Daisy's Wars (17 page)

‘Why don’t you just slip them into your pocket, then you, me and the pearls can slip out of the door?’ Edith giggled back.

‘Don’t think we could. Don’t know how she can walk wearing them never mind throw herself about like that, they’re enormous!’

Just then two men approached them, bearing a huge bottle of champagne and two extra glasses, announcing themselves, and hoping for a favourable reaction by doing so, as diplomats from the
American Embassy.

Daisy felt a wave of panic rising up. She didn’t want any man to approach her, couldn’t bear the thought of him leaning towards her, leering at her, and the idea he might touch her
made her feel so instantaneously sick that she swallowed quickly. So she bristled just enough to put them on notice that they were not automatically welcome, in her company at least; but Edith, who
wasn’t used to familiar behaviour from men, American men in particular, showed fear rather than reserve by stiffening up completely.

Oh God, Daisy thought, she’s turned into a rabbit. She watched one of them taking advantage by sitting beside Edith and slipping his arm around her shoulders, while
‘Daisy’s’ kept a respectful distance as he poured champagne for both girls. Daisy gave a serene nod of the head and took a sip. It was like fizzy cider, she decided, another
illusion gone, though her expression didn’t change.

‘So, tell me, sweetness,’ the American said, ‘what’s your story?’

‘I don’t think I have one,’ Daisy replied coolly.

‘What’s your name?’ he laughed. ‘Mine is Walt.’

‘Well, Walt,’ Daisy smiled back, ‘my name is Daisy.’

‘Well, don’t tell me then,’ he winked back at her, ‘you little minx!’

Daisy tried to exchange a wry glance with Edith, but Edith remained stiffly transfixed, staring straight ahead.

‘So what are you?’ Walt persisted.

‘A WAAF,’ Daisy said.

‘But are you a Lady or an Honourable somebody?’

‘I’m an honourable lady, if that makes things any clearer.’

Walt guffawed loudly and slapped his sides, the bottle still in one hand.

‘You’ll hurt yourself doing that,’ Daisy said, looking around the room disinterestedly, then turning to look him in the eye as he moved closer and tried to slip an arm around
her shoulder. ‘And I’ll hurt you if you do
that
,’ she said icily.

‘What’s the matter?’ he asked in a thick voice. He waved the hand with the bottle in the air, indicating the room, wine spilling out in a wide arc. ‘Look, honey,
everybody’s doing it.’

And they were. A group of four were perched precariously on the piano, to the anxiety of the pianist, swaying madly as they sang out of tune, drowning out all but the beat of the music. Of the
others, those not dancing wildly or conversing loudly were lying about on top of each other, while those carousing, dancing and conversing continued as though they hadn’t noticed.

‘Yes,’ Daisy replied, ‘but perhaps I’m just choosy, or maybe not drunk enough.’

‘We can soon fix that,’ Walt chuckled, lifting the bottle to pour her more wine, but Daisy had already placed her hand across the rim of her glass. ‘Make that just choosy then,
Walt,’ she smiled sweetly.

Afterwards she thought about how she had handled herself and took stock. She hadn’t planned any of it, she had simply taken a deep breath and launched herself into an act, becoming an
ice-maiden with a glib turn of phrase. Joan Johnstone had been right: life was all a question of choosing your part and performing it with confidence – even if you were quaking inside. She
had wanted to keep Walt at a distance and it had worked. She had got away with it without doing a Dotty, so there was no reason why it shouldn’t work just as well in future. She had
discovered a means of taking back control.

Not that all Dotty’s soirees were like that. Some were held in private apartments in Knightsbridge or Pimlico, but there was always some degree of bodies lying on top of each other, it had
to be said, and always some male or other trying his luck. It was an attitude that had spread worldwide, though. By all accounts the outbreak of war had prompted a steep decline in morality both
inside and outside the services, and across the social barriers, too, for that matter. As Daisy’s male-deflecting act developed, it was becoming the one everyone accepted, and she was
increasingly regarded as a bit of a character. Mae West they called her, and soon everyone knew that it would take a pretty special male to get past her guard.

Not that it stopped them trying, of course. It was in the nature of the beast, but the last thing they wanted was to be humiliated in front of their friends, so the first rebuff, however
humorous, usually sufficed.

After her disappointment at her first sip of champagne, Daisy decided alcohol wasn’t for her. As a child she had seen how much damage it could do, and at the London parties she saw how it
lowered the resistance and inhibitions, and she wanted to keep both. One thing the Dessie escapade had taught her was to always be alert; to learn how to spot situations before they got out of
hand. She realised that everyone else was too intent on how much fun they were having to notice how little she was drinking, so she accepted a glass of whatever was on offer and kept it by her
side, unconsumed, for the duration. When top-ups were offered she would indicate her full glass. It worked, because everyone was more interested in themselves.

After champagne there were other disappointments to come. Caviare was disgusting, she discovered, though Dotty assured her it was an acquired taste and she should persevere, which she
didn’t. Truffles, on the other hand, were quite nice, really, which was more than could be said about anchovies; while smoked salmon and scrambled eggs was pretty amazing, considering the
salmon hadn’t even been cooked first.

Soon, though, these forays consisted of just Dotty and Daisy, Edith having decided none of it was for her. Edith was a serious-minded girl who saw little value in small-talk and so had never
perfected the art. She was acutely aware that this was a handicap, even if she had no wish to change it. She just wasn’t made for parties, certainly not on Dotty’s level.

Daisy, on the other hand, had some experience of the landed gentry in her years at Fenwicks and was better equipped to deal with almost any company, so she adapted effortlessly, though with her
own rules. At the beginning of her healing time, when she had needed calmness and quiet, Daisy had been closer to Edith, who was capable of sitting for hours in silence reading a book. But now she
was recovering and re-grouping mentally, putting what had happened to her behind a closed door in her mind and trying to find a way of going forward.

Edith remustered as a Radio Telephone Officer and moved to Langar along with Violet and Celia, so it was natural that Daisy and Dotty became closer. At first Daisy had seemed, on the surface
like just another girl away from home, a bit anxious but trying her best to learn as much as she could; but underneath the turmoil of her escape from Newcastle had raged. She had struggled to make
sense of the rape and come to terms with why she had let it happen to her, as though it had been her fault. She’d become full of a guilt and anger that had nowhere to go. As she made those
first steps forward it seemed that every attempt to put her old life behind her was caught up in her dreams as she slept, jumbled up with details of her new life, twisted and mixed up together,
reminding her of what she wanted to forget.

Being in the company of females helped, even if they were all in view of males every day. The men had so many girls to choose from that she could hide in the pack, to a certain extent anyway:
there was safety in numbers. However, men still noticed her in this new life, her outward appearance hadn’t changed for the worse, and the airmen pointed her out to each other. Crossing her
arms and determinedly not walking in the way her hips tended to guide her didn’t disguise anything, and gradually she was coming to terms with the attention. It was boring going around all
the time thinking of ways not to look the way she looked, there were more pressing matters to dwell on, so she was trying to devise a plan of survival.

Slowly Daisy was taking control of the situation, finding within herself the ability to rise above the whistles and the winks, and to deal with them whenever and wherever they came at her, and
her closer friendship with Dotty had helped her with the next steps along that path.

10

In July 1940, Joan Johnstone’s latest letter to Daisy carried various bits of news. First of all, her father had been taken off night shift at the pit.

‘He isn’t happy about it, I can tell you,’
Joan wrote, adding gleefully,
‘he says it’s because he’s Irish! I don’t think
he’ll ever accept that he isn’t the only one being messed about by the war. At least he’s there at nights now to look after your mother, whose health isn’t good, I have to
be honest, Daisy. She loved the picture of you and your friends in uniform, made her eyes sparkle for a bit. And Spiller’s old factory has been bombed, it’s just standing there like a
skeleton, though everyone says the High Level Bridge was the real target, not that the Spiller’s people will find much comfort in that. The next bit of news is in two parts, good and bad.
Kay’s husband has gone abroad with his regiment, so it’s good riddance to bad rubbish there, but the bad news is that he got leave before he went and Kay is now expecting baby number
three. Yes, I know, my dear, it’s terrible, but there’s nothing you can do about it, you have worries enough with what you’re doing. In fact I wasn’t sure whether I should
tell you, but I thought you’d want to know, so forgive me if I’ve upset you.

‘By the way, I’ve found a whole box of those cotton nightdresses that your mother likes, it was under all sorts of rubbish in the stock-room. I wish I could embroider
flowers and things on them like you did, but you know I’m all thumbs when it comes to needlework. But at least she’ll have the ones she likes, even if they are quite plain. And please
don’t think of sending me a penny for them now, I’ve told her I’ve put them on account for when you come home. I’ll take them to her this evening and report back in my next
letter.’

Reading the letter, Daisy smiled, remembering Joan trying to find a way of giving the nightdresses to Kathleen without making her feel like a charity case.

By late 1940, partly because of Dunkirk and partly the news of the bombings throughout the country, Daisy’s attitude to being a WAAF had changed. She wasn’t alone,
though. It wasn’t just about escaping the home situation any longer, like most of the girls who had joined up; she wanted to do something, to be part of the war by working in an operational
unit. So, early in 1941, along with Dotty, she asked to remuster as an R/T Operator – a Radio Telephone Operator. There was an excitement about being where planes flew out on missions and,
hopefully, came back, Edith had written from Langar, a feeling of being involved in a way that would make a difference.

Daisy was successful, and was put on a course that had been compressed into six weeks, something that would cause friction throughout the war from regulars whose training had taken years. Dotty,
to her bemusement, was to be a medical orderly.

In Guildford Place, Joan Johnstone was making her way home after visiting Kathleen. She was thinking how strange it was that her life had become so entwined with the Sheridan
family. If she had taken the lift down to the shop floor ten minutes later all that time ago she would probably never have known Daisy existed. Miss Manders would already have sent the girl on her
way with her usual dismissive tone. What kind of powers governed such things, she wondered? And who was to know that she and Daisy would develop such a deep bond, one that had encompassed Kathleen
too? Joan had never had the opportunity to care for her own mother, the family breach had never been healed, but at least she could do something for Kathleen.

That was what Joan was thinking that Friday evening, on how much of their lives they now shared, and all from being on the shop floor when she had been. Then she gave herself a shake. Never mind
the past, if she didn’t get a move on the blackout would descend and she might have no future.

At West Drayton the following Thursday, as Daisy and her fellow WAAFs waited for news of their postings, there was a call for Daisy to report to the Senior WAAF, Gwen Thomas.
Thinking she was about to be reprimanded again for wearing silk stockings, the absolute cardinal sin as far as WAAFs were concerned, she dashed from the Admin Block back to the hut, dug out the old
lisle horrors and put them on before making her way to the unit office.

Gwen Thomas was in a situation she had never handled before, though it was becoming common enough. On the previous Friday evening, there had been a German raid on Newcastle. Byker and Heaton had
been hit, especially Guildford Place, and the Sheridan home had been destroyed. There were no survivors, so she would have to tell Daisy that her entire family had been wiped out.

Thinking how she would break this news, the officer decided it would serve no purpose to beat about the bush. Not only would that be pointless, but it would also be wrong. Besides, any girl
called to the office would already be geared up for bad news, she mused, so it was better to say it straight out and to be prepared to go over it two or three times after that as the girl took it
in. As she waited for Daisy to appear she was practising in her mind what words to use. The girl’s whole family, my God, what a thing to have to come to terms with, and it was worse that she
was so far away. Still, there was no way of not telling her, or of holding out any hope. Daisy had to have the truth, that much she knew.

There was a knock at the door and Daisy entered and saluted.

‘Sit down, Daisy,’ the officer told her, and as Daisy did so she could see by the expression in the girl’s eyes that she had no idea of why she was really there.

‘Daisy, I have something to tell you and I’m afraid it’s bad news.’

Daisy was horrified; surely they weren’t going to take her new job away from her because she’d been reported for wearing silk stockings again? All the way to the office she had been
practising her speech, too, but for her defence; unaware that Officer Thomas had been doing something similar.