you don’t know any better dear, but I do prefer the napkins to be folded into triangles. A square is so common, don’t you think?’
And although Daisy had no objection to doing her share of household tasks, she had not come to them as a housemaid but as an evacuee, and she was fully aware that the Chapmans were being paid to accommodate her, partly by the government, and partly by a contribution from her own parents. The Chapmans’ were legally obliged to open their home to someone, and it really wasn’t Daisy’s fault that there was a war on, so constant proof of her gratitude shouldn’t be expected of her.
But Daisy said nothing, uncomplainingly bearing the burden of more and more chores each evening, despite having spent a long day addressing envelopes for the various secretaries and clerks Mr Chapman employed, while Mrs Chapman sat in her comfy chair and read her Woman magazine. She told herself that she didn’t mind the extra work, as it gave her something to do and kept her mind fully occupied.
It was the quiet moments alone in her room which were the worst. Those were the times when she thought of what might have been, of how things could have been so different if Percy had not let her down, if she hadn’t had her lovely baby taken from her. But where was the good in self pity? it only ever ended in Daisy sobbing into her pillow, which left her red eyed and exhausted the next day and did her no good at all.
Yet it was hard not to feel abandoned. Despite all her valiant efforts to keep cheerful and to cope, Daisy was lonely.
Sometimes she even found herself thinking fondly of Marigold Court with its back entry cluttered with dustbins, groups of gossiping women pegging out threadbare washing and men hanging around street corners smoking dimps, hoping their each way bet on the dogs would come up. Daisy hated to admit it but, like Megan and Trish, she was homesick for the familiar streets and markets, for her ineffectual, ever-silent, hen-pecked father who’d never stood up to his domineering wife in his entire life, not even when his own daughter had been shown the door.
To her shame she didn’t miss her mother one bit, but, one evening alone in her room, Daisy wrote a letter, addressed to them both, giving her current address and telling of her adventures to date. She cried as she wrote it, for all it made her feel better afterwards when she’d popped it into the post box. Perhaps, one day, her father at least might send a reply. It would be something to look forward to.
In the weeks following, she watched every morning for the postman but no letter came for her and Daisy strove to accustom herself to her new life, pondering on how easily promises were made - and broken. Percy’s promise to love her for always had certainly meant nothing. Percy had been a mistake, a bad one, and she would take much more care in future over where she bestowed her love.
The image of a pair of steady grey-green eyes sprang instantly to mind. Harry Driscoll, the young airman she’d met on the bus.
She’d once considered writing to him. Daisy had carefully copied out the address he’d written on her hand because, after all, if it hadn’t been for him she might never have got into town that day and they’d have been forced to spend another night in that awful house with poor Miss Amelia dead upstairs. Unfortunately, she’d never quite plucked up the courage to actually put pen to paper, which made her feel a bit guilty about breaking her promise.
But where was the point, she asked herself? He would no doubt be sent out on ops soon, or whatever they called them, and she might well be moved again herself. Daisy still dreamed of finding her Aunt Florrie. If only she knew where to look, and under what name. You’d think her mother would be prepared to help her, but no, not a word.
Her own parents’ obligation of love and care had failed her too, just when she needed them most. Daisy was quite certain, deep in her
And although Daisy had no objection to doing her share of household tasks, she had not come to them as a housemaid but as an evacuee, and she was fully aware that the Chapmans were being paid to accommodate her, partly by the government, and partly by a contribution from her own parents. The Chapmans’ were legally obliged to open their home to someone, and it really wasn’t Daisy’s fault that there was a war on, so constant proof of her gratitude shouldn’t be expected of her.
But Daisy said nothing, uncomplainingly bearing the burden of more and more chores each evening, despite having spent a long day addressing envelopes for the various secretaries and clerks Mr Chapman employed, while Mrs Chapman sat in her comfy chair and read her Woman magazine. She told herself that she didn’t mind the extra work, as it gave her something to do and kept her mind fully occupied.
It was the quiet moments alone in her room which were the worst. Those were the times when she thought of what might have been, of how things could have been so different if Percy had not let her down, if she hadn’t had her lovely baby taken from her. But where was the good in self pity? it only ever ended in Daisy sobbing into her pillow, which left her red eyed and exhausted the next day and did her no good at all.
Yet it was hard not to feel abandoned. Despite all her valiant efforts to keep cheerful and to cope, Daisy was lonely.
Sometimes she even found herself thinking fondly of Marigold Court with its back entry cluttered with dustbins, groups of gossiping women pegging out threadbare washing and men hanging around street corners smoking dimps, hoping their each way bet on the dogs would come up. Daisy hated to admit it but, like Megan and Trish, she was homesick for the familiar streets and markets, for her ineffectual, ever-silent, hen-pecked father who’d never stood up to his domineering wife in his entire life, not even when his own daughter had been shown the door.
To her shame she didn’t miss her mother one bit, but, one evening alone in her room, Daisy wrote a letter, addressed to them both, giving her current address and telling of her adventures to date. She cried as she wrote it, for all it made her feel better afterwards when she’d popped it into the post box. Perhaps, one day, her father at least might send a reply. It would be something to look forward to.
In the weeks following, she watched every morning for the postman but no letter came for her and Daisy strove to accustom herself to her new life, pondering on how easily promises were made - and broken. Percy’s promise to love her for always had certainly meant nothing. Percy had been a mistake, a bad one, and she would take much more care in future over where she bestowed her love.
The image of a pair of steady grey-green eyes sprang instantly to mind. Harry Driscoll, the young airman she’d met on the bus.
She’d once considered writing to him. Daisy had carefully copied out the address he’d written on her hand because, after all, if it hadn’t been for him she might never have got into town that day and they’d have been forced to spend another night in that awful house with poor Miss Amelia dead upstairs. Unfortunately, she’d never quite plucked up the courage to actually put pen to paper, which made her feel a bit guilty about breaking her promise.
But where was the point, she asked herself? He would no doubt be sent out on ops soon, or whatever they called them, and she might well be moved again herself. Daisy still dreamed of finding her Aunt Florrie. If only she knew where to look, and under what name. You’d think her mother would be prepared to help her, but no, not a word.
Her own parents’ obligation of love and care had failed her too, just when she needed them most. Daisy was quite certain, deep in her
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