Daisys secret, p.7
Daisy's Secret, page 7
He was tall, almost six foot, in RAF uniform like all the rest, square jawed and with a wide, smiling mouth, his forage cap tilted at just the right angle over neatly clipped brown hair. His face was more what you’d call homely than handsome but to Daisy it was the most cheerful, the most friendly face she’d encountered in a long while.
Harry Driscoll had been watching this little exchange with interest, and had decided to put in his fourpenneth. He hated bullies, particularly female ones. Besides, the young girl was quite pretty. ‘She’s with me.’
‘I beg your pardon?’ The conductress was furiously attempting to pull her arm free, blotches of scarlet gathering high on her cheek bones. ‘If you don’t take your flippin’ hand off me this minute, I’ll call the driver and have you all thrown off.’
He released her with a small bow. ‘Nevertheless, she’s with me. This coffee and bun fight we were all treated to at the village hall, she helped organise it, so you can let her on. Can’t you see them nippers are soaking wet through already. Have a heart, love.’
‘I don’t get paid to take civvies on this bus.’
‘We’ll have a whip round. Either you let them on, or we all get off. Then we’ll be late back and our CO will want to know why. Ain’t that right, lads?’ A rousing cheer echoed from behind him, most of the men not having the first idea what the dispute was about but ready enough to support a mate. Seeing herself defeated, the conductress’s stance crumbled and, moments later, Daisy, and the children were being found a seat in the depth of the warm bus and being chatted up by at least a dozen service men.
‘Thank you,’ Daisy said, having eyes only for her rescuer who stood grinning down at her. ‘That’s the first good deed anyone has done for us in an age, though that was a fib you told. I didn’t have anything to do with the coffee and bun at the village hall.’
He shrugged. ‘So what? Good deeds are all in a day’s work for we hero types.’ He held out a hand. ‘Harry’s the name. Harry Driscoll.’
‘Daisy Atkins.’ She put her hand into his and felt the warm strength of a firm grip. He made no effort to release it as he looked straight into her eyes, his gaze steady and direct and both of them fell silent, each shyly considering the other. His eyes were a greeny-grey, quite the nicest eyes Daisy had ever seen. The next instant Harry became aware of being studied by two other pairs of eyes, both blue, and laughingly released her hand. Daisy felt bereft, wanting to hold on to him.
‘They’re surely not yours?’ He jerked a chin at Trish on her knee, and the older girl leaning against it. Was that a shade of anxiety in his voice as he asked the question? Daisy smiled and shook her head. ‘Do I look old enough to have kids like this?’
But she did have a child. She did! She did! A shameful secret she must never tell. Daisy pushed the thought away.
‘You don’t look old enough to be out on your own, let alone be getting a free ride with a bus full of service personnel.’
‘We’re evacuees, from Manchester,’ she offered, by way of explanation. ‘Are you a pilot?’
This innocent remark was met by a roar of laughter. ‘They wouldn’t let him loose in a plane. He gets lost with no road signs to help him, let alone no roads.’
‘Anyway, his hair’s too long. It’d get in his eyes when he was flying.’
‘And his mam don’t like him being out at night.’
Daisy laughed along with them, enjoying the banter. They seemed a cheerful bunch, and at least it was warm on the bus. They were certainly eager to chat, telling her how they were undergoing training at the RAF base in Longtown. Also on the bus were men from the tank corps stationed at Lowther, though what exactly they were up to, they were not at liberty to say, they explained. All very hush-hush! Several offered to take her out, give her a conducted tour of the area or fill her in with more details of their life history, strictly in private of course. Nor did they forget the children, who were presented with a variety of sweets, and even a cough drop for Megan. It was all good hearted fun, and Daisy was soon wiping tears of laughter from her eyes, which made a change from the other sort.
She would like to have stayed on the bus for hours but in no time, it seemed, the conductress was calling out her stop and she was getting to her feet and ushering the children off. As a way was made for them along the aisle, Harry grabbed her hand again.
‘Where are you billeted?'
She told him, but quickly added. ‘It’s not very good. I’m hoping they might relocate us.’
‘Move along the bus please, we don’t have all day,’ the conductress shouted, determined to maintain some control over this obstreperous crew.
‘Aw, stop moaning woman. Give ‘em a minute, fer God’s sake.’
Galvanised into action by the conductress’s ill temper, Harry began to desperately search his pockets. ‘I need a pen. Somebody find me a pen.’ There was a flurry of activity, more laughter and joking as the entire busload searched pockets until a pen was finally found and Harry began to write his address on the back of her hand. Once more he looked deep into her eyes. ‘You can’t lose that. Write to me.’
Daisy glanced down at the scribbled words, a mere blur through the stars in her eyes.
‘Are you getting off or not? I’ve a few more runs to make today, if you please,’ the conductress snapped.
As Daisy struggled through the crush of servicemen, she strived to keep her gaze upon him, couldn’t bear to tear it away. There were plenty more offers of addresses but the children were being helped down from the platform, the conductress was dinging her bell with grim determination this time, and if Daisy didn’t hurry the bus would leave and she’d still be on it. As it was, she jumped off just in time before it jerked forward.
‘Don’t forget! See that you write. A letter to that address will find me, wherever I am,’ he yelled.
As she gathered the children about her, Daisy plucked up the courage to call back: ‘I will, I won’t forget. I promise.’
She wasn’t even sure if he’d heard. As she walked away, heart pounding, keeping a look out for anything likely to be the Town Hall, Daisy wondered what right she had to make such a promise? None at all, not with her shameful secret.
After he’d gone Laura headed for the shower, hoping to take the steam out of her temper. Almost at once she began to regret that she hadn’t accepted his invitation. I mean, what else did she have to do but wash her hair and eat a limp salad? Maybe that’s what she needed in her life, a little more impulsiveness. A touch of recklessness. And he was rather gorgeous. She’d really lost touch with how to handle such delicate matters, though perhaps it was just as well. She was still a married woman after all. Laura groaned and stepped under the jet of hot water, letting it do its work.
Later, wrapped in a huge towelling robe, she forsook the salad and sat on the sofa eating crackers and cheese, kicking herself for the missed opportunity. He was probably her best contact to find out more about Daisy, and she’d blown it. Accepting supper, off the cuff as it were, would have meant she could have gone in her jeans, cobwebs and all, with easy informality, just to be neighbourly. Now, although she was burning to hear what he had to tell her, nothing would induce Laura to ring and make a date. It would seem too connived, too artificial, almost like asking him for a date. He’d think her a control freak who must do everything her own way.
She switched on the TV, then turned it off again. The sound of it was too startling in the empty room, seeming to emphasise a loneliness she hadn’t previously noticed. But then the ensuing silence folded disconcertingly in upon her, which was worse. They’d had quite a set-to, she supposed. She certainly hadn’t been very polite to him, or welcoming.
Laura couldn’t help but compare the sparks that had flown between them, two perfect strangers, to the conversations she’d had recently with her husband. Felix always shied away from confrontations, rode over tender feelings and sensitivities that he had no wish to acknowledge, just as if they weren’t there. Laura had learned early on the fruitlessness of revealing her softer side, for he only trampled on it.
Nothing mattered to Felix except cutting the deal; making the big bucks. He’d even found time on the day of the funeral to read through some papers he’d brought with him, sneaking off into some quiet corner while Laura handed round the sherry and accepted everyone’s condolences. She’d made no comment but, deep down, had been hurt by such insensitivity.
Surely he hadn’t always been that way. He’d once been so full of enthusiasm, so animated about his plans. ‘This is just the start, Laura,’ he’d say. ‘The first of a chain of smart little galleries all over the country. Once we’re established we can franchise the idea and make a small fortune.’ Laura had listened fascinated, spellbound by his passion, at first perfectly in tune with his ambition to make something of his life. Being the son of an unemployed miner had left him with the need to prove that he was as good as everyone else. She’d admired that in him, at least until that need had grown into a huge chip on his shoulder.
Nowadays their relationship was too tired, too predictable to bring any excitement into their lives. And Felix was very much his own master. No one could make him do anything he had no wish to do. She was fortunate, Laura supposed, that he’d agreed to come to her grandmother’s funeral at all, which probably had more to do with wanting to assess the value of her inheritance than to pay any last respects.
Why was she so harassed by infuriating men? No wonder Robert approved of Felix, they were alike in so many ways, both obstinately determined to have their own way and be in control.
Her father’s parting words following that dreadful lunch came back to her with haunting clarity. ‘Be a good girl and go home to your husband’. It told her so much about herself.
Is that why she’d never asked questions, never liked to pry into her father’s life or emotions? Because she’d wanted him to love her, for him to see her as a good girl? He’d certainly done his level best to govern every last detail of her life, even to keeping her from her own grandmother. The result had been that it had left her a prime candidate for marriage to an equally controlling husband. Laura had never properly appreciated that fact until now. If this were true, then it was long past time she took charge of her own life. She’d been a good girl long enough.
Having stirred up her sense of injustice to a suitably high pitch, she picked up the phone and called her new neighbour to accept his invitation to supper. Though of course, only because she wanted to hear more about Harry.
The visit to the town hall turned into a quagmire of questions and bureaucracy, of being passed from pillar to post, nobody quite being prepared to accept responsibility until, at last, they were taken to an entirely different office, in a separate part of the building where they finally met the billeting officer, a large woman with a sour face. She looked down her nose at the trio as if they really had no right to be there and even after listening to Daisy’s story, denied that any such thing could happen on her patch.
‘Our billeting hosts are most carefully chosen, most carefully, and Amelia Pratt is a dear friend of mine.’
‘Then perhaps you can find her. We’re at our wits’ end. In the meantime, these children need breakfast, but just make sure it isn’t eggs.’
Some long hours later, investigation proved that the poor woman had not, in fact, abandoned them. She’d quietly died in her sleep, her dogs gathered protectively all around her.
Daisy was shocked. ‘Oh, poor Miss Pratt. No wonder they were howling. How dreadful!’
Megan tugged at her hand. ‘Does that mean there weren’t any ghosts, after all?’
‘Yes love, that’s what it means.’
‘But if the lady has died, isn’t she now a ghost?’
Daisy stifled a smile at the innocent question, since this wasn’t the moment for explanations. ‘It doesn’t quite work that way.’
‘Why doesn’t it?’ Megan was annoyed that Daisy should think her stupid. Everyone knew ghosts were dead people, and Miss Pratt was now dead, wasn’t she?
‘Hush now, I’ll explain it to you later. Meanwhile, I think we need a new billet, and some medical attention for these two children.’
To Megan’s complete horror, quick as a flash, the billeting officer took a bottle from her desk drawer, whipped off the girls’ berets and poured an evil smelling liquid over both their heads. Trish started to sob and Megan was hard put to not to give the woman a smack in the eye.
Megan had no wish to be a vacee. She’d had enough. It wasn’t at all the adventure she’d been promised. It was boring and alarming and rather frightening. She wanted to go home to her mam. Whenever Mr Hitler dropped his bombs, she’d run away as fast as her legs could carry her and miss them all. If her mam and gran could stop at home when they didn’t run half so fast as her, then where was the problem?
‘Can’t I go home? I want to go home?’ she wailed but Daisy only made a shushing sound, and the woman ignored her completely. Megan didn’t like being ignored, so she tried again, ‘How will Mam know where we’ve gone?’
‘Don’t worry, you’ll get a postcard this time so you can write and tell her.’
They were handed over to a middle aged couple who already had two children of their own. The boy was a year older than Megan and the moment they were left alone, ‘to make friends’ he pinched her hard and called her awful names like ‘Smelly’ and ‘Pee-wee’. Megan thumped him hard and he started to yell. His sister was younger and she kicked Trish in the shin, which made her tune up in unison.
Megan could tell this was going to be a disaster and she was absolutely right. Even though the couple had agreed to take Daisy as well, and Mrs Hobson claimed to be the motherly type, she was furious when Megan accidentally smeared blackberries all over her white sheets. Megan didn’t see what all the fuss was about. Serve her right for putting sheets on the bed in the first place. They always used blankets at home, although she knew that her mam did keep one sheet in a cupboard, in case someone should die and need covering up before they were buried in the ground. It had been used for an old aunt once, and Megan had kept careful watch, just in case the old lady wasn’t really dead at all, and might rise up beneath it.
Anyroad, she’d been hungry, and had gone out into the garden at first light to pick a handful of the blackberries she’d spotted earlier, which she’d eaten under cover of the sheets so that no one would know. It wasn’t her fault if she’d happened to drop a few without noticing and then fallen asleep on top of them, squashing them flat.
Megan thought it equally unfair that she was blamed for breaking the best sugar basin at breakfast, when it was the woman’s nasty son who’d handed it to her and then let go before Megan had quite taken hold. It’d just rolled off the table and smashed to the floor, scattering precious sugar everywhere. An hour later they were back before the billeting officer.
Their next billet was with a vicar and his wife, who were very kind but a bit vague. The first thing they did was to offer them a bath. Megan was horrified and point blank refused to get into it. It stood like an enormous white pot basin on six legs and a witless fool could see by all the water inside it, that she’d drown. Then when the stupid woman lifted Trish into it, despite her screams and Megan’s pleading, she very nearly did drown. Megan was appalled to see her little sister go right under the water as she went completely stiff in some sort of hysterical fit.
Worse, Megan and Trish’s room contained a night commode and after waking one night to find the vicar enthroned upon it, she decided that enough was enough.
The next day the vicar’s wife sent her on an errand to the corner shop. Megan insisted on taking Trish with her, explaining how they must never be separated. But instead of buying bread they got on a bus and used some of the money to buy two tickets to Preston. Here they changed buses to one bound for Manchester. It was pretty full, but the other passengers made room for them and one lady even gave them a few sweets. Hours later, while everyone was no doubt still frantically searching every corner of the village for them, Megan and Trish walked into their house in Irlam, telling their startled mother that they were back.
It upset Megan that instead of giving them big hugs and kisses, Mam was cross. She shouted at her, calling her terrible names like selfish and naughty and irresponsible.
‘You’ve risked your life, and that of your little sister, in the most dangerous way possible. What were you thinking of to do such a daft thing?’
Tears sprang to her eyes. ‘But there’s been no bombs dropped yet. Daisy says so.’
‘Who’s Daisy?’
‘Her what looks after us.’
‘Well you should have stayed with Daisy.’ Then Mam softened slightly, seeing the tears, Trish’s stricken face and the wobble to her lower lip. ‘I can’t keep you here, love, much as I’d like to. I love the bones of you both but it’s dangerous here. There’s a war on and I have to work. I’ve got a job in the munitions factory.’
‘Who’ll look after Gran if you go to work?’
To her dismay, Megan was informed that her grandmother too had died, of the pneumonia, and life suddenly seemed desperately fragile, what with everyone dropping down dead all the time. Mam wouldn’t even let them share her bed, as she’d used to do. There was a sailor in it now, called Jack, and he wasn’t moving out for no one, he said, certainly not two little whippersnappers who should learn to do as they were told.
Worse than all of this, the very next day Mam begged a day off work and took them straight back to the Lakes.
A new place was found for the two little girls, this time with a Mr and Mrs Marshall, who were a policeman and his wife. They had no children but Daisy took to them on sight. Megan and Trish, however, were understandably nervous.
‘Will she make us take a bath and have a commode in our room?’ Megan asked, feeling it best to know how things stood from the start.
