“The hardest thing in the world to keep is a secret.
No matter how hard you try, someone always finds out.
Even the best-kept secrets are eventually exposed to the light of day.”
The dust from the yellowing pages was irritating my eyes.
The writer was a shadowy figure in my life.
I met her a few times, but she was ancient and small children were of little interest to her; who could blame her.
When she died, I was ‘too young to go to the funeral’. Not that I threw a tantrum or anything, but I was curious.
She was the first person to die during my brief existence.
When you are a kid, old people are like creatures from another planet. So far removed from your world as to seem genuinely alien.
There are exceptions of course.
If you’re lucky enough to have grandparents, you’ll know what I mean.
Mine were either too old, too far away, or too dead to play a role in my life.
I’ve heard friends talk about their grandmother as being the one person they could say anything to.
It’s good to have someone who will keep your secrets.
Grandparents don’t feel responsible in the same way that parents do, so they tend to relax. They have been there and seen it all happen. They come at each problem with a calmness that young people react to.
I yearn to say that that’s how it was with Daisy, but it wasn’t.
You notice that I didn’t say ‘grandma’ Daisy.
That’s because my mother always referred to her mother as Daisy.
From reading through these old notebooks and loose pages, I’ve discovered that Daisy liked me, although why she should, I have no idea. I was barely aware of her existence, and I don’t ever remember having a conversation with her, although I must have because she quotes me here in her beautiful handwriting.
“The little one asked me what I was looking at. Both hands on her hips and a defiant look in her eyes. It was all I could do to contain my smile. This little one is going to make her mark in the world.”
‘This little one’, that was me, way back then. I must’ve been about six years old. That was the last time I saw her.
Naturally, I wanted to find more references to me in this box of handwritten memories, but there were precious few references to me.
I discovered the old wooden trunk in the mid-morning, and I sat in the attic and read until it got dark. Time went by in a flash, but that was what these papers were about; time.
Daisy was a spy.
She didn’t set out to be a spy it just worked out that way. Her world dipped headlong into a deadly conflict and her young self-decided that she had to do her bit. She thought she would be shuffling papers in some anonymous war office, but doors opened quickly for Daisy, and she found herself being trained to work behind enemy lines. The theory in those days was that the enemy was less likely to suspect a woman of being a spy. With what I know of the history of warfare, this was a stunning underestimation. Famous female spies go back as far as anyone can remember. So why did these bozos think that females would be safe behind enemy lines?
From her notes, I read that some Daisy’s friends lost their lives. Many because they were betrayed.
Students of warfare know that spies and codebreakers win wars, whereas everyone else thinks that guns and tanks are the only things that matter.
Secrets are one thing, and their procurement was a dangerous business. But the secret alone was useless unless it could be conveyed to those who could use the information.
Codes could be broken and often were.
Both sides went to enormous ends to safeguard their secrets.
Mathematicians were in high demand.
Knowing that any code could be broken at any moment must have made these agents very nervous.
The only unbreakable code was referred to as a book code.
But, carrying around a particular book could be dangerous in itself, particularly if other agents had been captured carrying the same book.
From what I was reading, Daisy had developed her system, but for the life of me, I didn’t understand how it worked.
She seemed to be referring to some person as, “The keeper of secrets”.
It was now very dark, and I was hungry.
Daisy’s trunk full of secrets would have to wait until tomorrow.
My family were more than a little annoyed when I go home because there was no food on the table.
I suggested that there were matches on the stove and that the top drawer held a can opener.
My suggestions were not well received.
I didn’t sleep very well that night, and the next morning after I had bundled everyone out the door with their tummies full of warm breakfast, [it seemed the least I could do after the previous night’s lack of dinner] I got in my car and drove around to my mother’s empty house.
This time, I was a little better prepared. I brought coffee, sandwiches and eyedrops.
Daisy’s papers held countless references to the mysterious, ‘keeper of secrets’, but by mid-afternoon, I was no closer to finding out who this person was.
Daisy wasn’t just a good spy she was a heck of a good writer as well. I was quickly transported into her wartime world, and I could feel the fear and excitement that she felt. She would’ve been very young and probably quite pretty, but inexplicably, my family did not have any photographs of her from this time in her life, so I’m only guessing. She did mention several times that she was able to achieve her objectives because of the effect she had on men, so ‘pretty’ seemed like a good bet.
There were many references to a rag doll which was sent back and forth from occupied France. I jumped to the conclusion that messages were concealed within the doll, but this was never spelt out. That doll must’ve racked up some serious miles. I hope it didn’t get airsick, or seasick for that matter, as there were references to the doll being smuggled out on fishing boats as well as being collected by daredevil pilots landing in open fields on moonless nights.
I wondered what had happened to this doll after the war.
If it had been me, I would have kept it as a reminder of my adventures.
I headed home at a reasonable hour and while I was chopping up vegetables and preparing the dinner my mind was imagining a young woman taking her life in her hands on a daily basis. I wondered how she managed to assimilate back into civilian life. Did she find housework as boring as I do?
The notebooks I was reading talked mostly about this exciting part of her life.
Maybe there were other notebooks that talked about the struggles of her post-war life, but they were not in this old wooden trunk.
If my mother had been alive, I would’ve asked her, but my only link with that time was now gone.
Maybe they were up there somewhere talking about times gone by.
Being a mother myself I wondered how Daisy’s mum felt about this young girl being so close to danger. Something told me that Daisy’s mum did not know what she was up to, which was probably just as well.
The next day when I had returned to my mother’s attic, I continue to read Daisy’s wartime journals, but something else was nagging at me and distracting me from my task.
Finally, I put the journals to one side and began going through the other boxes that were stored in this dusty old attic.
This task was made more difficult because my mother never labelled anything.
It was always a voyage of discovery going throughout our pantry and refrigerator when my brother and I were young, because you never knew what was in the jar, or can, or bottle.
It’s amazing that we didn’t poison ourselves.
The first few boxes were full of children’s toys and clothing, some of which were mine and some of which belong to my brother.
Eventually, I found a box that was full of things that I did not recognise, and among these things was an item wrapped in layers of old newspaper.
It occurred to me that the wrapping might be more interesting than what was inside, but I was dead wrong.
The layers of newspapers were protecting an old rag doll.
A very old rag doll.
“I’ll bet you could tell some stories,” I said to the doll as I held it gently in both hands.
“I would never tell. I’m the keeper of secrets.”
The voice was a faint one, but I didn’t imagine it.
The doll was speaking to me, and amazing as it may seem, I wasn’t surprised.
It seemed as natural as it could be.
“What secret do you have for me today Daisy?”
The little doll’s features were now faded and worn, and this made the situation even more bizarre; I was being spoken to by a crudely shaped, almost featureless, rag doll.
“I don’t have any secrets, and my name is not Daisy,” I said, feeling slightly foolish for arguing with a rag doll.
It did occur to me that leaving this house as quickly as possible would be a wise move. Possibly even an appointment with a competent psychiatrist could be called for.
But my curiosity got the better of me.
“You must be Daisy. I only speak to Daisy and the person who knows my name,” said the little doll.
“Daisy was my grandmother.”
“You must be very much like her for me to have made that mistake.”
“Daisy was brave and fearless. I don’t think I am either of those things.” I said, and the words made me sad as I said them. “How did my grandmother find you, and how did she know that you can keep secrets?”
“I cannot tell you. It’s a secret.”
“It doesn’t matter. Even if you told me, it wouldn’t make any difference. No one is ever going to believe me when I tell them this story.”
“So don’t tell them then. It can be our secret.”
I should’ve been frightened, or at least a little apprehensive, but all I felt was calm and brave. Was I channelling my grandmother? Was being close to this rag doll from that dangerous time giving me a sense of my inner courage? All I knew at that moment was that I had to protect this ancient little rag doll.
It was a connection to my mysterious grandmother, but it was bigger than that.
It felt more like an ancient quest.
My sworn duty would now be to keep this piece of magic safe and warm.
“Are you a happy person Susan?”
“I am,” I said, wondering how it knew my name.
“Tell me your secrets Susan and I’ll keep them safe.”
“You are my only secret, and from now on it is my job to keep you safe.” As I said it, I had a strong sense there were adventures to come, and that a small rag doll who can keep a secret would feature prominently.
I’m up for an adventure as long as I can be home in time to prepare dinner.
Who would ever suspect an ordinary suburban housewife of being a spy?
This story is now published as part of the anthology ‘Loyal and True’.
For many generations, Gypsies have been welcome on Chesteen land.
It isn’t easy being a Gypsie in this modern era, in fact it has never been easy.
Their nomadic lifestyle and all the legends that have built up around them has made it hard for them to live their lives peacefully.
Chesteen land is a sanctuary. A place of welcome and safety. The family will not tolerate any harassment by the locals or the police, and the Chesteen family has the clout to back it up.
Chesteen Pies have been the districts biggest employer for more than a century.
Their pies are extremely popular right across the country and although the contents of their pies are just the usual good quality beef and gravy, the difference comes from the crust.
Their competitors think that it is just a marketing ploy but there really is a secret ingredient.
It was decided long ago, by the company founder Brenton Chesteen, that the secret should not be written down for fear that it might fall into the wrong hands.
Only two members of the family hold the secret in any one generation.
It is handed down, quite often on a death-bed, to the eldest in the family.
The secret is currently held by two eldest daughters.
This may seem a bit dramatic and a little unnecessary but the family thinks otherwise, and with good reason.
Large multinational companies have been trying to gobble up this family company almost from the time it came into existence.
The founder of the company was kidnapped not long after sales of Chesteen pies began to boom. They tortured him over several days but he would not give up the secret. He barely escaped with his life and only after a band of wandering Gypsies came to his rescue.
His family honour his memory and his rescuers by giving all Gypsies free access to their land.
The main gate leading to the estate has a sign that reads, ‘Gratitude knows not the passage of time.’
This story is a reworking of a story from June 2013. You can read that story here, and I would be interested to know which version you prefer, if any.
This story is now published as part of the anthology ‘Loyal and True’.
Throughout the land Palmira Zuckerwar was famous for her Pumpkin Soup.
Like all good chefs, she had a secret ingredient.
She was modest, private and famous.
Not famous like those halfwits who appear on television, but famous because she was better at something than almost anyone else.
She had loved to cook ever since she was a little girl.
Her mum used to say that for the females in their family ‘cooking was in the blood’.
Her favourite part of the whole process was the look on people’s faces when they tasted her latest dish.
Her Pumpkin Soup drew the most admirers.
She had received requests from all over the world for her recipes, but a magician does not reveal her secrets.
In the run up to the federal election she received an invitation from the Prime Minister to attend The Lodge for a formal dinner.
For once she did not have to cook.
The Prime Minister’s chef was very nervous.
He had cooked for many heads of State but this was different. She was one of his own kind and as any author knows, a compliment from a fellow author is the most prized of possessions, especially if it comes from someone you admire.
He need not have worried, she loved his food, and because her mum had taught her good manners, she asked to speak to him.
He was honoured and they got on famously.
He thought it was worth a try, so he asked her what her secret ingredient was.