Daisychain Summer

by Elizabeth Elgin

  ‘Only God knows, child,’ Julia sighed. ‘If I ask myself why it happened until the day I die, I’ll never know. Someone got killed in a place called Sarajevo. People – countries – took sides over it. And a little country called Belgium wanted to stay out of the fighting so the British went to help them. That was how it seemed, at the time.

  ‘But I think, really, that every so often, men just want to fight each other. Men, especially the old men who let it happen, can be very stupid. There won’t be a war ever again, though. Our war was so awful that no one will allow another to happen.’

  ‘I don’t think I’d like to fight in a war,’ Drew faltered. ‘You have to kill people, don’t you?’

  ‘You do, child.’ Alice found her tongue. ‘And your mother and me know all about that, because we were in that war, too, nursing soldiers who’d been wounded. And Major MacMalcolm, who was a very fine doctor, was there, too. He didn’t like killing and neither did your father. He went to war, but to save life, not take it. Your father was a very brave gentleman, Drew.’

  ‘So do you understand,’ Julia whispered, ‘that no one wanted to deceive you. We just thought it best to wait until you were older before we told you that –’

  ‘That I have two mothers? Well, I suppose if I can’t have a father, two mothers is very nice.’

  ‘But you aren’t hurt – upset?’ Alice pressed, remembering how once she had not wanted to see him, touch him, even; how Julia had faced her on King’s Cross station with the child she refused to own.

  And she had gazed down at a small boy who had tried to say Mrs Dwerryhouse, and couldn’t. Lady, he’d called her. She accepted him, then, because he’d become Julia’s child; found herself free to like him. She could even, she’d admitted, begin to forget Drew’s getting in a cowshed, in Celverte.

  ‘No. I think I’m upset about the war. Do you mind, Lady, if we don’t talk about it any more?’

  ‘But do you understand,’ Alice persisted, ‘that it was right of me to leave you at Rowangarth?’ Suddenly, she must have his forgiveness.

  ‘Yes,’ Drew frowned, ‘but could you take me away, if you wanted to?’

  ‘I wouldn’t want to, Drew. Rowangarth is where you are happiest. But even if I said I wanted you back, I couldn’t have you because Lady Helen – your grandmother Sutton – is your legal guardian now, and she will never let you go. I shall always be your other mother, though, and I hope you will still call me Lady. Is that all right?’

  ‘Yes. I think it’s very nice, really.’ He returned to his seat at the table, picking up the bright blue crayon.

  ‘Do you, Drew Sutton?’ Daisy’s arm swept the width of the table, sending books and crayons flying; Daisy, who had been shocked into silence. ‘Well, I don’t! Nobody cares about me! Nobody asks me if it’s all right!’ She rounded on Alice with fury in her eyes, her body rigid with anger. ‘How could you marry anyone else? How could you love anybody but Dada? I hate you! I hate you all!’

  ‘Daisy! How dare you speak like that? You must never hate anyone!’ Dear, sweet heaven, but they’d forgotten Daisy’s feelings. ‘Come to me, little lass?’ Alice coaxed. ‘Let me tell you, so you’ll understand?’

  But her child was gone, flinging across the room, banging doors behind her, sobbing as though her heart would never be whole again.

  ‘Go after her,’ Julia urged. ‘She’s upset and it’ll be getting dark, soon. We never gave a thought to Daisy.’

  ‘Aye, though she’ll want no truck with me, yet a while.’ Alice threw a shawl round her shoulders. ‘It’s Tom she wants; she’ll be looking for him.’ She let go a shuddering, despairing sigh and Drew was quick to notice.

  ‘Don’t cry, Lady?’ he said softly. ‘I’ll pick up the crayons. Daisy didn’t mean it. I don’t think she likes sharing you with me, but she’ll like it a bit more, when she gets used to it.’

  ‘You’re a good boy, Drew.’ Gently, she kissed his cheek. ‘I’m off, now, though I’m sure she’ll be with Tom.’

  ‘Can you tell me something else?’ Drew frowned when he and Julia were alone. ‘If Daisy and me have one mother between us – a sort of –?’

  ‘A natural mother?’ Julia prompted.

  ‘Yes. Then does it mean she’s my sister? I’d like it, if she was.’

  ‘You and Daisy are half related.’ Julia forced a smile. ‘She is your half-sister, though she’ll be glad, when she’s thought about it, to have a big brother.’

  ‘Hmm.’ He rose from his knees to stand once more beside Julia’s chair. ‘I suppose I am quite grown up, now.’

  ‘You are indeed, Drew – but what is all this leading to?’

  ‘Well – you know we don’t kiss or cuddle now – not when there are people around, that is. And often I call you Mummy.’

  ‘Yes, though I’m sure private cuddles are allowed, and kisses, too.’

  ‘I know – secret ones. But I think I’m too old to call you Mummy. Mummy is a word for small boys.’

  ‘I see.’ Loving him desperately, she struggled against the smile on her lips. ‘What shall you call me, then, now you are growing into a big fellow?’

  ‘Daisy says Mam, but it doesn’t suit you, and mother is very nice, but I’d like something special.’

  ‘Then why,’ Julia said softly, ‘don’t you use the name your father used? Giles called your grandmother Sutton dearest and sometimes I call her that, too. It’s a very sweet and loving name.’

  ‘Dearest?’ He smiled at Julia; smiled as Andrew had done, gently, and with love in his grey – or had they been green? – eyes. ‘Would you like that?’

  ‘I would like it very much,’ Julia whispered huskily, knowing that if she lived to be a hundred, she would never love her son more. ‘And I think I’d best boil a kettle. They’ll be in need of a drink, when they get back. And what about you, Drew? It’s time for bed, young sir. Would a cup of cocoa and a jam sandwich suit?’

  ‘Please,’ Drew grinned.

  ‘Then upstairs and undress yourself. Fold your clothes neatly.’

  ‘I’ll do that – and dearest.’ He hesitated in the doorway. ‘I’m not sad or sorry about what you’ve told me tonight –’cept for one thing. I wish I’d known my father.’

  ‘My brother Giles – your father – was a dear, good man and if he’d lived to see you grow into a big boy, he’d have been very proud of you. Now off with you, and get into your pyjamas. Supper will be ready, when you come down.’

  It would seem, Julia thought as she set the kettle to boil, that her son was indeed growing up, yet please God he would never know who his father was; his real father. And she would do anything, she vowed fiercely, to keep it from him. She would swear before God Almighty, if she had to, that Drew belonged to Giles.

  She glanced up at the mantel dock. She hoped they would soon be back – and that Daisy wouldn’t be too upset.

  Oh, damn Elliot Sutton! Would they ever be free of his evil?

  Alice ran quickly towards the rearing field, calling Daisy’s name. Stubborn, that child was and quick-tempered, like Tom. She was spoiled, too, by her Dada and by Mr Hillier and too pretty for her own good. She had only to flutter her eyelashes to twist either man around her little finger.

  ‘Daisy!’ she called again, angry with herself for not considering her daughter’s feelings more; dismayed by Daisy’s show of temper. Drew hadn’t flown into a rage when he’d been told and Daisy must learn to bite on her tongue, an’ all.

  But Drew was placid and gentle as the man who had claimed him as his own; given him his name. Drew could have, should have, been Giles Sutton’s son.

  She saw Daisy ahead of her, making for the rearing field, calling Tom’s name as she ran; saw too the light in the keeper’s hut.

  She stopped, leaning against a tree, taking in deep gulps of air. She would go no farther. Daisy would be all right. Tom would comfort her, say all the right things. They were close, the two of them; so dose that had she not loved Tom so much she could have been given to jealo
usy.

  She turned, walking the woodland path back to her home, breathing in the scents of April, glad that Julia would be there to understand, when she got back; Julia, her sister.

  Daisy ran sobbing, a pain stabbing into her side. She knew where to find her father, her adored Dada. On an April night he ought to be at the rearing field, closing up the coops of pheasant chicks, making them safe against foxes. Oh, please he’d be there and not at Willow End or even walking the game covers? Tonight he must be at the rearing field.

  The coops were all closed for the night, bricks securing their night-boards, but she saw a light in the hut; the keeper’s hut they had moved on its small iron wheels from Six Oaks, where it always wintered. Dada was there, checking the bins where chick food was kept or counting his snares, perhaps, or maybe just sitting, thinking, as he sometimes did. Thinking miles away, Mam said.

  Mam. She hated Mam; would never forgive what she had done! She threw herself against the door, calling for her father, flinging herself into his arms, sobbing pitifully.

  ‘Well now, if it isn’t my best girl.’ He took his handkerchief, drying her tears, smiling gently. ‘You didn’t like it, then, what they told you?’

  ‘You knew, Dada? All the time, you knew? Aren’t you angry, too? How could she do such a thing? How could Mam love anyone else?’

  ‘Ah, but you see – it isn’t as bad as all that when you take a deep breath and think about it, little lass.’ He sat down on an upturned box, taking her on his knee. ‘Was that war to blame, see? They told your Mam and my Mam an’ all, that I’d been killed – me, and eleven others – blown to smithereens in an army truck.

  ‘But that shell didn’t get me, though those Germans did; took me prisoner and told no one about it. Not for six months after the war was over and done with did I get back home. A whole year I’d been reported dead, Daisy. You couldn’t blame Mam for giving up hope and marrying Sir Giles. And a good job she did, or there’d have been no more Garth Suttons at the old house – and no Drew.’

  He closed his eyes, begging the Almighty not to strike him dumb for all the lies his tongue was telling. But could he, in all honesty, tell her the truth of it? Daisy Dwerryhouse’s Dada a deserter; one they could still send to prison if ever they found out. And could he tell a little lass about Drew’s savage getting?

  ‘She didn’t wait for long.’ Daisy had stopped weeping, now, save for an occasional shuddering sob. ‘Only a year.’

  ‘Dead meant dead, in those days. Mam had no reason to think she’d ever see me again.’

  ‘But she did see you again, Dada! Didn’t you hate her when you found she was married?’

  ‘It was a shock, lass, I’ll admit it. But she was a widow by then and free to marry me. And marry me she did. She gave up a fine house aye, and a tide an’ all, to live here with me. Can’t you try to understand the way it was, Daisy?’

  Understand, when both she and Drew could only ever know half the truth of it?

  ‘I suppose I do, Dada, but I wish it had never happened – her marrying another man, I mean.’

  ‘Marrying your Aunt Julia’s brother? But he was a good man, Daisy, and I’d be the first to say so. He refused to kill, but he went to war for all that, to help the wounded. He was braver than I was, I’ll tell you that for nowt!’

  ‘But how could she forget you, Dada? If Mam died, would you get married again – would you?’

  ‘Would you like it, if I did?’

  ‘No, I wouldn’t like it! I’d run away with the gypsies!’

  ‘There now – doesn’t that tell me that you still love your Mam? Deep down, doesn’t it? And I reckon those old gypsies wouldn’t want you, Daisy Dwerryhouse. You’re too fair, too pink and pretty for them. Gypsies are dark folk.’

  ‘Like Keth?’

  ‘Something like Keth. Now – are you going to listen to your Dada? Are you going to believe me when I tell you that not for one minute did Mam forget me or stop loving me. It was just that she loved Giles Sutton different, like.

  ‘You’re only a little lass now, but one day you’ll know what love is like between a man and a woman. And when you find the man you want to marry, I hope you’ll love him as much as I love your Mam – and as much as she loves me.’

  ‘You’re sure? Promise me that you and Mam love each other more’n anyone else in the world?’

  ‘I promise, sweetheart, hand on my heart. And I promise that one day you’ll love some young man every bit as much as you love me and Mam – only you’ll love him differently. And when it happens to you, Daisy, will you remember tonight, and that your dad was right?’

  ‘If you say so …’

  ‘I do say so – oh my word, yes!’

  ‘Dada.’ She took a deep, shuddering breath. ‘I was awful, wasn’t I? I told Mam I hated her.’

  ‘Then we’d better get back to Keeper’s Cottage, my girl, ’cos you’re going to have to say you’re sorry and beg your Mam’s pardon. And you’re going to have to say sorry to Aunt Julia, too, and to your brother, for such behaviour.’

  ‘Drew’s my brother?’ Her eyes opened wide.

  ‘Of course he is – on account of you both having the same mother; your half-brother, to be exactly right. And you know all about mothering and fathering, lass. You’re a country bairn and you know how baby creatures are made, so don’t let’s be having any awkward questions.

  ‘Now – think I’ll blow out this lamp and lock up, then we’ll walk home real quiet by the back way. There’s a herd of deer over by Six Oaks; if we keep down wind of them you’ll see their little fawns – lovely little creatures. You’d like that, wouldn’t you?’

  ‘Yes, please. And I am sorry and I’ll say sorry to Drew and Aunt Julia and especially to Mam.’

  ‘There’s my girl.’ He took her hand in his, loving her, wondering what he would do to any man who used her as Elliot Sutton had used Alice. Strangle him with his bare hands, like as not; just as he wanted, still wanted, to kill Elliot Sutton.

  ‘Quietly now,’ he breathed. ‘Don’t want to frighten those deer …’

  ‘Is she all right?’

  ‘Fast asleep.’ Alice drew back the bedclothes, snuggling into Tom’s arms. ‘Daisy’ll get over it. We’ll just have to be extra careful, for a while. But Tom – had you thought – it isn’t something she’ll be able to keep to herself; having a brother, I mean. What’s the village going to think, when they find out? How are they going to feel about a mother who could leave her own son? What shall I tell them?’

  ‘You’ll tell them nothing, love, because it’s none of their business. Folk understand that widows remarry – and heaven only knows, that war left plenty of widows behind it.’

  ‘But what about Polly? What is she going to think about me being a lady – a real lady, I mean.’

  ‘If I know Polly Purvis, she’ll laugh her head off about it and pull your leg something awful. Polly hasn’t had a good deal from life, with Dickon lamed and the Army refusing him a pension, yet she’s happy. Polly will understand, be sure of it. And any right-minded woman down in the village will see the sense in not taking a boy away from his inheritance.’

  ‘But if they don’t, Tom?’

  ‘Then they aren’t worth bothering about! Now give us a kiss, then blow that candle out and let’s get some sleep. The worst is over and lass – I love you.’

  Tom lay unmoving, listening to his wife’s even breathing, wondering if she were really asleep, loving her fiercely, protectively. Tonight, she had suffered, had risked Drew’s condemnation and felt the full force of Daisy’s anger. And what had been said tonight must have brought other things back to her; the worst night of her life she always called it – the night she had learned of his death; the night Elliot Sutton took her in rape and left her pregnant with Drew.

  This year, for the first time, that date in March had passed without comment. She was forgetting, he had thought, thankfully. The wounds were healing. Yet tonight, for all he knew, that wound had been opened again
and all the hurt and shame laid bare. Oh, yes, he could kill Elliot Sutton just as easily as he could kill any man who harmed Daisy; could do it as cold-bloodedly as Geordie Marshall had squeezed the trigger of his rifle when they were out sniping in No Man’s Land.

  And why was he thinking about that damned war again? Would it never leave him, never leave any of them who had been lucky enough to live through it? Why wasn’t he thinking about more important things; that Drew and Daisy were brother and sister, now? And why did no one seem to realize that Drew had another half-sister at Denniston House? Anna Sutton’s child. Just as Drew and Daisy had one mother, so Drew and Tatiana had one father.

  It was a muddle, a nasty mess. Was Julia aware of it or had she pushed it to the back of her mind, only to be faced should it become necessary? He sighed deeply and Alice stirred in his arms.

  ‘You asleep, Tom?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Me, neither.’ She turned to face him, pressing close, lifting her mouth to his. ‘Kiss me, sweetheart?’

  17

  ‘I think,’ Julia said two days later, ‘that Drew and I should go home.’

  ‘The strike, you mean?’ Alice was anxious about it, too. ‘By what the papers say, it seems there’ll be no avoiding it.’

  ‘Well, you can’t blame the miners.’ The miners had Julia’s sympathy; hadn’t Andrew’s father dug coal? ‘If we leave tomorrow by the afternoon train, I could stay overnight at Montpelier Mews. Perhaps Mark Townsend will know better how serious things are.’ She shrugged apologetically. ‘I’m sorry, Alice. I arrive here, throw everybody’s life into chaos, almost, then announce that I’m leaving. And I ought to stay a little longer, make sure Drew and Daisy are over the worst.’

  ‘They are. I’m sure of it, though it’ll take a while for Daisy to accept my being married before,’ Alice smiled sadly. ‘And Drew must be uneasy about things – wondering who he really belongs to.

  ‘But you must tell him, always, that I shall never take him away from you. Once he’s sure of that, he’ll be all right.’