Churchill’s Angels Page 13

  ‘What a wicked child you were, and from the garden of a priest? I’m stunned. So glad I had no idea when I invited you to share my stable.’ Adair smiled. ‘But I trust you with my life and hers. I’ll do it, if you really think she’s ready.’

  ‘Do you not think so, Adair?’

  ‘I find I am not thinking these days of Daisy as a rather useful mechanic or as a pupil, Tomas. How did that happen?’

  ‘Life happens, my friend. Accept with joy. Here she comes. Daisy,’ he called, ‘flying lessons won’t wait while ladies gossip.’

  ‘Sorry, but Nancy made us tea.’ She held up a battered Thermos flask.

  ‘Later, when you have flown solo, we will celebrate with British tea.’

  ‘I certainly hope not,’ laughed Adair, but neither Daisy nor Tomas understood his joke.

  Daisy was standing, Thermos clasped tightly, and looking slightly dazzled. ‘How long do we wait for tea?’

  ‘Climb aboard, Daisy.’ Tomas relieved her of the Thermos. ‘After your solo.’

  Somewhat stunned, excited and terrified in turn, Daisy looked at these two men who meant so much but whom she had known for a very little time. She nodded her head as if in silent agreement and managed to get into the plane.

  Adair climbed up effortlessly and levered himself into the pilot’s seat. ‘You’re capable, Daisy Petrie. Watch what I do. Listen to every word I say and memorise them. Ready?’

  Unable to speak, she nodded.

  ‘Daisy?’

  ‘Yes.’ The word came out clearly.

  Adair flew the Daisy around in a small circle, his beautifully modulated voice seeming to make poetry out of the instructions, and Daisy, thinking she would die of happiness, stored every word in a special corner of her brain.

  He brought the plane down and taxied her to a halt beside Tomas. ‘Right, Flying Officer Petrie, into the pilot’s seat. Take her up, Daisy, take her up.’

  ‘You’re joking and that’s not nice.’

  ‘Miss Petrie, Tomas has spent over four thousand hours teaching idiots to fly. You’re not an idiot and he says you’re ready. Ergo, take her up.’

  Daisy did.

  Her heart was back to normal, if beating a little more rapidly than usual. She felt that her excitement, her exhilaration would lift the Daisy, but calmly she went through the routine, ticking off each instruction in her brain.

  And then – she was airborne. She was an eagle. The beautiful world was laid out below her for her to admire, and clouds danced past her.

  Below her, the two men, experienced pilots, watched, willing her to succeed, feeling their muscles tense as they tried somehow to put all their strength behind the small plane and its young pilot.

  ‘It’s good, it’s good,’ muttered Adair.

  ‘Did I not tell you this?’ asked his friend with a smile.

  Five minutes or so later, Adair and Tomas watched Daisy change course, gradually losing height and speed. She landed with the gentlest of bumps and taxied along the grass verge. ‘She’s a baby house martin returning to the nest,’ said Adair with a smile. ‘Look at her; even the plane looks joyful.’

  The plane came to a halt and a very relieved pilot lay back in the seat and whispered, ‘I’ve done it.’

  ‘Look at her,’ Adair said again, ‘she’s muttering her instructions, mutter, mutter, mutter, switch off fuel, mutter, mutter.’

  He laughed with a mixture of happiness and relief, as Daisy, whose muscles had turned to water, tried to climb out of the cockpit, lost her balance and fell into his arms. He hugged her tightly. ‘You feel the plane, don’t you? You’ll make an excellent pilot.’ He swung her around, yelling, ‘She did it, Tomas, Daisy flew.’

  ‘So she did,’ said Tomas calmly, ‘with the help of a perfect little plane and two of the world’s best pilots.’ Having worked out Adair’s funny remark, he added, ‘Now we will celebrate with Nancy’s “I hope not British” tea.’

  They drank their tea and Daisy wondered if she was the only one who knew how much of her precious tea leaves Nancy had put in the pot for them.

  But it was time to go. Daisy stood up and thanked them.

  ‘You are most welcome, Miss Daisy Petrie.’ Tomas smiled and shook her hand. ‘I hope to fly with you again.’

  ‘Yes, sir,’ agreed Adair. ‘You are a natural. I’ll try, Daisy. We’ll try to get back if it’s at all possible. I’ll have to, actually, if I intend to hand her over.’

  ‘Thank you.’ She stopped, knowing that it was time for them to leave. She did not want them to go. It seemed … final. ‘Well, goodbye, both of you, and thanks again.’ She turned and walked towards her bicycle.

  ‘Wait.’

  She stopped and looked back. Adair was running towards her. ‘Here, Daisy Petrie. Take my good luck scarf. It will keep you warm on this bicycle of yours.’ He held out the long, pale-lemon cashmere scarf.

  Daisy had never received a present from any man but her father or her brothers. She wanted to take the scarf; it was beautiful and it was his. She told herself that she really wanted to accept because it would be very useful in the winter. But still she hesitated.

  He smiled at her. ‘Take it, Daisy Petrie. There isn’t any social etiquette about accepting an old scarf.’

  ‘Thank you.’ She took the scarf and mounted her bicycle.

  ‘Be safe, Daisy Petrie.’

  She smiled. ‘Be safe, Adair Maxwell.’

  She looked back as she approached the gate but the plane and the men had gone.

  Half an hour later Daisy arrived home, her mind still ablaze with sensations: the thrill of flying solo, the heady mix of fear and excitement when she had been in sole control of the plane, and the wonderful feeling of trust when Adair had held her tightly against his chest. ‘If I died now, I would be happy,’ Daisy called out to a bird sitting on a windowsill, and then realisation hit. Were she to die today, happy or not, she would never see Adair again, nor Tomas, she added quickly. Euphoria vanished as mist vanishes in the warm rays of the sun.

  I’ll tell Rose, she decided, but I don’t think Mum’s ready for solo flights.

  EIGHT

  ‘I’ll be back at work in no time, Mum,’ Rose said quietly one afternoon as they sat together in the kitchen, listening to the lifeline that was the wireless. ‘Don’t you think it’s time to let Daisy go?’

  Flora said nothing but next day, without a word to either of her daughters, she went out with her shopping basket, returning an hour later with a heavy parcel.

  ‘Our Rose will be back at work soon, Daisy, and I can easily manage the shop on my own.’

  The twins looked at her. Was this their mother back with them again? But was it too sudden? If they blithely accepted the transformation, would they be disappointed when the endless grief and continual worrying attacked again?

  ‘There’s a piece in the paper today, girls, about getting your winter wardrobe fit for the shelters. Warm pullovers, it says, and best with a polo neck, and rubber boots or snow boots. I can do nothing about the boots but I plan to knit pullovers and I’m going to make those curtains.’ She prodded the parcel to indicate the butcher’s wrap before continuing, ‘And Miss Partridge, can you believe, prim little Miss Partridge, who never worked a day in her life except to do flowers and such in the church, is going to help me out in the shop. A few hours here and there. Poor dear wants a bit of company in the bad times, I think. Well, she’ll get it here, and a nice cup of tea with a biscuit when we have it. We also think she might be good for the Preston lads; well, she’s better educated than your dad and me.’

  It was a long speech from Flora and she looked a little embarrassed by it herself but she was not finished. ‘You’ve been my rocks, girls, mine and Dad’s, but it’s time for me to join the fight. First thing tomorrow morning, Daisy, before they start their raids again, I want you to go and volunteer for the WAAF. No, don’t say anything or I’ll cry and I want to get this steeped before … well, I want to get it steeped.’

  T
he curtain material had to wait, as once again the strident noise of the air-raid warning sounded.

  Exhausted from yet another night in the refuge room, listening in terror to the destruction going on around, Daisy scarcely felt able to drag herself into the recruiting office next day. When she did, she was asked a few simple questions, including her age.

  ‘We’re not taking babies, you know, love.’

  ‘I’m nearly nineteen and I want to do my bit. I’d like to serve in the Women’s Auxiliary Air Force, please.’

  ‘Very commendable. I dunno about the WAAF. They’re really looking for women with a bit of … experience.’

  Daisy was sure that she had been going to say ‘class’.

  ‘Never mind,’ the woman continued, ‘fill in a form and then go home and wait.’

  ‘Will it be long?’

  ‘Dunno. Depends on who reads your form and who needs what. When did you leave school?’

  Blast. She should have kept quiet. ‘In 1936.’

  ‘What have you been doing since? Working, I hope.’

  ‘Yes, in my dad’s shop.’

  ‘Well, who knows? Off you go.’

  ‘I can drive, and strip an engine and I’ve worked on an aeroplane.’

  ‘An’ me and Princess Elizabeth went riding our ’orses at the weekend. Frightfully lovely it was, an’ all. Go home. You’ll hear one way or the other.’

  Her hopes in tatters, Daisy went home. She was furious with herself. Adair had said to tell the WAAF recruiting officer about the plane, not the local recruiting sergeant. She had been so anxious to make a good impression that she had made an absolute fool of herself. Would the woman who had laughed at her write something unpleasant on the form? ‘Shop girl with ambition and no qualifications’?

  For the next few weeks it seemed that she had, for Daisy heard absolutely nothing.

  There was great excitement when a second letter arrived from Phil. It told his parents no more than that he was alive and liked the navy. Those few words, however, were more than enough for the little family.

  ‘One of our boys is safe, Fred,’ said Flora, who went to sleep that night with the letter under her pillow. ‘Now I’m going to tell our Daisy, no half measures, I want her to go away. They always learns the quickest way home, don’t they, Fred, when you’ve let them go,’ she finished bravely, tears threatening to spill down her pale cheeks.

  As the days rolled around towards the second Christmas of the war Daisy tried to think positively. Surely thousands of young women were now trying to join the services before there was forced enlistment. It would take time.

  Her heart broke, though, as she walked through her town. Everywhere there was destruction: roads were pock-marked by great holes, buildings by empty windows, broken chimney pots and smoke was hanging thickly over everything. She hated the stench of it. People scrambled over the ruins of their homes or gardens trying to find some part of their former lives.

  Daisy looked down as she made to cross a street and almost stepped on a child’s winter boot. It reminded her of the blood-soaked little body on the Heath. His shoes had not been blasted from his frail body and she hoped fervently that this little boot had been lost in a childhood game. She stood looking at it, wondering if she should pick it up and put it on what remained of a garden wall.

  ‘There it is, Henry. And ’aven’t I told you before not to take yer shoes off without unfastening ’em?’

  A small boy, a year or so older than the child on the Heath, darted out, almost bumping into her, picked up his boot, and ran back towards the damaged house.

  His cheeky grin cheered her and she carried on home.

  The family flat was dark and quiet, strangely so, since Freddy Grisewood was usually presenting his programme, The Kitchen Front, at this time, and Flora never missed it.

  ‘Hello, the house.’

  The light went on, startling her, and there in the kitchen doorway stood her mum, waving a letter. Fred, grinning from ear to ear, stood behind her.

  Sam? Oh, what a Christmas present that would be.

  ‘It’s for you, love.’

  It was a buff envelope and so she knew it was not from Adair. Grace might write but surely her envelope would be white.

  ‘Come on, love. Open it up.’

  Trembling, Daisy took the envelope and with shaking fingers, tore it open, took out the two pieces of paper it contained and began to read.

  ‘What’s it say, Daisy?’

  ‘Sorry, Dad, they want me to go to London next Tuesday. This is a railway warrant, which means I don’t have to pay a fare. I can’t believe it, I really can’t believe it. I was so sure I’d made a mess of it.’

  ‘Where in London, pet?’

  ‘The actual headquarters of the Royal Air Force. The RAF. Me, Daisy Petrie, in their offices. I’ve got the address here.’ She looked at the letter again as if she could not believe it. ‘It’s for a medical, not the questions Adair told me about. And, look, I have to take my night things, my washing things and my ration book, in case they keep me.’

  ‘Well, they do move fast once they start moving, our Daisy, and here’s you waited near a year for it and it’s come. We’re damned,’ he stopped and started again, ‘dashed proud of you, aren’t we, Flora, love?’

  With tears in her eyes, Flora hugged her daughter. ‘’Course we are. An’ I’m sorry I made it hard for you, love.’

  ‘I understand, Mum.’

  ‘They’re bound to keep you and so we’d best check things, undies especially, and your stockings. We should get new, shouldn’t we, Fred? Don’t know who’s going to be seeing them.’

  ‘Nobody better be seeing them,’ said Fred fiercely.

  ‘It’s a medical, Daddy.’

  ‘Wonder how much that’ll cost. Never mind, my Daisy will have the best. Don’t worry about it. My, but we’ll miss you, pet. Miss Partridge’s pleasant enough and her counting’s good, but she’s not one of us, is she?’

  The prospect of losing Daisy to the WAAF was the family’s sole topic of conversation for the rest of the week and everyone who came into the shop was told all about her prospects in ever more glowing detail. George and Jake said nothing, but on her last day in the shop George gave her a bar of chocolate.

  ‘An’ he never nicked it neither,’ explained Jake.

  ‘I know, boys. Thank you. I’ll send you a postcard every now and again.’

  ‘Dad’ll have me “Head of the Air Force Petrie” come Tuesday, Mum,’ complained Daisy, but on Tuesday morning she found it difficult to pull herself out of his arms and climb aboard the train that, barring an air raid, would have her in London in plenty of time for her appointment. She took comfort from the feel of the soft scarf wrapped around her neck.

  Flora had admired the scarf and, unlike Fred, accepted the expensive gift at face value. ‘He’s out of her life, Fred, and so he’s given her an old scarf.’

  The train heaved and puffed as it sat waiting to set off, all the time filling up with men and women in uniform of one colour or another, but predominantly khaki. Daisy knew that, with the increased movements of troops, her chances of finding a seat were slim, but she stayed at the door waving to her parents until long after the train had pulled out of Dartford Station.

  If Dartford was a nightmare of destruction, London was ten times worse. A pall of smoke had settled over the city and, because of road closures and diversions, it took all the time she had at her disposal for her to arrive, winded and slightly dishevelled, at her destination.

  A uniformed official directed her to a ladies’ room. ‘Tidy yourself up a bit,’ she suggested curtly.

  ‘Wonder what she’d look like if she’d just run from the station,’ Daisy muttered as she peered at her face in the pock-marked lavatory mirror.

  ‘Even worse than the poor old thing does now,’ said a cultured voice from behind her. A slim and beautifully dressed young woman emerged from a cubicle. Her lemon dress with toning pale grey coat made the ‘dream’ out
fit in the shop in Dartford High Street look like something from a market stall. ‘But, bless,’ she said, ‘both her face and her disposition were set at birth.’ She held out her hand. ‘Charlotte Featherstone.’

  ‘Daisy Petrie,’ said Daisy as she shook the slim hand, which she could not but notice was as beautifully manicured as the blue-black hair was styled.

  ‘Here to be interrogated?’

  What a frightening word. Daisy’s surprise must have registered on her face, for Charlotte smiled. ‘Interviewed, Daisy. I’m afraid I tend to levity when the old butterflies swarm.’

  ‘I’m a bit nervous myself.’

  ‘Good, that’s two of us. Let’s find the interview room. They’re running late and so we have a few minutes.’

  There were several young women in the room assigned to those waiting for the medical. Daisy and Charlotte joined them. Obviously they were not alone in battling with nervousness for no one spoke at all. Some stared at the photographs on the walls while others seemed to study their fingernails or even their shoes.

  One by one the room emptied.

  ‘Featherstone.’

  Charlotte stood up, turned and smiled at Daisy. ‘I’ll wait for you. I know a Lyons Corner House nearby; let’s have lunch, frightfully inexpensive and awfully good.’

  ‘Featherstone.’ The voice was louder, more demanding.

  ‘Coming,’ said Charlotte, and smiled at Daisy as she left the room.

  Forty minutes or so later, after a far-from-comprehensive medical examination, Daisy walked out carrying her little suitcase, a warrant for the underground to Uxbridge, and a postage-paid card to send her parents to say that she would not be returning home. It seemed that, on the basis of what she had written on the original form and the satisfactory medical examination, she was now Aircraftswoman Petrie D. She had been too nervous to take it all in, but the words ‘four years’ had been uttered. She hoped that was not how long it was going to be before she returned home.

  ‘You look as if you could do with a nice hot cup of tea.’

  Charlotte had waited and stood there at the foot of the steps, smiling. She too carried a little suitcase and, no doubt, a ticket for the underground. Daisy was slightly uneasy, feeling that perhaps they ought to go straight to their next interview.