by Janet Few
***
It was chilly in the unheated bedroom. Polly stood in her worn woollen coat and her Sunday hat, staring at her sleeping daughter. In the months since they had last been together, Daisy had left all traces of girlhood behind. Dark, smudging bruises lay under her eyes, her cheeks were hollowed, her laboured breathing heart-rending. Not again, Polly thought. Her past years had been an incessant sequence of sickrooms, of sitting in fear, watching over her children. Violet, Mark, Nelson and now Daisy. Too many bedsides. Too much pain.
Mr Meyers knocked politely to offer Polly tea. She accepted gratefully; she had not eaten since her early breakfast.
‘I’ll be bringing up some beef tea for the girl dreckly,’ he said. ‘Mrs Cornelius’ cousin popped in with it from up along. I just have to set it on the stove. I be glad to see ’e here, iffen only for an hour or two. I’ve a mite to do, there’s others in the household who be taken sick now.’
Polly mumbled her thanks. She sat heavily on the chair clasping her hands round the cup to warm them. Daisy stirred, her eyes were dull and a cough ripped at her frail body, making Polly recoil. She had dreaded the moment when she would need to speak to her daughter. She found herself uttering inanities. She had no meaningful words, yet the silences were unnerving.
Daisy wrapped her sickness around her, a safeguard against the need to respond to her mother’s terse comments. There was no common ground. Polly was unused to inaction; being confined in a room, with nothing to do but talk, made her uneasy. Mr Meyers knocked with the beef tea. Polly made a half-hearted attempt to get Daisy to swallow it, at least that gave her something to do. It had been a wasted effort though; the girl had steadfastly refused to take any nourishment. It was with relief that Polly got up to go, little more than an hour after her arrival. She needed to leave, she told herself. If she waited any longer, she would miss the last train to Bideford. There were no expressions of affection, there was no embrace. Mother and daughter parted as strangers.
***
Polly’s brief visit had disturbed Daisy’s equilibrium. The girl dwelt on her mother’s coldness and fuelled by her fever, rising resentment severed filial feeling. All reason left her as her sickness nurtured imagined threats. In the days that followed, Mr Meyers continued to offer Daisy rudimentary care but food was an anathema, tasty morsels and precious milk were abruptly refused. What was the point of eating, thought Daisy, why bother striving for recovery? How much easier it would be to release the flimsy thread and to sink simply into nothingness. As her body weakened, Daisy became increasingly uncooperative and irritable. Tending to her was no easy task for Mr Meyers and the elderly man was distressed when Daisy rebuked him. Alice Meyers struggled from her sick-bed to try to assist her father-in-law but her efforts were unappreciated.
Wearily, Alice entered the kitchen, carrying a full bowl of soup. Mr Meyers glanced at her.
‘That Daisy still not eating then?’ he remarked. ‘Young girl like that. I can’t understand why she’s took it so bad.’
‘Nothing again today,’ replied Mrs Meyers. ‘Everyone else seems to be turning the corner but she’s no better at all. I don’t know how much longer we can care for her, especially now she’s become so wilful. I am surprised the mother didn’t take her back with her.’
‘She was a proper rum ’un,’ observed Mr Meyers. ‘She weren’t the slightest bothered about the maid. No sooner had she got here than she was saying she’d need to be off to catch the 2.57 home. Still,’ he added charitably, ‘’tis a rare old journey and she’d youngsters to see to.’
‘It is awkward,’ said Alice. ‘Maybe we should send for Doctor Cook. It was all right at first but now she seems to be failing. I can’t be doing with her stubbornness when I’m so tired and I’ve the others to see to.’
It was resolved that the doctor should be sent for. Alice Meyers answered his knock and directed him to Daisy’s room. On the way upstairs, she explained that Daisy had become intractable and that they were finding it difficult to cope with her excitable moods.
‘It isn’t just that, Doctor,’ she said, ‘she’s refusing to eat and we’ve all been unwell ourselves. We’ve not the energy to sit with her for hours on end, badgering her to take food. We can’t expect Mrs Cornelius’ cousin to keep coming round from Ellacombe Road to help.’
‘Let me examine her first,’ replied Doctor Cook, ‘and then we will see what’s to be done.’
The examination over, Doctor Cook gave his pronouncement.
‘The girl has taken this influenza particularly badly. She is also suffering from gastritis, which explains the aversion to food. As you are unable to care for her here, the best thing is for her to go to the infirmary at the workhouse. I will arrange for transport. I am happy to sign a certificate to say that she is fit to be moved.’
‘Oh, Doctor,’ said Mrs Meyers, ‘that is such a relief. We managed in the beginning but then there was only my elderly father-in-law who wasn’t sick and we just can’t handle her since she became so headstrong. I’ll send a telegram to her family to say that you felt it was best that she went to the workhouse.’
***
A skipping rope thudded on the pavement outside, beating its regular tattoo, as a group of small girls chanted in time.
‘I had a little bird, its name was Enza, I opened the window and in flew Enza.’
Periodically, the rhythm was interrupted, as one of the less proficient children stumbled on the rope, to the derision of her playmates. The incessant repetition of the ridiculous words tortured Polly and she pulled the thick curtain across, in a vain attempt to deaden the pervading sound.
There was a knock and Mrs Howard was on the doorstep, waving a telegram aloft. It was rare that the postmistress delivered telegrams herself. This would not be good news.
‘’Tis another telegram about your maid,’ she said kindly. ‘Seems she’s no better and they’ve taken her to the workhouse. Weren’t you down there just a few days since?’
The workhouse. The very name was a portent of misfortune. Polly grabbed the telegram and slammed the door without a word. For a few moments she remained motionless, leaning back against the door, the telegram crushed in her clenched fist. Gradually, her breathing calmed and she braced herself, daring to decipher the news. “Influenza worse. Daughter taken to Newton Abbot workhouse infirmary”, she read. The words blurred in front of her eyes. The infirmary was for folk who were sick, it was not the final resort for those gripped by poverty; yet it was still the workhouse. Despite her carefully crafted cloak of indifference, the vision of Daisy, institutionalised and alone was unbearable.
When Albert came in from fishing, an agitated Polly was waiting for him, the telegram still in her hand.
‘’Tis, the maid,’ she cried. ‘They’ve sent her to the workhouse! What’s to do?’
Albert was busy easing waders from his sore feet. He flexed his cramped toes, encased in the thick woollen socks.
‘Easy mother,’ he said. ‘Tell us again what’s happened.’
‘When they first sent to say she wasn’t eating and couldn’t leave her bed, I did think it might be the enteric. Then, when I went down and saw how thin and listless she was, I wondered about the green sickness but the whole family has gone down with it. Seems for certain it’s this influenza.’
‘It’s been in the papers that,’ said Albert. ‘They say this illness is taking the young and healthy, without so much as a by your leave. ’Twas mostly overseas at first, naught to do with us but now it seems ’tis closer to home. There’s been reports in the North Devon Journal of late, folk’ve been taken sick all over.’
‘But she’s in the workhouse, Alb,’ reiterated Polly. ‘I can’t bear to think of it. What should we do?’
‘We’ll send to the workhouse and find out what’s what,’ said Albert. ‘It may not be so bad as you be thinkin’. ’Tis probably just there was no one to see to her where she was. You said they was all poorly.’
***
The infirmary
loomed above the other buildings that made up Newton Abbot workhouse. The smoke, tumbling from the tall incinerator chimney, eddied and rose reluctantly skyward. In the lee of the sombre stone, Albert hunched against the sharp October wind. Polly, unsettled and uncomprehending, had retreated into herself once more. It was left to Albert to send telegram after telegram to the workhouse, enquiring after his daughter’s welfare; it was he who trudged to the post office and handed over the hard-earned coins to Mrs Howard. For form’s sake he signed each message with Polly’s name, not his own, surely such messages should come from a mother? Replies came back indicating that Daisy was able to leave, providing there was somewhere she could go to be cared for. There was no possibility of her returning to Upton Hill; she was far from being fit to work. It was the latest telegram, received twenty four hours after Daisy had arrived at the workhouse, that provoked Polly into a reaction. It spoke of “mental trouble”. The sinister shroud of the madhouse descended and Polly had been adamant.
‘Fetch her home Alb,’ she’d said. ‘They’ll be putting her in the asylum else. She’s not to go there. You have to fetch her back. I’ll send to say you’ll be coming for her tomorrow.’
So yet another telegram had been sent and here was Albert, intent on bringing his daughter home. Louisa Taylor, the superintendent nurse at the infirmary, took Albert into a cramped office. Black-covered ledgers lined the walls and untidy papers trickled over the desk. The nurse, in her sharply starched uniform, moved a pile of books from a chair and bade Albert sit down. She was a woman past middle age, with a plain but pleasing, lined face and iron grey hair. Her brisk efficiency was at odds with the state of her surroundings. She exuded capability and Albert began to feel reassured. She explained that Daisy had been quiet at first and not in the least excitable or violent. It was only yesterday that she had become volatile and unmanageable.
‘And I am afraid it has been very difficult to get your daughter to take nourishment,’ Nurse Taylor was saying. ‘She has barely had three pints of milk since she arrived.’
‘But I can take her home?’ asked Albert, anxious now. It was, after all, what he had come for.
‘Sir,’ said Nurse Taylor, firmly, ‘I beg you to reconsider. Your daughter is not fit to travel across the county. You do her a great disservice by not leaving her in our care.’
‘But you said she could leave,’ said Albert, bewildered now.
‘That was before this latest development,’ replied Nurse Taylor. ‘I don’t know how you would manage the journey with her how she is.’
In the face of her authority, Albert’s resolve faltered but then he thought of Polly; he could not expose his wife to more torment. It was the mention of mental trouble that had brought about her change of mood. She had swung from indifference to distress. Haunted by the apparition that was the asylum, Polly had wanted her daughter to return to the shelter of her family.
‘I’s come to take her home,’ said Albert, obdurate now, ‘and takes her home I will, with respect to you ma’am.’
***
Albert put his arm round Daisy, steadying her, as they made their way across the platform at Barnstaple. The guard was raising his green flag. Hurriedly, Albert hoisted his daughter on to the final train of their journey and climbed the step behind her. The guard slammed the door after them and blew his whistle. Now they were nearing home, Albert relaxed a little, thankful that they had the third class carriage to themselves. They still had to get from Bideford to Clovelly but Mrs Hamlyn, through her associations with the Red Cross, had helped to organise a motor ambulance for that. It was a good job they’d managed to get this train, he thought, it wouldn’t do to keep them waiting. He hoped he was doing the right thing, bringing Daisy home. He’d had some doubts himself, especially when that Nurse Taylor had advised against it but Polly had been insistent.
Daisy sat sedately opposite her father. Her eyes were focussed on the condensation that ran down the windows and she was aware of a damp, musty smell that rose from the rough seats. Her body ached with an all-consuming intensity. Her loosely-hanging clothes felt unfamiliar, irritating, chafing at her flesh. Apart from the half-remembered ride to the workhouse, it had been a fortnight since she’d worn anything but a nightgown. Her hat made her headache worse and her shoes were like leaden weights, holding her down. Albert was staring out of the window, looking for the lights of familiar stations but Daisy barely realised who she was with, where she was, or why. The recurring rhythm of the rails overlaid all meaningful thought.
The train rattled out of Fremington, heading towards Instow. Albert stood up, fighting sleep. He had worried about how he was to get Daisy as far as Bideford, sick as she was but he’d coped. Yes, she was frail but she was subdued, biddable, exhibiting no signs of the excitability that the infirmary staff had spoken of. Nonetheless, he needed to be watchful, wakeful. He released the leather strap and lowered the window. Smut-laden steam hit his face as they rounded the bend but the rush of cold air refreshed him. The screech of the whistling train stirred Daisy from her stupor. Animated, she rose from her seat with an energy that belied her weakened state. Pushing Albert to one side, she thrust her head through the window. The unheeding train ploughed on.
Daisy felt the arm of her fearful father, trying to pull her back from the unseen dangers but she twisted away. The pain in her head was excruciating. She tugged at her hat, loosening the steel hatpin. Yes, she remembered, she had been so thrilled to buy that hat with Winnie. It was only last month, yet it was an interminable lifetime ago. Dimly remembered feelings of pride flickered and were gone. The hat became her enemy. It was hurting her, imprisoning her, adding to her agony. The idea obsessed her. If she was bareheaded she would be free. Daisy flung the hat away from her. It whirled out of the window, caught in the vortex of the moving train. Now, the appalling consequence of what he had done, of what might be to come, dawned upon Albert.
***
It was late when the front door crashed, announcing Albert and Daisy’s return. With the denial of the defeated, Polly cowered in her bed, burying her head under the faded quilt.
12
Autumn 1918
Clovelly slept. There were no sounds from the cobbled street but the night and its attendant horrors, closed in on Edward Collins. Even eighteen months spent embraced in the village’s serenity had not banished the terrors that darkness could bring. He awoke from the recurring nightmare, shaking and sweating. Curled in a foetal position, clasping his knees, he silently sobbed. As his distress gradually subsided, he became aware of voices penetrating the thin wall that divided Mrs Stanbury’s cottage from its neighbour. He hadn’t yet seen her but he knew that Daisy, his shimmering Marguerite, was home. He’d heard that her father had brought her back from Torquay late last night. In the morning, he thought, he might properly enquire after her welfare, take her some tasty morsel to whet her appetite. Thoughts of the enigmatic young woman, now barely a touch away, calmed him. Tomorrow, he would hear again her sweet voice, with its enchanting Devonshire lilt. Minutes passed. The hum of conversation from the adjoining room continued. He could not distinguish the words but he could hear Daisy’s exclamations, interspersed with the deeper rumble of her father’s responses. Then, escalating agitation could be detected in their tones. A door banged. Silence. Edward lay flat on his back, his eyes staring into the thick blackness. Undisturbed, Amelia breathed shallowly beside him. His concern for Daisy’s welfare made sleep slip further from his grasp. Finally, as the fading year’s late dawn light banished the starry dark, he drifted into restless sleep.
Daybreak brought no such respite to the family in the cottage next door. A fire was lit in the tiny upstairs room and the tin bath was lugged up from the kitchen. Daisy sat submissively as her unwilling mother helped her to wash, the soap-slicked water cooled round her wasted frame. The knobs of the girl’s spine protruded alarmingly and her back was covered with dark downy hair. The sting of the red carbolic soap as it penetrated the scratches on her arms and the abra
sive touch of the rough flannel provoked no reaction. Daisy acquiesced as her mother slipped a clean nightdress over her head. It hung forlornly on the sharp angles of her shoulders. No remnant remained of the vivacity that had first caught Edward Collins’ attention. Polly’s glance took in the sunken eyes, the thinning hair and the skeletal feet peeping out from under the hem of the nightdress. The unwelcome tug at her maternal heartstrings drew upon reserves that she no longer possessed. Defeated, Polly could gaze at this unbearable travesty of her daughter no more. Everyday actions became her haven. She concentrated on tasks that did not require such an agonizing expenditure of emotion, household duties that might stop her from having to think about Daisy. Daisy as she had been. Daisy as she was now. Mechanically, moving like an elderly woman, Polly went to heat some broth on the stove.
Resolutely, Daisy refused to eat. She writhed and thrashed, shrinking back from the nourishment that was being offered. Broth spilt on the counterpane and the spoon clattered to the floor, as Daisy flung her arm wildly. Resignedly, Polly returned downstairs, frustration and fear etched on her face. Albert looked up expectantly.
‘Did the maid take any?’
Polly put the bowl down on the oil-cloth with a sigh.
‘What are we to do Alb? Why won’t she eat? I be so cross with her Alb. I could hit her, I really could. What’s making her so blessed stubborn?’
Disregarding the rejected broth, Albert took a cup of milk up to Daisy. He tried coaxing, cajoling, begging but even for him, she resisted, gritting her teeth and twisting her head away. He did manage to get a few drops past the lips of his distraught daughter before she pushed forcefully at his hand. The sound of the cup smashing echoed ominously through the cottage. Milk dripped down the wall and seeped through the gaps in the floorboards, in an appalling parody of Daisy’s hold on life, which too was ebbing away. Polly had less patience and greater fear. Her ill-disguised anxiety was more infectious than the influenza that had stolen their daughter from them, taken their beloved girl and left instead this tortured changeling. Daisy became increasingly agitated in Polly’s presence. Repeatedly, Polly tucked the restraining bed sheets firmly in, only to have Daisy throw them back in an effort to leave her bed and retreat to a sanctuary that existed only in her imagination. Daisy spoke rarely but when she did, it was in random, rambling sentences, that bore no relation to the questions she was being asked. Amongst her incoherent utterances, she claimed that food would harm her, that she must not eat. Clearly distressed, convinced that her throat was closing up, Daisy refused both cup and spoon. For Polly, each failure twisted the knife of rejection ever deeper.
