Churchill's Angels Part 18

Daisy lifted her hand as if in acceptance and took her letters outside. She opened Grace's first, and yes, there at the top was the address of a farm in a place called East Lothian. She had not received Daisy's letter but mentioned her sister's death.

I can't say I miss Megan she never wanted me and I've no idea why she even took me in but I would never have wanted her to die. I've come to terms with it. Your mum and dad and Sally's have been more real family than whatever family I had. Don't worry about me. I really enjoy the WLA and have met nice people although I will never forget my first friends.

Keep in touch, Daisy, and if you hear from Sam, say h.e.l.lo from me.

Grace The second letter, from Charlie, was an invitation for Daisy to join her and her father for the Tuesday and Wednesday of the following week. Her father had tickets for a play and if there's isn't an air raid we should have a lovely time. Daddy always has supper at the Savoy after the theatre and the food is good.

If you can relieve my boredom, dear Daisy, send me the arrival time of your train and I'll meet you.

'I can't accept,' she announced after she had told her parents of the invitation.

'Whyever not? It'll be ever so nice to go to a real theatre and then supper at the Savoy. Sounds like something out of a film, Daisy, and look at what you'll have to talk about when you see Sally.'

'But, Mum, theatre tickets and supper at the Savoy. That's a really posh place.'

'We know that. And if you're worrying about repaying your friend, she's welcome to have her tea here any time she's in Dartford. Come to think of it, Fred, with the boys never here no more, we could put the girls in there and use their little room for visitors.'

'Good idea, Flora. See, Daisy, your friend could spend the night too. Not a problem. Wish we'd thought about that when Phil was here. He could have helped move the beds.'

'Don't shift beds, Dad, there's no time left this leave. Maybe I could ask Charlie next time.'

Daisy was slightly ill at ease and she could feel her mother looking at her. Finally Flora spoke. 'If you was worried we're not good enough for your friend, Daisy, then I'd think careful about what kind of friends you want.'

'Charlie's not like that, Mum, she's really great. You'd like her. She's nice. I wish there was a better word than nice but that's all I can think of.'

'Well, your dad and me will look forward to meeting her. But Dad says you heard from Grace.'

The awkward moment was over but had left Daisy feeling thoroughly ashamed of herself. She was the problem, not Charlie.

Next morning Miss Partridge came into the shop. She carried a parcel, which she put down on the polished counter. 'Daisy, dear, I met your father going about his duties last night and he told me you are off to the theatre in London. An interesting play?'

'I hope so, Miss Partridge. My friend's father is a big fan of Miss Christie, but really I'm just excited to be going to London.'

'And the Savoy. Such a lovely hotel. Would you believe that a long time ago a young man proposed to me in the Savoy?'

Daisy and Rose had made up stories about Miss Partridge, and several of the other elderly single ladies who came into the shop, but supper at the Savoy had not been part of the story. 'I wouldn't doubt it at all, Miss Partridge. But-'

'Not a tragic story, Daisy, dear. He had also proposed to another young lady, keeping his options open, as it were, and when he came back from Europe, he chose her. Happened all over Europe, I suppose. Water under the bridge. When your dear father was telling me last night I had a thought.' She slid the parcel in Daisy's direction. 'I hope this isn't offensive, Daisy, but I thought perhaps you might want to buy or make a new frock and, as it happens, I kept a few of my special dresses. It would be lovely if they could be useful to a young woman in this war. Terribly old-fashioned but the materials are beautiful.'

'Oh, Miss Partridge, how very kind of you. Thank you.'

'I was going to give them to charity but I just couldn't bring myself to give anything to that rather awful Miss Paterson, nothing charitable about her or me, I suppose. I'll leave them with you and if they're of no use, perhaps you'd give them to the new girl who's working there. I'll be back to do my hours this afternoon if Flora wants to go shopping.' She turned towards the door.

'Let me just open them ...'

'I said goodbye to them last night, dear. Back at two.'

Daisy stood for a moment and then opened the parcel, carefully saving the paper. Inside lay a confection of silver material and shiny black beads. A narrow silver and black sash was folded up under it, and below that lay a peach-coloured froth of a material she had never seen before except in films. She held up the silver and black c.o.c.ktail dress and gazed at it in awe.

A flapper. Imagine, little Miss Partridge a flapper. She must have looked fabulous.

Both dresses were exquisitely made and both very much out of fashion.

'Cuppa, Daisy? Oh, what's that, pet? Absolutely gorgeous.' Flora with a steaming mug of tea in each hand had pushed the door open with her bottom and was standing looking at the shimmering heap of fabric.

Daisy took the tea and explained as her mother examined the two dresses.

'My wedding dress weren't near as lovely as these, Daisy. They're a bit much for the theatre, don't you think, but the silver and black one with the beads would be lovely for dinner, maybe with a little jacket. Or wait, this sash would really dress up a plain black frock, turn it into one that could be worn all evening.'

'The top of the frock's too 1920s, Mum, all those beads. I'd look silly.'

They stood solemnly, drinking their tea and looking at the dresses.

'Mrs Roban,' said Flora suddenly.

'Who's Mrs Roban?'

'A refugee. Came to church last week and the Reverend says as she's looking for work. Seems she worked in Brussels with a ... oh, what's the word, a person that makes expensive clothes? Begins with C.'

'No idea, Mum, but if she's a dressmaker, maybe she could do something with this. I never had a frock made for me before.'

When Miss Partridge arrived to do her twice-weekly two hours in the shop, Flora thanked her and told her of the plan. Miss Partridge was thrilled. 'Oh, now we are helping two people. Reverend Tiverton is sponsoring Mrs Roban and her family her husband has disappeared, unfortunately but I wish I'd thought of her, Daisy. She was trained by a well-known couturier. I would hurry over before she becomes too busy.'

Daisy and her mother left Miss Partridge quite happily in charge of the shop and walked along to Overy Street and across the bridge to the little house that had been found for the Roban family.

It was almost two hours later before they walked back again, both bursting with feminine delight at the frivolous afternoon they'd had, devoted entirely to talking about clothes.

This was much more exciting than the last time she had come up to London. The train was just as full but this time her only fear was that she would make a fool of herself in front of Charlie's father, and not that she would not be found good enough to join the WAAF. The platforms were crowded, lines of children tagged like Christmas parcels, distraught families, military personnel looking for their girls, girls looking for the only one in the crowds in uniform that they wanted to see. And there, sailing through them, and wearing heavens, was it really a fur coat came Charlotte Featherstone. The crowds, especially the men, parted for her as the Red Sea is said to have parted for Moses, and then she was at the window. 'Daisy, how wonderful. So lovely to see you. Come along, the car's just outside.'

Daisy stepped down, case in one hand, handbag in the other, and followed in her wake.

A car was waiting for them outside the station, a very large car with a man, a uniformed chauffeur, standing beside the rear doors. Daisy waited for Charlie to say, 'Home, James,' which is what ladies who had chauffeurs said in all the films she had ever seen, but Charlie said nothing except 'Thank you' when 'James' opened the door for her. She slid across the soft leather seat and Daisy, who had been relieved of her small suitcase by the chauffeur, slid in beside her.

'Poor old London's had a bit of a bashing, even since we went to Wilmslow, Daisy. Makes me sad and rather angry, but I suppose our boys are pounding chunks out of the enemy too.'

Daisy said nothing, and not because she was giving herself up to the unexpected luxury but because she could not seem to see 'the enemy'. Absolutely easy to hate Hitler, his acolytes, and his actions, but was not Germany inhabited by decent people like Mr Fischer, for instance who would rather be living a normal life?

'Don't think about it, Daisy,' Charlie said, just as she and Daisy were propelled forward onto the floor, where they stayed listening to the wild screeching and squealing of brakes and gears until the car stopped.

'You all right, miss? That hole weren't there when I come down here last night and I didn't see it for the smoke an' haze.'

'We're fine, Charlie,' said Charlie, after a nod from Daisy.

They got out and looked at the great crack on the road's surface. Three roadmen had been working in and around the hole.

'G.o.d in Heaven. How awful if we'd hit them,' breathed Charlie. 'Are you men all right?'

'Fine, miss, we ducked. We're closing the road. It shoulda been done but we're going in too many directions at the same time.'

'Come on, Ebenezer,' said Charlie. 'You need a good strong cup of tea.'

'I thought you called him Charlie.' They were relaxing as the lovely motorcar moved more smoothly along.

'It's his name, but when I decided I wanted to be Charlie and don't laugh, I was very small Daddy said he never knew who was going to answer him when he shouted. I call him almost anything except Charlie usually.'

A few minutes later they were at Charlie's London home, a very lovely white building on a wide street of similar buildings. Daisy was relieved when Charlie opened the door herself and ushered Daisy inside. The chauffeur had disappeared down some steps, taking Daisy's little case with him.

'Let's go in here and I'll ring for tea before I show you your room. That chair's comfy.'

Daisy was almost afraid to sit in the chair, which seemed to be made of a fine, almost golden wood, and was upholstered in a striped red and gold material. A beautiful dolphin was carved where each arm joined the legs.

'Sit down, Daisy. That takes my father and he's a lot heavier than you. Tea will be here immediately unless you'd like something stronger.' Charlie flopped down in a more modern armchair. 'Welcome to Belgravia.'

They chatted happily over tea and delicious scones, with cream and raspberry jam, and Daisy began to relax as Charlie chattered on. Voices, she felt, were so important. She could listen to Charlie all day, or to ... No, she would not think of Adair Maxwell.

TWELVE.

Charlie's father was involved in meetings and so the girls had dinner together in what Charlie called 'the breakfast room'.

'You look absolutely lovely, Daisy. That dress is a stunner. Could I be very rude and ask you where you got it? It has couturier written all over it.'

Over the delicious, if fairly simple meal, Daisy told her all about Miss Partridge and Mrs Roban. 'There was a sash of sorts, Charlie, possibly worn around the neck like a necklace instead of the long strings of pearls flappers wore, but clever Mrs Roban remade the top and turned it into shoulders and these little sleeves. Is it really up to date, Charlie?'

'Absolutely, and Mummy and I will want to have Mrs Roban's address. She'll do really well, Daisy.'

'She advertised for any kind of sewing the day after they arrived put a notice in the post office window. She's so grateful to be safe in England and wants to earn her keep for herself and her children. Don't think there's much chance of finding her husband alive.'

Charlie jumped up. 'No gloom this evening. Go powder your nose; we're meeting Daddy in less than twenty minutes ...'

Six hours later an exhilarated Daisy slipped off her lovely frock in the bedroom that would be the first one that she had ever slept in all alone. The privacy was just another joyful experience. She prepared for bed in her own private bathroom and then climbed into the very feminine bed. She was sure she would never sleep as memories crowded in one after the other: the chauffeur-driven car, the beautiful house, meeting Charlie's father, who was not at all frightening but as much fun as his daughter, the London theatre, her first visit to a professional theatre and then, as if she had not experienced enough, supper in the elegant and crowded Savoy. What a tale she would have to tell her parents and write to her brothers.

Deciding to write to Sam and Phil was her last coherent thought. The next thing she knew was when an ap.r.o.ned maid brought in a pot of tea with soldiers of hot b.u.t.tered toast.

That evening she arrived back in Dartford just as the air-raid sirens went and, like many others, was forced to take refuge in an overcrowed shelter. She stood pressed up against other people, one of whom smelled rather unpleasantly, and tried to think of nothing but the perfect time she had enjoyed. But her mind would not obey her. Where was her father, who had been coming to meet her? Surely he had found a shelter. Were her mother and sister safe in the refuge room?

The noise was deafening and it went on and on. Some soldiers tried to start a singsong. 'Come on, ladies and gents, a few choruses of 'Roll out the Barrel'.' After a half-hearted attempt at that old song, they tried 'Pack Up Your Troubles in Your Old Kit Bag' and Daisy sang along as l.u.s.tily as she could. She was a WAAF; it was her duty and privilege to help, in any way, to win this war. That thought kept her going through the drone of the planes, the booms from bombs and whatever else exploding, and even the sound of their own ack-ack guns firing at the enemy.

The rather hoa.r.s.e leader had just begun the fifth repeat of a rather tired 'The Lambeth Walk' when the all clear sounded, and the exhausted crowd, too tired and worried to do anything but creep, made their slow way out into the street to a disaster scene. Fires were blazing everywhere, especially on the other side of Mill Pond Road where many of the chemical and munitions factories were situated.

Daisy, aware that her father must be out there in that mayhem, had no clear idea what to do for the best. Should she stand still and wait, in the hope that he was safe and would come to the shelter nearest the station or should she begin to walk home? Flames lit up this part of town, but once she was beyond the fires, down Hythe Street and as far perhaps as Home Gardens and so well on her way to High Street, it was unlikely that there would be much visibility. Was the sky dark? She could not see because a huge ma.s.s of smoke and fire lay between her and any stars that might have dared to shine. Torches, with their lights dimmed, were allowed during blackouts but she had not thought beyond seeing her father at the barrier. She stood for a moment, getting her bearings.

'Come on, our Daisy.' Her father, covered in smoke and soot, almost hobbled towards her. 'Firemen need us. You remember how to use a stirrup pump?'

There was no time to hug, to express their joy that each was alive; that would come later. For now they were fire wardens who knew how to kill incendiaries, how to recognise an unexploded bomb, and how to put out smaller fires.

'The van's copped it, Daisy, love. We'll have to walk home,' said Fred some hours later, and that was when Daisy realised that she had lost her little suitcase, but, much more importantly, her beautiful dress.

Once in a lifetime, she thought. She said nothing. What was the point? She had no idea where to begin looking and it was almost morning.

'It's only a dress,' she mumbled, 'and not a life.'

'What's that, love?'

'Saying I'd kill for a cuppa, Dad.'

'Me an' all, love.'

Daisy had by now relaxed into her pre-WAAF self and so, towards the end of her leave, she was sitting in the kitchen enjoying a cup of tea with her mother when Mr Churchill broadcast on the radio. Daisy was thrilled. Usually she read reports of his stirring speeches or heard a recording weeks after the broadcast, but here the great man was speaking, as it were, directly to her. He spoke of his belief that Hitler a.s.sumed that Britain would cave in after the fall of France. Britain, of course, did not. He wanted the nation to realise that Hitler would certainly be preparing and planning even more horrific attacks on Great Britain but he emphasised his faith in the resilience of the British. Daisy felt herself grow stronger as she listened to the speech. He quoted from a letter sent to him by the President of the United States, Mr Roosevelt. The President had used a poem by Longfellow to tell Mr Churchill what the world thought of Britain. The world, he said, was 'hanging breathless' as it waited to learn Britain's fate. And then the genius that was the Prime Minister had answered the worries. If America supplies us with the tools we need, said Mr Churchill, 'we will finish the job.'

'And we will, Mum, we will.'

Flora looked down at her cold tea. 'That were so stirring, Daisy, I never touched my tea. Let's have a nice cup of Oxo instead.'

Dear Mum, thought Daisy. Trying so hard to bury her fears, to steer life back to the ordinary and everyday. But Daisy knew the veneer of cheerfulness was wafer thin.

Two weeks into her training at her new air base, Daisy was summoned to the squadron leader's office. She was terrified. She was, she knew, working very hard and learning a great deal. The skilled mechanic who was supervising her was pleased, or so he said, with her progress. So this summons could not be about work. It had to be her family. Who? Phil, Rose? Sam? Had something even more horrifying than prison camp happened to Sam?

Outside the door she straightened her cap, her tie and her shoulders, then knocked.

'Come in.'

Tentatively, Daisy opened the door. 'You sent for me, sir.'

But it was Wing Commander Anstruther who was in the office, not sitting at the desk but standing at the window staring out, as far as she could see, at nothing. He turned and walked over to the desk. 'Sit down, Miss Petrie.'

Oh G.o.d, it was bad news, but why him?

She sat down as correctly as she could on the wooden chair by the desk.

'I'm afraid I have some very bad news for you. A few weeks ago, you were staying with your friend Charlotte in London.' He waited.

'Yes, sir.'

'I regret very much having to tell you that the house received a direct hit on the night you left and the occupants were killed. Sir Charles Featherstone, his daughter, Charlotte, and two members of staff: the housekeeper and the chauffeur. The maid, Poppy Smith, was seriously injured and, I'm sorry, but when she recovered consciousness, she was quite sure that "Miss Charlotte's friend" was also in the house.'

Daisy started up. 'No, oh, no, please.' Seeing the understanding look on his face she sank back into the chair. He, too, was suffering. If he had not known Charlie well and she knew she would never know whether or not that was the case he was certainly a friend of her parents.

'I'm sorry, but she was so sure of it that Lady Featherstone insisted that they spend time looking for you. Needless to say we are all very happy that you had already left.' He stood up and lifted a small parcel from the desk. 'Lady Featherstone asked me to give you this. She says Charlie would have wanted you to have them.'

He handed her the parcel. 'Will you be all right?'