Daisy's Wars (42 page)

The day before Daisy was due to fly out she was reading a newspaper when her eye was caught by a single paragraph down in the corner. She almost dropped the paper on the floor. The RAF Air
Historical Branch was appealing for friends or relatives of two gunners who had served on a Lancaster Bomber in the war. The plane had been shot down over Normandy on the way back from a raid on
Italy in August 1943, and had recently been recovered during road-works. The remains of several of the crew had been identified, among them the skipper, Flying Officer Calum R MacDonald of the RCAF
–
Calli
! – and Flt Engineer Graeme Shaw, also of the RCAF –
Bruiser
! She had just been thinking back on those years, so the appearance of that tiny piece of
newspaper almost made her collapse.

The boys had been found after all these years and would be buried in Normandy where they had died. Once she had gathered her thoughts she wondered what to do. Should she cancel her trip to
Australia and go to Normandy instead? Did she have any right to go there? What would the boys’ relatives think and what was she to say to them? And she wondered if Eileen knew, and, if she
did, how she was coping. Daisy had just lost Peter, and for Eileen this news must feel like losing Calli all over again.

In a strange way she still thought of them as she had last seen them. What was it that poem from World War One had said? ‘
They shall not grow old
,’ and it was true. She
imagined going to Normandy and meeting them again, all of them as they were, jumping about and teasing each other, and saying, ‘Daisy, how come you’re so old?’

Eileen’s lovely boy with the dark, serious eyes. Calli. She had kissed him on the cheek before they left on that last mission because he said he was spooked, and he looked it. And Bruiser
had leaped to his feet in his usual mad way, proclaiming that he was the most spooked of all, so where was his kiss? She could still hear their voices in her head, see the two replacement gunners
watching them rolling about the NAAFI floor, wrestling over Bruiser’s missed kiss. The two new gunners had just arrived, she remembered them standing back and laughing, feeling not enough
part of the crew yet to join in. They never did reach that stage, she thought, they died a matter of hours later, and, though she never got to know them, she still had a snapshot of their faces,
their young, young faces, in her mind.

She should have given Bruiser his kiss, but to have relented then would have spooked Calli more because it would have been so out of the ordinary. Although the kiss she had given him was, too,
wasn’t it? Bruiser would look at her with those big, soft eyes and that silly smile, and he always blew her a kiss. It had been one of Peter’s habits, too.

It was too much, she thought, crying again, after going through losing and burying Peter she couldn’t watch the boys being buried, too, even after all this time. She would send flowers,
she decided, and now she would definitely find Eileen when she came home.

On the flight to Australia, Daisy slept a lot of the time, and being able to afford to fly First Class helped considerably. She told the stewardesses she was taking a sleeping
pill and not to wake her, then wondered if they might think she was about to commit a very expensive suicide.

Every time she closed her eyes she found a jumble of images waiting for her in her dreams, with Peter and Frank, Calli and Bruiser, and all the shot-up, crashed planes she had ever encountered,
and the voices of the pilots crystal-clear, asking for permission to land or to die. On the few occasions when she woke during the long journey, she wondered if she had made the right decision.
Perhaps she should have gone to Normandy; after all, Brisbane would still be there another day. Then she thought again about the reason for the gathering in France and knew she couldn’t have
handled it at the moment.

Brisbane was hot, too hot really, though it was famed for its balmy climate and it was the end of summer there. Edith was used to it, she even spoke with an Australian accent,
and she and Doug had four huge, sun-bronzed men they claimed were their sons, and a whole host of grandchildren. It was good to be with a family again, and they were a friendly lot, demanding to
know if it was true their mother had run the entire RAF throughout the war, as she claimed, or had she made the whole thing up? Though they were teasing Edith they were more impressed than they had
expected when Daisy told them some of the old stories.

Even though everyone was welcoming, Daisy felt odd being on her own and only stayed for a full month so as not to offend Edith. She longed to be at home in Oxford, though, where the summers were
kinder and cooler than Brisbane winters, and she was glad when a respectable four weeks had passed and she could make plans for her return.

She was packing one day, ready for the off, the TV playing in the background, and though she was only half-listening she heard something about World War Two. Like all of those who took part in
the war, to Daisy those years were the most intense and productive of her life. It was something to do with the close relationships and the kind of responsibilities they knew they would never have
again, a feeling that they were doing something of supreme importance and the lives of others depended on them. So, hearing the commentator talking about those days, she shouted to Edith who was
baking in the kitchen, stopped packing and sat on the arm of a chair to listen and watch.

Films of D-Day were being replayed. Would anyone of her generation ever forget those pictures of young boys with anxious expressions jumping from landing craft into the water, with those French
houses in the background? The boys fighting ashore or dying in the water and on the beaches were, the commentator said, supported by ‘
planes from all over the world, including the only
all-Australian Spitfire Squadron based in the UK
’, and Daisy’s heart was in her mouth.
‘They were stationed in the remote Orkney and Shetland Islands to the far north of
Scotland,’
he was saying, as she desperately examined the faces on screen for the one she knew.

They were all so impossibly young, you knew that at the time, but looking back at them now brought a lump to the throat, especially when you had a son of a similar age. ‘
One pilot, who
had previously survived the Battle of Britain, and also lasted almost to the end of Operation Overlord before being shot down and badly burned, was Queensland man, Frank Moran, from Dalby in the
Darling Downs
,’ said the commentator. Daisy watched the old film footage on the screen, hardly able to breathe, then a voice came over the images, before the camera picked up the owner of
the voice.

It was Frank. He was much older and the scarring from the burns had rendered him only barely recognisable as the boy he once was. As if to reassure the viewer that it was him, a picture was
shown of him as he was before he was shot down.

But it couldn’t be him: Frank had died in 1944, she knew that.

Daisy’s heart was beating in an odd way. She couldn’t focus her eyes properly, and, simultaneously, the words coming from the TV seemed to be echoing in a cave. Then her legs fell
away from her body and she was on the floor, with Edith’s voice coming from a long way off, telling her it was just the heat, she wasn’t used to it and not to worry, everything was
OK.

But it wasn’t OK. She’d just seen a man who had died thirty-one years ago, and he was talking on TV in the present day. And not just any man, but Frank.
Frank!
She got up and
sat on the chair.

‘Did you see him?’ she asked Edith.

‘Who? Oh, the Spit pilot? Yes, I saw him. What terrible burns, but then the Spit guys always got the worst burns, didn’t they?’

‘But did you see Frank?’ Daisy asked desperately, then remembered that Edith had never met him.

‘Was that his name?’ Edith asked, applying an ice-cold compress to the back of Daisy’s neck. ‘I didn’t hear that. Look, I think you ought to lie down.’

‘But it was Frank,’ she kept murmuring, ‘and Frank’s dead, but he was alive.’

‘I take it you knew him?’ Edith asked, and Daisy nodded.

‘It was Frank,’ she repeated, allowing herself to be led to her room to lie down.

So what was she supposed to do now? she wondered, lying in the blessedly air-conditioned room. Within a few months she had buried Peter, then heard that Calli, Bruiser and the others had been
found in their Lanc, over thirty years after they had died, and were about to be buried in Normandy. And here she was in Australia, watching a man she was sure was dead talking on TV. Was there
some sort of etiquette that covered these situations?

She lay in the bedroom for a long time, she had no idea how long, and when Edith popped her head round the door to check on her, she asked, ‘Where are the Darling Downs? Are they
far?’

‘Do you want to go there?’ Edith asked. ‘I don’t know why I didn’t think of it before, it’s where everyone in this area goes to escape the heat. It’s
the very place for you.’

‘So it’s near?’

‘A couple of hours away, maybe. It’s an agricultural area.’

Daisy nodded. ‘Yes, I know,’ she said quietly.

‘Been reading up on it, have you?’

‘Yes, something like that.’

‘It’s that pilot, isn’t it?’ Edith asked quietly. ‘The one on the TV?’

‘Yes,’ Daisy smiled. ‘That’s where he lives, or did. But even if he’s not there any longer, someone there must know where he is.’

‘We could try the phone book.’

Daisy shook her head. ‘I want to go there.’

‘Do you want me to go with you?’ Edith asked, perplexed by how serious and determined Daisy sounded.

‘No,’ she laughed, ‘just point me in the right direction.’

Edith sat on the bed beside her. ‘I’ll drive you there, Daisy,’ she said. ‘If we find this, er, Frank?’

Daisy nodded.

‘If we find him there I’ll drop you off and come back for you. Don’t argue, you don’t know the way or the area, I’ll drive you there.’

Dalby looked like anyone’s idea of a farming town, the kind of place that moved slowly, and everyone seemed to know everyone else. Daisy and Edith stopped at what looked
like a general store and Daisy got out of the car and bought some soft drinks that were, thankfully, ice-cold. The man behind the counter, about her own age, fair hair going grey, blue eyes, stocky
build, was friendly, wanted to know where she came from and how she was enjoying her stay.

She said she was looking for Frank Moran and the man became slightly more suspicious.

‘You’re not one of those damned reporters or TV people, are you?’ he asked.

‘No, I’m not,’ Daisy replied, opening a bottle of juice and drinking it.

‘It’s just that we’ve had quite a few of them here since Frank did that TV thing a while back. Can’t think why he did it, he was always a bit shy after he came back, with
the scars and that, didn’t like people staring at him. Then he goes and does that TV thing, never did understand that.’ He shook his head. ‘Now it’s been repeated and
it’ll all start up again,’ he said peevishly.

‘But they must spend money when they come here, so what’s the problem?’

‘No problem, really, I don’t suppose,’ he said grudgingly. ‘Just don’t like them taking their photos and making him look like a freak.’ He looked at her,
still not sure about her.

‘I was a WAAF during the war,’ she explained. ‘I worked in the tower at an RAF station. I knew Frank then. I thought he’d died when he was shot down, but I saw him on TV
and realised he was alive. Couldn’t believe it, it was quite a shock.’

‘Nearly was dead,’ the shopkeeper said. ‘Even after he came home it was a long time before he looked like he might live. Broke his mother’s heart. I remember him from
when we were kids, he was always so good-looking. I almost cried myself when. I saw what they’d done to him. I was in the army, came through without a scratch. But he got married, a local
girl, had kids. He’s widowed now, still living on the farm, but his son works it now.’

‘Is there somewhere I can call him from?’ Daisy asked, opening the other bottle. ‘I don’t want to just walk in on him after all these years.’

The man nodded to a phone. ‘I’ll give you his number. Tell him you’re at Isaac’s.’ He put out a hand. ‘I’m his cousin.’

She smiled; they’d crossed some sort of barrier. ‘Thanks, Isaac.’

The phone was answered after what seemed like hours. ‘Can I speak to Frank?’ she asked.

‘This is Frank,’ the voice replied, but she didn’t recognise it.

She turned to Isaac. ‘This doesn’t sound like him!’ she whispered.

He smiled as he took the receiver from her. ‘Hi, Frank, it’s Isaac. Got a lady here looking for the old man, not you. Yeah,’ he chuckled, ‘that’s right, an old
flame, but this one’s from England.’

Daisy glared at Isaac as he returned the receiver, then she heard a voice. ‘Hello?’

‘Frank?’ she asked.

There was a long silence. ‘Frank?’ she said again. ‘Frank, it’s—’

‘I know who it is,’ he said quietly. ‘How are you, Daisy?’

‘I’m fine, Frank,’ she replied. ‘How did you guess who it was?’

‘Remembered the voice,’ he said, and she pictured him smiling, not as he was now, but as he had been.

Her mouth was dry. She motioned to Isaac for another drink. ‘Would you believe I was just passing and—’

Frank laughed. ‘—thought you’d stop off for a chat with an old friend?’ he asked.

When she put down the receiver she stood with a hand over her mouth, trying to compose herself. Isaac handed her a drink.

‘Did you know him well, then?’ he asked, grinning.

‘Any more of your cheek,’ she told him, ‘and I’ll pull out my secret camera and take a snap of you!’

Edith dropped her off at the farm on the way out of town and arranged to call when she was on her way back.

‘I feel terrible having you hang around like this,’ Daisy said.

‘Well don’t. I’ve never been able to look around here without a pile of kids screaming and fighting. Enjoy yourself, and,’ she said firmly, ‘I’ll expect a
full explanation later.’

He had been standing just inside the porch and came out on to the grass to meet her when the car pulled away, arms outstretched to hold her hand in both of his. She didn’t even notice that
they were badly scarred; she was looking at his face, trying to find the man she remembered. The scarring was on the lower half of his face so the smile she remembered wasn’t there any more.
She imagined his chest was badly affected too, but from the nose upwards she saw him again. It was Frank.