Daisy's Secret (27 page)

Her friend Jess had clung on longer than most, trying to persuade her to continue with their Thursday afternoon outings into town, a bit of shopping, trip to the pictures followed by tea and cakes. They tried it once or twice but somehow Florrie had lost the ability to take part in small talk or chit-chat so that, in the end, Jess too had stopped coming. Florrie hadn’t seen her in years.

Now she wondered what had brought her back to this place she’d once called home. Why put herself through all of that pain again? Hope, and dreams, Florrie had discovered, were things of the past. Her child was dead and each and every morning when she woke, she too longed for that same state of oblivion. Which must surely be a sin too. Why had she come here? She didn’t belong. Not in Salford, not in the Lakes. She had no real home, no family, no one at all to love her.

Perhaps things would have been easier over these last years if she’d been honest with Rita and Joe from the beginning about her situation; if she hadn’t tried to hide the truth of her disappointment in Clem, or the situation she’d faced as a young bride in a strange setting. But then she’d hoped to make a go of her marriage, despite everything. She sometimes fooled herself into believing that she might well have succeeded, had Emma lived. But there was no proof of that.

She wiped away the tears, drew a lipstick from her handbag and carefully applied it. She’d put on a brave face at least.

Chapter Fifteen

Daisy was woken early by Clem, as he had promised, and again wondered where Florrie had gone, but didn’t like to ask despite her curiosity. He would no doubt tell her when he was good and ready.

Over breakfast, which he ate largely in silence while nodding sagely at Daisy’s endless chatter about her adventures and worries over Megan and Trish, there’d been no mention of a missing wife. The nearest he came to referring to Florrie’s absence was when he got up from the table, paused a moment, looking slightly perplexed then quietly remarked: ‘Florrie generally sees to all this.’

Daisy glanced at the already full sink and hastily offered to wash up.

Clem nodded. ‘She usually fills that box wi’ peat, morning and night. The coup cart is in t’shed.’

‘Right, I’ll do that too, and should I stoke up the fire to keep it going?’

‘Aye, pack it wi’ peats and scatter a bit o’ coal on top, only a tidy bit, mind. That’ll see it right for the day. I don’t know what else she does in the house. Washing and such like. I know she makes bread on a Friday, ginger cake and apple pasties; allus a busy day for her. Other than that, I couldn’t say fer sure. I could show you the yard.’

It was almost as if, Daisy worried, he wasn’t expecting Florrie back. But why would that be? Where could she have gone?

His pride was evident as he showed her around the farm, not seeming to notice the way an outbuilding leaned perilously as if about to tumble over, loose guttering hung from a roof, the way an unhinged door banged to and fro in the wind. There were logs needed splitting and stacking, and a hundred and one other tasks waiting to be done. He was too busy explaining how the calves needed feeding morning and night. ‘Mostly on oilcake poddish, and the pigs mainly on household scraps. We likes ‘em fat.’ Then he told her how he used to butcher a bit at one time. ‘After the war that were, the last one, that is. Ah’ve given that up now, save fer us own use.’

He instructed Daisy on how to care for the hens, showing her the correct quantities of mash and corn. ‘Awkward things, they are. More trouble than their worth but we need the eggs. They ‘as to be kept clean, d’you see, or you’ll get problems. It’s stinky in there now. Looks like they happen could do with a muck out. Florrie’s been a bit taken up wi’ other things lately like. Anyroad, it’s not her favourite job.’

‘I’ll see to it.’ Daisy said, promising faithfully that she’d look after them well, and couldn’t help wondering if her aunt would mind her taking over her role. Daisy didn’t know her at all, so how could she be sure? ‘Aunt Florrie won’t mind if I go in her cupboards while I’m tidying up, will she?’

‘Nay, she’ll never notice,’ and he walked away, seeming to indicate that the subject was closed.

Was something wrong between them? Daisy wondered. Surely not. Yet this set up wasn’t at all the kind of life she’d been led to believe her aunt was living in the Lake District. No fancy house. No servants. Yet why would she lie? Why be ashamed of this? It surely couldn’t be the fault of this harmless little man who clearly still adored her, despite his main passion undoubtedly being his precious farm, and the mountain, of course.

Could that be it? Daisy shrewdly wondered. Did Florrie hate the farm? Did she not feel that she fitted in, or was she jealous of her husband’s passion for it? Only time would answer that puzzle, and she certainly didn’t have any to spare to stand about pondering the problem. If she finished her chores by early afternoon, she could take a walk on Blencathra and see it for herself, and then write a postcard to Harry.

Rita was standing at the wash tub in the back kitchen, elbow deep in soap suds when Florrie walked in, and in that moment it was as if she’d never been away. She could smell the familiar, eye-watering odour of washing soda, feel the warm dampness cling to her hair in the steamy kitchen. Rita stopped rubbing the collar of a shirt against the rubbing board to stare at Florrie open-mouthed.

‘By heck, which ill wind blew you in?’

Florrie walked over to the stove. ‘I’ll put t’kettle on, shall I? I’m fair parched with thirst and I dare say you need a cup of hot sweet tea for the shock.’

The tea was drunk largely in silence, Florrie having decided not to give any explanation about why she was there. She asked about Daisy but Rita only shrugged her shoulders.

‘Don’t ask me, I’m only her mother. We’ve no idea where she is. She’s left her billet. Gone off in a sulk somewhere, I shouldn’t wonder. Always was independent to a fault. Cut off her nose to spite her face, that one. We offered her the chance to come home but she refused. She’s found herself another chap up there in the Lakes, so she’s running true to form, no better than she should be, and we know where she gets that from, don’t we?

Florrie didn’t rise to the jibe. ‘Have you been to see her recently then?’

‘Me? No, why should I? I sent our Joe.’

‘But its been near a year.’

‘She doesn’t deserve no namby-pandying from me.’ And then the whole sorry tale was told from start to finish, Rita savouring every word as if to justify her actions. Florrie listened in silence. What was there to say? ‘Poor girl,’ was all she managed in the end.

‘Poor girl?’ Rita looked affronted. ‘What about us, her mam and dad? What about the shame, the immorality of it all? We’re the ones who have to live here, amongst all the sly looks and behind hands gossip. Poor girl my foot. She doesn’t deserve one jot of sympathy, nor will she get one, not from me.’

‘I shouldn’t imagine she expects to,’ Florrie drily remarked. Draining her cup, she set it down for Rita to refill it. A small silence followed as each sister took refuge in their own thoughts by way of defence, as if wary of confrontation. It was Rita who, itching to know what was going on, gave in first. ‘So, to what do we owe this unexpected pleasure? How come you’ve landed up here, doing a bit o’slumming?’

‘I can come and see my own family, I hope, without needing to say why?’

‘I don’t know about that, not after - what is it now - near twenty year? You’ve a niece you’ve never seen for one thing.’

‘That’s not true, I have seen her. I saw Daisy when she was little, that time I paid you a visit before - before we lost our Emma.’

‘Oh aye, I forgot about that. You acting daft as a brush with Frank Mitchell. You didn’t have another then?’

‘No.’

‘Thought not. Too busy living the life of Riley I suppose, to want it spoiled with kids.’ Rita’s tone didn’t soften in the slightest, not even noticing as Florrie flinched at her words. She poured some of the hot tea into her saucer, blew on it, then slurped it up from there. Florrie watched the performance in silence but the disgust must have shown in her face for Rita said, ‘Don’t look like that. We don’t all have your chance to learn how things are done proper. We do what we wants to here. Anyroad, it’s a while since we last saw you, so, what’s fetched you now? Has he run off and left you?’

‘Don’t be daft. No, I found that letter of Daisy’s and I was wondering how she was, that’s all. Sorry I didn’t offer to help when perhaps I should’ve done. What happened to the baby?’

‘What d’you think? It’s gone to a good home, and nobody can pin it on us. What else matters?’ Just as if it were a dog or a cat.

‘Daisy’s feelings on the subject might. I’d like to see her. Where was she evacuated to, and why is she moving billets? Don’t you know?’

‘I’ve no idea. She fell out with her dad and took herself off, happen with this new fella of hers.’ Rita started to laugh. ‘It’s a bit of a turn-up you being here when she’s somewhere in your neck of the woods. Up in the Lakes.’

‘Yes, I saw that she was in the Lakes from that Christmas card you sent on to me. I meant to write to ask exactly where but - but I’ve been so busy I - I forgot, and then I bethought myself to come and see you all instead.’

‘You should have let us know first. I’d’ve put out the flags.’

Another silence, time enough for Florrie to reflect that her coming back home had been a complete waste of time. It was far too late to help Daisy, even if the girl could be found. But now that she was here. . . Florrie cleared her throat. ‘I was wondering about stopping on for a bit. You’d have no objection, would you?’

Rita’s eyes flew wide and Florrie could see that her head was buzzing with questions, that she was itching to know what on earth had happened to make her sister walk out on her fancy life and rich husband. ‘Well, strike me down with a wet kipper, what’s up with you? We’ve no maid servants nor butlers here, that’s for sure.’

‘If you’re just going to be rude, perhaps it was a mistake my coming.’ Florrie stood up as if to go, but Rita wafted a hand at her to sit down again.

‘Always jumping on yer high horse. I never said you couldn’t stay, I was just making the point that I’ll not wait on you hand, foot and finger. You’re still family so I reckon there’s no reason why you shouldn’t stop on fer a bit, but you looks after yourself, and you hands over yer ration book.’

Florrie slapped it on the table. ‘Can I go and have a wash now? Or does hot water come extra?’

After a wash and a bite to eat, Florrie took a kitchen chair and went to sit at the front door, as she had used to do years ago. From here she could see people going about their business in the street. Women carrying their shopping baskets in search of ‘a bit o’ summat fer tea’, or chatting to their neighbours when they should be getting their husband’s tea ready, assuming he hadn’t already been called up, that is. She wondered how often this gossip speculated on the grand life she was supposedly living in the Lake District, or else Daisy’s sudden disappearance. What a family they were. But these were hard times, always had been to Florrie’s way of thinking.

She saw her old friend Doris Mitchell go by, arm in arm with Milly Crawshaw. Florrie called out a greeting but when Doris glanced in her direction. She didn’t wave, or come galloping over for a gossip, but looked quickly away, chin high, and the pair strode on up the street, faces set in a mirror image of contempt.

‘And to think she was once my best friend. We went everywhere together,’ Florrie complained.

Rita, coming to join her on the doorstep, gave a loud sniff. ‘If you act all toffee-nosed wi’ folk, why should they bother about you? Anyroad, she doesn’t trust you with her husband.’

Florrie made no reply, more hurt than she cared to admit by the rebuff. This wasn’t at all what she’d hoped for. She hadn’t expected it to be easy to pick up where she’d left off, but she’d hoped that her friends, at least, would welcome her back. Apparently she was wrong.

The muffin man came along the street, calling out his wares. ‘Muffins and pikelets. Buy ‘em while they’re fresh.’

Tempted by the prospect of hot crumpets with a dab of butter running through the holes, and needing something to cheer her, Florrie ran to fetch her purse and bought a couple for each of them. Rita didn’t thank her. ‘Think I can’t afford to buy me own food, do you?’

‘Don’t be daft! Course I don’t. I just reckoned they’d be a treat.’ She stowed them away in the bread jar to keep fresh till supper and went back to sit in the chair. But all the happiness she had felt when she’d decided, on impulse, to return at last to Salford, had quite evaporated. It had been a bad mistake. First, it had reminded her of that last visit and her subsequent loss. Secondly, Rita clearly wasn’t going to make things easy for her, and last, but by no means least, she didn’t seem to have any friends here either.

Florrie wondered what Clem’s reaction would be when he found her note. Happy to have a bit of peace for a while, or glad to be shut of her? How long did she mean to stay, and where else could she go? Where did she belong? She’d give it a couple of weeks or so, and make up her mind then.

Daisy came to like Clem more and more with each day, each week that passed, recognising his solid strength and unflappable personality, his dry wit and warming to it. She knew he wasn’t yet sixty, though he looked older, and that her aunt was considerably younger than him but she couldn’t help wondering what had driven Florrie from her home? Why had she chosen to leave, and where had she gone? According to the wireless, September had been a terrible month with raids in many major cities, so that even the King had gone to see how the people were faring. Where was Florrie, and was she safe?