Liverpool Daisy

by Helen Forrester

  “Where’s Daise?” he inquired of Meg, who had hastily risen from her chair as he entered the front door. She was staring at him, as if he was a ghost, her round eyes barely able to assimilate the fact that the man she had been thinking about was suddenly standing before her.

  “Workin’,” she said, as she slipped the wallet hastily into her apron pocket.

  “Her? What for?”

  “Money, of course.” Meg unexpectedly felt the need to defend her sister’s absence, and she added with asperity, “She needed the money — the allotment wasn’t enough after Nan died and took her pension with her.”

  Mike’s mouth twisted sulkily. “She’d only herself to keep.”

  “Och, you men! She’d rent to pay and fire to keep just the same,” retorted Meg. She took the teapot out of the oven, where she had been keeping it warm. “She’s on night shift, according to Joey, so I don’t know when she’ll be home. Will you have a cup of tea? Or would you like me to make you a bite to eat?”

  Mike closed his eyes. He felt sick again. “Tea’ll do,” he said. He sat down suddenly on a kitchen chair.

  She poured the tea for him and he took a slurpy gulp of the well-boiled liquid, and shuddered. “What’s Daise workin’ at?” he asked.

  “In t’ bottle factory downtown, so Agnes says.”

  “Why didn’t she go to t’ sack place? It’s closer.”

  “Dunno. More money probably. Beggars can’t be choosers. Now she’s got Nell to look atter, she needs money.”

  Nellie’s illness was explained to him, and her presence and that of iddy Joey upstairs. He accepted this as a natural happening, after which silence fell.

  While Mike drew out a cigarette and lit it, Meg surreptitiously slipped her feet into her boots. It was not seemly, she felt, to be observed without footwear by one’s brother-in-law.

  She tried to think of something to say to him. But women did not gossip much with men in her small world and nothing suggested itself, except a desire to ask him if he knew a man called Thomas Ward. She cleared her throat nervously, and this roused Mike from the warm stupor into which he had fallen.

  “I’ll not wait for Daisy,” he announced. “I was workin’ all night and we was docking today — it was a long day.”

  Meg jumped up, and said with relief. “I’ll tell Daise you’re here. Nellie is in the front room and Joey is on one of the beds in the back.”

  “Humph. I’ll find a place.”

  He was soon snoring irregularly beside Joey. His booted feet, sticking out at the bottom, twitched occasionally as he dreamed.

  Joey, half-wakened, assumed his father had arrived and cuddled down again, to add his modest snuffles to his uncle’s stentorian performance.

  Meg came up, slipping past the sleepers like a mouse, and made up the fire in Nellie’s room. Daisy must be going through coal like an ocean liner, she decided.

  She poked up the fire in the living-room. She was so accustomed to having too much to do that to sit for long was difficult to her. Once again she took out the wallet and fingered its worn surface. What had Daisy been up to? There wasn’t much opportunity to be unfaithful in a place where everybody knew everybody else. Gossip went round too fast.

  She was still musing over the mystery when a footsore, worn out Daisy arrived home soon after three.

  She entered slowly, dragging one foot after another, and Meg yawned and jumped up. She glanced at the clock. “My God, you’re late!” she exclaimed. She sounded almost compassionate, when, after viewing Daisy’s bedraggled appearance, she added, “You look real tired.”

  “I am, b’ Jaysus. Missed the bloody tram. Had to walk.” She slumped down on to the straight chair on which, earlier, Mike had sat.

  “I’ll make some fresh tea.”

  “Ta, Meg.”

  A spark of real gratitude went through Daisy. Thank goodness, Meg seemed willing to bury the hatchet at last. She heaved herself close to the fire, put her feet on the fender and pulled her skirts back over her knees.

  This evening she had not had to walk the streets at all and she had over a pound in her skirt pocket. But sharp-eyed Meg was here. She must be careful. She pulled her black shawl up round her neck. Lord, how cold she was. If it had not been for Nellie, she would have put a shilling in the gas meter and stayed the night in her secret room.

  “Mike come home,” Meg informed her cheerfully, as she put a fresh kettle on the fire.

  Daisy swivelled round on her wooden chair as if she had been struck.

  Meg looked up from ladling more tea into the pot. Her sister’s face had drained to an unearthly white, except for the burn mottles on either cheek. She stared at Meg, her mouth agape.

  Meg stood with a teaspoonful of tea poised over the pot and stared back at Daisy’s horrified expression.

  “What’s up?” she asked. “Wasn’t you expectin’ him?”

  Daisy’s bosom heaved as she sought for breath to enable her to answer Meg. Her terror was so great that the words would not come.

  The tea spilled from the overfilled spoon. Meg looked down at the fallen leaves and swore. She hastily dropped the remaining leaves into the pot.

  The diversion gave Daisy a moment in which to control her panting.

  Meg kneeled down to brush up the dry leaves from the hearth with a piece of newspaper. “Didn’t you know?” she inquired.

  “No. Well, yes. He said he’d be home soon,” Daisy floundered. “I didn’t expect him yet, though. I forgot to watch the shipping list in the Echo — and them bloody shipping clerks down at the office, they never tell you nothin’. Ee, what’ll I do?”

  Meg sat back on her heels. “Well, I’d have thought you would have been glad after all this time.” She tittered as she got up off the rag rug. “What you so upset about? He’ll keep you warm at night. He’s been away a long time.” Her voice was heavy with innuendo.

  Daisy rubbed her face wearily with her hands. “Mike?” she gasped derisively, as colour began to come back into her cheeks. “Him?” She clapped her hands down on to her knees and looked up at Meg. “Naught left by the time he comes home. Where is he?”

  “Gone to bed. He’s bevvied.” Meg made a face. “Smelled as if he’d coughed up.”

  “Humph.”

  “I must get home meself.”

  Daisy was recovering from her first panic; Mike’s coming home drunk put him in the wrong immediately — which was very convenient if you looked like being in trouble yourself. She said kindly to Meg, “You might as well stay till daylight. You can kip down with me. How’s our Nell?”

  Meg sighed, then stretched herself and yawned. She swung her arms hopelessly down to her sides.

  “She’s sinking, Daise, to my way of thinking.”

  “No, she isn’t,” snapped Daisy. She sniffed, and wriggled her shoulders unhappily under her shawl. “She’s going to get better. I’m giving her everything so as she can, poor dear.” Daisy’s voice rose in protest, “She’s got to get better.”

  “Well, I don’t like the look of her at all, I don’t.”

  “You’re welcome to your opinion.” Daisy leaned forward and spread her cold hands to the fire for a moment; then she took her teeth out of her mouth and slipped them into her apron pocket.

  “Tush,” said Meg irritably. Daisy was the most provoking bitch she had ever had to deal with. She could never agree with you for more than two minutes together. And she’d taken over their mother’s home without so much as a by your leave. Meg’s nostrils distended and her mouth compressed. She stuffed her hands into her apron pockets and touched the wallet.

  Her eyes gleamed with sudden malice. She pulled out the wallet and sidled towards her unsuspecting sister, who was trying to fight down a fear that Meg was right about Nellie being close to dying.

  “I found this, Missus, while I was making Nellie’s bed — and I’m wondering who is Tom Ward.”

  Daisy turned from contemplation of the fire to look at Meg’s face, and did not at first notice wha
t she had drawn out of her pocket. Her own expression showed genuine bewilderment.

  “Tom Ward?” she queried, as she considered the name. “I don’t know no Tom Ward.”

  Meg thrust the wallet under her nose. “This!”

  Slowly Daisy’s deep-set eyes widened until Meg thought they would pop out of their sockets. For the second time, her face drained of blood. She flung one hand dramatically across her heart. “Saints in Heaven, save us!” she cried hysterically, and fainted.

  The sudden slackening of her buxom body made her roll off her wooden chair and on to the rag hearth rug. She struck her head against the brass fender as she slipped. She lay still, her shawl flung back from her slack flesh.

  Meg dropped the wallet and flung herself on her knees beside Daisy.

  “Daise!” she cried. “Daise, I didn’t mean nothing. Daise!”

  Meg tried to lift her sister but the weight was too great for her. She slipped her skinny arm round Daisy’s neck and held her lolling head close to her chest. She looked down appalled at the white face with the sharp red mark on the forehead where Daisy had hit herself on the fender.

  Frantically Meg patted the icy cheeks. There was no response. Daisy, already exhausted, had been terrified out of her wits and was also partially stunned by the blow she had received.

  “Holy angels, help me,” pleaded Meg desperately.

  She laid her sister’s head carefully down on the rug again. She leaned over and undid the buttons of her blouse, with the idea of loosening her brassière or any other tight garment she might be wearing underneath; it would help her to breath, she reasoned.

  But Daisy had only a shift on underneath. It had been partially ripped down the front and the marks on the heavy, creamy white breasts made Meg lean back on her heels with a soft whistle. So Tom Ward did exist — and he was the mauling kind, she thought grimly, judging by the savage marks. Heaven help Daisy if Mike saw those. Though Mike was small and easygoing, Meg had seen him wield a belt with surprising viciousness; he might find consolation among his shipmates or with women ashore, but he would not tolerate his wife straying, that was certain. Very carefully Meg turned her sister’s head so that she could look at her neck. Even in the poor light of the paraffin lamp she could see that she had been marked there, too, though the scars were only faint and were nearly healed.

  Very thoughtfully, Meg began to chafe Daisy’s hands and call her back to consciousness.

  “What’s up, Meg?” The whispering voice from the top of the stairs nearly caused Meg to faint, too.

  Meg whipped Daisy’s shawl over her bare chest.

  “Aye, Nell,” she protested, looking upwards at the dark staircase. “You didn’t ought to be out of bed. It’s naught. Daisy’s fainted, that’s all. She’ll come round in a minute, don’t worry. You get back into bed. I’ll be up in a minute to see yez.”

  The faint shadow of her sister-in-law’s nightgown fluttered; and, as if she had not heard Meg, Nellie sat down on the top stair and slowly and carefully began to ease herself down the stairs. One thin hand moved slowly down from one baluster to the next, as she progressed; the other hand she kept pressed to her side as if to ease her pain.

  “Blast!” muttered Meg. She hastily began to pat Daisy’s cheeks again, while she continued to urge Nellie to return to her bed.

  Nellie took no notice of her. “Poor Daisy,” the invalid gasped, as she rested for a moment near the bottom of the staircase. She looked like a wispy ghost, her grey curls roughed out like a halo, one hand on the newel post, the other clutching the front of the flannel nightgown which Daisy had bought her.

  Nellie closed her eyes as a spasm of pain rolled over her. Then she asked, “Is it George upstairs? You could get him to lift Daisy up.”

  “It’s Mike up there — he’s drunk.”

  Meg jumped to her feet. She felt for a moment like the heroine of a Hollywood film, the centre of a great drama. “I’ll get some water. You go back to bed, dear.”

  Nellie ignored Meg’s order. Balancing herself by holding on to the table and then the easy chair, she advanced shakily to the hearth rug.

  Daisy stirred.

  “Poor Daisy. Why did she faint? Did Mike hit her?”

  “No, he come in drunk,” Meg’s voice floated in from the scullery where she was filling a mug with water, “He went to bed afore she come in.”

  “Daisy, luv.” Nellie’s trembling voice reached Daisy through folds of darkness which she felt too tired and too exhausted to part.

  Very carefully, with the aid of a hand on the wooden chair, Nellie went down on her knees beside her friend. The world whirled around her for a moment and the pain in her side was excruciating. Tears of weakness sprang to her eyes. “Daisy, luv. Say something.”

  Keeping one hand on the seat of the chair, to steady herself, Nellie reached forward and ran her hand round Daisy’s waxen face. There was no response. Nellie began to shake with pain and fever.

  Meg hastened in with the mug of water. She, too, knelt down on the rug. She dipped her fingers in the mug and began to flick the water over Daisy’s face.

  Daisy felt the cold droplets trickling over her cheeks and stirred again. Faintly she could hear Nellie’s heavy, laboured breathing near her.

  “That’s better, duck,” cooed Nellie.

  Meg lifted Daisy’s head and forced a little water between her lips. Most of it trickled down her neck, and Meg put down the mug and mopped the wetness with the end of Daisy’s shawl.

  Daisy tried to raise herself on her elbow and then fell back. The weak movement was, however, enough for the shawl to fall away from her chest.

  Bared for Nellie to see where the fine white breasts, now marred by a series of cruel bites and red blotches. Between the breasts was a fresh bruise, and other scars in various stages of healing were scattered on both chest and throat.

  Meg held her breath, expecting an immediate outcry from Nellie. But Nellie was too heavy with drugs and too anxious about her friend’s fainting to realise at that point the import of the marks; and the crisis passed.

  Mechanically Nellie reached over to Daisy’s shawl end and folded it over her nakedness. Then she closed her eyes as she herself felt faintness stealing over her.

  “Go back to bed, Nellie,” implored Meg, afraid she might have a second woman collapse on the overcrowded hearth rug. “I’ll get Daise round. She had to walk from town and it was too much for her.”

  Nellie opened her eyes and looked blearily at Meg. A tear welled from one eye. She said clearly, “Aye, she’s doin’ too much — an’ all for me, poor dear.” Then her mind seemed to wander again. She began to rock herself slowly backwards and forwards and to keen softly to herself as if Daisy were dead.

  “Now, Nell, don’t upset yourself. She’s got a bit of colour in her cheeks now — she’s coming round.” Meg laid Daisy’s head carefully down on the dusty rug. She got to her feet and gently lifted Nellie up. She was shocked as she felt how wasted Nellie’s frame was.

  With many backward glances, the invalid allowed herself to be half carried upstairs again.

  Meg hastily flipped the bedclothes over Nellie and rushed back downstairs.

  As Meg approached her, Daisy opened her eyes. “Where am I?” she asked, and then, as her strength returned, “What happened?”

  Meg stood over Daisy, arms akimbo. “You fainted,” she said shortly, fuming irritation replacing her earlier fears.

  Daisy raised herself on her elbow and put her hand to her bumped head.

  She remembered the wallet, and again she felt as if she would faint. She flopped back on to the rug and instinctively pulled her shawl over herself. She closed her eyes again and, while her senses swam, she tried frantically to find a likely sounding explanation for the presence of the wallet.

  Meg picked up the wallet. Her eyes were hard now, as she observed a return of more natural colour to Daisy’s face. She’s faking, she thought, as she lovingly rubbed her fingers over the old wallet. And now I’ve
got you, she addressed her thoughts to Daisy, and I can make you crawl like a dog that’s been kicked. I’ll shut your gob for you for ever.

  THIRTY-ONE

  Daisy had no illusions about Meg’s ability to use the finding of the wallet as a tool to discredit her, both with family and neighbours. Meg would enjoy succeeding her as the Nan.

  Slowly, as her senses returned, and she felt the warmth from the fire penetrating her cold body, inspiration came to her. She wanted to laugh. She glanced at Meg through the shadow of her lashes. Meg had sat down on the easy chair and her face was creased in a thin, satisfied smile. She held the wallet in her hand.

  I’ll wipe that grin off your bloody face, Daisy promised herself.

  “Help me up, Meg,” she ordered with deceptive quietness.

  Meg was startled out of her daydreams. She put the wallet down on the floor, sprang up from the chair and, making every movement very warily, she helped to raise Daisy to her feet.

  Daisy flopped into the chair that Meg had vacated. Meg righted the wooden chair which had fallen over when Daisy slipped off it; she did not sit down on it, however, but watched Daisy with narrow, distrustful eyes, one hand clenching the chair back.

  Daisy took her time. She rested for a moment with her head leaning against the aged upholstery. Then she bent slowly down and retrieved the wallet from the floor.

  “You was showing me me wallet,” she remarked in dulcet tones. “I’m sorry I fainted on yez. It was the long walk home what did it.”

  At the sweetness of the voice, Meg felt like taking off like a coursing greyhound. She stood poised half on her toes, unsure from which direction the attack would come. “Your wallet!” she exclaimed, her voice pitched high with nervous strain. “It’s got papers belonging to a man called Tom Ward in it.”