The Girl in the Scrapbook by Carolyn Ruffles (reading women TXT) 📕

The photograph still sat on Daisy’s lap and she picked it up again. ‘I don’t know what happened to Arthur, her dad, either. Lot of use, I am, she added dolefully.

‘No, no, you’ve been very helpful.’ Jennifer was quick to contradict her. ‘We now know the names of the people in the photo and that’s a very good start.’ She smiled encouragingly across at Emily. ‘Do you know what happened to Iris’ mother and, possibly, her brother?’

Again, Daisy shook her head slowly. ‘I don’t know anything about her mother. I always assumed she’d died. She never spoke of her ... oh …’ Her eyes suddenly lit up as she recalled something. ‘Yes, she did. She always said that her Ma had wanted her to have a good education … wanted her to go to university. She was certainly clever enough and she worked hard. Then the war came along and I suppose things just didn’t work out for her. It was difficult for women in those days, not like today, when having a career seems to be the priority rather than caring for the family.’

‘What about a brother?’ Emily asked.

‘Iris didn’t have a brother. She was an only child. I suppose she sort of adopted all my brothers and sisters as siblings. She was always round our house and she could squabble with the others as well as I could. What made you think she had a brother?’

Emily delved into her capacious, brown bag and pulled out Norah’s scrapbook. She turned to the page with the photograph of the family outside Horseshoes Cottage and showed it to Daisy who peered at it intently.

‘You’re right,’ Daisy said finally. ‘That’s definitely Arthur and the child looks like a boy. It certainly isn’t Iris, although he does look a bit like her. How did you come by this?’

Once again, Emily told her story and, having done so, she handed Daisy the album for her to look through.

‘Oh, my word,’ Daisy gasped as she turned to the first page. ‘This Norah is the spit of Iris. Just the hair is different. She has to be her mother. Oh … and that’s Willow Farm.’ She pointed to the picture of the frail woman in the garden. ‘I don’t know the woman but that’s definitely Willow Farm. When I was little, we used to go around the back there to buy eggs. Of course, it isn’t called Willow Farm anymore. After they flooded the old chalk pits, someone decided to call it Lakeview. That awful woman, Pandora Pardew, lives there now but she hasn’t been there very long.’ She continued turning the pages. ‘Is this all you have?’

‘Yes.’ Emily took back the album and returned it to her bag. ‘There was just a silver locket with it, inscribed with the initials ND, just like the front of the scrapbook.’

‘Well, this is a proper mystery,’ Daisy said with a certain amount of relish. ‘I wish there was someone I could ask about all this but they’re all dead and gone. Apart from me, all my brothers and sisters have passed on. Bessie Fowler would have known Iris but she’s in a home now and is away with the fairies most of the time. She’s got that disease where you can’t remember things. What’s it called?’

‘Alzheimer’s,’ Jennifer supplied. ‘That’s sad.’

‘It is,’ Daisy agreed. ‘I may be old and crippled with arthritis but at least I’ve still got my marbles.’ She tapped the side of her forehead. ‘If only I could remember where I’ve put them!’ She cackled with laughter, delighted with her own joke.

‘Can I leave you my phone number?’ Emily asked. ‘In case you think of something else. Anything at all.’

‘Good idea. I’ll have a look through my own albums. You never know – there may well be more pictures of Iris, if you’d like to see them,’ Daisy replied.

‘Oh, I would!’ Emily exclaimed. ‘That’s so kind of you.’

‘Nonsense. It’ll give me something to do … and it’s nice to have some company.’

‘You mentioned three children,’ Jennifer said quietly. ‘Do they live nearby?’

Daisy shook her head sadly. ‘My two sons both moved to Scotland. I hardly ever see them. My daughter lives in Milton Keynes. She’s a granny herself now and looks after two of the youngest grandchildren while their mother goes out to work so it’s difficult for her to get over to see me. A while back, she tried to persuade me to sell up and move nearer to her but I didn’t want to. Bert and I moved back here when he retired and he’s buried in the churchyard here. I wouldn’t know anyone except my daughter and her family in Milton Keynes and I don’t want to be a burden to them. I’m better off here.’

‘Do you have anyone help you, you know, to fetch groceries and that kind of thing?’ Jennifer asked. ‘It must be difficult for you living here alone with your arthritis.’

‘Ah, bless you for your concern, my dear, but I manage. The Williamsons, who run the village shop, are really good and deliver my groceries to me. So does Fred Lightfoot, the butcher, although I don’t buy from him so much anymore. I don’t seem to have the appetite for meat these days, unless it’s a bit of ham or pork pie, which I don’t have to cook.’

‘I’m sure there’s help available for someone like you. There must be things you can’t manage so well any more – things like cleaning and doing the garden. Would you like me to investigate on your behalf?’

Daisy’s face frosted over. ‘I don’t want any charity. Leave that to the people who really need it,’ she said firmly.

Jennifer patted her hand gently. ‘I’m sorry, Daisy. I didn’t mean to offend you. I’m not suggesting charity – just a bit of help so you can carry on living here as long as possible. There’s no harm in seeing what is available. You can always say no if you don’t feel comfortable with it.’

Daisy sighed.