heart, that she might never have made that dreadful mistake and fallen pregnant, if her mother had properly explained to her the facts of life. It had been her own ignorance, in comparison to Percy’s obviously superior experience, which had been her downfall.
Even poor Miss Pratt, who’d promised to ‘do her bit’ and look after them, had broken her word through no fault of her own. But then that was the problem, wasn’t it? How did anyone know what was going to happen next? You could cross your heart, spit on your hand as they used to do in the school playground, write a promise in your own blood and nail it to a tree but lightening could strike the tree, or someone in higher authority could simply pick you up and move you on, just as if you were an insect to be plucked from one place and dropped somewhere entirely different. It was really most alarming how very little control Daisy had over her own life.
And those two little ones, homesick for their mam, must feel even worse. She was glad that at least she’d been able to do something to help them.
In the event the two children settled in remarkably well. Mrs Marshall was a kind hearted woman and although at first she was alarmed and distressed by the state of them, in no time at all she persuaded Megan into the bath with the lure of a rubber sailing boat, and soon had the pair of them shining clean, their hair cut and glowing like a pair of polished chestnuts. Each day as they walked the dog Trish would describe, in painstaking detail, every scrap of food they had eaten and Daisy would ask Megan about school. She still wasn’t the most forthcoming child, but she was getting better and sometimes could be quite entertaining.
‘The other children say we talk funny, so I said they did too. At least we don’t ask someone, ‘Are you gaily?’ and she did a fair imitation of the Westmorland accent.
‘So how would you ask someone how they were?’
She thought about this for a minute and then said, in her broadest Lancashire. ‘Hey up? Howarta?’ and then collapsed into a fit of giggles. Trish put her hand to her mouth and giggled too, though she wasn’t entirely sure why or what she was laughing at.
Daisy joined in with the hilarity, mainly because it was good to see the children happy for once, and tried to think of more silly words. ‘What about lish for lively? Or thrang for busy? They say that too round here.’
‘Mrs Marshall calls her bread knife a gully. I thought that was the same as what we would call an alley,’ Megan said. ‘And porridge she calls poddish. That’s the silliest word I ever heard.’
‘I know a sillier one. How about powfagged?’ Daisy said, wiping tears of laughter from her eyes. ‘My grandma complained of being that all her life.’
‘What does it mean?’ Trish asked.
‘Weary, which is what I am now after this long walk. Come on, let’s see if Mrs Marshall can supply some lemonade.’ And she hugged them both, feeling a huge relief and sense of satisfaction that all was going well with them at last.
Megan thought the war was overrated. There were no aeroplanes dropping bombs on them and flattening their houses, no tanks thundering through the village streets. They never had to run for their lives to an air raid shelter, only creep down into a dark, damp cellar where there were spiders and goodness what else. Not even any enemy soldiers invading to take them prisoner or shoot at them, as she’d been led to expect. War was boring.
Everyone was calling it the phoney war and Mr Marshall said that more people were being injured falling over in the black-out than by enemy action. ‘The common bicycle is turning into a lethal weapon,’ he mourned, as he went out every morning on duty.
Each night they all had to listen to the news on the wireless and a man talked about an aircraft carrier being torpedoed by a U-boat. It was called Courageous which Mrs Marshall said was a most appropriate name.
Megan had asked
Even poor Miss Pratt, who’d promised to ‘do her bit’ and look after them, had broken her word through no fault of her own. But then that was the problem, wasn’t it? How did anyone know what was going to happen next? You could cross your heart, spit on your hand as they used to do in the school playground, write a promise in your own blood and nail it to a tree but lightening could strike the tree, or someone in higher authority could simply pick you up and move you on, just as if you were an insect to be plucked from one place and dropped somewhere entirely different. It was really most alarming how very little control Daisy had over her own life.
And those two little ones, homesick for their mam, must feel even worse. She was glad that at least she’d been able to do something to help them.
In the event the two children settled in remarkably well. Mrs Marshall was a kind hearted woman and although at first she was alarmed and distressed by the state of them, in no time at all she persuaded Megan into the bath with the lure of a rubber sailing boat, and soon had the pair of them shining clean, their hair cut and glowing like a pair of polished chestnuts. Each day as they walked the dog Trish would describe, in painstaking detail, every scrap of food they had eaten and Daisy would ask Megan about school. She still wasn’t the most forthcoming child, but she was getting better and sometimes could be quite entertaining.
‘The other children say we talk funny, so I said they did too. At least we don’t ask someone, ‘Are you gaily?’ and she did a fair imitation of the Westmorland accent.
‘So how would you ask someone how they were?’
She thought about this for a minute and then said, in her broadest Lancashire. ‘Hey up? Howarta?’ and then collapsed into a fit of giggles. Trish put her hand to her mouth and giggled too, though she wasn’t entirely sure why or what she was laughing at.
Daisy joined in with the hilarity, mainly because it was good to see the children happy for once, and tried to think of more silly words. ‘What about lish for lively? Or thrang for busy? They say that too round here.’
‘Mrs Marshall calls her bread knife a gully. I thought that was the same as what we would call an alley,’ Megan said. ‘And porridge she calls poddish. That’s the silliest word I ever heard.’
‘I know a sillier one. How about powfagged?’ Daisy said, wiping tears of laughter from her eyes. ‘My grandma complained of being that all her life.’
‘What does it mean?’ Trish asked.
‘Weary, which is what I am now after this long walk. Come on, let’s see if Mrs Marshall can supply some lemonade.’ And she hugged them both, feeling a huge relief and sense of satisfaction that all was going well with them at last.
Megan thought the war was overrated. There were no aeroplanes dropping bombs on them and flattening their houses, no tanks thundering through the village streets. They never had to run for their lives to an air raid shelter, only creep down into a dark, damp cellar where there were spiders and goodness what else. Not even any enemy soldiers invading to take them prisoner or shoot at them, as she’d been led to expect. War was boring.
Everyone was calling it the phoney war and Mr Marshall said that more people were being injured falling over in the black-out than by enemy action. ‘The common bicycle is turning into a lethal weapon,’ he mourned, as he went out every morning on duty.
Each night they all had to listen to the news on the wireless and a man talked about an aircraft carrier being torpedoed by a U-boat. It was called Courageous which Mrs Marshall said was a most appropriate name.
Megan had asked
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