Daisy's Wars (31 page)

The audience roared with laughter and Doug gazed back in complete innocence, as though completely unaware of what he was doing. The Great Walendo decided to go for broke and brought on one of
the leggy dancers from the show, a real trick, knowing that the attention of the males in the audience would be on her as he sawed her in half.

‘Which half would you like to take back to base with you tonight, gentlemen?’ he asked, thereby unwittingly losing the female section of his audience.

‘Oh, get on with it, sunshine!’ Daisy called out wearily. ‘There’s a war on, you know, or there was when we came in here!’

‘Is that the one you took back last night?’ the conjuror asked, addressing the males once again.

‘Heard it all before,’ Pearl shouted at him, adding for good measure, ‘you
erk
!’

Now that the audience was taunting him the conjuror decided to get on with the act, and with a great flourish he pulled the trick cabinet apart to reveal two distinct halves of the lady in
question. Doug didn’t need a flourish, he just pulled a compartment door and revealed her real legs, still attached to her body.

The audience were now engaged in a contest. It was their boy or the Great Walendo, and their boy was willing, though he appeared to be unaware of being in the competition. In desperation the
magician brought on a cabinet, enticed another leggy lady of the company to enter it, went through a diverting performance of locking the door, then unlocked it and revealed an empty cabinet. Doug
stood applauding. Then another beauty was ‘disappeared’, and another, till the Great Walendo was visibly growing in confidence and stature. That’s when Doug struck again. As the
Great Walendo was taking extravagant bows at the front of the stage, Doug walked to the magic cabinet and pulled a curtain at the back, uncovering another door, from where the leggy lovelies had
escaped behind stage. The Great Walendo departed to catcalls and opinions that he had misspelt his name – ‘The Great Wally, mate, that’s who you are!’ – sweating
profusely and glaring at the straight-faced Doug.

The show comic, Tony Hancock, was rushed on stage to save the night and quell the audience. He pulled it off by appearing before them wearing a tutu and army boots, but it had been a close-run
thing.

Afterwards the girls wanted to know how Doug had managed to upstage the Great Walendo so effectively.

‘I did a bit of conjuring back home,’ he said quietly, ‘and he was so sloppy I couldn’t let him get away with it. I hate sloppiness. If we were as sloppy as that in our
jobs we’d never get through a mission. As far as I’m concerned that applies to his war effort, too.’

From that moment Edith’s Aussie was Doug.

Six months after Eileen’s departure as a respectably married mother-to-be, word had come through that she had given birth to a daughter. More than anything Daisy wanted
to see the two of them, but that would have to wait till after the war.

Meanwhile there was Rose Cottage. Freddy, Dotty’s pilot brother, was there, insisting she come down to London with him for a party. By now this was a rare occurrence for Daisy. She was
very choosy these days, much preferring to stay at Rose Cottage.

‘Who’ll be there?’ she asked calmly.

‘It’s to welcome a crowd of Americans,’ Freddy explained, ‘so the usual crowd plus the Yanks.’

‘Will Dotty and Frank be there?’

‘No,’ he replied sadly. ‘Little sis is too busy attending to the sick these days, can’t drag her away from the hospital, and poor old Frank is stuck in some God-awful
wilderness off the map to the north.’

‘Oh, that’s a shame,’ Daisy lied. ‘It would’ve been good to see them both.’

Question answered, she was safe, so she agreed to go, with nothing more than the vague prospect of a little diverting fun in mind. There she was approached by an American Major – she was
sure he had said his name, but she hadn’t taken much notice. Why bother when she wouldn’t see him again?

‘Well,’ the little man drawled, ‘I’m glad I stayed single, this is the gal I’ve been looking for all my life!’

Her heart sank. She wasn’t fooled for a minute, there was undoubtedly a Mrs Major stateside, as they liked to call America. Daisy had rarely seen a more married man. He was around forty,
short and dumpy with a dark moustache and a swarthy complexion, of Italian extraction, at a guess. He probably imagined he looked like Clark Gable, though he’d have to stand on a box for a
start, even before you got down to comparing the features, and he did not fare well there either. At best, a very bargain-basement Clark Gable, she thought. He looked the kind of man who was used
to his shirts being freshly ironed and laid out for him every morning by Mrs Major, and more fool her for marrying him in the first place.

Still, presumably Mrs Major had been an innocent girl once herself and hadn’t known what she was getting into. She was probably sitting at home now, maybe with a couple of swarthy kids who
didn’t look like Clark Gable either, being loyal and true, worrying about him and praying that he would come home safely at the end of the war. It was something she had noticed before, the
tendency among the biggest prats to marry decent little women who doted on them and, more importantly, trusted them, so maybe she was right. More fool Mrs Major, she should’ve known
better.

It was part of a universal male arrogance that made men think they knew women, and there was no reason why Yanks overseas with the Forces shouldn’t believe it, too. Men were men, after
all. All females want to get married, that’s what they thought, and with some reason. Most unmarried females were regarded – and regarded themselves – as failures if they
hadn’t been graciously picked off the shelf and their lives legitimised by marriage by the time they were in their twenties.

But not all, Daisy thought, definitely not all, as she tuned out of the Major’s pitch. He was saying something about dinner sometime and she smiled distantly.

‘I work in the Langar tower and I don’t get leave that often,’ she replied, employing her tried and tested looking-for-someone gaze about the room.

‘I can always get transport,’ he suggested, ‘and come up there.’

Her mind was only vaguely on him. She was thinking about that other Yank absolute: that the plucky little Brit variety of female, or dame – she cringed at that; no one ever called her
‘dame’, well, not twice, anyway – having endured years of drab existence before America entered the war, and who would doubtless have to endure years more when it had finished,
wanted desperately to marry Americans and have access to the great American dream. It had become a joke with the WAAFs once she’d knocked them into shape. They’d return from a weekend
leave in the fleshpots of London and announce, ‘Guess what, girls? I’m off stateside next week, Beauregarde is having a mansion built for me beside his oilfields in Brooklyn.’ The
others would immediately chip in with news of their engagements to a host of similar oilmen and cattle ranchers from deepest Manhattan. ‘Ah, but,’ the first one would ask, ‘do you
have one of each variety? I think this one’s my fourth this week!’ Every American male knew this fervent desire of the plucky little Brit female to be whisked off stateside was carved
in stone, so that’s what they offered to get what they wanted, and the Major was no exception.

‘Oh,’ she said, still not concentrating on his conversation, plus she had found that ‘Oh’ worked pretty well in these situations for a while.

‘In fact I can take you anywhere you want to go, little lady,’ he boasted.

Suddenly a plan formed in her mind. Anywhere? Did he say anywhere? ‘I’m sure you’re just saying that,’ she said in a flirty voice.

‘No, no, I mean it, name your destination,’ he said, delighted by her change in tone.

‘Well … no, it’s too much to ask,’ she smiled, gazing at him over the rim of her glass.

‘Say it,’ he said excitedly, ‘just say it and it’s yours!’

‘Well, it is far away,’ she said, ‘and please say if you can’t do it, I won’t think any less of you,’ meaning, of course, that she would. ‘I have this
friend in Glasgow that I’m just dying to see, a girlfriend.’

He gulped.

‘Oh, I’m so sorry,’ Daisy said sadly, ‘I’ve asked too much, please forgive me. Obviously that’s way too far.’

‘No,’ he almost yelled, ‘no, I can do that. No problem, just tell when you want to go and I’ll arrange that!’

God, they were so easy!

Eileen’s departure had left a huge gap in Daisy’s life. It had taken her by surprise even though it was the way of their world these days, these years; after all, people were always
coming and going for one reason or another. Eileen, she decided, was special. The affection and friendship between them would have been as strong even without the war, so it was natural that she
should miss her, and she had turned her mind to her friend’s new life.

It hadn’t been as simple as love, marriage and family for Eileen, but to the outside world and, more importantly, to Eileen’s childhood sweetheart, it looked that way. The plan had
worked. If Daisy was honest she hadn’t expected to see Eileen again, not really. A new leaf is a new leaf after all, who wants last season’s mouldy ones turning up to spoil the
greenery? But the Major’s ‘offer’ changed her mind. On her next weekend she would pay a flying visit to Eileen and the baby in Glasgow, if he could pull it off, that was.

Much to Daisy’s surprise, the Major came through, for which she was grateful, even if she hadn’t yet worked out how she would make him pay for his generosity, rather than the other
way round. The only usual way of getting around in wartime was on a slow-moving, cramped train, usually full of predatory servicemen, and it had been part of her reassessment of herself that Daisy
Sheridan did not travel steerage. The little Major had promised transport and transport he had provided, and she felt a pang of, not sympathy exactly, more pity for the Major when she laid eyes on
the staff car he turned up in at the base the following week.

This was no front-line vehicle, no basic London run-around either; the poor besotted and deluded Yank had obviously called in a few favours to lay hands on a more luxurious model than his rank
allowed him, purloined rather than provided, she imagined. The back seat was roomy with comfortable leather upholstery and armrests, and the windows had dinky little curtains held back with a strap
that made them look almost homely, despite being a boring shade of brown, colour being one of the many things that the world had to give up for the duration. It also had a radio that seemed unable
to play anything other than the Glenn Miller Orchestra. Not that she minded for the first couple of hours, but she had grown up in a house full of music, and if she didn’t hear dear old
Glenn’s ‘Chattanooga Choo-Choo’ ever again she wouldn’t protest over-much.

Situated in front, on the board separating the passengers from the driver, was a flap that folded down to provide a serving table for a small bar, complete with booze, glasses, cocktail shaker,
cherries and olives. If there was one thing Daisy had learned it was that wartime rationing applied to only the poorest sections of the population. There was always plenty of food, drink and
luxuries in the circles she now mixed in, especially now that the Americans had arrived. On the outside of the passenger doors was the usual large star, and miniature stars-and-stripes flags flew
on the bodywork above the two front wheels, so that everyone seeing the car pass by would be in no doubt that an American of some note sat inside.

America liked to advertise itself. It was a proud nation, or arrogant, Daisy thought with a silent grin, depending on your opinion of the Yanks being ‘overpaid, over-sexed and over
here’. On hearing this well-known put-down, some wit, usually someone who had joined up on the outbreak of war, would yell out, ‘And over-late, just like the last time!’, a
judgement on the American habit of entering world wars somewhat later than the rest of the world. They had been embarrassed into entering the 1915–18 show in 1917, only because their
President could no longer ignore the rising number of American ships being sunk by the Germans, and WW2 in 1941, when Japan launched its infamous attack on Pearl Harbor. Few Americans were spared
teasing when they did arrive on the battlefield. Now that they were finally here the word was that the war was all but over. There were rumours of some big push coming up, but by May 1944 how many
times had the world heard that kind of rumour? Until it did or didn’t happen there was no point in thinking about it, let alone believing anything would bring the end of the war any
closer.

If there was one thing Daisy had learned in her twenty-odd years it was that being cynical saved you a lot of grief. And she would shortly be in the place that had caused her most of it.
Newcastle. It couldn’t be avoided, it was the price she would have to pay to see Eileen and the baby.

They would be going via Newcastle, the Yank being sure she would want to see her home town, apparently. She didn’t, as it happened, but why argue, so she steeled herself to see Newcastle
again for the first time in years, gazing out on the depressingly dull landscape. Her home town, whatever that meant, and she had sworn she would never be back here, yet here she was, though she
had no intention of stopping.

One thing was sure, she thought, the city slipping past her eyes as the car sped on, she wouldn’t be back here again, never, not even if Eileen had quads! There was nothing to come back
for and, furthermore, her home city had been full of that same nothing for her for as long as she could remember, with one or two exceptions, now all gone. Looking at familiar scenes she felt no
emotion, just a deep gratitude that she had no connection to the place any longer, though there was an illogical anxiety to be gone, as though a huge hand might reach into the car and snatch her
out, as a voice said in a thick Geordie accent, ‘Got you, Daisy Sheridan! Thought you’d escaped forever, did you?’

The stuff of nightmares, she thought with a shiver, and it had been a recurring nightmare, that hand and that voice. The war had thrown up more horrors than she could ever have imagined and she
had coped, but the ‘Newcastle Hand’ dream was something else. It told her Newcastle was where she belonged and was waiting to reclaim her when the war ended.