Daisy's Secret (26 page)

The old man, seemingly oblivious to all of this, was well into his stride, speaking of a subject dear to his heart. ‘There’s a stone circle not far off at Castlerigg. Put there hundreds, if not thousands of years ago by the first men who ever came to these hills. There’s no sign of the mud huts they must have lived in, and the stones themselves are toppling over. Man has done his best to tame this mountain, fed his flocks on it, drained the marshes at its foot, mined deep within its belly robbing it of its secret wealth, and building cottages on its face to live in while they did so. But none of that lasts. Nothing does, save for Blencathra himself. Thee can’t fight him, d’you see, great giant that he is. Love him or hate him, thee had to learn to live with him because he’ll outlive us all.’

Daisy had not, for one moment, expected to hear the old farmer speak so movingly, or so fully, about his home. But she understood precisely what he was trying to say. He was telling her that the mountain gave him a sense of belonging, a permanence, made him feel one with the soil, a part of the fabric of his environment. And Daisy rather thought she could easily come to share that view.

Having said his piece he suddenly stood up, lit a tilly lamp and with a jerk of his head urged her to follow him. ‘Thee can sleep up in t’loft. There’s only the swallows and house martins to disturb you up there. But I’ll show you where t’privy is first.’

He led her outside into a clear moonlit night, almost, but not quite dark, along a stony path which trailed back as far as the wooded copse, Daisy following the circle of light from his lamp. ‘Here it is. Allus take a light with thee to t’privy, so’s we know it’s occupied. It shows through th’hole like.’

Cut into the front of the door, at eye level, was a small diamond shaped hole. As well as serving the current incumbent to make his presence known, it also gave the next visitor the opportunity to peep in and check for a vacancy. Taking a lamp inside sounded like an excellent idea. ‘What happens in daytime, when you don’t need the tilly lamp?’

‘Can you whistle?’

‘No.’

‘Then sing. Watch out fer t’nettles on yer way back.’ He handed her the lamp without another word and left her to make her acquaintance with the ramshackle building. Daisy sat on the wooden seat laughing till the tears ran down her cheeks. Why couldn’t the silly old man fit a bolt on the inside? She could always try fixing one herself. In the meantime, she’d best learn how to whistle. It couldn’t be any worse than her singing.

Back in the house, he was waiting for her at the foot of the stairs. Daisy dutifully picked up her bag and clattered up after him. They were surprisingly fine and wide with a carved bannister rail and panelling on the walls, all sadly scratched and pitted with dirt, but beautifully crafted. She felt a knot of excitement somewhere deep inside. Something good was going to come out of finding Lane End Farm, she could sense it.

Daisy said. ‘What time do you get up?’

‘Early.’

‘Will you wake me?’

‘If you like.’

‘Yes please. I’d like to help. I don’t know anything about farming, but I feel sure I could learn. I want to pay me way, if you’ll let me stop on for a bit, that is.’

He paused at a turn in the stairs to listen to this breathless little speech, lamp held high so that he could consider her with his keen-eyed gaze. She thought he might be about to say that he didn’t want her to, or ask how long she intended staying, but whatever he saw in her face must have satisfied him for he simply nodded and continued to climb. Clearly a man of few words.

The loft bedroom was tiny, containing a narrow bed, a chest of drawers and nothing else. But from its tiny window under the eaves came again that breathtaking scene, still visible in the golden evening light, revealing fold upon fold of mountain in a landscape that seemed to stretch into infinity.

‘That’s Skiddaw over there,’ Clem pointed out. ‘And over there, beyond Mungrisdale Common and Coombe Height you can see the Scottish Hills and the Solway Firth, in full daylight that is.’

Daisy felt quite certain that she’d chanced upon heaven, and who knew what tomorrow might bring? She washed her face, scrubbed her teeth in the bowl that sat upon the chest, then quickly undressed, pulled on her nightgown and stretched out between the clean sheets, toes curling with excitement.

Tomorrow she’d explore further, take a peep in all the other rooms and outhouses, perhaps climb to the top of Blencathra, this friendly giant, just to see what it felt like to stand on top of the world. Daisy knew she wouldn’t sleep a wink. It was all far too wonderful and thrilling. But with two long day’s exercise behind her, the clean fresh air and a soft feather bed to sink her tired body into, her eyelids were drooping in no time. Her last conscious thought was that she hoped Aunt Florrie would be back tomorrow, from wherever it was she’d gone.

And deep in her heart Daisy knew that whatever happened, she’d be all right here at Lane End Farm. She was quite certain of it. It felt almost like coming home.

Florrie walked up Liverpool Street with hope in her heart, revelling in the familiar smells of smoke and tar, dust and grime, the crowds of people bustling about, grim-faced and unsmiling admittedly but that was the fault of the war, not Salford. She looked with pleasure upon the rows of back to back houses, the lines of washing blowing in the breeze, and the tall chimney stacks. She heard the shunt of trains, the sound of children’s laughter, the clatter of clogs on the setts. She was home.

It was only as she neared the entry leading to Marigold Court that her pace slackened and doubt crept in. What reason would she give for choosing this moment to come? Why had she only now, after nearly a year, concerned herself with Daisy?

And what sort of a welcome could she expect from Rita after the long years of silence?

And then on a rush of pain came the memory of the last occasion she’d visited her home city. Oh, dear God, why had she done that? What had possessed her to abandon her child, even for only two days, just so she could have a bit of fun?

She stopped walking to lean back against a wall, gasping for breath and found, to her horror, that tears were rolling down her cheeks as the memories rushed in, forcing her to confront them.
 

Convinced she’d made a terrible mistake and still deeply homesick, when Florrie had first discovered she was pregnant she’d cried throughout the entire nine months. Looking back now it filled her with shame and remorse how she’d longed to be free of the encumbrance of a baby, so that she could escape the chains of a bad marriage, and life on the harsh, unforgiving fells. She’d felt that way until she’d held her beloved child in her arms. Her darling, sweet, adorable Emma. The months following had been the happiest of her life, filled with joy and happiness. She’d even managed to cope better with her chores, and Clem, besotted by his new daughter, had been happy to relieve her of as many of them as he could.

But then one sunny day in April, all that happiness had crumbled to dust. Every single day of her life since she’d longed to turn back the clock, to unwind her life like a piece of bad knitting so that she could change the pattern of it and stay at the farm. Had she done so, then surely her child would have been alive today?

Clem had made no objection when she’d asked to spend a couple of days with her family. On the contrary, he’d been pleased. ‘Aye, it’s long past time you went to see them, and they’ll be glad to see our Emma, I’m sure. Just take care, love.’

Florrie knew he was telling her not to go out dancing or anything foolish of that sort, to be sure and come back safely to him. But she was still suffering deeply from homesickness, and the quietness of the fells. She felt desperate for some fun, a bit of life and laughter. Her intention was to visit some of her old haunts, have a drink or two with friends. If she took the baby then Rita would be on at her the whole time not to go out, insisting she should stop in and mind her, as well as criticising everything she did for the child. Where would be the fun in that? What harm would it do to give herself a day or two away? ‘I feel in need of a break, Clem. Couldn’t you manage her on yer own, just fer once?’

He’d looked a bit nonplussed but had quickly rallied. ‘Aye, course I can love. The rest will do you good,’ he assured her, beaming proudly as he glanced over at his sleeping child in the pram standing out in the sunshine, and we can’t both go away together, now can we, what with the lambing well under way?’

So Florrie had put on her glad rags as Clem called them, and set off with a light heart for a much longed for taste of city life. Her family had been surprised to see her, had chided her for not writing to warn them to expect her, and for not bringing the child. But Florrie had managed to hold on to her pride and successfully kept up the fiction of being comfortably off. In her best frock and with the smart new coat Clem had bought her to wear at chapel, she’d certainly looked the part. They’d all been most impressed.

She’d had a good time showing off in front of her best friend, Doris Mitchell, too; performing a tango with her husband Frank and flirting outrageously with him. It’d all been taken in good part, everyone just having a laugh but in the end Doris had butted in, told her to stick to the husband she’d got and leave hers alone, thank you very much. Florrie’s was rich and Frank had nowt only her, and she meant to keep it that way.
 

Amused by his wife’s jealousy, Frank had climbed up on to the bar counter, dragging Doris with him and done the tango with her there, tiptoeing between the glasses and sending several flying in their merry state.

It had all seemed so different from life on Blencathra. Florrie had been reluctant to leave and return home, save for her eagerness to see her child.

She’d returned to find Clem waiting for her at the station, standing forlornly by his farm truck, the expression on his face saying everything. Florrie had stopped short some twenty yards away, her heart in her mouth as fear crept through her like a black tide.

‘What is it? What’s happened?’

He told her then that their precious daughter was dead. On his way to the milking he’d taken a peep in at her and his shepherd’s instinct had told him something was wrong.

‘She didn’t look right, Florrie, so I went to pick her up. But it were too late.’ Florrie felt numb, as if the world had stopped turning, as if everything inside her had been emptied out and destroyed. She stood listening but his words meant nothing, failing to penetrate her profound sense of disbelief. ‘There were nowt I could do. I’ve brought any number of lambs back from the dead, but I could do nowt for me own lass.’

She saw the sobs well up in him, spill over, even in this public place, and he an intensely private man. His whole body was shaking with the effort to control them but Florrie could do nothing to ease his distress.

She railed at him, beat him with her fists, fought him tooth and nail, screaming that he should have looked after her properly, while he held her fast to his chest, tears running silently down his cheeks.
 

Florrie accused him of handling the baby roughly; demanded to know if he’d left her to choke on her bottle, or carelessly smothered her with a blanket? How could her precious child simply fall asleep and not wake up? Deep in her heart she knew that must be what had happened. It was nothing more than a terrible accident, the kind of thing that occurred all the time with babies, but why to them, why to their child? Didn’t she deserve one piece of happiness in her life?

How he had got her home in that state she couldn’t afterwards remember. The days following were a blur, but against all reason her anger needed someone to blame and Clem was the most likely candidate.
 

Florrie had instructed her sister not to come to the funeral and Rita wrote back tartly informing her that God had taken the child away as punishment for her own wickedness, for her immoral behaviour in the past. Deep down Florrie believed this to be true. Hadn’t she once considered her own child an encumbrance. It took all of her will power not to scream at the undertakers when they’d carried away the tiny coffin. She would never get over her child’s death. Never!

From that day on, everything changed. Florrie knew Clem must blame her too for he’d barely looked her in the eye since, nor had she ever let him touch her again. She didn’t dare take the risk, in case the same thing happened to another child.

She never went out, rarely stirred from her chair. If she did, she would forget what she had gone for and end up trailing from street to street as if searching for something, or someone. Florrie became convinced that Emma was only just out of reach and if she searched hard enough, she would find her. She only had to glimpse a pram to be drawn to it like a magnet. She would stand and gaze upon the child within, drinking in the sight of a soft cheek, fluffy fair hair and tiny star-like fingers, seeing not an unknown child but her own precious Emma. She knew, in her heart, that it was not Emma, yet her longing was such that Florrie attempted by sheer will power to conjure her own child in its place.

On one terrifying occasion, the baby was crying and needed a cuddle, and some part of her brain lost track of reality and she’d lifted the child from the pram. The mother came running from out of a nearby shop and shouted at Florrie. Bemused, she’d handed the baby over without a word and walked blindly away.

The pain had been so bad following this incident, that Florrie rarely ventured far from the farm again. There were times when she chided herself for not making more of an effort to at least visit her nearest neighbours in the huddle of houses in the valley below, but Florrie shied away from the pity she saw in her friends’ eyes, the sound of it in the special tone of voice they adopted whenever they spoke to her. Her loss was hard enough to bear. She’d no wish to be constantly reminded of it. Besides, she didn’t trust herself. What if one of them had a baby, or her feet took her searching again? She couldn’t take the risk.