Candles in the Storm by Rita Bradshaw

door. Her gran! You never knew what she was going to come out with next, but she wouldn’t be without the old lady for all the tea in China.
     
    It had run through her mind that it might be one of her brothers or their wives returning to chat some more, or Alf to fulfil her grandmother’s prophecy and say he would take her on any terms, so when she opened the door and saw a small slight girl with the fairest of colouring and without a hat or coat, she was too taken aback to do more than simply stare.
     
    ‘Is . . . is this where Tom Appleby lives, please?’
     
    ‘Tom?’
     
    ‘Aye, they said’ - the girl turned slightly, pointing back towards the first of the cottages - ‘they said he lives here.’
     
    It was only when the slight figure gave a convulsive shiver that Daisy’s tongue was loosened, and she said, ‘Oh, come in, come in. You must be frozen.’
     
    The girl stepped into the living room past Daisy who shut the door behind her. Daisy saw her glance towards the platform bed but she didn’t speak, merely rubbing her hand across her mouth, drops of water from her sodden dress falling on to the flagstones.
     
    ‘You’re soaked through.’ Daisy had noticed that her granny was too surprised to say a word, which was a first. ‘Come near the fire an’ I’ll get you a sup of somethin’ warm. Here, have my shawl round you.’
     
    Whether it was the kind words or the action of the shawl being drawn tenderly round her shoulders wasn’t clear, but suddenly the girl was weeping, great shuddering sobs that seemed to be pulling her apart, and had slid down on to the cold flagstones at Daisy’s feet.
     
    After one stunned moment Daisy drew the slender - too slender - figure into her arms, cradling her as she would one of Tilly’s bairns and making the same sort of murmurings as she said, ‘There, there, it’ll be all right. Whatever it is, it’ll be all right. Don’t take on so.’
     
    The tears continued to rain down the girl’s face for some minutes and by the time they had eased to hiccuping gasps the front of Daisy’s dress was damp from the sodden clothes pressed against it.
     
    ‘Look, lass, you sit by the fire a minute an’ I’ll get you a sup tea, all right? An’ then we’ll see about gettin’ you into somethin’ dry, you’ll catch your death like this.’ Daisy had reached out with one arm and drawn one of the straightbacked chairs from the table. Now she pushed the girl down on to it.
     
    This had to be the lass she had heard Tom mention to her da once, the lass from Whitburn. And now the girl herself confirmed this when she said, ‘I . . . I’m Margery Travis. Has Tom told you about me? I . . . I live in East Street,’ in between the gulps and sniffles.
     
    She couldn’t say no, not with the lass in this state. Daisy compromised by saying, ‘He mentioned he’d got a lass in Whitburn but that was all.’ She had to find the words to tell Margery what had happened but it was going to be a terrible shock, and she looked none too good already. What on earth was wrong with her?
     
    Nellie, decades older and wiser in the ways of the world, was already fearing the worst, her mind racing as she thought, Oh, no, not that. Not that now with the lad gone. Tom wouldn’t have been so daft, would he? Fear prompted her to say, and so abruptly that Daisy glanced across at her grandmother in surprise as she placed the kettle on the hob, ‘What’s brought you out on a night like this, an’ without a coat or hat?’
     
    ‘I need to see Tom. He was going to come last night but I waited and waited . . .’
     
    Margery’s voice tailed off. Both Nellie and Daisy had noticed that this girl spoke a little differently from them. The northern inflexion was less noticeable and she pronounced her Gs, but not in a manner that seemed forced in any way.
     
    ‘I have to tell you something.’ Daisy left the teapot and cups and knelt down in front of the wan figure on the chair. ‘Tom . . .