Daisy's Secret (25 page)

Florrie understood that this was the only way he knew how to cope. It was simply not an answer so far as she was concerned.
 

Rarely a civil word had been exchanged between them in years, not since that terrible day. The promise of their early love affair had withered and died, killed by grief, and she had neither the will nor the facility to resurrect it. But she mustn’t think of little Emma now, not so late in the day. She’d never sleep.
 

Florrie took a moment to bring her emotions back under control before plunging her hands into the soapy washing up water. Wallowing in self-pity did no good at all, it simply leaked away the last remnants of her strength, and she needed every ounce of that, oh indeed she did.

‘It’s ten o’clock. I’m off to bed, Florrie.’

Lips pressed tightly together, she didn’t trouble to nod or acknowledge his words in any way. Hadn’t she heard them a hundred, nay a thousand times. She’d once used to ask him if he’d locked up, barred the back door, but against who or what? There was no one fool enough to come up this mountain at dark of night.
 

Left to herself, Florrie gave a small sigh of relief then stirred the ashes of the fire, pulling the few remnants of logs together to kindle a flame. Over a comforting mug of hot, sweet tea, she pulled out an old Christmas card she’d kept, safely tucked into her knitting bag. It was from Daisy. The childlike, cursive handwriting informed Florrie that she’d recently been evacuated to the Lakes, was being forced to change billets but had failed to find her aunt, not knowing where she lived or even her married name and could she please let her have the address. The girl had sent the card via Salford, and Rita, for reasons best known to herself, had forwarded it on. She’d added a postscript, as dry and cutting as ever.

‘I’m sending you this from our Daisy, though I don’t suppose you’re interested in family now that you’ve got so high and mighty.’

But it was the last sentence which cut to the heart of her: ‘Don’t worry, we got rid of the encumbrance.’

Such a heartless remark, and so typical of Rita. This presumably meant that she’d given up the child for adoption whether Daisy agreed or not. Florrie thought of Daisy, of how she must have felt at only sixteen to give birth to, and lose, a child. Devastated, no doubt! Florrie, more than most, could well understand what the poor girl must have gone through. The weight of such pain and sadness bowed her own shoulders each and every day, and kept her awake night after night till she felt crippled by it.

Florrie had always believed that to go back home would be an admission of failure. She’d rather die than see her sister gloating over her misery. Heart of stone, had Rita. She certainly would not understand a fraction of what this poor lass was suffering.

Perhaps, Florrie thought, she should have agreed to help, after all. Guilt gnawed at her. She could at least have let Daisy spend the months of waiting here, safe from Rita’s machinations. Wasn’t there enough anguish and pain in the world, what with the war and all, without creating their own?

As Florrie sat watching the fire flicker and die and the last of the wood turn to ash, she came to a decision. Reaching for pen and paper, she began to write a letter. It was to Daisy, and she meant to send it to her via Rita but half way down the first page she screwed up the paper and tossed it in the fire. She pulled out another sheet and started again. After four more sheets of paper had been woefully wasted in this way, Florrie stopped writing. This wouldn’t do at all. Paper was a precious commodity. Weren’t they supposed to be conserving resources, not tossing them away in the fire? There must be another way.

The next morning Clem milked their two shorthorns, did his few chores about the yard and ate a substantial breakfast of bacon and eggs, as always. Then he stood at the kitchen door tugging on his boots and cap. ‘We’re in for a bit of a wetting afore nightfall, I reckon. Them clouds don’t look good.’ So saying, he called up his dog and went on his way, shoulders slumped, head thrust forward and knees slightly bent in the characteristic gait of a man used to walking on hills.

Florrie watched him go till he was no more than a speck on the mountainside, then she buttoned on her coat, picked up the overnight bag she’d packed while he was out of the house doing his morning chores, closed the door and walked away. In her mind she could already smell the smoke and tar of Salford Quays. For the first time in years, she felt something akin to excitement. War or no war, she was going home. Daisy had given her the very excuse she needed.

Chapter Fourteen

Having spent the night huddled on a bench by the lake, and a second day knocking on doors, Daisy quite by chance asked at a small grocer’s shop on the edge of town where she finally discovered that Aunt Florrie lived at Lane End Farm. She managed to hitch a lift out in a milk lorry heading back to the village of Threlkeld, and now it was almost eight o’clock, the day’s warmth fading as Daisy toiled up the seemingly endless lane to the farm. She was half dragging her suitcase, a stitch in her side and dripping with sweat from the exertion. She doubted she’d have had the strength to climb this mountain in the full heat of the day after her long, exhausting search.

When she reached a gate bearing a dirty, chipped board bearing the name Lane End, she stopped to catch her breath. The house was certainly old, a typical Lakeland farmhouse with lime washed stone walls, thick enough to keep out the worst of the mountain weather, and narrow windows peeping out from beneath a heavy, slate roof. Behind was a cluster of outbuildings in varying stages of decay, and some short distance from the house, half hidden in a copse of tall trees, stood what appeared to be a small stone barn, the roof partly crumbled away. A line of washing hung across a green sward of grass, beneath which hens pecked about, their soft cackling making a surprisingly comforting sound.

She set down her suitcase in the porch and hammered on the front door. ‘Hello! Anyone in?’

When no one answered and the door remained firmly closed, she walked round to the back and tried again there, with the same result. It would be just her luck if Florrie had gone down into town shopping. Or perhaps she was out in the fields, tending to the sheep, or whatever farmer’s wives did.
 

Daisy didn’t know what she’d expected but not this. Somehow she must have got it all wrong. It was perfectly clear that her aunt had not gone up in the world, as they had all imagined. No wonder no one had heard of Florrie in Keswick. She wasn’t a fine lady living in a grand mansion at all. By the looks of it she was nothing more exciting than a humble farmer’s wife.

And yet where was the harm in that? None at all. Daisy marvelled at Florrie’s good fortune at being able to spend her life in such a wonderful place. It seemed an incredible place to live. With the mountain at its back, the farm looked out across the most magnificent countryside Daisy had ever seen. A wide valley, to the right of which could be seen the grey cluster of houses which was Keswick, and the glint of the lake where she’d sat and had her sandwiches just behind the town. Following the railway line from there led her gaze to a scar in the land which looked like a quarry, and ranged behind and beyond this seemingly endless common, were the mountains. Daisy knew none of their names, save that the highest was Helvellyn, but the scene took her breath away and she made a vow, there and then, to learn them all.

The pity of it was that Florrie had never told them about this enchanting place, never given them her address, or allowed them the opportunity to visit. Why hadn’t she? Why had she lied?
 

Daisy fell in love with Blencathra on sight. The mountain upon which the farm had been built, seemed to hold out its arms to her, its softly rounded folds like an embrace. And, tired though she was, she could barely restrain the urge to climb it there and then, to explore its buttresses, crags and water courses, to reach its lofty summit and look out across the whole of Lakeland. Wouldn’t that be a sight?

‘Now then lass, were you wanting our Florrie?’

The voice broke into her thoughts, making her jump, and Daisy turned to find herself gazing into a face as round, red and wrinkled as an old, well polished apple. It possessed a hawk nose and a firm, square jaw, but this was no gentleman farmer in his flat cap, made from checked woollen cloth and tugged well down over his brow. The fustian trousers had seen better days and the waistcoat, worn over a blue and white striped, collarless shirt, gaped open with not a button in sight. He wasn’t smiling but he seemed to Daisy more shy than solemn, reserved in his manner rather than deliberately unfriendly, and studiously polite to this stranger who had appeared on his doorstep. If this was Aunt Daisy’s husband, yet again he was not at all what she’d expected. She swallowed her surprise as best she could and held out a hand in friendly greeting.

‘You must be Uncle Clem.’ Daisy patiently waited while he seemed to consider the outstretched limb, wiped his own hands on the backs of his trousers as if about to take the hand, then thought better of it. And all the while he continued to study her with a keen, sharp-eyed gaze. When still he said nothing, she continued, ‘I’m Daisy, if you remember? Florrie’s niece.’ She struggled to recall if she’d ever met him before when she was a child, but gave up when no memory emerged.

Clem walked past her to push open the door. ‘I know ‘oo you are. You’d best come in. By the look of you, yer in need of summat to wet thi whistle.’

Why would anyone choose to build a farm on the lip of this awesome giant of a mountain? Daisy wondered as she gratefully drank the glass of cold milk and ate the cheese sandwich he provided. And how had Clem himself come to live in this remote, magical place?

‘Did your family build this farm?’ she asked.

‘Aye.’
 

‘Why here?’ Daisy patiently waited, hoping he might add something more but he continued to placidly chew on his sandwich. The room in which they sat evidently served as both kitchen and living-room and had developed a warm fugue, not simply from the lingering heat of the day, but also from the smoky fire. They were seated by the great inglenook which incorporated an ancient bread oven, well blackened by age and usage. Despite it having been one of the hottest days of the year, it was necessary to have a peat fire burning in order to boil the kettle that swung from a crane over the fire, its own blackened surface revealing it had served this purpose for many years. On the scrubbed flags before the hearth lay a pegged rug and against one wall stood a large deal table and a cupboard with four doors, all of which stood wide open, just as if Clem might need to reach for something at a moment’s notice.

He’d carefully removed his cap, she noticed, and set his boots with a line of others by the door. In their place he’d put on a pair of carpet slippers. Daisy found it hard to believe that this quiet little man had so captured her aunt’s heart that she’d up and left her family and the home she loved. Perhaps she now loved the fells more.

‘How is she then, Aunt Florrie?’

‘She’s gaily well.’

‘Has she popped out to do a bit of shopping?’

‘She’s away just now, aye.’

Again they fell silent and Daisy was beginning to find the conversation hard going. She’d already run the gamut of the weather, his health and her being evacuated to the Lake District, tactfully making no mention of her need for a new billet. It seemed somehow premature to venture into those sort of details. She felt nervous of explaining more fully how and why she needed a bed for the night, for several nights in fact. Where was Aunt Florrie? If only she’d arrive back from wherever she’d gone, then they could sort everything out, woman to woman. The old man seemed lost in thought and Daisy didn’t like to interrupt.

She was wilting in the over-warm room, half asleep in the chair when finally he spoke again, ‘Because it always was here, and always will be.’

Daisy blinked, struggling to concentrate and recollect what they’d been talking about. ‘What was?’

‘The mountain.’

‘Oh.’ She’d forgotten that she’d asked him about how he came to be here. She rubbed the sleep from her eyes and sat up, ready to listen. ‘Was the farm left to you by your father then?’

‘Aye.’ Clem didn’t say that he loved it, or stayed here because it was beautiful, nor did he wax lyrical about its serenity or its grandeur, yet all of that seemed implicit in the simple explanation which followed, and in the pride and contentment in his faded, grey gaze. ‘It’s a challenge, d’you see, living here? It takes sturdy stock wi’ some Norse blood in your veins to cope with life on these harsh fells. The first men o’ my family to farm here decided the low lying pastures was goodish ground, but they’d build a bit higher up, so’s they could see who were coming like. Them were troubled times, and no one can approach this farm without us being aware of it.’

‘I can see that. It must have been hard work, building right in the teeth of the wind? It will get very windy this high up, I suppose? Won’t it blow the house to bits in the end?’

Clem seemed unconcerned by such a possibility. ‘Whatever thee does the house’ll be gone in the end. Four - five hundred years is but the blink of an eye when you set it against the life of a mountain. One day the slate will be wiped clean, by nature, though Blencathra will remain.’

Daisy couldn’t help thinking that it was perhaps this philosophical approach to house maintenance which explained the poor state of the property. She’d noticed drystone walls falling down, several outbuildings in dire need of repair and a number of slates missing on the house. Even inside it looked in a sorry state with one of the hinges on the front door missing and several window panes cracked. And the chimney must be in dire need of sweeping, judging from the cloud of smoke that hung low in the room. The whole place gave the appearance of being about to fall apart.