Daisy's Secret

Daisy’s Secret

Freda Lightfoot

Originally published 2003 by Hodder & Stoughton Ltd. 338 Euston Road, London NW1 3BH

Copyright © 2003 and 2012 by Freda Lightfoot.

All rights reserved.

The moral right of the author has been asserted.

No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means without the prior permission in writing of the publisher. Nor be otherwise circulated in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition including this condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser. All characters and events in this publication, other than those clearly in the public domain, are fictitious and any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

ISBN 978-0-9570978-2-7

Published by Freda Lightfoot 2012

 
‘An emotional and gritty Lake District saga’
Coventry Evening Telegraph
on Daisy’s Secret

‘A bombshell of an unsuspected secret rounds off a romantic saga narrated with pace and purpose and fuelled by conflict.’
The Keswick Reminder
on The Bobbin Girls

‘a fascinating, richly detailed setting with a dramatic plot brimming with enough scandal, passion, and danger for a Jackie Collins’ novel.’

Booklist on Hostage Queen

‘You can’t put a price on Freda Lightfoot’s stories from Manchester’s 1950s Champion Street Market. They bubble with enough life and colour to brighten up the dreariest day and they have characters you can easily take to your heart.’

The Northern Echo.

‘Kitty Little is a charming novel encompassing the provincial theatre of the early 20
^th
century, the horrors of warfare and timeless affairs of the heart.’

The West Briton

‘a compelling and fascinating tale’
Middlesborough Evening Gazette
on The Favourite Child
(In the top 20 of the Sunday Times hardback bestsellers
)

‘She piles horror on horror - rape, torture, sexual humiliation, incest, suicide - but she keeps you reading!’ Jay Dixon on House of Angels.

‘This is a book I couldn’t put down . . .
 
a great read!’

South Wales Evening Post
on The Girl From Poorhouse Lane

‘paints a vivid picture of life on the fells during the war. Enhanced by fine historical detail and strong characterisation it is an endearing story...’

Westmorland Gazette
on Luckpenny Land

The Lakes 2012

Laura is having problems with her marriage, so when she is left a house in the Lake District by her grandmother, she starts to look at her life anew. And she begins to investigate the cause of the feud between her father and his mother. What was Daisy’s Secret?

Manchester 1939

Abandoned by her sweetheart and rejected by her family, Daisy feels she has no choice but to agree to being evacuated to the Lakes at the start of the war. Still grieving for the baby boy she was forced to give up for adoption, she agrees that he will be her secret - a precious memory but spoken of to no one. She seeks consolation by taking under her wing two frightened little girls. Together they suffer the hardship and insecurity of poor billets until finally settling at Lane End Farm near Keswick, the home of her Aunt Florrie, where she collects a few other lost souls in need of a sympathetic ear.

When she meets Harry Driscoll, a young airman, Daisy hopes to have a second chance at love; but little does she know that her secret is about to come back to haunt her ...

Chapter One

Laura had been awake for hours, had watched the sun come up through the narrow window of the lofty bedroom, seen the first rays light the yellow flowering broom into a glorious blaze of gold, and on the distant horizon a dazzling glint of snow crusting the summit of Helvellyn. By seven she found it impossible to stay in bed a moment longer, pulled on a pair of jeans and sweater and, padding to the kitchen in her woolly socks, made herself toast and coffee which she ate standing on the doorstep, marvelling at the view and revelling in the sensation of clean, fresh air that tingled on her face and sparkled like champagne in her lungs.

The night before, once everyone had gone, she’d trawled through the house like a lost soul, then like a homing pigeon had found herself up in the attic, and the room she’d always slept in as a child. The blue and white gingham curtains still hung at the window, though now somewhat faded from the sun; the patchwork bed cover that Daisy herself had stitched out of scraps of old curtains, still covered the bed. On impulse, Laura had run back downstairs for her wash bag and night-shirt and slipped with a contented sigh between sheets that smelled slightly musty, of a different age and old lavender, dry and soft against her skin. She knew it was sentimental of her, but she’d always felt safe there, cosy and strangely secure, and quite blissfully alone. With a pair of socks warming her cold toes and her night-shirt tucked firmly around her knees she’d soon thawed out, for all the wind was howling and rattling at the windows and the rain still hammering on the panes of glass.

 
It must have played out its temper during the night for the morning brought one of those rare, unexpectedly sunny days of spring, perhaps heralding a good summer to come. It was far too wonderful to waste by eating inside. Up on the higher slopes she could see the sturdy, dark Herdwicks, heavy with lamb. Perhaps the weather had lifted their spirits too for they seemed almost frisky as they browsed for new young grass shoots. And who could blame them, having carried their progeny through the long, grim months of an endless Lakeland winter, with freedom from their labours almost in sight.

Some said the Herdwicks had come to Lakeland with the Armada, others that it was the Vikings who brought these small, sturdy sheep to these shores, darkly beautiful with their hoar-frosted faces. Or then again, it might have been the Celts who’d first appreciated their hardiness, unless of course Daisy’s theory had been correct, that they’d always been here, walking these barren passes long before even man attempted to tame this landscape.

Finishing her toast, Laura brushed the crumbs from her hands, tugged on a warm jacket and boots for the breeze would be cold higher up, and set off up the smooth slope of Blease Fell. It was a long climb but fresh air and exercise, she decided, were the perfect antidote to stress. By the time she reached Knowe Crags her heart was pounding but there was the view as recompense for her effort. She sat on the grassy slope to catch her breath and look back upon a chain of mountains, only a few of which she could name: Wetherlam and Black Sails, Helvellyn of course, Crinkle Crags and Scafell Pike. The glint of Derwentwater to her right and the grey huddle of houses that was Keswick. And further away still, in the far distance, the hills of Scotland and the Solway Firth.

The grandeur of the scene had a marvellous effect upon her, seeming to fill Laura with a joy as heady as wine. There was much still to explore on the mountain itself, which would have to wait for another day. Daisy had always called Blencathra a proud mountain, a benevolent giant who kept watch on the cluster of white walled cottages that formed the village of Threlkeld in the valley below. It’s shape, being that of twin summits linked by a curved depression, had tempted the Victorians to give it a new name: Saddleback. Daisy had hated this pet name. If it had originally been named Blencathra, then Blencathra it must remain. Strong, indomitable, lofty, rather like herself in a way. She’d loved living here, claiming that the Lake District, and in particular this mountain, had captured her heart from the first moment she’d set eyes upon it, and Laura could only agree.

Once having discovered this place, Daisy had stayed for the rest of her life. But how long could
she
stay? Was it pure fantasy to even consider such a prospect? Living under the harsh conditions that were common in these climes wasn’t something to take on lightly. In the upper reaches of Lakeland, summer and autumn could be magical but winters were long, and spring more often than not little more than wishful thinking. Could she cope?

As Laura sat thinking this over, a lone walker passed by several feet below her, acknowledging her presence with a cheery wave. Perhaps he was staying at the Blencathra Centre further down, the restored Victorian buildings that had once housed the Sanatorium and was now a Field Study Centre. The mountain was certainly busier than in her grandmother’s day, with its procession of walkers heading for the summit via various ascents, their copy of Wainwright’s walking guide in hand. But it was still lonely, still empty for much of the year.

How much easier it would be for her to decide if Daisy herself were here to talk to and share her troubles. Laura’s eyes filled with a rush of tears. Yet she could guess what she might say. ‘Do what you must, girl, but remember men are delicate creatures. Tread softly. Make your point, aye, but don’t go at it like a bull at a gate.’

And Laura could only agree. Felix was not one to let go easily.

‘Don’t argue with me all the time Laura, it’s an irritating fault of yours,’ he would say whenever she attempted to put forward her own opinion on a subject. Or, if she expressed a desire to go somewhere: ‘You’re far too attractive to allow out of my sight for a moment. One sideways glance from those soft brown eyes of yours and any man would be putty in your hands. I certainly am.’

It wasn’t true, of course. She had never been the one to look outside of marriage for her pleasures. Besides, in Laura’s estimation she could only pass for pretty after a great deal of effort and expense, not to mention hours in the bathroom titivating. She saw herself as entirely unprepossessing with long, dark brown hair which showed an infuriating tendency to curl, pale skin and a far too slender, non-voluptuous, figure. Even her legs were long and gawky, and her feet too big. It never ceased to amaze her that Felix had chosen her, above all the other girls desperate for a date with him. Was it any wonder if he strayed from time to time with such an unexciting wife to come home to?

Yet, besotted by his charm, his good looks and ambitious, go-ahead style, as well as being anxious to be a good wife to him in the new house he’d bought for them in a fashionable part of Cheshire, Laura had dutifully gone along with all his high-flown plans, eager to do everything she could to make him happy.

Chin in her hands she recalled how, as a new bride, she’d so looked forward to spending their days working together, building a business to be proud of. But then the rules of the game had been made clear, and excitement, and hope, had slowly faded.

Laura was not, after all, to be allowed to actually work in the gallery. It dealt only in specialist material, he’d explained, needing a particular expertise so he’d hired a young, attractive arts graduate called Miranda for the task. When Laura had readily volunteered to attend classes in modern art or interior design, do whatever was necessary to enable her to be a useful member of the team and perhaps, ultimately, a partner in the business, her husband had appeared highly amused.