Churchill’s Angels (8 page)

‘No war, no fighting,’ Daisy whispered one night to Rose. ‘All the time we thought that nothing was happening, a bloody war was going on in Belgium, France and Holland, and our boys, and Sam maybe, were fighting there.’ And where’s Adair, her heart continued quietly. Not so much as a postcard had been received from him since the day they had finished the work on the plane.

A few days later the newspapers were full of the story of the rescue of British and French troops from Dunkirk.

‘Our Phil’s a sailor,’ Flora tried to tell her customers bravely. ‘Maybe he was on one of them boats as saved men, and our Sam hinted in a letter that he might be going abroad. Very keen to see a foreign country, our Sam.’

‘They’ll be home in no time, Flora,’ said Mrs Roberts, one of the most faithful of the regulars. ‘Just you wait and see if I’m right.’

She was wrong. Weeks went past and no news was received from any one of the boys.

Daisy was worried about Adair, but she reminded herself that she was only the handy mechanic who had worked on the plane with him. Had he time, he would be reassuring his family. His parents were dead but he had said nothing about other family members.

‘He’s a third cousin, God knows how many times removed’ – she thought that was what Alf Humble had said all those long months ago. Someone had to know something about him. She would be told, all in good time.

In the meantime his suggestion that she join the WAAF went round and round in her head. According to the newspapers, girls like Daisy would be conscripted soon. Better to go, as Sam had said, without waiting to be ordered. But every time she tried to talk about war work with her parents, they changed the subject, telling her how important it was that Daisy was able to drive the van, continue with her first-aid course and dig even half-heartedly in the missing Grace’s little garden. She had never once seen Megan Paterson when she had been working, and Grace had not written again. Sally, who was going from strength to strength and had even had a small part in a propaganda film, managed an occasional visit, thrilling all the Petries with her talk of plays and musicals and exciting things like film sets and real live professional actors.

‘It’s important war work,’ Sally told her friends. ‘We’re going to be entertaining the troops, in hospitals and at their camps; boosting morale, it’s called. Who knows, maybe even go overseas. Won’t that be amazing?’

Daisy smiled and congratulated her friend. She did not say, ‘I’ve boosted morale and helped the war effort,’ but reconditioning a plane that would one day be used in the air battles that must soon take place, surely that was war work?

Like so many people in Britain, the Petries loved listening to the wireless. Fred and Daisy had been captivated by the new Prime Minister, Winston Churchill. Not only did he write superb speeches but, according to Daisy, ‘He speaks them as good as an actor.’ When his speeches were not broadcast they were covered in the local press and Daisy would read the paper, trying to hear the Prime Minister’s voice in her head. In June, Churchill warned the nation of the battle that was about to happen and Daisy read the report of the stirring speech so often that, had she wanted to, she could have quoted it.

Greatly moved by Churchill’s eloquence, Daisy was persuaded that counting rations was
not
anyone’s finest hour. There must be something better.

She broached the subject with her father when they were together in the shop at closing time one day.

‘Dad, I want to join the Women’s Auxiliary Air Force. You have to make Mum listen to me. Ensuring that everyone in the area gets their proper rations is not enough for me. I’m a good mechanic. Adair even said he could teach me to fly.’ She stopped; she had not expected that most precious secret to spill out.

Fred looked at her, both love and concern in his eyes. ‘Fly, pet, fly, like a pilot in a plane?’

‘Of course, Dad. Adair says I’m just as clever as some of the men he teaches. He says I’m a great mechanic.’

‘Well, me and the lads taught you that, love, but a pilot in the WAAF, a lass from a shop in Dartford? He’s having you on, Daisy, and so I’ll tell him to his face.’

‘He meant I could be a pilot, Dad; no one’s saying anything about being a pilot in the WAAF. It’s the RAF has pilots.’

‘Happen he did mean it, you being a pilot, but he hasn’t been here in weeks, and you’ve not heard from him, else your mum would’ve told me. Forget him, Daisy. His kind aren’t for the likes of you. Not that you’re not as good as he is, every bit, but putting water and wine together spoils both.’ He looked at his daughter compassionately. ‘Don’t you go getting in over your head with this lad, Daisy. I know it’s exciting; it’s like what happens in pictures when the rich hero takes the poor girl off on his white horse to live happy. Pictures and stories isn’t real, Daisy. Don’t … no, you wouldn’t run after a lad, would you?’

Daisy looked at her father, kind, caring, conscientious Fred Petrie, and knew that in many ways she was very lucky. ‘Dad, me and Adair, it’s not like that. We’re friends is all. We worked together on the engine. Smooth as honey, it’ll fly.’

His look now was shrewd. ‘Then why do you want to try for the WAAF now, pet? You’ve no idea where he is or even if he’s alive.’

The words struck Daisy like a slap and she almost reeled back. ‘What a dreadful thing to say. ’Course he’s alive but … but he’s busy and …’ Daisy stopped. In a moment she would be crying and if she started she felt that she might never stop. No word from Adair, but there had been no word from Sam or Ron or Phil either.

‘We have to face facts, pet. We’re all worried. Your friend is a pilot. They flew over Dunkirk helping to keep the stranded lads safe. Planes ditched, Daisy, and some got shot down.’

‘You have to tell Mum. I’m going to try. None of them’s dead and when Adair –
if
Adair – needs me or wants to teach me, he’ll find me easy enough.’

Fred shook his head sadly but turned and left the shop. Daisy sat down and listened to his steps on the stairs.

That night Rose persuaded Daisy to go dancing with her and some friends from the munitions factory. It was a chance for Daisy to wear an emerald-green rayon dress that Flora had altered for summer wear but which would not be out of place on the dance floor Apart from its attractive heart-shaped neckline with the yellow edging, it was spangled with white flowers, which Flora had crocheted on winter evenings. Daisy did try to enter into the spirit of the evening but she was aware that, apart from herself, everyone on the floor was actively involved in war work. She dismissed her time spent fire-watching and the hours she spent in the first-aid classes – it was not real work. Her father could talk as much as he liked about the necessity for honest shopkeepers in this time of trouble.

It’s too easy, she said to herself. Apart from the few deliveries you make – and those will come to a halt if the rumours about petrol rationing are true – you don’t even have to go out in the rain. Time to come to a decision.

Seeing her sister and her friends a happy part of the throng on the dance floor, Daisy slipped out. No doubt Rose would think she had found a partner in another part of the hall. The lads from Vickers were good lads and would see all the girls home safely and so she need not worry about her sister. Stan, who often partnered Rose at dances, was a favourite with all the Petries.

Daisy hurried home through streets strangelyunfamiliar, the lights dimmed or non-existent. Here and there, people scurried about their business as unobtrusively as possible, and no cheery greetings rang out on the still summer air. She was relieved to see the front of the shop loom up before her and slowed her pace in case her parents were still awake. They would be sure to ask why she had had to hurry and why she was alone. She stopped at the shop window to make sure she had her key to the side door. Her little change purse with the key inside was deep down in her coat pocket and, as she stood fishing it out, she heard a strange sound coming from the alley that ran along the side of the shop.

Daisy, suddenly reminded of her father’s constant warnings to her and to her sister about ‘wandering home alone late at night’, froze to the spot and listened more intensely.

Scuffling and rustling and occasional hushed voices.

Someone, obviously up to no good, was at the side door to the family flat. What was she to do? Her parents, if they were awake, were on the other side of the building. Even if she were to break the shop window – and how she could manage that she had no idea – it was probable that Fred would not hear it. And what if she smashed an expensive window only to discover that a courting couple were sheltering in a doorway?

Come on, Daisy Petrie, there’s a war on, and you keep moaning about wanting to do something meaningful and the first chance you get – you do nothing.
Holding her breath, she listened again. Was that a crackling noise? What made crackling noises? Fire.

Daisy raced round the corner.

A tea crate was on fire. Two shapes – boys, she thought – were manoeuvring the crate against the wooden door, not of the flat but of the lockup across the alleyway.

‘Hey, stop!’ she shouted.

The boys stopped – for a split second.

‘Give ’er one, Jake,’ yelled the bigger one. ‘The door’s catching perfect.’

Jake was obviously afraid to hit Daisy, who shook her head in mixed sorrow and anger. She knew these lads. Were they not always in the group who needed anything that was being sold at a discount? A quick glance told her that they had tried and failed to force the door open. Silly boys. Inside the lockup stood the shop van. Did they want to steal it?

She tried to scare them off. ‘ARP warden’ll be round here in a jiff, you two – with a policeman, I shouldn’t wonder – and you two’ll be in Borstal afore you—’

She had no time to tell them what they would have no time to do as the older and larger of the boys, furious both with Daisy for interfering and Jake for not ‘giving her one’ threw himself at Daisy, knocking her to the ground. The last thing she heard was, ‘Oh Gawd, our George, you’ve killed her.’

Daisy woke several hours later with a splitting headache and an immediate irresistible urge to be very, very sick. The next fifteen minutes were too hideously uncomfortable for her to worry about modesty, which was just as well as she found urgent unknown hands stripping her of her nightgown and the same hands, surprisingly competent, washing her.

‘Well, and won’t you be after feeling a lot better now,’ a soft Irish voice said. ‘And such a pretty frock you were wearing too, Irish green; must say, I’m surprised to see a frock like that in a brawl.’

A brawl. Daisy tried to sit up but fell back again as the pain exploded once more in her head.

‘Am I dead?’ she heard her voice say.

‘Sure, you are not, but with a bump the size of the egg on the back of your skull, I don’t doubt you wish you were. There now, that’s the second time I’ve cleaned you up in less than an hour so will you be a good girl and keep your head and your stomach quiet while I take care of someone else.’

Daisy stayed quite still; she could not have moved had she wanted to, for the nurse, if the Irish woman was a nurse, had tucked starched white sheets tightly around her.

‘Good,
macushla
, now I’ll be letting your mammy in for five minutes and then I want you asleep.’

Daisy lay, aware of nothing but enveloping pain, and then a voice she knew and a touch she welcomed.

‘Daisy, Daisy, my dearest girl, you could have been killed by those boys. Lucky for you that Rose and Stan was there.’

Rose and Stan; boys, what boys? Daisy closed her eyes and, her hand tightly clasped by her mother, drifted off to sleep.

She woke much later in a narrow hospital bed in what she later discovered was a women’s ward in the County Hospital. ‘You sustained a nasty crack on your skull, Miss Petrie.’ A doctor was taking her pulse and looking down at her with clear, sympathetic eyes. ‘Seemingly you’re quite a little heroine, preventing those young vandals from setting fire to a garage door. Could have been quite nasty. A policeman was here earlier to speak to you but we’ll let you get over your unpleasant experience before we allow that.’

‘My parents?’

‘Will be here at the regular visiting time. Now, tell the nurse if you feel like eating. The porridge isn’t bad.’ And he was off.

Daisy lay there remembering what had happened. The police had been informed. Who had done that? Surely not her dad? The last thing he would want would be more trouble for that particular family, who always seemed down on their luck, and Jake and George forever dodging the law.

‘And if I don’t really remember what happened …’ Daisy was shocked by the way her mind, usually so aware of the difference between wrong and right, was working.

Daisy had expected no family visits in the afternoon as the shop was always open – and busy – between four o’clock and closing time, and so she was very pleased to see Miss Partridge, complete with gloves and Sunday hat, walking smartly down the ward between the long rows of identical iron bedsteads.

She won’t be coming to see me, though, Daisy thought, and closed her eyes so that Miss Partridge might not feel obliged to speak to her.

‘Daisy, dear, if you’re tired I’ll drop this off …’

Daisy tried to sit up, a bad move as pain shot through her head. She did open her eyes, though.

‘Oh, you poor girl, I do hope there is no serious injury.’

‘No, they want to keep me until tomorrow, just to be sure, but apart from a lump and a headache, I’m fine.’

Miss Partridge pulled a chair up to the bedside. ‘I was in hospital once, a long time ago, Daisy dear, and my papa brought me a magnificent basket of fruit. I’m afraid there was no fresh fruit today.’

‘There’s a war on,’ they said together and laughed.

Daisy had been mulling over her problem all morning. Was Miss Partridge an ideal confidante?

‘I did bring a box of embroidered handkerchiefs, Daisy, dear, unused, of course, and so useful in a situation like this – and Mr Fischer sent you this.’ Miss Partridge opened her large, much-used leather handbag and took out a book with a beautiful Moroccan cover. ‘Rather fine, isn’t it. It’s a copy of
Palgrave’s Golden Treasury
. He says it was his first poetry book in English and so he hopes you will enjoy it. He has inscribed it to you.’