Girl with Secrets: a coming of age war story and family saga full of romance, mystery and danger in by Carol Rivers (to read list .txt) 📗

still clung to the walls. Beyond this, a laundry room complete with stout wash-boiler and a creaky old door that led outside to the garden privy. The room Daisy disliked most was the cellar, accessed only by a flight of stone steps. This gloomy underground space harboured not only a giant species of spider but all Miss Ayling’s unwanted clutter that Pops had not had the heart to throw out.

The living room, in contrast, was bright and cheerful with wide bay windows. Daisy stood there now, imagining the parties that Mother and Pops might host. Just like the exciting parties Aunt Minnie and Uncle Leo held in their Soho studio.

She twirled energetically, holding up the hem of her dressing gown and pirouetted around the couch. Taking a flying leap to the open fireplace, she righted a wobbly landing and missed the brass fender. Impressed by her ballet, she vaulted the wooden rack in which Pops kept his newspapers. Misjudging the distance, she landed heavily on all fours, momentarily winded. Fortunately, no part of her was injured.

As she jumped to her feet, she heard a noise.

Daisy cocked her head, listening carefully. Was there movement in the house? A footfall? Or perhaps someone breathing? Closer now. But where exactly?

‘Who’s there?’ she whispered. Had she imagined the breathing? But the household was sleeping. Could it have come from the garden? It was said that Hitler would arrive in the dead of night. He’d steal into people’s houses and take them prisoner. A girl at school claimed her father kept a vicious dog and hadn’t fed it for at least three months. Another boy insisted his mother had baked poisoned cakes to be offered to an invading army.

‘Wh … who’s there?’ she mumbled, dreading an answer.

A soft breathing sound came; an evil gurgle.

Daisy froze.

Was someone lurking at the front door? Could this be the invasion all of England feared?

Before she could take a breath, a hand planted itself between her shoulder blades. ‘Help!’ she cried, falling heavily on the couch.

Her brother giggled as he pinned her down. ‘Don’t yell or we’re for it!’

Daisy gasped for breath. She was so relieved that the war hadn’t arrived and Hitler hadn’t sailed down the estuary overnight that she forgot to be really angry. ‘Bobby, you daft ha’p’orth!’ she scolded. ‘You frightened me!’

‘Got you back for yesterday.’

Daisy pushed him away. ‘I didn’t do anything,’ she declared, knowing very well she had.

‘You split on me.’

‘Didn’t.’

‘You told Mother I socked Peter Brady in the eye.’

Daisy defiantly stuffed her hands in her pockets. ‘I told Mother the truth.’

‘You don’t understand what it was all about.’

She felt as though somehow she’d let Bobby down. ‘What do you mean?’

Bobby took his time answering. ’If you must know,’ he said eventually, ‘Peter Brady calls Sammy Berger, “Fritz”.’

‘Is “Fritz” bad?’

Bobby rolled his blue eyes. ‘ ‘Course it is.’

‘Why?’

‘Sammy’s parents are German. They came to England to escape the Nazis. But Sammy’s mother died and now, because of the war, the government is suspicious of any German who lives here.’

Daisy considered her brother carefully. ‘Poor Sammy.’

‘He’s frightened they’ll take his father away.’

‘What will happen to Sammy?’

Bobby shrugged. ‘Those men we saw trying to kick down Mr Berger’s door the other day? Some of them were Blackshirts. Peter Brady said he’d join the Blackshirts if he was old enough. That’s what started the fight.’

Daisy shivered, recalling the afternoon when she and Bobby had passed Sammy’s house on the way home from school. The crowd outside Sammy’s house had been very angry. It had been very upsetting to watch and Bobby had hurried her on.

‘It was brave of you to stand up for Sammy,’ she said.

Once again Bobby shrugged. ‘He doesn’t have many friends.’ Bobby stood up and stretched. Daisy realised how much he’d grown since leaving Wattcombe. He stood a head and shoulders taller than her now; arms and legs too long for his old blue and white striped pyjamas. Mother had called Bobby a “slow grower”. Yet now he was close to Matt’s height after a sudden spurt this year.

’So tell me little sister, why were you snooping around so early?’

She pulled a face. ’I wasn’t snooping. I was thirsty.’

This time he gave a whistle. ‘What a whopper, Daisy Purbright! You were on the prowl, sniffing out other people’s business. Eavesdroppers never hear any good of themselves, you know.’

Daisy gave him a hearty shove. ‘Oh, buzz off you silly bee!’ she exclaimed to hide her embarrassment.

But Bobby only laughed all the more.

CHAPTER 3

‘YOUR HAIR’S MESSY, MOTHER,’ Daisy announced later that day as they sat at the breakfast table. ‘It sticks up in funny places.’

‘To be expected,‘ Florence Purbright answered calmly as she poured the tea. ‘Unlike some, I’ve not had time to spend on myself lately.’

‘Why’s that?’

‘It’s what mothers do - care for their families. Put themselves last, even down to combing their hair. One day you’ll be a mother yourself and then you’ll understand.’

Daisy sincerely hoped she would not become a mother! At least, not until she was very, very old. Mothers, it seemed to her, led a very boring life indeed. Unlike fathers and brothers who were always out and about, allowed to do just as they pleased.

Aware of Matt and Bobby sitting opposite her, shovelling the Saturday treat of crispy rashers into their mouths, Daisy persisted. ‘You should have it cut into a modern style, Mother. You’d look much younger.’

‘Daisy!’ Her father looked up from his newspaper. ’That’s enough now.’

‘Well, I think - ’

‘We all know what you think,’ he interrupted. ‘Now eat your porridge before it goes cold.’

‘Yes, do eat up,’ Matt mimicked. ‘The lumps are the best. Quite more-ish!’

‘Then why are you eating bacon?’ Daisy retaliated. ‘Porridge is much better for you. In Scotland they eat it every day.’

Her brother roared in amusement. ‘Just as the French eat snails! Morning, noon and night, it’s snails, snails, snails.’

Ignoring his taunt, Daisy continued. ‘Anyway, porridge tastes even better in Miss Ayling’s little china bowls. Not like it