by Ruby Jackson
They cleared up their picnic and returned to the stable yard where the plane sat waiting.
‘Don’t tell me you haven’t handled the controls and thought, I bet I could get this crate off the ground.’
Daisy smiled but said nothing. Of course she had enjoyed wonderful daydreams in which she soared above Kent in the Aeronca, but they were just dreams. Planes did get off the ground and into the air but how they got up there was still a mystery.
‘Come on, you can steer the old girl into the stable. All she needs now is a name. Can’t take her up without a name.’
‘What was her name before?’ Daisy asked as she lowered herself into the cockpit, the excitement in her stomach threatening to spoil the experience.
‘Don’t remember, something trite like Messenger of the Gods.’ He looked at her sitting there in the pilot’s seat. ‘You’ve never asked why she was in such a poor condition.’
‘Not my business.’
‘She was my father’s but he died in a silly accident before he could fly her.’
‘I’m sorry.’
‘Long time ago, Daisy. Park her right in the back, please.’ He was himself again, professional, businesslike.
When they had closed up the stables, they walked up to the farmhouse to let the Humbles know that Adair was leaving.
‘Take care, lad. Any idea when we’ll see you?’
Adair shook his head.
‘We’ll see you, Daisy?’
‘Only with grocery orders, I think, Alf.’
‘The best mechanic in England has brought the plane up to scratch, Alf. Our Daisy is going to be the RAF’s secret weapon, but right now I’ve got to get her back home.’
They said nothing during the drive into Dartford. Adair easily found a parking place on the High Street and moved as if to get out of the car. Daisy jumped out before he could.
‘You need all the time you’ve got, Adair. Thanks for letting me work with you.’
She turned to hurry towards the shop door but he caught up with her, his firm grip on her arm making her pulse race again. ‘This isn’t thanks for working your socks off and goodbye, Daisy. I meant what I said. As soon as I can I’ll be back and I’ll teach you to fly.’
For a moment he looked as if he wanted to say more. After a long moment he said, ‘Scout’s honour,’ before hurrying back to his car.
Daisy stifled the urge to turn and watch him drive away. She did not look after him but walked on into the shop. Scout’s honour. She smiled. She just bet Adair Maxwell had been a patrol leader.
‘Good time, Daisy, love?’ Flora was sitting knitting behind the counter in the empty shop.
‘Work’s finished, Mum, and Adair thanks you for the sandwiches.’
‘He’s welcome. You should have brought him in for a nice cuppa.’
Adair and her mum sitting chatting in the front room? Never. Her mother found it difficult to chat to the vicar. How would she cope with Adair’s even more polished tones? ‘He’s not that kind of friend, Mum, and besides, it’ll take him all the time he has left to get back to his base. If you don’t need me in the shop I’ll go up and have a bath.’
Flora waved her knitting. ‘Really quiet day. Don’t know why but customers aren’t fighting to get in. I only started this sock for your dad this morning; two more rows and I’ll be turning the heel.’
Daisy went to the flat, turned on the wireless and almost immediately ran back downstairs. ‘Put the wireless on, Mum. No wonder the shop’s quiet. The whole of Dartford must be listening to the wireless; Mr Chamberlain has resigned.’
Daisy and Flora stood in the unusually quiet shop and listened to the news with bated breath.
The Prime Minister, Neville Chamberlain, had lost the confidence of the Government and had resigned.
It appeared that what had been dubbed a phoney war was very, very real indeed. There had been questions in the papers and on the wireless about the German invasion of Norway and, more important still, about Britain’s ill-fated part in the defence of that country. Now it appeared that German troops were swarming across both the Belgian and Dutch borders. In the House of Commons, Leo Amery had made a vitriolic speech against the Prime Minister and ended it by quoting Oliver Cromwell: ‘In the name of God, go.’
Mr Chamberlain had gone.
Now, in almost the middle of the beautiful month of May, after countless debates and questions, King George VI had asked Mr Winston Churchill to head a truly national government.
‘I have all three of my lads in the forces,’ Flora said quietly.
‘You just wait, Mum, Churchill will get it all sorted. The boys will be home in no time, full of stories about their deeds of derring-do.’
‘I don’t give a toss about deeds, Daisy Petrie. I want my boys home in their own beds. I don’t even know where two of them are.’
Daisy put her arms around her mother, who suddenly looked frail and tired. ‘They’re fine, Mum, but if you’re on a ship, you can’t pop a letter in the post. Who’s going to pick it up and deliver it – a seagull?’
As she had hoped, Flora laughed. ‘Oh, I’m sorry, Daisy, pet. Don’t let on to your dad. You’re right, o’course. Mr Churchill’s the right one for the job. And don’t tell your dad I were a watering pot.’
‘He’ll be here in a minute. Let’s have a nice tea all ready for him.’
Fred had heard the news but was more positive than his wife. ‘Now we can really get in and teach mighty Germany a final lesson. We thought we’d done it in the Great War but sometimes lessons needs relearning. And we’re the ones to do it.’
As if there wasn’t enough for the Petries to worry about, more foodstuffs were rationed. Many of the customers were stoical but a few complained bitterly and seemed to believe that Daisy could provide more if she really wanted to do so. It was hard sometimes to remain friendly and calm.
‘Meat, eggs, cheese, jam, tea, milk. Wot’s left for God’s sake? Rabbits and fish. If you can catch them you can eat them.’
‘It’s a sensible measure.’ Fred was not so easy to intimidate as Flora and Daisy. ‘This way everyone’s looked after, and anyways, eggs and milk isn’t rationed, they’re allocated.’
‘And wot does that mean when it’s at home, Fred Petrie?’
‘You can’t tell a hen how many eggs she has to lay, or a cow how many pints she has to give. It all depends on supply. If there’s a lot, we gets more, if the animals slows down a bit then we gets less. Whatever comes in gets divided equal. Allocated. Simple.
‘Don’t take no nonsense, Daisy,’ Fred told her later. ‘I got to queue up everywhere to get supplies, and customers is going to have to queue up to get theirs. Tell ’em there’s a war on, if there’s any more grumbling.’
Almost everyone accepted the growing lines outside every shop. Housewives like Flora, and Nancy Humble at the farm, had preserved fruits in their larders and jars of jam on their pantry shelves, and both shared generously. Flora looked at her diminishing stocks and decided that toast, scones, and oatcakes would be served with either butter or jam, never with both.
‘Wish Grace were ’ere, pet. We could have encouraged her to grow strawberries. Next year Alf’s putting potatoes where most of his strawberries are.’
‘Maybe the war will be over by then, Mum.’
Mother and daughter smiled sadly. Each knew that it would not be over.
For weeks there was no word from any of Daisy’s brothers. They were gone and no one could or would tell the Petries where they were. Rumours abounded. The war had begun badly and was taking an even more downward course. Thousands of British troops, who had gone so bravely to free Europe, were themselves now marooned on a French beach, the sea in front of them, the enemy behind them.
‘No war, no fighting,’ Daisy whispered one night to Rose. ‘All the time we thought that nothing was happening, a bloody war was going on in Belgium, France and Holland, and our boys, and Sam maybe, were fighting there.’ And where’s Adair, her heart continued
quietly. Not so much as a postcard had been received from him since the day they had finished the work on the plane.
A few days later the newspapers were full of the story of the rescue of British and French troops from Dunkirk.
‘Our Phil’s a sailor,’ Flora tried to tell her customers bravely. ‘Maybe he was on one of them boats as saved men, and our Sam hinted in a letter that he might be going abroad. Very keen to see a foreign country, our Sam.’
‘They’ll be home in no time, Flora,’ said Mrs Roberts, one of the most faithful of the regulars. ‘Just you wait and see if I’m right.’
She was wrong. Weeks went past and no news was received from any one of the boys.
Daisy was worried about Adair, but she reminded herself that she was only the handy mechanic who had worked on the plane with him. Had he time, he would be reassuring his family. His parents were dead but he had said nothing about other family members.
‘He’s a third cousin, God knows how many times removed’ – she thought that was what Alf Humble had said all those long months ago. Someone had to know something about him. She would be told, all in good time.
In the meantime his suggestion that she join the WAAF went round and round in her head. According to the newspapers, girls like Daisy would be conscripted soon. Better to go, as Sam had said, without waiting to be ordered. But every time she tried to talk about war work with her parents, they changed the subject, telling her how important it was that Daisy was able to drive the van, continue with her first-aid course and dig even half-heartedly in the missing Grace’s little garden. She had never once seen Megan Paterson when she had been working, and Grace had not written again. Sally, who was going from strength to strength and had even had a small part in a propaganda film, managed an occasional visit, thrilling all the Petries with her talk of plays and musicals and exciting things like film sets and real live professional actors.
‘It’s important war work,’ Sally told her friends. ‘We’re going to be entertaining the troops, in hospitals and at their camps; boosting morale, it’s called. Who knows, maybe even go overseas. Won’t that be amazing?’
Daisy smiled and congratulated her friend. She did not say, ‘I’ve boosted morale and helped the war effort,’ but reconditioning a plane that would one day be used in the air battles that must soon take place, surely that was war work?
Like so many people in Britain, the Petries loved listening to the wireless. Fred and Daisy had been captivated by the new Prime Minister, Winston Churchill. Not only did he write superb speeches but, according to Daisy, ‘He speaks them as good as an actor.’ When his speeches were not broadcast they were covered in the local press and Daisy would read the paper, trying to hear the Prime Minister’s voice in her head. In June, Churchill warned the nation of the battle that was about to happen and Daisy read the report of the stirring speech so often that, had she wanted to, she could have quoted it.
Greatly moved by Churchill’s eloquence, Daisy was persuaded that counting rations was not anyone’s finest hour. There must be something better.
She broached the subject with her father when they were together in the shop at closing time one day.
‘Dad, I want to join the Women’s Auxiliary Air Force. You have to make Mum listen to me. Ensuring that everyone in the area gets their proper rations is not enough for me. I’m a good mechanic. Adair even said he could teach me to fly.’ She stopped; she had not expected that most precious secret to spill out.
Fred looked at her, both love and concern in his eyes. ‘Fly, pet, fly, like a pilot in a plane?’
‘Of course, Dad. Adair says I’m just as clever as some of the men he teaches. He says I’m a great mechanic.’
‘Well, me and the lads taught you that, love, but a pilot in the WAAF, a lass from a shop in Dartford? He’s having you on, Daisy, and so I’ll tell him to his face.’
‘He meant I could be a pilot, Dad; no one’s saying anything about being a pilot in the WAAF. It’s the RAF has pilots.’
‘Happen he did mean it, you being a pilot, but he hasn’t been here in weeks, and you’ve not heard from him, else your mum would’ve told me. Forget him, Daisy. His kind aren’t for the likes of you. Not that you’re not as good as he is, every bit, but putting water and wine together spoils both.’ He looked at his daughter compassionately. ‘Don’t you go getting in over your head with this lad, Daisy. I know it’s exciting; it’s like what happens in pictures when the rich hero takes the poor girl off on his white horse to live happy. Pictures and stories isn’t real, Daisy. Don’t … no, you wouldn’t run after a lad, would you?’
Daisy looked at her father, kind, caring, conscientious Fred Petrie, and knew that in many ways she was very lucky. ‘Dad, me and Adair, it’s not like that. We’re friends is all. We worked together on the engine. Smooth as honey, it’ll fly.’
His look now was shrewd. ‘Then why do you want to try for the WAAF now, pet? You’ve no idea where he is or even if he’s alive.’
The words struck Daisy like a slap and she almost reeled back. ‘What a dreadful thing to say. ’Course he’s alive but … but he’s busy and …’ Daisy stopped. In a moment she would be crying and if she started she felt that she might never stop. No word from Adair, but there had been no word from Sam or Ron or Phil either.
‘We have to face facts, pet. We’re all worried. Your friend is a pilot. They flew over Dunkirk helping to keep the stranded lads safe. Planes ditched, Daisy, and some got shot down.’
‘You have to tell Mum. I’m going to try. None of them’s dead and when Adair – if Adair – needs me or wants to teach me, he’ll find me easy enough.’
Fred shook his head sadly but turned and left the shop. Daisy sat down and listened to his steps on the stairs.
That night Rose persuaded Daisy to go dancing with her and some friends from the munitions factory. It was a chance for Daisy to wear an emerald-green rayon dress that Flora had altered for summer wear but which would not be out of place on the dance floor Apart from its attractive heart-shaped neckline with the yellow edging, it was spangled with white flowers, which Flora had crocheted on winter evenings. Daisy did try to enter into the spirit of the evening but she was aware that, apart from herself, everyone on the floor was actively involved in war work. She dismissed her time spent fire-watching and the hours she spent in the first-aid classes – it was not real work. Her father could talk as much as he liked about the necessity for honest shopkeepers in this time of trouble.
It’s too easy, she said to herself. Apart from the few deliveries you make – and those will come to a halt if the rumours about petrol rationing are true – you don’t even have to go out in the rain. Time to come to a decision.
Seeing her sister and her friends a happy part of the throng on the dance floor, Daisy slipped out. No doubt Rose would think she had found a partner in another part of the hall. The lads from Vickers were good lads and would see all the girls home safely and so she need not worry about her sister. Stan, who often partnered Rose at dances, was a favourite with all the Petries.
Daisy hurried home through streets strangelyunfamiliar, the lights dimmed or non-existent. Here and there, people scurried about their business as unobtrusively as possible, and no cheery greetings rang out on the still summer air. She was relieved to see the front of the shop loom up before her and slowed her pace in case her parents were still awake. They would be sure to ask why she had had to hurry and why she was alone. She stopped at the shop window to make sure she had her key to the side door. Her little change purse with the key inside was deep down in her coat pocket and, as she stood fishing it out, she heard a strange sound coming from the alley that ran along the side of the shop.
Daisy, suddenly reminded of her father’s constant warnings to her and to her sister about ‘wandering home alone late at night’, froze to the spot and listened more intensely.
Scuffling and rustling and occasional hushed voices.
Someone, obviously up to no good, was a
t the side door to the family flat. What was she to do? Her parents, if they were awake, were on the other side of the building. Even if she were to break the shop window – and how she could manage that she had no idea – it was probable that Fred would not hear it. And what if she smashed an expensive window only to discover that a courting couple were sheltering in a doorway?
Come on, Daisy Petrie, there’s a war on, and you keep moaning about wanting to do something meaningful and the first chance you get – you do nothing. Holding her breath, she listened again. Was that a crackling noise? What made crackling noises? Fire.
Daisy raced round the corner.
A tea crate was on fire. Two shapes – boys, she thought – were manoeuvring the crate against the wooden door, not of the flat but of the lockup across the alleyway.
‘Hey, stop!’ she shouted.
The boys stopped – for a split second.
‘Give ’er one, Jake,’ yelled the bigger one. ‘The door’s catching perfect.’
Jake was obviously afraid to hit Daisy, who shook her head in mixed sorrow and anger. She knew these lads. Were they not always in the group who needed anything that was being sold at a discount? A quick glance told her that they had tried and failed to force the door open. Silly boys. Inside the lockup stood the shop van. Did they want to steal it?
She tried to scare them off. ‘ARP warden’ll be round here in a jiff, you two – with a policeman, I shouldn’t wonder – and you two’ll be in Borstal afore you—’
She had no time to tell them what they would have no time to do as the older and larger of the boys, furious both with Daisy for interfering and Jake for not ‘giving her one’ threw himself at Daisy, knocking her to the ground. The last thing she heard was, ‘Oh Gawd, our George, you’ve killed her.’
Daisy woke several hours later with a splitting headache and an immediate irresistible urge to be very, very sick. The next fifteen minutes were too hideously uncomfortable for her to worry about modesty, which was just as well as she found urgent unknown hands stripping her of her nightgown and the same hands, surprisingly competent, washing her.
