Barefoot on the Cobbles

by Janet Few

  ‘I know her,’ she squeaked, elbowing Winnie violently, ‘That’s the Honourable Betty Manners. I knew she was going to marry Mr Asquith’s son but I never thought to see her on the screen down here in Torquay.’

  The short film showed crowds lining the street, as the Prime Minister’s son, resplendent in his army uniform, accompanied his bride. Daisy’s two worlds collided, leaving her drained and a little homesick. Even Mary Pickford’s dramatic performance and the accompanying swirls of the Pavilion’s proficient organist, could not drag her thoughts away from the cobbles.

  As usual, the girls ended their afternoon in a tea-shop. Rationing meant that there was rarely sugar available for their tea and today both butter and milk were in short supply but despite this, the girls enjoyed the ritual. Daisy purchased a cake because that was what was expected. She cut it neatly in two with the dainty silver knife and then sat sipping her tea, still unsettled by memories of Clovelly. The Victoria sponge lay untouched on her plate.

  Much to Daisy’s relief, Winnie reached across and helped herself to a portion of the sponge with the comment, ‘I say, aren’t you going to eat that? Let’s not waste it, I am fearfully hungry.’

  Daisy reduced the remaining half to crumbs. Her once hearty appetite had dwindled of late. Foregoing the food she once loved was part of her penance for survival.

  Winnie, teased her with a plump-cheeked smile. ‘There’s naught left of you,’ she said, biting into her own hefty slice of fruit cake.

  Daisy glanced at her wrists, poking out from under the sleeves of the new summer frock. She turned her hands over. Yes, perhaps she was thinner than she used to be.

  ***

  Mrs Gilley’s devotion to patriotic duty had the desired effect and before the summer was over, Mrs Cornelius, eager to emulate her social superiors, announced that she had arranged for Daisy to spend an afternoon a week working at the billeting centre, that was housed in the forbidding Baptist Chapel at Upton Vale. To Daisy’s delight, Mrs Gilley had decided that Winnie too could devote her Wednesdays to this cause. Daisy revelled in the work and Winnie was grateful for the respite from the Town Hospital. Many of the men at the centre were convalescing New Zealanders, who professed not to understand the Devon accents of those who attended them.

  The girls were employed cleaning the long high room that had once resounded to the preacher’s ringing tones. They emptied chamber pots, washed endless plates and cups and folded recalcitrant sheets to the satisfaction of the sister in charge. There were lighter tasks too, writing letters for men whose damaged eyes or hands prevented them from sending messages home. On several occasions, Daisy found herself weeping, as a soldier dictated sentences that begged his sweetheart to forget him, in favour of a man whose body was still whole. Sadder still, when the lines she was asked to pen were a desperate plea to a girl whose affections were already engaged elsewhere. It wasn’t nursing exactly, unlike Winnie, who was an official Red Cross volunteer, Daisy was not permitted to dress wounds but she did wash the broken shells of damaged men and sought to comfort the distressed.

  It was October and darkness was already falling as the girls readied to leave at the end of a particularly tiring shift. One of the senior nursing staff rushed up to them, waving a piece of paper.

  ‘Could either of you just fetch these medicines?’ she asked, ‘Your legs are younger than mine.’

  Winnie and Daisy exchanged a glance and decided that they would both walk round to the dispensary, then they could gossip on the way. They hurried along the road and pushed open the dispensary door, glad to be out of the wind. A pleasant looking young woman, with heavy features, bustled up in response to the bell. She looked at the prescription.

  ‘I can make that up for you,’ she said. ‘I will only be five or ten minutes, if you’d like to wait.’

  With that, she disappeared into a back room.

  ‘That’s Miss Miller,’ said Winnie. ‘She often comes to see Mrs Gilley with her mother. Mrs Miller is always talking about her wonderful daughter who works at the dispensary. You’d think such a paragon would be a dreadful bore but actually she seems perfectly pleasant when she visits.’

  ‘Do you think she recognised you?’ asked Daisy.

  ‘They live in Barton Road,’ Winnie replied.

  It didn’t seem like an answer but Daisy understood. Even if Miss Miller had realised that Winnie was the maid who served her tea at Mrs Gilley’s, she would not break the unwritten social rules and acknowledge her.

  Medicine delivered, the girls set off wearily up Union Street. Usually, Daisy strode on ahead, with Winnie struggling to keep up but today it was Daisy who trailed a few steps behind. They paused on the corner of Upton Road, where their ways divided.

  Winnie looked at her friend, ‘Surely you aren’t wearing rouge?’ she asked, astonished. ‘You do look dreadfully flushed.’

  ‘Of course not,’ replied Daisy, reaching in her bag for an enamel-backed mirror.

  A gaunt girl stared back. Her dad’s family had eyes that sparkled blue but she had inherited her ma’s tawny eyes, flecked with gold and green; “gypsy eyes”, her schoolfellows had called them, when they wanted to taunt. The eyes in the glass were burning coal black and certainly, her cheeks did seem to have a heightened colour.

  ‘Are you sure you are alright?’ Winnie persisted, ‘It was a hard shift today and then the trip to the dispensary but you do look jolly queer.’

  Daisy became aware of a tightening pressure across her forehead and the hill did somehow seem steeper than usual; it was as if her limbs were slow to respond to the instructions from her brain.

  ‘Now you come to mention it,’ Daisy said. ‘I don’t feel quite myself. I’ve probably overdone it a bit with the extra hours I’ve done at the billeting centre this week. I’ll go back and lie down before I have to get the supper.’

  Daisy crawled back up the hill, focussing on the blissful prospect of slipping between the rough sheets on her lumpy bed and closing her eyes.

  11

  October 1918

  The autumn dusk fell swiftly, leaden clouds and unrelenting rain hastening its approach. The room was infused with an ominous chill. Despite the invading night, no curtains shut out the shadows and no guttering candles alleviated the gloom. Outside, the lamplighter ambled along. Mindful of his years, he had slowed his pace in response to the steepness of the street. The gaslights flared in turn, denoting his progress and a thick yellow glow shafted across Daisy’s coverlet. She stirred; her eyelids fluttered as she was drawn slowly into wakefulness. Disorientated by the darkness, unable to tell how long she had been dozing, she remained motionless and confused. The hall clock marked the hour, giving shape to Daisy’s day. She had slept the afternoon away but still she felt wretched. Wearily, she scrabbled to strike a lucifer and light the candle that stood on the narrow shelf by the door. This small amount of exertion expended all her energy and she slumped on to the bed. Bile rose in her throat. Teeth chattering and legs weak, she struggled back to her feet. The embarrassing prospect of vomiting in the chamber pot brought a flush to her already hectic cheeks. She knew that she had to drag herself across the landing to the lavatory.

  Kneeling in front of the floral, porcelain toilet bowl, Daisy blessed the superior plumbing arrangements at Upton Hill. The nausea gradually passed and she rested her head against the cool, green tiles. Why did she feel so unwell? She had been ailing ever since her trip to the cinema. Then, on Thursday, a dizzy spell had beset her, as she attempted to serve the dinner. Mrs Cornelius, her exasperation barely veiled, had sent Daisy to her bed, making it clear that her wages would be docked accordingly.

  During Daisy’s illness, life in the Cornelius’ household had gone on without her, after a fashion. She felt cut off, isolated from the daily routine and ignorant of what was happening beyond the four walls of her room. She did not see Mrs Cornelius, it was the sister-in-law, Mrs Meyers, who periodically brought damp flannels to cool Daisy’s forehead, or light meals that Daisy pushed
round the plate out of politeness. Until the last few days, Alice Meyers had been a dim figure, on the periphery of Daisy’s world, the archetypal dependent relative, submissive and retiring. Now, Daisy was learning that Alice was something more than merely a timid little widow. Emerging from the eclipsing shadow of Mrs Cornelius, Alice Meyers appeared resolute, confident; no awkwardness accompanied her ministrations. She seemed to derive satisfaction from tending to Daisy. The responsibility suited her, gave her a purpose that had been lacking since her husband, Owen, had died.

  Mrs Meyers pushed open Daisy’s door and rested a tray precariously on the corner of the washstand. She uncovered a dish containing steamed fish. Daisy hauled herself into a sitting position and meekly took the spoon that was offered to her. At Alice Meyers’ insistence, Daisy ate a mouthful or two before rejecting the bowl and turning her head to the wall. The older woman removed the stone hot-water bottle for refilling and fussed over pillows and bedcovers. Friendly conversation would not have been appropriate, nor had Daisy the strength for more than a few words, however, as she tucked in the sheets, Mrs Meyers did intimate that Mr Cornelius had returned from the butcher’s shop that evening complaining of a headache.

  ‘It is not just Mr Cornelius, Mrs Cornelius took to her bed this morning,’ she said, ‘and I have some concerns for little Kathleen too. She is decidedly seedy.’

  This was news of a sort, thought Daisy, herself worried about Kathleen, of whom she had grown fond. She sighed. Her malady was stealing through the household with a sinister vengeance.

  ***

  Listlessly, Daisy watched the candle sputter and burn low. The alternating fevers and chills of her illness had stretched into another day. She’d not seen a soul for several hours. Voices rumbled downstairs in the hall, Mr Meyers and Mr Francis were talking but Daisy could not distinguish their words. She loved to listen to the Meyers men; their fruity Devon accents reminded her of her da. Daisy flushed guiltily, aware that she had made efforts to moderate her own accent, studiously copying the inflections that she absorbed at the cinema. In many ways she was rejecting her origins, leaving Clovelly behind. Did that make her as bad as Mrs Cornelius, trying to be better than she ought? With her aching head, such thoughts were beyond contemplation and she closed her eyes. Then Mr Meyers’ foot was on the stair. He only ever came to the upper floor to use the bathroom. This time though, he knocked on Daisy’s door but remained discreetly outside.

  ‘Them’s all falling sick now,’ he called, with a lapse of grammar that would have earned a reprimand from his daughter. ‘I hopes you can shift for yoursen a bit. Francis has just taken hisself off to bed and Mrs Meyers started with it this afternoon. There’s only me left standin’. What’s that they say about creaking gates eh?’ The old man chuckled to himself.

  ‘Anyroad,’ he went on, ‘I shall do me best and bring up some nammit for you now’n ag’in, so’s you’ll not go ’ungry. I’ve hopes that someone will be up and about to cook proper in a day or so. You be able to manage for now then? I be leavin’ the tray out here for ee. ’Tis the broth Alice made this morning, afore she took bad.’

  Daisy croaked her thanks and as the old man went back downstairs, she was seized with a fit of unrelenting coughing. The broth remained untouched in its bowl.

  ***

  Polly lay in bed, listening to the gale, as it teased at the windows and set roof tiles rattling. Her mind whirled, racing alongside the windblown leaves, wakefulness an unwelcome ally. Little things loomed large and assumed a disproportionate significance. She was acutely aware that the sheet was becoming threadbare, the striped ticking mattress underneath was beginning to show through. A job for Lily, turning sides to middle, not that Lily was the keenest seamstress. The patchwork quilt was made from scraps of worn out clothing, its hexagons reflecting the past like diamonds, recalling days of contentment when she had worn this blouse, or Daisy had proudly shown off that new smock.

  Hot, stiflingly hot, heart racing, why was her body betraying her? Unbearable sweating swept unerringly over her, despite the season. Polly threw back the covers in anguish and flung her body over on to her right side, sighing resoundingly as she did so. Albert stirred sleepily and reached out a hand to rest on her shoulder. Polly shrugged him off, his touch a brand on her already heated body. That was something else that troubled her. It wasn’t that she didn’t want him, love him she supposed. Since the change, she’d come over proper queer, especially at night. His caress was like a blow and his presence beside her no longer a welcome source of warmth but another weight on the scales of her disquietude. Sleep, intangible, out of reach, yet its oblivion so desired, so needed. The worries of the past weeks oppressed her.

  There had been that business with Mr Caird, then the longed-for letter from Leonard had not arrived and now, the ultimate burden, this news of Daisy’s sickness. Her daughter’s move to Torquay had been another bereavement for Polly, an abandonment, a betrayal. She dreaded the thought of having to visit Daisy tomorrow. It was not just that she was reluctant to reawaken her relationship with her daughter, the prospect of the unaccustomed journey terrified her. She was not one to go gallivanting, she scarcely left Clovelly now and it was years since she’d been on a train. She must overcome her misgivings. Like it or not, go she must, folk would talk else.

  Her mind turned to Leonard. Polly weighed up this particular concern. She had been glad when he’d finally made a decision and signed on for the merchant service, more than a year ago now. He had sailed with Captain Bate on the Hillhouse, escaping from conscription’s rapacious maw just before he turned eighteen. Then, after only a few short weeks, the telegram had arrived, shattering her complacency. Naïvely, she’d thought that the merchant service would be safer than the navy; she had been so wrong. Leonard and Charlie Bate had been lucky to escape with their lives when the German torpedo had struck. That wasn’t the only time. Twice more since then he had been on ships that had been hit. Receiving the unspeakable news did not get any easier; repetition did not bring immunity. When Leonard was away from her, she had to force herself not to think of him, or the anxiety consumed her. It was a joy to have him home between voyages but each visit brought with it the inevitable leave-taking. Every departure struck Polly like a death. She coped by locking the worries away, by renouncing the children who were lost to her, closing her heart to them as if they had never been.

  Next, she fretted about the exchange she had had with Mr Caird a few weeks ago. He’d wanted to talk about Bertie. She didn’t have to worry about Bertie going to war; it was the one good thing about him being the way he was. Besides, Bertie was needed here to help Alb with the boat. Then Mr Caird had come along and upset her. It wasn’t as if the agent had just stopped her in the street, he had called, purposely come to the house, making the whole thing seem more serious. He’d said someone had complained that she’d been too harsh with Bertie. Well you had to tell Bertie what was what, be firm with him, or he’d no idea. Always been thmr e same, ever since he was a little tacker and they’d realised he was a bit on the slow side. Maybe she had raised her voice to him a time or two but what of it? It was naught to do with Mr Caird, nor anyone else. Mr Caird wouldn’t say who’d gone tattling to him but she had her suspicions. That interfering Collins next door for a start. He wasn’t right in the head himself that one and look how he’d been with Daisy when she’d been home. There was a man who was leading his wife a merry dance, she’d be bound.

  Polly’s thoughts turned back to her eldest daughter and the intricacies of the journey that she must make come the morning. She worried about finding the right platform, about missing her connections, about getting lost in Torquay, which seemed impossibly distant. And all for what? She wouldn’t have much time with Daisy before she had to up and leave to catch the train back home. And what was she to do when she got there? Bring Daisy back with her? No, the girl was better off down south. How could she, Polly, who had unquestionably failed to keep her other children safe, be expected to protect Daisy fr
om whatever ailed her?

  ***

  Polly was ill-served by the pre-dawn start and the arduous journey. She arrived in Torquay physically exhausted and emotionally drained. After Eli had dropped her in Bideford, she had, with some effort, managed to find her way on and off the four trains, becoming increasingly flustered with each stage. The busyness of Exeter had overwhelmed her. She was bewildered by the number of platforms and the swarming crowds. Was it only she who was at a loss? In the end, Polly had been obliged to ask a porter where she should get the train to Newton Abbot. She loathed having to seek advice, conscious that it exposed her as an outsider. She sat in the dingy carriages, squashed between strangers, with nothing to occupy her mind but thoughts of her destination, of Daisy, of her feelings for her eldest child. She had allowed distance to create a comforting barrier between her and the daughter she had tried to forget. This visit would rip open old wounds and expose her to impossible hurts.

  In comparison to Exeter, Torre Station was small, more like Barnstaple but it still pulsed with hectic life, hypnotising Polly into inaction. Reminders of the war were ever-present. Each person carried with them the scars of the past four years; the age had marked them all. Anonymous, khaki-clad Tommies, with their old men’s unfathomable eyes staring from the bodies of boys. Bold young women, their shorter hem-lines and bobbed hair, reflecting a new freedom. They were more confident than Polly’s generation and yet more lost. She shuddered against the hubbub. People pushed past, unseeing, indifferent. Newsboys screamed the latest headlines about German concessions as they thrust the mid-day editions under her nose. It seemed that the Hun were nearing defeat. Steeling herself to cope with her own immediate concerns, Polly took no comfort from the prospect of peace. Head down, trembling, she took a few tentative steps towards the house that held her eldest child.