‘But you can’t put us all up,’ protested Mother. ‘You’ve been very kind, but I’m sure we’ll find lodgings in the village.’
‘I won’t hear of it,’ said the farmer’s wife sternly. ‘We’ve four beds upstairs and two mattresses in the loft and plenty of bedding. There’s put-u-ups for the two men and the children won’t mind sleeping in the parlour I’m sure. As for Christmas dinner tomorrow, Bill’s bringing in a fresh turkey and we’ve sacks of spuds and carrots in the store. I’m sure we can make an apple pie or two go round.’
‘Are you really certain?’ Aunt Betty asked again.
‘We’re used to entertaining at Christmas but our own Mark and Susan and their children won’t be coming this year, what with restrictions and all. Young company will fill the gap they leave.’
‘We do have a few groceries in the car,’ said Aunt Minnie eagerly. ‘Children, help Uncle Leo to carry them in.’
‘Before you go, son,’ Mr Webber said with a wink, turning to the cupboard and opening its doors. ‘Let’s see what our friend from the North Pole has delivered.’ Two bottles familiar to Daisy were placed on the table and each adult’s glass was filled to the brim.
Grandma’s medicine, Daisy decided, was very versatile indeed.
Daisy heard Mr Webber tread softly down the stairs in the early hours of Christmas morning and make his way to the kitchen. Soon after the kettle whistled, followed by the seductive smell of frying bacon.
A little later, the thought of breakfast was enough to rouse her from the couch where she had been sleeping. Mrs Webber had draped her coat, trousers and jumper over the fireguard a safe three feet away from the embers in the hearth. Dressing quietly, she tiptoed past the boys on their mattresses.
‘Morning, love. Happy Christmas,’ Mrs Webber greeted, as Daisy stole into the kitchen.
‘Happy Christmas, Mrs Webber. Bobby and Will are still asleep.’
‘That’s boys for you,’ smiled Mrs Webber, rolling her eyes. ‘Bill’s breakfast is done and dusted and he’s gone out to the cowshed. You’ll be needing a fry up.’
Daisy sat down to her breakfast; an egg with a juicy yellow middle sitting squarely on a slice of fried bread and topped with a crispy brown rasher.
‘We never have breakfast like this in London.’ Daisy mopped up her plate with a slice of bread.
‘Today’s special,’ said Mrs Webber, filling the toast rack. ‘Thought you and your family could do with a decent meal.’
‘Can I help milk the cows?’
‘Course you can, love.’
‘How do you pull their udders?’
‘Easy as eating pie, you’ll find.’
‘I want to be as good as Bobby.’
‘Well, seeing as you’re so keen, I’ll show you.’ Mrs Webber demonstrated with one of Mr Webber’s thick socks hanging on the airer. ‘You give ‘em a bit of a tickle first, like so. Cows like a tickle. Then cup your fingers round the teat gently but firmly, see?’ She waggled the sock. ‘Now pull. And don’t forget to aim in the pail or else you’ll get an eyeful.’
Daisy giggled and left the table. Mrs Webber pointed to the many pairs of boots lined up by the door. ‘Now put on them galoshes, whatever ones fit best and remember to do a wee in the privy on your way out. Once you get milking you won’t want to stop.’
Later that morning, Daisy was perched on a milking stool, her booted feet spread wide. Her warm cheek rested softly against Harry Lauder’s round belly. Harry was giving little shudders as if she was enjoying the technique that Daisy had quickly mastered. An occasional moo resonated in the echoey cowshed, followed by another and another, as if the cows were talking. Every now and then, Harry produced an extra generous squirt of rich, white milk into the pail. Daisy’s little fingers worked hard to maintain a rhythm as Mr Webber passed the stalls, a bucket in each hand. His floppy galoshes squelched in the smelly, mucky cow pats and he’d whistle a tune or sing.
‘We’ll make a farmer of you yet, my girl,’ he called encouragingly. ‘Your Pops will be proud of you.’
‘Am I better than Bobby?’
‘There’s not a jot between you.’
Daisy couldn’t wait to tell Pops what she had achieved, in spite of the war. Nurse Gwen had recommended a career in nursing. Mr Webber suggested farming. Mrs Hayes, a tea lady’s position. Mrs Jones, the music teacher, had praised her singing and Mrs Gardiner had delegated an entire class of infants to her care! Though Daisy had once dreamed of a world adventure, the dream had somewhat faded. A little ache fluttered near her heart for Poplar Park Row. Was this homesickness, she wondered?
It was a surprise to Daisy that even though she could milk a whole herd of cows if challenged and even though she loved Wattcombe with its peaceful green fields and thick, wild woods - she had grown to love the city more.
CHAPTER 63
CHRISTMAS DINNER WAS, as Mrs Webber had promised, a treat. The turkey and potatoes were browned and basted to perfection, the sprouts and beans drowned in real butter and the fruit cake smothered in homemade cream.
Everyone ate ravenously and not a scrap on their plates remained.
‘How can we ever thank you?’ said Mother as the table was cleared. ‘We must return the favour somehow.’
‘You’re Wattcombe folk,’ replied Mr Webber as he took a small box of cigars from the kitchen mantel, ‘and there will always be a welcome for you at the farm. As for you, Leo,’ he teased, ‘a true city type, you and me have got some smoking to do. Come along, bring your glass, let’s listen to the King’s speech.’
Daisy inhaled the smell of cigars and the faint aromas of the farm drifting into the partly open window, as they all gathered by the fire in the parlour. The ancient wooden wireless set in the corner was given an encouraging thump to
