Read Online Daisy's Secret by Freda Lightfoot - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Freda Lightfoot
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but, as her eyes swiftly scanned the contents, saw that it was not the diary she’d hoped for, more a chronology of events with short explanations and comments of their effect: the date the first bomb was dropped in Manchester; of folk watching dog fights in the skies during the days of Blitzkrieg; the collapse of France.
The list went on to include details such as when rationing had been introduced, together with a droll comment that she’d like to see the government survive on such a meagre meat ration. There were instructions on how to turn a pair of flannel trousers into hot water bottle covers and some fairly pithy remarks outlining her despair over how they would manage to get any eggs at all, now the hens could only be given household scraps. ‘What scraps!’ she had written, and Laura could almost sense her indignation. More pragmatically, it was followed by a recipe for using dried eggs.
Laura smiled to herself and put the pages to one side with the rest of the letters, to read more fully later.
She glanced quickly through a book which listed purchases and sales of livestock, no doubt in order to keep a record of their movement and progress. The latest recorded date appeared to be 1958. Were records no longer needed by then? Or was that when it ceased to be a farm and the land was then let off? If the latter, what had occurred to cause this change?
There was also a visitor’s book from when the house had operated as a guest house, starting with the first lodgers during the war and the later pages going on well into the fifties and sixties. Laura sat on the floor to glance through it, her back propped comfortably against the bureau.
‘Miss Geraldine Copthorne,’ Laura read out loud. ‘I wonder who she was? Sounds rather grand. And what was her reason for being here during the war?’ She’d written a few lines by her name in a carefully curving script. “Home from Home. I shall never forget you Dear Daisy and how you made me part of your family.”
Laura read some of the others: Ned Pickles - “Not much cop in the Home Guard, untidy guest, but a lifelong friend for you Daisy.” Tommy Fawcett - “Best day of my life when I landed up here. Shall never hear Lady Be Good without thinking of you all.” There were any number of others. So many names. Pages and pages of them: couples, families, maiden ladies with their companions, lone walkers coming to explore the mountains, all saying what a wonderful time they’d had, how they’d loved the Lakes, the walks, the view of Helvellyn, Daisy’s cooking. Would it be possible to trace any of them, after all this time? Probably not.
Laura smiled to think she might have acquired her own culinary skills from her grandmother. Most of all she felt a fresh kindling of excitement. Perhaps that’s why Daisy had left her the house, so that she could carry on where she had left off. The rooms were still here, after all. Intriguingly, inside the front cover of the book was a short dedication written by Daisy herself:
To Florrie, who allowed me to take over her kitchen and carry out my crazy ideas, often against her better judgement. To Clem, for being the father I’d always wanted, counsellor and best friend. And most of all to my dear husband, for always letting me have my own way, even when it would have been wiser not to.
‘I should think he had no option,’ Laura said out loud, chuckling softly. ‘You were ever one with a mind of your own, grandmother dear.’
‘I’d say that was a true assessment of Daisy’s character, bless her heart.’
So startled was she by the interruption, Laura dropped the book with a clatter. She’d thought herself quite alone in the house, as well as in the void of empty countryside around, and it came as a huge shock to look up into a grinning face, one eyebrow raised in quizzical amusement as a perfect stranger picked up the book and handed it back to her. She felt thoroughly unnerved by the encounter, and quite
The list went on to include details such as when rationing had been introduced, together with a droll comment that she’d like to see the government survive on such a meagre meat ration. There were instructions on how to turn a pair of flannel trousers into hot water bottle covers and some fairly pithy remarks outlining her despair over how they would manage to get any eggs at all, now the hens could only be given household scraps. ‘What scraps!’ she had written, and Laura could almost sense her indignation. More pragmatically, it was followed by a recipe for using dried eggs.
Laura smiled to herself and put the pages to one side with the rest of the letters, to read more fully later.
She glanced quickly through a book which listed purchases and sales of livestock, no doubt in order to keep a record of their movement and progress. The latest recorded date appeared to be 1958. Were records no longer needed by then? Or was that when it ceased to be a farm and the land was then let off? If the latter, what had occurred to cause this change?
There was also a visitor’s book from when the house had operated as a guest house, starting with the first lodgers during the war and the later pages going on well into the fifties and sixties. Laura sat on the floor to glance through it, her back propped comfortably against the bureau.
‘Miss Geraldine Copthorne,’ Laura read out loud. ‘I wonder who she was? Sounds rather grand. And what was her reason for being here during the war?’ She’d written a few lines by her name in a carefully curving script. “Home from Home. I shall never forget you Dear Daisy and how you made me part of your family.”
Laura read some of the others: Ned Pickles - “Not much cop in the Home Guard, untidy guest, but a lifelong friend for you Daisy.” Tommy Fawcett - “Best day of my life when I landed up here. Shall never hear Lady Be Good without thinking of you all.” There were any number of others. So many names. Pages and pages of them: couples, families, maiden ladies with their companions, lone walkers coming to explore the mountains, all saying what a wonderful time they’d had, how they’d loved the Lakes, the walks, the view of Helvellyn, Daisy’s cooking. Would it be possible to trace any of them, after all this time? Probably not.
Laura smiled to think she might have acquired her own culinary skills from her grandmother. Most of all she felt a fresh kindling of excitement. Perhaps that’s why Daisy had left her the house, so that she could carry on where she had left off. The rooms were still here, after all. Intriguingly, inside the front cover of the book was a short dedication written by Daisy herself:
To Florrie, who allowed me to take over her kitchen and carry out my crazy ideas, often against her better judgement. To Clem, for being the father I’d always wanted, counsellor and best friend. And most of all to my dear husband, for always letting me have my own way, even when it would have been wiser not to.
‘I should think he had no option,’ Laura said out loud, chuckling softly. ‘You were ever one with a mind of your own, grandmother dear.’
‘I’d say that was a true assessment of Daisy’s character, bless her heart.’
So startled was she by the interruption, Laura dropped the book with a clatter. She’d thought herself quite alone in the house, as well as in the void of empty countryside around, and it came as a huge shock to look up into a grinning face, one eyebrow raised in quizzical amusement as a perfect stranger picked up the book and handed it back to her. She felt thoroughly unnerved by the encounter, and quite
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