smell of stale urine and, once the berets were finally removed, hair crawling with head lice was all too plainly revealed. They were, as Miss Pratt had rightly predicted, verminous. There were also ominous looking scabs and cracked skin between their fingers which looked in dire need of attention.
Using some of the warm water from the kettle she’d boiled, Daisy washed the children’s hands and faces, using the large bar of carbolic soap she found in the pantry. The necessary attention to their hair would have to wait till tomorrow, she decided, as they were far too tired tonight. Besides, something stronger than carbolic would be required to solve that particular problem. Daisy made a mental note to find Miss Pratt first thing in the morning and ask if she would get them something from the chemist, or perhaps from the dispersal officer.
That would also provide a good opportunity to mention one or two other matters which were troubling her. There were only a few eggs left in the tray, and the Bovril jar was empty so there was nothing for supper. If she was to be responsible for these children, Daisy needed to know who would do the shopping. Daisy was outraged at being so ignored.
There should have been postcards for the children to write and send home to their mother, to let her know where they were. And apart from the very essential matters of food and general care and cleanliness, there was also the question of school for the two girls, and work for herself.
She tucked them up together in one of the beds and sang them a lullaby, and it came to Daisy in that moment that she should have been singing to her own child this night. Tears sprang to her eyes as she wondered in whose arms her little son was cuddled at this precise moment. The image brought a stab of pain to her heart and she struggled to block it out. Dwelling on her loss wouldn’t help one bit. She’d been assured that he was safe and well, that he’d been found a good home with parents who would love him as their own. In the circumstances, it was the best she could hope for.
When tired eyelids began to droop, Daisy crept from the room, poured fresh warm water into the bowl and began to wash herself. The soap and water felt good against her skin. After that, she scrubbed the children’s knickers as best she could, and left her own blood-stained underwear to soak in salt water as her mother had taught her, before crawling into the other bed. Just before she slipped into a deep sleep, she told herself that at least they were safe from Mr Hitler’s bombs, and there was surely nothing wrong with their billet that couldn’t be put right in the morning.
Chapter Four
Lunch with her father was every bit as disastrous as Laura had expected. As they sipped rather thin tomato soup he castigated her over her obstinacy in staying on at the farm after the funeral, instead of going home to her husband. Presumably like the good little wife she was supposed to be. During the fish course he reminded her how her own amateur efforts at cooking couldn’t be compared with this sort of professional cuisine. And finally, when the cheese was served, her father didn’t eat dessert and made the assumption that his daughter wouldn’t require one either, he warned her of the perils of defying her husband’s wishes to sell.
‘Lane End Farm will fetch a good price, and Felix is more skilled than you in such matters. You must be guided by him.’
‘Why must I? The house was left to me, not Felix.’ As soon as the words were out of her mouth, Laura regretted them, since they sounded so arrogant, almost as if she were bragging. ‘I didn’t mean that quite as it sounds. It should be yours, of course, and. . .’
‘Don’t twist yourself into knots over this, Laura. I don’t want the farm. Never have. Wouldn’t touch anything of Daisy’s with the proverbial barge pole.’
‘Oh, for heavens’ sake, what was it with you two? Why didn’t you get on? You’ve
Using some of the warm water from the kettle she’d boiled, Daisy washed the children’s hands and faces, using the large bar of carbolic soap she found in the pantry. The necessary attention to their hair would have to wait till tomorrow, she decided, as they were far too tired tonight. Besides, something stronger than carbolic would be required to solve that particular problem. Daisy made a mental note to find Miss Pratt first thing in the morning and ask if she would get them something from the chemist, or perhaps from the dispersal officer.
That would also provide a good opportunity to mention one or two other matters which were troubling her. There were only a few eggs left in the tray, and the Bovril jar was empty so there was nothing for supper. If she was to be responsible for these children, Daisy needed to know who would do the shopping. Daisy was outraged at being so ignored.
There should have been postcards for the children to write and send home to their mother, to let her know where they were. And apart from the very essential matters of food and general care and cleanliness, there was also the question of school for the two girls, and work for herself.
She tucked them up together in one of the beds and sang them a lullaby, and it came to Daisy in that moment that she should have been singing to her own child this night. Tears sprang to her eyes as she wondered in whose arms her little son was cuddled at this precise moment. The image brought a stab of pain to her heart and she struggled to block it out. Dwelling on her loss wouldn’t help one bit. She’d been assured that he was safe and well, that he’d been found a good home with parents who would love him as their own. In the circumstances, it was the best she could hope for.
When tired eyelids began to droop, Daisy crept from the room, poured fresh warm water into the bowl and began to wash herself. The soap and water felt good against her skin. After that, she scrubbed the children’s knickers as best she could, and left her own blood-stained underwear to soak in salt water as her mother had taught her, before crawling into the other bed. Just before she slipped into a deep sleep, she told herself that at least they were safe from Mr Hitler’s bombs, and there was surely nothing wrong with their billet that couldn’t be put right in the morning.
Chapter Four
Lunch with her father was every bit as disastrous as Laura had expected. As they sipped rather thin tomato soup he castigated her over her obstinacy in staying on at the farm after the funeral, instead of going home to her husband. Presumably like the good little wife she was supposed to be. During the fish course he reminded her how her own amateur efforts at cooking couldn’t be compared with this sort of professional cuisine. And finally, when the cheese was served, her father didn’t eat dessert and made the assumption that his daughter wouldn’t require one either, he warned her of the perils of defying her husband’s wishes to sell.
‘Lane End Farm will fetch a good price, and Felix is more skilled than you in such matters. You must be guided by him.’
‘Why must I? The house was left to me, not Felix.’ As soon as the words were out of her mouth, Laura regretted them, since they sounded so arrogant, almost as if she were bragging. ‘I didn’t mean that quite as it sounds. It should be yours, of course, and. . .’
‘Don’t twist yourself into knots over this, Laura. I don’t want the farm. Never have. Wouldn’t touch anything of Daisy’s with the proverbial barge pole.’
‘Oh, for heavens’ sake, what was it with you two? Why didn’t you get on? You’ve