Blood on the Wood by Gillian Linscott Page A

entering in a good cause. Or perhaps I was only trying to find reasons for a decision I’d already made. When it was getting dusk Daniel reappeared, looking chastened. He had a few words with Daisy on her own, which seemed to leave neither of them happier, then came over to me.
    â€˜Have you thought yet?’
    â€˜I’ve sent for the picture. It might be tomorrow, if we’re lucky.’
    â€˜Make it tomorrow if you can.’
    I explained it wasn’t up to me but he was too keyed up and nervy to listen. Later, as we sat around on benches in what had been the school yard, somebody found a few bottles of beer, Daisy unwrapped her violin and there was music. No dancing this time though and no wildness, mainly sad ballads in Daniel’s good tenor voice. There was one I’d heard before, ‘A varmer he lived in the West Countree (With a hey down, bow down) And he had daughters one, two and three (And I’ll be true to my love if my love’11 be true to me.)’ Now and again he’d forget the words and Daisy would prompt him in that authoritative way that she had only when music and dancing were concerned. ‘They hanged the miller beside his own gate, for drowning the varmer’s daughter Kate. The sister she—’ What was it, Daisy? ‘The sister she fled beyond the seas And died an old maid among black savagees (And I’ll be true to my love, if my love’ll be true to me.)’ Around ten o’clock, Daniel said good night to Daisy and came over to me.
    â€˜Does somebody always end up getting hanged?’ I asked him.
    â€˜What?’
    â€˜In folk-songs. That’s two so far.’
    I think he’d intended to have another chat about burglary but this distracted him, as I’d intended.
    â€˜I’d never thought about it. I suppose it does happen quite a lot, come to think of it. But then they were wild times.’
    He said good night and started back over the dark field to the house, whistling dolefully. With most of the women gone home there were only half a dozen or so of us sleeping in the old dairy so I swapped my plank bed for a more comfortable straw pallet against the wall. As it happened, Daisy was sleeping on another pallet not far away. We’d left a little oil lamp burning on a table in case anybody needed to go outdoors to the yard during the night. By the light of it, I saw that she’d put her cloth-wrapped fiddle carefully between herself and the wall then had curled up under the blanket like a small child, face to the fiddle, legs drawn up to her chest.
    There were the usual sighs and snores through the night of people sleeping uneasily. At some point the oil ran out and the lamp died. I dozed for a while, then was jerked wide awake by a scream from somewhere near me. ‘No. No, don’t let him take me. Don’t let him take me!’
    Daisy. We were all awake in the grey of pre-dawn, getting out from makeshift beds with a clattering of planks and cries of what was up, what was happening? I was nearest to Daisy so got to her first and she struggled, trying to push me away. ‘No, no, no!’ I pinioned her as gently as I could in the blanket, talking to her all the time, telling her that it was all right, she was safe, we’d protect her. She stopped struggling but was trembling so violently” that I could feel it vibrating through my own body. Somebody managed to find a candle and light it and that seemed to help. At least we could look round the room and tell her truthfully that there was nobody there. The woman whose bed was nearest the door was sure nobody had come in and nothing could have come near Daisy without disturbing the rest of us who slept round her.
    â€˜Nightmare.’
    â€˜She’s had a nightmare, poor thing.’
    â€˜Leave the candle on the table. She doesn’t like the dark.’
    So we hugged Daisy, reassured and settled her and I moved my pallet closer to hers so