Churchill’s Angels (19 page)

A small quiet voice whispered, ‘I’m ready.’

‘If you’re quite sure we’ll do it together. Ready, one, two, three …’

They were quiet as they walked back to their hut. A soft drizzle was falling and drops caught on Charlie’s hair and shone like diamonds in the lamplight.

Mine must be shining too, thought Daisy.

Suddenly Charlie stopped. ‘Daisy, did I make a bloody fool of myself?’

‘No. I must say there really is something about the ruling classes. I’m lucky to be able to say I’ve never been scared of anything physical or heights or stuff like that. I’m quite sure if I had I’d have lost control, if you know what I mean.’

‘I nearly did. But wetting one’s knickers in front of a wing commander is not one of the war stories I want to tell my grandchildren.’

Daisy gulped. ‘A wing commander?’ She knew one wing commander; now she had had, as Charlie would say, a jolly time with a second one.

‘Yes, Wing Commander Crawford Anstruther, DSO, et cetera. Daddy pointed him out at a garden party one summer before the war. Decorated by every country on our side. Quite a storyteller, though.’

‘Storyteller?’

‘According to Daddy, he has a married sister and two nephews at Eton, no other relatives.’

‘Makes me like him even more. I’ll have to try that. Can’t you just hear me? Sorry, Frau Führer, I’m not ready for this yet.’

The happy sound of a splutter of natural laughter from Charlie was a perfect ending to the evening.

The Petries were more than sad at the idea of Daisy being, as they saw it, all alone on Christmas Day. They sent a large parcel, which they hoped would arrive on time, and forwarded a Christmas card, and a letter that they were sure came from the pilot. Fred had actually fought with his conscience over the sending on of that letter. He had considered tossing it on the fire. After all, Daisy hadn’t mentioned the man in her letters, never told them what the lad had said in the first one. ‘Not that it’s any of your business, Fred Petrie,’ he told himself.

Rose was still stepping out with Stan, the lad from the Vickers factory. Nice enough lad, who had been two years ahead of her in school. Too early to think about marrying, but it was nice to see them so easy with each other. Daisy wasn’t easy with her posh pilot, forever changing her words; ‘was’ instead of ‘were’ and sometimes the other way round, until Fred and Flora had no idea of which one was right. As if it mattered – ’cept it did for posh lads like Adair Maxwell.

‘I don’t want nothin’ to happen to you, lad,’ he addressed the absent Adair, ‘but I don’t want my little Daisy ’urt, and ’urt her you will, sure as eggs is eggs.’

Daisy was delighted to receive the letter and the parcel, which she decided to leave until Christmas Day.

Charlie had received several packages, one or two of them sent from rather splendid London department stores.

‘The cookhouse is promising us a delicious Christmas lunch,’ she informed Daisy, ‘but I have a lovely feeling that there’s a heavenly party for our little home-from-home in that box.’

‘Mum’s probably sent something too; she’s a good baker, best in the local WI.’

‘It will be the battle of the Titans then; Mummy’s President of our local branch. Mind you, everyone’s terrified of her, which is so silly, but perhaps she doesn’t deserve to win all the time. She’s actually stopped entering her sweet peas in the show.’ She looked at the envelopes in Daisy’s hand. ‘Aren’t you going to open them? We need to decorate our palatial quarters.’

Obligingly Daisy opened the first envelope and withdrew the card.

‘Lovely,’ said Charlie as she looked at the snow scene, complete with shepherds. ‘“As Shepherds Watched”. We shall sing that too. Read it and tell me it’s from a divinely handsome man who has an equally divinely handsome brother.’

‘Better than that, it’s from Grace.’ She read the few lines inside the card. ‘I’m so happy. Seems she’s written to everyone and given the latest address. She’s in Scotland.’

‘Fishing? Sorry, being facetious again.’

‘Great, hold that thought.’ Daisy was very happy as she hung the card over the string they had fixed to the wall behind their beds.

She broke off to say hello to three of their roommates who had just come in, soaked to the skin and freezing cold. The girls pulled off their wet uniforms, threw on their dressing gowns, and trooped out again to the showers.

‘Poor lambs. I do hate rain dripping down the back of my neck, don’t you? Now what thought was I supposed to hold?’

‘Facetious.’ With Adair’s letter seeming to burn in her hand, Daisy asked the meaning. She did not mind asking Charlie for help. Charlie was a toff and had a wonderful education – even spoke French as easily as she spoke English – but she was … nice. That was it. There was bound to be a word that explained it better but Daisy hadn’t learned it yet. ‘What’s it mean, Charlie?’

‘Difficult to explain, Daisy. It’s saying that a person is not being serious, trying to be funny.’

‘But if a person was to say you was facetious, it wouldn’t be … nasty or anything like that.’

‘No. For instance, when I suggested that your friend was fishing in Scotland, I wasn’t serious. I know perfectly well that she’s working on the land, doing an absolutely tip-top job. I was being facetious.’

‘So if you knew someone with a plane and he was giving it to the Government for the war and you asked him if he would throw things at the enemy out of it since it didn’t have guns, that would be facetious?’

‘Absolutely.’

‘But he would know you was joking.’

‘Yes, Daisy, your pilot knew you were joking.’

‘He’s not my pilot,’ said Daisy with a happy smile, and sat down to open Adair’s letter.

Dear Daisy,

Nancy tells me you have joined the WAAF. Very well done.

I’ll spend Christmas Day with Nancy and Alf. Can’t thank them enough. They have been absolutely splendid since the house was closed. By the way, I believe it’s going to be reopened as a convalescent hospital, War Office management, of course.

My lovely
Daisy
has been very busy over the last few weeks. The ATA pilots find her both roomy and dependable.

I’m not sure where I’ll be stationed after Christmas but, one never knows, we may be close enough so that we can take to the skies again. I do like to pay my debts.

Have a happy, happy Christmas.

Adair

P.S. The address at the top of this letter will always find me.

Adair. A pleasant quiver ran through her entire body. ‘He doesn’t owe me anything,’ she said aloud.

At least five pairs of interested eyes were looking at her and she blushed furiously.

The shops, hotels, and churches of all denominations tried to encourage their members or patrons to plan for a happy Christmas. The Salvation Army played on the streets. Christmas music floated on the cold December air. Small bands of carol singers collected money for war wounded and for the elderly.

Rose’s “keep-fit” group in the munitions factory collected spare change from their workmates for the many refugees who were flooding into Dartford from Belgium and Holland. Although the town was still dealing with almost daily air raids, one or two groups took their courage in both hands and sang or played in the open air, their senses attuned not only to their music but to warning sounds from the sky.

On a quick outing for her mother, Rose stopped to listen to some carol singers.

‘Joy to the World,’ they sang.

How, Rose thought, could there be joy to a world enduring such appalling conditions? She stopped walking to find some loose change for the collection box that was coming her way and then she saw an air force officer. Tall, too thin, grey eyes, black hair that was already a little bit grey. Could it be Daisy’s foreigner pilot?

‘Merry Christmas,’ she said boldly. ‘You look a bit lost. Can I help you?’

He smiled at her. ‘How very kind. I am looking for the home of a young friend. It is, I think, a little shop for the groceries.’

It’s lovely to have to look up into a man’s eyes, thought Rose as she smiled at him. ‘I thought so,’ she said. ‘You’re Daisy’s foreigner friend.’

‘Daisy? Miss Petrie? I am indeed her foreign friend. Tomas Sapenak. And you, madame?’

Rose held out her hand. ‘I am, believe it or not, her twin sister.’

He laughed, and what a pleasant laugh he had. ‘The twin? How very nice to meet you, Miss Petrie.’

‘Rose.’

Again he laughed. ‘Daisies and roses; such pretty flowers, and so different. It is a pleasure to meet you.’

‘Can I help you?’ Rose saw some of her workmates passing and smiled blindingly up at Tomas. Being seen with a senior officer, and such a good-looking one, would certainly cause some talk.

‘I had some business at … a factory and thought I might call. Is it possible that Daisy has leave?’

‘I’m sorry, Tomas, not till March. She’s hoping to get a twenty-four-hour pass sometime soon.’ She shrugged. ‘But who knows?’

‘Ah, well, that is war. I am pleased to have met you, Rose, and I wish you a happy Christmas.’

‘You too.’

He touched his hand to his cap. ‘You will tell Daisy, no, you know where she is stationed. I did not ask Adair and it was only that I was here …’ His voice trailed off.

‘Course I’ll tell her, and she’s at a place called Wilmslow. You know it?’

‘It is famous. I will find it.’ He touched his cap again and was gone.

Well, well, Daisy Petrie, two of ’em stuck on you. Lucky Daisy.

When she reached home Rose told her mother all about the foreign airman. ‘He’s sweet on our Daisy, Mum. Wonder what Adair wotsit will think of that?’

‘Don’t be daft, pet; Daisy said as he were old. She wouldn’t be interested in an old man although, mind you, she was very fond of Mr Fischer.’ She thought for a moment. ‘He’s foreign too.’

‘I’m teasing. Tomas isn’t old, and besides, our Daisy’s in love with engines, not men.’

‘Thank goodness for that.’ Flora went back to trying to prepare mincemeat that might resemble, even in a small way, the mincemeat she had made before the war.

That night a plane limping back to Germany from a raid on London, jettisoned a bomb as it passed over Dartford. The bomb destroyed a charity shop on the High Street. The remains of two people were found inside, the manageress, and a Canadian airman.

‘What was Megan doing in the shop after closing hours?’

That question was asked in several homes. When the Canadian airman’s body was found people drew their own conclusions. Some people were charitable and decided not to speak ill of the dead, but in many other homes gossip was rife.

‘She always were a flighty piece. And where’s that sister of ’er’s? No better, I’ll be bound, and no sister neither.’

‘Daughter, I always thought. I mean, who’s twenty years older than her sister? And would you believe, my ma said she never even went to meet the kid at the station. A nun brought her, didn’t she, Gladys? Scrawny little thing, still is, even though them ’igh and mighty Petries and Brewers took her in.’

‘An’ where is she now, and her sister lying dead in all her shame? Just up and left, without a by-your-leave. In the family way, probable.’

Apart from the limited circle of small-minded people, the people of Dartford were kind, and no one kinder than ‘the high and mighty Petries and Brewers’.

They could think only of one person. Grace. Megan had been a poor sister but, as far as anyone knew, she was Grace’s sole relative.

‘And the house was rented,’ said Flora. ‘What on earth will happen to Grace? Her sister’s dead and now she has no home.’

‘Who’ll tell her?’

‘The police, I think,’ said Fred, ‘but maybe it’ll be someone in the army since the poor child’s a land girl.’

‘What a Christmas. There’ll be a funeral and I expect Grace will get compassionate leave. With Daisy gone and my boys, we have plenty of room; she can come to us and welcome.’

‘She’s always spent Christmas with us,’ Elsie Brewer, Sally’s mother, reminded her.

‘Of course, and now I have to let Daisy know. Maybe she’ll get leave.’

‘Not for a friend’s sister, love,’ Fred broke the bad news.

Daisy was devastated when she heard of the tragedy. She and Charlotte, together with the other residents of their billet, had been on a forced march and were exhausted, soaked to the skin, and hungry. Frau Führer met them on their return.

‘A moment, Petrie.’

All the girls stopped in distress. What could Daisy have done to be summoned?

Daisy was astounded to find herself seated beside a small electric fire and handed a very large cup of hot, sweet tea. ‘Oh God, what is it? Who is it? It’s Sam, isn’t it, my brother, Sam?’

‘Drink the tea, Petrie. It’s none of your family. I’m afraid your vicar telephoned and asked me to tell you that a Megan Paterson was killed in an air raid and her sister, Grace, has been given compassionate leave to arrange the funeral.’ She saw hope lighten Daisy’s eyes. ‘I’m sorry, Daisy. We can’t give you leave. War doesn’t stop, no matter how sad we are. Finish your tea, and then you had better go, have a good hot shower and then supper and bed.’

Daisy gulped down the tea and stood up. Poor Grace. Megan was hopeless as a sister but she was all Grace had. How she wished that there were some way to contact her. Where was she staying? Surely not in that ghastly damp little house. Mum would take her in, or Sally’s mum. Thoughts raced around as she made her way back to the warmth of her billet.

‘I’m sure all your lovely family and friends will rally round, Daisy.’ Charlie had insisted that Daisy go straight to bed after her shower and she had then talked the cookhouse staff into allowing her to take a plate of nourishing stew into the billet. Charlie had supplemented this with a shot of brandy from the mess. ‘Medicinal,’ she had assured the barman.

Probably because she celebrated in ways that she had never done before, Daisy thoroughly enjoyed Christmas Day. There were services conducted by military chaplains and then a Christmas lunch that released usually untapped depths of culinary skill from the cooks. Wine was served and, for just a moment, there was a lump in Daisy’s throat as she pictured her family, in the little kitchen in Dartford, drinking Adair’s French wine. She thought about him, glad that he was with Alf and Nancy, who loved him, and she remembered, too, Sam, Phil, and Sally, Mr Fischer, and, of course, Grace.