Churchill's Angels Part 2

'Young Adair's mother was a relative of 'is lordship. Died very young; the father went back to America. Adair came 'ere in his holidays and now the house is closed he stays in the attic above the old stables.'

A picture of her three brothers came into Daisy's head. 'Is there a kitchen up there, Alf? My brothers would starve to death if they had to look after themselves.'

'He does sometimes come for a meal in our kitchen. Nancy'd have him move in but the lad's proud, has a little Primus stove, and now he's in the air force he's hardly ever here.'

'What does he do in the air force, Alf? There's a war on but nothing happens, if you know what I mean.'

'I suppose they practise, and he teaches them as wants to fly.'

'But he's only a lad, same age as our Ron, by the look of him.'

'Seems he's been flying for years. Lads are joining up, he tells us, wanting to fly, and some of 'em han't never seen a plane outside a picture house.'

'Just as well nothing's happening then,' said Daisy as she refused the offer of some tea and, picking up the capon, and Nancy's creamy-gold pat of newly churned b.u.t.ter, got back into the van to finish her deliveries.

Only the Petrie twins were at home for Christmas, but still the family tried to behave as normal and all preparations went ahead as they had done for as many years as Daisy could remember. Because Christmas Day was on Monday they were delighted to have two days' holiday, as the shop was never open on a Sunday. The family members who were not on active service relaxed in their front room, the little Christmas tree twinkling in the window. Flora insisted that the tree be placed there every year.

'Lots of folk who don't have a home, never mind a tree, pa.s.s our place,' she said. 'This way we can share a bit of Christmas spirit, and isn't that needed more than ever in these awful times?'

Presents had been opened and exclaimed over, and Flora was summoning up the energy to get up out of her nice comfortable chair to put the capon in the oven. With roast potatoes and fresh Brussels sprouts from Grace's garden, followed by Christmas pudding and custard, Christmas dinner would be a feast fit for a king.

'Come on, Mum, I'll give you a hand,' said Daisy, just as they heard the front doorbell. She was nearest and so she pulled herself up and went to answer it.

'Have you seen Grace? Sorry, everyone. Merry Christmas,' said Sally as she spilled into the room. She was wearing the costume bought for her by her friends, but it was obvious that she had not come to have them admire it or the smart red hat, perched on the back of her curls, which her parents had given her for Christmas. 'Sorry again, but she's never this late and there's no one at their house.'

Sally looked as if she was about to burst into tears. Grace had spent Christmas Day with Sally's family almost every year since she had arrived in Dartford as a timid seven-year-old. Megan Paterson had very unwillingly taken in the little girl but, apart from providing a bed for Grace to sleep in, had done little to make Grace feel welcome. Megan, manageress of a charity shop on the High Street, lived her own life. The presence of her half-sister was obviously an inconvenience and not a pleasure.

'Where else could she be, Sally? Can't think of any other close chums.'

Sally shook her head. 'You know Grace; she's not a talker. I don't think I've even heard the names of anyone she works with. Dad and I went to the shop in case Megan had got a delivery she wanted unpacked and sorted, but it's definitely closed and empty.'

She waited but no one spoke and so Sally carried on. 'She's been funny since my party but I thought she'd forgotten all about that silly teasing. Mum took her to the pictures one night last week and they spoke about Christmas dinner as usual. Today we can't find her anywhere.'

'Maybe her sister-' began Flora.

'Oh, please, Mrs Petrie. We're all old enough to know exactly what her sister is. Grace won't be with her. Dad went round the house; it's empty. We hoped she'd be here. Maybe she's gone to somebody at her work but why didn't she tell Mum?'

'No idea. I don't think Grace'd do a thing like that. We'll just have to go looking,' said Daisy decisively. 'Probably she went for a walk, and lost track of time and distance.' She looked at her mother.

'Dinner'll keep, pet. Go and find your friend. After all, we're planning to eat her Brussels sprouts.'

Rose followed Daisy into the hallway where they picked up their woollen coats, and rammed the new berets that Flora had knitted for Christmas onto their heads. 'Sorry, Mum, you and Dad start without us.'

When the door had closed behind them, Flora and Fred sat down by the fire. They had no option but to celebrate Christmas without their sons. 'I'll be d.a.m.ned if I touch a mouthful without my girls,' said Fred.

Flora nodded and picked up her knitting.

The scarf she was making for Daisy was well under way by the time the girls returned.

'Sorry,' the twins said together. 'We found her, would you believe, in that awful Anderson shelter; pa.s.sed it twice, never thought to look in. She's all right, Mum. As usual says nothing, but maybe she had a row with Megan. We talked her round and Mrs Brewer had the dinner keeping nice and hot.' She looked suggestively towards the kitchen.

'You had five more minutes, girls. Your dad wouldn't start without you. Come on, it'll be grand, and wait till you see what your dad 'as brought up from the shop.'

Neither girl had much experience of alcohol and each was thrilled to be given a gla.s.s of sherry.

'Spanish,' said Fred. 'Best kind there is. Don't neither of you let anyone give you sherry from anyplace else.'

Was the meal perfect or did the excitement of drinking sherry help cast a golden glow over it? No one appeared to notice that the capon was a little dry or that the sprouts had been cooked a little too long.

Daisy looked at the firelight shining in the liquid in her gla.s.s and found herself thinking of the pilot. Was he drinking real Spanish sherry with his Christmas meal? He had to be. Surely sherry was the height of sophistication.

TWO.

8 January 1940 The alarm clock woke Daisy. She groaned, as usual, burrowed even further under the counterpane, as usual, and then, remembering her promise, threw back her covers and jumped out of bed. It was cold, so cold that, completely forgetting her sleeping sister, she did a little war dance right there on the strip of carpet between the beds. A quick look proved once again that Rose Petrie could sleep through anything.

Daisy slipped past her bed to the window and pulled the curtain back sufficiently to let her see out. 'Crikey.' She could see nothing but beautiful paintings by one Mr Jack Frost on the window-pane. Daisy breathed on the gla.s.s and rubbed it with the sleeve of her nightgown until she had a peephole.

Outside lay a frozen world. The year had blasted in accompanied by snow storms that seemed determined to maintain their icy grip. The snow that had fallen over the weekend and been churned into muddy heaps by the traffic was now frozen solid. Daisy grabbed her clothes, washed her face and such parts of her neck as she thought might be seen, dressed and slipped out. She looked towards the kitchen door. No time to boil the kettle for some scalding tea. She crept down the stairs, pulled on her heavy outdoor coat and the cheery hat and now-finished scarf that her mother had knitted for Christmas, grabbed her hated gas mask there weren't going to be gas attacks; there was no sign of any attacks and hurried out.

Her breath seemed to freeze in her throat and, for a second or two, she panicked. It was cold, colder than she had ever known. Then she pulled herself together and began to stumble over the frozen sculptures to a stretch of fairly clear road.

Slithering and sliding, Daisy battled on to the little cottage where Grace lived with her half-sister. Grace opened the door and ushered her in. It was obvious that she had been crying.

'What's up, Grace? Ever so sorry I'm late; road's treacherous.'

Grace shook her head. 'Doesn't matter. They're all ruined. Come on through.'

In her hurry, Daisy put her gas mask haphazardly on a chair. It landed on the wooden floorboards with a loud thump. Daisy winced and looked towards the ceiling.

'She didn't come home last night and, anyway, takes more than a noise like that to wake our Megan.'

Daisy followed her friend through the cold little house. Grace was almost fanatically tidy but Daisy had time to see at least three pairs of fully fashioned pure silk stockings hanging from a wire across the fireplace in the kitchen. She looked down at her lisle-covered legs. 'Bet they feel ever so wonderful on, Grace.'

'Much, much too expensive for me, Daisy, and you an' all, I should think, if you get my meaning. I saw some in Kerr's Stores. Three shillings a pair.'

'Nine shillings spent on stockings. Who's got that kind of money, Grace?'

Grace said nothing but opened the door to the back garden, and she and Daisy stood for a moment looking at the disaster that had been their pride and joy, their garden. Even Sally had risked her precious long scarlet-painted fingernails to work there.

'It's froze solid, Daisy. Not so much as a sprout fit to eat.'

The previous evening Grace had gathered two cabbages, one for the Brewers, one for the Petries. She had admired the amazing number of plump firm Brussels sprouts that were still on the stocks. Now, less than twelve hours later, she saw disaster. 'd.a.m.n it, Daisy, it weren't that great to start with but look at it now.'

'We've had lovely fresh veggies for weeks, Grace, and I'm sure Mum will make soup with this lot. It'll be delicious.' She looked at Grace, wondering how to read the expression on her face. 'What is it, Grace? It's not just a few frozen sprouts.'

'No, I suppose. It's just ... I was really happy working here, Daisy. It were special somehow, a good feeling, being in touch with the soil, putting in a little seed and weeks later frying up my own cabbage. I planned to be really serious this year: better beds, deeper digging and not just doing the safe old stuff like cabbage, but peas can you imagine fresh peas, Daisy. And why not rhubarb and strawberries?'

'And lovely fresh lettuce, maybe even tomatoes.'

'You are going a bit far,' smiled Grace, and Daisy was pleased to see her looking happier, but she was serious.

'I think I saw tomatoes growing down The Old Manor once,' she said. 'You'll do it, Grace, and I'll help you. We're stronger than we look, you and me. Come on, let's put these ruined sprouts in the bag with any of the kale worth keeping.'

'Glad we finished the spuds at Christmas,' interrupted Grace. 'Frozen spuds are the worst. They fall apart and they smell something awful.'

'Where did you learn that?'

'Dunno, musta read it somewhere.' Grace sliced a stock bearing several sprouts off at the base and popped it into Daisy's bag.

Since Grace was due at the munitions factory where she worked in the office, Daisy left her to close up and she walked home with the bag.

Flora was in the shop. She ignored the bag. 'Who was it said something about rationing, Daisy, love?'

'The vicar, I think, Mum. Why?'

'Why's sugar so scarce? Between that and the shortage of b.u.t.ter and bacon, some customers is saying they'll take their custom elsewhere.'

'One thing at a time, Mum. Sugar's scarce because it's shipped into this country we don't grow it. Ships are needed now for other things munitions, soldiers, I don't know but there's no s.p.a.ce for sugar. Same with bacon and b.u.t.ter.'

'We know Nancy Humble makes lovely b.u.t.ter up at the farm and there's two farms near her as keeps pigs.'

'Not enough to feed the whole country. I don't know where these things come from, but could be as far away as New Zealand; the Commonwealth, you see. But, Mum, more important right now, can you do something with poor Grace's veggies?'

''Course, waste not, want not, and are we not going to be singing that song a lot more? If that freeze was all over the country last night and not just in poor old Kent, then there'll be greengrocers closing faster than you can run upstairs with those vegetables.'

Daisy picked up her shopping bag of unpleasantly defrosting vegetables and, two stairs at a time, soon reached the kitchen where she dumped them unceremoniously in the sink.

'Porridge on the back of the fire,' her mother's voice floated up to her, and so Daisy helped herself to a bowl of porridge. She put a sc.r.a.ping of Nancy's Christmas b.u.t.ter on top to melt and pulled her father's comfortable chair up to the fire. What a lovely smell a fire had; simply smelling wood smoke made Daisy feel warm.

A few well-fed minutes later, Daisy, washed properly in hot water, dressed in a warm woollen skirt and a fair-isle jersey, descended to take her turn in the shop. In the short time that she had been upstairs, the store had filled with people all talking and gesticulating. At first Daisy thought there must have been an accident.

'You all right, Mum?'

''Course I am, love. Vicar's just brought some unwelcome news.'

Daisy looked around until she could see the kindly, wrinkled face of the local Church of England vicar. 'Good morning, Mr Tiverton, bad news, is it?'

He smiled, a particularly sweet smile, and Daisy smiled back. She couldn't help it; there was something about that smile the smile reserved, according to Sam, for saintly Church of England vicars.

'Well, my dear,' said Mr Tiverton, 'that will really depend on how we deal with it. Rationing came into force this morning: sugar, b.u.t.ter and bacon. From today we are officially allowed four ounces each of b.u.t.ter and bacon or ham, and twelve ounces of sugar, per adult per week. We will each be given a jolly little ration book that must be registered with local shops. I'm quite sure that soon everything but the air we breathe will be rationed.'

'If there are indeed to be gas attacks, Vicar, we won't want our air.'

Daisy and Flora stared at each other in disbelief. Miss Partridge had a sense of humour. Who'd have thought it?

Fred, who had been stocking up at the strangely empty wholesalers, came in the back door just as the last customer went out the front. As wife and daughter began to speak Fred held up his hands. 'I saw 'em leaving as I slithered down the street. Telling you they was looking for the best deal, was they? Well, if they don't trust us enough to know our prices are the best we can do, Flora, love, then they can take their custom elsewhere. The 'alt, the lame and the lazy will stay with us, and we'll deliver to our 'ousebound any time they needs something delivering.'

'I don't fit in any of those categories, Fred.' Mr Fischer had come quietly into the shop while Fred was talking.

'I don't worry about a gent like you, Mr Fischer. You're always welcome in this shop.'

'I hope that will always be the case.'

'And why wouldn't it be?' Fred asked somewhat belligerently.

The old man looked at him sadly. 'You really do not know, my friend? I am not only a hated German, Fred, but a hated Jewish German.'

The family stared at him in consternation. Flora recovered first. 'What's that got to do with the price of tea, Mr Fischer? Why, you was one of our first customers. You came in here two days after me and Fred got married.'

'And, my G.o.d, wasn't that a lifetime ago?' said Fred, attempting to lighten the mood.

'And you will take my ration book?'

Fred and Flora rea.s.sured him while Daisy stood in the background and thought of all the implications hidden in the simple conversation she had just heard. Poor Mr Fischer. To be hated in his own country because of his religion and hated everywhere else because he was German. People could be horrid. They were not at war with Mr Fischer; surely just the Germans that lived in Germany. But she didn't much like that idea either, and decided to think instead of what she should now be doing.

There was the first-aid course, and G.o.d help anybody who needed aid from Daisy Petrie. 'I can't even get the blasted bandages right,' she said aloud, earning a reproving look from her mother who was still talking to Mr Fischer. As well as the first aid, her dad thought she might sign up for a bit of fire-watching. Fine, she would do that. But compared to what others were doing, was it enough?

Her racing thoughts focused on the young man with the plane. Alf had said that he was already in the air force. Where was he now, back with his unit, or in Alf's old stable working on the plane? It could not possibly be fit for active service in its present condition.

I'm good with engines, Daisy reminded herself fiercely. I could work on it if he's had to go.

Doubts flooded in, undermining her resolution. He's a toff and he owns a plane. He'd laugh me out of the yard. Bet he'd say, 'No woman's capable of working on my beautiful aeroplane.' But he talked to me like we were both human beings. And if he's more interested in planes than in girls, he might, just might, not care that I'm a girl. Woman, she corrected herself quickly. Maybe he'll just see another good mechanic.

'Daisy, love, fetch some porridge oats from the storeroom, please.' Mr Fischer had gone and her parents were alone.

Daisy took a deep breath and a life-changing decision. 'Sorry, Dad, I promised Nancy Humble I'd deliver some tinned peaches when they came in. I'm off to get the van.'

She was whipping off her ap.r.o.n as she spoke and, without giving her parents a chance to speak, she took the keys to the van from their hook and hurried out into the back lane. The van was in the garage directly across the lane. With some difficulty because of the sheet of ice that was the back lane, Daisy backed it up to the shop's rear door. 'Come on, Dad; give me a hand with the boxes.'

Flora returned to the flat. Monday was her usual washing day and as Christmas Day and New Year's Day had been the last two Mondays, she was behind with her household ch.o.r.es and could see no way to spend any time in the shop. The weekly wash took hours. First water had to be boiled in kettles and pots. The clothes were sorted and washed, much use being made of Flora's scrubbing board. Next the clothes had to be rinsed, put through the mangle that Fred had set up on the iron tub in which the family took baths, and then hung up to dry, either on the pulley on the kitchen ceiling or, if the weather was good, on the clothes line on the small square of concrete beside the garage. On washing day it was virtually impossible for Flora to help out in the shop.

Downstairs, Fred propped open the door so that he could hear the front doorbell, and began to load.

'Starting at Old Manor Farm, Dad. I promised Nancy I'd deliver there first. One of the family's there, on leave, I think.'

'He'll have gone, love. Lucky to get twenty-four hours, never mind a week.'

'Just in case.'

Fred grumbled but loaded the van in the order that Daisy wanted and soon she was on her way. A cloud of b.u.t.terflies cavorted in the pit of her stomach. It was a pleasant excitement.