Churchill’s Angels (15 page)

Rose was only too pleased to be sent home to recuperate. Seeing that most of the women in the beds around her were seriously ill, she felt slightly ashamed of her comparatively minor head and hand injuries. Her parents, however, insisted that she be treated as a recovering casualty and her plea to be allowed to dress and return to work was brushed aside. Flora and Daisy were determined to nurse her devotedly.

Each evening, after the shop closed, Flora and Fred sat down, one on either side of Rose’s bed and looked at each other. One son dead, one missing, and a daughter injured. Where would it all end?

‘At least we’ve got our lasses here with us, Fred. They’re safer with us than out there.’

Fred tried to cheer her. ‘Lightning doesn’t strike twice, Flora, love. Soon as our lass’s hand is out of the bandages, she’ll be back turning out munitions.’ He smiled at Rose. ‘Won’t you, pet?’

‘Right, Dad.’ She stuck out her injured hand, copying the First World War poster of Lord Kitchener. ‘He wanted us to pull our weight, Mum; Mr Churchill wants the same this war.’

Flora was not convinced.

Before the war, Daisy, like her sister and their friends, had enjoyed a full social life. She went to the cinema, to dances in local social clubs and church halls. She played tennis with Rose, and was much in demand as a doubles partner – but with the advent of conflict, life changed. Friends changed. Some joined the services immediately; after all, it would be over soon and in the meantime it was steady paid employment and a chance to try new experiences. Some became very serious, others almost desperately frivolous. War marked each one.

Since the bombing had started in earnest, Daisy, who still felt that she could and should be able to do more, had added fire-watching to her duties. She continued attending the first-aid classes but her skills were not in steady demand. She actually enjoyed being on duty at night, a little nervous and tense but determined. Together with employees from several other shops, she was ready to spot any fire on the High Street and to attempt to extinguish it with the brand-new stirrup pump before it could flash out of control. She also had to learn to judge when she would be unable to deal with the fire and when to alert the regular fire brigade. Fires were started during daylight hours too. It was after a particularly intense bombing raid, when hundreds of the small but devastating incendiary bombs had been dropped, and as quickly as possible dealt with, that she remembered Mr Fischer. She was exhausted but it was a much more satisfying exhaustion than that which came from dealing with disgruntled customers.

I’m not going home until I find out what’s happened to him, she decided, and so, instead of heading home for a meal and a hot bath, she made her way, dusty and reeking of smoke, to the house where Mr Fischer had lodged for so many years.

Mrs Porter, the landlady, did not want to open the door. September evenings were drawing in but it was still quite light, only the pall of smoke from extinguished fires making the early evening darker than normal.

Daisy called through the letterbox. ‘It’s me, Mrs Porter, Daisy Petrie. Could I have a quick word?’

The door opened a crack, just enough for an elderly face to peer out. ‘Oh, it is you, Daisy. I don’t like opening the door after five, not since Mr Fischer’s been gone.’ Reluctantly she opened the door wide enough for Daisy to be admitted.

‘Have you heard anything from Mr Fischer, Mrs Porter? I worry about him.’

Mrs Porter led her down a hallway where exotic climbing plants and even more exotic birds rioted happily across the wallpaper. This jungle stopped at the door to a small, scrupulously clean kitchen. ‘Was there anyone else out there?’

‘Why are you so nervous, Mrs Porter? Really, there’s no one there. People stuck in shelters are making their way home but no one came down this road.’

‘Good. A policeman, in uniform would you believe, came to my house in the middle of the day so that all my neighbours would see him. A policeman. There has never been a policeman on my doorstep, never. What must my neighbours think?’

Daisy looked at the old lady. ‘Oh, Mrs Porter, no one would think anything. He could have been looking for a cat or a dog.’

‘He wanted Mr Fischer’s ration book.’

She sat down at her kitchen table and ushered Daisy towards it, and there was an expression on her face that said, quite clearly, ‘And what do you think of that?’

‘I wonder why. They couldn’t be sending him back to Germany with his ration book.’

This time Mrs Porter’s expression said, ‘Why not?’ and Daisy answered it.

‘A British ration book wouldn’t do him any good in Germany.’

‘That’s true, Daisy. Oh, ever such a nice man, Mr Fischer, and that awful Megan Paterson in the charity shop on the High Street saying as how he was a spy. “No smoke without fire,” she said.’

Daisy now had two pieces of unwelcome news. Mr Fischer’s ration book had been taken and Mrs Porter, of the fastidiously clean home and the one refined gentleman lodger, was now patronising the local charity shop.

‘I’d best be off; Mum’ll be wondering.’ Her mind worked busily as they walked towards the front door, but Daisy said nothing until the elderly woman had turned off the hall light.

‘I was just thinking, Mrs Porter, seeing as how you was always such a popular landlady, if you had considered taking in a displaced person? There was a bit in the paper about Belgian refugees. Be a bit of company for you. You could take a nice family with kiddies an’ all.’

She had gone too far.

‘Kiddies? Sticky fingers on my surfaces. No, thank you, Daisy.’

Out again in the darkening evening, Daisy turned, not towards home but towards the police station. Her heart was in her mouth. What would her parents say if anyone should see Daisy Petrie walking into a police station? She thought for a moment, straightened her shoulders and walked in.

Less than twenty minutes later she walked out again, but now she was smiling.

Her father was out on his rounds checking that blackouts were secure, but she found her mother and sister in the kitchen listening to the wireless. They were laughing and that sounded so good.

‘Who is it tonight, Mum, Colonel Chinstrap?’

‘Where’ve you been, our Daisy? And no, we was laughing at Hattie Jacques. I can just picture ’er when I hear ’er voice, a large lady, they say, but with a lovely face.’

She fussed over Daisy, getting up to make sure that there was hot water for her to wash in and ‘a nice one-and-a-half-egg omelette when you’re in your pyjamas, Daisy. Alf Humble brought some stuff.’

‘Alf. What stuff?’

‘Oh, nothing,’ teased Flora casually, ‘just some tins of ham, and a joint of mutton.’

‘You’re forgetting the French wine, Mum,’ said Rose.

Daisy looked at them. Were they serious? French wine. ‘You sound like you’ve been drinking French wine, Rose Petrie.’

‘Go and get cleaned up, love. You’re exhausted. Your young flyer sent Alf a parcel for us because – seemingly – he’d put your letter away so careful, he couldn’t find it. He said thank you for the delicious sandwiches. Wasn’t that ever so nice, Daisy?’

But Daisy had hurried to wash. She had been exhausted. She had been hungry. But now she felt young and exhilarated. Fish paste sandwiches, delicious? Indeed.

‘Was there a note, Mum, with the parcel?’ she asked as she returned, clean and tidy in her cotton pyjamas and favourite pink dressing gown, to the kitchen.

She did not look at her mother as she asked but sat down as nonchalantly as she could beside her identically dressed sister.

‘There’s an envelope addressed to you, pet. The parcel was to me and your dad and the nicest note.’

‘And there
was
French wine, Daze, but Mum’s saving it for Christmas.’

But Daisy paid no attention as she read her note.

Dear Daisy,

We have been rather busy, you too, I suppose, but Tomas and I have been given twenty-four-hour passes. Since he seems to have no objection to sleeping in a stable he’s coming with me.
Ergo
, two qualified flying instructors at your service.

It has to be Tuesday morning, as early as possible. Nine o’clock? That would give us a clear three-hour stretch.

Do hope to see you.

Be safe,

Adair

She looked up into two pairs of interested eyes.

‘Rose, are you well enough to help out in the shop on Tuesday morning? I’ve got a flying lesson.’

Apart from saying that she was, at long last, to be given a flying lesson, Daisy said nothing else until her father got home. Then she was able to tell them about her visit to the police station.

‘The police station? Daisy Petrie, what did you want to do that for? What will people say?’

‘Mum, people were too busy rushing home after the raid to bother about who was going anywhere. Besides, we was told at school that if you needed help, ask a policeman.’

‘What help did you need, pet?’

Daisy smiled at her father. ‘I’d been to see Mrs Porter, just to ask if she’s heard from Mr Fischer. Sorry, Mum, but he’s ever such a nice man and I was worried.’

‘Had she heard?’ Rose was interested.

‘Not exactly, but she said a policeman from our station had come for Mr Fischer’s ration book. She was like you, Mum, so worried about what her neighbours would think.’

There was silence for a moment. Fred frowned. ‘So, obviously he’s somewhere where he’ll need his ration book.’ He looked at Daisy. ‘Go on, love, tell us exactly what they said.’

‘I asked to see the policeman in charge and the young policeman said that depended on who wanted him. I said Daisy Petrie. He didn’t say anything and we sort of looked at each other. I think we knew him, Rose, three years above us at school, hopeless footballer but good in long distance. Can’t think of his name.’

‘I don’t care what his name is, you two, what happened?’ Fred reached for the teacup Flora had filled and drank thirstily.

‘Nothing, really. He looked and I looked and then he said, “Wait here,” and went off. I waited and when he came back he said I was to come in and go to the second door down. I were a bit nervous but I thought, what can go wrong in a police station?’ She heard Flora’s intake of breath and rushed on. ‘And I was right, for an older man opened the door and said, “Come in, Miss Petrie, I’ve almost been expecting you.”’

‘No, never, expecting you?’ three voices echoed.

‘Yes. He didn’t tell me where Mr Fischer is but said he was vital, yes, vital, and he would come back to Dartford in due course. Those were his word, “in due course”.’ She blushed and went on. ‘He had told them that a Miss Petrie might just ask about him. Isn’t that nice, Mum? He knew we cared about him. What do you think he’s doing, Dad?’

Fred cut himself a thick slice of Flora’s home-baked wheat bread and spread it with a thin scraping of raspberry jelly. ‘Well, we always knew he was clever, educated, like. But if the police’s got him, then he’s working on our side, stands to reason.’

Daisy smiled. ‘Imagine, Mum, he knew I’d ask about him; that makes me feel ever so good, almost as good as Adair coming.’

Fred, who had been about to bite, put down his bread, ‘Adair coming? What’s all this, Daisy Petrie?’

And the exciting story had to be told all over again.

On Tuesday morning, wearing her new slacks and carrying Rose’s last year’s winter coat, Daisy cycled out to Old Manor Farm. The Aeronca was already at the top of the sweep, and Adair and another airman were standing beside it, looking not unlike a recruitment poster. Daisy dismounted and Adair introduced her. The Czech pilot shook hands with a small bow. A year before, she would have been keen to rush home to share that romantic gesture with her friends but she knew she would keep it to herself.

Wing Commander Tomas Sapenak was older than Adair. Daisy was surprised, having expected a younger man. Were not all the Bomber Command pilots frighteningly young?

He was tall and rather too thin, not the thinness that comes from healthy regular exercise. He hasn’t had enough good food growing up, thought Daisy, thinking of her three tall healthy brothers. Two brothers. The appalling realisation hit her again but she schooled her face to hide her thoughts as she smiled at the pilot.

She judged him to be at least thirty, or even older, but still worth smiling at. His hair, once black, was now speckled with silver and there were lines of sorrow or worry around his eyes, rather lovely eyes, in a most unusual shade of grey. He was, she decided judiciously, rather good-looking in a Jimmy Stewart sort of way.

‘We’d best get busy, Daisy.’ Adair was keen to get on. ‘Glad to see you have some warm togs with you, but Tomas found you a flying jacket. First flight – and we have to be really sparing with fuel – will be you and me. Watch everything I do, memorise it – I’ll tell you exactly what I’m doing – and then, Miss Daisy Petrie, you will take her up with Tomas, the best in the business, sitting behind you. You won’t let her fall out when you teach her how to dip the wings, will you, Tomas?’

‘I try not to, Adair, but she is very small. Maybe she slip right past me.’

Surely they had to be joking, but their faces were so serious. Pretend they’re Sam and Phil, Daisy thought. Boys, just overgrown boys.

‘I’m ready. What do I do first?’

‘Usually we have ground crew to pull the chocks away – that’s what we call the blocks that stop the plane moving of her own volition. Here it’s usually Alf or, today, Tomas. He’s multi-talented and, besides, since he became a wing commander, he has got rather a bit above himself.
Ergo
manual labour; he’ll spin the propellers too.’

Ergo
? It was that word again. What did it mean? She could not ask. A picture of Mr Fischer reading the newspaper in the shop flashed before her. She could have asked him. She would, one day, ask him.

She pulled a second polo-necked jumper over her head, put on the genuine flying jacket and goggles, and climbed aboard and into the seat behind Adair so that she could watch his every move.

Adair was impatient, aware of the passage of time. ‘This button starts her up – after the ground crew have turned the propeller,’ he said. ‘Then it’s really not much different from driving your father’s van.’