Daisy felt, as Mrs Johnstone had predicted, like a million dollars. Like most women of the era she followed the fashions in magazines like Women’s Magazine and Eve Pictorial and she was a practised needlewoman, using patterns from Butterick’s, Vogue, Weldon’s and Mabs Fashions, but she had never worn dresses of this quality and she was surprised not only by how comfortable they were but how confident she felt wearing them. The feeling of silk against her skin for the first time had taken her by surprise. She could never have imagined anything so cool, so light, so luxurious, and made the decision there and then that the little money left over from the wages she gave to the family would be saved for something silk.
She took a close look at the different features and worked out in her mind how she could copy them, the little bowed sashes that drew attention to a slim waist, the row of covered buttons that accentuated the bust in a stylish way rather than an overt way, emphasising a graceful neck; and as for the fish-tail, she would defy any woman not to kick out glamorously wearing that. That’s what they did, clothes like that, they could make anyone glamorous, even a Heaton girl on a cold, wet day in Newcastle.
Daisy’s first step on the catwalk had been tentative and she had to fight the urge to turn and run. They were looking at her, all those well-heeled, beautiful women who spoke so nicely; if she tripped up and fell her length they would laugh at her.
They’ll laugh even more if you run away, she told herself, and, shrugging slightly, she put on her act. Slow steps, looking up, shoulders back, hearing Joan Johnstone’s despairing voice in her head: ‘No, it doesn’t make your bust look bigger, Daisy, it makes you look taller! Heavens above!’ Count the steps, all worked out in advance, pace it carefully to six and turn. Drop the hip, hand resting on it just so, and a smile to the audience, then back up the catwalk again and behind the curtain.
She had done it, she had walked six steps, turned, stopped, smiled and walked-six steps back again without falling over or being laughed at!
‘Well, what are you waiting for, girl?’ Mrs Johnstone demanded, trying to sound businesslike while fussing round her. ‘We’ve got to get you into the next dress and back out there, they won’t wait forever, you know!’ Then the pink dress was fastened up and she was performing her six steps, turn, drop hip, smile, six steps back routine over again, her head lost somewhere in the clouds. That was really how it felt, she realised, as though her head was somewhere else, somewhere high, lofty, floating along in another world.
She felt so disappointed when the third act of the performance was over that she wanted to beg the ladies to wait where they were, that she could easily find another ten, twenty dresses they would love to see. Then the down set in. It was over, she had felt all that power and now it was over. The beautiful dresses had gone and she stared in the mirror at all that was left, the face she had inhabited for the short time the session had taken – how long had it been? Fifteen, thirty minutes? – and saw there Daisy Sheridan trying to pretend she was what she wasn’t. She began rubbing off the make-up that had been applied so carefully.
‘Oh Daisy! You’ve scrubbed off your lovely make-up!’ Mrs Johnstone said behind her.
‘If I went home wearing that lot my father really would put a red light above the door,’ Daisy grinned wryly.
‘Well, I think your debut went well. I think we’ve found your talent, Daisy.’
Daisy nodded though she didn’t agree; she felt deflated now that she was back to reality, face scrubbed, in her black skirt and white blouse.
Joan Johnstone looked at her. ‘What’s wrong?’ she asked gently. ‘You’ve just had a triumph but to look at you anyone would think it was a disaster.’
‘Well, it was all pretend, wasn’t it?’ Daisy said. ‘It wasn’t really me: this is the real me.’
Joan Johnstone put her arms around the girl and hugged her. ‘You still don’t understand, do you?’ she said. ‘Daisy, how you felt wearing those lovely dresses, that was the real you, it’s who you should be, who you will be. How did you feel out there?’
Daisy looked upwards. ‘Like, like a million dollars, I suppose!’ she said with a little laugh.
‘So after that you intend feeling like tuppence in future?’ Joan demanded, shaking her a little. ‘Daisy, that should’ve given you a sense of who you can be, a sense of who you will be. You have to look forward now and tell yourself that one day you will wear clothes like that because you have a right to, because it will come naturally to you.’
Daisy laughed uncertainly. ‘You really think that?’
‘I know it, Daisy, I know it. Class isn’t about where you’re born or who your parents are, it’s about who you make yourself … and you have all the ingredients.’
‘You make me sound like a cake!’ Daisy laughed, trying to stem the tears in her eyes.
‘You must make your looks work for you, Daisy,’ Joan smiled. ‘The way you looked out there on that little catwalk, it was obvious how you felt. There’s no reason why you shouldn’t always feel like that.’
Daisy didn’t reply.
‘Everything go OK at home last night?’ Joan asked lightly.
‘Oh, as well as could be expected, I suppose,’ Daisy said quietly. ‘The big star couldn’t turn the gas on and when she did she burned the stew, and before I got there she had announced that she was pregnant.’
Joan sat down beside Daisy and drew in a shocked breath. ‘Little Kay Sheridan pregnant?’ she asked in a hushed voice.
‘Somehow I think we’ll have to drop the “Little”, if not now, certainly soon,’ Daisy replied. ‘Before I even got there it was all arranged that she’d marry her horrible boyfriend and they’d move in to our bedroom. I’m to sleep on the couch from now on, apparently. I don’t think my father had much rage left to waste on me, but he had enough. He accused me of deliberately exciting every male in the world with what he called my “woman’s bits”, to which I’d added my harlot’s hair.’
She looked up and found Joan with her hand covering her mouth, laughing as she imagined the scene. Despite her mood, Daisy smiled too. ‘Do you think that’s funny?’ she asked in an aggrieved tone.
‘Well, not funny exactly,’ Joan giggled. ‘I’m sure it was all awful, Daisy, it’s just the picture it paints in the mind. I’m sorry, honestly.’
‘Well,’ Daisy said wryly, ‘here’s the punch-line. When the baby arrives, the big star will continue with her career, because it will only be a very little baby.’
‘But they all take the same amount of looking after, big or small. Who’s going to do that?’
Daisy kept looking at her, holding her gaze as the penny dropped. She nodded. ‘That’s right: me!’
‘Oh, Daisy, you’ve got to be kidding!’
‘It was all worked out before I got home,’ Daisy said.
‘You’re not going to do it, are you? I mean, it’s impossible!’
‘No, I’m not going to do it, and I agree, it is impossible. The question is, what happens now? I walked past a new recruiting office for the WAAFs this morning, and for a mad moment I thought of walking in and signing up.’
‘No, no, you can’t do that, there has to be some other way out, surely?’
‘Oh, I don’t know,’ Daisy said, grinning. ‘It seemed just the thing, off into the wide blue yonder, leaving all your cares behind.’
‘Yes, well,’ Joan replied, ‘I think we’ve all felt like that from time to time. Mind you, women were sent to work in the factories last time, so if it’s war again, Daisy, you could still end up in the ropeworks!’ she teased.
‘Wouldn’t that be just like it?’ Daisy said, pulling a vexed expression. ‘Avoid it now, only to be sent there because of some war,’ and they both laughed.
‘So what are you going to do?’ Mrs Johnstone asked. ‘About things at home, I mean.’
‘Nothing for the moment,’ Daisy sighed. ‘All I can think of is waiting to see how things work out. Even if it isn’t the solution, it’ll buy me some time now.’
>
The joyful union of Dessie and Kay took place at St Theresa’s in Heaton Road as quickly as possible a few weeks later. Kathleen, whose health seemed to have taken another dip, wasn’t well enough to be at the church for the nuptials; but Michael was there, looking stern and embarrassed, sure that everyone in the community knew and disapproved – either of Kay or of Daisy, which one wasn’t clear. The bride wore a white dress made for her by her sister, the bridesmaid, which had to be let out surprisingly early in her pregnancy, but then Kay was no genius and had no real idea of how far on she was.
Dessie’s belongings had already been moved into Kay and Daisy’s bedroom and all that was left for him to do was move himself in. On his wedding night he dallied longer in the sitting room than seemed necessary after his new wife had gone upstairs to bed and his father-in-law to work, sitting on the couch that was now Daisy’s bed.
‘So we’re related now, Daisy,’ he said, watching her as he blew a stream of cigarette smoke out of pursed lips.
Daisy kept her back to him, trying to find things to occupy her till he had gone, and didn’t reply.
‘I get the feeling you don’t approve any more than Michael does.’
‘I think Da feels the same as I do – that you shouldn’t have got my sister pregnant,’ Daisy said, damning herself for replying.
‘We were always going to get married,’ he replied casually, still lying back, still smoking and still watching her.
‘Well we’ll never know about that now, will we?’ Daisy said tartly, her back still turned to him. ‘She didn’t exactly have much choice, did she?’
‘She does what she’s told, your sister,’ he grinned, ‘though she was happy enough with how it was done.’
She knew he was hinting at the child’s conception, a picture she had been fighting to keep out of her mind since the news first broke. She tried to change the subject.
‘Well, that’s the musical career gone, isn’t it? All the years we’ve each worked to help her, and it’s been for nothing.’
‘She can still sing in the clubs and pubs, it’s not all been wasted,’ he replied. ‘She’ll still be able to bring in a few bob.’
‘Yes,’ Daisy said calmly, ‘you taught her to parrot that well enough, but that’s not what it was for, you know that fine. Kay’s better than that; singing in pubs isn’t enough.’
‘It’s enough for me.’
‘But is it enough for Kay?’ Daisy spat at him, turning round.
‘Oh, all that big-star talk, it was always hogwash,’ he said wearily. ‘The only people who believed that shite were you Sheridans and the Clancys, and everybody laughed at you as well. She’s just a woman and women marry and have kids, that’s what they all want, what they’re all for.’
‘Well, that’s how it will be now, that’s for sure,’ Daisy whispered angrily. ‘Now will you bugger off upstairs to your wife? I have work in the morning, I want to go to sleep.’
He got up slowly, grinning at her, collected his cigarettes and matches and stood watching her as she moved towards the couch, her arms full of blankets, for protection more than anything, a barrier between them. Then he caught her by the shoulders from behind and held her tightly, his body pressed against her, and she could feel his breath through her hair.
‘That hair drives me wild, Daisy,’ he whispered, ‘but then you know that.’ She tried to shrug him off but he held on. ‘That’s where we did it, y’know, on that couch,’ he whispered against her ear. ‘It was one night when I brought her home and everyone was in bed. Just think of that as you’re lying there, Daisy. That’s where we did it, can you see it now?’
She dug her elbow into his stomach much harder than the time she had accidentally hit him before, throwing him off so firmly that he staggered, but he was laughing as he regained his balance before moving towards the stairs.
‘I’d have preferred it if she’d put up a bit of resistance like that, Daisy; I like a challenge,’ he said, climbing the steps.
Daisy looked at the couch and cringed with disgust, wrapping her arms around her body. She had no idea if he was telling the truth or just trying to upset her, and, much as she didn’t want him to succeed, she was tempted to sleep on the floor.
She sat in the darkness, fully clothed, for another hour, listening, afraid he might be there, watching her, but the only noise was the sound of Kathleen’s laboured breathing. Michael had gone on his shift at the pit just like any other night, so she got up and crept into the bedroom to ask if her mother needed anything. To her horror she found Kathleen even more breathless than usual, and as she moved closer she saw tears running down her mother’s shiny red cheeks.
Daisy didn’t need to ask why. Kathleen Sheridan was crying for the loss of her ambitions for her daughter with the beautiful voice, the loss of the future she had planned and dreamed of for herself and then for Kay. Her daughter would have put right what had happened to Kathleen Clancy’s career, but now there was only a double tragedy that no one and nothing could put right. Daisy knew she couldn’t put an arm round her; it only increased Kathleen’s sensation of being unable to breathe. It was space her mother’s body craved, so Daisy sat on the bed beside her, holding her hand till she fell asleep, then she went and put three blankets on the couch, pulled one on top of her and lay down to sleep herself.
7
In the months that followed, Daisy kept her distance from the rest of the family as much as possible. She saw to her mother’s needs and still ran the house, but it was with a new detachment that she didn’t understand herself.
Mrs Johnstone had given her a second-hand Singer sewing machine saying she had bought it out of vanity and knew she could never get the hang of it, so Daisy might as well be doing some good with it. Daisy had made polite refusals for form’s sake, but she loved the machine. It was the most precious thing she owned, though it had to sit in the hallway because there was no room for it anywhere else in the house. Before Kay’s marriage, Daisy had sat there by herself, sewing her versions of the clothes she saw and wore at work, fuming over her inability to create a skirt sewn on the bias and fuming even more when Joan laughed at her for trying anything so ambitious.
Sitting at her machine she had mastered French seaming, sewing a seam on the right side then turning it to the wrong side and sewing another that enclosed the first; so that no ragged edges showed. Quality was the key, that was what Joan always said. There were no shortcuts, the basics were important, and even material that wasn’t silk – Daisy’s favourite – could be made to perform well and look good if the basics were mastered. Daisy learned the importance of detail, too, sewing little frills of lace on her blouse collars while removing anything tacky that betrayed cheapness. ‘When you come across anything of bad taste,’ Joan would say severely, ‘you must avert your eyes, Daisy, or it will mar your judgement forevermore!’
Daisy would laugh at her, but gradually she understood and her confidence in her eye grew stronger. She and her machine changed plain buttons for unusual ones, added matching colours to brighten up the ordinary, and attached white collars to everything, because, as Joan said, that Chanel woman was absolutely right, there was no face so perfect that it couldn’t be improved by the reflected glow from something white underneath.
The little machine had become her best companion out of working hours, but when Dessie had moved in all that came to an end. If he wasn’t going out to the pub he would stand behind her as she worked, making her so conscious of his presence that she could feel his eyes and his breath on her; and if he was out drinking he could still come back at any moment and then loom behind her. She knew he did it to make her feel uncomfortable; the other household doors were shut and might as well have been miles away. It was his way of establishing power over her, but she preferred to give in rather than join in with his games, so the sewing machine was abandoned and she went back to sewing everything by hand when the household chores were done – even when he wasn’t there. She had thought of sleeping in one of
the cold, damp, unused bedrooms upstairs, though they had no beds, but the thought of him being so close at night put her off. Once he’d joined Kay, Daisy was at a safer distance downstairs. Besides, what if he came in one night, blocking the doorway? She would be trapped.
So she decided to continue to sleep where her father had suggested on the couch near to the black-leaded kitchen range. That at least would provide some heat, and there were too many doors leading off for Dessie to try anything.
Kay was no longer working at the ropeworks but lay about all day awaiting the birth of her child. When Daisy came home at night she would feel irritated that her sister seemed to be sitting in the exact position as when she had left in the morning; then she remembered that Kay had always slept that way too and knew there was no point wasting energy getting angry about it. What she had to do, she realised, was teach Kay to do the things ‘Background Daisy’ had been doing since birth, but with Kay’s expanding girth it wasn’t easy to make her into a housekeeper. There were things she couldn’t do, like lifting Kathleen to change her sheets and her nightclothes, or carrying coal – though other pregnant women did so – but Daisy decided that she could learn to cook.
Somehow it wasn’t a huge success, though, as Kay forgot the simplest tasks, like how to peel potatoes, from one day to the next, and had to be taught all over again. It was as if all her learning ability had been devoted to music, leaving nothing to absorb other skills, and somehow she was incapable of clearing the now useless music out to make way for them. Still, Daisy persevered. Kay had to learn these things, Daisy decided, she would need them: as though Daisy knew ‘Background Daisy’ might not always be there to do them for her. She didn’t know where this notion came from or where it might lead, it was just a thought that was there in her head, and that for the time being she didn’t take any further.
As Kay waited, Daisy spent the time encouraging her sister and caring for her mother, worrying as the months passed that Kathleen had shrunk into herself more than ever and wondering if anyone else had noticed. Years ago Michael had told her that her mother would not live to old age. The doctors had told him this long ago, and though Daisy knew this she had never really applied the knowledge to the everyday reality of Kathleen being there, trying to breathe. It was how things had always been, so Michael’s words had taken on all the importance of his other tales, the ones about ‘home’.
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