Churchill’s Angels (23 page)

What was it that Mr Churchill said? Something about everyone working together? That’s it, decided Daisy as the already heavily overcrowded train pulled in to pick up more passengers.
We will win the war if we work together
.

It was wonderful to be home. Daisy had been pressed to the window of the carriage since leaving London, so anxious had she been to see Dartford Station. She wondered who would be there to meet her. It never occurred to her that no one would be there. And so it proved. She looked, face as close to the glass as she could get. Dad? Mum? Rose?

She squealed with pleasure as she almost fell out of the train into the arms of her brother Phil. For a long moment neither said a word as they hugged and Daisy fought back tears.

‘Just in time, our Daze,’ he said. ‘I’m off to Portsmouth first thing. Dad’s in the shop since Mum’s killed at least three fatted calves and is cooking enough to feed the entire British fleet. Give us your bags. The van’s in the car park.’

How many months was it since she had seen or heard from her brother? Daisy took refuge in anger. ‘I haven’t heard a word from you, Philip Petrie, not even when Ron …’

‘I’m not good at the writing, Daisy.’

He looked and sounded so disconsolate that she laughed. ‘I had our mum convinced that a seagull had to fly over and pick up letters, Phil.’

‘You look … different, Daisy. Beautiful. That’s a word I never thought I’d use about my own sister.’

‘You’re daft, you are. How’s our Rose? She never answers my letters either.’

‘Too tired, love, and maybe too fed up. She wants to join up, the ATS, but Mum’s … I don’t know the words, Daisy … but Sam in a POW camp, Ron dead, you and me away … Forget all that. Are you doing well?’

‘I think I’m doing all right, Phil, met some nice people—’

He interrupted her. ‘Heard you had a flying lesson. Did you really? Did you really go up in one of them little crates?’

‘I did. More than once. It’s freedom and space you can’t imagine, Phil. I love it.’

‘Not so much space when the bloody sky’s full of damned Messerschmitts. They’re better planes than ours. They can’t manoeuvre like our pilots, real circus performers they are, but Jerry’s got the shooting A1.’

‘You shouldn’t say things like that.’

‘The truth’s the truth and I’m only talking to you. Now you’re a WAAF you’ll find out things for yourself.’

They had reached the van and Phil threw her kitbag in the back while she settled herself in the passenger seat. It was difficult driving in the blackout but for once a pale moon gave some light, and in no time they were home.

Daisy, who had never before been away from home, found her parents very changed, and they, like Phil, said that she too was different. Flora, who had lost a great deal of weight, had tried to prepare family favourites, among them apple fritters.

‘We still seem able to get apples, Daisy; and Nancy Humble has some lovely Bramleys in one of the attics.’

The celebration went on for some time. Would they ever enjoy an evening as a family without the fear that in a moment a siren would blast the peace of the night? They tried to be as normal as possible as they caught up with everyone’s news. Grace was back on her Scottish farm but had promised to return to Dartford whenever she had leave. Elsie and Ernie Brewer, as well as Flora and Fred, had assured Grace that she would always have a home with them. Daisy was brought up to date with news of as many of her old friends as possible but no one mentioned Mr Fischer. The old man who had been almost a fixture in the shop seemed to be quite forgotten.

Again she wondered – was he dead or was he alive? Had he indeed been the tall, slender figure she had glimpsed so briefly?

‘Any news of Mr Fischer?’

‘Funny you should ask, love. Mrs Porter, all excited, brought over a Christmas card. Lovely picture of a manger scene on the front and a ten-shilling note inside. From the National Gallery in London, no less, and it was signed, we think, Fischer. Terrible writing for a clever man but he said, “All well”. Isn’t that good? She were that happy.’

‘That’s lovely,’ said Daisy, but decided to say nothing else. If Mr Fischer had sent a card, bought probably in London, to his former landlady stating that all was well, then it did indeed look as if Adair’s VIP passenger addressed as ‘Doctor’ was their Mr Fischer.

He’ll tell us if he can when he can, she decided, and so she changed the conversation by asking Phil what he could tell her about his time in the Royal Navy.

A very gloomy-looking Bernie brought the post a few days later.

Daisy was tidying the refuge room but she came out when she heard the shop doorbell. ‘Any letters for me, Bernie?’

‘Happy New Year, Daisy,’ said Bernie, handing over two letters. ‘I hope they’re happy letters – I’ve delivered too many of them damn brown ones this week.’

‘These are happy letters, Bernie. One’s from another WAAF and the other’s from Grace – do you remember Grace?’

‘Megan Paterson’s sister. What a tragedy that was. Tell her good luck from me, Daisy.’

‘I will.’ Daisy waited until the postman had gone. Was it possible that people could change so much in a few weeks? Like Flora, Bernie seemed older and greyer somehow.

‘Has Bernie a family, Dad?’

‘’Course he has. His old dad lives with him and then he has a wife and two lads. Too young for the Forces,’ he answered Daisy’s next question before she had asked it.

‘I’ll sit on the stairs to read these. The refuge room’s airless somehow.’

‘Well, of course it is, pet. It’s got no windows – open the door if you’re working in there.’

Daisy lifted her hand as if in acceptance and took her letters outside. She opened Grace’s first, and yes, there at the top was the address of a farm in a place called East Lothian. She had not received Daisy’s letter but mentioned her sister’s death.

I can’t say I miss Megan – she never wanted me and I’ve no idea why she even took me in but I would never have wanted her to die. I’ve come to terms with it. Your mum and dad and Sally’s have been more real family than whatever family I had. Don’t worry about me. I really enjoy the WLA and have met nice people although I will never forget my first friends.

Keep in touch, Daisy, and if you hear from Sam, say hello from me.

Grace

The second letter, from Charlie, was an invitation for Daisy to join her and her father for the Tuesday and Wednesday of the following week. Her father had tickets for a play and

if there’s isn’t an air raid we should have a lovely time. Daddy always has supper at the Savoy after the theatre and the food is good.

If you can relieve my boredom, dear Daisy, send me the arrival time of your train and I’ll meet you.

‘I can’t accept,’ she announced after she had told her parents of the invitation.

‘Whyever not? It’ll be ever so nice to go to a real theatre and then supper at the Savoy. Sounds like something out of a film, Daisy, and look at what you’ll have to talk about when you see Sally.’

‘But, Mum, theatre tickets and supper at the Savoy. That’s a really posh place.’

‘We know that. And if you’re worrying about repaying your friend, she’s welcome to have her tea here any time she’s in Dartford. Come to think of it, Fred, with the boys never here no more, we could put the girls in there and use their little room for visitors.’

‘Good idea, Flora. See, Daisy, your friend could spend the night too. Not a problem. Wish we’d thought about that when Phil was here. He could have helped move the beds.’

‘Don’t shift beds, Dad, there’s no time left this leave. Maybe I could ask Charlie next time.’

Daisy was slightly ill at ease and she could feel her mother looking at her. Finally Flora spoke. ‘If you was worried we’re not good enough for your friend, Daisy, then I’d think careful about what kind of friends you want.’

‘Charlie’s not like that, Mum, she’s really great. You’d like her. She’s nice. I wish there was a better word than nice but that’s all I can think of.’

‘Well, your dad and me will look forward to meeting her. But Dad says you heard from Grace.’

The awkward moment was over but had left Daisy feeling thoroughly ashamed of herself. She was the problem, not Charlie.

Next morning Miss Partridge came into the shop. She carried a parcel, which she put down on the polished counter. ‘Daisy, dear, I met your father going about his duties last night and he told me you are off to the theatre in London. An interesting play?’

‘I hope so, Miss Partridge. My friend’s father is a big fan of Miss Christie, but really I’m just excited to be going to London.’

‘And the Savoy. Such a lovely hotel. Would you believe that a long time ago a young man proposed to me in the Savoy?’

Daisy and Rose had made up stories about Miss Partridge, and several of the other elderly single ladies who came into the shop, but supper at the Savoy had not been part of the story. ‘I wouldn’t doubt it at all, Miss Partridge. But—’

‘Not a tragic story, Daisy, dear. He had also proposed to another young lady, keeping his options open, as it were, and when he came back from Europe, he chose her. Happened all over Europe, I suppose. Water under the bridge. When your dear father was telling me last night I had a thought.’ She slid the parcel in Daisy’s direction. ‘I hope this isn’t offensive, Daisy, but I thought perhaps you might want to buy or make a new frock and, as it happens, I kept a few of my special dresses. It would be lovely if they could be useful to a young woman in this war. Terribly old-fashioned but the materials are beautiful.’

‘Oh, Miss Partridge, how very kind of you. Thank you.’

‘I was going to give them to charity but I just couldn’t bring myself to give anything to that rather awful Miss Paterson, nothing charitable about her – or me, I suppose. I’ll leave them with you and if they’re of no use, perhaps you’d give them to the new girl who’s working there. I’ll be back to do my hours this afternoon if Flora wants to go shopping.’ She turned towards the door.

‘Let me just open them …’

‘I said goodbye to them last night, dear. Back at two.’

Daisy stood for a moment and then opened the parcel, carefully saving the paper. Inside lay a confection of silver material and shiny black beads. A narrow silver and black sash was folded up under it, and below that lay a peach-coloured froth of a material she had never seen before except in films. She held up the silver and black cocktail dress and gazed at it in awe.

A flapper. Imagine, little Miss Partridge a flapper. She must have looked fabulous.

Both dresses were exquisitely made and both very much out of fashion.

‘Cuppa, Daisy? Oh, what’s that, pet? Absolutely gorgeous.’ Flora with a steaming mug of tea in each hand had pushed the door open with her bottom and was standing looking at the shimmering heap of fabric.

Daisy took the tea and explained as her mother examined the two dresses.

‘My wedding dress weren’t near as lovely as these, Daisy. They’re a bit much for the theatre, don’t you think, but the silver and black one with the beads would be lovely for dinner, maybe with a little jacket. Or wait, this sash would really dress up a plain black frock, turn it into one that could be worn all evening.’

‘The top of the frock’s too 1920s, Mum, all those beads. I’d look silly.’

They stood solemnly, drinking their tea and looking at the dresses.

‘Mrs Roban,’ said Flora suddenly.

‘Who’s Mrs Roban?’

‘A refugee. Came to church last week and the Reverend says as she’s looking for work. Seems she worked in Brussels with a … oh, what’s the word, a person that makes expensive clothes? Begins with C.’

‘No idea, Mum, but if she’s a dressmaker, maybe she could do something with this. I never had a frock made for me before.’

When Miss Partridge arrived to do her twice-weekly two hours in the shop, Flora thanked her and told her of the plan. Miss Partridge was thrilled. ‘Oh, now we are helping two people. Reverend Tiverton is sponsoring Mrs Roban and her family – her husband has disappeared, unfortunately – but I wish I’d thought of her, Daisy. She was trained by a well-known couturier. I would hurry over before she becomes too busy.’

Daisy and her mother left Miss Partridge quite happily in charge of the shop and walked along to Overy Street and across the bridge to the little house that had been found for the Roban family.

It was almost two hours later before they walked back again, both bursting with feminine delight at the frivolous afternoon they’d had, devoted entirely to talking about clothes.

This was much more exciting than the last time she had come up to London. The train was just as full but this time her only fear was that she would make a fool of herself in front of Charlie’s father, and not that she would not be found good enough to join the WAAF. The platforms were crowded, lines of children tagged like Christmas parcels, distraught families, military personnel looking for their girls, girls looking for the only one in the crowds in uniform that they wanted to see. And there, sailing through them, and wearing – heavens, was it really a fur coat – came Charlotte Featherstone. The crowds, especially the men, parted for her as the Red Sea is said to have parted for Moses, and then she was at the window. ‘Daisy, how wonderful. So lovely to see you. Come along, the car’s just outside.’

Daisy stepped down, case in one hand, handbag in the other, and followed in her wake.

A car was waiting for them outside the station, a very large car with a man, a uniformed chauffeur, standing beside the rear doors. Daisy waited for Charlie to say, ‘Home, James,’ which is what ladies who had chauffeurs said in all the films she had ever seen, but Charlie said nothing except ‘Thank you’ when ‘James’ opened the door for her. She slid across the soft leather seat and Daisy, who had been relieved of her small suitcase by the chauffeur, slid in beside her.

‘Poor old London’s had a bit of a bashing, even since we went to Wilmslow, Daisy. Makes me sad and rather angry, but I suppose our boys are pounding chunks out of the enemy too.’

Daisy said nothing, and not because she was giving herself up to the unexpected luxury but because she could not seem to see ‘the enemy’. Absolutely easy to hate Hitler, his acolytes, and his actions, but was not Germany inhabited by decent people – like Mr Fischer, for instance – who would rather be living a normal life?