloom and poverty had been destroyed this day. No great loss, some might say, save for the number of mothers and children, old folk and loved ones who’d been lost along with them. Every one an innocent victim of war. Rita expelled her anger by blaming not only the German planes who’d dropped the bombs but the local authorities for their inadequate means of protection, the government, and even the ARP Warden who, in her opinion, had very nearly been the death of them all.

Florrie was still preoccupied with the baby. ‘Who does he belong to? Did you see anyone who might have been his mam? We should take him back to the ARP Warden, get him checked out by a doctor. There, there, don’t cry little chap. Hush now, hush.’ She sat him on her lap and began to rock him to and fro, crooning gently as she gave him a finger to suck to ease his hunger. Rita was saying nothing, only sat staring at her in an odd sort of way.

Chapter Twenty-One

Daisy was enjoying herself hugely and finding them all to be excellent guests. They paid their rent on time, were perfectly amenable and pleasant to live with. And if she made mistakes with her cooking, they were most forgiving, this being a new enterprise for her and she so young. They didn’t mind in the least the blackened toast, the soggy vegetables, the somewhat leathery Yorkshire puddings because they were so enchanted by her cheerful smile, her lovely face, and by her willingness to be helpful. And Daisy was learning and improving all the time.

She made a point of listening to their problems. It soon became clear why Miss Geraldine Copthorne had been barred from the parlour at her previous lodgings. Nothing at all to do with the price of coal. The woman was a bore. Well meaning, stoic, hard working, but nonetheless a crashing bore. She barely stopped talking long enough to take a breath, and certainly never seemed to expect a reply.

As April gave way to May and the blossom on the cherry trees supplied a stark contrast to the dark horror that continued to fall from above, lighting the skies over the coast where Harry was stationed to a dull red, Daisy kept her mind occupied by taking great care of her guests. She worried so much about him that she was glad of the distraction. She worried too about Megan and Trish, having had no reply to her last two letters.

In addition to her regulars, there would often be a young soldier with his sweetheart sneaking off for a weekend. She would make sure they were comfortable but allow them plenty of privacy, not appearing to even notice if they didn’t come down to breakfast. She might envy their joy in each other a little, but didn’t begrudge them their need to escape from hostilities. One of these was a pilot by the name of Charlie Potter. Charlie and his girl became regulars during those first months, often popping in just for one of Daisy’s high teas, even if they didn’t stay overnight.

‘There’s no one like you, Daisy, he’d say. Most landladies are dragons. Not our Daisy.’

Another was a Mr Enderby who came to visit his elderly mother but swore he couldn’t live in the same house as her or there’d be blue murder done. He would put his shoes outside of the bedroom door to be cleaned, just as if he were staying at the Savoy. Daisy would always clean them, and place them neatly back there the following morning.

‘You’re too soft for your own good, girl,’ Clem would warn, but Daisy only grinned.

Daisy found herself sitting for hours with the spinster teacher in the parlour, hearing about her work, and her intention to take night-school classes in French once the war was over, which might gain her a much improved teaching post, perhaps in a girls’ private school. She would offer to hold the wool if Miss Copthorne wanted to wind it. Knitting and sewing were, next to talking, the teacher’s favourite forms of relaxation. And while she knitted socks, wound wool or hemmed handkerchiefs she would drone on and on, going over the same conversation night after night. Daisy felt duty bound to listen since there was little chance of escape once she got going. Daisy learned more about education than she really felt the need to know; the woman’s one topic of conversation being her precious charges and how difficult it was to keep up the necessary standards.

‘We must still do our arithmetic, our algebra and prepare for our school certificate,’ she would sternly declare, followed by the oft-heard cry, ‘war or no war.’

Miss Copthorne would discuss the relative merits of chain stitch as opposed to feather, and why it was essential for each girl to learn plain sewing while the boys concentrate their efforts on running the school allotment. ‘Even the children must play their part, dear Daisy, and dig for victory. However, education cannot be neglected. Oh, dear me no! War or no war.’

She was so thrifty that she would cut exercise books in half or carefully sharpen pencils with a penknife.

Daisy laughed, and said that she was just as bad with soap. ‘I always think it will go twice as far if I give people half as much.’

‘Ah, but is it thrift or the terrible sin of hoarding, dear Daisy, if a frugal housewife saves bars of soap, for instance, against a possible future shortage. Is it patriotic to be thrifty or are you a liability to your compatriots? A moot point don’t you think?’

‘I wouldn’t know the answer to that one,’ Daisy admitted, ‘but I do know that anything we need to do here on the farm seems to require six sheets of foolscap to deal with it.’

‘Oh indeed, I know all about wasting paper on forms, believe me. Yet you can be fined for throwing away your bus ticket in the street.’

Daisy enjoyed these lively discussions but soon they’d be back on the same old treadmill of education and examinations, upon which she could make less of a contribution. Daisy did become familiar with the words of
The Young Lochinvar
, and
The Forsaken Merman
which Miss Copthorne was fond of reciting by heart.

Miss Copthorne was also concerned about the evacuee children who had returned to Newcastle, on whether her old school would open again to admit them despite the seemingly endless bombing, and how they would cope without her if they did.

‘I certainly dare not leave these precious mites here all on their own.’

‘Of course not,’ and Daisy would helplessly wonder if the poor woman bored the children at their lessons in exactly the same way, by endlessly dull repetition, drumming facts into their tiny heads until they were heartily sick of them. Or perhaps her little charges brought out the best in her.

In the secret depths of her heart Daisy too worried about the evacuee children, two in particular. She still held onto her dream to have Megan and Trish come to live with her at Lane End Farm. Again she’d written and got no response. But if Miss Copthorne’s enquiries revealed that they were in any sort of difficulties, or the slightest bit miserable, she would take her courage in both hands and beg Clem to take them in. There was plenty of room, after all, and at least she would know they were safe.