Daisys secret, p.27
Daisy's Secret, page 27
‘What, saved each other’s life d’you mean, while I was hell-bent on wringing your neck? There’s a turn up for the book.’
What amazed them most was the calm. People were gathering up their belongings and going quietly about their business, some to wait for their bus or tram as if nothing amiss had taken place. The world appeared to be falling apart in mayhem and chaos, yet they were concerned only with whether or not they caught the 54 bus on time. A woman appeared out of a haze of dust, a tray of tea mugs in her hand.
Rita gazed at her open mouthed. ‘How long have we been out cold, or was she boiling that kettle even as the bomb dropped?’
Yet another woman appeared out of nowhere, insisting that Rita sit still while she had her head examined.
‘Nay, me head has needed examining for years. Happen the bomb will have knocked a bit of sense into it.’
They might have laughed had it not been so awful. What remained of the shelter was a flattened pile of rubble and as Florrie and Rita sat in stunned silence contemplating the horror of it, they each realised that being thrown backwards into the street together was indeed what had saved them. The mother and her two children, along with the rest of the occupants who had dived below for safety had been less fortunate. The ARP warden was even now scrabbling at a hole he’d found in the heap of smoking bricks, desperately trying to find some sign of life within.
‘Don’t just sit there ladies. Give us a flamin’ hand.’
With one accord they struggled to their feet, heads still spinning yet they hurried to help. All hope seemed lost and then a baby’s cry was heard and they dug all the harder to retrieve it. Black with smoke and dust yet it proved to be alive and well, unharmed in any way. ‘You’re one of the lucky ones, chuck,’ said Rita, plonking it in an upturned barrel while she got on with the digging.
‘That’s no way to treat a bairn.’ Florrie hurried over and picked up the baby in her arms. The child rewarded her with a beaming smile but then began to splutter and cough, a dribble of sooty saliva running from its mouth as it finally let out a howl of distress. ‘Oh there, there, don’t take on now.’ With practised ease Florrie put the child against her shoulder and began to rub its back, rocking gently. ‘Poor lamb. It needs to see a doctor.’
‘Oh dear God, I’ve found a leg here.’
Quickly, Florrie sat the baby carefully back in the half barrel and ran to help her sister while Rita vomited her breakfast into the gutter.
They dug for hours and neither felt able to stop, even though far more experienced people than them came along to help. They pulled bodies out of the rubble one after the other, many with bricks and shrapnel buried in their chest or back, limbs broken or missing. Some suffered dreadful gaping wounds, others had their clothes and skin burned off by the blast or were so covered in blood it was impossible to identify where the injury might be, if they were alive or dead. A whole group of factory girls on their way to work were found to be still clutching each other, bus tickets in hand, a pink ribbon from one fluttering merrily in the breeze as she was dragged from the smouldering ruin that had been the shelter. Of the hundred or more people who had gone in, less than a dozen survived, though whether these could be called lucky, or would ever be the same again, was another matter.
Finally, driven by exhaustion and an increasing sense of futility, the two sisters turned wearily for home, only their numbed silence and the horror imprinted in their eyes revealing what they had gone through.
Without thinking, Florrie picked up the crying baby, an infant of eighteen months or so, and carried it on her hip. The two women still held on tightly to each other for the length of that terrible journey, not simply for much needed support but in order to find the strength to face the stark devastation that had come to their city. They stumbled over broken glass and smoking ruins, by-passed fires, turning their agonised glances away from the fallen bodies which lay like rags in the rubble. As they made their way along Eccles New road, they could see a wall of fire on the other side of the Ship Canal.
‘Some poor soul’s lost the battle there, right enough,’ Rita murmured, her voice sounding shaky and weak.
Whole streets had been gutted, some houses were still ablaze as fire fighters did battle. Liverpool Street was thick with smoke and a never-ending line of people carrying a pathetic few remnants of what remained of their life; awesomely silent and resigned as they walked they knew not where, thankful at least to be alive for all they were homeless and leaving behind everything they owned, in some cases their loved ones as well. It seemed strange that the sun still shone, filtering through the dust and smoke like a benedict of hope for the future. Buses still ran, taking long detours to carry people to some sort of safety out of the city. There was no panic, no hysteria, only a strange, eerie silence broken now and then by a shout as someone was found buried alive under the fallen masonry, or the quiet sobbing of a mother over a child who was not.
As they reached their own entry they quickened their pace, so that as they turned the corner, Rita was actually running. Florrie didn’t recall ever having seen her sister so distressed but she understood why. Where once there had been Marigold Court, a row of back to back tenement houses, smoke blackened and old maybe but nonetheless solid and the place they had always called home, now there was nothing beyond a burning heap of rubble. A line of nappies flapped bizarrely in the breeze; a still smoking fireplace spilling its contents into a black hole that had once held a parlour; upper floors broken open to the elements, a bed hung precariously on the edge as if any second it might plunge into the morass of destruction below. Water poured from broken pipes and over everything was an all-pervading stink of gas.
Rita stood stock-still and stared, hollow-eyed, at the scene before her. ‘Dear Lord, I hope that for once in his life, Joe didn’t do as I told him and stayed at home to peel that bloody potato.’
It was the first time Florrie had seen her sister cry.
The next few weeks proved to be the happiest in Daisy’s life. She wouldn’t have been without any of them, even poor, sad Mr Pickles with his constantly long face and dusty appearance, for all he claimed to be so much happier here on the farm than alone in his old home. He would explain, at length, to Daisy how he’d felt quite unable to continue in the empty house they had once occupied together. He did have a daughter but had no wish to be a burden to her, so had come to Lane End. ‘At least here I am not alone, and you have made me so comfortable. I appreciate that, Miss Atkins.’
‘Ooh, call me Daisy for heavens’ sake, or you’ll make me feel as old as Miss - I mean older than I really am, and she hastily assured him how glad she was that he felt at home.
That first night she’d presented her guests with lamb cutlets, new potatoes, and carrot and turnips mashed together with a dab of margarine. Even this had brought not the ghost of a smile to Ned Pickles’s lugubrious expression despite him declaring that the meal was delicious. Tommy Twinkletoes, on the other hand, had been effusive in his praise. On the second night she gave them fish, with oxtail soup and spam fritters on the third, all served up by Clem who moved about with surprising alacrity, carrying plates and cups with the speed of a greyhound just released from the starting gate.
‘Give ‘em time to enjoy their meal before you whip their plates away,’ Daisy warned. Poor man. He didn’t seem to know what had hit him. One minute he’d been leading a quiet life, unchanging save for the seasons, now he was the proprietor of a boarding house. Well, at least it would keep his mind off worrying over Florrie.
He returned to the kitchen with plates mopped clean of the last speck of gravy. ‘The dog couldn’t leave these any cleaner but what’s up wi’ that Pickles character? Face as long as a wet fortnight. Has his wife run off with a sailor? Mind, any woman’d run off with t’next door’s cat if she had to wake up to that miserable face every morning. He makes me want to cut me own throat I feel that depressed after talking to him for just five minutes. He’s as miserable as a ewe on a rainy day. I’ve told him: a smile costs nowt.’
Daisy had to ask, ‘And what did he say to that?’
Clem sighed. ‘Life is a vale of tears. Eeh, I could’ve wept blood.’
Stifling the inappropriate giggles, Daisy explained about poor Mr Pickles’s recent loss and later noticed Clem serve him with an especially large helping of bread and butter pudding.
Ned’s reaction to such generosity was to take every opportunity to enlighten Clem with his opinions about the state of the nation or his view of current military tactics, acquired by attending regular lectures, talks and lantern slide shows put on at the school hall in Keswick which he visited regularly on his bicycle. He was more than ready to share his passion for political propaganda by encouraging his fellow residents, in particular Daisy herself, to accompany him. She would politely decline on the grounds she had far too much work to do caring for her guests. Instead, she did her best to try to persuade Clem to join him. Clem always looked anxious to escape, fidgeting as if there were a million and one jobs he’d much rather be doing, like shovelling muck in the cow shed.
‘Why would I want to go?’ he grumbled. ‘I see enough of him about the house all day.’
‘But he’s lonely.’ She didn’t say that Clem too was lonely but managed, after a week or two of persuasion, to persuade him to go along. The pair set off together one evening in a silent fug of resentment. Ned would have preferred to have escorted Daisy, and Clem wished he could stop at home with his carpet slippers.
She watched them go with a fond smile on her face. If only Florrie would come home. Maybe she’d find Clem changed, ready to talk about his grief now. Sometimes you could almost accuse him of being chatty. She chuckled softly, gazing up at the bright stars and wondering where Harry was at this moment.
Was that what they called a bomber’s moon? Would he be flying tonight? She shivered and rubbed her hands up and down her arms, as if a goose had stepped over her grave. Best she didn’t know when he was flying, or where. He rarely spoke of it but she knew he wasn’t the pilot, only the gunner at the back. Surely he’d be safer there? Or would he?
She deliberately turned her mind back to more practical, safer issues, such as what Florrie would say to having her house turned upside down by a bunch of strangers. Daisy quailed at the thought. She’d certainly have some explaining to do when her aunt finally did come home. So long as she didn’t bring Rita with her, she’d cope somehow. Thinking of her mother reminded Daisy of the awkwardness of that last meeting with her father. She really shouldn’t be too hard on him. After all, he must be a saint to have lived with Rita all these years.
After a moment, she closed the door on the chill of the evening, and pulling a chair up to the kitchen fire set about writing him a letter. You only had one father after all. And keeping in touch with family was important.
By the end of the first couple of weeks, Laura and Chrissy counted themselves as experts. ‘Look at that.’ Chrissy held out a five pound note given to her by one of the guests. ‘This is a great job. And everyone likes my hair. Didn’t I say it was only that stuffy headmistress?’
Laura wisely made no comment.
It was as she was heading through the hall en route to the dining room that the doorbell rang and she hurried to answer it, guessing it must be the new guest for room three, a Mrs Crabtree.
A man with a clip board stood in the yard with that special smile on his face which seemed to indicate that he wished to sell her something.
‘Sorry,’ Laura said, ‘no double glazing needed today, thank you.’
‘Mrs Rampton?’ he asked. ‘Mrs Miranda Rampton?’
Laura had very nearly closed the door upon him but this gave her pause. ‘What did you call me? My name is Rampton, yes, Laura Rampton.’
He looked confused. ‘Oh dear, I must have got the name wrong. It’s in connection with the loan.’
‘What loan?’ She was standing before him now, arms folded. ‘I know nothing about any loan.’
‘The second mortgage. Your husband did say he would deal with the matter, have you sign the necessary papers but it is our normal practice to visit the property in question.’
‘I think you’d better come in.’
Once enlightened over the situation, he readily informed her that Felix and Miranda had given the distinct impression, when he’d interviewed them at the Building Society office about the loan, that they were man and wife. They’d given their address as Cheadle Hulme with Lane End Farm as a country retreat. By the end of a most lively and enlightening half hour’s chat, washed down with some of her excellent coffee, Laura and the man with the clipboard were bosom pals. He’d shared with her horror stories from his own divorce and Laura had expressed her appreciation for his diligence in the matter. Had he not called upon her, in direct opposition to Felix’s wishes, she might well simply have been presented with a wad of forms to sign.
‘And, if he’d bullied or confused you sufficiently, you might well have signed them, dear lady. Is he a bully, your husband, Mrs Rampton?’ The young man asked with touching sympathy in his voice.
‘Indeed he can be.’
‘Well, no real harm has been done. We, as a Society, are always most particular about ensuring all parties and property are thoroughly checked out. I shall write and refuse him the mortgage, and see that these forms are destroyed forthwith. Good day to you, and good luck with your new project.’ She led him to the door and saw him on his way with one of her brochures tucked in his inside pocket.
Mrs Crabtree was a woman in her mid to late sixties, full of smiles and looked interestedly about her as Laura showed her up to the room some time later, helped with her bags and gave out the necessary information about breakfast times and whether she would like a paper.
As Laura turned to go, her mind already moving on to the tables she must lay and all the sheets waiting in the kitchen for her to iron, Mrs Crabtree said, ‘I must say you’ve done the house up lovely.’
‘Thank you.’
She gave a self-conscious little laugh. ‘When I saw your advertisement in the Manchester Guardian, I couldn’t resist ringing up and booking for a short break. It was a chance too good to miss. This is a trip down memory lane for me.’
Laura was at once all ears. The incident over the second mortgage had shaken her badly but she was determined not to give up on her dream, not only of establishing a good business, but of finding out more about Daisy. ‘Why, have you stayed here before when my grandmother ran it?’
The woman’s face was a picture of shock and delight. ‘Daisy was your grandmother? Oh my, I assumed you’d simply bought the house. Then your father must be . . . Tell me dear, his name wouldn’t be Robbie, by any chance, would it?’
Laura couldn’t help but smile even as her mind whirled with questions, never having heard the diminutive used in connection with her father before. It didn’t seem to suit him at all. ‘Robert actually. Do you know him?’
‘Only as a child. I was brought here as an evacuee. Daisy was my great friend, and I adored your father when he was a baby, absolutely adored him. My name is Megan, by the by. I don’t suppose Daisy ever mentioned me, did she?’
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.’
