Daisy's Secret (5 page)

Unfortunately this proved to be asking rather much of the good ladies of the Lakes. Many were glad to help the evacuees, some did so out of a sense of patriotism or duty, while others took the attitude that having to take one child was bad enough, two was an imposition, and three quite impossible.
 

It became alarming, and then frightening to see the other children marched off one by one, and still be left hanging about on the cold platform with a diminishing number of possible hosts, or ‘foster parents’ as they were optimistically described.

‘Does nobody want us, Daisy?’ Megan asked, a slight wobble to her voice.

Trish tugged at Daisy’s skirt. ‘I feel sick.’

‘Don’t think about it, then you won’t be.’

‘Shall I be sick in me beret, only me Mam told me not to take it off.’

‘No, no, your mam’s right. Leave it on, love. You won’t be sick, I promise.’ And, by a miracle, she wasn’t.

In the end, there were only the three of them left, and Green Hat came over to inspect them. ‘Really, this determination of yours to stick together isn’t very helpful. How would it be if everyone adopted such stringent rules?’

The three stared up at her, uncomprehending. At last Daisy felt obliged to respond, since she was the eldest. ‘They’re only young, four and seven, and Trish is just getting over a bad dose of ‘flu, so they need special care. I’ve promised to help since their mother had to stay and look after elderly relatives.’ Daisy had heard the whole sorry story during the long night, about the entire family going down with the ‘flu, grandpa dying and their grandmother still poorly with pneumonia. The two children, Trish in particular, were feeling homesick already.

Eyebrows arched quizzically. ‘Oh, so you are not related then?’

‘They are. To each other, I mean. I’m not, but. . .’

‘Ah well, that changes everything. You should have said,’ the woman briskly responded. ‘In that case, you shall go with that old gentleman over there, and the two little ones with Miss Pratt. There, that’s settled you all nicely. A good job well done.’

Daisy and Megan exchanged glances of utter dismay while Trish let out a great wail of protest and flung her arms about Daisy’s leg, as if she might never let go. But there was no hope of escape. Abruptly disengaged from her hold, the weeping child was smartly handed over to a tall, thin, elderly woman with whiskers on her chin who was regarding the two little girls as if she’d never set eyes on such creatures in her life before.

‘Can’t I go with them? Please?’ Daisy gasped, as the pair were dragged away.

‘No indeed. You will go to the billet selected for you. Mr Witherspoon? She’s all yours.’ Within seconds there was no sign of a WVS uniform or large hat of any colour or description left on the platform. Daisy swivelled about in panic, took one glance at the haggard, unsmiling face of the old man beside her, then turned tail and ran after the wailing children.

‘Miss Pratt,’ she yelled. ‘Miss Pratt, please wait a moment.’ She caught up with the woman out on the station forecourt, quite out of breath and keenly aware of Mr Witherspoon bearing down upon them, like the devil incarnate. ‘I’ll do anything, clean your house, do the washing, anything. I’ll make myself really useful and promise faithfully to keep these children out of mischief and off your hands. You need me, you really do. Young children are a great deal of work, and I don’t eat much, I swear.’ This last was quite untrue, but she thought perhaps the elderly woman might be worrying about feeding them all. She was certainly looking thoughtful.

‘That is not a consideration at this juncture. I have a large garden and produce much of my own food, and naturally I have someone come in to do for me, though I do wonder if Gladys said she might be going to her sister’s in Edinburgh.’ Her eyes took on a vague, troubled look. ‘But perhaps you may have a point with regards to the children. I have other commitments, after all, and certainly could not tolerate any bad behaviour.’

Daisy held her breath. So far, in her own short life, she’d made a frightening number of mistakes, managing to ruin her entire life at just sixteen. Now, some half-formed idea in her head was telling Daisy that perhaps by helping these two children through their own troubles it might compensate in some way for the baby she lost, and that the pain in her own heart might somehow reduce.

After a moment, Miss Pratt swung around and called across the forecourt to Mr Witherspoon, still shambling towards them, his breathing laboured. ‘I’ve decided to take the older girl as well, Mr Witherspoon. If it doesn’t work out, I’ll let you know.’

He paused, lifted one hand and waved to her by way of conceding defeat. It was difficult to tell if he was relieved or not, as only his flowing beard was visible beneath a wide brimmed hat that completely obliterated the rest of his grim face.

To Daisy it felt like a reprieve.

Chapter Three

Laura was thinking how Daisy had been an ideal grandmother, of whom she’d been inordinately fond. Bright and fun, unfussy and surprisingly go ahead, full of energy and with a wry sense of humour. Laura could see her now, her wildly curling hair like an aureole of white about her head as she busied herself about the house and yard, always seeming to be in a tearing hurry, setting off on some new scheme or other, never still for a moment. She felt an increasing curiosity to discover more about her. What had happened to her as an evacuee? How, exactly, had she come to Lane End Farm? And how had a girl from the slums of Salford come to own such a fine house?

And what had caused her to deprive Laura’s father of his heritage? It was a situation which filled Laura with guilt, although she’d no wish to hand it back. Losing the house was the last thing she wanted, for hadn’t she always loved it, even as a child?

It was tragic really that whatever had caused their quarrel in the first place, Gran and Dad never had properly made up. Both too stubborn and hot tempered, Laura supposed, and determined always to be right. He never even spoke of his own father who had died when he was about seventeen, the year after he’d left home to join the navy, so it would appear that memories of him were painful too. How very sad!

What was at the root of it all? she wondered. Following the enforced estrangement, Laura had begun visiting her grandmother again during her years at university, the moment she was free of the restrictions placed upon her by her father, Robert. Sadly, these visits had lapsed somewhat, during her marriage to Felix. Laura felt guilty about that too. Yet despite the enforced absences between visits, she and Daisy had remained close.

Which was more than could be said about Laura’s own relationship with Robert. That too had always been difficult, particularly since the death of her mother. Twelve was a difficult age for a girl to lose a mother, and father and daughter had spent much of her teenage years at odds.
 

Even the question of her education had been a source of conflict between them. Robert had actively prevented her from attending a cordon bleu course in Paris by telling her that there were no places left, when, in fact, he’d never made any attempt to book her one. He’d secured her a job in a bank instead and, naively, Laura had believed his story. It had been Felix who had laughingly told her the truth, years later. The only thing she had ever done which her father had approved of was to marry Felix, whom he’d considered to be quite a catch.

She glared at the phone, willing it to ring. Why did he never call her? There were times when Laura believed that if she didn’t take the trouble to ring, she might never hear from her father ever again. Why didn’t he ring to apologise for missing the funeral, or at least ask how it went, how she’d coped with it? Right now, she could do with some support. Every time she rang him, she hoped that he’d break a lifetime's habit and offer some.
 

With a sigh, Laura picked up the phone. Nothing would be gained by allowing pride to stand in the way, as had evidently happened between Robert and Daisy. She certainly had no intention of treating her father with the same kind of cavalier neglect that he had used upon his own parent. That wouldn’t improve matters one bit. ‘Hi Dad, it’s me. Laura.’

‘Of course it must be you, Laura, who else would call me by that infernal name?’

Her heart sank. Clearly in one of his moods again. She felt her hand tighten on the receiver, even as she tried to put a smile into her voice. She’d discovered long since that reacting to his black humour only made matters worse, yet conversation between them was always difficult at the best of times. ‘I just thought I’d ring to see how you were.’

‘How do you think I am? I’m not quite senile yet, you know.’

Oh, definitely on good form. ‘So, you’re quite well. Good.’

‘Last time I looked I was still alive. Hail and hearty in fact.’

‘Excellent. I began to worry you might be ill.’

 
‘If this is a criticism about my not turning up to that dratted funeral, you can save your breath. I’d never any intention of going and Daisy would not have expected me to be there. A hypocrite I will not be.’

‘She was your mother, and she’s dead.’

‘Well, I rather assumed that, since they were burying her.’

Laura stifled a sigh. ‘Whatever happened between you two is over now.’

‘You have a sad talent for stating the obvious, Laura. Look, if you’ve only rung to castigate me for my lack of filial duty, you could have saved yourself the bother. It was my prerogative to decide, not yours. No doubt you’re ringing from some airport or other, on that smart phone of yours. Where is it you’re gadding off to this time?’

‘I’m still at the farm, actually. Anyway, I’m not the one always gadding about, that’s Felix. I’m the little pig who stays at home, remember? The one who keeps the home fires burning, except that I’m not any more.’

‘Stop talking in stupid riddles, Laura. If you’ve anything to say, say it in plain English.’

She took a deep breath. ‘OK, what do you say to my starting up Daisy’s guesthouse again? Wouldn’t that be fun?’ The sound of breathing echoed loudly down the wire like the rattle of gunfire. ‘Dad, are you still there?’

‘I think there must be something wrong with this line, I thought you said you were going to start up Daisy’s guesthouse again.’

‘That’s exactly what I said. What do you think?’

Again a short silence, followed by a sound very like a suppressed explosion of rage. ‘Does Felix know about this?’

‘Not yet, but I mean to tell him.’ Just as soon as she’d plucked up the courage, or got matters so far advanced there was nothing he could do to prevent it.

‘Ah, well he’ll soon put a stop to such nonsense. Really, Laura, what a child you are. Fancy ringing me up in the middle of my post-prandial nap to prattle on about some stupid fantasy you’re having.’

‘It’s not a fantasy. I mean to do it. I intend to find out as much as I can about Daisy, then follow in her footsteps.’

‘I’m coming over.’

‘What?’

‘You’ve clearly taken leave of your senses. I’m coming up. Not to that dratted farm. I’ll take a taxi from the station and you can meet me at The Golden Lion. I’ll buy you lunch.’ He named a date and time and before Laura had time to say whether or not this was convenient, she found herself talking to the dialling tone.

Daisy’s relief was short lived. Almost at once she began to experience grave doubts. Miss Pratt’s house, only a short walk from the station, was a gaunt, rather forbidding grey stone property with tall, ornamental chimneys, mullioned windows, and a date - 1644, carved over the lintel. It stood in a large walled garden overlooking the street, the kind of house once occupied by a notable packhorse owner, a carrier of merchandise between the North and London, York, Kendal and Edinburgh. Not that Daisy would have recognised it as such, nor be able to imagine for one moment what it must feel like to own such a place.
 

Despite the evidence of new measures put into place for the sake of the war, splashes of white paint on kerbs, walls and railings so that people could find their way in the blackout, a poster stuck to a nearby lamp post urging women to offer their services to the local council for evacuation work, and stacks of sandbags everywhere, the tiny village seemed to be an embodiment of all her dreams. It’s neat, grey stone cottages with their bright gardens surrounding a wide expanse of village green was like something out of a picture book. The setting of the house was stunning. The panoply of blue-grey mountains that enfolded it, gleaming benignly in the early morning sunshine, quite took Daisy’s breath away. Never had she seen such a glorious place, such splendour, so much space! There were sheep grazing on the village green by an old, grey stone church that must have stood there for centuries. It was a beautiful, magical scene.

Oh, but she was tired, a dragging ache low down in her belly served as a nagging reminder that she’d only recently given birth, and hardly slept the night before. Her knees felt all wobbly, as if they might buckle under her at any minute. How she longed to lie down in a soft warm bed and just sleep and sleep. The two bedraggled children beside her were, however, wide awake, mouths agape, hardly able to believe their good fortune. ‘Is this where we’re going to live?’ Megan asked in awed wonder. ‘In this big house?’

‘Where’s the sea?’ Trish wanted to know. ‘Is there some sands an’ all?’