Churchill’s Angels (5 page)

‘Glad we finished the spuds at Christmas,’ interrupted Grace. ‘Frozen spuds are the worst. They fall apart and they smell something awful.’

‘Where did you learn that?’

‘Dunno, musta read it somewhere.’ Grace sliced a stock bearing several sprouts off at the base and popped it into Daisy’s bag.

Since Grace was due at the munitions factory where she worked in the office, Daisy left her to close up and she walked home with the bag.

Flora was in the shop. She ignored the bag. ‘Who was it said something about rationing, Daisy, love?’

‘The vicar, I think, Mum. Why?’

‘Why’s sugar so scarce? Between that and the shortage of butter and bacon, some customers is saying they’ll take their custom elsewhere.’

‘One thing at a time, Mum. Sugar’s scarce because it’s shipped into this country – we don’t grow it. Ships are needed now for other things – munitions, soldiers, I don’t know – but there’s no space for sugar. Same with bacon and butter.’

‘We know Nancy Humble makes lovely butter up at the farm and there’s two farms near her as keeps pigs.’

‘Not enough to feed the whole country. I don’t know where these things come from, but could be as far away as New Zealand; the Commonwealth, you see. But, Mum, more important right now, can you do something with poor Grace’s veggies?’

‘’Course, waste not, want not, and are we not going to be singing that song a lot more? If that freeze was all over the country last night and not just in poor old Kent, then there’ll be greengrocers closing faster than you can run upstairs with those vegetables.’

Daisy picked up her shopping bag of unpleasantly defrosting vegetables and, two stairs at a time, soon reached the kitchen where she dumped them unceremoniously in the sink.

‘Porridge on the back of the fire,’ her mother’s voice floated up to her, and so Daisy helped herself to a bowl of porridge. She put a scraping of Nancy’s Christmas butter on top to melt and pulled her father’s comfortable chair up to the fire. What a lovely smell a fire had; simply smelling wood smoke made Daisy feel warm.

A few well-fed minutes later, Daisy, washed properly in hot water, dressed in a warm woollen skirt and a fair-isle jersey, descended to take her turn in the shop. In the short time that she had been upstairs, the store had filled with people all talking and gesticulating. At first Daisy thought there must have been an accident.

‘You all right, Mum?’

‘’Course I am, love. Vicar’s just brought some unwelcome news.’

Daisy looked around until she could see the kindly, wrinkled face of the local Church of England vicar. ‘Good morning, Mr Tiverton, bad news, is it?’

He smiled, a particularly sweet smile, and Daisy smiled back. She couldn’t help it; there was something about that smile – the smile reserved, according to Sam, for saintly Church of England vicars.

‘Well, my dear,’ said Mr Tiverton, ‘that will really depend on how we deal with it. Rationing came into force this morning: sugar, butter and bacon. From today we are officially allowed four ounces each of butter and bacon or ham, and twelve ounces of sugar, per adult per week. We will each be given a jolly little ration book that must be registered with local shops. I’m quite sure that soon everything but the air we breathe will be rationed.’

‘If there are indeed to be gas attacks, Vicar, we won’t want our air.’

Daisy and Flora stared at each other in disbelief. Miss Partridge had a sense of humour. Who’d have thought it?

Fred, who had been stocking up at the strangely empty wholesalers, came in the back door just as the last customer went out the front. As wife and daughter began to speak Fred held up his hands. ‘I saw ’em leaving as I slithered down the street. Telling you they was looking for the best deal, was they? Well, if they don’t trust us enough to know our prices are the best we can do, Flora, love, then they can take their custom elsewhere. The ’alt, the lame and the lazy will stay with us, and we’ll deliver to our ’ousebound any time they needs something delivering.’

‘I don’t fit in any of those categories, Fred.’ Mr Fischer had come quietly into the shop while Fred was talking.

‘I don’t worry about a gent like you, Mr Fischer. You’re always welcome in this shop.’

‘I hope that will always be the case.’

‘And why wouldn’t it be?’ Fred asked somewhat belligerently.

The old man looked at him sadly. ‘You really do not know, my friend? I am not only a hated German, Fred, but a hated Jewish German.’

The family stared at him in consternation. Flora recovered first. ‘What’s that got to do with the price of tea, Mr Fischer? Why, you was one of our first customers. You came in here two days after me and Fred got married.’

‘And, my God, wasn’t that a lifetime ago?’ said Fred, attempting to lighten the mood.

‘And you will take my ration book?’

Fred and Flora reassured him while Daisy stood in the background and thought of all the implications hidden in the simple conversation she had just heard. Poor Mr Fischer. To be hated in his own country because of his religion and hated everywhere else because he was German. People could be horrid. They were not at war with Mr Fischer; surely just the Germans that lived in Germany. But she didn’t much like that idea either, and decided to think instead of what she should now be doing.

There was the first-aid course, and God help anybody who needed aid from Daisy Petrie. ‘I can’t even get the blasted bandages right,’ she said aloud, earning a reproving look from her mother who was still talking to Mr Fischer. As well as the first aid, her dad thought she might sign up for a bit of fire-watching. Fine, she would do that. But compared to what others were doing, was it enough?

Her racing thoughts focused on the young man with the plane. Alf had said that he was already in the air force. Where was he now, back with his unit, or in Alf’s old stable working on the plane? It could not possibly be fit for active service in its present condition.

I’m good with engines, Daisy reminded herself fiercely. I could work on it if he’s had to go.

Doubts flooded in, undermining her resolution. He’s a toff and he owns a plane. He’d laugh me out of the yard. Bet he’d say, ‘No woman’s capable of working on my beautiful aeroplane.’ But he talked to me like we were both human beings. And if he’s more interested in planes than in girls, he might, just might, not care that I’m a girl. Woman, she corrected herself quickly. Maybe he’ll just see another good mechanic.

‘Daisy, love, fetch some porridge oats from the storeroom, please.’ Mr Fischer had gone and her parents were alone.

Daisy took a deep breath and a life-changing decision. ‘Sorry, Dad, I promised Nancy Humble I’d deliver some tinned peaches when they came in. I’m off to get the van.’

She was whipping off her apron as she spoke and, without giving her parents a chance to speak, she took the keys to the van from their hook and hurried out into the back lane. The van was in the garage directly across the lane. With some difficulty because of the sheet of ice that
was
the back lane, Daisy backed it up to the shop’s rear door. ‘Come on, Dad; give me a hand with the boxes.’

Flora returned to the flat. Monday was her usual washing day and as Christmas Day and New Year’s Day had been the last two Mondays, she was behind with her household chores and could see no way to spend any time in the shop. The weekly wash took hours. First water had to be boiled in kettles and pots. The clothes were sorted and washed, much use being made of Flora’s scrubbing board. Next the clothes had to be rinsed, put through the mangle that Fred had set up on the iron tub in which the family took baths, and then hung up to dry, either on the pulley on the kitchen ceiling or, if the weather was good, on the clothes line on the small square of concrete beside the garage. On washing day it was virtually impossible for Flora to help out in the shop.

Downstairs, Fred propped open the door so that he could hear the front doorbell, and began to load.

‘Starting at Old Manor Farm, Dad. I promised Nancy I’d deliver there first. One of the family’s there, on leave, I think.’

‘He’ll have gone, love. Lucky to get twenty-four hours, never mind a week.’

‘Just in case.’

Fred grumbled but loaded the van in the order that Daisy wanted and soon she was on her way. A cloud of butterflies cavorted in the pit of her stomach. It was a pleasant excitement.

Think positively, Daisy. After all, what can he say? No or yes.
When she drove through the ancient iron gates she felt her heart beating rapidly. And by the time she reached the old stables her hands were sweating. Why? Surely it had nothing to do with the toff, even though he has a nice voice and nice eyes and he’s a real, live pilot. No, Daisy assured herself, I am excited by the machine, the plane.

Anti-climax. The stables were deserted and all the doors and gates closed. There were windows high up on the main stable doors, but they were inaccessible. Daisy looked round but all that remained to show that an aeroplane had once stood on these cobblestones was a patch of engine oil. She bent down, touched it with her fingertips and lifted them to her nose. Now that was a lovely smell, better even than logs. If only …

Thoroughly cast down, she went to the farmhouse.

‘Well, this is a nice surprise. Wasn’t expecting anything today, Daisy, since you was here on Saturday.’

Daisy pulled out a small box. ‘I thought you might like some tinned peaches.’

Nancy looked at her in some surprise and, blushing, Daisy explained, ‘I know you put up berries and apples but thought maybe a peach would make a nice change.’

Nancy nodded in agreement. ‘Well, if that isn’t right thoughtful of you, Daisy, love, and has nothing to do with a handsome young flyer that was here. My Alf says if he sees another jar of stewed rhubarb he won’t be responsible. Me, I never tire of it.’

Daisy looked at her, blushed even more furiously and decided that she had to ask about the plane before she lost her courage. ‘Sorry, Nancy. Dad knows I’m up to something; peaches wasn’t a great idea for someone with an orchard.’

‘We don’t grow peaches, love. ’Course I’ll take them.’

Daisy sighed and relaxed. ‘Where’s the plane gone then?’ she asked bluntly.

‘Plane or pilot, Daisy Petrie? Which one are you really looking for?’

‘The plane, of course. I wouldn’t recognise Adair whatsit if I was to fall over him. But rationing coming in makes the war real somehow, and I’ve got to do something … meaningful.’

‘Your mum needs you, Daisy.’

‘No, sorry, Nancy, but that’s just not true. I’m in the shop because I worked in there Saturdays and Mum’s got it into her head I’m delicate, kidding herself really, probably because I’m smaller than Rose. Everybody’s smaller than her. You know I’m good with engines, Nancy, as good as my brothers. I thought I could help with the plane. Can’t be all that different from a lorry engine or the van, and I can take them apart and put them together again. I’d be doing something important, more valuable than sitting in a cosy little shop weighing dried peas.’

‘Folks’ve got to be fed, love.’

‘Mum and Dad can do that, and if things get tough they can hire someone.’ She was surprised by the idea that jumped fully formed into her head. ‘For instance, I just bet old Mr Fischer would jump at the chance of earning a few extra bob a week.’

‘Happen he would. Now, I’ll take these into the larder and make us a cuppa.’

‘Wait,’ said Daisy, grabbing Nancy’s arm. ‘I mean, Dad’s alone in the shop so I can’t stay, but what about the plane?’

‘Lad’s a pilot, Daisy. He comes here whenever he has a spare weekend to work on it, but he just turns up. He looks after himself, has the odd cuppa with me and Alf in the kitchen, no more. I’ve no idea where he’s based – happen Alf does. But if Adair does come back I’ll tell him what you said. Best I can do.’

Daisy had to be content with that. She finished the deliveries with ideas and plans spilling around as the butterflies had done earlier. He had to come back some weekend to see his beloved plane and Nancy would tell him what Daisy had said. He would be delighted by the offer of help and very soon Daisy Petrie – shop assistant – would be doing something that was vital to the war effort.

But weeks passed and he did not return.

Grace was absent from the first-aid classes at the beginning of February. Daisy did not concern herself too much. Everyone seemed to work longer and longer hours these days and all the extra hours did seem to be affecting Grace. Without much expectation of discovering anything, Daisy went to Megan Paterson’s shop.

‘Grace missed the classes this week, Megan. She’s not sick, is she?’

Grace’s sister looked nothing like Grace. She was tall and very thin, and her extravagantly styled hair was, to Daisy, the most peculiar unnatural shade of red. Her frock was certainly very modern and Daisy supposed she could possibly be described as sophisticated. To Daisy, however, there was something not quite right in the picture presented. Megan’s antagonism to Grace’s friends did nothing to help.

‘How would I know?’ Megan answered Daisy’s question. ‘I got more to do than look in her room every five minutes, haven’t I?’

A picture of the cold, cheerless kitchen and the three pairs of expensive stockings flashed across Daisy’s mind. She bristled. ‘I’m quite sure you have more to do than look after your sister. You certainly never have before, so why break the habit of a lifetime?’

‘Get out, you cheeky little bitch,’ snarled Megan, lifting her hand as if to strike.

‘You do that, Megan Paterson, and my dad’ll be round here in two minutes. If you see Grace, tell her we’re worried about her.’

Heart beating unnaturally quickly, Daisy hurried home. She could hear her voice shouting at Megan but could scarcely believe that she had lost control of her emotions so completely. She discussed her concern for Grace with her mother. She left out the bit about being rude to Megan and almost being slapped for it.

‘I think it started the day rationing started, the morning all the sprouts were frozen. Haven’t seen her much since then but we’re all busy and it’s been too cold to do much except stay in and listen to the wireless. But now she’s missed two classes and she loves them. She’s so good at first aid, much quicker at it than me. Why hasn’t she popped in for a cuppa in weeks, Mum? You don’t think she could have died, do you?’