Daisy's Secret (32 page)

Chapter Eighteen

‘Chrissy?’ Laura stared in stunned surprise at the dejected figure standing in a dripping puddle on her doorstep. ‘Goodness, you’re the last person I expected to see.’ It least she was an improvement on her last visitor.

‘Thought I’d pay a visit. Got a problem with that?’

‘No, of course not. Come in. You look soaked to the skin. Sorry about the rain. A typical Lakes’ day, as we call it round here.’ Laura led her into the warmth of the kitchen and put on the kettle, privately thinking that the girl would have withstood the weather better had she been dressed more appropriately. In her baggy cotton trousers and skimpy T-shirt, revealing a sparkly navel stud, the only sensible item of clothing she possessed were her boots, which looked as if they’d done service in at least one world war. Certainly they would come into their own on this terrain, although strangely they didn’t even show a speck of mud, and if she carried a waterproof in the rucksack slung over one shoulder she hadn’t bothered to use it. But the most startling thing about the fourteen year old was her hair. Not only did it hang in damp rats’ tails about her neck, but was also a bright purple streaked with yellow.

Knowing better than to comment upon this radical change from her usual mouse brown, Laura handed her step daughter a towel to dry it, then turned her attention to making coffee. ‘Does Felix know where you are?’

‘I’m not a child.’

This was a line of argument along which Laura never ventured. ‘He needs to know, so that he won’t worry.’

‘Huh! When has Dad ever worried about me?’

Laura handed her a mug. ‘Have you two quarrelled?’

Chrissy pouted. ‘He doesn’t like my hair. Neither does Mum, just because I was sent down from school.’

‘You haven’t been expelled?’ Not again, she almost added, but managed not to.

Chrissy shook the offending locks, which were really quite pretty, in an alarming sort of way. ‘No, I’ve been told to dye it back to its normal colour, and I refused.’

‘I see.’ Laura considered this as they drank their coffee. ‘Were you expecting me to put in a word on your behalf? I mean, is the school likely to be persuaded to change their mind?’

For a brief moment an image of the vulnerable child she truly was, appeared in the hazel eyes, but only for an instant. ‘They’re so old fashioned. Over the hill, you know? It’s just a little bottle of colour, after all,’ she wailed, sounding rather like a TV commercial. Laura tried not to smile. In Chrissy’s opinion, the world was not yet ready for her, she being way ahead of her time.

‘Why don’t I ring and tell your mum where you are, then we can relax and think about what we want for supper.’

Chrissy brightened. ‘Can we have garlic bread? Mum never lets me have it. She says I’m fat enough already.’

‘It’s only puppy fat. It’ll go. I’ll make you some garlic bread if you promise to speak to her and apologise for frightening her. She must be out of her mind worrying about where you’ve got to.’

‘What, thinking I’ve been abducted or something?’ Chrissy mocked.

‘Something of the sort, yes.’

She mulled this over for a moment, then gave a sulky nod of agreement.

Julia was not best pleased by her only daughter absconding but tempers were finally soothed, tears mopped, bridges built and an agreement reached whereby Chrissy would stay for a short holiday at Lane End Farm, in view of her having no school to go to at present and it being almost the end of term in any case. Meanwhile Julia would negotiate terms with the headmistress. Perhaps a slight toning down of colour could be agreed upon.

‘It won’t be much of a holiday in the accepted sense of the word,’ Laura warned as she put down the phone. ‘There’s too much to do. You can help put the finishing touches to the decorating, and generally get organised.’

Chrissy wrinkled her nose and groaned, physical labour not being high on her agenda of fun things to do. ‘Why should I? That’s why I did the hair thing, because I was sick of doing nothing but work, work, work. I need to chill out.’

‘Well, you’ve come to the wrong place for that. I’m planning to open up as a guest house again.’

Chrissy looked slightly taken aback. ‘Cool! That’ll make you independent of Dad, which won’t please him one bit.’

Laura solemnly considered her step daughter. ‘You’re really quite shrewd underneath, aren’t you? I did hope to open by the Spring Bank Holiday but kept getting side-tracked by other issues. Now its the middle of June and I already have bookings for this weekend. So, an extra pair of hands would be most useful.’

They spent the afternoon doing nothing more taxing than putting wrapped mini bars of soap together with packets of shampoo and shower gel in all the new shower rooms, then counting out tea bags and making up hospitality trays. The telephone rang several times and Laura answered various enquiries from the local tourist office, fended off attempts to persuade her to reduce her rates on the grounds of the magnificent views she could offer from all her guest rooms, and took a satisfactory number of bookings.

‘How are you with computers?’

‘I’m a whiz.’

‘Great. You can help me design and produce a brochure. I can’t afford to pay for one to be properly printed, not until I get some regular money coming in.’

‘Lead me to your software.’

They spent a happy couple of hours scanning photographs and cutting and pasting, as well as falling about in laughter over flowery phrases intended to advertise the merits of the premises, most of which sounded too hilarious and off-putting to risk using.

‘Maybe we’ve done enough for one day,’ Laura said, wiping tears of laughter from her eyes. ‘Tomorrow, you can help me finish painting the skirting boards and doors in room five. Then all we have to do is clean the adjoining bathroom, make up all the beds, set the tables in the dining room and we’re done.’

‘Sounds a snip,’ Chrissy drily remarked.

Laura considered her more carefully. ‘How would you feel about waiting on, and perhaps working here for the summer as a chamber maid, assuming your mum agrees of course?’

‘Does that involve having to clean bathrooms and make beds and stuff.’

‘That sort of thing, yes. But I’d pay you well, and with your pretty face, not to mention the Technicolor hair, you might also attract quite a few tips.’

'OK, I’ll give it a whirl.’

‘Excellent. Let’s hope your headmistress doesn’t want you back till next term,’ and the pair grinned happily at each other, as if sharing a private rebellion.

But there was one more hurdle they had to cross first.

Preparations were going well as Daisy scoured the house from attics to cellars, turning out every cupboard, beating every rug, scrubbing every inch of wainscot and window frame with scalding hot water and washing soda. Clem found himself rolling up his sleeves and working alongside her. He would never have believed himself capable of getting involved in what he considered to be women’s work, but there was something about this li’le lass which had captured his heart.

Every pan had been scoured, every cup, saucer and plate, knife, fork and spoon in the house had been given a thorough dunking in washing soda. And when she ran out of dry tea cloths, Clem boiled kettles and washed them for her, drying them on the rack over the fire.

The house seemed to be in a continual state of siege, filled with steam and the smell of bleach, but he didn’t care. More than anything he wanted desperately for her plan to work, so that she could stay. So he readily put the kettle on and, for the first time in his life, Clem brewed a pot of tea without being asked and presented a weak, milky cup to Daisy that tasted as if it had never been near a tea leaf and was indeed the washing up water he’d used for the tea towels.

‘Here, let me do it.’ She refilled the two mugs with a good strong brew, and set one down in front of the old man on the now scrubbed and shining kitchen table.

When they were happy with the kitchen they started on the bedrooms.

‘It’s not that they’re dirty,’ Daisy hastily informed him, not wanting him to feel that she was insulting either his dead mother or his absent wife, ‘but a good turn out every now and then does no harm at all. Mind you, I feel in a flat spin there’s that much to be done before we open properly. But it’ll work out grand, I know it will.’

‘I’m banking on it,’ Clem told her. In his heart he knew that he never wanted this cheerful lass to leave and he suddenly had an inkling of what Florrie might have experienced when she’d first come to the fells: the empty bleakness of it all, the feeling of being overwhelmed by loneliness. All hill farmers were aware of the threat, and the resulting depression that could creep up upon them unnoticed, particular during hard times. Fortunately, it was not something Clem had ever suffered from. Yet now he knew that if Daisy left, he too would feel alone, as never before.

‘I’ve a bit of money saved up,’ Daisy told him. ‘It’s for when Harry comes home but that won’t be for ages yet. How would you feel about getting the odd washbasin installed, and happen some new lino?’ She made the suggestion with diffidence, wary of causing offence, and Clem seemed to consider the idea with a worried frown.

‘Eeh, I wish Florrie were here. She’d know what to do fer t’best.’

‘But she isn’t here, is she?’ Daisy quietly reminded him.

Clem was silent for a moment and she could see by the bleak expression in his faded eyes that he was remembering her, perhaps thinking of the early days of their marriage when everything had seemed so hopeful, so good between them. She prodded him gently back to the present.

‘Don’t worry, there’s plenty of time for me to save up some more. I don’t reckon we’ve seen the end of this war, not by a long chalk. But we have to get through it as best we can. So, what do you say?’

She saw how he made a visible effort to brighten. ‘I’d say you were off your head, but it’s your money, lass.’

‘Right, that’s settled then,’ and they grinned at each other, well pleased with the decision, and with their burgeoning friendship.

Clem contacted a plumber friend who said he could get some second-hand basins dirt cheap from derelict bomb sites. It seemed a bit mercenary to benefit from other people’s tragedies but money too was in short supply.

‘Needs must when the devil drives,’ was Clem’s droll comment.

Daisy said, ‘Think of the good that’ll come of it.’

‘I reckon we could afford three between us,’ Clem said, determined to do his bit to hold on to her.

Daisy was so tired she could hardly sip from the cup but progress was being made, so she had not one word of complaint to make, except in a good humoured way. ‘I’m fair powfagged,’ she laughed, resting her head on her aching arms, and suddenly found her eyes filling with tears as she remembered joking with Megan and Trish about silly words.

‘What’s up lass? Not fretting about your chap, are you? Go and see him, if you want. Ask him over, I don’t mind.’

Daisy wiped the tears away. ‘I’m fine, a bit tired that’s all. But I wouldn’t mind asking Harry to come over, if that’s all right. I’ll drop him a line.’

‘That’s the ticket. Life’s too short for tears.’ He beamed at her, well pleased with his suggestion and, seconds later, jumped to his feet and begun rummaging in the pantry under the stairs to reappear carrying a number of rather battered tin trays. ‘These might cum in useful. What d’you reckon? I suddenly bethought myself that they were there.’

Daisy couldn’t help but laugh. ‘Clem, you’re a treasure.
 
You’ve put new life into me. We’ll be ready by Easter, I swear it.’

Clem had begun to wonder if they ever would be ready. When he came in each night after a long day on the fells, he’d be presented with the sight of Daisy in a flowered apron, her hair tied up in a turban, and ‘leftovers’ for his tea. She rarely had time for cooking these days so it was hard to know what these were left over from. No doubt she made a bit more of an effort for Miss Copthorne. Clem considered himself fortunate if he got a plate of fried spam and tomatoes, a chip buttie, or a cold cheese sandwich. Yet he made no complaint. Perhaps because she would so often pop a kiss on his forehead and promise him wonderful meals every day, once they got underway. Nor did the ever-patient Miss Copthorne object to the mess and disruption but was full of praise for the improvements, and delighted that her own room was also one to be fitted with a wash basin.

‘We’re not done yet,’ Daisy warned her.

A shortage of sheets proved to be a problem, so a trip to Preston market was planned to buy good Lancashire cotton to make more. Daisy watched, open mouthed in amazement, as Clem ushered a sheep into the back seat of his little Ford car.

‘Why is that ewe coming with us? We aren’t stopping off at the auction mart, are we?’

‘Nay, but we can’t get no petrol coupons if we don’t prove we’re on farm business.’

Giggling uncontrollably, Daisy cuddled up on the back seat with the sheep, just to keep an eye on her and see she didn’t fall over on the bends, and off they went. ‘I hope she’s a good traveller.’

On their return Daisy got down to the task of cutting up and hand sewing several yards of unbleached cotton into sheets. She washed out the size which was put in during the process of manufacture, dipped them in dolly-blue to whiten them, and finally dried them in the sun till they were fresh and soft enough to sleep on.