Free Daisy's Secret by Freda Lightfoot Page B

larder for the entire weekend ahead, Daisy made the decision to go into Penrith. She and the children joined the queue at the bus stop with every intention of finding the town hall and making a complaint, or at least a polite enquiry. This was not at all what they had expected by being evacuated. It didn’t seem right that someone, beyond Daisy, wasn’t available to look after these children. Fond as she was of them, the responsibility worried her. There was a war starting, after all. What would happen if something happened to her parents, and she had to dash home for some reason? Who would look after the two children then?
    Her more immediate concern, of course, was what on earth had become of Miss Pratt. The old lady had indeed seemed odd, and quite unused to children. Even so, it was most peculiar just to go off with the dogs and leave them, not even think to call in from time to time to see how they were.  
    So engrossed was she in her own troubles, and adjusting the children’s berets and scarves when it started to rain, that it was only when the bus drew up some minutes later, that Daisy paid proper attention to the queue ahead of them and realised it comprised entirely of airmen and soldiers. When it was their turn to get on, the conductress put out her hand to prevent them climbing aboard. ‘Sorry, this is a special services bus, no civvies allowed.’
    ‘Oh, isn’t it going into town?’
    ‘Aye, but like I say, it’s for services personnel only. You can allus walk, young, fit girl like yourself.’
    ‘But how far is it? I don’t know the way.’
    ‘Stranger to these parts, eh? Thought so.’
    ‘How long before the next bus?’ Daisy asked.
    ‘There’ll no doubt be one along in the next hour or so.’
    ‘An hour or so?’
    ‘Aye, well, there aren’t so many buses these days. Short of drivers, d’you see. There is a war on, you know.’
    ‘But it’s so cold and wet, and the children haven’t been well.’
    ‘That’s nothing to do with me. Not my place to mollycoddle children,’ and she reached up to ring the bell but her hand didn’t quite make it. Her wrist was caught and held, a grip so uncompromising it prevented the conductress from moving an inch.
    He was tall, almost six foot, in RAF uniform like all the rest, square jawed and with a wide, smiling mouth, his forage cap tilted at just the right angle over neatly clipped brown hair. His face was more what you’d call homely than handsome but to Daisy it was the most cheerful, the most friendly face she’d encountered in a long while.
    Harry Driscoll had been watching this little exchange with interest, and had decided to put in his fourpenneth. He hated bullies, particularly female ones. Besides, the young girl was quite pretty. ‘She’s with me.’
    ‘I beg your pardon?’ The conductress was furiously attempting to pull her arm free, blotches of scarlet gathering high on her cheek bones. ‘If you don’t take your flippin’ hand off me this minute, I’ll call the driver and have you all thrown off.’
    He released her with a small bow. ‘Nevertheless, she’s with me. This coffee and bun fight we were all treated to at the village hall, she helped organise it, so you can let her on. Can’t you see them nippers are soaking wet through already. Have a heart, love.’
    ‘I don’t get paid to take civvies on this bus.’
    ‘We’ll have a whip round. Either you let them on, or we all get off. Then we’ll be late back and our CO will want to know why. Ain’t that right, lads?’ A rousing cheer echoed from behind him, most of the men not having the first idea what the dispute was about but ready enough to support a mate. Seeing herself defeated, the conductress’s stance crumbled and, moments later, Daisy, and the children were being found a seat in the depth of the warm bus and being chatted up by at least a dozen service men.
    ‘Thank you,’ Daisy said, having eyes only for her rescuer who stood grinning down at her.