by Carol Rivers
Daisy had overheard this almost-quarrel as she’d played in the garden, attempting - and failing - to find as many nooks and crannies to hide in as there had been in the country. The convenient wind had blown the almost-quarrel her way. Once she’d got into the gist of things, she knew that life for her parents was not all they pretended it to be. Now the matter had come up in an almost-quarrel on the very first day of their new existence.
‘Ed’s my best pal as well as my brother,’ Pops reasoned. ’I trust him. He wouldn’t invite me into the business if it wasn’t financially feasible.’
‘He wouldn’t ask you unless he needed our savings.’
Daisy had cramped inside at the bitter tone of her mother’s voice.
‘That’s not fair, Flo.’
‘Not fair, perhaps, but true.’
After a short pause, ‘I’m sorry you still miss Wattcombe, my darling. I know your family is there, well, at least, Pat and your mother. But we go back to visit, don’t we? Just as I promised before we moved to London.’
‘I’m not complaining, Nicky.’
‘Just consider the benefits our current situation has to offer,’ Pops suggested. ‘Poplar Park Row is quiet and untroubled. We are not isolated as we were in Wattcombe. And we even have a plumbed in bathroom upstairs!’ He laughed, but when Mother remained silent he added coaxingly, ‘Bobby and Daisy are happy at their new school. London’s West End is only twenty minutes drive away and the factory a few minutes walk. Once Ed and I have patented our new valves we’ll be in profit. All our money problems will be solved.’
‘I hope so, Nicky,’ Mother had conceded. ‘I really do hope so.’
Her parents had gazed at each other, like eager swimmers diving into a pool. Often their affection was so intimate, that Daisy could not bear to look.
Instead, she had hurried back to her bedroom and gazed out of the window across the river to the needle tops of the goose-necked cranes. Here, she was restored by the sight of her new world and the silhouette of Uncle Ed’s factory puffing grey smoke from its chimneys like a slumbering dragon.
Her dream was that one day she would board a fine ship sailing down the river. Sail off to a country like Neverland. Oh, she knew quite well that Neverland was made-up. Wendy and Peter were not real. But what counted was how you felt when you set your imagination free. Without a doubt, there must be somewhere in the world where there was no talk of war or threat. A world of discovery and excitement where she would never get bored again.
Daisy found herself in the kitchen, where a black-leaded stove stood opposite the sink positioned directly below the window. An oblong table covered by a cream cloth stood in front of an oak sideboard. On its wooden shelves stood a variety of the headmistress’s fine china. On the far wall was the pantry where the faint perfumes of cinnamon and spices still clung to the walls. Beyond this, a laundry room complete with stout wash-boiler and a creaky old door that led outside to the garden privy. The room Daisy disliked most was the cellar, accessed only by a flight of stone steps. This gloomy underground space harboured not only a giant species of spider but all Miss Ayling’s unwanted clutter that Pops had not had the heart to throw out.
The living room, in contrast, was bright and cheerful with wide bay windows. Daisy stood there now, imagining the parties that Mother and Pops might host. Just like the exciting parties Aunt Minnie and Uncle Leo held in their Soho studio.
She twirled energetically, holding up the hem of her dressing gown and pirouetted around the couch. Taking a flying leap to the open fireplace, she righted a wobbly landing and missed the brass fender. Impressed by her ballet, she vaulted the wooden rack in which Pops kept his newspapers. Misjudging the distance, she landed heavily on all fours, momentarily winded. Fortunately, no part of her was injured.
As she jumped to her feet, she heard a noise.
Daisy cocked her head, listening carefully. Was there movement in the house? A footfall? Or perhaps someone breathing? Closer now. But where exactly?
‘Who’s there?’ she whispered. Had she imagined the breathing? But the household was sleeping. Could it have come from the garden? It was said that Hitler would arrive in the dead of night. He’d steal into people’s houses and take them prisoner. A girl at school claimed her father kept a vicious dog and hadn’t fed it for at least three months. Another boy insisted his mother had baked poisoned cakes to be offered to an invading army.
‘Wh … who’s there?’ she mumbled, dreading an answer.
A soft breathing sound came; an evil gurgle.
Daisy froze.
Was someone lurking at the front door? Could this be the invasion all of England feared?
Before she could take a breath, a hand planted itself between her shoulder blades. ‘Help!’ she cried, falling heavily on the couch.
Her brother giggled as he pinned her down. ‘Don’t yell or we’re for it!’
Daisy gasped for breath. She was so relieved that the war hadn’t arrived and Hitler hadn’t sailed down the estuary overnight that she forgot to be really angry. ‘Bobby, you daft ha’p’orth!’ she scolded. ‘You frightened me!’
‘Got you back for yesterday.’
Daisy pushed him away. ‘I didn’t do anything,’ she declared, knowing very well she had.
‘You split on me.’
‘Didn’t.’
‘You told Mother I socked Peter Brady in the eye.’
Daisy defiantly stuffed her hands in her pockets. ‘I told Mother the truth.’
‘You don’t understand what it was all about.’
She felt as though somehow she’d let Bobby down. ‘What do you mean?’
Bobby took his time answering. ’If you must know,’ he said eventually, ‘Peter Brady calls Sammy Berger, “Fritz”.’
‘Is “Fritz” bad?’
Bobby rolled his blue eyes. ‘ ‘Course it is.’
‘Why?’
‘Sammy’s parents are German. They came to England to escape the Nazis. But Sammy’s mother died and now, because of the war, the government is suspicious of any German who lives here.’
Daisy considered her brother carefully. ‘Poor Sammy.’
‘He’s frightened they’ll take his father away.’
‘What will happen to Sammy?’
Bobby shrugged. ‘Those men we saw trying to kick down Mr Berger’s door the other day? Some of them were Blackshirts. Peter Brady said he’d join the Blackshirts if he was old enough. That’s what started the fight.’
Daisy shivered, recalling the afternoon when she and Bobby had passed Sammy’s house on the way home from school. The crowd outside Sammy’s house had been very angry. It had been very upsetting to watch and Bobby had hurried her on.
‘It was brave of you to stand up for Sammy,’ she said.
Once again Bobby shrugged. ‘He doesn’t have many friends.’ Bobby stood up and stretched. Daisy realised how much he’d grown since leaving Wattcombe. He stood a head and shoulders taller than her now; arms and legs too long for his old blue and white striped pyjamas. Mother had called Bobby a “slow grower”. Yet now he was close to Matt’s height after a sudden spurt this year.
’So tell me little sister, why were you snooping around so early?’
She pulled a face. ’I wasn’t snooping. I was thirsty.’
This time he gave a whistle. ‘What a whopper, Daisy Purbright! You were on the prowl, sniffing out other people’s business. Eavesdroppers never hear any good of themselves, you know.’
Daisy gave him a hearty shove. ‘Oh, buzz off you silly bee!’ she exclaimed to hide her embarrassment.
But Bobby only laughed all the more.
Chapter 3
‘Your hair’s messy, Mother,’ Daisy announced later that day as they sat at the breakfast table. ‘It sticks up in funny places.’
‘To be expected,‘ Florence Purbright answered calmly as she poured the tea. ‘Unlike some, I’ve not had time to spend on myself lately.’
‘Why’s that?’
&n
bsp; ‘It’s what mothers do - care for their families. Put themselves last, even down to combing their hair. One day you’ll be a mother yourself and then you’ll understand.’
Daisy sincerely hoped she would not become a mother! At least, not until she was very, very old. Mothers, it seemed to her, led a very boring life indeed. Unlike fathers and brothers who were always out and about, allowed to do just as they pleased.
Aware of Matt and Bobby sitting opposite her, shovelling the Saturday treat of crispy rashers into their mouths, Daisy persisted. ‘You should have it cut into a modern style, Mother. You’d look much younger.’
‘Daisy!’ Her father looked up from his newspaper. ’That’s enough now.’
‘Well, I think - ’
‘We all know what you think,’ he interrupted. ‘Now eat your porridge before it goes cold.’
‘Yes, do eat up,’ Matt mimicked. ‘The lumps are the best. Quite more-ish!’
‘Then why are you eating bacon?’ Daisy retaliated. ‘Porridge is much better for you. In Scotland they eat it every day.’
Her brother roared in amusement. ‘Just as the French eat snails! Morning, noon and night, it’s snails, snails, snails.’
Ignoring his taunt, Daisy continued. ‘Anyway, porridge tastes even better in Miss Ayling’s little china bowls. Not like it did in those ugly old dishes we used in Wattcombe.’
‘If Miss Ayling had lived in Wattcombe,’ Mother declared, ‘no doubt she would have used the same serviceable bowls as we did. But Miss Ayling lived in the city and led a very different life to us.’
Daisy tossed her flaxen plaits over her shoulders. ‘Miss Ayling’s china plates with the blue pattern make roasted potatoes even more crunchy.’
‘Then Miss Ayling was a magician,’ chuckled Matt. ‘Borrowed a few of Houdini’s tricks, no doubt.’
‘That’s silly!’ Daisy exclaimed. ‘As silly as you look when you try to kiss Amelia.’
‘Daisy!’ Mother gasped. ‘That’s enough now!’
Annoyingly unseen, Matt poked out his tongue.
’When you’ve finished your breakfast,’ Mother continued, ‘you can help me in the kitchen. Your father and Matt must go to the factory. Bobby’s at football. So you and I have all morning to bake.’
Daisy’s heart plummeted. The very thought of being cooped up in a hot and stuffy kitchen gave her an instant headache. ‘Its been ages since we’ve visited Aunt Minnie,’ she suggested inventively, recalling the glamorous event at her aunt and uncle’s Soho apartment celebrating Aunt Minnie’s thirtieth birthday. ’And that must be months ago.’
’Two weeks in fact,’ mocked Matt.
‘Fourteen days, five hours and seventeen minutes,’ Bobby exaggerated.
‘Whether it was two weeks or two months is neither here nor there,’ Mother decided, ‘since Aunt Minnie is taking Will to the cinema today.’
‘What’s on?’ Matt enquired disinterestedly.
‘ “Discovering England,” ’ enlightened Mother. ‘A very interesting educational documentary.’
‘Does it have dancing or singing?’ Daisy enquired.
‘I shouldn’t think so.’
‘Or Charlie Chaplin?’
’Definitely not.’
Aunt Minnie was her mother’s younger sister and married to Uncle Leo Drake, a photographer. He took pictures of very special people, like the Prime Minister Mr Chamberlain and Amy Johnson, the brave lady pilot who had flown all the way from England to Australia. William their son, was seven and had more freckles on his nose than even she did. Will told the most awful fibs and frightening stories. Daisy thought Aunt Minnie very pretty. She had enormous deep grey eyes and blonde wavy hair that originated, so Mother inferred, from a bottle in Boots. She wore unusual flowing dresses which Mother called “arty”. As for Uncle Leo, he had long, untidy, but rather nice, dark hair. He smoked French cigarettes and kissed Aunt Minnie in public. Daisy loved visiting the Drakes. There were always celebrations going on like the wonderful birthday party Uncle Leo had thrown for Aunt Minnie, overflowing with delicious food and music and people who dressed “arty” too.
‘And before you suggest a visit to Aunt Pat and Grandma,’ continued Mother, raising her eyebrows, ’you know Aunt Pat suffers from her nerves and likes time to prepare for a us. Besides which, Wattcombe is in the country and the best part of an afternoon’s journey. As Pops will tell you, petrol is not easy to come by.’
Daisy had no idea of what bad nerves meant, nor had an explanation ever been offered. When being crushed by Aunt Pat’s merciless skills in Mahjong, Daisy had seen no evidence of this mysterious affliction.
‘There is Aunt Betty,‘ Daisy blustered. ‘She might need letters delivering. Or a message delivered.’ Aunt Betty lived with Uncle Ed in Poplar just a bicycle ride away but on Saturday she was sure to be working at the factory.
‘Since you are in such a helpful mood, Daisy,’ answered Mother, ‘I shall enlist your services. There are floors to be swept. Surfaces to dust. Bed linen changed. Houses don’t clean themselves. ’
Daisy groaned inwardly. All hope of escaping was gone. How dreary it was to be a girl! She thought longingly of the outside world where Bobby would go to football and Matt and Pops to the factory while she must stay at home.
‘Perhaps you could visit the hairdresser, Mother?’ Daisy suggested sweetly. ‘I could go with Pops to help Mrs Hayes with the tea trolley. She said I did very well last time. Pouring and all that.’
A burst of laughter erupted from her brothers.
Daisy blushed angrily. ’Shut up, you two! I’m very good at tea-making.’
‘Daisy the tea-maker,’ Matt teased. ‘Whatever next? You’ll be Prime Minister soon!’
Nicholas Purbright held up his hands for silence. ‘Now, now, boys and girls. Let’s not argue.’ After a short but meaningful pause he addressed his wife. ‘Might not be such a bad idea, Flo. Take the Austin today. I won’t need it. Daisy’s right, you deserve a treat. And she can come to the factory with us. She’ll make herself useful, I’m sure.’
Was she to be rescued from the brink, Daisy wondered joyfully? So she composed her features in such a way that she knew if she gazed at her father for long enough and her mother for not too long, and shut out the sight of her brothers’ beastly smirking faces, she might - just might - be granted a reprieve.
Chapter 4
‘Does she love him, do you think Mrs Hayes? I mean she should, shouldn’t she, if they’re going to be married?’ Following Mrs Hayes’s instructions, Daisy idly spooned sugar into the white china bowl. Having escaped to the factory with Pops and Matt, Daisy was now in her element, discussing factory politics. In this instance, Daisy’s attention had been riveted on a young woman operating a small lathe and the much older man who hovered over her.
‘Who’s to tell, ducks?’ Mrs Hayes raised her voice above the thunder of every cog, wheel and oiled machine racing towards the tea break in fifteen minutes time. As round as a barrel and only a few inches above Daisy’s own height, the tea-lady’s well-worked fingers adjusted the flowered turban squashed over her frizzy grey hair.
Above them, the cavernous factory roof rebounded the roars, grunts and groans of the great mechanical arms and legs - as Daisy often thought of them - that built electrical apparatus. Fifty men and thirty-seven women worked in this storm of dust, perpetual noise and invisible energy. But it was Mrs Hayes’s commentary that fascinated her the most; a cocktail of courtings, engagements, marriages, tiffs, trials and domestic tribulations.
Mrs Hayes was the one person in all the world who answered her questions fully. They were answers that Daisy could understand; not wrapped up in long words. Things like who on the factory floor was walking out. Who was suffering heartbreak. Or who had recently had a brother or sister or someone in the family locked away in prison. Or banished to the country for nine months.
‘Forty years I’ve been here, man and girl,’ Mrs Hayes continued. ‘I worked under old Mr Charles before your Uncle
Ed took over five years ago. I know every face on the floor, my ducks, and each of those faces has a story to tell. The latest event of note is Elsie Shiner and Joe Rawlings’ engagement party. They threw a right old shindig at Joe’s house. I stopped by for half an hour and enjoyed a stout.’
‘But Elsie’s young and pretty and Joe’s old,’ Daisy protested. ‘They don’t seem to match.’
‘Takes all sorts, my ducks. But yes, you’re right. Joe must be twenty years her senior.’
’Elsie likes that other man.’ Daisy had been watching from the small recess where the tea trolley was stored. Pretty Elsie was certainly not looking at Joe, her intended, but at a handsome young man who worked on the assembly line nearby.
‘Oh, him,’ replied Mrs Hayes with a disapproving frown. ‘Micky Wolf.’
’Micky Wolf looks at Elsie like Matt looks at Amelia.’
‘You mean your brother and his girly friend?’
’Amelia is young and pretty too.’
The older lady smiled knowingly. ‘Don’t all depend on looks, no, not at all. Trouble is, when you’re young you don’t see that.’
‘I’m never getting married,’ Daisy declared firmly. ‘Instead, I’m going to catch a ship. How would I get a ship to stop, do you think, Mrs Hayes?’
Mrs Hayes licked a drip from the tip of her finger. ‘First, you’d need a big cabin trunk for all your clothes. Then something called a passport. And most important of all, your sea legs.’
‘My sea legs?’ Daisy looked down at her feet. ‘Why not the ones I’ve got?’
’Sea legs are different to land ones. No sense in me explaining; you’ll know what sea legs are the minute you find you haven’t got them.’
This complicated mystery remained unsolved as Mrs Hayes lumped a firm hand on Daisy’s shoulder. ‘Now, my ducks, make scarce of yourself while I’m on me rounds.’
‘I’ll go and visit Aunt Betty.’
‘Remember to knock on her office door first.’
‘Why’s that?’
