Daisy's Secret Read online

  ‘Don’t you love me?’

  ‘Course I do. I’ll allus love thee, but how would we manage? I’ve hardly any money coming in, nor will have for some long while yet. Can’t we wait for a bit longer?’

  ‘How can we wait? The baby’s coming now.’

  ‘Nay, I can’t see how we’d manage. It’s too soon.’

  She’d argued against this point of view, naturally, attempting to explain how much they would love the baby, once it was born, and carefully outlining her plans for their future. Far from reassuring him, his horror had increased, making all manner of excuses about why this couldn’t possibly work. He couldn’t live anywhere but Salford, he said. He only knew how to sell fruit and veg, not grow them, and he really wasn’t ready yet to start his own business, particularly in a strange place where he wasn’t known. Again and again he kept repeating that he still loved her but that it was too soon, the timing was all wrong, as if the baby were an unwanted gift that could be sent back.

  And then one day he’d come to her triumphant.

  ‘There’s going to be a war, Daisy, so that settles it. I’ve volunteered to join the Navy. You’ll have to get rid of it, or do as yer mam says and have it adopted. Best thing all round I’d say. There’s plenty of time for us to start having babies, later, when the war’s over.’

  Daisy was filled with fear. She knew nothing of this talk of war. She’d been far too caught up with being in love, and the youthful exuberance of simply enjoying herself to even care, let alone understand what was going on in the wider world. If she’d noticed any rumblings on the wireless, or overheard worried comments from her parents, Daisy had ignored them, imagining that such things didn’t concern her and certainly would not affect her life in any way. How wrong could she be? The war was taking her sweetheart away from her.

  As if that wasn’t bad enough, there had been one almighty row when she’d happily told her parents the news. Her father, as always, had simply looked mournful and said little, leaving it to her mother to rant and rave, though that was after she’d almost fainted with shock and needed the application of Sal Volatile to recover.

  Daisy was their only child and Rita Atkins had never really accepted that her daughter had grown up. She believed in keeping her safe at home and never allowing her to have many friends beyond those she met each Sunday at chapel. Percy had been kept a secret as Daisy feared he might be disapproved of, his family not being quite so low in the pecking order as themselves since they were market stall holders, for all they lived only a few doors down. Daisy recognised instinctively that although her mother might have an inflated notion of her own worth and take on airs, this was simply her way of hanging on to her pride, a way of proving she wasn’t quite in the gutter for all the lowly status of her husband’s job. As a humble rag-and-bone man, Joe Atkins owned nothing more than the horse and cart which he drove around the streets of Salford, handing out donkey stones for rubbing doorsteps in exchange for other folk’s cast-offs.

  Rita told Daisy she’d never fit in with that stuck-up lot, and that she was far too young to wed. She scoffed when Daisy explained how she was in love, and that she’d intended to marry Percy anyway, insisting that at sixteen her silly daughter really no idea what love was all about. Rita was a strong willed woman, and, in her opinion, there was only one way to do things: her way. She made it abundantly clear that Daisy had let her down by such loose behaviour.

  Discussions on what should be done about ‘the problem’ had gone on interminably and neither parent, it seemed, was prepared to listen to a word Daisy said, or cared a jot about what she wanted. It was made clear to her, in no uncertain terms, that she must give up her precious baby the moment it was born.

  She’d cried for weeks in the Mother and Baby Home but no sympathy had been forthcoming. Her mother maintained she was fortunate to have family willing to help; that they’d chosen a good Christian place and not a home for wayward girls, which was most certainly what she deserved. Though how they’d managed to afford to pay for it, Daisy didn’t quite understand, since to her knowledge her parents had never had two halfpennies to rub together. Daisy endured countless sleepless nights agonising over the prospect of giving her baby away but whenever she tried to object, Rita would relate horrific tales of girls driven to having a back street abortion, or to taking their own lives rather than shame their families. She would listen to all of this with deepening dismay and no amount of argument would deflect her mother from her purpose.

  Percy went off to join the navy, kissing her goodbye and promising to write every day. Since then she’d had only a couple of letters, telling her how busy he was and how exciting his new life was going to be; how he hoped she could sort out her ‘little problem.’

  Little problem! Daisy felt deserted by everyone, as if there was no one at all to love her.

  When the baby was born, a boy, who had slipped easily into the world and exercised his lungs almost instantly on a bellow of rage, Daisy cried with delight, not even noticing the pain. But within seconds, he was taken from her. The stern-faced sister who officiated at the birth wouldn’t even allow her to hold him.

  ‘He’s not your child, Daisy. He belongs to another woman now. Best you don’t even see him,’ and nor did she, not properly. She glimpsed a tuft of red-brown hair, just like Percy’s own, before he was swaddled in a blanket and whisked from the room. She could hear his cries fading in the distance as the nurse marched him away down the corridor. It felt as if they had ripped her heart from her body.

  At first, she hadn’t even cried, quite unable to take in the full impact of what was happening to her. She’d sat up in the bed all day long in stunned disbelief, her ears tuned for the slightest cry she might recognise. Once, she sneaked out and prowled the corridors, hoping to snatch him up from the nursery and run off with him, but she’d been apprehended by a young nurse, duly scolded and marched back to bed.

  It was then that the tears had come and once having started, Daisy had howled, fearing she might never stop.

  The next day her mother lectured her on how she must put this mess behind her and forget all about it.

  ‘Forget all about it? How can I forget? He’s my baby. My child!’

  ‘No he’s not. He belongs to someone else now, like Sister said.’

  ‘Who?’

  ‘That’s none of your business. He’s being adopted. You’ve no say over the matter at all.’

  ‘But I haven’t even given him a name,’ Daisy wailed.

  ‘Nor must you. The very idea. It’s not your place. His new parents will do that. All you have to do is sign the paper and it’s all done and dusted.’

  ‘But Mam. . . ‘

  ‘No buts. You’re lucky it’s turned out as well as it has. A fine healthy boy is always easiest to place. It’ll all be done privately, very hush-hush. But you must never mention a word of this business to anyone, do you understand, Daisy? Not a single word,’ and she wagged a finger in her daughter’s face, to emphasise the point.

  Daisy stared at her mother, wide-eyed with shock. ‘Never mention him? Whyever not?’

  ‘Because it’ll make you look cheap, that’s why. This business could ruin your reputation. No chap would have you as a wife if this ever got out. Men don’t like used goods.’

  For once in her life Daisy was struck speechless. Such a prospect had not occurred to her. She’d never, in fact, thought beyond the moment of the birth itself, of worrying about how she would feel when the baby was taken away from her. She’d given no thought to how her life might change thereafter.

  Rita gave her a little shake, urging her to pay attention. ‘This has to be our little secret. Do you understand, Daisy? It must never be mentioned, not to anyone. Ever! Is that clear?’

  Eyes glistening with fresh tears, Daisy could do nothing but nod.

  Perhaps she’d assumed, if she’d thought about it at all, that once the baby had been safely delivered to its new parents she might be able to visit it from time to time, and when she was old enough, get him back and take care of him herself.

  But Daisy saw now how very naive that dream had been, both in allowing herself to trust in Percy’s love in the first place, and in imagining she could in any way keep the baby. She’d behaved very foolishly and her only excuse was that she’d been young and innocent, had felt desperate for some breath of freedom away from Rita’s stifling control.

  Having signed the adoption papers, as demanded of her, Daisy learned she wasn’t about to be forgiven for her transgression. She was not even to be allowed home.

  ‘Why can’t I go home?’ she begged, desperation in her voice as her longing for Percy, for someone to love and care for her, almost overwhelmed her. She imagined him marching in, saying he’d changed his mind and they could get married after all. Then he’d carry her off to the pretty cottage in the country, baby and all.

  ‘Because you can’t. You can’t go back home and shame us all.’

  Nor would she be allowed to speak to her father. Though why should she care? When had he ever cared about her? If her dad wasn’t out on his cart, he’d be in the pub or with his mates. He’d never had much time for a daughter. A son would have been much more use to him. Yet Daisy worried she might never see him again. ‘I want me dad.’

  ‘Be quiet, you silly girl,’ Rita scolded. ‘Anyroad, the exodus has already begun.’

  ‘Exodus?’

  ‘The Great Trek, the evacuation, what d’you think I’m talking about? Stop arguing, girl. My nerves are in ribbons already, what with the war and everything, let alone worrying about you. Like I say, you’re nowt but trouble, just like Florrie.’

  ‘I’m not a bit like Aunt Florrie,’ Daisy hotly protested. ‘I haven’t run off and got wed, more’s the pity. I did as you asked
, even though it’s not my choice to have the baby adopted. I want to keep it. And why shouldn’t I? I’ve nobody else to love. No one gives a tinker’s cuss about me.’

  Rita Atkins flicked out a hand and smacked her daughter smartly across her cheek, leaving an imprint of four red lashes where her fingers had made contact. ‘Don’t you dare use such language with me! I’ll have none of your lip, madam. I’ve had as much as I can take. Now then, get your coat and hat on. It’s time to go. I’ll not be responsible for you a minute longer, not with a war starting. The bus leaves at twelve sharp.’

  ‘Bus, what bus? Where am I going?’ Tears stood proud in Daisy’s eyes but she refused to let them fall, holding on to her defiance for as long as she could.

  ‘Stop asking so many fool questions. I’ve told you already, you’re fortunate they’ll take you, great girl like you. Anyroad, I’ve fetched a few things from home what I thought you might need, and your gas mask.’ She indicated a cardboard box and a small brown suitcase whose presence Daisy had taken to mean she was going home, until she’d learned different. ‘Don’t sit there like a lump of soft dough, start packing yer night things and get yerself ready.’

  Having issued this instruction, Rita herself began to fold Daisy’s nightdress, and opening the bedside cabinet began to draw out the few personal items she’d brought with her to the Home. Soap bag and flannel, brush and comb and a small satchel of handkerchiefs which she’d painstakingly stitched for herself, fussy madam. Rita followed this with a book and magazine Daisy had been reading, snapped shut the suitcase and hooked the strap tight.

  ‘Right then. That’s you ready for off.’

  ‘But off where?’ Daisy once more appealed, naked misery in her tone.

  ‘How many times do I have to say it? Evacuated. Off to these pastures new you’ve always pined for. Well, now you’ll get your chance to live in the country, though it’s more than you deserve in the circumstances. You should thank your lucky stars you’ve got off so lightly. And remember, not a word about this business to anyone. Not ever!’

  At the bus stop, Rita handed the case to Daisy, together with a bus ticket and instructions over what time she needed to be at London Road Station where she would be joining dozens of other evacuees, mostly children younger than herself. ‘When no doubt all your questions will be answered and somebody in charge will tell you where it is you’re to be sent.’

  The bus arrived seconds later, the wheels churning through a puddle that splashed Daisy’s clean stockings, coat and skirt, speckling them with spots of mud.

  Rita clicked her tongue in dismay, spat on her hanky and began to rub frantically at the offending marks. ‘Why didn’t you step back, you great gormless lump? Why have you never any sense? It’s time you took your head out of the clouds, girl, and started to think about what you’re doing. You can’t go on being Daisy Daydream, you really can’t.’

  The bus conductor, watching this display of motherly fussing for some seconds with wry amusement, finally remarked, ‘Do you do short back and sides an’ all?’

  Rita Atkins gave her daughter a little push, to urge her on her way. ‘Get off with you. They won’t wait all day,’ just as if it had been Daisy holding up the bus, and not herself at all. But now Daisy did hesitate, hopeful perhaps of a goodbye kiss, a fond hug, good wishes for the future, or even an assurance that her mother would write.

  But Rita was busy tucking away her now grubby handkerchief in the big black handbag she always carried on her arm. Then with hands clasped tight at her waist, mouth compressed in its usual firm line of censure she took a step back, clearly mindful of a possible repeat of the unfortunate incident.

  Reluctantly, Daisy climbed on board but even then stood clinging to the rail on the conductor’s platform before finding a seat,. ‘I’ll write Mam, when I get to wherever it is I’m going.’

  The engine chose that very moment to rev up and roar as the bus jerked forward, and Daisy was never afterwards entirely sure whether she had heard her mother correctly, but it sounded very like, ‘Don’t bother. I’ll not be answering no letters from you, madam. Your father neither. Not if I’ve any say in the matter.’

  Chapter Two

  The house at Lane End Farm was large and rambling and old, probably built some time during the seventeenth century with slate walls nearly four feet thick, a storm porch at the front to keep out the worst of the Lakeland weather, and a confusing array of circular chimneys. Its most historic feature was a priest hole off one of the upper rooms that Laura remembered Daisy saying had once been used as the family chapel, as well as some rather nice linen-fold panelling in the dining room.

  The sound of her footsteps sounded hollow on the uncarpeted stairs and upper landing, throwing open doors as she went along. The silent, empty bedrooms, of which there were six, not including the attic, were furnished in a somewhat outmoded, nineteen-fifties style. It was like entering a different world. There must have been eight at one time but two of the smaller rooms had been turned into bathrooms. Nevertheless, Daisy had done well here in her day, particularly taking into account that she’d started with absolutely nothing, and most of her youth had been blighted by war.

  But it was the atmosphere of the house which moved Laura the most. It wore a sad air of abandonment. Wheelbarrows, harrows and a myriad of other farm tools rusted quietly away in the huddle of broken-down outbuildings, from which issued no happy squawking or other farmyard sounds. The house itself seemed to weep and mourn, wearing a shroud of sorrow for the woman who had loved it and lived within its four walls for more than half a century, generously sharing her home with all who wished to find sanctuary there; a place to nurse wounds, dream dreams and mend broken hearts.

  Today, it was Daisy’s own granddaughter in dire need of such care and it seemed to be opening its arms to her, offering Laura peace, almost like a warm embrace as a solution to all her troubles.

  Wouldn’t it be good to repay that generosity by bringing the house back to life?

  Wouldn’t it be fun to open up the guesthouse again, Laura thought. To do up the faded rooms and welcome a new generation of walkers and lovers of the Lakes. She certainly had no fears about producing good food for them. Even Felix had nothing but praise for her dinner parties, and she did love to cook.

  Of course it would be hard work. There would be beds to make, bathrooms to clean, and very little privacy with guests coming and going all the time. She’d need help of some sort, and money to get started. She would have to advertise, yet it was a popular route for walkers and those stressed out by their jobs in need of peace and fresh air, as well as folk who didn’t care for air travel or beach holidays. Many people loved to escape to a place like this, so was it such a crazy idea? Could she make it work?

  Laura went back to the kitchen and made herself a mug of coffee. Cradling it in her hand, she sat at the kitchen table and thought about this plan with mounting excitement.

  She could surely refurbish and update the place without spending a fortune, though she’d need to make one or two of the larger bedrooms en-suite by installing shower rooms. And the entire house would need redecorating, of course. After a while she abandoned the coffee half drunk to continue with her exploration, moving restlessly about the house, picking things up, putting them down again and going on to the next room. And all the time turning the idea over in her head, examining it from every angle, weighing up likely costs and finally admitting that if she went for it, she would effectively be declaring her marriage to be over. She would have to leave Felix.

  Was she ready for that?

  The thought doused her enthusiasm and brought back the depression, as if a cloud had passed over, blotting out the sun. She had loved him so much. Why had it all gone so badly wrong? And would he even notice she was gone? For all his claims to jealousy and constant declarations that he needed her to be there for him, Felix was rarely at home. He spent almost every waking hour working either at the gallery, meeting clients, making contacts, or travelling.

  Laura flopped on to a sofa. Perhaps it might have been different if they’d had children, but Felix had made it clear quite early on that they were not to be a part of the picture. Laura’s wishes on the subject were, apparently, to be ignored.