Daisy's Secret (22 page)

She still carried a clear memory of the day she’d arrived. Florrie could see herself standing in the middle of the kitchen in her high heels and the smart little frock and coat she’d bought for going away in; the entire modish ensemble completed with the very latest cloche hat in a matching periwinkle blue. Her hair had been cut in a stylish bob, her scarlet lipstick thickly applied, but instead of sitting down to a delicious dinner cooked and served by a fawning housekeeper, she was faced with a cobweb strewn, damp wreck of a house with a leaky roof and smoky chimneys.

‘Good God, when did you last take a duster to this place?’ she’d asked, her horrified gaze taking in the stack of dirty dishes left mouldering in the stone sink, the filthy towels hanging on the rack above the inglenook, and the clippy rugs all moth-eaten and caked with mud. The only tidy bit of the room amongst the clutter, was a row of filthy boots, not at all the kind of image she’d had in mind.

Clem had scratched his head and thought for a moment. ‘Not since Mam were alive, I reckon.’
 

Through tightly clenched teeth she’d politely asked when that had been, thinking he’d say twenty years, or at least ten. It would surely take all of that time to create such mayhem. He’d thought for a bit before responding with, ‘Three months last Tuesday. Mind you, she hadn’t been herself for months.’

If it hadn’t been so dreadful, Florrie might have laughed. Instead, she replied, ‘Well, she could’ve washed up before she left.’

He’d been hurt, of course, by the caustic comment, had done his best to hide the wound, the first of many he would be forced to endure in the years ahead. Right then he’d tactfully explained that, as his wife, it would naturally be her task to do all the housework. ‘Isn’t it like that in Salford?’

‘Course it is. Don’t talk so daft. I just thought ... I mean I rather expected ...’ But it was no good. Putting her dreams into words would only make her sound foolish and naive, so Florrie had set them aside, along with the fancy hat and the scarlet lipstick, donned an apron, rolled up her sleeves and set to work. It was almost like being back at home and, to her utter dismay, Florrie found herself wishing she was.

The silence of the fells weighed heavily upon her. She couldn’t bear the emptiness of the landscape. Their nearest neighbours were a couple of miles down the lane in the little village of Threlkeld. No one had been foolish enough to build above them, which was presumably why the house had been named Lane End Farm. Save for Blencathra Sanatorium, a bleak Victorian monstrosity for all those poor sick folk with TB forced to sleep in freezing bedrooms with the windows wide open in all weathers, the farm was stuck up here on the side of the mountain all alone. And the Sanatorium did not encourage visitors. Florrie would ever go near, it quite gave her the shivers, seeming to embody her hatred of this place.

The presence of the brooding mountain, rearing up behind the farm buildings were overpowering and unsettling. Florrie would wander from room to room, gazing out over the empty fields below in the hope of seeing someone pass by, perhaps a local exercising their dog, then she would rush out and beg them to come in for a cup of tea and a chat. But this was too rare an occurrence to rely upon. Blencathra’s austere beauty was seldom challenged save by a few crazy hikers in high summer. Florrie would feel a desperate longing for a rain-sodden Manchester street, for the sound of children happily playing with skipping ropes and swinging round a lamp post, as she had used to do as a child, the women gossiping on their doorsteps. There was no chance of such social chit-chat here.

If she’d thought Rita to be a cold, unfeeling woman, that was before she’d tried living with the silent, frugal Clem, who turned out to be the most taciturn and grumpy of men, stuck in a routine which had remained unchanged for centuries, and in a house that should long since have been razed to the ground.

Florrie stared again at the letter in her hand. It amazed her that her sister had even bothered to write, let alone ask for her help. Astonishing! Rita firmly believed God had given her the right to stand in judgement over others, dealing particularly harshly with members of her own family who had, in her puritanical opinion, in some way transgressed. So it had been with Florrie in her day, and now, apparently, with her own daughter. Perhaps, Florrie thought, that was why she’d kept the letter, out of pity for the poor girl, understanding exactly what she was going through.

She tugged the sleeve of her cardigan over her hand and used it to rub a smear of dust from the oval mirror set in the mahogany mantle. The face which looked back at her was that of a stranger. It certainly showed no sign of the young woman who had once flouted convention. Florrie trailed a finger over the bruised circles beneath blue-grey eyes that had long since lost any glimmer of hope; smoothed a hand over pale, sallow skin which no longer glowed with youth, and tracked a contour of lines that pulled down a discontented mouth which did not flaunt the scarlet lips men had once found to be utterly irresistible.

‘You always said I’d come to a bad end, Rita. Mebbe you were right. Though I’ll make sure you never find out just how much of a mess I have made of my life.’

No, best she continue to do nothing about the letter, nothing at all. What other option did she have? She’d no wish to bring her tyrant of a sister back into her life, let alone drag young Daisy into the midst of this silent war zone.
 

Resisting the urge to tear it to shreds, she folded the letter carefully, slid it back inside its envelope and returned it to the dark recesses of the dusty mantle shelf, well hidden amongst a wad of bills that Clem never touched.

Now that had been another disappointment. The lack of money. Florrie had assumed, from the way he’d so zealously courted her, taking her out to dinner and buying her little trinkets, that he was quite comfortably off. Sadly that had not been the case. It’d been all show. He’d needed a wife to help him on the farm and with no hope of finding one in this remote spot, he’d saved hard for months, then headed for the city determined to ‘buy’ himself a bride. Florrie had fallen for it all, hook, line and sinker.

She drew in a deep calming breath as she glanced at the clock, listening to the echo of its tick in the empty room and wondered if Clem had met with problems which made him so late home from the weekly auction mart, or whether he’d stopped off for a drink with his cronies. Not that it mattered to her one way or the other, Clem was far too careful with his money to ever have more than half a pint. His dinner was keeping warm in the oven, and she’d be off to bed soon, the warmest place to be on such a cold, blustery night. However glorious the rest of the country, this little corner of Lakeland always managed to have a weather system all its own.

As if echoing her thoughts, she heard the kitchen door crash back against the wall, caught by the vicious wind, no doubt. She made no move to go to him. Nor did he call out to her, or announce his arrival in any way. Why should he? No one else would be mad enough to be out on a night like this, so who else could it be but him?

Florrie could almost hear the wind chuckle with devilish delight at having gained entry at last, and a final whoosh of disappointment as Clem slammed shut the door, forcing it back outside where it belonged. She put a match to the fire she’d laid ready for his arrival and walked briskly into the kitchen.

‘I’ll fetch your supper.’ Florrie had no intention of asking him about his day, though there were times when for no reason she could fathom, he’d readily tell her. This was apparently one of them.

‘Them ewes fetched good prices at the mart,’ he said.

Florrie didn’t trouble to reply. They either did fetch good prices, or they didn’t. It was all the same to her.

She noted how he carefully put his cap to keep warm on the hook over the old kitchen range, how his boots had been placed on a piece of newspaper by the back door; odd little touches for such an unfussy man. She took the plate from the oven and placed it on the table before him. Clem picked up his knife and fork without comment and began to eat the dried up remains of a steak and kidney pie.

Tucking lank strings of bleached blonde hair behind her ears, her one remaining vanity, Florrie stood and watched him for a moment, staring at his grey head bent to the task of eating, noting how his once handsome face was now crazed with lines, like a dried up river bed; his proud shoulders hunched and stooped. Whatever had made him the man he was had died along with their darling Emma, and Florrie could find no pity in her heart to spare for him; she needed it all for herself.

This was the other, more poignant reason why she hadn’t written back agreeing to Rita’s request. Because she’d no wish to have a baby around the place. That wouldn’t do at all. An unknown child sleeping in Emma’s cot? Florrie felt a shudder run through her at the very thought, knowing she could never bear it.

Don’t think about Emma, she told herself. Not today. Not just now.

It was fortunate really that the modern young flapper inside her had died too. Otherwise, she’d have gone quite mad, as would Daisy, if she came here. This was no place for a lively young girl.

Then as if to make sure that she didn’t weaken, Florrie snatched the letter from its hiding place and tossed it into the fire. When every last scrap had been consumed by the flames, she turned and went upstairs to bed, leaving her husband to his own company, as she did every night.

Laura began the redecorating with the smallest bedroom, in case her first attempt wasn’t too good. It took a full day simply to strip the paper from the walls and give the whole room a thorough scrubbing, then a further two to paint and paper it. Nevertheless, she was pleased with the result when it was finished.

‘Not so useless after all, Laura old girl,’ she told herself, admiring her handiwork with justified pride. ‘Right, on to bedroom two. Only five more to go.’

The prospective buyers came to the house prompt at two o’clock on Friday afternoon. Laura was waiting for them, not that she’d made any special preparations, as advocated by television programmes on ‘how to sell your house’. She’d stripped the wallpaper and coated the old plaster of the second bedroom with size, preparatory to repapering. It gave off a pungent aroma. As she heard the car draw up outside, she calmly set down the brush on the edge of the can and only when the front door bell sounded, did she wipe her hands on a cloth and go to let them in.

They were a middle aged couple in their late forties, the woman with a thin, sallow complexion, not a hair out of place and lips painted a bright cerise pink. She was smartly dressed in a navy trouser suit and boots that had walked on nothing more taxing than tarmac. The man wore tweeds and brogues, as if he thought this to be appropriate gear for a day in the country. Laura smiled brightly. ‘Mr and Mrs Carr? Ah, do come in, I was expecting you.’

The moment they stepped over the threshold the woman wrinkled up her nose, sniffing hard. ‘Is that paint I smell?’

‘Indeed it is, I must confess. And size, for the wallpaper you know. It’s a never-ending job, isn’t it? Particularly in a place as old as this.’ She gave a trilling little laugh as she led them to a small room at the back. Once used as an office, it clearly hadn’t been touched in years: wallpaper peeling off the walls, a torn green paper blind hung at the window and paintwork dingy and thick with grime.

The couple looked upon the room in open horror. ‘Is that fungi on the ceiling Mrs Rampton?’

‘I believe it must be, Mr Carr. As you will appreciate, this is an historic house in a cold area. You don’t mind the cold, I assume, Mrs Carr? I’m afraid it does necessitate a good deal of attention, because of damp you see. And no matter how many times I paint it, it still shows through in no time, all black and horrid, and then I have to start all over again.’

She put her hands together in mild supplication. ‘Oh dear, you don’t mind my describing the house, warts and all as it were, do you? I mean, I’d hate you to think I was being anything but entirely honest.’

‘No, please proceed Mrs Rampton. We appreciate your candour.’

Laura continued with the tour. The front parlour, once inhabited by the guests, was a little better if with a slightly musty smell to it. She’d made no effort to do any cooking today and had let the range go out so the kitchen was not only cheerless but freezing cold. Laura smiled apologetically. ‘One has such problems with these old ranges, doesn’t one? Still, you could always throw it out and put in central heating.’

She could see from their shocked expressions they had not budgeted for such a vast expense, and were far from impressed. They’d clearly had the cosy warmth of a modern Aga in mind.

‘We were led to believe that this was a fully restored property. Completely habitable.’

‘Habitable, oh indeed it is, yes, if you don’t mind roughing it a bit. But to be absolutely honest with you, Mr Carr, I’ve just inherited this property from my grandmother and it has been sadly neglected over the years. However, as I say, with a lick of paint and a few refurbishments such as a bathroom here and there, once you’ve eradicated any possible dry rot and woodworm, that is, you’ll have a bargain on your hands. An absolute bargain.’

She caught the expression of panic exchanged between them as she briskly led the way along the passage. ‘Now, here is the utility, or wash house as my dear eccentric grandmother probably dubbed it. Pay no attention to the old boiler, it doesn’t work, and it was only the wind which broke the panes of glass. I shall get it fixed directly, meanwhile it’s securely boarded up.’