by Janet Few
***
The doctor was sent for. The workhouse had stressed that Daisy would need to be tended to without delay. Dr Crew was a major now, away serving in India and Dr Kay had taken over his patients. When Albert asked him to call, word came that the doctor was himself unwell and that Dr Toye would travel out from Bideford instead. This news flustered Polly. Albert needed to go to sea, it would be left to her to cope with the unknown doctor alone. She could have managed if it had been Dr Kay; he was comfortingly familiar. Polly was uneasy about revealing their torment to a stranger.
Dr Toye was a tall, brusque man in his forties. When Dr Kay called, you felt that he was visiting for a cosy chat, Dr Toye was very different; he was businesslike, hurried, eager to give his verdict and to move on to the next patient.
‘She says there’s something in her throat Doctor,’ said Polly, apprehensively, endeavouring unsuccessfully, to banish all thoughts of that other child who had struggled to swallow in the stifling May heat, in that far away time before the war began.
Dr Toye conducted a brief but competent examination. Daisy seemed docile, unresisting but the essence of her was elsewhere. The doctor tutted as he held Daisy’s stick-like wrist, in order to take her pulse.
‘And you say she won’t eat, won’t respond, that she has no energy?’ he asked.
‘Well, there’s times she’s like that doctor. Other times though, she’s so strong we can’t hardly hold her. Earlier she would scarce stay in her bed. ’Tis like she’s a mad thing, like she hardly knows us.’
Polly crumpled, no longer able to conceal her pain.
‘What are we to do doctor? I don’t know as I can do all this again.’ The metronome in Polly’s brain beat out the refrain, not again, no, not ever again.
‘She needs regular nourishment,’ the doctor replied. ‘Hourly feeds, plenty of warm milk. Can you manage that do you think?’
Polly nodded, abjectly but it was as if his words were the waves in the bay, washing over the sand but leaving no lasting impression. So far, they had scarcely managed to get Daisy to take anything at all; the prospect of trying to deliver hourly feeds was overwhelming.
‘Either myself or Dr Ackland will call tomorrow,’ Dr Toye was saying as he collected his neatly folded coat from the chair by the door. Then he was gone. The house was deserted apart from Polly and Daisy. There was nothing, nothing but Daisy to fill Polly’s thoughts. She watched from the doorway as Daisy lay sleeping, shrunken against the greying pillows. Grasping the cup of warm milk resolutely, Polly inhaled deeply and approached her daughter with trepidation. She knew that somehow she must get the girl to drink but she was aware that she was not equal to the challenge. Polly could feel her heart racing, she could not quell the rising panic. What could she do if, yet again, Daisy turned her head away, jaws tightly clamped, fighting the food that would save her?
***
Outside, the village gossips commented on Daisy’s return to Clovelly.
‘Yes, fetched her home last night he did, all the way from down south.’
‘What’s up with the maid then?’
‘I heard she be proper mazed and she was in a good ’ole state when her da tried to get her on the train.’
‘No, ’tis this awful ’flu she’s got.’
‘There’s hundreds of folk with it. ’Tis a terrible year for the influenza.’
‘Western Morning News ’as been saying ’tis goin’ to take a heap more than the war!’
‘Polly will need a hand. They littluns haven’t been too special neither.’
‘The maid just needs feedin’ up a bit, plenty of good food and she’ll soon pick up now she be ’ome.’
And so it went on, sympathy and concern batted back and forth from neighbour to neighbour, every sentence overlaid with a fear for their own and a barely concealed relief that this awful illness had not struck any closer to home.
Seeing the strain that Polly was under, kindly villagers came to ease the burden. Mrs Stanbury popped in from next door, vigorous, efficient, meaning well but only serving to accentuate Polly’s inadequacies. She strode up to the room where Daisy was sleeping, carrying fragrant beef tea in a brown earthenware pot. Daisy looked up as Mrs Stanbury entered the room but she showed no sign of recognition. Her expression was vacant, her eyes failed to focus. Matter-of-factly Mrs Stanbury approached.
‘Now then, none of this nonsense, you need to get your strength up.’
She loaded a spoon and waved it under Daisy’s nose. The girl blanched but nonetheless, slowly opened her mouth. Swallowing obediently, Daisy took a sip or two. Polly stood silently in the doorway, alienated, discarded, redundant.
Each day was another battle, another desperate struggle, as Daisy weakened and retreated further behind the mask of madness. Sometimes the girl would lie passively, as if in a happier world of the past. Or they might find her manic, hysterical, summoning reserves of strength from who knew where, in order to hit out at her carers. Frequently, she complained of being imprisoned, railing against her parents’ efforts to get her to rest. One frightening morning, Polly walked in the room to find Daisy astride the window sill, her hair blowing wildly in the October wind. Panic-stricken, Polly grabbed her daughter’s arm and screamed for Albert, as Daisy fought to fling herself on to the cobbles below. Together, Albert and Polly dragged a resistant Daisy to safety. Sombrely, Albert screwed the window stay down but the role of captor sat uneasily on him.
***
Officialdom arrived in the shape of the local relieving officer, Thomas Sanders. Seemingly, Polly was unaware of his rap on the door. She remained in her chair by the Bodley, gazing into the middle distance, trapped by her memories, by her fears, lost in a world that Albert could not penetrate. A second knock, more urgent this time. Albert stirred from his doze and got wearily to his feet. He was pinning his hopes on this visit. Surely someone high up like Mr Sanders could sort things out, free them from this nightmare. They had tried the best they could to get Daisy to eat, tried persuading, tried pleading, tried shouting. Their daughter was growing weaker in mind and body, failing in front of their very eyes and they were powerless to save her.
Mr Sanders’ seemed to fill the small kitchen. Ever wary of authority, Polly remained morose and monosyllabic, sensing menace in the neat suit, the clipped tones, and the proficient manner of their visitor.
‘I’ll need to see the girl. See how she is getting on,’ Mr Sanders was saying.
Polly folded her hands on her lap and acted as if he had not spoken. It was Albert who ushered the relieving officer into the room where Daisy lay, with her face drained of all natural colour, her once bright eyes dull and her hair unkempt. She raised herself in the bed as they came into the room but did not otherwise acknowledge their presence. Instead, her bone-thin fingers picked absently at the cuff of the flannel nightgown that hung loosely on her emaciated body. Mr Sanders enquired after the state of her health. Daisy did not respond, concentrating instead on examining a neat darn on her sleeve. Mr Sanders, realising that he would not get a coherent reply from Daisy, returned downstairs, with Albert trailing after. Polly remained as they had left her, unseeing, oblivious. It fell to Albert to relate the course of their daughter’s ill-health and the difficulties that they were having trying to get her to eat,
‘Can she not be taken to the nursing home, sir?’ queried Albert. He’d heard that Mr Sanders’ wife ran such an establishment.
‘No, that would not be appropriate,’ responded Mr Sanders. ‘The home does not take mental cases.’
At the mention of mental cases, Polly flinched and looked up sharply but still she did not speak. There were sounds from the room above and Daisy wandered into the kitchen wraith-like and wan.
Albert addressed his wife, ‘You sit still mother,’ he said, although Polly had not stirred.
He stepped forward to guide his daughter back up the narrow staircase. She resisted, writhing away from his grasp, her bare feet kicking out ineffectually at her father’s shins. M
r Sanders went to Albert’s aid, taking Daisy’s other arm. The girl wrenched herself free and rushed back upstairs of her own accord. Mr Sanders smoothed his palms down his thighs, then passed his hand across his thinning hair. Albert looked at him expectantly. Surely, now he could see the difficulties they were in, the man would understand that Daisy, in her mazed state, was too much for them to cope with. Mr Sanders opened his brief-case and shuffled the papers inside but said nothing. Moments later, the sound of breaking glass shot through the uneasy silence. Polly cringed but made no attempt to move. The two men hurried to the bedroom, whilst Polly remained transfixed in her chair. She should move, she knew she should move but upstairs lay Daisy. Dealing with Daisy meant confronting all those fears and frustrations, the helplessness and the impotence. Best leave her be. If she didn’t want to eat there was nothing to be done. It was as if the shards of the shattered pane had pierced Polly’s heart, numbing, dehumanising, freeing her from feeling.
Albert came down and went into the back kitchen, busying himself looking for something with which to board the broken window. There was no sound from Daisy, who had presumably been persuaded by Mr Sanders to abandon her escape attempt.
‘Perhaps you should hire a nurse to watch her,’ Mr Sanders was saying as he re-entered the room. Polly sat, unmoving, just as she was when the window had been broken. The words of the relieving officer penetrated her thoughts. A nurse? No, that was a mother’s job, she had nursed Violet, now she must nurse Daisy. An image of Nelson’s fevered face flashed unbidden into her brain. Slamming the door forcefully on the past, Polly finally rose to attend to her daughter.
***
A small group gathered outside Ellis’ shop, waiting for the newspapers to be delivered. They were hopeful of good news. It seemed that the war might soon be over and their menfolk could come home. There was no peace in the offing for Polly; her battle was just beginning. If a neighbour came to sit with Daisy, Polly could escape from the cottage but still her daughter imprisoned her, haunting her every step. She couldn’t walk two yards down the street without someone asking after the girl. It was kindly meant but it took a formidable effort for Polly to respond again and again. This morning, Mr Collins was holding forth to a disinterested audience, giving his opinion on the international situation. As Polly passed the queue, Mrs Bushell stopped her.
‘How be the maid now?’ she asked.
Polly abandoned the attempt at platitudes, ‘I can’t be doing with her when she’s so violent. ’Tidn’t like her at all, proper mazed she be, flinging herself about and the like.’
Mr Collins looked aghast. Violent? That beautiful, moonbeam child, his Daisy. No. He could not let that pass. Mr Collins rounded on an astounded Polly with venom, his face scarlet and his voice shaking with anger.
‘How dare you say such things about your daughter. You aren’t tending to her properly. You’re a liar,’
Polly summoned a final vestige of resistance and retaliated, her self-righteous indignation fuelled by the fact that her accuser was an outsider.
‘’Tis naught to do with the likes o’ you,’ she said, deliberately turning her back on Collins and aligning herself with her neighbours.
Moving to address Mrs Bushell, Polly pulled her shawl more tightly, as if to shut out not only the sharp wind but also Mr Collins’ cutting comments.
‘It seems you can’t do what you like with your own children now,’ Polly said loudly, defiantly but under the fine veneer of her annoyance lay a creeping worm of doubt.
***
Autumn had set in in earnest. Brown leaves were tumbling across the cobbles in the gusting wind. In the bay, the herring were running and Albert and Bertie were making the most of the season, silver darlings shimmering in their nets. They would fling open the cottage door at the end of each day, bringing in the scent of the cold sea, fish scales sticking to their oiled-wool jumpers and to the backs of their scarred hands. With her menfolk at work and her younger children at school, Polly was left alone in the house with Daisy for hour after unending hour. There was no one to stem the spectres of the past, or to tame the terrifying thoughts of what the future might bring. She had to steel herself to mount the stairs. If Daisy was out of sight, Polly could somehow forget for a moment that a girl lay mortally sick under the patchwork quilt, that her daughter was gradually, inexorably, slipping from life’s grasp.
Weary from trying to get Daisy to eat, Polly was aware of the sonorous striking of the clock. Three o’clock. That’s nigh on an hour I’ve been here she thought. And for what? A knock on the door heralded a temporary reprieve but when Polly saw that it was Mr Collins with his superior smile and accusatory tone, she realised that this was no respite at all.
‘I have come to feed Daisy egg and milk,’ he stated.
‘No,’ said Polly, drained of all emotion. ‘No. Not now, not today. It’s all too much. She doesn’t want to eat. What’s the use of giving food to a dying girl? She’s dying, best let her die in peace.’
Stunned into speechlessness, Collins reluctantly turned away but within the hour, Mrs Stanbury was on the doorstep. This time, Polly relented, too exhausted to argue. She took her neighbour up to Daisy’s room. Mrs Stanbury greeted the sick girl as if she expected to get a rational response. None came. Undaunted, she raised a cup of beef tea to Daisy’s lips. Listlessly, the girl turned her head away. Polly watched from the corner of the room, resentful, yet paradoxically pleased that Daisy was refusing food from this usurper. Mrs Stanbury tried again.
Daisy moaned, ‘No I must not eat. I cannot.’
Polly stepped forward swiftly and took the cup. Mrs Stanbury looked alarmed.
‘What did you do that for?’ she asked. ‘The girl needs to eat.’
Polly looked shamefaced. ‘It’s killing me,’ she whispered. ‘Why are we doing this? She’s mortal sick. Why are we punishing her by feeding her?’
Mrs Stanbury raised her eyebrows and thwarted, went downstairs where the kettle was bubbling on the stove. She filled a stone hot water bottle and wrapped it in a piece of flannel, before taking it to Daisy. The child, it was hard to think of her as a grown woman she was so slight, seemed pathetically grateful but the cup was nowhere to be seen.
***
Mr Caird called to present Mrs Hamlyn’s good wishes and to enquire after Daisy. Remembering the last time he had visited, Polly was reluctant to invite him in. Only the thought that other people might overhear what he had to say persuaded her to grudgingly open the door wider and usher the dapper little man inside. He brushed down his immaculate, tweed plus-fours and rested the stout stick that he always carried against the chimney breast. The stick was an affectation, rather than a necessary aid; Mr Caird was fit for his fifty years.
‘Well, what can we do for you?’ he asked.
All this continual concern irritated Polly. If something could be done, surely she would be doing it.
‘There’s naught that can be done,’ she said. ‘It is cruel to feed a child who’s going to die, a girl who wants to die. I want you to pray for Daisy’s death. I don’t see it’s any good her being alive seeing she’s mazed. In fact, she would be better dead.’
‘Now don’t be silly,’ Mr Caird responded tersely. ‘You know you don’t mean that. Mrs Hamlyn’s taking an interest you know. She will send food for the girl.’
Polly moaned inarticulately. She just wanted it to be over, the effort was too great.
***
At the end of Daisy’s first week home, Polly sat, stupefied, gazing out of the front window, listening as the All Hallows’ Eve wind howled down the chimney. She knew that she should be trying, yet again, to get Daisy to take food but she was frozen, unable to confront her daughter, frightened of the consequences of failure. A noise on the stairs brought Polly out of her reverie. Daisy stood in the doorway, her stained nightdress awry and an absent look on her face. The girl headed towards the front door, her bare feet dragging on the wooden floorboards. She stumbled as she reached the rag rug, seemingly
unable to lift her feet. Polly sighed and turned towards her daughter.
‘What you be up to now, you daft maid?’ Polly said. Her tone was not unkind but there was a hint of rising panic in her voice.
If Daisy went out on to the street in the chill of the October afternoon, the whole village would know she was not right in the head. Polly’s single thought was that she had to stop Daisy reaching that outer door at all costs. Little did she realise the enormity of what those costs would be; costs in pain and in dread. The aura of the asylum lurked in the deep corners of the fisherman’s cottage. Uninvited, it advanced from the darkness and consumed Polly’s thoughts. Polly had heard too many tales. Tales of Alb’s Aunt Ellen, who had at least come home after her months away but who had never been quite the same. More alarming still, accounts of his Aunt Matilda. One minute she’d been serving teas in Bucks Mills, the next, incarcerated, abandoned, left to die alone.
