Churchill’s Angels (25 page)

‘Yes.’

‘Why? How?’

‘I met him before the war. My brothers had taught me a lot about engines and I helped him with his aircraft engine, pretty basic one. He took me up as a thank you.’

‘Simple as that.’

‘Yes, Sergeant Gordon.’

‘Well, Daisy, the exam’s next Saturday. You’ll easy be top. I’ll see if I can gie you a wee push to a base that has flyers on it. You’ll get a bittie leave. Have you a home tae go to?’

‘Yes, in Dartford.’

‘Dartford, never been there, but it’s no’ half getting a belting, right on Bombers’ Alley.’

At the end of the eight-week course, Daisy did attain top marks in the mechanics course, and was promoted. The promotion brought her an extra shilling a day in her wage packet, which delighted her. While other girls thought of silk stockings, shampoo – if it could be found – and lipstick, she thought, stamps! Since Christmas she had been writing weekly letters to her brothers, one in his prison camp, the other ‘somewhere at sea’. She was also making an effort to keep up a correspondence with her old school friends, Sally and Grace, and, of course, she wrote more regularly to her parents, always remembering to ask how their protégés, George and Jake, were managing.

It was unfair that Rose alone had to shoulder the burden of worry over their mother, and if even the skimpiest of letters cheered her, then letters she would receive. Daisy had no idea whether or not Sam or Phil ever received any of her letters – but Charlie had suggested bombarding the over-worked Red Cross in the hope that at least one would reach Sam. In the eight weeks she had been on the base, she had received one letter from Phil, one from Grace, a short note from Sally talking about a part in a play, and two from her parents. Adair Maxwell wrote twice. The second one, she had decided, she would answer on the train to Dartford.

That was the same day that a badly shot-up Spitfire piloted by Adair Maxwell limped home from a raid and made a forced landing in a field in Kent.

Daisy had thought long and hard about Adair and his letters. She had meant to answer the first one, which arrived shortly after their flight over the airfield had been observed by so many of the base personnel.

Do I love him? Is loving him, which I think I do, the same as being in love with him? I have no idea. What do I know about love?
She had lain awake night after night trying to resurrect her feelings when in Adair’s company. To say she felt comfortable did not seem romantic. Surely if one was in love one did not feel comfortable. After all, she was perfectly comfortable in her mother’s kitchen. And comfortable was certainly not what she had felt after the second kiss on New Year’s morning.

How she missed Charlie. She would have had something sensible or even funny to say that would have put all Daisy’s worries into some kind of perspective.

On the second night of her leave, Daisy was settling down to listen to the wireless when once again their peace was blasted by the desperate wailing of the air-raid warnings. A few minutes later the threatening drone of the bombers could be heard below the shriek, as, once more, they prepared to rain death and destruction on that little corner of England.

‘We should live in this blooming refuge room,’ groaned Flora, as she hurried downstairs with her daughters. ‘Wonder where your dad’ll be.’

Daisy and Rose said nothing. Their father, like the other wardens, would be doing his job, patrolling his area, looking for fires, watching for bombs, trying to get help to the wounded, and dousing as many fires as they could. At the same time, they would still be looking for any households showing even the smallest chink of light.

Had Flora been expecting an answer? She answered herself as she tried to make herself comfortable in the small, airless room. ‘He’ll be doing his duty like the others. Up and down the High Street he’ll go.’ She closed her eyes as if that might also shut out the frightening muffled thumps of impact.

‘That was close.’ Rose, who had been putting curling rags on her long hair prior to meeting her boyfriend when he came off duty, carried on doing the simple task. ‘Stan’s working late tonight so I hope this is over before ten. We were going down the Swan for a drink, Daisy. You’re welcome to come too.’

‘Sit drinking warm beer watching you and Stan gazing at each other. I don’t think so, thanks.’

‘You wouldn’t be a gooseberry. There’s other lads come too.’

But Daisy, her thoughts already busy elsewhere, did not answer.

After a time, Flora opened the box that held food supplies and took out the Thermos flask of hot cocoa, which she had made earlier in the evening – just in case. She made a hot drink every day and could count on her fingers the number of times the drink had not been needed.

She enjoyed her comforting drink and then took out her knitting. She was determined to look forward positively and so was knitting Fred a new pullover in his Bowling Club colours.

‘We have any more air raids I’ll have this finished long before the season starts,’ she said cheerfully. ‘Then I’ll knit summer cardigans for you two; pale yellow would be lovely on you, Daisy. What do you …?’ She dropped her knitting. ‘No, my Sam’ll need new clothes when he gets home and he’ll get home soon now, won’t he, girls?’

Daisy and Rose looked at each other. They had talked for hours in their bedroom and knew that each of them worried about their mother. Sometimes she was very quiet and introverted and at other times she seemed too animated, jumping from one subject or topic to another, like the young cat next door jumped from one leaf to another in autumn. So much grief had rained down on her in the past two years. The wounding and then capturing of her eldest son and the death of her youngest were surely enough tragedy for anyone, but her three other children were all in one way or another fighting for freedom. Rose had told Daisy that her mother still worried over her, although her injury had been slight, and that she watched fretfully for Bernie the postman and could barely conceal her disappointment on the many days when no mail was received.

‘Dad tries teasing her, Daisy,’ Rose had said. ‘He says things like, “They can’t be winning the war if they’re spending every minute writing notes to you.” She does try to cheer up but sometimes this house is just so gloomy. Makes me miserable. I’d like to join up; thinking of the Auxiliary Territorial Service. Stan told me about it. There’s lots of jobs I could do in the ATS, mechanics, driving, all sorts.’

‘Won’t you miss Stan?’

‘’Course, but he might get called up himself if it doesn’t stop soon.’

What would sensible, practical Rose think of her relationship with Adair? Would she say there was norelationship? Daisy figuratively straightened her backbone and decided that if she had to wonder whether or not she loved Adair, then, obviously she did not.

Now she looked at her twin sister and shrugged. At the moment it seemed that they could only help their mother cope with life by supporting her as much as possible. That meant any spare time would be spent writing letters.

She was dozing on the floor when the all clear sounded.

‘You won’t be meeting Stan as late as this, pet?’

‘No, he said if it were after ten, he’d be as well to go home.’

They began to gather up the cups and the Thermos, Flora’s knitting and anything else that was not usually left in the little room.

‘I’ll wash these before I go to bed,’ offered Daisy, as she was the only one who did not need to jump out of bed early, and that was when they heard knocking on the door of the shop.

‘Who’s knocking at this time of night? Don’t tell me your dad’s lost his keys.’

‘Happens, Mum,’ said Rose as she hurried through the shop to open up.

An unidentifiable heavy-set figure could be seen through the glass in the top half of the door.

As Rose wrestled with the lock they heard a voice. ‘It’s only me, Alf Humble.’

Flora pulled the door open. ‘Alf, oh, no, something’s happened to Fred. I knew it; I just knew it.’

‘Mum,’ said the girls together as Alf closed the door behind him.

‘There, there, Flora. As far as I know Fred’s fine; he’s doing fire and injury reports. No, I’m afraid it’s you I’ve come to see, Daisy. I’m sorry it’s so late, pet, but I got caught up in the raid and had to sit it out in a shelter. Quite an experience.’

‘Me?’

‘Yes, lass.’ He turned to Flora. ‘Could we go upstairs, Flora, or into your refuge room? The world can see us through the shop window.’

He turned to look at Daisy, who was staring at him, her eyes wide in her pale face. Charlie was dead. Now someone else was dead. Who?

‘Upstairs, Daisy love, and Rose’ll make us all a nice hot cup of tea.’ Flora, once more in control, ushered her daughter and her unexpected guest upstairs, talking all the way. ‘Does Nancy know where you are, Alf?’

‘I phoned her from a call box. She’ll be sound asleep by now. Lovely and quiet in the country.’

‘Alf, tell me.’ Was it Adair? It had to be.

‘I got a call from the County Hospital earlier this evening, Daisy. Adair’s got me down as next of kin and he’s there, lass; had to crash-land in a field yesterday.’

No. ‘No, it’s not possible.’

But Alf Humble did not make jokes; he did not tell lies. Alf was one of the most honest people she had ever met, would ever meet.

‘He’s here, Daisy, in the hospital.’ He saw the fear in her eyes, reached forward and took her cold hand. ‘He’s been shot up a bit and one leg’s broken from the crash, but he’s going to be fine.’

‘He can’t be here, Alf. It’s a mistake. This is Dartford and he’s from . . . . Oh, Alf, I don’t know where he’s from.’

‘Don’t really matter where he’s from, pet, his plane came down in Kent, outside Dartford, and this is the nearest hospital. He carries a card with the name of next of kin. I think the lad’s only living relative is the fellow that owns The Old Manor but he’s away with the army somewhere. That left me. And then, didn’t they find a wee note from a Daisy who lives on Dartford High Street in his shirt pocket.’

Daisy felt herself blushing. ‘I was only thanking him for a flying lesson.’

Alf laughed. ‘So you won’t walk up West Hill tomorrow to see the wounded airman?’

Rose was there with a tray of tea and some slices of Flora’s latest attempt at an eggless cake, and no one seemed to notice that Daisy had not answered.

‘Quite tasty for a cake without eggs, Alf. What do you think?’

Before he had time to answer they heard a noise downstairs and then Fred’s cheery voice as he climbed the staircase.

‘What a night,’ he began, and then when he saw Alf, a look of concern crossed his face. ‘What brings you to see us this late, Alf? Any problems?’

And so Alf had to tell his story all over again. ‘Hope there’s enough hot water to get half the grime off you, Fred. Just as well you’re not a vain man.’ Everyone laughed and Alf started again. ‘High time I was off, though. I checked my lorry when I phoned Nancy – a few dents in the doors from flying shrapnel but there were dents already and I’ll hand the shrapnel over to the scrap collectors. I’d not be quite so happy if any of it had gone through the doors, though.’

Daisy, who had expected to fall fast asleep as soon as she got into bed, did not sleep at all that night. She closed her eyes when her sister woke and pretended to be asleep until Rose and both her parents had gone to work. Alf had said that she would not be allowed to see Adair until the afternoon but she knew that she could not wait a moment longer. Sitting in the hospital or walking aimlessly around its grounds was far better than having to deal with her parents’ gentleness. The night before she had wanted to scream, ‘It’s Adair who’s hurt, not me,’ but she had managed to keep quiet.

Now she washed and dressed, discarding her first choice of civilian clothes for her WAAF uniform. Hospitals had rules but was it possible that a sympathetic nurse might let a WAAF in for a minute or two if the ward was not too busy? She had no particular desire to parade through Dartford in uniform – that came under what Fred and Flora had always discouraged: ‘calling attention to yourself’. But since it was too pleasant a spring day for her to wear her raincoat, she had no choice.

Without so much as a cup of tea, she crept downstairs, shoes in hand, and slipped out of the back door.

Within a few minutes she was regretting her decision as she ran the gauntlet of old school-mates or their mothers, as well as customers of the family shop. She was forced to stop each time and answer questions and, of course, to ask questions of those she had not seen for some time. At last she was out of the busy centre of the town and able to cover ground more quickly. She reflected on how kind people were. Even girls with whom she had not been particularly friendly at school wanted to stop, to praise her for being in the Forces, to tell her of other friends who were now overseas or casualties of war. Daisy tried to cheer herself up by remembering her conversation with one girl who had been on the running team. Not yet twenty years old, and already the mother of one lovely little girl.

One toddler and another baby before winter. Would I want that life? Daisy answered herself with an emphatic no, but then she thought of Adair and she seemed to feel, for a moment, the demanding pressure of his lips on hers at the New Year’s Eve dance.

What would it be like to be loved by Adair, to … Shocked by where her thoughts were going, Daisy doubled her speed and forced her mind to focus only on the burned-out or damaged buildings, and therefore damaged or destroyed lives, that she was passing.

She reached the hospital and realised that she now had a blinding headache, a direct result of eating nothing that morning. If she didn’t have something soon she knew from experience that she would be sick.

Down the hill, in the town, she had passed a WVS van. They would have offered her a cup of tea.

‘Problem?’ A man she thought might be an orderly had appeared and was smiling at her. ‘You look as if you need to sit down.’

‘No, it’s nothing. I was hoping to see a friend and – sorry, I’ve got a stupid headache.’ At the same time, to her deep embarrassment, her empty stomach argued its case with a loud rumbling.