The Daisy Club (31 page)

The basic problem of hunger was being solved at the Hall, thank God, Branscombe thought, busy as ever in the kitchen, by the countryside itself. They were not in for as lean a time as the towns and cities, for while it was almost impossible to dig up root vegetables from a ground that was frozen enough to break precious spades, nevertheless unlike the cities there was much meat to be had, from wild rabbit to pork and mutton, and this, accompanied by milk and precious stored vegetables, did at least give them enough energy to get them through the long hard days when, gas masks at the ready still, Jean and her land girls toiled to keep the farm going. Happily, the harvest having been good before the onset of such a harsh winter, they had flour back from the local mill, and much else for which, with so many mouths to feed, they had to be truly thankful.

‘Very thick jam this, boys . . .' Branscombe said, speaking to the motley collection of dogs collected in the old kitchen.

He stared at some plum jam sent from the local Women's Institute, and shook his head. He knew it had to be sturdy to stop it from spilling when it was being carted about, but this lot looked like cement. ‘But thick or runny, into the tarts it will have to go, and when all is said and done, thank God for it.'

Once autumn had come Branscombe and Jean had set the Lindsay brothers to pick blackberries by the ton from the hedgerows, and every apple that had ever fallen into the orchard grass. All this Jean had duly delivered by pony trap to the Women's Institute centre at Wychford. She had turned a blind eye to the Lindsay brothers, under darkness, secretly picking apples and pears – and plums, of course – from the abandoned gardens in the village. These also had been taken up by pony trap to the centre, Boy pulling the trap across the uneven fields, well away from the prying eyes of army guards, whose boredom at being landed in such a quiet country place was all too evident.

‘Now, Algy, Bertie, Trump, George and Dixie, mustn't forget to make a very small apple pie for Johnny's teddy, must we—'

Branscombe stopped. What a thing! So ingrained was he in always making a little pie for Johnny's toy, he had, momentarily, forgotten that Johnny wasn't at the Hall any more, no longer playing at the back of the kitchen, or trotting after Branscombe with a large feather duster as they attempted the usual household chores.

Branscombe sighed. It seemed that even quite new habits died hard. His thoughts ran to where he imagined Johnny must now be, on his long, long tiring journey home. With a bit of luck, quite a lot of luck, by now Johnny should be making his way across London. Branscombe imagined the little fellow, clutching his small cardboard suitcase which contained hardly more than a change of clothes, a toothbrush, and inevitably his precious new toy train. At least the WVS ladies were used to those journeys, even if they did take for ever to do them once they arrived in a city or a town, what with the sirens and the all-clears sounding, and re-sounding. Doubtless Johnny would have forgotten London, but doubtless, too, he would be looking forward to seeing his mum, and the rest of them, spending Christmas with them in the old way.

Branscombe turned away. Christmas. Sometimes he wished it didn't happen, somehow it always seemed to highlight everything all too much, especially in war: loneliness, dashed hopes, other happier days – before the war.

Despite her transformation of the basement, despite the gaiety of her hand-painted notice over the door announcing her club, Daisy tried not to think of how lonely she felt, how much she would have liked to have been with Freddie and all the rest at the Hall, how good the old tree that they dug up every year would be looking, how Aunt Maude would insist on climbing a ladder at the start, to put the angel at the top. She tried not to remember how she and Aunt Maude, and all the maids, poor souls, would all sing hymns on Christmas Eve very badly indeed, their reedy voices trying to follow Aunt Maude, who would seat herself at the piano and lead the well-known carols in a very pretty singing voice.

Daisy smiled. At least that was something that the maids would not be missing, having to sing no matter what, although they would miss the lovely presents Aunt Maude had always chosen for them.

Her one cheerful thought was that David had promised to try and visit her, if he could, which was another reason why Daisy had not asked to spend Christmas Day with Gervaise. She was hoping against hope to see David just this one more time. She had promised it to herself, and after that – well, it would have to stop. Just have to.

She recognised with a dull guilt that she should have told Laura about knowing David, and left her to guess the rest, but after what Relia had told her (which of course she never, ever should have) it had simply not been possible. Once Laura had found out about her father and stepmother for herself, well, things would be different, but just at that moment Daisy simply did not have the courage to face her. Besides, she had convinced herself that when Laura had left Daisy and Aurelia, and gone up to make a telephone call in the hall, that that call had been meant for none other than David Moreton. And, of course, the fact that Laura herself now never mentioned his name was in itself an indication that she was still in love with him. Freddie had always said that. She had always insisted that when a girl was in love with a man she never talked about him, that the only men a girl really talked about were the ones that were of no interest whatsoever, the hangers-on, and that they used them as distractions, as feints.

Daisy lit a cigarette. Guilt was piling very nicely on guilt now, and piling on thick, too. But what could you do? When you fell in love, you fell in love – particularly in war.

That was one thing which she had discovered. Love was not like anything else. It was irrational, inconvenient, and dangerous. Only a few days ago, she had been so busy thinking about David's latest thrilling note to her, saying that he was going to try to meet her in the basement of her godfather's house on Christmas Day, that she had just missed slicing the Hurricane she was taking to Scotland in half on an overhead cable.

‘Daisy?'

‘Yes?'

Daisy stared hazily out at the face she could see beyond the half-glassed door.

‘It's me, David.'

‘David?'

‘Yes, you know, David Moreton? Remember we met – I wrote to you that I would try to come, remember?'

Daisy swayed a little. She had been dreaming of someone, but she couldn't quite remember who, or what had happened in the dream – it had all been tumbling buildings, faces, strangers, people that she had never met before. Where had they all come from, those very real people? Disembodied faces, voices and clothes that were so lifelike that they were more vivid to her than the voice coming from the darkness beyond the door.

‘It's two o'clock in the morning—'

‘I know, Daisy. I should do. I don't know how I got here. Do you think you could open the door, and let me in? I have driven through the night to get here, and I am dying for a great many things, most of all a drink. Please, old girl. Let me in.'

‘Old girl' was so very RAF. Daisy was suddenly completely awake. Good God! It was David. David! She wrenched the door open, and they stumbled against each other in the dark.

‘Come in, come in! I fell asleep waiting for you. Actually I never thought you would come, that you could come, that you would get compassionate leave.'

‘I had to come: twelve hours with you was such a spiffing thought, worth everything.'

He kissed her so hard that Daisy – which was not at all her – started to feel faint.

‘Just a minute, just a minute.' She stepped back, knocking into the sitting-room door. ‘I have to make sure you really are who you say you are—'

‘As a matter of fact, I'm not. No. Listen, old thing, who I am is – I didn't like to say, didn't want to put the foot down too hard, but I'm really Air Chief Marshal Sir Hugh Dowding . . .'

‘Yes, of course, I would have recognised you anywhere. Come this way, Sir Hugh. I have laid out the best glasses, the best whisky, and the best meat pie you will ever have tasted in your life, but first I must light a candle or two.'

They stared at each other through the candlelight, and somehow, even though the journey had been as long as hell, even though he had to get back on ops sooner than he cared to think, Daisy looked so beautiful that David knew at once that every minute with her was going to be golden. He knew that whatever happened to him, in his last moments – if they came sooner rather than later – he would always think of her as she was at that minute, slightly sleepy-eyed, slightly tousled, wearing a now rather crumpled Christmas party dress with sequins around the top. He had never seen her in a dress before, only in her ATA uniform. The cut of the silk followed the contours of her body, showed the outline of her small rounded breasts.

‘God, you are so beautiful, Daisy, you make me feel as if this war had never started. Stay as you are, don't move. Let me always remember you like this!'

He raised his glass to her, and as he did so there was the sound of a siren, and they knew they should get under the table, or go to the coal cellar, but they didn't, they went to her bedroom, and David undressed her, and they made love so beautifully that even the picnic in the sitting room was forgotten in favour of lying together until the dawn of Christmas, when they were woken by the telephone ringing. Daisy was wanted back by the ATA, as soon as possible. She shrugged her shoulders as David moaned, ‘But it's Christmas! Surely we can have a few more hours?'

But apparently not. Christmas during the Great War might have meant a ceasefire, but now it meant only a few hours before the bombing and the destruction began again, and Spitfires were wanted, Hurricanes were wanted, everything was wanted, and sooner rather than later, when it might be far too late.

‘One of the aircraft factories has been hit, so it's all hands to the pump, old thing!' Daisy said, determined to be lighthearted.

David looked mournful.

‘A few more hours?'

She shook her head.

‘We've gone through our emotional coupons for the moment, and you know it.'

He turned away from her. They both knew, had always known, they were only sitting in an oasis for a few hours, and then it was back to the harsh reality, of death lurking behind every burnt-out building, behind every telegram regretting to inform the recipient that someone was ‘missing'. Such was the sorrow of the times that only love relieved the pain, and youthful energy fuelled the duties ahead. That and the will to win, or rather, not to be defeated.

Daisy pinned up her blonde hair and pulled down her uniform jacket. Time to go.

‘I won't look back, and don't you wave,' she called to David as she sprang up the area steps into the dawn light. ‘Whatever happens, don't wave.'

David turned, and it was only when he reached the front door of the basement flat that he noticed the sign reading: ‘
THE DAISY CLUB – MEMBERS ONLY! NO NAZIS!
'

Once inside he saw the visitors' book, with all the girls' names signed in. Taking up the pen that lay beside it, he cheekily wrote his own name under theirs, and then went back to bed for a few hours.

Christmas luncheon at the Hall, in the basement kitchens, prepared by Branscombe, was as sumptuous as he could make it, helped and sometimes abetted as he had been by his many helpers. There was not just one turkey, but two to carve, and many side-dishes of extravagant pre-war delight, three sets of Miss Jean's potatoes, once so despised by Miss Maude, and plenty of cabbage, also once the cause of Miss Maude's disdain.

No one asked where most of the food had come from, although Dan did bolt back to his flat to make sure that, ‘No one's gone and stealed my girls', in exchange for the turkeys, or done some other piece of nifty barter at their expense.

Of course they all knew that it would have spoilt everything to have known the exact origins of the turkeys, let alone which of the pigs had gone to make the sausages – which were out of this world. Since there were so many of them, Branscombe and Freddie had designed the meal so they all started by eating a piece of Yorkshire pudding. Branscombe had suggested this to Freddie, knowing that by starting with a piece of pudding, as in the old way, the guests' appetites would be kept at bay, just a little.

Of course Freddie had always been aware, since she was quite little, that Branscombe had a pretty special hold on the rest of the countryside around Twistleton. His contacts were second to none. Also, since his father and grandfather, on his mother's side, had been in the Connaught Rangers, ‘foraging' was second nature to him. Or as Aunt Jessie had always said, ‘it was in the blood'. So nothing was said about the enormity of the spread at Christmas luncheon, food that they had spent several days preparing, although, inevitably, eyes came out on stalks at how crowded their plates were allowed to be.

‘Won't always be like this,' Branscombe murmured, as he heaped up yet another plate, and another contented guest reeled off towards the kitchen table staring down at their helping with disbelieving eyes.

For the first time ever, Miss Maude had changed her mind about where she would spend her Christmas luncheon, and now that she had, she was very glad about it, although it had taken some effort on her behalf to break with her time-old tradition of Christmas in the dining room. But when the time came, after they had all been to church, she was quite relieved to find herself
not
upstairs, pretending that everything was still the same as it had always been. The truth was that she and Daisy, all alone with only one of the luckless and understandably resentful maids serving them, had been really playing a game of pretend. They had been pretending, or rather Maude had, that everything had not changed since the Great War. All quite absurd, now that she came to think of it.