Churchill's Angels Part 30

When Flora said nothing he carried on with his self-appointed task, talking all the time. 'This is a good opportunity to wrap that cardy, love, afore she gets home and sees it. I saw you had that nice paper with the holly leaves. D'you know, I remember when we bought that? Red Cross Christmas sale, 1939. Paid two pence halfpenny for the two large sheets, quite a bargain.'

Flora had picked up the cardigan but whatever she intended to do was interrupted by the sound of the back door opening, followed by the noise of several female voices.

'They've both come home, love, and brought their friends.'

In a moment the kitchen was full. Daisy and Rose, Sally and Grace. It was a picture from the past but it was very real. Everyone hugged and talked at the same time.

Fred looked to the top of the stairs in the expectation of seeing others. 'Stan's gone home to walk his mum and his gran to church but Tomas had other plans, that right, Daisy?'

'Yes. I asked him to come to Christmas dinner with us, Mum. I knew you wouldn't mind, seeing as how we've got all that lovely ham.' She did not see the look almost of horror on her mother's face as she spoke and added, 'But Nancy and Alf had asked him to spend his leave with them. Wasn't that nice of them?'

'Good,' said Flora. 'I mean it's nice foreigners have somewhere to go.'

'Look who we found at Sally's,' said Rose swiftly, pushing Grace forward.

The rest of the evening was spent drinking cocoa and catching up on one another's news, much of it already gone over at the Brewers'. Just before half-past eleven they put on outdoor clothes again and headed for the church for the Midnight Service.

'Seems like yesterday we were walking along here together,' said Sally, 'but it's years.'

They argued happily as, arm in arm, the four girls walked along with Flora and Fred walking along behind. It was not until late next morning when the available members of the Petrie family and George were together in the kitchen continuing the preparations for what was going to be an absolutely superb Christmas meal that Daisy decided to question her mother about her att.i.tude to Tomas.

'Mum, you wouldn't have minded if my friend had been able to come for a meal today, would you?'

''Course she wouldn't, would you, love?' Fred answered for his wife.

'I'd give anybody as needs it a meal, Daisy, you know that. It's just I'm not good with foreigners.'

Rather more fiercely than necessary, Daisy chopped the ends of some Brussels sprouts that Flora had bought from the local greengrocer. Grace's little garden was no longer available to them. 'Dr Fischer was in the shop three times a week for years, Mum, and then Dad says you did really well with the Italian priest who brought the messages from Sam. Tomas is a foreigner, yes, but he's in our air force and risking his life every day for us.'

Fred had noted the promotion of their Mr Fischer to Dr Fischer and, afraid that tension might spoil Christmas Day, he was happy to change the subject by asking Daisy about Mr Fischer's sudden status.

Her father's question did not take her concern over her mother's att.i.tude to Tomas out of her mind, but Daisy realised at once what her father was trying to do. 'I'll have to ask you all to keep this under your hats because it's very hush-hush, not even to tell Stan, Rose. Georgie,' and she looked at him almost fiercely, 'this really is where "talk costs lives".'

With all four nodding vigorously she told her family all about her meetings with their former customer.

'Well, I never,' said Fred. 'Always knew he were a very clever man. What do you think, love?'

'I always liked him; he sat in the refuge room with us once, didn't he, Daisy?'

Daisy carried on preparing her sprouts but she smiled at her mother. 'Yes, he did, Mum, and told us a really big word for creepy-crawlies.'

'And what's that?' asked Rose, but neither her mother nor her sister had the slightest idea.

The rest of the day went very well. The ham they had all saved up for each week was, they agreed, the most delicious ham ever tasted.

'And more on the cool shelf in the larder,' said Flora, adding, 'Christmas, never know when someone might drop in.'

'Don't tell anyone, pet. We'll be mobbed if word got round that Petries has got spare baked ham.'

All tension seemed to have drained away and the family were able to talk and laugh together. In the early evening they each wrote a long letter to Phil, wondering when they would reach him, wherever he was, and a short note, signed by all of them, to Sam. That note, Daisy thought, might well take longer to deliver across Europe than the letters to Phil who was 'somewhere at sea'.

'We've got our girls, Fred, and Sam's alive and, please G.o.d, our Phil.'

'Navy would get word to us, love, don't fret, and let's make sure the few days we have with our Daisy are ...' He could not finish since he knew what he wanted to say would upset Flora.

Flora reached out and touched his hand. 'I know fine well what you mean to say, Fred Petrie, and I been thinking. I don't want my Daisy marrying a foreign person; sorry, but that's me and I can't change. She's a lovely English girl and I don't want her away in some foreign place. I want her here with me. Why can't she find a nice local boy like Stan?'

'Because she hasn't, and since she don't live at home, she won't. This new ATA station is mixed. I thought as how all the pilots was women but happens there's more men than women in the ATA. Seems it's not long since they had only eight women, and all of them cla.s.sy women who could fly planes anyway. The air force won't take a pilot as is over twenty-five, which is plain daft, if you ask me.' He looked sad for a moment and then laughed, 'But n.o.body ever does. The ATA pilots is well-qualified; some of them flew commercial flights, like for holidays or carrying cargo. Maybe, if we don't keep on at her, Daisy'll pal up with some of them.'

Daisy, however, was totally focused on fulfilling her promise to a little boy on Dartford Heath.

TWENTY.

Christmas was over. Daisy travelled back to White Waltham in time to bring in the New Year, but, unfortunately, not in time for the dance. Not that anyone in her billet felt like dancing the old year away. Daisy had heard during her holiday that her friend who had laughed about encountering Father Christmas on Christmas Eve had, instead, met a swarm of enemy aircraft and had been shot down. It was not a happy start to this New Year.

Daisy found it difficult to believe that it was, in fact, 1942. So much had happened in a few years. She had enjoyed Christmas, being with her family, and seeing all her friends again. And, yes, it had been very ... nice, she decided, having dinner with Tomas. No, it had been better than that. She had felt light and feathery, like the bubbles in champagne, especially when he had taken her hand. For a moment she had thought, hoped, which ...? Now she looked out at bleak winter landscapes she realised that she had no memory at all of what they had eaten. Her memory was full of all they said. Soon he would write or telephone to tell her how his time had gone with the Humbles. He had not, he told her, looked forward to visiting Adair's grave with them, preferring always to grieve alone. 'But it will please Nancy, who was more mother to him than any of his family.'

Although he had spoken readily of his friendship with Adair and his feelings about the kind farmer and his wife, he had told her nothing at all about his disappearance. And he never will, she thought, until the war is over. That was when she knew that she hoped very much that they would still be friends when the war ended, no matter how many years that would be.

Her thoughts were interrupted by the train's arrival at the station and she was delighted to find that she was not the only ferry pilot arriving and so would not be alone on arrival at the base.

She had scarcely settled in when work started in earnest: flying lessons in Cla.s.s One planes such as the Magister, in which she had trained already, and the Swordfish and the Gladiator, which were quite new. Ferry trips began too. She prayed that she was ready. In the early days of 1942 these flights could be miserable. Winter weather made flying difficult, and long, cold and complicated train journeys back were exhausting. Daisy tried hard to keep up her spirits; she wanted the early euphoria to stay with her.

Occasionally she was able to fly back as a pa.s.senger. In this way, she met many more RAF pilots. Some talked and she learned a great deal from them; others preferred to concentrate on the flight and she learned by observing them. Each and every one of these return journeys was so much better than a train in winter. The most exciting one, from a purely personal perspective, was when she discovered that the pilot in the c.o.c.kpit was actually one of the eight original women ATA pilots, each already a legend. Daisy said nothing during that trip; in fact she hardly dared breathe until she heard the pilot laugh and say, 'There is enough oxygen for both of us, Daisy.'

She knows my name, she actually knows my name. Could life be any more exciting?

Letters from home reached her easily and those from friends followed her from her last station. As soon as she could she replied, giving the address of the new station. Twice she returned from a trip to find that Tomas had telephoned but he merely left a message that he would try again.

Why did he not leave a number where she could reach him?

Because he's never in the same place twice, she answered herself.

In March she was given a real task: to fly to an RAF station, pick up a Spitfire pilot and take him and the plane to a station near Dover. Daisy was excited by the challenge and wrote to tell her parents all about it.

At first it was a flight like any other flight. Flying Officer Dorward waited to be picked up at his station near Bath. After refuelling, if necessary, she was to deliver her pa.s.senger, 'preferably in one piece', to his destination and then carry on with the plane to Luton, an ATA station, where she was to leave it. She was then to find her way back to White Waltham as quickly as she could.

She studied her maps carefully, as always looking for significant pointers and hazards.

Early in the morning of the flight, the weather forecast was good. Daisy breathed a relieved sigh, as cloudy, misty weather was as much an enemy of pilots especially female pilots who relied on visibility rather than instruments as the human enemy.

She pulled on a flying suit, taking care to wrap Adair's cashmere scarf around her neck, folding the ends across her chest for extra warmth before doing up the fastening.

She looked at her maps although she had spent the evening before studying them and her little book of 'flying instructions', checked the plane thoroughly, and only when she was satisfied did she climb aboard. The voice in her head kept time with her own voice as she worked through take-off instructions and she smiled with satisfaction when she was airborne.

She sang to herself. 'Oh, Johnny, Oh, Johnny', followed by 'The Last Time I Saw Paris' and, because she was near the south coast, 'The White Cliffs of Dover'. She knew none of them well, but hummed along in the s.p.a.ces. It was, she decided, a very pleasant way to spend a Sunday morning.

And then everything changed. A wind off the English Channel brought mist and rain with it. Soon it became more and more difficult to see ahead of her, or below, for that matter. She looked at her compa.s.s, prayed it was behaving itself and carried on. Singing did not help. She put up her left hand and touched the soft cashmere of Adair's scarf.

That was when she heard the roar of an approaching plane. Please let it be one of ours, she muttered as she peered through her windscreen. Coming straight for her was a German fighter plane; she was amazed to find herself trying to recognise it. A Heinkel, she thought, although she had only ever seen a line drawing of one.

What should she do? What would the Heinkel pilot expect her to do? In that split second between hearing the plane approach and seeing it, Daisy was amazed to find that she was unbelievably calm.

'Adair, Charlie, be with me now,' she said and put the Magister into a dive.

Why had she not tried to go up to hide in the clouds? She would never know, but some force, something other than her brain, had guided her. The enemy plane, guns firing, went right over her head as Daisy fought to control her dive. He had turned. He was behind her. Diving, diving.

With all her strength Daisy pulled up the light plane. The enemy plane, perhaps surprised by her instinctive tactic, went straight as an arrow, past her. She was both frightened and horrified to hear a loud roar as it crashed and burst into flames.

She was down out of the cloud and mist and filled with relief as she saw that the plane had narrowly avoided a centuries-old church and had carried on into the hillside. The flames, surely, would be visible for miles.

Now Daisy's brain was refusing to work. Was there something in their little rule book covering what to do in the event of causing an enemy plane to crash? She had no idea but her task was to pick up a pilot and get him to his Spitfire and she had lost time. She decided to carry on to the airfield.

She began to tremble and struggled to control herself. She was also beginning to feel decidedly sick. Thoughts of how humiliating it would be to be horribly sick in the c.o.c.kpit of one of His Majesty's aircraft helped her gain some strength.

Instead of singing she kept saying, 'I will not be sick, I will not be sick,' until she saw the runway below her.

'Five minutes more, Daisy, that's all. Come on, let's have a perfect landing.'

It was not the best landing ever but the plane and its rather seedy pilot were unscathed. Religiously, Daisy went through all the instructions for taxiing and stopping.

An engineer ran along beside her as she taxied. 'Take her straight to the fuel pumps. You're late.'

Daisy did as she was told but the smell of fuel was just too much for her stomach and she jumped out of the c.o.c.kpit and vomited all over the ground. She was ready to burst into tears of mingled fright and frustration when she heard an irate voice.

'd.a.m.n it all,' it yelled. 'Did I not say women were totally useless?' and there stood her pa.s.senger. He looked at her as she stood there shaking and controlling her tears. 'Go on woman, get yourself cleaned up and I'll fly the d.a.m.ned thing to base for you. Be quick.'

Daisy fled, first to clean up and throw ice-cold water, of which there was plenty, over her face, and then, reasonably clean but not at all sweet-smelling, she returned to her now refuelled plane.

'In you go, Flying Officer,' said the engineer who had met her on her arrival. 'He's not a bad bloke we heard as how a plane had come down and he was sure it was 'is taxi. Glad it wasn't.'

'Me too,' said Daisy, managing a weak smile.

Twenty minutes later she was beginning to recover and was even well enough to appreciate how professionally Flying Officer Dorward handled her plane. He looked round quickly and saw her watching. 'Sorry you were sick. You look ghastly, by the way, but there's a Thermos flask of tea, unfortunately rolling around there somewhere. Do help yourself.'

Hot sweet tea. Nectar from the G.o.ds.

No one seemed to mind that the pa.s.senger was piloting the plane while the pilot drank tea in the back. Thanks to the tea and the rest Daisy felt able to continue, but the station commander decided that it was now rather late and the weather had definitely taken a turn for the worse.

'I'll ring ahead and tell them you'll fly in tomorrow a.m. You're welcome to the mess for dinner and we'll find a bed for you somewhere.'

But now that she was safely on the ground, the realisation of what had actually happened during the first flight hit Daisy. I'm responsible for the death of a man. He was the enemy and he wanted to kill me but he was a human being, a pilot like Tomas. Even distressed as she was, Daisy knew that for the first time in a year, she had not thought of Adair first.

The commander must not see her trembling. She managed to convince him that she would be perfectly happy to be allowed to clean up her flying suit and to retire early.

She was shown to a billet where several bedsteads were obviously not in use and chose one near the door. Since the trip was an extended one, she had brought her little bag of overnight things and her wash bag. She wanted badly to clean her teeth. Life always seemed better when her teeth were clean. A nice hot bath would have been delightful too. She remembered the luxurious bathroom at Charlie's father's flat. Funny that she had not thought of it until this day. That bathroom, with its soft pink towels, its heated rails and its jars of lovely scented lotions was no more. But, much more importantly, Charlie was no more.

Daisy hurried to wash and to get in between the rather cold sheets, but the billet was warm and she was soon comfortable. Although she was exhausted, more from tension than from actual work, she took a long time to fall asleep. Thoughts chased one another round and round in her head. She had promised to avenge her loved ones, and the little boy whom she did not know, but actually to contemplate an act of revenge or to feel happy over the death of any human being was quite a different matter.

I didn't shoot down that plane but I feel responsible. He must have known he couldn't control his dive but he missed the ancient church. Chance? I think he swerved.

Oh, how she wished there was someone to talk to. Tomas? Surely Tomas, with his years of experience, could help her make sense of the day.

She fell asleep.

Next morning she was up early, ate a good breakfast in the mess, and let all the proper officials know that she was leaving.

'We'll let Luton know you're on your way. Should be there in time for morning coffee.'

Daisy laughed, agreed, and went to her plane.

On the pilot's seat was a small bouquet of exquisite hothouse flowers. Their glorious perfume filled the area. A small white card was attached to the flowers.

Please forgive my appalling cra.s.sness. The spotter who saw the Heinkel come down also observed your brilliant manoeuvre. Well done. I'm honoured to have been your ferry pilot.

Sebastian Dorward Daisy was thrilled. They were the first flowers she had ever received.

They'll never keep till I'm back in Dartford, she told herself, but I'll keep a few petals to show Mum and Rose. Wonder where on earth he got flowers like that in the middle of the night.

The journey to Luton was uneventful although an area of sky was crisscrossed by the elaborate smoke trails caused by a dogfight. Once again Daisy was struck by the thin dividing lines between beauty and ugliness, life and death.

She set the plane down at the airfield and was glad to have the chit signed. She had delivered the plane and she supposed she had delivered the pilot, but perhaps he had delivered himself.

Had a plane been going to White Waltham she could have been a pa.s.senger but she was out of luck. A refuelling lorry was heading for London and the driver had no objection to taking a pa.s.senger along. Daisy picked up her bag and her flowers and climbed in. Compared to some of the journeys she had made recently, this was easy and pleasant. The lorry driver, who told her his name was Eddie, drove her right to the airfield.

'Thanks, Eddie, I shall look out for you. Definitely preferable to train travel.'

To Daisy's surprise, she was told to report to the base commander's office immediately. For a moment, she could not think why he might want to see her. On the way to his office, still carrying her little overnight bag and her bouquet, she realised that he must have been told of her narrow escape. She worried. Had she done the right thing? She was right to try to avoid being shot down; it did not take a genius to work that out, but had she forgotten some protocol? Surely she was correct to fly on rather than setting down as close to the accident as possible.

The office seemed to be full of people, among them some of the legends of the ATA. She had done something wrong and was to be ceremoniously drummed out.

Suddenly everyone was clapping, the noise echoing in every corner of the building. And then the singing started 'For She's a Jolly Good Fellow' and Daisy realised that they, the men and women whom she revered and hoped to emulate, were singing to her. The base photographer took several photographs: of Daisy alone, holding her flowers; of Daisy and the base commander; of Daisy and the ATA's most senior woman pilot; and of Daisy in front of the entire group.

'One day, Flying Officer, we will wine and dine you in style but in the meantime, we salute your courage, your quick thinking, and your professionalism. We are proud to have you with us.'

Daisy's muttered, 'Thank you,' was lost in the cheers.

Thirty minutes later she was checking out another plane.

Daisy was pleased to have so much work to do. She knew that she was not a heroine and felt rather silly at being feted. After all, what had she done? Simply taken evasive action. The unfortunate German pilot had been unable to pull out of his dive and had crashed on a hill. She did not want to think about it, or about him. He had been a pilot, just as Adair had been. They had been on opposite sides but now they were both dead. She touched the scarf, Adair's scarf, which she wore constantly. He had given it, his lucky scarf, to her and she had survived. She would continue to wear it and she would work.