Daisy's Secret (10 page)

‘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.

‘Not if you don’t want to, though I think baths can be quite good fun if you don’t have too much water in them,’ Daisy explained, deciding to make no mention of their more usual benefits.

‘Will the lady lock us up and leave us on us own?’ Trish wanted to know.

‘No love, she won’t ever lock you up.’

‘But what if she dies too?’

‘She won’t die. She’s quite young and healthy.’

‘Has she any boggarts?’

‘Or ghosts?’

Daisy gathered them close. ‘Listen. This is a nice lady. She has no ghosts, no boggarts, not even any peevish little boys to pinch you. What she does have is a warm bed for you both, plenty of food in the larder and she’s promised faithfully not to leave you alone for a minute. The only thing is . . .’ Daisy hesitated, feeling emotion block her throat as she came to the difficult part - she can’t take me as well.’ As the protests started, tears spurted and Trish’s mouth did its upside down act again, Daisy did her best to mollify them, kissing their cheeks and trying to mop them dry all at the same time. ‘No, no, don’t worry. It’s all right. I shall be close by in a neighbour’s house, at least until I’m sure you two are all right.’

 
‘Will we see you every day then?’

‘Every single day.’

‘Promise?’

‘Cross my heart and hope to die. Oh no, sorry, I didn’t mean that.’ But even Megan managed a crooked smile at her mistake. ‘Oh, and Mrs Marshall says she has a dog, a little cocker spaniel which you can take for walks, if you like.’

They glanced at each other, still uncertain but their little faces had brightened. The idea of walking the dog was winning them over.

Megan took a deep breath. ‘All right then. We’ve decided we’ll go, haven't we, Trish?’ And Trish nodded her agreement.

The elderly couple with whom Daisy was staying just next door, were kind enough, if set in their ways and unused to having a young person about the place. She could tell this by the way Mr Chapman stared at her sometimes, as if he was trying to dig under her skin and find out what she was thinking. But then he was so old, in Daisy’s estimation at least, being well into his fifties, that he’d probably forgotten what it was like to be young.

He was a solicitor and very generously found a job for Daisy in his office, opening letters and addressing envelopes, the post boy having volunteered for the navy. Within a week Daisy envied him his escape, dangerous though the seas were at this time, for this was the most boring job imaginable, working all alone in a dusty corner of the mail room.
 

Mr Chapman did his best to make things easy for her though, by popping in to see her at frequent intervals to explain anything she didn’t quite understand, such as the way he liked the stamp book kept, or the deeds tied up. He would pat her kindly on the shoulder, see that she took regular tea breaks, and once brought her a cushion when she complained of the hardness of the chair she had to sit in all day, tucking in her skirts for her as she settled it in place. He really was most kind and attentive. Her own parents had never shown such care and she thanked him for his thoughtfulness.

‘We simply want you to be happy with us, Daisy. If you ever feel lonely, you must say so. You’re so very young to be sent away from home, and such a pretty girl, not at all the usual sort of evacuee that we get here who hail from the dregs of society. You are special, my dear, I can tell, and we feel privileged to have you. Consequently we must make an extra special effort to see that you are well taken care of.’

Daisy rather enjoyed the notion of being considered special and pretty, but then he was only trying to make her feel at home, which was nice of him. She’d heard enough horror stories from some of the other evacuees to feel grateful for her good fortune and if her life seemed rather dull with a sameness about it, at least she was warm and well fed. She thanked him warmly, thinking what a charming old fusspot he was.

Mrs Chapman stayed home to keep house and make the meals, and although there was always plenty to eat, they too were sadly predictable. You could guess what day of the week it was from the food put before you on the table. Bacon and mashed potatoes on Mondays, which was wash day with no time for cooking. Welsh Rarebit on Tuesdays. Cottage pie on Wednesdays. On Thursdays it was invariably liver and onions though sometimes they might have heart, which Daisy loathed. And on Fridays - a nice bit of fish. Daisy looked forward all week to the home made pie that Mrs Chapman baked on a Saturday, and the roast on Sundays which they ate in silent splendour in the front parlour to celebrate the sober importance of the day.

Daisy had a room to herself in the attic. It contained one narrow bed and a chest of drawers, a bentwood chair and a cupboard built under the eaves into which she hung her few clothes. The only view from the tiny window was of a chimney pot but at least nobody told her what time she must go to bed, although early rising was essential.

The couples’ motives for taking Daisy in soon became all too apparent. Mrs Chapman suffered ill health, in truth she revelled in it. Each morning, before leaving for the office, it had apparently been Mr Chapman’s task to take breakfast in to his wife on a tray while she reclined in bed; a duty he quickly delegated to Daisy. Likewise in the evening, she was expected to wash up the dinner things, and give the kitchen a wipe over before doing any bits of ironing Mrs Chapman had not felt well enough to tackle during the day.

 
‘You don’t mind helping with the odd chore, my dear, do you?’ Mrs Chapman would enquire in her timorous voice. She was a fragile, birdlike creature with grey hair fashioned into tight little waves all about her head. She always wore a plain grey skirt with a twin set, also in grey or a serviceable blue, and a single strand of pearls.

Daisy assured her that she did not mind in the least. ‘I’m only too happy to help, since you’re offering me a safe billet.’

‘We thought that would be the case. Counting one’s blessing is so important, I always say. And of course you’re grateful to be off the streets, I should think.’

Daisy could do nothing but nod in agreement before running to her room to laugh herself sick.

Chapter Six

Daisy soon discovered that there were more chores to be counted than blessings, an increasing number each week. She would be asked to prepare the vegetables each evening ready for the following day, to clean Mr Chapman’s shoes, the fire grate each morning and the household silver once a fortnight. Cushions had to be kept nicely plumped, newspapers folded away into the rack and beds promptly made. And if she fell short of Mrs Chapman’s high standards, that good lady would gently point out her deficiencies.