Churchill's Angels Part 6

'I managed for eight when you was in the hospital, Daisy, but don't you go tiring yourself.'

a.s.suring her mother that she would not strain herself, Daisy hurried out of the shop to a poorer part of the town where the Prestons lived.

George was leaning against the wall of the building, a pack of Capstan cigarettes ostentatiously visible in his hands. Slowly, so as to show her that he was not afraid although Daisy saw the pack tremble a little George eased his thin body off the rough brick wall and stared at her.

'Your mum home?'

He said nothing but gestured with his lit cigarette to the door.

'Gives you horrible breath for kissing,' said Daisy, and walked past him.

Mrs Preston started with fear when she saw who was standing on her doorstep, but she moved aside to admit Daisy. 'Are you going to tell the polis?'

'I'm hoping George didn't intend to put me in the hospital, Mrs Preston.'

George's mother burst into loud sobs and between sobs she told Daisy a long, heart-breaking story of how she was trying to bring up the boys on very little money and little or no support from her husband, who was, she said, in and out of prison like a yoyo. 'And when he's 'ere he's too 'ard on Georgie, brutal really. Lad's never 'ad a chance.'

'Mrs Preston, if that door had burned, the whole lockup, van and all, would have been destroyed. The van would probably have exploded and the houses on either side could have been damaged or destroyed. Have you explained that to him?'

More heart-broken sobbing. 'He never listens to me.'

'Then he'd better listen to me or I'm going straight from here to the police station.'

'I'm sorry I hit you. What d'you want to say?' George, the cigarette gone, had entered so quietly that neither had heard him.

Trying to remember that he was only fourteen years old, Daisy repeated everything that she had said to his mother. 'My sister told the police she saw a boy run off but she was too concerned about me to be sure who it was. You have a really bad reputation, George, and the policeman I talked to wants to have you sent to Borstal. What do you think of that?'

'Get three meals regular,' he said with bravado.

His mother began to wail again. They shouted at each other for some time with neither actually paying any attention to what the other was saying.

'Be quiet, both of you,' said Daisy. 'Maybe you would be better off in gaol, George, because the way you're going, looks like you'll get there anyway. If you don't want that you have to get a Sat.u.r.day job till you leave school.'

'I tried. No one wants me.'

His reputation was known all over Dartford. Was there no chance for him or his younger brother?

'Have you asked my dad?'

'You're crazy. I near set fire to his van.'

'Keep out of trouble till I sort something out or I'll be down the police station with a list of complaints. All right?'

He looked at her and she could not read his expression.

'Are you willing to try?'

She decided to be content with his nod and hurried out of the dirty, damp little house. It was worse than Grace's old home. At least Grace had tried to keep it reasonably clean and tidy.

Now to tackle her father.

Fred Petrie was not at all keen to hire a boy who was constantly in a great deal of trouble.

'Plus I don't need a lad, Daisy. What is he supposed to do?'

'I'll be called up soon, Dad. What then?'

'Then I might think of taking on someone to help out, someone dependable who doesn't half kill my daughter or set fire to my lockup.'

'If you was to bring him in an hour or so after school, Dad, then I could help him a bit.'

Eventually, much against his wishes, Fred found himself agreeing to 'try to keep that holy terror out of jail.'

'But I'm not paying him, Daisy. He can have his tea here, him and Jake, and maybe I'll pay their way into the pictures of a Sat.u.r.day and we'll see how it goes. And no cigarettes smoked anywhere near my shop.'

George grumbled, but with the threat of a stint in an approved school hanging over his head, he reluctantly agreed.

So, every afternoon the Preston boys made their way from school on the days that George bothered to attend to the Petrie shop and were set to work tidying shelves, unloading boxes and even cleaning the van until the shop closed. Then they were taken upstairs where they scrubbed their hands in the sink before sitting down at the table where Flora took delight in putting plates of hot, nourishing food before them. George said nothing, refused all offers of second helpings and sat quietly while his younger brother tucked into an extra plate of whatever was offered.

Daisy said nothing either, but she and her mother were delighted to see the boys fill out a little.

'See, Fred, told you,' teased Flora, forgetting that she had not wanted the boys in her immaculately clean home.

'Leopards don't change their spots,' said Fred firmly.

Daisy watched quietly while she made plans and then at last her mind was made up. If she stayed at home any longer a letter would come telling her that she had been conscripted into a potato-peeling unit at some G.o.dforsaken army base somewhere or possibly even worse storekeeping. All of the service units she had read about were very keen on that, but Daisy Petrie had already spent more than enough time in a shop. Today, instead of eating her sandwiches behind the little curtain in the shop, she would cycle over to the Recruitment Office and attempt to make her case. She tried to feel positive. If only she had bought that stunning costume she had seen in the windows of Horrell and Goff in the High Street last week. It was so elegant, just exactly what a well-brought-up young WAAF would wear, and it was in her favourite colours. The white linen jacket was collarless and was link-b.u.t.toned, like the cuffs on Dad's best shirt. Under it was a blue and white backless, sleeveless dress in the new diagonal stripes, finished with a collar and tie. So gorgeous. With it, the model in the window wore a dashing man-type little hat pulled down over one eye. It had to be the latest word in fashion. The hat was extra, of course, but she could just have managed to sc.r.a.pe together two pounds, two shillings for the costume.

At the thought of spending her entire holiday savings on clothes, Daisy went hot and cold, and regretfully put the flattering picture of herself in the beautiful outfit to the back of her mind. But oh, it would have made the recruitment officer sit up and take notice.

Besides, Daze, she consoled herself, a frock like that needs the hat, good shoes and a bag, not to mention silk stockings at three shillings the pair.

Then: I bet Adair Maxwell knows lots of girls who wouldn't have to think twice about buying it.

She did not want to think about Adair and was delighted to be disturbed for the next hour by the constant ping of the shop bell.

Bernie Jones and Mr Fischer arrived together. For once Bernie was not smiling.

'Your dad around, Daisy?'

A cold hand seemed to clutch Daisy's heart. There was something about the tone of Bernie's voice. 'He's off getting his petrol ration, Bernie, but Mum's up in the flat.'

'There's a telegram from the army, la.s.s, and maybe your mum shouldn't be alone when she reads it.' He handed her the thin buff-coloured envelope, and Daisy was surprised to notice that both his hand and hers were shaking as the envelope was handed over.

'I'll leave it here till Dad comes back. He'll only be a minute and it could be anything, couldn't it?' She turned as she saw her kind and generous friend Mr Fischer heading towards the door. 'Your paper and your ... sausages, wasn't it, Mr Fischer? Don't go, I've got them right here.' She tried to smile cheerfully. 'Thanks, Bernie; see you tomorrow.'

The postman left quietly and Daisy went into the back shop to find Mr Fischer's sausages.

'I am so sorry, Daisy. It might be bad news, but we trust in G.o.d, not the worst news. And here is your father.' He put a half-crown on the counter. 'I can receive the change tomorrow.'

Daisy and her father, who had come in with his usual cheerful smile, which had changed immediately to a half-fearful look, were alone in the shop, the envelope on the counter between them.

Fred looked at it for some minutes without touching it.

'Put the "Closed" notice on the door, pet, and we'll take this up to Mum.'

Her heart pounding, Daisy did as she was asked. She considered adding a note to George, but decided that they would be open by the time school was out.

Priority Mr F. Petrie, 21 High St., Dartford, Kent.

Regret to inform you that your son, Sgt Samuel Petrie, is reported missing from operations on the night of 2 June.

Letter follows.

Fred had no need to read the date. What difference would that make?

'Make your mum a nice cuppa, Daisy, there's a good girl.'

Daisy went into the kitchen and tried to think of nothing but the simplest things, like making a pot of tea. Her mind was refusing to work and she closed her eyes, hoping that might clear her head. Missing, no; make tea. How? Boil water, warm the teapot, find Mum's favourite cup in case she's able to notice. Daisy found herself reacting automatically. What was that posh word Adair had used about her eyes opening and closing like those of a china doll? She could not remember, but trying to remember stopped her thinking about the pitifully thin sheet of paper with the few lines of typing on it.

'My Sam's a sergeant, Daisy.' Her parents were sitting side by side on the sofa and Fred was holding Flora's hand tightly. 'Can't drink my tea if you don't let go, Fred. Oh, this is nice, Daisy, you've put sugar in. I never take sugar, gave it up for Lent once and never went back to it.'

'The first-aid manual says to put sugar in,' said Daisy, gulping her own tea.

'Told you you'd know what to do, our Daisy.' Flora sobbed a little but drank more tea. 'A sergeant. They only made him a corporal a few months ago.'

'Sam's a good soldier, Mum.'

Flora put down her cup so fiercely that some tea slopped out into the saucer. 'He's only missing, my Sam, only missing, and there's nothing about Ron and Phil so they must be all right.'

Fred stood up. 'Maybe you should have a wee lie-down, Flora, love. Daisy, I'll mind the shop if you stay with your mum.'

Daisy stayed sitting by her mother's bed long after Flora had fallen into a fitful sleep. She forced herself to be positive. Buying the costume would have been a ridiculous waste of money. How glad she was that she had not done that. She would not be joining the WAAF, not for the present. How could she leave her parents while Sam was missing? When they heard that he had been found then she might try again, but for the moment her place, whether she liked it or not, was by her mother's side.

Was there anyone in the entire nation who was happy? Daisy found the next few months almost unbearable. Flora seemed unable to cope without news of her sons, and her care and most of the work in the shop fell on Daisy's narrow shoulders. She and Mr Fischer became even closer friends as he came into the shop almost every day and stayed to discuss news items with Daisy, and even to laugh over a programme they had both heard on the wireless. Both found Tommy Handley very funny, but they loved Mona Lott and her catchphrase, 'It's being so cheerful as keeps me going.' It was even funnier spoken in Mr Fischer's light German accent.

Each day they started up in hope when the cheerful ping of the door handle alerted them to the arrival of the postman and, at last, just as Daisy thought she would go out of her mind, there was a letter for her parents, not from the War Office, as promised, but from their middle son, Phil.

'If you trust me, Daisy, I will mind the shop while you run upstairs.'

'Can't think of anyone I trust more, Mr Fischer. I'll only be a minute.'

Daisy took the stairs to the flat two at a time. 'Mum, look, it's from Phil, from his ship.'

Flora held the letter to her heart for a moment before opening it. 'Read it to me, our Daisy. My eyes is watering.'

Daisy thought quickly. Who usually popped in at this time? The vicar? He'd be all right with Mr Fischer. 'It'll have to be quick, Mum; I've left poor Mr Fischer minding the shop.'

'He's a clever man, Daisy, very educated, your dad says, with letters an' all after his name. He'll yell up the stairs if he needs you.'

'Sorry I haven't written as I've been busy and was sick a lot on the boats at first. That's all gone now and I even walks jaunty like a real sailor. We've been in action is all I can say and you never heard the likes of the noise and I hopes you don't never hear it, but we did well. Our captain who's a really posh guy but very decent with it says we all ought to get a medal and maybe we will.

Learning to be on a ship was fun but a bit scary, like when we used to play Tarzan up the woods. Remember how you used to yell at us for jumping from tree to tree but some of the blokes I sail with has never seen a blooming tree, never mind climbed one. It's easier than the way we did it. We got this thing called a breeches buoy looks a bit like one of your apple fritters but on a rope. It's better than Tarzan except when there's 'Next bit's sc.r.a.ped out, Mum, and then he talks about learning all the aeroplanes. I must go.' She handed her much happier mother the thin water-damaged sheet of paper and started down the stairs just as the siren went again.

The Petries, having no garden in which to put an Anderson shelter, had been forced to prepare a refuge room to which they could run if there was an air raid. The kitchen had only one window and only two outside walls and so they had thought that would be the best choice. But they were told that, on no account should the refuge room be on the top floor.

'Incendiary bombs will probably burn through your roof and then through to the ground floor,' they were told. 'Have you got a bas.e.m.e.nt? Best place, but if not, on the ground floor.'

There was no bas.e.m.e.nt but there was a storeroom between the shop and the back door, which they were told would be perfect. It had a small window, which was there only to allow a little natural light to enter from the back door and only one outside wall. The Petries put as many of the stored goods as possible into the small corridor and carried everything else, especially the tins, upstairs. Daisy did not look forward to having to carry tins downstairs each time they needed to restock but, as her father reminded her, 'There's a war on.'

Into the rather claustrophobic refuge room they put candles, matches, an ancient oil lamp and a tin of oil, several air-tight tins in which food could be stored, and bottles of water. Every night before bedtime, Flora or one of the twins filled a Thermos flask with tea and put it inside the door of the room. It had been suggested that a wireless set might be a good idea as it was likely that the family would spend several hours at a time cooped up, but there was no electrical outlet for their precious Bakelite wireless and so it remained on Grandma Petrie's old dresser in the kitchen. Instead they took playing cards and some old board games: Snakes and Ladders, and their favourite, The Farmyard Game with the awful Freddie the Fox. All of them were heartily sick of rushing into the room at the first wail of the siren, only to find that it was one more false alarm. One day soon, it would be real, if this was not the day.

But now Flora and Daisy sped down to the shop. Flora hurried to the refuge room but Daisy saw that Mr Fischer was still standing behind the counter and wearing Fred's ap.r.o.n. 'Oh, Mr Fischer, you should have gone to your shelter.'

'It's a street away, Daisy. I'm safer here under the counter.'

Daisy thought quickly. She locked the shop door. 'Quick, into the refuge room with me and Mum. Dad'll have gone to a shelter and there's plenty of room.'

If Flora was surprised to have one of her customers in the room with them, she showed only pleasure at seeing the old man. 'So much better than the Anderson shelter you'll have, I think, Mr Fischer.'

'Indeed, this is most luxurious, Mrs Petrie. There is an entire family of c.o.c.kroaches in my shelter and various other species of entomological life.' He looked at his companions' puzzled faces and laughed. 'Sorry, ladies, old habits die hard. Creepy-crawlies, Daisy.'

'Ugh,' mother and daughter said together.

'Were you a teacher, Mr Fischer, in Germany, I mean?' Daisy asked.

Flora mumbled something about nosiness but Mr Fischer didn't seem to mind the question. 'In a way, I suppose,' was all he said.

'Let's see if that tea's kept warm, Daisy, and there's a biscuit in the tin, Mr Fischer.'

The tea was barely warm but they pretended to enjoy it and Flora asked Daisy to read their guest Phil's letter.

'Can you believe that I too played in the trees like Tarzan? I know, I look too old and stooped, but I was once a boy like Phil.'

Just then the ghastly high-pitched droning stopped and silence fell sweetly. They looked at one another, smiled, but waited for the all clear to sound before getting up and returning to the shop.

'You'll take a hot cuppa, Mr Fischer?'

'Thank you, no, Mrs Petrie. I have promised to show the vicar how to use his stirrup pump. He is determined to be the best fire-watcher in Dartford. It's not a popular job, as you know hours and hours alone in a church tower or some such place but he says if the vicar won't take his turn to protect the church, how can he expect anyone else to do it?'

They said goodbye and Daisy promised to see him in the morning.

She worked in the shop all the next day but he did not come. He did not come the day after or the day after that, and so, without telling her parents, Daisy went round to The Rectory to speak to the vicar. She worried that the old man might have become ill.

'Come in and sit down, Daisy.'

'He's not dead?'

'No, my dear. A large motorcar came the night before last, very late. I was on the church roof but it was still quite light, you know, and I saw it. Two men went into the building and later they came out with poor Mr Fischer.'