This Cold Country Read Free Page B

very cold. She felt lonely, neglected, hard done by, although she didn’t connect all these feelings or add to them that it had been a very long time since she had felt an affectionate or prolonged touch from another human being. Instead, she felt a tear trickle down her cheek, and she thought,
I want my mother.
    Her mother, she thought, not without humor although a matching tear rolled down from her other eye, would not be much use to her this morning. Daisy’s father had three services to conduct—Holy Communion twice and a sermon—and although the unemotional atmosphere of the rectory precluded panic, there would be the usual anxiety about surplices and misplaced glasses and gloves.
    The rector had three surplices, none of them new; the household economy of the rectory did not lend itself to reserves of linen of any kind, either for divine worship or for bedding. Mrs. Creed tried to make the surplices last. She darned, snipped frayed edges, and tried not to launder them too often. During the summer it was easier; she left the drying laundry out to bleach in the sun. Bewildered bees would be thwarted on their journeys to the purple and blue flowers on the rosemary bushes by the voluminous stretches of white cloth, with embroidered and lace cuffs, that now covered them. The surplices, her father used to say, had a pleasant herbal scent that sometimes inspired—or distracted—him while conducting services.
    Daisy leaned her forehead against Duchess’s flank, feeling a little comfort from the sensation of life beside her; her hands were too cold to draw any feeling of warmth from Duchess’s teats. Her fingers seemed as thick as the teats and she saw that one of her chilblains had split open; it was raw and oozing. She started to cry, without pausing in the rhythm that drew the last drops of milk from the independent cow’s teats. Two or three of her tears dropped into the milk.
    Rosemary greeted Daisy on her return to the hall.
    â€œHappy Christmas, Daisy dear,” she said, and then noticing the misery behind Daisy’s smile, although the tears had long since been conquered, “What’s the matter?”
    â€œMy chilblain burst,” Daisy said, sounding to herself like a child. “And, like most of the population, I’m cold.”
    â€œTake off your gloves and boots, and I’ll paint them for you.” Rosemary had already given Daisy the medicine that ameliorated the symptoms of, but didn’t cure, chilblains. But she knew that being taken care of would to some extent make up for Daisy not being allowed to warm her hands or feet by the fire or to immerse them in hot water, either temporary relief being the worst thing one could do for chilblains. The liquid that Rosemary dabbed on Daisy’s toes and fingers was blue and seemed both old-fashioned and magical. When her toes were dry she slipped them into her bedroom slippers and went in to breakfast.
    â€œCoffee,” Rosemary announced proudly. “The last pound from before the war. And marmalade. Coffee and Seville oranges are going to be one of the great pleasures of peace.”
    Valerie was on leave, so there were only Daisy, Rosemary, and an overexcited Sarah at the breakfast table. Sarah was bouncier than usual.
    â€œThe smell of marmalade, the smell of freshly ground coffee—after the war I’ll keep the door to the kitchen open.”
    â€œLook at Sarah,” Daisy said. “She’s the only one who doesn’t think about ‘after the war.’”
    â€œShe was awake all night—weren’t you, darling?—I have to keep myself from apologizing to her for this modified Christmas.”
    â€œIt doesn’t seem modified to me,” Daisy said politely, sincerely. “A fire at breakfast, holly on the mantelpiece, and real coffee and marmalade.”
    â€œI know, but I feel guilty and responsible and at the same time rather like a character out