Daisy's Wars (13 page)

‘There isn’t,’ Daisy said shortly. ‘Don’t worry, I’ll manage.’

‘But it’s been so quick,’ Joan said helplessly, and Daisy nodded.

‘And what if you’re … ?’

‘I’ll cross that bridge when I come to it,
if
I come to it,’ Daisy said.

‘But you’ll keep in touch? You’ll let me know? I feel I should be able to do more for you. I feel so useless!’ Joan said angrily.

‘You’ve done everything for me,’ Daisy replied. ‘Who else would I have turned to if you hadn’t been there?’

They both started crying, but it went unnoticed because everywhere around them there were crying people.

‘You could come and live with me and George,’ Joan said desperately. ‘How about that?’ What was the worst that could happen, she thought, that the girl would think there
was something odd about her and George? There
was
something odd, and anyway, in these circumstances, what did it matter?

Daisy shook her head. ‘How could that help?’ she asked kindly. ‘I have to go, there’s nothing else to do. Besides,’ she smiled, ‘I’ve signed the
papers.’

Joan looked at her, recognising a show when she saw it being put on, feeling proud of her girl and devastated at the same time. No one said life had to be fair, but this went beyond unfair.
‘I’ve become so fond of you, Daisy,’ she sniffed into her handkerchief.

‘I know,’ Daisy smiled back. ‘You’re so funny,’ she said, ‘you even blow your nose like a lady.’

Then they collapsed into each other’s arms before Daisy forced herself apart and moved towards a carriage. Joan handed her little cardboard suitcase up to her, trying to think of something
memorable to say before they parted, aware that time was running out before either of them was ready for it. They had come so far, further than many women related by blood. They meant much more to
each other than fellow-workers and the pain they were both feeling at losing each other was hard for either of them to put into words. The parting was too sudden, too tragic for them to articulate
feelings that ran even deeper than they had realised.

‘I’ll take your letter to your mother, and don’t worry, I’ll make sure she’s all right,’ Joan shouted as the train moved off. ‘And remember what I told
you – life’s an act, just a series of parts. Don’t take it seriously, just learn your lines and say them as though you mean them. As long as you know inside what’s what,
you’ll be fine!’

That was the memory Daisy would always carry of Joan Johnstone, a small figure dressed in black, hopping up and down and cheerfully throwing kisses with wild abandon as the train gathered speed.
All the while getting smaller until Daisy couldn’t see her any more and so couldn’t see Joan crying from pity and frustration. But she knew, because she was crying the same tears
herself.

On the train Daisy found herself sitting between Violet from Darlington and Celia from Middlesbrough, two of the other northerners bound for life as WAAFs, but it was so packed
and noisy that she was hardly able to exchange a word with them. It suited her, though. She was withdrawn, needing her own company, still in shock, she supposed. She hadn’t understood shock
before, she’d thought it was a bit like getting a fright, you just calmed down and got on with things fairly swiftly. But this was different, this was almost like being ill. The other two
girls were already chatting on as though they had known each other all their lives, the kind of conversation that didn’t need to be listened to. Daisy was glad to notice that all that was
required was a nod of the head or a smile occasionally. She was trying not to go over it all in her mind; rape wasn’t unheard of, after all, and girls did get over it, so why dwell on it?

‘God, I’m hot!’ Celia said beside her. ‘I didn’t know there were this many brats in the world.’ She was a tiny, talkative blonde, Daisy noticed, her mind
flitting back and forth, while Violet was a tall, hippy brunette.

But Daisy couldn’t stop thinking about the implications of what had happened. Suppose she was pregnant: could she get pregnant first time round? She’d heard that you couldn’t,
and was slightly relieved by that, but there again, suppose that was wrong?

And had she wanted it, as Dessie had suggested, even subconsciously? She knew that wasn’t so, the very thought of him had always revolted her, long before he took any notice of her. But
what about those times when he had pushed against her, touched her or just stood there, staring at her in that way, that sickeningly raw, animal way. She had never told anyone, never drawn
attention to what he was doing, how he was making her feel, because he could have, and would have, said she was imagining it. No one would’ve believed her anyway, they would have asked why
she hadn’t spoken up earlier if he’d been behaving like that, as indeed she was now asking herself. After all, any decent girl would. Besides, Dessie had always been there, a member of
the family, an asset they were all grateful to have around, or nearly all. And that was another thing, she had made it clear that she didn’t like him, so they’d have accepted his
denials and would have said she was making it up.

Her father had always thought her dislike of Dessie was based on jealousy, though it wasn’t, and now that she was grown up he’d shown that he believed she went out of her way to
entice all the poor, innocent men around. He would’ve taken Dessie’s side and she’d have been thrown out of the family whether she was needed or not.

So she had lost nothing. Nothing but her virginity that was.

Daisy shuddered. Then she thought about her mother and wondered who would look after her now; who would wash her, make sure she had clean bedclothes and was comfortable, remember to take her tea
without her asking. She lowered her head and tried to stop the tears. Her poor Mam, who didn’t deserve anything that had happened to her in her entire life and now she would think Daisy had
deserted her.

Well, there was nothing for it. There was no going back so the family would have to manage. Kay was stuck in the house anyway, and she’d be stuck even more with two children to look after,
so she’d just have to get to grips with the situation Daisy had lived with all her life. It wasn’t ideal, she knew that, but there was nothing to be done.

That evening Joan Johnstone didn’t go straight home to Holly Avenue. She went first to see her sister in Guildford Place, then she walked to the other end of the road, to
the Sheridan house, and knocked on the door.

Dessie answered her knock. He wasn’t hard to identify: Daisy had described him often and she knew there were no other young men in the house.

‘Mr Doyle?’ she asked politely.

‘Who wants to know?’ he asked back.

He stared at her in an arrogant way and she knew she would’ve marked him down as trouble even if she hadn’t already known he was.

‘My name’s Mrs Johnstone, Mr Doyle,’ she said. ‘My family and the Clancys were good friends and when I said I’d be in the neighbourhood I was asked to pass on their
good wishes to Mrs Sheridan. I have a message here for her,’ Joan continued, a sweet smile on her face.

Dessie looked her up and down, and she saw him deciding from the way she dressed and spoke that she wasn’t from these parts; in fact she represented the kind of people he both feared and
felt inferior to: she was a toff. He looked at the letter in her hand.

‘Who’s it from?’ he asked suspiciously, putting his hand out.

‘Well, as I said, it’s good wishes from old friends, but I think Mrs Sheridan should read them first, don’t you?’ she said, head to one side, still smiling. ‘If you
don’t mind I’ll give it to her myself.’

She made to walk past him a split second before he tried to stop her. ‘It’s all right, Mr Doyle, I know she doesn’t keep well, I won’t upset her,’ she said
brightly, and headed inside the house. In the hallway she saw the Singer sewing machine she had given Daisy. She’d told the girl she couldn’t master the thing, it was just gathering
dust in her house so better to give it to someone who would make use of it, but that hadn’t been true. Knowing Daisy was a skilled needlewoman and liked to copy the clothes in Fenwicks she
had wanted to give her a machine, but she knew Daisy would’ve refused a brand-new one, so she had bought a second-hand one and spun her a yarn so that she would accept it.

She paused for a second, imagining Daisy sitting there, happily sewing her creations, remembering the skirt on the bias that had been such a disaster and how annoyed Daisy had been, and she
closed her eyes for a moment. The girl had so enjoyed making things on her machine, even the disasters. Such a little pleasure, and now the machine looked as forlorn as a headstone. She gathered
herself and looked up at Dessie.

‘This way?’ she asked perkily, heading for the likeliest room without pausing for a reply. Not that she had to use too much imagination, she could hear Kathleen’s laboured
breathing as she put her hand on the door handle.

Even though Daisy had told her of Kathleen’s ill-health, Joan was shocked by her first glimpse and had to work hard to cover her reaction. She couldn’t tell if Kathleen was awake or
not at first, her eyes were hooded and her cheeks were a shiny bright red against discoloured, unhealthy-looking skin. Her whole body wheezed, and her arms were unnaturally swollen. Joan supposed
her legs, hidden under the blankets, would be, too.

‘Mrs Sheridan?’ she asked quietly. ‘I’m Mrs Johnstone.’

Kathleen didn’t move, apart from an almost imperceptible nod of her head indicating that she knew the name. Then her eyes looked behind Joan, to where Dessie was still standing in the
doorway, smoking despite Kathleen’s breathing.

‘It’s all right, Mr Doyle,’ Joan said, smiling her false smile. ‘You won’t mind if I shut the door, will you, Mrs Sheridan?’

Kathleen shook her head slightly, but said nothing. Talking took too much effort.

Joan shut the door and returned to the bed.

‘Mrs Sheridan,’ she said quietly, ‘I’m Daisy’s boss at Fenwicks, I assume you know that?’

Another slight nod.

‘Please don’t upset yourself, but I have a note from her and some news. Would you like me to read it?’ She didn’t wait for the nod this time, but carefully opened the
envelope and read the contents of the letter, and found herself suddenly overcome, hearing Daisy’s voice in her head. Not that Daisy had revealed anything of her real reason for going, just
that the house was too crowded now and would be even more so when Kay’s next child arrived, so she had decided to join the WAAFs before she was sent to a factory and she hoped her mother
would forgive her. She made no mention of her father or of anyone else, which Joan found more significant than Daisy had intended.

Joan looked at Kathleen, prepared for some sort of reaction, but there was none.

‘I can assure you that she’s all right, Mrs Sheridan, I saw her off myself. She wanted to do this in a way that would cause you least upset and thought it would be better for you if
you didn’t know she was going. All those long goodbyes, you know the sort of thing.’

Still nothing, then Kathleen lifted a hand and pointed to the door.

‘Do you want me to go?’

Kathleen closed her eyes then opened them again.

‘Do you want me to get someone for you, is that it?’

Kathleen shook her head just once again and Joan looked at her helplessly, trying to decipher the limited communication.

‘Him,’ Kathleen croaked. ‘It was him.’

Joan looked at her, wondering how much knowledge those few words covered, but she had no right to patronise this woman. ‘Yes,’ she said sadly, ‘it was him.’

Kathleen pushed her head back against her pillows and closed her eyes, and Joan tried to comfort her.

‘Mrs Sheridan,’ she said helplessly, ‘Daisy truly is all right. I’ve made sure she’s all right, please don’t be concerned.’

Kathleen didn’t reply, but lay there trying to breathe. Joan put the note in her hand and moved towards the door.

‘I couldn’t,’ Kathleen’s voice came from the bed, a faint whisper. ‘I couldn’t help her.’

‘You heard?’ Joan said.

Kathleen nodded. ‘And before,’ she whispered. ‘She always said he was bad … she was … right. I couldn’t …’

‘Of course you couldn’t, don’t blame yourself,’ Joan said kindly, going back to the bedside. ‘I always got the feeling from the little she said about the situation
that he’d had his eye on her for a long time.’

Kathleen nodded more firmly this time.

‘Let her down …’ she wheezed, and was immediately lost in a paroxysm of moist coughing.

‘I’m sure you didn’t,’ Joan said helplessly. ‘What could you have done?’

Tears were coursing down Kathleen’s cheeks, more from concern about Daisy, Joan was convinced, than from the fit of coughing.

‘Not even her own father,’ Kathleen’s voice rasped, then shook her head slightly, her eyes closed.

Joan Johnstone felt wracked with pity for the woman, imagining what it must have been like for her to know what Daisy’s life had entailed. No one else had noticed, no one but Kathleen
herself, so there had been nowhere for her daughter to turn for help. She thought of Kathleen lying in this room and listening, and then she pictured poor Daisy, thinking that if she didn’t
cry out Kathleen would be saved the knowledge of knowing what Dessie was doing to her. Only Daisy was an innocent, she wasn’t to know that even if she didn’t scream out, the
accompanying sounds were unmistakable if you already had the knowledge.

‘Can’t tell Michael anything,’ Kathleen cried. ‘Still, should’ve done something. My own Daisy!’

‘Mrs Sheridan, please don’t distress yourself. Daisy would be beside herself if she knew you were upsetting yourself over this,’ Joan said, laying one of her own delicate,
ladylike hands on Kathleen’s swollen one and noticing with some horror how pink her own was in comparison.

‘Cool,’ Kathleen whispered, and Joan immediately moved her hand to the woman’s forehead. Kathleen nodded slightly with gratitude.

‘Don’t worry, Mrs Sheridan,’ Joan said. ‘I’m very fond of Daisy. I’ll be keeping in close touch with her and I’ll keep you up-to-date. I would imagine
her father won’t approve of what she’s done, she’ll be an outcast to him, so it will be our secret; yours, mine and Daisy’s. We’ll say our families were friends in the
old days; I’ve already said as much to that beast at the door. All right?’