Avalanche of Daisies

by Beryl Kingston

  The letters were eagerly awaited in Childeric Road and answered at length. In September Barbara and Betty both wrote to assure him that the buzzbombs were slacking off a bit. They hadn’t stopped altogether but at least there were fewer of them. In October Heather wrote to say she was glad they were feeding him properly. But at the end of the month, when he wrote to tell them they were at rest again, he ended his letter with a cheerful PS that unwittingly provoked a storm.

  We are billeted with Dutch families, who feed us well and are very good to us. I sleep in a barn with seven others, actually on a bed with a real feather pillow. Positively sybaritic.

  The letter arrived on a Thursday morning just after Bob and Barbara had left for work and it put Heather in a bad mood because it was addressed to Barbara and that meant she would have to wait until the evening to know how he was. He did write to her and Bob occasionally. She had to admit that. But nowhere near often enough. It was usually Barbara who got the letters. And this one would all be read in a rush because it was Thursday and that damned nuisance would be coming. She’d thrown out hint after hint to the stupid girl that going out with another man was no way for her to behave but she hadn’t taken the least bit of notice. And now she’d got to wait all day before she could read her own son’s letter.

  She brooded about it all day, chopping up meat with vicious accuracy, and when she came home and found Barbara sitting at the kitchen table drinking tea, it was the first thing she spoke about.

  ‘You got a letter this morning,’ she said. ‘From Steve.’ Her voice sounded aggressive but she was too pent up to notice.

  ‘Yes,’ Barbara said easily. ‘I know. It’s by the teapot. You can read it if you like.’ Actually she’d had two letters that day but she’d only opened Steve’s because the other one was from Becky Bosworth and would only be gossip.

  Heather took up the letter and read it where she stood. ‘Poor boy!’ she said. ‘Look at that! He’s grateful to be sleeping in a bed.’

  ‘I daresay he is,’ Barbara said, smiling at the thought of him. ‘He’s been out in the fields most nights.’

  The smile infuriated Heather. ‘It’s nothing to laugh at,’ she said hotly.

  Her annoyance pleased Barbara. It was a chance to sting her mother-in-law for foolishness. ‘I hain’t laughing,’ she said. ‘I was smilin’. Thass different.’

  Annoyance spilled into hostility. ‘Don’t be rude,’ Heather said and she spoke as if Barbara were a child.

  Now the smile was bold and delighted. ‘That ain’t rude. Thass a fact.’

  The attack increased. ‘You ought to be sorry he’s living in the fields,’ Heather said, taking off her coat. ‘Not sitting there gloating.’

  ‘Gloating? I was not gloating.’

  ‘It’s all very well for you, sleeping in a nice warm bed every night, gallivanting about with your fancy man.’

  ‘Doing what?’

  ‘You heard me.’

  ‘I do not gallivant. An’ he ain’t a fancy man. You make it sound disgusting.’

  Battle was joined at last. ‘It is disgusting,’ Heather said, feeling relieved that it was out in the open. ‘You’re a married woman. In case you’ve forgotten. You got no business going out with other men. You should stay at home like decent women do. Our poor Steve sleeping in the fields and being shot at all the time and you out dancing with every Tom, Dick an’ Harry. It is disgusting.’

  ‘An’ I s’pose he’d have a bed provided if I stayed in all the time?’ Barbara mocked. ‘The Germans would give in then, would they? I can see it all. Oh, Hitler’ll say, we got to stop the war, Barbara’s not going out this evening. Get on the blower to ol’ Churchill.’

  Heather was icy with annoyance. ‘Try not to be stupid,’ she said.

  ‘That ain’t stupid,’ Barbara told her coolly. ‘Thass logical.’

  ‘It’s stupid. And rude. You’ve got no respect for your elders, that’s your trouble.’

  ‘An’ you’re perfect!’

  ‘At least I don’t mess around with other men.’

  ‘He ain’t other men. Thass just squit. I knew him at school. An’ if I wants to go out with him, I shall.’

  She’s gone too far now, Heather thought, and turned for a furious attack. ‘Squit? Squit? What sort a’ language is that? You want to watch your tongue.’

  Barbara saw that she’d made a mistake but she fought back at once. ‘Thass not “language”. Thass what we say in Norfolk.’ And when Heather made a disbelieving grimace. ‘We all say it.’

  ‘Then perhaps you’d better go back there. Then you can say it all you like. Because I tell you here and now I won’t tolerate language like that in my house.’

  ‘Oh I see what this is all about,’ Barbara said. ‘You want to get rid of me. Thass what t’is. Don’t you think I don’ understand you. I may not talk same as you, but I hain’t a fool. You’ve never wanted me here, have you? Never. You never wanted me to marry your son. Thass the truth of it.’

  We’ve gone too far now, Heather thought. But it was too late to retract anything even if she wanted to. And she didn’t want to. ‘You’re hysterical,’ she said. ‘I suggest you go into the bathroom and wash your face and calm down.’

  Barbara’s temper broke into furious action. She stood up, gathered her letters, glared at her mother-in-law. ‘Thass it!’ she cried. ‘I had enough. I’m gettin’ out.’ And she kicked out of the room, stamped along the corridor and slammed into her bedroom. She’d pack up and go. She wouldn’t stay in this rotten house to be insulted, not for another minute.

  It wasn’t until the bag was packed that she looked at the clock and realised that Victor was due to arrive in less than five minutes. Well all the better, she thought. He can drive me away. And she put her letters in her coat pocket and went down to wait for him on the doorstep. There was just time to open Becky’s letter and read it before he arrived.

  It was short and rather odd.

  ‘I thought you ought to know. Your Ma she say not to tell you. You gone your own way she say. I don’t know what your Pa say. He don’t speak of it. The boys are very upset.’ Oh God, something awful’s happened. ‘The funeral is on Friday this week.’ But thass tomorrow. Whose funeral? Please God don’t let it be Norman. ‘They brought his body home Saturday.’ Becky, for Christ’s sake! Whose body? ‘I thought you ought to know, being you can’t let your own brother go to his grave an’ you not there. I am so sorry to tell you this. All my love, Aunt Becky.’

  The shock of the news was so dreadful that it made her shake and she had to lean on the gatepost for support. She could feel the colour draining from her face. He couldn’t be dead. Not Norman. He was so strong and such a good swimmer. Everybody said so. They’d made jokes about it. They’d said, even if he was torpedoed he’d get away somehow. He was that sort of feller. He couldn’t be dead. It wasn’t possible. She must have got it wrong. If she read it again it would turn out to be a mistake. But it was all there in Becky’s scratchy writing. Oh Norman, she grieved as the tears rolled out of her eyes, why you? She was bent over the gatepost like an old woman.

  Which was how Victor saw her as her came roaring up the road in his black Humber.

  ‘Ready for the off?’ he said cheerfully as he jumped out of the car. Then he saw her face. ‘What’s up?’

  She handed him the letter, too far into grief to speak, and he read it quickly. ‘Thass terrible,’ he said. ‘Will you go?’

  She nodded. ‘’Course.’

  ‘I’ll take you there,’ he said. He’d just about got enough petrol in the tank. ‘We’ll cut the pictures. Your cousins won’t mind.’ He was supposed to be meeting the Skibbereen at midnight but that wasn’t important now. He’d deal with it later. If he drove fast maybe he could be there and back in time.

  Barbara felt as if her mind had stopped functioning. She had to pull at it to respond. It was as though the news had knocked her out of character. She was grateful to have decisions made for her. But there were other things
to attend to as well. ‘I’ll have to change shifts,’ she said. ‘I’m supposed to be working tomorrow.’

  He was full of tenderness towards her. ‘Get you in the car,’ he said gently. ‘Let me tek that ol’ case. Thass right. Now you just leave everythin’ to me.’

  It was a relief to sit down, a relief that Betty and the littl’uns took the news with such sympathy, a relief that Mr Threlfall was on duty at the depot and said he’d change shifts for her, provided she could take the eight o’clock shift on Saturday morning.

  ‘Don’t you worry about a thing,’ he told her. ‘We’ll manage. You just cut off home. You got enough on your plate.’ If the war had taught him one thing it was how to cope with sudden death. ‘I’m ever so sorry.’

  So she and Victor set off for Lynn and into a spectacular sunset. She couldn’t speak at all now but he seemed to understand and simply drove on steadily, giving her the occasional smile as she sat slumped and miserable in the passenger seat, watching the sky. The setting sun threw out dazzling shafts of liquid gold from behind a darkening cloud, and as it dropped nearer and nearer to the horizon, the underbelly of the clouds was stained flamingo pink. It was incredibly beautiful and her dear loving brother would never see it again.

  Chapter Seventeen

  Bob Wilkins was late getting home that night and, as Heather was scowling in her sleep, he crept into bed beside her very carefully so as not to wake her. Consequently it wasn’t until breakfast that he discovered that Barbara had gone.

  He was so upset he lost his appetite. ‘Gone?’ he echoed, putting down his knife and fork. ‘What d’you mean “gone”? What’s brought that about?’

  ‘We had words,’ Heather admitted. ‘Last night. An’ before you make that face you’d better hear me out. She said some dreadful things to me. Really dreadful. She was swearing an’ cussing the way you’d never believe. The air was blue. I told her I wouldn’t have it. You’d’ve said the same if you’d been here. I said it was beyond human flesh an’ blood to stand. So she packed her bag and took off.’

  ‘Where to?’

  Heather poured herself a second cup of tea and shrugged the question away. ‘No idea.’ It had worried her to find the bedroom cleared and the bed unslept in but she wasn’t going to admit it.

  ‘You must know,’ he protested. ‘Good God woman, she’s been out all night. Anything could’ve happened to her. She wouldn’t’ve gone without saying where she’d be.’

  ‘You’ve got too high an opinion of her,’ she said, sipping her tea slowly to keep herself calm. ‘That’s your trouble. I told you she was a nasty piece a’ work, didn’t I? Very well then. Now I been proved right. She’s gone an’ she hasn’t told me where to and that’s all there is to it.’

  ‘What about Steve?’

  ‘Exactly. What about Steve? Well, he’ll have to know about her now, won’t he? We should’ve told him months ago only you wouldn’t have it. I shall write this morning.’

  It was a very rare thing for Bob Wilkins to put his foot down but he did it then. ‘You won’t do no such thing,’ he said and his face was fierce. ‘You’ll leave well alone till we know where she is an’ what’s happened to her. Do you understand me, Heather?’

  She recognised that he was giving her an order and that it would have to be obeyed but she went on making her case. ‘He’ll have to know sooner or later.’

  ‘Wait!’ he instructed. ‘That’s all. I’m not having him upset with gossip.’

  ‘Gossip!’ she said. ‘Oh that’s nice. I get sworn at an’ it’s gossip.’

  He stood up and put on his jacket, buttoning it neatly and brushing the lapels the way he usually did. His face was set. ‘You know what I mean,’ he said.

  She looked from his fierce face to the half-eaten meal on his plate. ‘Where you going?’

  ‘Out.’

  ‘But you haven’t had your breakfast. You’re not going out without your breakfast.’

  ‘Put it in the oven for me,’ he said. ‘I’ll have it later.’

  And went, treading the stairs as carefully as usual and shutting the door behind him as quietly. But he didn’t whistle as he walked away and the lack of that little chirruping sound distressed her to tears. Damned girl, she thought, blinking angrily. Now look what she’s done. Oh why couldn’t he have married a nice girl from round here? A nice respectable girl, with good manners, that we all knew, that’ud speak like us instead of all that country burr. That gets on my wick. I’ll bet she’s been with that awful feller all night. I wouldn’t put it past her. Bob’ll like that when he finds out. She’s probably rolling around in bed this very minute, sleeping it off.

  *

  She was right about that, at least. Barbara was in bed at that moment but she wasn’t asleep and she was lying perfectly still, trying to gather her thoughts and her energy for the day ahead. She and Becky had sat up till two in the morning, talking and grieving, and now Becky was up and had lit the fire and was clattering about downstairs making the tea, but she was in bed and loath to get up. The trouble was that their conversation had gone round and round over relatively easy ground. They’d remembered how strong Norman had been and what a good swimmer he was and how well he rowed, and said, over and over again, that he’d been cut out for the sea and that they couldn’t believe they’d never see him again. Barbara had found out what time the funeral was going to be, and where, and who was coming. They’d even discussed what they ought to wear. But she hadn’t asked the one question she really wanted to have answered.

  ‘Come on down, my poppet,’ Becky called to her. ‘Tea’s made.’

  Tea. Toast. Quietly going over the same talk, again and again, gradually inching to the question. More tea. Getting dressed in the clothes they’d agreed on. Brown skirt, white blouse and Becky’s old navy mackintosh to cover it all because she couldn’t wear her red coat. Still inching. Going out of the door, checking in the mirror to see that they looked ‘orl right’. Still inching. I must know. I must ask. Do it now or that’ll be too late.

  ‘Aunt Becky.’

  Becky turned her foxy face towards her. ‘Poppet?’

  ‘How did he die?’

  The answer was quick and honest and brutal. ‘Drowned, my lovey. Burned too bad to swim they do say an’ covered in oil.’

  The horror of it was like a blow to her stomach, even though she’d half expected it. To die like that, burnt and in pain, out in the middle of the Atlantic, all on his own. She could feel the oil burning on her own flesh, the terror of the water over her head. ‘Oh my poor Norman! That ain’t fair!’

  Becky patted her arm. ‘You got han’kerchief, ’ave you, gal?’

  Barbara shook away her tears. She had to be controlled. That wouldn’t do to let everyone see her in a state. ‘Yes. I’m orl right.’

  ‘You’re a good brave gal,’ Becky said, button eyes full of pity. ‘Catch hold of my arm.’ And when Barbara hesitated. ‘I could do with a bit of support.’

  So they walked through the yards to her father’s house arm in arm, supporting one another. Her own yard was exactly as she remembered it, dark and cramped and full of clutter, the same worn mangles against the wall, the dustbins and old bikes, the tin baths propped against the brickwork, even the same nets hanging to dry, the same smell of fish, wet boots and dirty clothes, and above it all, the same putrid stink from those awful outside lavvies. After months in the comfort of Childeric Road, she found it appalling and knew it was a slum. But at the moment it was full of relations, who’d spilled out of the house, and were standing around waiting and commiserating. So she had to put on a calm face and go and greet at least a few of them before she went indoors.

  The tiny living room was crowded too. Her father was hunched in his chair in the corner with his crew around him and a half-finished glass of whisky in his hand. His mates were all in their sea-faring caps and Sunday ganseys, but he was wearing a blue suit. She hadn’t been aware that he even possessed such a thing, leave alone seen him wear it, and the sight
of him, so ill at ease and quiet and shrunk into himself, made her feel a sudden rush of pity towards him.

  ‘’Lo Pa,’ she said. ‘You orl right?’

  But he didn’t look up. Instead her mother swooped across the room and seized her by the arm. ‘Whass brought you here then?’ she said. ‘I thought you were working up in Lonnon. On the trams.’ Her voice was querulous and aggressive and her face tear-stained. ‘I’m surprised you got time for us now, the sorta life you’re leadin’.’

  I won’t be provoked, Barbara thought. Not today. She’s upset. She don’t mean it. ‘Where’s the kids?’ she asked and looked round to find them.

  They were sitting back to back on a low wooden stool in a corner of the room, hemmed in by adult legs and noisy conversation and looking most unlike themselves, with their hair slicked to their skulls – who did that to them? – and their school guernseys clean and pressed. They were so glad to see her it made her want to cry. Instead she knelt on the floor and put her arms round them and told them she’d look after them.

  ‘You stand by me,’ she said. ‘Then you’ll be orl right.’

  There was a rustle of movement by the open door and somebody was calling that the hearse had arrived and it was time to go. Her father lumbered to his feet, still not saying a word, and with his mates protectively around him, led them all out.

  Afterwards Barbara was puzzled to realise how little of the funeral service she could remember. Her own brother was being committed to the earth and yet she stood at his graveside and didn’t feel any emotion at all. She looked away from the anguished faces round that awful pit, because she couldn’t bear to see them or to look at the coffin, but then she didn’t know where to put her eyes and glanced idly across at the dark walls of the church, thinking how old it was. She noticed the white wings of a flock of herring gulls as they soared overhead calling like cats, found she was admiring the grey backs and the garish yellow bills of the adults, counted the speckled yearlings, thinking what a lot of them there were. Finally she watched the branches of the yew tree swaying in the wind and sniffed the air thinking how salty it was. But she didn’t think of her brother at all. There would be time for that later, when she was on her own and it wouldn’t matter if she cried. For the moment it was all she could do to get through the awesome words of the service.