Daisy's Secret (36 page)

‘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?’