by Marie Joseph
The boy driving the car lay on his bed at home going over and over it in his mind. He had been going too fast. He had pulled out to overtake. The woman had appeared out of the blue and there had been nothing he could do. It wasn’t his fault. There weren’t any actual witnesses, but his parents kept on reassuring him that it wasn’t his fault. The woman had been seen behaving strangely, walking about with bandaged feet in over-large slippers in the pouring rain for hours. She had been in hospital, the police had said, and apparently there was more to come out. They more or less told him to try not to take it too much to heart. Someone commits suicide every minute of every day, they had said.
He put an arm across his face to hide the sting of tears behind his eyelids. So why wouldn’t the look of horror on the poor woman’s face in that split moment of sickening impact fade from his mind? Why was he convinced she had tried to step back when it was too late? And why didn’t he go downstairs now and tell his father about it? Why was he so sure he would never tell anyone about it? Ever. Ever.
Because he wasn’t sure. How could you be sure about a thing that had happened so quickly? And if you weren’t sure, wasn’t the best thing to keep quiet? For ever.
But what a thing to happen on his eighteenth birthday. There was such a mist in front of his eyes he could no longer see the bust of Molière he had won for French speaking at school last term on his tallboy by the far wall.
Dear Daisy,
Your letter really shocked me, but I have to say right away that I’m not surprised. Florence was unstable. The way she used to look at me at times gave me the creeps. I have to say this, because I know that you will be blaming yourself for not realizing just how unbalanced she was. I’m sure you’ll be glad that Jimmy was well away before it happened. He keeps mentioning you, calling his mother Daisy when he forgets, but he’s settled back at home as though he’d never been away. Kids are far more adaptable than we give them credit for.
Knowing you, I expect you will be coping. Perhaps you’ve asked your aunt to stay on with you for a while? She’s hated my guts since she first set eyes on me, and who can blame her?
It’s no good, Daisybell. There is so much more I would like to say to you and yet when I try to write it down it comes out like a school composition. I’m far better at writing technical reports. By the way, my last examination results were excellent. I have now got my Higher National Certificate in Mechanical Engineering, which means I can start looking round for a job that fits in with my qualifications.
This brings me to what I intended to say right at the beginning of this letter. I will be coming up to collect the rest of Jimmy’s things and to see you in roughly two weeks’ time. I can’t tell you the exact date, but it will be over a weekend. We have a lot to talk about, Daisybell.
Yours,
Sam
P.S. Don’t be too sad. I couldn’t bear that.
‘What hurts the most is the way everyone seems to have written Florence off. As though they were just waiting for her to jump off the end of the pier or step into the road without looking.’
Joshua knew Daisy was referring to something in the letter she held in her hand. He had picked it up himself from the mat, noting the London postmark. ‘Did Sam say why he didn’t come to the funeral?’
‘I never expected him to,’ she said, so quickly he knew she was lying.
The funeral had been bleak and terrible, with Florence’s father telling everyone that his daughter had merely gone through a door to live with Jesus, and Daisy so overwrought she felt overwhelmingly grateful for the feel of Joshua’s arm around her. She had dried her eyes, gone back to cooking a dinner for thirteen, and agreed with Uncle Arnold, who had made the journey to Blackpool on his own, that life must go on.
‘You’re not one for chucking the towel in, lass,’ he had said, then he had caught his train to be back in time for his tea, still shaking his grizzled head at the mystery of it all. It was like a jigsaw puzzle with one piece missing, he told himself. Everything slotting into place nice and easy, but not making a complete picture. He had carefully avoided getting into the same compartment as Florence’s father. ‘If he thinks he’s going to convert me between here and where we change at Preston he’s got another think coming,’ he had muttered, lighting a Woodbine and hiding behind his copy of the Daily Herald.
‘Sam is coming up in a couple of weeks, as a matter of fact.’ Daisy walked behind Joshua to the front door. ‘To collect the rest of Jimmy’s things. And to see me, of course.’
‘Of course.’ Joshua picked up his case and opened the door. As he always did, he raised his hat to Daisy before walking quickly down the street to the station to catch his train. She had got into the habit of seeing him off in the mornings, handing him his brown trilby and reminding him to wear his scarf if the weather had turned unseasonable.
Winnie as usual missed nothing. ‘If you have to get married, why don’t you marry Mr Penny instead of that London chap? He’s divorced, isn’t he?’
‘Who told you that?’
It was no use getting on her high horse with Winnie. Daisy accepted that Winnie had no finer feelings. If Winnie wanted to know then Winnie asked. She never took umbrage, never sulked. Since moving into Florence’s room she had sung her way round the house, polished the gleaming new taps of the wash basins in the bedrooms, whipped pillow-cases on and off, frightened the lives out of sleeping holidaymakers as she clattered into their rooms with the early-morning tea, flinging the curtains back with a flourish, her red hair standing on end with enthusiasm.
‘Mrs Chadwick in the front double wears French knickers, though she must be forty if she’s a day! Talk about mutton dressed as lamb. That little fat man from Darwen hangs his hair on the bedpost when he goes to bed. That young girl in the small back room sleeps in a brassiere, would you believe it, not that I blame her with bosoms like hers. I don’t know where they would end up if she didn’t keep ’em jacked up.’
She paused for a moment in her brisk beating of the eggs which were to go to table scrambled that morning. ‘Mrs Mac told me mam that your London chap is divorced. They’re always pumping me to find out what’s going on here.’
‘Well, there’s been plenty going on lately, hasn’t there, love?’ Daisy poured boiling water over a dish of Canary tomatoes to prepare them for skinning. ‘I think most of those booking to come back in July must be making sure they don’t miss the next instalment.’
Winnie took Daisy’s every utterance quite literally. ‘Oh, I think they like the food as well,’ she comforted, frothing the eggs over the sides of the basin in her enthusiasm.
Work was Daisy’s comfort and lifeline. Hard work and cooking. But it had always been so, she realized. No glamour, just a day-to-day slog, smiling at the visitors instead of the customers in the pie shop, getting up early, not to see to the boiler but to light the gas fire in the lounge, empty the ashtrays and open the window.
Word had got round, and most weeks she was fully booked. Hopeful couples knocked at the door on spec, slept one night then wanted to stay on. Daisy developed her own style of cooking, based on her knowledge of what tired workers coming home hungry liked – big helpings of unpretentious meals, avoiding extravagant delicacies which they couldn’t afford at home anyway. Which would have been immediately suspect in any case. Fish, fresh from Fleetwood, was on the menu at least twice a week. Fish pie, Joshua’s favourite meal, was easy to prepare. Smoked cod, coley fillets, peeled prawns, mushrooms, potatoes and cheese, butter and milk. All the ingredients were ready to hand on the kitchen table when the door-bell rang.
It was the early-afternoon lull in a landlady’s long and busy day. A spring-lit day, so warm that Winnie had gone off to see her mother wearing a knitted cardigan over a pink and white gingham dress. Daisy hadn’t the heart to tell her that the high round neck of a woollen vest was showing, or that the Evening in Paris scent she had doused herself with was enough to strip the bark off a tree at three paces. Winnie was so happy these days, so kee
n, so exuberant, she almost gave off sparks as she dashed round the house.
‘By gum, but yon lass is a worker,’ the last departing visitor had said, and no fewer than three families had mentioned her in the visitors’ book in the hall.
‘Like being mentioned in dispatches,’ Joshua had said, showing her the written comments, pleased as punch for her.
Joshua was biding his time. Daisy was in no way her normal ebullient self since Florence’s death; her smile was there, but it had a frayed-at-the-edges look about it. She had stopped talking about Sam altogether. Once Joshua had mentioned his name and she had flinched away as though the very sound of it upset her. He was coming to see her, she had said, and on that visit Joshua pinned all his hopes and his fears. Much more sophisticated than Winnie in his thinking, he didn’t exactly pray that Sam would drop off the nearest precipice, but he was ready metaphorically holding out the blanket of his love for Daisy if needed.
Daisy was wiping her hands on her apron as she opened the front door.
‘Yes? Can I help you?’ Her smile was warm, tinged with genuine regret as she pointed out the NO VACANCIES sign in the window. ‘If you want a room for this week I’m sorry but I’m fully booked. Next week I could manage to fit you in …’
The woman was slim-built, taller than Daisy, smart without being a fashion-plate. Thin, by Daisy’s yardstick, with white-blonde hair on which a powder-blue halo hat sat precariously. Her blue speckled tweed suit had a three-quarter coat and calf-length skirt, and the leather case she carried matched her gauntlet gloves and brown court shoes.
‘Miss Bell? Miss Daisy Bell?’ She seemed half amused by the supposition, but the little half smile did not touch her eyes. ‘Do you think I could come inside? The wind’s a lot fresher up here than it is down in London. I should have worn a top coat I suppose. I’m Aileen Barnet. Sam’s wife.’
It was no good Daisy trying to control the blush. Blushing had always been her downfall. She felt it suffuse her face with colour as the shock sent pricking sensations down her spine.
‘Please come in.’
Her voice, even to her own ears, sounded high-pitched. She led the way into the lounge, whipping off her apron as she went. Oh, dear God, it had happened, just the way her mother had prophesied it would right from the beginning. ‘His wife will come up and smack your face,’ she had said, ‘because she’ll find out about you. They always do.’
‘Please sit down,’ she said, sending up a fervent prayer of thanks that the house was empty of visitors for the time being with the weather being so unseasonable and everyone taking advantage. Then she sat down herself before her legs gave way beneath her.
‘Thank you.’ Aileen Barnet crossed slim ankles. ‘Do you mind if I smoke?’
God alone knew why she was nervous, but she was. So this was the Daisy young Jimmy brought into the conversation so much. ‘Daisy said that, Daisy did things this way. Daisy made chips better than shop chips, Daisy cut his hair, Daisy put expression in when she read to him.’ Aileen lit a cigarette, narrowing her eyes against the upcurl of smoke. So this was the Daisy Sam had described as being a typical old maid. Homely, with glasses, motherly and kind.
‘I must say you’re not a bit like I expected you to be,’ she said.
‘Oh. Am I not? Aren’t I?’ Daisy’s mind was racing ahead. If this were a film she would be in total command of the situation, smoking a cigarette like Sam’s wife, flicking the ash at the cream tiles of the new fireplace, cool as a cucumber, finding out how much this woman knew, telling her in a husky voice that the first thing they must do was to be civilized about the whole thing.
‘No, you’re not.’ Aileen had come prepared to be pitying; now she felt anger building up inside her. Sam had lied to her. Lied by inference, but lied all the same. Daisy Bell was lovely. Even smelling of fish, and without make-up, there was a freshness about her, an innocence that was in no way a naïvety. Put her in a white bonnet with the strings blowing in the wind and she was the Ovaltine Girl from the advertisement. Beside her Aileen felt over made-up, overdressed and, let’s face it, bloody middle-aged.
‘I’ll go upstairs and get Jimmy’s things.’ Daisy was so agitated she hardly knew what she was saying or doing. ‘How is he? I miss him a lot.’ Oh, God, should she have said that? Oh, why hadn’t Sam put her in the picture more so she would know what to talk about, how much to give away?
‘When I thought I was going to Canada,’ Aileen was saying in that plum-in-the-mouth accent so like Sam’s, ‘it seemed the best thing for him to stay in this country. Schooling and everything, you know. We can’t thank you enough for fostering him for us at a difficult time.’ She was staring straight at Daisy, stubbing out the cigarette, taking another from the packet with a black cat on the front.
‘That’s all right.’ If Daisy didn’t escape from the room her expression would give the game away. Fostering Jimmy? When this pretty woman with the young-old face thought she was going to Canada? She ran upstairs so quickly she almost tripped and fell, and once in her room took the brown paper parcel with Jimmy’s things in it from the top of her wardrobe to stand holding it to her, feeling her heart beating wildly. She would never forgive Sam for this. She put a hand over her mouth. If indeed he knew that his wife was here. The case Aileen had with her was empty – Daisy had kicked it aside accidentally as she left the room. So she really had come for Jimmy’s things. Perhaps that was all? Could that be all?
All at once an upsurge of fury caught her unawares. What did she think she was? A cringing door-mat? Was she going to let Aileen Barnet go away without knowing whether Sam had sent her or not? Was she going to wait for the next noncommittal letter, telling her nothing, promising a visit which would or would not materialize? She had always liked things clear, always wanted an honest and straightforward explanation for everything. Why had Sam sent his wife instead of coming himself? Did Sam even know that his wife was here? Well, there was only one way to find that out. Still clutching the parcel to her chest, she ran down the stairs.
‘Are you going back to London straight away, Mrs Barnet?’ Surely that was a harmless enough question.
‘Oh, no. I haven’t come from London. We’re based in your home town all week. Sam left me there for a few days while he drives his boss and the mill bloke up to Scotland. The children are being looked after by a friend with two of her own, roughly the same age and at the same school, so it isn’t much of a problem for her. She knows I’ll do the same for her any time.’
It was hard to take in. And yet at the same time it was only the confirmation of what Daisy had vaguely suspected for a long time now. Aileen Barnet wasn’t going to marry again and go to live in Canada. Somewhere along the line that affair had petered out. She and Sam were living together again. There wasn’t going to be a divorce. Maybe there was never going to be a divorce. Sam would never write and tell her he had found a better job, never come up and insist she sell the boarding-house, or hand it over to Florence. How could he when Florence was dead? How could any of that happen when he had been lying to her all the time, using her, persuading her to go into his room in her nightie and climb into bed with him.
It was no good, she couldn’t cope with it. Her thoughts spun out of control as the guilt flooded through her. How could she stay here in the same room as Sam’s wife when she had got into bed with her husband in the middle of the night and almost let him have his way with her? She could have cried aloud with the shame of it all. She had no idea how her face mirrored her thoughts. Unaware that Sam’s wife was reading her like an open book.
‘You’re not the first one, you know.’ Aileen drew deeply on her cigarette. ‘Not by a long chalk, oh dear me, no.’ She cocked her neat little head to one side. ‘Different though. Not Sam’s usual type. He likes his women a bit younger usually. Younger and harder, not still damp behind the ears.’
‘There was nothing. …’ Daisy had the overwhelming guilt still on her. It was choking her, forcing her to explain, not to let herself be
seen as a … what was it Jimmy had said? … a fancy-piece. ‘We never. …’ Her voice trailed away in distress.
‘Really? That’s not like Sam.’ Aileen’s arched and plucked eyebrows ascended almost to her fluffy hairline. ‘Are you thinking you love him, Miss Bell? Did he promise to marry you when our divorce came through? Yes, I see he did.’ She tut-tutted as if she found the whole thing mildly irritating. ‘Two years ago one of his little paramours actually turned up on the doorstep with her case packed, ready to move in with him. She didn’t bargain on seeing his wife open the door. Please do something with that cat. It’s making me sneeze.’
It was Aileen’s apparent lack of concern that did it. If she had cried or looked miserable Daisy would have held her tongue, but to see her sitting there puffing on her third cigarette, missing the ashtray more often than not … well, as Daisy’s own mother would have said, it was more than flesh and blood could stand.
‘Yes, Mrs Barnet, I was thinking I loved your husband. Notice I said was thinking, Mrs Barnet. I haven’t had much experience in loving a man, but to my mind love is a bit like a plant – if it’s not watered and fed it wilts and dies.’ She lifted her chin and raised her voice. ‘I’ve been that carried away I haven’t known what I’ve been doing. Making excuses for him, understanding him, making a door-mat of meself just for the sake of a smile from him.’ She put up a hand. ‘No, don’t speak yet. Let me finish. You’ve nothing to worry about. You’re getting him back as good as new. Because you are having him back, aren’t you?’ She dashed a hand across her eyes. ‘I can understand you having a bit of a fling yourself after what you’ve told me, but what about Jimmy? How could you do what you did? You didn’t know where he was going, you had no idea what I was like. Suppose I’d been cruel to him? Would you have even cared?’ Tears were pricking behind her eyes. ‘Because I cared about him, Mrs Barnet. Would you like a proper laugh? I’d even gone as far as imagining that Sam and me might adopt him legally when we were married. Jimmy was ill while he was here, proper ill. He might have died. An’ he needed you. He kept calling for you when the fever was on him. I can understand you playing the old tit-for-tat with Sam, but I’ll never see how you could let your child go to a stranger like that.’