‘She confessed to me that once she’d come close to walking out, even to packing her bags and standing them in the hall. I think this was when the place was packed full with lodgers, every bed occupied and all with their own worries and troubles about the war, and so on. “Frightened them all to death, I did” were her exact words. Can’t remember what had driven her to such a course of action but she threatened to up and leave.’ He laughed. ‘Very determined woman, our Daisy, for all her sweet nature. Not that she ever would abandon them, too soft hearted, and they probably knew it. But she wouldn’t hesitate to give them a good telling off from time to time if she thought them in need of one. Make them sharpen their ideas up a bit.’

  Laura chuckled, ‘ And would they behave any better afterwards?’

  He smiled fondly. ‘I should think so, for a little while at any rate, until their innate selfishness shone through again. But Daisy would forgive them. She was a saint that woman. No, that’s not true. Everyone thought she was a saint, which isn’t quite the same thing, and actually a greater responsibility.’

  Frowning, Laura politely asked what he meant by that.

  He blinked a little, drained his cup and set it down with care. Laura felt certain that he was about to explain, but then he said something quite different instead. ‘In reality, I think Daisy had rather a sad life, certainly a hard one, but you would never have guessed it. Not for a moment would she allow anything to get her down. She was good at making the best of things, of doing what suited her and living for the moment. So long as she felt it to be right, it didn’t matter to her whether others agreed or not. She was even prepared to put up with the gossip, for all she hated it with a venom. Daisy would simply shut her ears to it and draw more and more into herself, into her little kingdom up there.’

  ‘What sort of gossip?’

  ‘There’s always gossip in a small community.’

  ‘I suppose so.’ Laura was intrigued. ‘My father and Daisy fell out, quite badly, when I was about seven or eight. Do you know anything about that?’

  ‘I really couldn’t say.’ He frowned in thought for a moment. ‘You won’t remember old Clem. Died in the mid-sixties I seem to recall, probably before you were born. He reached a good age, eighty two or three.’ The old man smiled, ‘But there was no hanky-panky between him and Daisy, sorry to disappoint you. He looked upon her more as a daughter.’

  ‘I confess I would’ve been surprised and disappointed if there had been. From my own memories of my grandmother I believe her to be an honest, upfront sort of person, except that love can have the strangest effect on people, make them do wild, unpredictable things. Anyway, whatever went wrong between her and my father, he perhaps tries to justify by blaming Daisy entirely.’

  ‘Very possibly.’

  ‘I mean, he’s not an easy person for me to get along with, for heavens’ sake. The other day he even accused me of having a man tucked away somewhere, as if that were the reason I was staying on.’

  ‘When really you want to find out about Daisy?’

  ‘Yes.’ Laura thought for a moment. ‘What happened about the baby? Did she ever tell Harry about him? I’ve been trying to find Daisy’s marriage certificate, or the baby’s birth certificate, so far without success. I know you say you can’t talk about her personal life but I wondered if there was any other place she might have stored her papers, besides the bureau? Or if there is anything more, anything at all, you can tell me about her.’

  The silence went on for so long this time that, for a moment, Laura thought he might have dropped off to sleep. Then the old solicitor sat up and, perhaps refuelled by the little nod off, or the tea and several cakes he’d consumed, he suddenly seemed to brighten. ‘I could tell you about Florrie. Miserable old goat that she was and a bit of a gadfly by all accounts. Utterly selfish.’

  Laura agreed that would be most interesting. Unfortunately, they were interrupted in their cosy chat by Doris bringing his whisky which he routinely enjoyed before his dinner at six-thirty. Laura hadn’t realised it was so late and got up to go. ‘May I come again?’ If hearing about the dreadful Florrie was the only way to discover more about Daisy, then why not? It might all add to the picture.

  The old man looked pleased and gratified by her interest, clearly not averse to her calling again. He probably didn’t get many visitors and still missed the company of his wife, so he enjoyed a bit of a gossip about the old days. They arranged a date for early the following week and Laura took her leave.

  Laura drove home thinking of all she still needed to ask. Names, dates, whys and wherefores. Friendly as old Mr Capstick was, he had his boundaries beyond which he was not prepared to go. He was evidently of the old school of solicitors who considered client confidentiality as tantamount to an oath of honour; one this old gentleman would never dream of breaking. Therefore, Laura needed facts, and if she couldn’t get them from him, and she certainly had no wish to again ring her father, she could always contact the Public Record Office for copies of Daisy’s marriage certificate. Perhaps she should have done that in the first place, but it had seemed an unnecessary expense when someone probably had the simple information she needed, or it was lying about the house somewhere, perhaps in a drawer.

  She drove past Beckwith Hall Farm, her gaze scanning the darkened windows for any sign of occupation, then sweeping over the empty fields for any sight of David, but he was nowhere to be seen. Laura felt vaguely foolish, like a schoolgirl peering over into the boy’s playground for a glimpse of some fourth former she’d got a crush on.

  The telephone was ringing as she walked through the door. It was Felix. ‘Feeling better?’

  ‘I beg your pardon?’

  ‘After your little tantrum the other night.’

  My tantrum?’ Only Felix could create mayhem and lay the blame squarely on her. Laura took a careful swallow. Losing her temper now wouldn’t help at all. ‘I’m very well, thank you. Never better.’

  ‘Ah, lover boy came up with the goods, did he?’

  ‘Don’t be vulgar, Felix. It wasn’t at all that sort of dinner. I invited him out of politeness in order to be sociable and, as I’ve explained, because he knew Daisy.’

  Having successfully ruffled her feathers, he blithely changed the subject. ‘I’ve spoken to that damned fool of a lawyer, explained to him in words even a cretin could understand, that the house is definitely on the market, as from now. In fact, there are some people coming over to view it next Friday afternoon.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘I’m sure you can arrange to be in. You’ve little else to do up there.’ At which point the line went dead and Laura was left swearing at the dialling tone.

  After a hot shower and a soothing bowl of home made soup, Laura gathered up the bundle of letters and took them to bed to read. She’d glanced through some already, now she meant to read more. Anything to keep her mind off what she would like to do to Felix. She certainly had no intention of allowing him to bully her into selling the house.

  Most were from Harry to Daisy but a few of Daisy’s letters were there too. Not in any particular order, they were generally filled with plans for a future they dreamed of together after the war. In almost every case a letter would contain some evidence of concern for others.

  ‘I’m worried about the girls. I haven’t heard from them in ages. I’m afraid they might be unhappy again.’

  They must be the two little evacuees Daisy had taken under her wing.

  ‘I wish I could have them here with me. Should I ask Clem, do you think?’

  Many were little more than short notes arranging a meeting, declaring that she still loved him, that she’d see him soon. Laura read slowly, savouring the sweet missives. Others were from Harry begging her not to get too friendly with the men who came to the farm. Would they be guests, Laura wondered, or hired workers? What would I do if you fell for someone else? was the heartrending plea and despite her brave words to David Hornsby, Laura did feel it intrusive that she should be reading these intimate exchanges.

  She could hardly wait for her next visit to old Mr Capstick and indeed he was eagerly waiting for her when she appeared at his door at the appointed hour, tea and cakes at the ready.

  Laura carefully lead him back over old ground, relating what she had discovered herself from the letters, and from David Hornsby, and then gently reminded him of his promise to tell her about Aunt Florrie.

  ‘Ah yes, indeed. The most irritating thing about the woman was that she could have helped Daisy, her own niece, right from the start, had she been so inclined, and saved her a good deal of misery, perhaps even further tragedy.’

  ‘What sort of tragedy?’

  ‘The tragedy which led to Daisy finally finding Lane End Farm.’

  ‘Oh, do tell me more.’

  Chapter Twelve

  Florrie Pringle took the letter from behind the clock where she’d tucked it more than a year ago and reread it with close attention, even though she knew the words off by heart. She’d recognised the handwriting the moment the letter had arrived, even after all this time, and had guessed that it would carry no loving message. She’d been right. Not a word of forgiveness, not even an apology for the years of silence, let alone for the bitter, cruel words that had driven her from home in the first place.

  Ever since their mother had died and Dad had walked out on the arm of another woman, Florrie had spent her adolescence being bossed by her elder sister, furiously resenting the authority Rita insisted on exercising as if by right. To be fair, she’d probably found it hard to deal with a young girl who thought herself a bit of a flapper and liked to dance, listen to jazz, and flirt with every young man in sight. And most shocking of all, smoke.

  Florrie now considered where that piece of rebellion had taken her. Out of stinking Marigold Court and the tenements of Salford certainly, far away from the harping criticism of her elder sister, but what had she gained in its place? A life of misery and back breaking toil. Not at all what she’d had in mind when she’d recklessly kicked up her heels and run off with Clement Pringle. Seventeen years her senior he was the owner, or so he’d boasted, of a large historic house in Cumberland that had been in his family for four centuries, together with nigh on seventy acres of land, not to mention grazing rights on several hundred acres more.

  Florrie had imagined a Georgian mansion with a deer park, formal gardens, wine cellar, and perhaps a housekeeper or a servant or two to answer her every need. It wasn’t that Clem had actually promised her such things, nor lied to her in any way. It was more a case of leaving the finer details unexplained. She’d made the mistake of not asking specific questions, had been so desperate to escape, that Florrie had never thought to take off her rose coloured spectacles long enough to question his bragging more closely.

  At thirty-seven, he’d been quite handsome in his way, funny and attentive, kind and supportive, his robust, stocky figure giving the illusion of stature and power, an instant allure to an adventure-seeking nineteen year old. She’d been utterly captivated. And its not as if there were a great many suitors to choose from. Many of the young men she’d grown up with had been killed during the First war so was it any wonder that she’d snatched at the chance he offered, without pause for thought?

  She still carried a clear memory of the day she’d arrived. Florrie could see herself standing in the middle of the kitchen in her high heels and the smart little frock and coat she’d bought for going away in; the entire modish ensemble completed with the very latest cloche hat in a matching periwinkle blue. Her hair had been cut in a stylish bob, her scarlet lipstick thickly applied, but instead of sitting down to a delicious dinner cooked and served by a fawning housekeeper, she was faced with a cobweb strewn, damp wreck of a house with a leaky roof and smoky chimneys.

  ‘Good God, when did you last take a duster to this place?’ she’d asked, her horrified gaze taking in the stack of dirty dishes left mouldering in the stone sink, the filthy towels hanging on the rack above the inglenook, and the clippy rugs all moth-eaten and caked with mud. The only tidy bit of the room amongst the clutter, was a row of filthy boots, not at all the kind of image she’d had in mind.

  Clem had scratched his head and thought for a moment. ‘Not since Mam were alive, I reckon.’

  Through tightly clenched teeth she’d politely asked when that had been, thinking he’d say twenty years, or at least ten. It would surely take all of that time to create such mayhem. He’d thought for a bit before responding with, ‘Three months last Tuesday. Mind you, she hadn’t been herself for months.’

  If it hadn’t been so dreadful, Florrie might have laughed. Instead, she replied, ‘Well, she could’ve washed up before she left.’

  He’d been hurt, of course, by the caustic comment, had done his best to hide the wound, the first of many he would be forced to endure in the years ahead. Right then he’d tactfully explained that, as his wife, it would naturally be her task to do all the housework. ‘Isn’t it like that in Salford?’

  ‘Course it is. Don’t talk so daft. I just thought ... I mean I rather expected ...’ But it was no good. Putting her dreams into words would only make her sound foolish and naive, so Florrie had set them aside, along with the fancy hat and the scarlet lipstick, donned an apron, rolled up her sleeves and set to work. It was almost like being back at home and, to her utter dismay, Florrie found herself wishing she was.

  The silence of the fells weighed heavily upon her. She couldn’t bear the emptiness of the landscape. Their nearest neighbours were a couple of miles down the lane in the little village of Threlkeld. No one had been foolish enough to build above them, which was presumably why the house had been named Lane End Farm. Save for Blencathra Sanatorium, a bleak Victorian monstrosity for all those poor sick folk with TB forced to sleep in freezing bedrooms with the windows wide open in all weathers, the farm was stuck up here on the side of the mountain all alone. And the Sanatorium did not encourage visitors. Florrie would ever go near, it quite gave her the shivers, seeming to embody her hatred of this place.

  The presence of the brooding mountain, rearing up behind the farm buildings were overpowering and unsettling. Florrie would wander from room to room, gazing out over the empty fields below in the hope of seeing someone pass by, perhaps a local exercising their dog, then she would rush out and beg them to come in for a cup of tea and a chat. But this was too rare an occurrence to rely upon. Blencathra’s austere beauty was seldom challenged save by a few crazy hikers in high summer. Florrie would feel a desperate longing for a rain-sodden Manchester street, for the sound of children happily playing with skipping ropes and swinging round a lamp post, as she had used to do as a child, the women gossiping on their doorsteps. There was no chance of such social chit-chat here.

  If she’d thought Rita to be a cold, unfeeling woman, that was before she’d tried living with the silent, frugal Clem, who turned out to be the most taciturn and grumpy of men, stuck in a routine which had remained unchanged for centuries, and in a house that should long since have been razed to the ground.

  Florrie stared again at the letter in her hand. It amazed her that her sister had even bothered to write, let alone ask for her help. Astonishing! Rita firmly believed God had given her the right to stand in judgement over others, dealing particularly harshly with members of her own family who had, in her puritanical opinion, in some way transgressed. So it had been with Florrie in her day, and now, apparently, with her own daughter. Perhaps, Florrie thought, that was why she’d kept the letter, out of pity for the poor girl, understanding exactly what she was going through.

  She tugged the sleeve of her cardigan over her hand and used it to rub a smear of dust from the oval mirror set in the mahogany mantle. The face which looked back at her was that of a stranger. It certainly showed no sign of the young woman who had once flouted convention. Florrie trailed a finger over the bruised circles beneath blue-grey eyes that had long since lost any glimmer of hope; smoothed a hand over pale, sallow skin which no longer glowed with youth, and tracked a contour of lines that pulled down a discontented mouth which did not flaunt the scarlet lips men had once found to be utterly irresistible.

  ‘You always said I’d come to a bad end, Rita. Mebbe you were right. Though I’ll make sure you never find out just how much of a mess I have made of my life.’

  No, best she continue to do nothing about the letter, nothing at all. What other option did she have? She’d no wish to bring her tyrant of a sister back into her life, let alone drag young Daisy into the midst of this silent war zone.

  Resisting the urge to tear it to shreds, she folded the letter carefully, slid it back inside its envelope and returned it to the dark recesses of the dusty mantle shelf, well hidden amongst a wad of bills that Clem never touched.

  Now that had been another disappointment. The lack of money. Florrie had assumed, from the way he’d so zealously courted her, taking her out to dinner and buying her little trinkets, that he was quite comfortably off. Sadly that had not been the case. It’d been all show. He’d needed a wife to help him on the farm and with no hope of finding one in this remote spot, he’d saved hard for months, then headed for the city determined to ‘buy’ himself a bride. Florrie had fallen for it all, hook, line and sinker.

  She drew in a deep calming breath as she glanced at the clock, listening to the echo of its tick in the empty room and wondered if Clem had met with problems which made him so late home from the weekly auction mart, or whether he’d stopped off for a drink with his cronies. Not that it mattered to her one way or the other, Clem was far too careful with his money to ever have more than half a pint. His dinner was keeping warm in the oven, and she’d be off to bed soon, the warmest place to be on such a cold, blustery night. However glorious the rest of the country, this little corner of Lakeland always managed to have a weather system all its own.

  As if echoing her thoughts, she heard the kitchen door crash back against the wall, caught by the vicious wind, no doubt. She made no move to go to him. Nor did he call out to her, or announce his arrival in any way. Why should he? No one else would be mad enough to be out on a night like this, so who else could it be but him?

 

1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 10 11 12 13 14 15 16 17 18 19 20 21 22 23 24 25 26 27 28 29 30 31 32 33 34 35 36 37 38 39