Daisy's Secret (18 page)

Mrs Marshall protested that Daisy had enough work to do already, not being unaware of the situation in the Chapman household.

‘I don’t mind, really I don’t. They love being here with you, and I get to see them every day. ’

‘But only if you have the time, Daisy.’

‘I’ll come whenever I can, I promise. So you put your feet up and look after yourself. Just try to hang on a little bit longer. Please! You never know, they might be a real boon when the baby comes, another pair of hands you know.’ And because Mrs Marshall loved children so much, and had grown quite fond of these two imps, as she called them, she’d agreed to let them stay a few more weeks. But the time for her confinement was drawing near.

‘When I must finally decide what’s to be done.’

It was the best Daisy could hope for.

Mrs Chapman expressed an opinion that her neighbour was misguided and Daisy a saint. ‘You’re wasting your time trying to save those children, my dear. Such creatures are beyond redemption, nothing but a trial having already polluted dear Mrs Marshall’s carpets and mattresses. Their mother seems to be quite unable to raise them properly, devoid of any sense, and bone idle to boot, no doubt. Oh, do put the kettle on dear, I’m gasping for a cup of tea. We would certainly not have taken on anyone younger than yourself, dear Daisy, however much the authorities may have insisted.’

Daisy said nothing. Obligingly, she put on the kettle, made tea and brought it to her landlady, together with the biscuit tin. Mrs Chapman always enjoyed a wafer biscuit late in the afternoon, so long as Daisy was there to fetch it for her.

‘And for what, I ask myself? For eight shillings and sixpence a week? Why, we couldn’t feed a kitchen maid on that, should we be fortunate to have one,’ she tartly remarked.

Daisy thought that she really had no need of a kitchen maid, not while she had her, and the eight shillings and sixpence as well. But then Mrs Chapman invited her to sit down, help herself to a biscuit and tell her all about her day, and Daisy remembered why she liked her. She was lonely and tired, that was all. Who knew what old age will bring for any of us, Daisy generously concluded, and went to fetch herself a cup.

Chapter Ten

Lane End Farm kitchen had a flagged floor, now sealed but which in the old days would have needed to be scrubbed on a daily basis. There was an old fashioned kitchen range with a rocking chair beside it, and a clippy rug in front of the hearth. A hinged bar still swung out over the fire from which would once hang a kettle or pan to heat water. The baking would have been done in the side oven and Laura could imagine her grandmother baking scones and pastry first, when the heat was at its most intense, followed by the lighter baking and then the bread, and last of all when the oven was “falling”, the favourite tatie pot or casserole for supper. In later years, Daisy had been professional enough to install an electric cooker and it was this that Laura used for her own cooking.

Laura made a new version of chocolate mousse, the traditional sticky toffee pudding and some sourdough bread. She also tried her hand at oatcakes, or haverbread, as it was more properly called. With a little flour added for greater elasticity, it would have been eaten with every meal at one time, rolled up with hot bacon, or dipped in stews or gravy, filling hungry stomachs and supplementing meagre rations. Laura wasn’t sure whether her own was quite crisp enough, and decided to roll it out thinner next time.

Tired, but satisfied with her first efforts at traditional Cumbrian fare, she headed straight for the shower. The water was blissfully hot and refreshing, soothing frayed nerves as well as tired muscles. Afterwards, she lay down on the bed and must have fallen asleep because when she woke it was quite dark, and she hadn’t the faintest idea what time it was.
 

It took a moment before Laura realised someone was banging about downstairs. An intruder, and there was something about the sounds coming up the stairs which made his identity plain. At one time her husband might have woken her with a kiss and some passionate love making. Now, he apparently achieved the same effect by bashing pans together in her kitchen.

‘Felix, this is a surprise.’ She’d brushed her dark hair loose over her shoulders, quickly applied eye make up and lipstick and slipped into a long skirt and silk shirt. Though Laura would have loved to simply slop about in jogging trousers and T-shirt after her long tiring day, Felix hated to see her anything less than glamorous, and her current rebellion didn’t stretch to annoying him any further. Not until she’d achieved her object. ‘How did your trip go? Get what you wanted?’ She deliberately kept her tone light.

He was bashing the ice tray against the sink, hence the noise, had clearly downed one whisky already and was about to pour another. She took the tray from him and ran it under the tap, fixed the drink just how he liked it and handed it to him with a smile.

He took a large swallow. ‘The trip was a total waste of time and money. Complete fake. And I really don’t have time for all this nonsense, Laura.’ His voice sounded as brittle and cold as the ice that chinked against his glass.

‘All what nonsense?’ Laura leaned back against the sink, considering him, something she hadn’t done properly in ages. He’d put on weight, was beginning to look positively paunchy and flabby about the face, almost florid. He’d never been the most patient of men but now his temper seemed to be growing increasingly irascible, his movements jerky and abrupt as if he was having trouble keeping control. ‘I’m afraid I don’t quite understand what you’re talking about. The trip, or something entirely different?’

‘You know damn well what I’m talking about. All this constant dashing back and forth up the motorway to the Lakes. And you said the weather was glorious. Look at it, freezing cold and starting to snow. It’s a miracle I arrived in one piece.’

‘Don’t exaggerate, Felix. The roads are all perfectly clear, I’ve driven out most days. And you haven’t constantly dashed back and forth. This is your first visit since the funeral more than three weeks ago.’

‘And my last. Get your bags packed. We’re going home right now.’ He shot back the whisky in one, slamming the glass down on the sink with far more force than necessary. When Laura gave no indication of moving, he continued in tight, clipped tones, ‘Would you like me to do it for you?’

‘At any other time in our marriage, help with the packing would have been welcomed. But not now, Felix. It’s far too late. I’m not leaving, you see. I’m staying. Not just for a week, or for a month, but for as long as I feel like it.’ This wasn’t the way she’d intended to tell him but he’d driven her to it.

‘I beg your pardon?’ His face was not florid now, but puce, darkening to a deep crimson right before her eyes. ‘Is this some kind of joke?’

‘No joke. But it is certainly going to be more fun than my life has been for the last several years, with you. I’ve done a lot of thinking while on my own here, and quite made up my mind. I intend, by early summer, to reopen Lane End Farm as a guest house, and take over where Daisy left off when she retired all those years ago. I’ve thought it all through. I’ll need to refurbish, of course, bring the rooms up to date, put in a couple more shower rooms, have the necessary inspections done, register with the tourist board and so on, and hopefully be ready to open by early June.’

‘Have you gone quite mad?’

‘I don’t think so. It seems an eminently sensible plan to me. I’ll admit I haven’t settled the finer details, found plumbers, decorators or whatever, but I intend to do all that over the next week or two.’

His face seemed to have set like stone, rigid with temper. ‘I’ve already made it perfectly clear to you, Laura, that we are selling this house.’

Even now, when she’d finally made her decision to end her marriage, it still hurt that he didn’t express any regret over the fact that she was leaving him, that his first - perhaps his only thought - was for the money he would lose by not selling. She blinked and turned away, took a packet of minced beef from the fridge and started to heat some olive oil in a pan. ‘I don’t think so, Felix. Selling wouldn’t be a good idea right now.’

‘So you mean to bankrupt me, do you?’

‘Oh, for goodness sake, your sense of drama is magnificent. Any hole you are currently in is, I am sure, temporary. You’ve wriggled out of every other. Besides, I spoke to the solicitor and agricultural property isn’t selling well right now, so putting it on the market wouldn’t be an answer. It could take years. It would be a far better investment, he told me, to hang on to it for as long as we can.’

‘What the hell does an old fuddy-duddy of a solicitor in some backwater know about the property market?’ The sarcasm had gone and he was shouting, reaching again for the whisky bottle as if needing to refuel his temper.

Laura calmly dropped the meat in the smoking oil and began to sear it, turning it gently. ‘A great deal actually. And he isn’t an old fuddy-duddy but quite young and with it.’

‘Ah, fancy yourself with a toy boy, eh?’

‘Now who’s being ridiculous?’

‘I told you to leave everything to me. Didn’t I say it would be a mistake your staying here? Now, on the word of some tin-pot local brief, you’ve decided against selling and got some foolish fantasy into your head about going into business. You imagine opening a guesthouse is the answer to your mid-life crisis, do you? And what about me? I’m supposed to just smile and say fine, yes dear, do as you like?’

‘I don’t really think it is any concern of yours what I do. Not any more.’ Laura selected a knife from the rack and began to chop onions.

Felix pushed his face to within inches of her own, not lowering his voice one decibel as he raged at her like a mad thing. ‘Your head is empty, Laura, except for the cotton wool that consists your brain. Don’t overtax it. Stick to your cooking.’ He was jabbing a finger hard at her skull.

Despite how her head was jerked by each stabbing motion, Laura studiously ignored it, continuing to chop onions until finally he ran out of breath and stopped. Calmly, she set the meat to one side in an earthenware casserole, and tossed the onions into the hot oil.

‘Are you listening to me?’

She was finding it hard to breathe although her voice, when she finally found it, sounded remarkably calm. ‘I rather thought that a guesthouse would be a good idea, and I’d enjoy the company. I get rather lonely stuck at home, all on my own the whole time.’

‘Is that meant as some sort of criticism? Are you implying that I neglect you?’

‘Heaven forbid! Felix, our marriage hasn’t worked in years, for many reasons. It might have helped if I’d been allowed to work at the gallery. I would have loved that.’ She scattered two or three mild chilli peppers onto the meat, her hand shaking slightly, hoping he wouldn’t notice. She wanted him to simply accept what she had to say, and go.
 

‘You would have been utterly hopeless, far too gawky and clumsy. You’d have dropped a priceless vase, broken a valuable picture frame or some such.’

‘You sound just like my father.’

‘Perhaps because he and I show sense, and you don’t!’

Laura could feel the tension tightening inside her, a coiled spring of emotion that threatened to break free and let fly. She knew he was deliberately attempting to provoke her. So often, in their rows, she was the one in a rage of tearful frustration who wanted to throw something, and Felix cold and manipulative.

Now, the tables had been turned and she was the cool one, outwardly at least, calm and composed about her decision, and supremely rational. She’d no intention of dissolving into tears so that he could mop them dry and tell her this was what happened when she started dreaming foolish dreams and expecting the impossible; reminding her how well he looked after her and kept her safe from harm. Of course he did. Locked up in luxurious but rigid seclusion while he got on with living his life. She couldn’t go on like that any longer. Not any more. Stuck by the phone waiting for him to call and say when he was coming home, imagining him with Miranda or some other young girl he currently fancied. What about
her
life?
Her
needs?
Her
desires? Not to mention her pride and sense of self-worth.

Laura drew in a deep, calming breath. ‘I believe what I’m trying to say is that I’m leaving you. It wasn’t an easy decision to make and it’s come as something of a surprise to me too, that I’ve actually found the courage at last. Perhaps being left this house has helped.’

‘Don’t talk stupid!’ Flecks of spittle from his fury spattered across her face. ‘There’s absolutely no question of you doing anything of the sort! You can’t stay here, and you certainly aren’t leaving me. I won’t allow it.’

Laura laughed, though there was little humour in the sound. ‘And how do you propose to prevent me? You don’t keep a wife by issuing an order, or sending her a fax to that effect. You do it with love and care and attention, all those things you’ve tended to ignore over the years. As for the house, it may have slipped your attention Felix, but it’s
mine
. Not
yours
. So the decision of what to do with it is mine too, and for the moment at least, I’ve decided to keep it.’

Laura thought, for a brief moment, that he was going to hit her, and experienced a jolt of unexpected fear. Perhaps she’d finally driven him to the limits too. She moved quickly away across the kitchen, ostensibly to fetch a tin of kidney beans from the cupboard but wanting to put some distance between them, fervently wishing that she hadn’t chosen this precise moment to reveal her plans. What with the threat of snow and him heading once more for the whisky bottle, it would mean he couldn’t drive, so he’d be forced to stay overnight, a situation she did not relish. He might well continue in this fashion, ranting and raving at her until, finally exhausted and desperate for peace, she’d repent and back down from her stand.