I remember it as a tale told in the hush of a winter evening, a story that has lingered in the memory of my family for generations.
Fear not, dear lady, my mother would say, the little one may have been born early, but shes as sturdy as a Yorkshire oak. All shall be well, for you, for your daughter, and for your grandchild.
God grant it, I replied, the doctors footsteps fading down the hallway, and once she was out of sight I muttered, Here comes sorrow.
The sorrow fell upon the household of my Aunt Victoria six months earlier, when a loquacious neighbour, Mrs. Brigid, dropped by for tea and a slice of treacle tart. Between sips she blurted, When will you be having another? Have you started stocking up on nappy cloths yet?
What are you on about? Victoria snapped, bewildered.
Dont act as if youve never been in labour, Brigid retorted, I saw your maid, Clara, dashing out of the barn crying with a cloth tucked in her mouth.
It must be a case of something the babe ate, Victoria tried to defend herself, but you, who have never felt the pangs of pregnancy, speak as if you know the whole of it. Im no old woman, and I know nothing of these matters.
That night Aunt Victoria interrogated Clara, then wept for hours, cursing the fickle fate that had handed her a daughter who never saw the light of day, a sunburnt wanderer whose presence was already a memory, and the whole male line that had vanished with him.
The arrival of little Daisy, a shrillvoiced infant, brought not joy but endless chores, a lingering sting of shame, and a cold shoulder from everyone. Clara, though she held the child in her arms when feeding or soothing, never displayed any warmth. Aunt Victoria watched the baby with indifference, love never stirring within her. This was, after all, the fourth grandchild she had to endure, and her own daughters children were no brighter lights. So Daisy entered the world unloved, tottering on shaky legs through a life of neglect.
A year later Clara left for the mill town of Whitby, seeking a glimpse of a brighter future. Daisy remained with Aunt Victoria, a sort of kin, though not a stranger. She required no special care, ate what was set before her, fell asleep on cue, and never fell ill. The doctor had been right she was robust, yet still without affection.
Daisy lived with the old woman until she was seven. In those years Clara had learned the trade of a housepainter, married a man named Colin, and welcomed a son of her own. It was then that she recalled Daisy, now a girl old enough to be a mothers helper. She travelled back to the village for her daughter, but when Daisy, who saw her mother only twice a year, laid eyes on her aunts home, she showed no particular delight.
Aunt Victoria looked at the girl with a reproachful tilt of her head.
Ah, Daisy, youre as cold as a stone. The other children would have run to embrace you, but you stand there like a stranger.
Seeing the girl off, Aunt Victoria shed a quiet tear, missed her a few days, yet by the following Saturday she was presented with two beloved grandchildren, Lily and Olivia, from her eldest son. In the bustle of caring for them, Aunt Victoria quickly set Daisy aside. The unloved girl felt little sorrow for her aunt, but the parting from the newlyhatched bright eyes of the grandchildren drew real tears.
In Whitby, Daisy never quite felt at home, but she had no choice. Over time she grew accustomed, made a few friends, and began school. After lessons she did her homework, ran to the shop for bread and milk, and peeled potatoes before her mothers return. As she grew older she escorted Colin to nursery, and, mimicking her mother, would scold a lanky boy, Watch where you step, youll get a thrashing from me!
Love never came her way; Colins sister never whispered sweet nothings, and Daisy expected no such words. She barely suffered, for she never knew any other way.
She did, however, hear the tender nicknames other girls gave each other, and heard her own mother call Colin sunshine or little cat. Born as Zinaida, known as Zina, or simply Daisy, she believed a girl like her could never be a sunshine. She was an adult, unlike the carefree Colin.
At home she was never harshly rebuked, nor did anyone turn a cold slice of bread away from her. She wasnt dressed in finery or spoiled with sweets, yet she was never starving or ragged. She simply existed, unloved.
At fifteen she fled that chilly, unwelcoming house that had not become a home in eight years. She won a place at a technical college in the city, choosing to study pastry making. Her dream was to eat cakes until she could no longer stand. The city liked her; she shared a dormitory with three other girls and soon ran her own little household.
When she met Victor, life suddenly burst into colour. Though November was bleak and damp, the sun seemed to shine just for her. The other girls would step out of the room for a brief moment to watch the television in the red corner. Victor was bold, speaking poetry that sent Daisys head spinning and stole her breath.
Youre my darling, he whispered, and Daisy, accustomed to perpetual neglect, felt a flicker of happiness.
Soon, however, she began to feel a strange nausea each morning. She ought to have rushed to the doctor, but she missed the appointment. At eighteen, with no proof of pregnancy, she obtained medical letters and, handinhand with a suddenly wistful Victor, went to the registry office.
Thus began her married life, and at the same moment her brief romance faded. The young couple moved into Victors modest cottage. Victors mother and aunt showed little affection toward Daisy, yet they allowed her to stay on their land. It was not the first, nor would it be the last, to make do with such arrangements. Perhaps it was for the best; a child would be on the way, and Victor would settle down.
A fellow worker from the village envied her, saying, Youre lucky, youll live in the city, become a cityfolk. Daisy could not argue; city life was not all glamour. Her home was a terraced house with the comforts of the countryside, a water tap at the end of the lane, and she learned to fetch water in a bucket, feeling the chill on her feet. With that cold water she also washed her unborn child. Her motherinlaw scolded her, but did she do it on purpose?
Victor seemed to pity her for a day or two, then went off with his mates, leaving Daisy to tend the house. He never drove her out, but he did not stay either. After a while he brought another woman home, declaring he never loved Daisy.
Daisy confided in her friends, shed a few tears, but soon accepted that she would always be the unloved one. She packed a small bundle, obeyed her motherinlaws command to go four ways, and shut the door behind her.
She moved into the factory dormitory, where a mess hall and a club lay just beyond the gate. Live and be merry, they would say, and Daisy tried to smile. She went to work, to the club, to the cinema, always with her mates. She rarely visited her own mother, stepfather, or brother; they did not wait for her, and she did not press.
When Aunt Victoria passed away in Daisys twentyfirst year, she attended the funeral, stood among the graves of the old homestead, and watched the grandchildren, Lily and Olivia, inherit the cottage. Daisy bore no grudge; they were the cherished berries of the old woman, while she remained the forgotten slice.
If Daisy had claimed any share of the modest inheritance, the relatives would have fought over the five hundred pounds to the point of ruin. The loudest cries came from her own mother, Claudia, wailing that the dear Colin would inherit a bent spoon while the grandchildren received everything. Yet, in her grief, Claudia never remembered her older daughter at all.
Daisys attempts at romance were few and illfated. One suitor drank and carried a mistress; another drank and beat. She saw no point in courting any further and never pushed herself into the registry office again.
She threw her few belongings into a canvas suitcase and returned to the cheap bed she shared with her friends. For more than a decade she drifted from one dormitory to another, weary of foreign bunk beds. By then she was nearing thirty, and any woman, especially one who had spent so many solitary years, yearned for a tidy corner and her own kettle. Single rooms were scarce, reserved for families.
Sometimes she would pop into the backroom of Aunt Alice, who washed the factory floors in the evenings, for a chat. After a few months, Alice, with a soft voice, said, A year ago my niece died giving birth, leaving a tiny girl and a widower. Ive watched you, dear, youre a capable, diligent woman. Her husband, Matthew, is a decent manhe only drinks on holidays, and hes gentle. He may not be a poet, nor a handsome chap, but hes kind. Think about it, Zinn. The little one will call you Mum.
Daisy thought it over and moved in with Matthew. She painted his modest room white for the May festivals, bought a range of curtainsgreen with white flowers, yellow and blue for the little girls dresses. The infant, Sophie, soon began to babble, calling her Mum.
Matthew was a steady husband; he never cracked, paid his wages, and never raised his voice. He never whispered sweet words, but Daisy had never been accustomed to such. She had accepted a life without affection from birth.
Three years into their marriage, while gardening, Sophie ran up with a bunch of dandelions, hugged Daisy, pressed the yellow flowers to her cheek, and whispered, Mum, I love you more than anyone, more than Daddy, more than Aunt Alice, more than my doll. Daisy held her daughter, laughed and wept at once; at last she felt loved.
A year later she gave birth to a boy, Ian. Matthew cared for the baby, rose at night to tend to the cot, and helped carry the pram down the stairs. Soon the factory granted them a spacious, bright council house. Live well and be happy, the landlord said, and Daisy finally had something to smile about.
The couple raised their children, waited for grandchildren. In the garden of their cottage, elderly Daisy now boiled jams while the little ones played nearby.
Grandma, I love you, shouted Olivia.
And I love you too, echoed her brother, Daniel.
Grandma, I love you, gurgled baby Lily.
Here we are, loving our grandma, hiding smiles in our silvered beards, said grandfather Matthew.
Daisy brushed away a sudden tear, remembering how, many years ago, she could never have imagined that a girl born unloved would one day be surrounded by such affection.
