(This is only a snipet from Daisy McKnight- My Name In Print so bare with me.xx)
“All de things I love and live by are in that box. My little treasures.' Mama May said with her wrinkly index finger pointed towards a chestnut box. It was a beautiful box made from hardwood with little angels carved into its sides. “Gifts from my mother,bless her soul. She gave'em to me before her beauty went to the soil from whenst it came. She gave me all her worldly trinkets. Open it up now dear.”
Gingerly Daisy opened the box, it was so dramatic she could swear there was a drum roll in the background as she lifted the lid. “It's empty.” Daisy said in a low voice. Her eyes slowly looked up to the old woman who was perched forward almost right above her. For a moment their gazes locked and it was as though something was being transferred from blues eyes to grey eyes.
“Yes dear it is. You see I imagine them there sometimes, some days I go as far as taking them all out delicately and dusting them off. I stroke my mother's pearl necklace, slip them around my neck and look at my reflection in the mirror. Will i ever be as beautiful as her? I wonder. I run my fingers round the rim of my father's golden watch and shiver as metal touches skin. The hands move like it was yesterday it been on his wrist ticking and tocking as he took it with him to the market.” as the words slipped out of her mouth the woman starred out the window like she saw her parents coming around the bend. Daisy followed her gaze and found her eyes looking at the blooming hydrangeas.
“What happened to them?” Daisy inquired after a few silent minutes had passed.
“Life in a war is the hardest of lives. Times were hard my dear. My husband and I were looking after our four children, our relatives and our animals in a time of struggle. Rebels were constantly after us, burnt down our villages, slaughtered our animals and scarred our relatives away. Made no sense that that box was full and my children's bellies were empty. I'd sold them for pennies, it was a war no one was buying anything. I was lucky to sell them. Wrapped them up nicely and said goodbye. My youngings were full and that's all that mattered.” the words accompanied by a long sigh and another gaze into the past. Daisy stood up and positioned herself beside her friend, her arms slowly attempted to encompass the robust woman. “Oh poor you Mama May. I'm so sorry.” she whispered. The old lady remained numb and merely gave a nervous smile.
“I never really lost'em. You see my mother told me, 'Girl the only true things in life are those you can't touch. Keep'em somewhere no one can reach'. And I did. You see my girl I have two boxes that can hold the world and not be harmed by it. My mind and my heart.” out with that wrinkly old index again as she touched her forehead then her chest.
The warmth that came from both this woman's body and words made it impossible not to smile. How lucky she was to have met Mama May, the most maternal person she'd ever had in her life. Looking back to her childhood in the village in Leeds. Elizabeth Daisy McKnight was born with the bluest eyes and the thickest brown hair, she'd gotten her looks from the gregarious Beatrice McKnight but lucky for the former the latter's personality hadn't passed on to her. Beatrice was tall and ever so preen, she was known for her double standards to the lower class she was snobbish and rude but in the presence of a person of higher rank out came the polite amicable Beatrice. Some how she managed to hook the quiescent Mark McKnight. Mark McKnight was heir to Roton House which was owned by Mark's father, Duke McKnight. Her father had taken up the accounting profession hiding away counting numbers whilst his wife spent his numbers. Mark had graduated at the top of his class at Oxford but decided to return to his home-town in hopes of beginning a family. Ever man in the village was enticed by Beatrice but whether or not she was tolerable was another question entirely.
Fortunately for him he'd learn how to live with the rambling. Daisy vividly remembered her father sitting with his nose in a book , his feet up on a stool and his back to her mother. He pretended to listening to her prating like any kind Englishman and he even pretended to participate with 'Yes dear' and 'Uh-huh' whenever he finished a chapter. They had very little in common thus their troubled marriage. Both enjoyed to collect, the Mrs was very fond of expensive china, antique furniture and priceless jewellery. Mark had a more humble love for collecting, at an early age he began his life as a numismatic and loved philately. Looking back there were countless times Daisy had found her father still up at night examining his newest coins and stamps. Though Beatrice encouraged it, it was obvious she abhorred it. “Now now dear, I'm sure our guests have heard enough of your description of your coins. Perhaps we should show them the chandelier.” she'd interrupted him more than once at her lively dinner parties. For all her entertaining evenings which were always successful Beatrice wasn't any good at entertaining her children. She would talk to them for a few minutes a day and when she was out of words she'd send them away with the housemaid, Mary. “Take them to their etiquette class.” or “To the study.” as she pushed them forward into the arms of the help. Daisy and her younger sister, Jillian, were quite used to being with the help. Their mother never really took much interest in conversing with them but she surely knew how to yell at them whenever they were naughty or behaved unlike the 'Duke's granddaughters'. Their father was more patient with them and when he could spare some time away from his work and his collections he would read to them or if they were lucky play with them.
Jillian was nothing like Daisy. Though there were only two years apart they almost never played. The younger girl was quite fascinated in drawing and whistling and did both in the comfort of her room. Rules were always kept by her and it was truly rare to see even the slightest speck of dirt on her. The older one though was rarely ever inside. There were so many acres of land at their home and Daisy found no point in staying indoors. This however provoked many scoldings by her mother. “Girls do not behave in such a way. I will not be having barbarism in my household!” the tall brunette would yell. Then once her part was done she would call for Mary who was expected to clean the naughty child before the guests arrived.
The McKnight relationships were always bumpy. In her adolescent years Daisy began to understand her younger sister more and their bond grew. Without a question it was Grandpa Davie and Daisy that got along best. The Duke wouldn't have his grandchildren call him that, he said it sounded too formal and though he loved his title he found it made him seem unapproachable. 'So Grandpa Davie it is' he said with his jolly old smile. His smile always managed to ignite a fire of warmth in Daisy's soul. From a young age she'd been absolutely drawn by her grandfather and him to her. He enjoyed the outdoors as much as she and whenever Beatrice allowed it, the two would go for long walks in the forests of Leeds. They would discuss everything and anything.
Reminiscing wasn't remedial, it made her feel faint and emetic. She didn't want to look back, to recall, to relive a life she'd abandoned for a reason.
The rain was still pouring heavily outside, it was of course spring at its peak. “Close de door! Save de fruit!” Mama May yelled. Daisy did as asked. 'The Little Daisy' was closed on account of it being a Sunday morning meaning Mama May would insist on going to church. 'I go to pray for them all that forgot how to' she'd say. After 20 years in the country she'd accumulated all the English ever but that didn't chase away the African tongue with which she spoke it. Daisy liked how Mama May talked, the foreign touch was always intriguing to her. Perhaps 'foreign' isn't a fitting word because despite all the Americanism her system had to intake over the four years it didn't stop the fact that she too was not from here..............
