Churchill’s Angels

by Ruby Jackson

  ‘Are you still floating, Adair?’

  ‘Floating? Learned in the swimming baths at school. Knew a chap who could lie there and read. Never managed that but learned to drift. Lovely. Drifting on top of the water.’

  ‘Your head?’

  ‘Hurts. Heading for some farm workers, Daisy.’ He seemed agitated and tried to rise but fell back down.

  ‘You missed them.’ Please God let me be right. Alf would have said something.

  ‘Tried to pull her up over them. Remember stones, lots of stones.’

  ‘Time for you to leave, miss. Has he been reliving the crash?’ The nurse, Frank, was beside the bed.

  She nodded.

  ‘You hit a dry-stone dyke, lad. The farm workers would have been softer but they’re grateful to you.’

  ‘Thank God,’ said Daisy.

  ‘Thank the pilot, love. The farmer said he can’t understand where he got the strength – pulled his bird out of a nosedive, up, and bang, destroyed his dyke. Cheap at the price. Now off you go and don’t come back till visiting hours. Go on, give him a kiss and scarper.’

  Daisy looked up at Frank and down at Adair, whose eyes were closed. She bent, and very gently kissed his lips, almost the only part of his face not bruised and battered.

  She had just left the room when a nursing sister sailed down the corridor towards the ward.

  ‘I am pretending that I do not see you, young woman. Now run before I step on you.’

  Daisy ran.

  THIRTEEN

  Daisy visited Adair every day – at the proper visiting hours, until the end of her leave.

  The first few days had been difficult as he was heavily sedated. She was glad to find out that his ‘floating’ was nothing serious, merely his way of trying to explain how he felt as the medications took effect.

  Daisy saw Frank Wishaw almost every day too, and took him a plate of her mother’s apple turnovers for the nurses’ tea break. He was devoted to his work and to his patients, having been a very young volunteer during the Great War.

  ‘That’s where I learned to look after people, Daisy. It was a mess out there – still have nightmares about the trenches – but at least I got a career out of it.’

  As a seventeen-year-old, Frank, big enough to be taken for a man much older, had been pressed into service by an overworked doctor. At first he carried injured or even dead soldiers, and the doctor had been impressed by the respectful way in which the big lad had treated the patients. ‘I got on-the-field first-hand training from one of the best in the business and managed to get into nurses’ training in the early thirties. Shocked people, a man wanting to be a nurse, not a doctor, but things are changing.’

  ‘Would you have liked to train as a doctor, Frank?’

  ‘A lad from Billingsgate, grateful to get a job hefting crates of fish? Lord love you, lass, I left school at twelve and wasn’t there much when I was there. Got most of my education right there on the battlefield from a saint.’ He stared into his cup, and his face was sad.

  ‘Where is he now?’

  ‘Blown to bits in 1918, two days before the war ended. Now, you best get off and say goodbye to your squadron leader. Any idea where you’re going to next?’

  ‘Not yet. Hope it’s somewhere where there’s real planes to work on.’

  ‘Watch out for them propellers. You wouldn’t believe the number of … cut arms there are on airfields.’

  ‘I’ll be careful, Frank,’ said Daisy, who knew that he had substituted ‘cut arms’ for the truer ‘severed arms’. ‘And remember, my mum’s expecting you to drop in for a cuppa on your day off.’

  They said goodbye rather sadly as Daisy had come to like and admire the nurse. Adair too spoke highly of him. They knew that, like Adair, he had no real family and so Daisy had taken him home with her one day. Flora, mother of five, had immediately decided that Frank needed to be looked after, and was she not the very person to do it?

  ‘Between your little crooks and Frank, she’ll have something concrete to do for the war effort, instead of worrying and moping over us,’ the twins had agreed happily.

  But now in the hospital for the last time, Daisy wondered how she would cope in the coming weeks when she could not see Adair or ask Frank, splendid Frank, how he was. Adair’s wounds were healing. His broken leg had been set, and other damage to the leg repaired, the three bullets that had lodged in his shoulder and arm had been removed and the areas were healing nicely, as were the bruises, bumps and cuts on his head. He had stopped ‘floating’ but sometimes, or so it seemed to Daisy, he was ill at ease, their conversation stilted.

  She walked along the now so familiar corridor, acknowledging, as she walked, the various members of staff whom she had met, and admitting for the first time that it was the kiss, nothing more than a soft pressure of her lips on his, that was the problem.

  She had visited him every day since and, depending on his condition, had either gently kissed his bruised face as she left or not kissed him at all. Adair had never referred to the kiss. He had been unconscious, surely, when she had kissed his lips. Or had he merely been ‘floating’ and found her forward?

  Oh, how she wished that she were more experienced. She should have tagged along with Rose to those dances. Had Rose not told her, just last night, that in the few years since they had left school she had kissed, she thought, at least nine lads?

  And she can’t even remember for sure, worried the despairing Daisy. Most of the men she herself had met in the past five years were either delightful old men like Mr Fischer or totally unsuitable men, military personnel like Tomas Sapenak – or Adair Maxwell.

  She managed to smile as she walked down the length of the busy ward. Some men were sitting up chatting to visitors, but these were in the minority. Most relatives and friends lived too far away to visit on a regular basis. One or two of the beds were curtained off because the patient was desperately ill. Daisy caught a glimpse of a middle-aged woman, sitting by the bed of a man who probably did not even know she was there. She had been there the last two times Daisy had visited. Has she even left his bedside? Daisy wondered. She looks exactly the same each time, hat, coat, gloves, her Sunday best. His mother, perhaps?

  Daisy felt oppressed by grief and was glad to reach Adair’s bed. He was sitting up watching her. She took his hand. ‘Hello.’

  ‘Hello, Daisy Petrie.’

  She was lost for words. Where was she to start? What could she or should she say?

  She started with his nurse. ‘Mum’s going to look after Nurse Wishaw. He loves her apple turnovers; that was all it took.’

  ‘I’m glad. He’s a wonderful man but too lonely.’

  Both were silent for a moment, neither seeming able to say what was uppermost in the mind.

  ‘Your leave is over, Daisy.’

  She felt her eyes brighten with tears. ‘Yes.’

  ‘Any idea where you’re going?’

  ‘Haven’t received anything so far.’

  ‘I was awake, Daisy, and absolutely compos mentis.’

  She bowed her head.

  ‘You wouldn’t have kissed me had you known?’

  ‘I don’t know.’

  He held out his free hand, now released from the sling. ‘Please come over here, Daisy Petrie.’

  She moved forward so that she was standing at the head of the bed, near his head. She was still holding his left hand.

  ‘There’s a chair. Please sit down.’

  She obeyed.

  ‘I like seeing you sitting there, Daisy. I like seeing you.’

  Love scenes in the cinema didn’t go like this – if this is a love scene. What could she say; what should she say?

  The truth. ‘I like seeing you, Adair.’

  ‘Enough to lean over and kiss me?’

  ‘Oh, Adair, of course I do.’ She leaned over and he whispered, ‘Not my bruises this time,’ and she obliged by kissing his lips.

  She had released his hands and he reached up and pulled he
r towards him and returned the kiss. No gentle kiss now but a kiss that sent rivers of fire coursing through her body.

  ‘Allow your visitor to come up for air, Squadron Leader.’

  Frank was there. ‘Surgeon wants to have a look at his leg, Daisy. Can you wait outside for a few minutes?’

  Daisy stood up, ready to go.

  ‘You could give him a little more medicine, pet; seems to be doing him a world of good.’

  Daisy blushed but was quite happy to lean forward again but this time the kiss was a chaste pressure on his forehead.

  ‘See, Nurse,’ said Adair. ‘Doesn’t my bruise look better?’

  Daisy laughed and went off to wait in the hospital canteen until the surgeon’s visit was over.

  When she returned she heard that the surgeon had expressed his delight that each of Adair’s wounds was healing beautifully, so much so that he would be allowed to go to a convalescent facility where he would receive physiotherapy for his injured leg. There would be, he assured Adair, no lasting difficulty. Squadron Leader Maxwell could well be in action within weeks, not months.

  Adair was delighted. Daisy was not. Her time in Wiltshire was over and, as yet, she had no knowledge of where she would be sent next. Several bases had training facilities for mechanics, engineers and such. She could be sent to any one of them, and some were a long way from the London area. She had been so grateful to Sergeant Gordon for his offer to recommend her that asking for any more help would never occur to her.

  She had had one more poignant meeting with Adair.

  ‘You will write, Daisy?’

  She nodded.

  ‘I have no idea when we’ll see each other again, possibly not for months.’

  She held back the tears that she could feel forming. ‘There’s a war on, Officer.’

  He laughed and looked eloquently at his bandages. ‘Sorry, ma’am, I forgot.’

  Daisy stood up. She knew that if she sat there by the bed, holding his hand a second longer, she would begin to weep and a letter in a magazine she had read on the train from Wiltshire had advised Forces Sweethearts never to cry in the presence of a loved one: ‘Be brave and show him only a smiling face. Weep when you are alone.’

  ‘I’d best go.’

  He gripped her hand. ‘There’s a lot I want to say to you, Daisy Petrie, but it’s too soon. There’s an entire lovely summer to enjoy and let’s try to meet, but if I have leave at Christmas, I’ll ask Alf and Nancy to have me.’

  ‘I’ll try to be at home for Christmas.’

  ‘We could meet.’

  She nodded.

  ‘In the meantime, we’ll write. Not stiff little letters, Daisy, but letters from you, telling me about all your work and the new base. Tell me about the happy things too, Daisy. I want you to join in and to have fun. There are all sorts of good things on a large base: sports facilities, a swimming pool, a cinema, even theatre groups.’

  ‘Gosh, no. My friend Sally is the actress. She’s going to be very famous, and an actor manager has asked her to join an ENSA troop.’

  ‘Good for Sally. ENSA is a great morale booster.’

  A sharp spear of envy entered her. Adair was impressed by Sally. Immediately she was ashamed of herself. ‘She’s very good and really beautiful.’

  ‘Kiss me goodbye, beautiful, special Daisy.’

  The tears waited until she was on her way home.

  It was a perfect early summer evening. Lilacs were in bloom on trees in almost every garden on King Edward Avenue. Late tulips marched along garden paths, covering the ground in a lovely carpet of gold and red. The colours and the scents of the lilacs should have cheered her but she felt pressed down by a weight of unhappiness. Just when she was beginning to really know Adair, to openly welcome whatever was growing between them, they were to part. No walking out for Daisy Petrie. No sitting in the cinema, hot hand clutching hot hand, no stopping some evening at a dance in a social hall, no walking home, arm in arm along lilac-scented avenues. The scent of the lilacs was now completely obliterated by the residual smell of burning – so much beauty and ugliness, side by side. In the gutter at her feet were three shell casings and she bent down to pick them up. Metal. Think positively. Collect it for the war effort.

  Daisy dropped the casings into her handbag and, before starting off again, looked for a moment at a beautiful sky.

  This will end, she decided, and I will see him again – some day soon.

  Petrie’s Groceries and Fine Teas was full of people when Daisy arrived back from the hospital. The shop was often very busy, especially on Fridays, when pay packets or allowances were received, and on Saturday mornings for the same reasons, but this was just another day. Perhaps a special consignment was in of some foodstuff that had been in short supply?

  ‘Daisy, my dear, have you heard the news?’ Miss Partridge doing her utmost to answer all the questions was battling nobly behind the counter. ‘Your mother is upstairs making yet another pot of tea – perhaps you could help her.’

  ‘What’s happened? Where’s Dad?’

  ‘I want your dear mother to tell you, and your father has gone to the wholesaler’s.’

  Daisy muscled her way through the women who were talking loudly and vociferously. She caught snatches of conversation.

  ‘Wonderful …’

  ‘High time poor Mrs P had something to cheer her up …’

  ‘I heard there was some Cheddar. Anybody see the Cheddar …?’

  She fled past the crowd and ran upstairs and into the kitchen. Her mother, trying to wipe away the tears streaming down her face, was loading a tray with cups and the kettle was singing on the hotplate. ‘Mum, what on earth’s going on?’

  On hearing her Flora turned round. ‘Oh, Daisy, pet, you’ll never believe it,’ she said before once more bursting into tears.

  Daisy took the milk bottle her mother was holding and set it down on the table. ‘Now, forget this tea party you’re giving, and tell me what’s going on.’

  Flora took her handkerchief from her apron pocket and blew her nose. ‘Read it yourself, pet. Isn’t it a miracle?’

  For a fleeting moment Daisy thought she was going to hear that Ron was not dead after all, but she read the name ‘Sam’ on the flimsy paper that her mother had handed to her.

  ‘Bernie’s told the whole street, and the people we’ve had in today … two ounces of this, a packet of that, but really they wanted to hear the news.’

  Daisy read the short letter from the Red Cross offices in Geneva and burst into tears, and for a few minutes mother and daughter cried happily together. Daisy recovered first and read the letter aloud.

  Dear Mr Petrie,

  A message has been received from the German authorities that your son Sergeant Sam Petrie escaped from a working party on 4 April of this year and is still at large. We will send further news as we receive it.

  ‘Sam’s escaped? Where is he? Where was he? Is he alone?’

  ‘We don’t know, but he’s free, Daisy, free, and he’ll be on his way home, and I won’t let him leave again.’

  Daisy was thrilled but she was also very afraid. They had never been able to ascertain where Sam was being held or if he had been moved. Was he in Germany or Poland or somewhere else entirely? And how would a man from Dartford manage in a country where he did not speak the language?

  A hundred questions rushed without answers into her mind. Was he in uniform? Had they worn prison uniform? Either one would identify him. Did he have any foreign money? Had he learned any of the language in the prison camp? Again she wondered if he was alone. Alone and frightened? No, Sam Petrie feared nothing and could handle anything.

  She smiled brightly at her mother. ‘You’d better get that new jumper started,’ she said. She would keep her fears and worries to herself. ‘Now away downstairs to all those people and I’ll take care of the tea party.’

  Much later, after the shop had finally closed, and all the teacups, even the best ones from the display cupboard in the fro
nt room, were washed and put away, Fred, Flora and their daughters sat round the table in the kitchen and caught up with one another.

  ‘Great to have a night off,’ said Fred, ‘and I’ll be a happy man if I can sleep in my own bed tonight.’ He tried to suppress a groan as he looked at the evening meal Flora had prepared.

  Food rationing and shortages were really pinching the country now. Even though they owned a grocery shop the Petries were adamant that they would have only the rations or allocations to which they were entitled. Everything was in short supply, and tonight, after Flora’s generosity of the afternoon, the family were eating fish cakes made without fish. There was not even a fresh egg to bind the mashed potatoes and beans together.

  His hunger and his dislike of fish cakes without even a bit of tinned fish – surely Flora could have found some sardines – reminded Fred of an exciting possibility. ‘You’ll never guess what I heard at the ARP station this afternoon – popped in to make sure they didn’t need me.’

  ‘What did you hear, Dad?’ Rose asked as she pushed her ‘fish cake’ round and round her plate.

  ‘Everyone’s keeping pigs. Great idea—’ he began but was interrupted.

  ‘Where are we supposed to keep a pig, Fred Petrie, and who’s going to kill it?’

  Fred reached out his hand and patted Flora’s as she placed her fork on the table. ‘Gently, love, Tom Stafford at the fire station is who. Well, I don’t know if Tom hisself is planning to kill it, but he’s willing to put up a pen and shelter and start a pig club. There’s a bit of land at the back and there’ll be a big notice right on the front window asking for scraps but, more importantly, Tom’s looking for folk who’ll take a share of the pig. He thinks maybe five shillings a share or four shillings and sixpence – seemingly that sounds better. We bring our scraps, like that plateful you’re playing with, our Rose, and then come Christmas we get a lovely share. Just think, fresh pork or a nice bit of bacon or, better still, ham for Christmas dinner. What do you say now, Flora, love?’