Churchill’s Angels (4 page)

A young man in an oil-spattered overall had finally manoeuvred himself up out of the cockpit, not an easy task as the wings were in the way, and so he towered above her. Daisy had no idea whether to laugh or to run away. His face was streaked with oil and grease, which had managed to get itself into his almost flaxen hair. In one hand he brandished a spanner and the other held an extremely dirty rag with which – as he addressed Daisy – he was having no luck at all in cleaning his face.

Daisy gave up and started to laugh. The man’s feet and legs were inside the plane and so she had no real impression of how tall he was. Having grown up with three tall brothers, she decided that the odds were that he was not as tall as they were.

‘Does it really fly?’

‘Of course it does,’ he said as he jumped to the ground. ‘At least it will when I’ve got a few minor problems ironed out.’

‘Shame my brothers aren’t here. There is nothing they don’t know about engines,’ Daisy informed him. It was then that she realised that she was every bit as good as any one of the boys, having been taught by her brothers not only to drive but also to look after the engine. ‘I could have a look at it for you, if you like,’ she offered diffidently.

He looked at her as if he could not believe what he was seeing – or hearing. ‘You? A girl?’

‘Don’t mess with a Petrie, lad,’ broke in Alf Humble, the farmer. ‘They were born with wrenches and spanners in their hands.’

‘Beautiful picture that, Alf. Not sure what my mum would think of it.’

‘No woman is capable …’ the young man began, and then blushed to the roots of his hair. ‘I do beg your pardon, that was fearfully rude, but I mean, I’m sure you have some ability and that’s to be applauded, but this beautiful little yellow bird is going to help defeat the German might.’

His embarrassment made him more like one of her brothers, and Daisy smiled. ‘You plan on throwing things at them, then?’ She could scarcely believe that she was bandying words with a toff. Usually such a voice alone would have had her hiding herself away. Perhaps it was because, with oil all over his face and a wrench in his hand, he could have been Sam.

‘Don’t be facetious. She’s not going to be fitted with guns, although chaps are doing that to planes all over England. But she’s roomy, can reach speeds of eighty miles an hour; she’ll carry equipment, even personnel, between aerodromes. We’ll beat the blighters, just see if we don’t.’ He hauled himself athletically back under the wing and lowered himself into the cockpit.

‘Come on, Daisy. I’ve got a good, fat capon for your mum.’

Daisy and Alf walked together back to the farmhouse.

‘What’s facetious mean, Alf?’

‘No idea, love, but it can’t be good! Don’t think badly of the lad, even though he’s out of a top drawer. He’s in the air force – just got a few days’ Christmas leave – and he’s giving the plane to the country.’

‘Nice – if you’ve got the money.’

‘He hasn’t, Daisy. Third cousin, God knows how many times removed from the money.’ He stopped and turned back to face the plane. ‘Want a cuppa, Adair?’ he called.

A muffled answer came from the depths of the aeroplane.

‘I take it that’s a no then,’ said Daisy, who continued her walk back to the house to collect the star of the family’s Christmas dinner. ‘Adair? Never heard the name before.’

‘Me neither, but the lad doesn’t get all uppity when we use it. Known him since he were living here during his school holidays. He were Adair then and he’s still Adair.’

Daisy tried to match her stride to Alf’s longer steps. ‘But this is Lord Granger’s place, isn’t it? We used to be chased away if we came here on our bicycles.’

‘Young Adair’s mother was a relative of ’is lordship. Died very young; the father went back to America. Adair came ’ere in his holidays and now the house is closed he stays in the attic above the old stables.’

A picture of her three brothers came into Daisy’s head. ‘Is there a kitchen up there, Alf? My brothers would starve to death if they had to look after themselves.’

‘He does sometimes come for a meal in our kitchen. Nancy’d have him move in but the lad’s proud, has a little Primus stove, and now he’s in the air force he’s hardly ever here.’

‘What does he do in the air force, Alf? There’s a war on but nothing happens, if you know what I mean.’

‘I suppose they practise, and he teaches them as wants to fly.’

‘But he’s only a lad, same age as our Ron, by the look of him.’

‘Seems he’s been flying for years. Lads are joining up, he tells us, wanting to fly, and some of ’em han’t never seen a plane outside a picture house.’

‘Just as well nothing’s happening then,’ said Daisy as she refused the offer of some tea and, picking up the capon, and Nancy’s creamy-gold pat of newly churned butter, got back into the van to finish her deliveries.

Only the Petrie twins were at home for Christmas, but still the family tried to behave as normal and all preparations went ahead as they had done for as many years as Daisy could remember. Because Christmas Day was on Monday they were delighted to have two days’ holiday, as the shop was never open on a Sunday. The family members who were not on active service relaxed in their front room, the little Christmas tree twinkling in the window. Flora insisted that the tree be placed there every year.

‘Lots of folk who don’t have a home, never mind a tree, pass our place,’ she said. ‘This way we can share a bit of Christmas spirit, and isn’t that needed more than ever in these awful times?’

Presents had been opened and exclaimed over, and Flora was summoning up the energy to get up out of her nice comfortable chair to put the capon in the oven. With roast potatoes and fresh Brussels sprouts from Grace’s garden, followed by Christmas pudding and custard, Christmas dinner would be a feast fit for a king.

‘Come on, Mum, I’ll give you a hand,’ said Daisy, just as they heard the front doorbell. She was nearest and so she pulled herself up and went to answer it.

‘Have you seen Grace? Sorry, everyone. Merry Christmas,’ said Sally as she spilled into the room. She was wearing the costume bought for her by her friends, but it was obvious that she had not come to have them admire it or the smart red hat, perched on the back of her curls, which her parents had given her for Christmas. ‘Sorry again, but she’s never this late and there’s no one at their house.’

Sally looked as if she was about to burst into tears. Grace had spent Christmas Day with Sally’s family almost every year since she had arrived in Dartford as a timid seven-year-old. Megan Paterson had very unwillingly taken in the little girl but, apart from providing a bed for Grace to sleep in, had done little to make Grace feel welcome. Megan, manageress of a charity shop on the High Street, lived her own life. The presence of her half-sister was obviously an inconvenience and not a pleasure.

‘Where else could she be, Sally? Can’t think of any other close chums.’

Sally shook her head. ‘You know Grace; she’s not a talker. I don’t think I’ve even heard the names of anyone she works with. Dad and I went to the shop in case Megan had got a delivery she wanted unpacked and sorted, but it’s definitely closed and empty.’

She waited but no one spoke and so Sally carried on. ‘She’s been funny since my party but I thought she’d forgotten all about that silly teasing. Mum took her to the pictures one night last week and they spoke about Christmas dinner as usual. Today we can’t find her anywhere.’

‘Maybe her sister—’ began Flora.

‘Oh, please, Mrs Petrie. We’re all old enough to know exactly what her sister is. Grace won’t be with her. Dad went round the house; it’s empty. We hoped she’d be here. Maybe she’s gone to somebody at her work but why didn’t she tell Mum?’

‘No idea. I don’t think Grace’d do a thing like that. We’ll just have to go looking,’ said Daisy decisively. ‘Probably she went for a walk, and lost track of time – and distance.’ She looked at her mother.

‘Dinner’ll keep, pet. Go and find your friend. After all, we’re planning to eat her Brussels sprouts.’

Rose followed Daisy into the hallway where they picked up their woollen coats, and rammed the new berets that Flora had knitted for Christmas onto their heads. ‘Sorry, Mum, you and Dad start without us.’

When the door had closed behind them, Flora and Fred sat down by the fire. They had no option but to celebrate Christmas without their sons. ‘I’ll be damned if I touch a mouthful without my girls,’ said Fred.

Flora nodded and picked up her knitting.

The scarf she was making for Daisy was well under way by the time the girls returned.

‘Sorry,’ the twins said together. ‘We found her, would you believe, in that awful Anderson shelter; passed it twice, never thought to look in. She’s all right, Mum. As usual says nothing, but maybe she had a row with Megan. We talked her round and Mrs Brewer had the dinner keeping nice and hot.’ She looked suggestively towards the kitchen.

‘You had five more minutes, girls. Your dad wouldn’t start without you. Come on, it’ll be grand, and wait till you see what your dad ’as brought up from the shop.’

Neither girl had much experience of alcohol and each was thrilled to be given a glass of sherry.

‘Spanish,’ said Fred. ‘Best kind there is. Don’t neither of you let anyone give you sherry from anyplace else.’

Was the meal perfect or did the excitement of drinking sherry help cast a golden glow over it? No one appeared to notice that the capon was a little dry or that the sprouts had been cooked a little too long.

Daisy looked at the firelight shining in the liquid in her glass and found herself thinking of the pilot. Was he drinking real Spanish sherry with his Christmas meal? He had to be. Surely sherry was the height of sophistication.

The alarm clock woke Daisy. She groaned, as usual, burrowed even further under the counterpane, as usual, and then, remembering her promise, threw back her covers and jumped out of bed. It was cold, so cold that, completely forgetting her sleeping sister, she did a little war dance right there on the strip of carpet between the beds. A quick look proved once again that Rose Petrie could sleep through anything.

Daisy slipped past her bed to the window and pulled the curtain back sufficiently to let her see out. ‘Crikey.’ She could see nothing but beautiful paintings by one Mr Jack Frost on the window-pane. Daisy breathed on the glass and rubbed it with the sleeve of her nightgown until she had a peephole.

Outside lay a frozen world. The year had blasted in accompanied by snow storms that seemed determined to maintain their icy grip. The snow that had fallen over the weekend and been churned into muddy heaps by the traffic was now frozen solid. Daisy grabbed her clothes, washed her face and such parts of her neck as she thought might be seen, dressed and slipped out. She looked towards the kitchen door. No time to boil the kettle for some scalding tea. She crept down the stairs, pulled on her heavy outdoor coat and the cheery hat and now-finished scarf that her mother had knitted for Christmas, grabbed her hated gas mask – there weren’t going to be gas attacks; there was no sign of
any
attacks – and hurried out.

Her breath seemed to freeze in her throat and, for a second or two, she panicked. It was cold, colder than she had ever known. Then she pulled herself together and began to stumble over the frozen sculptures to a stretch of fairly clear road.

Slithering and sliding, Daisy battled on to the little cottage where Grace lived with her half-sister. Grace opened the door and ushered her in. It was obvious that she had been crying.

‘What’s up, Grace? Ever so sorry I’m late; road’s treacherous.’

Grace shook her head. ‘Doesn’t matter. They’re all ruined. Come on through.’

In her hurry, Daisy put her gas mask haphazardly on a chair. It landed on the wooden floorboards with a loud thump. Daisy winced and looked towards the ceiling.

‘She didn’t come home last night and, anyway, takes more than a noise like that to wake our Megan.’

Daisy followed her friend through the cold little house. Grace was almost fanatically tidy but Daisy had time to see at least three pairs of fully fashioned pure silk stockings hanging from a wire across the fireplace in the kitchen. She looked down at her lisle-covered legs. ‘Bet they feel ever so wonderful on, Grace.’

‘Much, much too expensive for me, Daisy, and you an’ all, I should think, if you get my meaning. I saw some in Kerr’s Stores. Three shillings a pair.’

‘Nine shillings spent on stockings. Who’s got that kind of money, Grace?’

Grace said nothing but opened the door to the back garden, and she and Daisy stood for a moment looking at the disaster that had been their pride and joy, their garden. Even Sally had risked her precious long scarlet-painted fingernails to work there.

‘It’s froze solid, Daisy. Not so much as a sprout fit to eat.’

The previous evening Grace had gathered two cabbages, one for the Brewers, one for the Petries. She had admired the amazing number of plump firm Brussels sprouts that were still on the stocks. Now, less than twelve hours later, she saw disaster. ‘Damn it, Daisy, it weren’t that great to start with but look at it now.’

‘We’ve had lovely fresh veggies for weeks, Grace, and I’m sure Mum will make soup with this lot. It’ll be delicious.’ She looked at Grace, wondering how to read the expression on her face. ‘What is it, Grace? It’s not just a few frozen sprouts.’

‘No, I suppose. It’s just … I was really happy working here, Daisy. It were special somehow, a good feeling, being in touch with the soil, putting in a little seed and weeks later frying up my own cabbage. I planned to be really serious this year: better beds, deeper digging and not just doing the safe old stuff like cabbage, but peas – can you imagine fresh peas, Daisy. And why not rhubarb and strawberries?’

‘And lovely fresh lettuce, maybe even tomatoes.’

‘You are going a bit far,’ smiled Grace, and Daisy was pleased to see her looking happier, but she was serious.

‘I think I saw tomatoes growing down The Old Manor once,’ she said. ‘You’ll do it, Grace, and I’ll help you. We’re stronger than we look, you and me. Come on, let’s put these ruined sprouts in the bag with any of the kale worth keeping.’