Daisy Chains

by Barbara Gaskell Denvil

  In the morning, the alarm woke Milton at seven o’clock. He opened his eyes, saw the same ceiling, and closed them again. Having virtually always lived in two small windowless rooms with only minimal comfort, the small hospital-style confinement did not bother him in the least. He had a bright little bathroom attached, but he didn’t always bother to use it and pissed on the floor, in the bathwater, or in his bed just as often as he used the actual toilet bowl. He preferred meals brought to his room and cheerfully sat alone at his little table to eat. He disliked sitting in company. The dining room he was invited to use held two very long tables with ten chairs to each, every one of them occupied. Including himself, twenty of the criminally insane occupied the institution, although Milton had never counted them and did not care about numbers. But he did not like crowds. These were all male. Some were barely able to speak. Some threw their food. Some spat at him and mocked his face and legs. He had always been alone except when his brothers visited, or when they brought him a lady to play with.

  Milton dreamed most nights. First, he would lie in bed and his thoughts would drift to the wonder of the great perfection which only he could imagine. A pretty house with roses and bright sunshine coming through a hundred windows. He lived on the ground floor with no necessity to climb stairs with his crooked legs. But naturally his legs were now straight and when he looked in a huge mirror, he saw himself as tall, handsome, long legged and straight, beautifully dressed in many colours. He imagined bright red trousers, a gorgeously striped T-shirt, shiny blue sandals, and a little tartan waistcoat.

  He was no longer partially bald, and his thick black hair shone in the sunshine, cut beautifully like his brother Mark’s. Naturally both Mark and Maurice lived upstairs. Mark made mountains of money. Maurice lived with the pretty Kate, his wife, and the unknown little daughter Mia. They all loved each other, especially him.

  He could watch a lot of television and play ball in the garden (on straight legs) and even help Kate with the cooking. But his happiest diversion was with Lady Number One, who adored him, and who lived in a separate bedroom next door to his own. She came in every morning and woke him with a kiss. They would play games together every day. Sometimes she would cry, but he would remind her kindly that he was Master, and she would have to play along and do what he demanded. Then she would laugh and promise to be good. Sometimes he would cuddle up with her in bed, but usually he preferred his own room. She never annoyed him, and nor, of course, did anyone else.

  Quite often in such dreams, he went on long holidays with the whole of the family, and that was best of all, out in pretty places and running around on his straight legs. Now he could even read a little bit, he might sit in bed to read a fairy story or a sexy picture book like the ones Maurice used to bring him.

  But heaven always crept away, and Milton would fall asleep and his dreams would change drastically. He would be stumbling on tiny bent legs through a desert, the sun scorching his back. He would be in excruciating pain, and up above within the clouds would be a hundred people laughing at him. He would see a pretty lady running towards him, but at the last minute she would run past, and disappear into the distance. The pain would increase. He usually woke crying.

  Now he lay, eyes closed but trying to forget the dream. A thump on the door was followed by a high pitched voice. “Come on, Milton. Have you bathed yet? And don’t forget to use the proper toilet for your wee-wees.”

  “I doesn’t wee-wee,” Milton said, gruff and annoyed. “I tinkles or I pisses.”

  “Just do it in the right place,” said the voice, fading along with the footsteps.

  Why, thought Milton, should he get up when some silly bitch told him to? He had always pleased himself when to sleep and when to wake. And when he had a lady to play with, his dreams had never been so miserable. They had often been most pleasant, even joyful. He was sick of obeying other people and having not one person to obey him. Maurice used to tell him what to do, but was usually polite about it, and gave him lots of nice surprises too. Mark never told him what to do. He had been the absolute darling, although sadly did not come very often.

  Milton was still defiantly in bed when the door flew open roughly an hour later and Mrs Bitch Fletcher. marched in glaring at him. This was not someone Milton would ever want for his lady, but he would dearly have liked to whip her. “Well, Mr Howard,” she said, hands on hips. “It seems you’ve missed breakfast again.”

  “I doesn’t like what they gives me,” he muttered from beneath the sheet. “Then porridgy fings is real boring and there ain’t one single bit o’ chocolitt.”

  “It’s a healthy breakfast, Mr Howard. You want to get healthy before your operations, don’t you?”

  “Dunno.” Milton remained with only the top of his head peeking above the sheet.

  “In less than an hour, you have an appointment with Doctor Collier,” said Nurse Fletcher. Then there’s your reading lesson with Camilla. By then it will be lunch time, and if you ask nicely, I’ll have that served in your room again. Then in the afternoon, it’s exercise therapy and a final appointment with the speech therapist before dinner. If you aren’t late for any of these important matters today, and if you don’t make a fuss about anything, I shall arrange an hour’s television for you before bed.”

  “Pooh,” said Milton, blowing under the sheet.

  “Up, up, up,” insisted the nurse. “Come on. First the toilet and then the shower. And if you don’t do it yourself, then I shall call Jimmy and we’ll wash you ourselves.”

  “I doesn’t like Jimmy.” Milton stayed in bed. “I doesn’t like you neither.”

  “Irrelevant, Mr Howard. Now up with you, and into the bathroom.” She turned on her heel and left the room, but the door stayed open behind her, and Milton could see the marching boots of Jimmy Cockleham, who could hurt him and make him do things.

  Very slowly, Milton crawled from his bed, slouched into his little bathroom, closed the latch on the door, sat on the toilet seat, and tried to remember what life had been like with his lady Eve, and with Mark upstairs to bring his meals.

  “I’s proper fed up and proper not happy,” he croaked to himself, “I gotta try the dead bit. Reckon t’will be mighty more fun.” Staring down at the small bent legs as he squatted on the loo seat, he felt like crying. “I knows me nice dreams ain’t comin’ true. Them operations is a trick. There ain’t no Number One no more. My Subbit Mummy ain’t come no more neither.” Milton was still crying.

  When Lionel returned to the cottage, he quickly slung off the hooded fleece-lined coat, most uncomfortable on hot days, and humped down the large bag from his shoulder onto the trestle table. Quickly he looked over the stuff he had stolen that day. Nothing to bring attention to himself naturally, but he’d helped himself to a large shirt hung outside on the rack for sale marked at one pound, a small tarpaulin used over a nearby parked car, which he could use himself on the leaking roof, three potatoes from outside the greengrocer’s, a loaf of stale bread from a tray marked for the ducks and birds as stale, and a coin found on the pavement.

  Starting to eat the bread piece by piece, Lionel was uncaring about the lack of butter, he sat on the bed and leaned back against the cottage wall, half in the tent and half in the house. Olga turned up halfway through. She reminded him that there was no butter nor jam, that the bread was extremely stale, and that it wasn’t suitable for birds let alone humans.

  He told her to fuck off.

  Strangely, she seemed uninclined to comply. “So your little sweetie might turn up today or tomorrow,” said the dragon sitting on Lionel’s shoulder. “You’d like to kill her, just like the first one? Or will she climb into bed with you?”

  It wasn’t raining, but the broken roof now under the tarpaulin dripped condensation. Lionel spoke aloud. “I never meant to wallop Karyn that hard. Was a real accident, that was. She was a good kid too, and did what I said. More than I can say for Tracy. She’s a wild little brat. And I like that. Besides, Karyn was never really min
e.”

  “You can’t be sure,” Olga cackled at his ear.

  Lionel stuffed another slice of bread into his mouth. There was about a quarter of the loaf left, but his violent hunger had passed. He spat out the crumbs that tasted mouldy, although he’d eaten plenty of rotten food before. “Leave me alone, bitch,” he told Olga. “You know I never meant to kill Karyn. But I lost my shitty temper. Fair enough. Can’t help it.”

  “And Tracy. Kill or fuck?”

  “She never minded the fucking,” remembered Lionel. “Always said it was OK when I asked her. Besides, she went whoring just like her bloody mother and sister, so why wouldn’t she want me? Just another prick, after all.”

  “And a nice big hard one too, handsome giant of a man.” But Olga was sneering.

  The rabbit stew he’d boiled up a week back had lasted for several days, and he’d enjoyed it too. But lighting a fire held risk. Smoke could be seen from a distance. His broken-down cottage merged into the trees and was not visible either from above, nor from the path. You had to walk right up to the front door before you saw it. But smoke was another matter altogether. The smell of fire could travel too, never mind the smell of rabbit stew. He had strangled a couple of birds and eaten them the previous week, but after pulling off the wings and a few other feathers, there had been nothing left worth eating, and the tiny bits of feathery skin had been entirely unsatisfying. Now eating the bread meant for them, he was quickly full up and felt relaxed. If only Olga would bugger off, he’d be able to sleep. Chucking the rest of the loaf across the room, he lay down and closed his eyes. Yet Olga remained, clucking and whistling. “Look,” said Lionel loudly, “I’m pleased Tracy’s coming. Last time she was here, she really mucked in. Helped a lot. Didn’t complain except about the kidneys. And we laughed together. That was great for a change. You never laugh, you old bitch.”

  “Dragons don’t laugh,” Olga said, climbing under the blankets with him, and tucking her head under her wing.

  Chapter Nineteen

  Driving to Nottingham, stopping on the way at a café for lunch, and then arriving at a small hotel in the evening, seemed delightful to Harry. He was a happy driver, when not too tired and he was passionately in love with his luxurious Lexus, the first brand new car he’d ever owned, and a special one at that. He’d bought it from the proceeds of his house sale – all his own. Well, Sylvia had paid for a few of the extras, but that had been her own choice. Loving a car was one of Harry’s pleasures, and driving it was an equal first on sunny days. The windows were tinted, so no glare, but the sunshine still turned the leather interior to gold. It even brightened Sylvia’s navy silk lap. Harry’s smile was almost as bright as the sunshine.

  Sylvia was fidgeting in her handbag for her paracetamol tablets. She spoke more to the large handbag than to Harry. “Damned lose everything, don’t you. No help at all.”

  “Headache?” suggested Harry, eyes on the road ahead.

  “Backache, hip ache, arthritic thumbs and cramp in one foot.”

  “Then find those pills.”

  Sylvia grabbed them from the inside zip pocket, looked inside the box, and swore loudly. “Empty.”

  “Look in the glove box. Pills, sweets, address book, and no gloves.” Harry was still enjoying the drive.

  “Oh dear,” said Sylvia, “this so-called investigation involves far more driving around than anything else. I don’t like all this packing and unpacking and being cramped in the car and dropping crumbs on the floor, and stopping at wayside cafes that aren’t very nice. Then we arrive and nothing interesting happens, and we drive all the way home again.”

  “I like it,” said Harry. “Probably just the feeling that I’m doing something and not just sitting around and dozing off in front of the telly like some of the older ones back at Rochester. So I kid myself, and you grumble too much.”

  “True.” Sylvia found the pills in the glove box, grabbed the water bottle (“Dammed water’s gone warm.”), swallowed pills and water together, put everything away again, and settled back to stared out of the window.

  They arrived at the small hotel, explained that they were already booked in, and were shown upstairs. The room was small, bright, uncluttered and comfortable. “OK,” said Harry, “now you can complain about dinner.”

  Dinner, however, was pleasant, and bedtime was a cuddle of silent pleasure.

  The following day it went wrong. Rain began to sleet down the windows, waking them at six thirty to a shivering grey light and a slosh outside. After breakfast they hurried across the car park, and scrambled into the warmth of shelter, Sylvia half hopping, half slithering on her crutch.

  It was Dean who answered the door at the Curzon household. He looked as though he had cried for days, his eyes were bloodshot, his cheeks wet, and he clutched a piece of very screwed paper. He stepped back with a sniff. Sylvia and Harry stepped inside. The inner gloom seemed even deeper than the bleak gloom of the chilly rain outside.

  Daisy was sitting in the Living room looking very small. She jumped up as she saw Sylvia. “Oh, Mr and Mrs Joyce. I do apologise. It’s such a – horrible – time.”

  Sylvia sat beside her, stretching out a hand. “Your husband?”

  Daisy Curzon nodded, grabbing Sylvia’s fingers. “He was so sick, my dearest George.” She melted into whispers. “Vomiting and rushing to the toilet, but too week at the end to rush anywhere. The doctor said it was one of the worst cases of Salmonella. But we still don’t know how he got it. We all eat the same thing. But he does like chicken, and I made him some sandwiches for work, using up the end of a roast. I gave one to Dean too for school, but thank goodness he didn’t eat it. He went to MacDonald’s that day with his friends. Thank the Blessed Lord above, or I would have lost my son as well.”

  Dean had crept in again and was standing, very huddled, at the doorway. “Dad died last night,” he said in similar whispers to his mother. “We weren’t even at his bedside. He died alone. I think that’s awful. I’ll feel horrible about that for the rest of my life.” His short dark hair flopped a little over his eyes, and was as wet as his eyes. The boy couldn’t stop crying. “Look, I got a note. Dad left us both a note. Mine says – ,” but he could not say the words, burst once more into tears, and hurried upstairs.

  “Oh my poor boy,” Daisy said. “He’s taken it so hard. Well, at that age it must be so hard to lose the most important man in your life. But dearest George was the love of mine, and I shall never get over losing him like this. Dean says he’ll try and make me happy, but I feel neither of us may ever be happy again.”

  Sylvia hugged Daisy and murmured the right words. Harry, embarrassed, mumbled that he was deeply sorry, but doubted if anyone heard him.

  On receiving the early news from the hospital, the family had rushed there, but could only sit and kiss the cheek of a dead man. There had been fountains of wretched tears. They had returned home only because Daisy was expecting the arrival of Sylvia and Harry. Harry read the two sad little notes. Daisy’s letter was loving and sweet. She said she’d treasure it for the rest of her life. Dean’s note was old fashioned. ‘You’re a good boy, Dean. Please go on being good. Go to college and look after your dear mother. Duty and responsible behaviour, just as I have been teaching you over the years, will make you so happy as you grow to adulthood. I love you my dearest son.’

  “George was always so proud of Dean,” mumbled Dairy. “As I am. This is such a tragedy for all of us.”

  Harry passed on the offer to take both of them to lunch, but both declined and said they just couldn’t face such a public appearance. Dean sniffed a thank you, but said his face was all bloated, his eyes were swollen and bloodshot, and he had no appetite at all.

  Daisy said, “So kind of you, Mr Joyce. But I fear we’ve dragged you all the way across England for no purpose after all. I don’t think I could even eat a crumb. I just want hot tea, that calms me down.

  “I’ll make more tea, Mum,” Dean mumbled, and shuffled into the kitchen.
<
br />   “I should never have invited you,” Daisy said into her handkerchief. “I was so sure that my darling George would recover in hospital. But the doctor said it was bad salmonella, and told me George already had a slightly weak heart and a blocked artery. We didn’t know about either of those things, but they made the sickness sicker. The doctor told us that hundreds die every week of food poisoning. I’m usually so careful about hygiene, but chicken can be most misleading. I feel so guilty. I feel as though I killed him.”

  Dean wiped his nose on the back of his hand and looked around for a box of tissues. He took a handful and passed the box to the his mother. “That’s crazy, Mum,” he said, putting his arm around her. “And we don’t even have proof about those sandwiches. It could have been something else he ate at work. Or did you clean the table with bleach before you made the sandwiches? That would be bad.”

  “I always wash down after I do that,” Daisy said, looking around a little wildly. “Surely I didn’t forget?”

  “I don’t know, I wasn’t here, Mum,” Dean said, wiping his whole face with the handful of tissues. “But I think Dad ate something at work. He always went out somewhere for coffee. It wouldn’t have been the canteen, or more people would be sick too. But what about a cake or a pie from some bakers? He liked cake.”

  “He liked pie too,” Mumbled Daisy.

  Dean hugged his mother again. “Mum, it wasn’t you. I don’t think you ever made bad food. Your cooking’s great. I’m gonna rest now. I just want to close my eyes and fly away. Remember Dad and all the lovely things he did for me.”

  Daisy turned back to Sylvia and Harry. “It’s been such a miserable time,” she said, staring down at her slippered toes. “A friend of mine had a nasty car accident. Poor Florence. She died, but at least it was quick. Then a girl down the road, older than Dean, but a nice kid. She committed suicide. I didn’t know her, but I heard she was bullied at school and couldn’t stand it anymore. Thank goodness that Sullivan monster seems to have gone away. We’ve had no more of those brutal killings. But it’s been such a sad time. I keep feeling I have to hang onto Dean in case something bad happens to him.”