Free The Daisy Club by Charlotte Bingham Page B

would be just dandy.
    Once again the silence of the dining room at the Hall seemed to be weighing down on Daisy, a heavy old eiderdown of a silence that felt as if it was smothering her. A fly was buzzing about around the window, a maid was hovering at the sideboard, and Aunt Maude was toying lightly with a piece of white fish, while all over England people were wondering when and if the war would begin. Daisy thought morosely that if Jessica Valentyne was right in her thinking, the fly could be as useless as Chamberlain’s government, and the white fish on Aunt Maude’s plate as lifeless as his policies.
    â€˜I see you have bought yourself a motor car, Daisy?’
    Daisy nodded. It was pretty useless to deny it, since it was standing in the drive, outside the Hall’s double front doors. She had intended to have the salesman hide it for her in the stables, when he helped her drive over from the Court. Only for a short time, though, time in which she had also intended to learn to drive so well, that before Aunt Maude could protest she would have had her whizzing down the drive and out on to the country road beyond, a road which would take them to Wychford, where she would have treated Aunt Maude to a triumphant lunch at The Pantry.
    Daisy had become increasingly sure that Aunt Maude had not left the grounds of the Hall since about 1920, when Daisy’s parents had been killed. In many ways there was no reason why she should leave the grounds of her little kingdom – after all, the place was sufficient unto itself, as Shakespeare had said about England – but even so, even so, surely there must be a world beyond the blue horizon that could arouse Aunt Maude’s curiosity? Now, of course, the whole plan had blown up in Daisy’s face, and she had been left not taking Aunt Maude for a surprise ride in her new motor car, but waiting for that dear little mechanic to arrive and tell her what to do to get it working.
    â€˜Spit in the petrol tank.’
    Daisy looked up suddenly, shocked. In fact she almost found herself looking round to see who had spoken, except for the fact that the words had definitely been spoken in Aunt Maude’s voice. She could have sworn they had come from someone else.
    â€˜I’m sorry?’
    Daisy stared at her aunt.
    â€˜If she won’t crank up, spit in the petrol tank, that is what my brothers used to say. They always said it worked like a dream.’
    Daisy just had time to stare at Aunt Maude in some astonishment before she heard the dining-room door opening and, turning at the sound, saw a maid beckoning to her.
    â€˜Mr Russell from the garage in Wychford, here to help get the car started, as I understand it, Miss Daisy.’
    Daisy stared back down the dining room. Aunt Maude flapped her napkin at her, so suddenly that all three pugs under her chair woke up and barked excitedly.
    â€˜Go, child, go. Get the thing going, for goodness’ sake, or we shall all be sitting on a pin until dinner time.’
    Daisy shot out of the door, but she paused as she stood in the hall. Could this be the same aunt with whom she had been living for the past seventeen and a half years? Then a thought struck her, and it did seem literally to strike her almost dumb. Gracious, could it be possible, could it perhaps mean that Aunt Maude had once driven a motor car herself? Surely not? She made a mental note to ask her, and then ran to the front doors and down the steps, hand outstretched to greet Mr Russell.
    â€˜It’s just a question of newness,’ Mr Russell told Daisy in a pleasantly instructional voice.
    â€˜Oh, I see. Do all new motor cars act up in this way, Mr Russell?’
    â€˜No, not the newness of the motor car, Miss Beresford – the newness of you to the art of driving, and it is an art, believe me. Good drivers are hard to come by, and brilliant ones are even rarer.’
    He looked serious, priest-like, before opening the door of the motor