The Daisy Club (26 page)

Over the next few hours she became obsessed that it had been one of
her
planes that Joe had been piloting. Maybe that Hurricane that she had delivered so proudly, and in record time, to the airstrip after she and David had made love? It was not long before making love to David, Laura's love, turned into an indigestible lump of guilt. Maybe it was her wickedness at making love with her friend's boyfriend, whom she
knew
to be her friend's boyfriend, that had brought bad luck to Joe? Maybe it had.

For want of anything else to do, Daisy went outside and started to walk round the grounds with the dachshunds happily following her. Walking, and walking, and walking, trying to get Joe's cherub-like mischievous young face out of her mind. His too-long hair, his engaging grin, everything about him, but everything, a tribute to youth and gaiety.

‘I can't stay here,' she told the trees they were passing. ‘I just can't. I can't stay and be amidst all this silent sorrow. I have to get back.' And as she passed the trees she thought she could hear Aunt Maude's voice murmuring of the silent cities that were the war graves in France, of Maude's beloved Beresford brothers all but one lost in the Great War, and she remembered with shame how she had turned away from her aunt's silent sorrow, impatient with the grief of the previous generation, eager only to get on with her own life.

Unable to face any more guilt, Daisy fled back to the house, packed her overnight bag, shut the dogs in the boot room, and headed out to her car. Branscombe, having hoarded petrol in everything from what looked like jam jars to feed buckets, quickly filled up her tank for her, and Daisy drove off, leaving Twistleton without regret.

As she drove back to the factory, she realised it was not just her guilt over David, it was also the fear that she might suddenly bump into Laura, that had driven her back to her duties in less than a day. She also knew that she was too cowardly to face the sight of Jean's grief. It was despicable, and it meant that she was even less of a good person, but on the other hand, at least when she was on duty she knew what she was doing. She had to fly every and any make of aircraft sometimes two and three times a day, from their factories to the airfields waiting for them, and do it all without the guidance of a radio, following the rivers and towns, often in appalling conditions – because there was no alternative. But even so, it was easier than coping with the reality of sorrow. Battling on, fighting, was easier than facing the awful solemnity of grief.

And they did all have to battle on, stunned with horror at what was happening to their friends and their homes, trying to forget the news of losses, making plans to shoot themselves rather than be captured.

Over the next few weeks the overhead battles between the might of Hitler's air force and the slender resources of the British increased to an unbearable extent. Yet the British quickly learned to use their Spitfires to pass beneath the German bombers, while the Hurricanes attacked the ‘Flying Pencils' and the Spitfires provided top cover. It was to prove a winning tactic.

The losses were nevertheless terrific. Day after bloodied day, the realisation of who would never return was set aside by the brave young pilots, until, at last, they came to realise that, amazingly, somehow – and nobody really knew how – the Nazis had been temporarily rebuffed.

It was not that the war had stopped, for even as Churchill warned that it was only the ‘end of the beginning' people everywhere had grown all too used to seeing dog-fights overhead, trails of smoke streaking the late summer sky, so that even schoolboys only paused momentarily in their work to watch parachutists gliding down to earth. The aerial battle had become such a common sight. And now, the first of these battles had been won, but at what cost they could not contemplate. They only knew that somehow, and no one really knew how, the worst had not quite happened. They had won a victory in the air. The Nazi invasion was temporarily halted.

Branscombe had watched Miss Daisy driving away with mixed feelings. He liked Miss Daisy, more than that, he had grown really quite fond of her over the years. Well, he would have, wouldn't he? After all he'd watched her growing up, albeit from afar, given the continuing silence between the Court and the Hall. She had turned out a good 'un though, that Miss Daisy. Quite a sight, nowadays, in her air uniform, an ATA girl indeed, from the tip of her blonde head to her shining heels; not to mention being a chip off the old block, if ever there was one.

Not that anyone ever spoke about the coldness that had always existed between the two houses, as they wouldn't, Miss Jessica being Miss Jessica, and Miss Maude being Miss Maude. All a long time ago, that business of Miss Jessica falling for Miss Maude's middle brother Mr Esmond, and he going off to war, hardly past his eighteenth birthday, because Miss Jessica's family had forbidden her to marry a younger son with no prospects. And so he had gone off to prove himself a man, and never returned, leaving Miss Maude, so rumour had it, blaming Miss Jessica for his death, because Mr Roderick, her favourite and youngest brother, had followed Mr Esmond out there, the two of them being such pals. And of course he, too, had not come back, and that had been the last of them, once Daisy's father had gone down in the drink, being flown to Deauville for lunch, of all things . . .

Branscombe sighed, and then frowned. Someone was coming up the drive. He narrowed his eyes, staring, as he realised that it was a uniformed dispatch rider on a motorbike, and felt a familiar feeling of relief that it was not the postman astride a pony, carrying a telegram.

Branscombe, quickly assuming his peacetime role of butler, stepped forward on to the front steps to greet the new arrival.

‘Miss Valentyne is on war-work duties, and not expected back for some time—' he told the man, who presented him with an order sheet. ‘
Twistleton Court is commandeered by the army
' – Branscombe stared from the dispatch rider to the order sheet, and back again.

‘There must be some mistake, sir – these houses are all privately owned. This is our village.'

The dead-eyed look Branscombe was given said all too clearly what the older man did not want to know, namely that there was a war on, and that the authorities could do as they pleased.

‘I think you will find that the army owns Twistleton Court now,
sir
.'

‘The army can't take over private property without so much as a say-so or a say-not.'

‘The army can do what they like when they like,
sir
. Brigadier MacNaughton will be arriving at 0800 hours tomorrow. Meanwhile, orders are to start evacuating the village now –
sir
.'

Maude was thinking quickly, as she had to do.

‘The Hall is not part of Twistleton proper. They can't commandeer the Hall, or its grounds, or its demesnes. I would very much doubt that they could do that, for it is most certainly not part of Twistleton proper, and never has been.'

Branscombe looked relieved at this. If the Hall could be saved from imminent military invasion, that at least would be something.

‘I shall have to send someone to fetch Huggett, at once. Do you know where he is, Branscombe?'

‘As I remember it, he is busy organising the Look Duck and Vanish Brigade, is he not?'

‘Mr Huggett is head of the LDV, yes, of course, I remember now, he did mention it.'

‘The LDV may be able to cope with a Nazi or two, but they will be helpless against our army, Miss Maude . . .'

On hearing the news of the military takeover of the village, Maude, for reasons even she did not understand, had promptly disappeared upstairs and changed into her nurse's uniform, so she now straightened her starched apron, and consulted her fob watch.

‘I see they have given us only twenty-four hours to get out of our houses. Surely even the Germans would give us a little more time, would they not, Branscombe?'

‘The Spread Eagle could have taken five people upstairs, but The Spread Eagle, too, is requisitioned. The whole village must be emptied.'

Maude's lips tightened, and she stared past Branscombe, and into what seemed to her to be an all-too-graphic picture of the future. It was not a very pretty sight. She knew what the army could do to villages, she had heard and seen all too much of what armies did, in the Great War.

‘I heard that with the threat of invasion many towns and villages near the sea have been evacuated, and we are too near the sea; but this is not what they are doing here, is it, Branscombe? They are requisitioning the village for training purposes, which means, in effect, the end of Twistleton. Twistleton will become a desert.'

Maude felt her throat tighten. She felt older than she was, older than she should – and worse than feeling old, she felt hopeless.

‘I was only an ambulance driver in the Great War, Miss Maude,' Branscombe confessed, looking uncomfortable, as if he half-expected Maude to pin three white feathers to his old, faded black jacket.

‘Jolly brave too, Branscombe, jolly brave, and it cost you one of your eyes, as we all know. Absolutely first class, men like you, couldn't have done without you.' She paused, and to Branscombe's surprise she went to a silver cigarette box, took out a holder, and a small Turkish cigarette, and lit it with a slim gold lighter. ‘No, this is not what this wretched order is all about, Branscombe. Of course Huggett may say different, but with official papers you must always try and read what they are not saying. And what they are not saying here is very unpleasant indeed, very unpleasant.'

Branscombe frowned. Surely there could not be anything more unpleasant than the army taking over your village, the village where you had lived all your life?

‘What they are not saying here, Branscombe, is that they are taking over the village with the aim of making it a playground for tank and target practice, a training ground. Of course they will promise compensation, the army always do, but the truth is there will hardly be a building left standing after this Brigadier MacNaughton, or whatever his name is, has taken us over.'

There was a small silence during which Branscombe, too, felt suddenly helpless. How would he tell Miss Jessica? What would he tell her? He would hardly know what words to use to her, or Miss Blossom. What could he say? He felt as if he had let them down in some way, let in the army when their backs were turned, while they were working all day and all night building planes.

Finally Maude consulted her fob watch as if she was once more on duty on the ward.

‘We will have to call out the LDV to help us, Branscombe.'

Branscombe looked startled. Would there be a new war, then? Would it be the Local Defence Volunteers of Twistleton versus the Territorial Army? Broomstick and musket versus guns and tanks? He had seen the volunteers marching through the village street – the lame, the old, and four schoolboys just about summed up Twistleton's LDV.

‘Meanwhile I will ask you to go to the rector and tell him to ring the church bells. Everyone must start packing up at once. Just as well all the evacuees have gone home.'

‘Not ours at the Court. The Ropleys have gone, but the Lindsays, they haven't returned home, Miss Maude.' Branscombe managed to look rueful, while feeling vaguely proud. He had finally won over not just Alec, but all the Lindsay brothers, to country life, not one of them now wanting to go home, not even little Johnny. Which was just as well, since it seemed that their mother wanted them back about as much as she wanted toothache. ‘We still have all four Lindsay brothers with us at the Court.'

‘Oh, you do, do you?'

Maude looked vaguely astonished, before writing a note to advise the rector of their new and thoroughly unwelcome situation.

‘Yes, they are all well and happy at the Court, and not likely to be wanted at home again, at least not for the duration.'

‘I
perfectly
understand what you are saying, Branscombe. You will therefore, please, after giving the rector this note, return to the Court and pack up your evacuees, and yourselves, and all necessary effects.'

‘The dachshunds—'

‘Of course, the dachshunds, poor creatures. You will pack them all up, and bring them here. Let us hope they can cope with the pugs—'

‘Petrol and car?'

‘Everything. You will pack them all up—'

‘Pony and trap—'

‘Of course. And you must please tell the rector to cut along to the Hall as soon as he is able, as also Huggett. I have put here: “
Emergency
.
Invasion. No, not Nazis, the army requisitioning the village
.” Yes, you will tell them all to bring everything they can, here to the Hall, Branscombe. Yourself and all your et ceteras must all be put up in the stables, I'm afraid. We will have our work cut out to make them habitable, but habitable we must make them, for the duration.'

‘And what about the rest of the village, Miss Maude?'

‘The rest of the village? The rest of the village must be put up in the house, Branscombe.'

‘In the house, Miss Maude?'

Maude nodded.

‘Yes, in the house, Branscombe. With Bowles and Pattern and the rest gone we have at least, I don't know – twenty bedrooms now, not including the basement and attics. What there is, when all is added up, is perfectly enough room to accommodate everyone. Hugger-mugger it will be, of course, but hugger-mugger is what war is all about. And let us face it, with the young going off, and soon women being called up, the numbers will doubtless thin out, and we will probably only be left with the remnants of the LDV, and all the rest will be thrown into the melee. Off to the factories, or the army, they will all soon be gone, and only you and I left to marshal them, but marshal them all we must, so you had better get to, Branscombe, and start ferrying the folk from The Cottages up here.'