Free Candles in the Storm by Rita Bradshaw Page A

name? What is it?’
     
    ‘I . . . don’t know.’ And then the light in his eyes was extinguished when they closed again and he sank back into the deep sleep which Daisy found so alarming.
     
    ‘I’ve seen this afore,’ Nellie piped up from her bed where she had been watching proceedings with great interest. ‘Your granda knocked himself out once; actin’ the cuddy he was, though, not like this poor devil. Anyways, it was two full days afore he knew his arse from his elbow an’ he had a bad head for a week or more. This ’un’ll be all right, lass, now he’s talkin’ again.’
     
    Daisy nodded. Maybe. ‘Granda hadn’t all but drowned though, had he?’
     
    ‘No, no, there is that, hinny, but you can’t do more than you’re doin’. Look, you’ve got to get some rest or you’ll be the next one flakin’ out. Have one of them blankets, he don’t need ’em all, an’ settle yerself on the saddle for a kip. I’ll give you a call if he wants anythin’.’
     
    Daisy shook her head. If she gave in to the exhaustion which was dragging at her limbs she wouldn’t come to again till morning, besides which her grandmother always slept the hours away, snoring loudly and with gusto, while proclaiming the next morning she hadn’t slept a wink all night. She couldn’t risk it. ‘I’ll stay awake a bit longer, Gran. You go to sleep.’
     
    ‘All right, me bairn. I know it’s no use arguin’ if you’ve made up your mind, but it’ll be a long night, you mark my words.’
     
     
    It was a long night, but by the time the inky darkness was finally stretched and broken on the rack of sunrise Daisy felt her patient’s slumber was a more natural one. She had dozed once or twice, sitting sentry duty on the hard wooden saddle, awaking every so often with a start and immediately checking that the man was still breathing.
     
    With the coming of the cold, mother-of-pearl dawn she roused herself fully, beginning the normal mundane chores like stoking the range and setting the kettle to boil. Chores that spoke of normality. When her da and Tom came home they would expect everything to be ticking along as usual, and ticking along it would be.
     
    Once she had seen to breakfast and made her granny and the young man comfortable, she would slip along to Mrs Hardy’s and ask Alf to make enquiries in Monkwearmouth regarding the ship which had sunk. It had been a big ship, important. Someone would know something. And likely her da and Tom would be walking through the door soon, and wouldn’t they get a gliff when they saw the visitor? Aye, they would. Pray God, pray God they would . . .
     
    Alf did not have to make the visit to Monkwearmouth. Before Daisy had even finished mashing the tea the first cottages in the village were astir, buzzing with the news that a search party was making enquiries regarding the ship which had sunk the day before. Of course they had been directed to George Appleby’s place; it was his bit lass who had been foolhardy enough to risk life and limb rescuing a lad from the water, a toff by his clothes according to Ethel McCabe. As if any of the gentry would lift a finger to help a fisherman in similar circumstances! Less than the muck under their boots to the gentry, fishermen were. She’d get no thanks for her trouble would Daisy, sure as eggs were eggs.
     
    Daisy wasn’t thinking of thanks as she faced the four men standing outside her cottage door. She had answered the impatient knocking as quickly as she could, considering she had taken the opportunity to nip into the scullery to wash her hands and face there while the tea was brewing, but it clearly had not been quick enough for the sour-faced individual who seemed to be in charge. He snapped at her the minute the door swung open, asking her name and then demanding entrance into the cottage in a manner which was offensive but brooked no argument.
     
    Daisy’s face was resolute and her voice low as she said, ‘I’m sorry, but I