by Ruby Jackson
‘Not this Saturday, Bella, maybe another week.’
‘So you are as stuck up as Miss Frozen Pea. Your loss,’ said Bella, and turned away to start picking up her meal.
Feeling rather miserable, Daisy had no choice but to follow her and when she had her selection she walked around the hut looking for a seat.
‘Seat here, Petrie,’ called a WAAF, waving madly.
Thankfully Daisy sat down at a table where several WAAFs were seated and, thankfully, recognised two from her billet. It was the most enjoyable meal she had had since she arrived. The food was … nourishing, she decided was the best word to describe it, but with the two girls, Joan and Maggie, introducing themselves – and all the others calling out their names and smiling a welcome – she began to feel part of the camp.
In one of their first lectures the recruits had been told much of the history of the base. It had been a private estate owned by the de Rothschild family. Before the Great War, the then owner had offered the estate to the army for summer manoeuvres. His initial generous offer had expanded as the war had gone on, and in 1917 a technical school had been established on the estate. By the end of the war, thousands of well-trained technicians had passed though its doors. In 1919 the estate was bought by the War Office to be the training base for officer cadets in the newly formed Royal Air Force.
Daisy could hardly believe that her own Prime Minister, Winston Churchill, had been a key figure in the forming of the air force.
Dad’ll be fascinated by that, she thought, him being a big fan of Mr Churchill, and just think, because of something our Prime Minister said before I was even born, I’m here learning a life-changing trade and so are thousands of other people, men and women.
She was more excited and inspired than ever. Even if she never flew she would help keep planes flying, and all those pilots would be thinking of people like the boy on the Heath, his mum, Charlie and her dad.
I’m here to learn, she told herself, and that comes before any old swimming pool.
It was her training instructor who talked to her about mixing business and pleasure.
‘You’re doing well, Daisy, you’re a natural, but I never see you around the base or going into Wendover or even Halton; nice little village. All work and no play. Not good. I am ordering you to go to the cinema on Friday night. Errol Flynn’s on. You women like him.’
‘Not as much as he likes himself, Corporal. James Stewart, now …’
‘I don’t care who it is, girl. Go to the cinema.’
Daisy looked at him. Corporal Singer was not all that much older than she was, ten, fifteen years maybe. He was not much taller either, which some of the girls said spoiled his chances. Daisy did not think height or age would concern her too much if she really liked someone, and Corporal Singer was likeable. He was terrific at his job; there was nothing about aircraft engines that he did not know and, possibly more importantly, he was very patient. Once or twice one of her fellow WAAFs had burst into tears of frustration – but the trainer merely continued calmly and allowed the girl to recover without making a show of her. Not all the trainers were patient. Many, in fact, made it clear right from the start that they had no tolerance for women in the services, except as cooks and cleaners. That attitude often led to hostility.
Desperate as she was to finish the course successfully, Daisy decided that she would accept the corporal’s suggestion and take some time off from her studying. She liked swimming but had no costume with her and so, for the moment, swimming was out. Thanks to Mr Brewer she had seen all the films advertised in the base cinema but she looked at the Recruits’ Notice Board to see what else might be on offer.
A visit to a local Jacobean mansion, named Hartwell, was advertised. It sounded just the type of activity that she thought she would enjoy. She loved Dartford’s historic past and here, on the very edge of the camp, was a building where an exiled French king had lived and where his wife had died.
‘Imagine that,’ she said out loud as she read the notice, and almost jumped out of her skin when a voice behind her said, ‘Imagine what?’
Two girls from her hut, Joan and Maggie, had come up behind her quietly.
‘Wow, you two frightened the life out of me.’
‘Do you always stand talking to yourself, Daisy? Reprehensible conduct unbefitting a WAAF.’ Maggie, whose vocabulary was right up there with Charlie’s, was laughing to show that she was joking.
‘Look at that, girls,’ Daisy said, pointing to the notice. ‘There’s a tour of this house, Hartwell mansion. It says it’s Jacobean; that’s got to do with kings, isn’t it, not architecture.’
‘Probably both, but I didn’t do much history at school. I remember bits about the Romans and lots about Cavaliers and Roundheads. And When Did You Last See Your Father?’
Since the looks on the faces of Daisy and Joan clearly asked, ‘What are you talking about?’ Maggie finished off, ‘It’s the architecture that was in fashion during the reign of the first King James.’
‘It’s got lovely gardens too,’ said Daisy.
‘Then let’s rent bicycles and go over on Saturday.’
Daisy was pleased to have something planned for her free time – that should please the corporal – but she still wanted to get her letters written. As yet, she had not told Sally of her visit to her parents, and she really must write to her mother. She would love to hear about the proposed visit to the historic house. Hartwell, such a lovely name. She wondered if it had originally been spelled Heartwell, perhaps something to do with how living in or even seeing such a lovely place would make hearts feel well.
Probably totally wrong, Daisy Petrie, she told herself and looked forward to finding out for sure on the following Saturday.
At the end of classes next day she told Corporal Singer of her plans.
‘Great idea. You’re not going by yourself, are you?’
‘No, Corporal, two girls from the same hut are going with me.’
‘Good, company’s more fun,’ he said, but for a moment she felt that her answer had disappointed him.
Was he going to say he’d come too? No, don’t be conceited, Daisy. What would I have said if he had asked to come?
But that was something she definitely did not want to think about.
She recognised the writing on one of the letters that were handed to her that evening but not on the other. One was from her mother – and could wait a moment. She looked at the other letter, tried to decipher the postmark, even smelled it, but it told her nothing.
‘Are you going to read it or eat it, Daisy?’ asked Joan, who had managed to push herself into the supper line beside Daisy. ‘Maggie’s saving us seats.’
‘I don’t know who it’s from.’
‘A secret admirer. Looks very masculine writing to me. C’mon, by the time we get to what’s left of the pork, you can have read it and answered it.’
Daisy laughed and slit open the envelope.
Inside was one sheet of very thin writing paper. The address of another air base was printed on the top right-hand corner.
Dear Daisy,
Adair is now at the rehabilitation unit – address and telephone number at the end of the letter. He can’t write as he still hasn’t the use of his right hand, but he would be very happy if you would write to him from time to time, or if you would ring him any evening or send him the telephone number of your nearest telephone booth and he will ring you.
He is, he says, almost back to full strength – he is not, it will take a little more time – and is hoping to be flying soon. He would like to hear about your courses.
Be well, Daisy
It was signed ‘Tomas’.
She waited to share it until they were seated. ‘It’s from a friend of a friend who was injured recently.’ She could never tell her two new friends that the friends were both senior air force officers. ‘I’d better write to cheer him up.’
‘Him? How exciting. Tell us everything. Is he in the army? Where is
he stationed? Is he in hospital? Is he handsome? Is he rich? How old is he? Can we be your bridesmaids? Will they let you stay in the WAAF now that you’re getting married?’
The silly but good-natured questions were fired at her like bullets out of a gun. She chose to answer the one she thought the silliest. ‘No, you may not be my bridesmaids.’
As she had expected, her answer resulted in loud, mainly incomprehensible protestations, in which the words ‘utter selfishness’ featured heavily.
‘The other letter is from my mother and a postal order for five shillings is enclosed. We can have a fabulous tea at this Hartwell place.’
Daisy applied herself to her supper and thought about her letters while the talk swelled and sank around her. Her mother had also said that Alf had come in to tell her that Adair Maxwell had been moved. Flora had been unable to resist adding, ‘It’s for the best, pet.’
What did her parents fear from Adair? Daisy could count on her fingers the number of times they had met. Surely her parents did not expect a lifetime of commitment to be built on a few meetings. She, Daisy, admitted to her private self that Adair was very important to her, but surely her parents could see that he was moving cautiously too. As always, the memories of their kisses filled her with hope and longing, but she had been raised in a hard school and did not expect to have something very special handed to her on a silver plate.
‘Hello, calling Aircraftswoman Petrie. We’ve asked you twice if you want Spotted Dick for pudding.’
‘Sorry, thinking about my mum’s letter. She still hasn’t heard from the Red Cross about my brother. He was captured at Dunkirk but has escaped and we don’t know where he is.’ Flora had mentioned her concern over Sam in the letter. ‘You two would be mad for Sam. Tall, handsome, fair hair.’
‘Lead us to him, but first Spotted Dick?’
‘No, thanks, really hate raisins and sultanas.’
The three of them walked around the camp after supper. It was so vast that they were still unsure of directions, but once more it was a lovely evening and it was a joy just to stroll. So far there had been no air raids although they had had practice sessions that had mainly meant diving into great trenches. To someone from the Bomb Run of Kent it seemed very peaceful.
Daisy sat on her bed waiting for her turn in the shower and thought about a letter to Adair. Would a telephone call be easier? But Tomas had not said how late recuperating patients were allowed to stay up. She would telephone him the next evening, just before dinner. In the meantime she would study her notes on bombers.
The next evening Daisy made sure that she had plenty of pennies, although Maggie had assured her that three pence would probably be enough, and went off to make her telephone call. In her life Daisy had made very few telephone calls and was nervous, not only of speaking to Adair – although every fibre of her being longed to hear his voice – but also of the very practical aspect of putting in the correct number of pennies and of pressing the correct button. She read the instructions on the telephone very carefully, fed in her pennies and pressed button A.
Hurrah. She heard the telephone ringing and, after a few seconds, a voice said, ‘No 2 Rehabilitation Centre, Staff Nurse Hawkins speaking,’ and Daisy had time to calm down.
‘May I speak to Adair, I mean Squadron Leader Maxwell, please?’
‘And who is calling, please?’
Should she give her rank? No, best not. ‘Daisy,’ she said, ‘Daisy Petrie.’
‘Hold on and I’ll see if he’s available.’
She heard brisk footsteps going away from the telephone and across a tiled floor, and she listened to silence while she tried to hear the hum of the wires that carried the messages. Then there came a shuffling sound and at last …
‘Maxwell here.’
‘It’s Daisy.’
No one could have mistaken the joy in his voice as he repeated, ‘Daisy.’
‘Are you feeling better?’
‘Hearing your voice has …’ He stopped for a long moment and Daisy stayed listening to disembodied footsteps. ‘Hearing your voice has made me feel … wonderful. Are you well, Daisy? Are the courses going well?’
She told him about Corporal Singer’s teaching. ‘He’s ever so patient but firm too, Adair, and he knows his engines.’
She stopped as she heard him laugh.
‘Does he know his engines, my precious Daisy?’
‘You’re laughing at me. Some of them don’t know them as well as they should – to be teaching it, I mean.’
‘I’m not laughing at you, Daisy Petrie, never. I’m laughing with joy, joy that you’re part of my life. Oh God, here comes the dragon. I have to go. Be safe, Daisy Petrie.’
She stood, the cold black receiver pressed against her ear. ‘The dragon’? Who was the dragon? The sister who had brought him to the telephone? Daisy smiled with happiness. She had had Frau Führer, and he had his dragon. Frau Führer had cared deeply for her charges and, no doubt, his dragon was just as caring.
It rained all day on Saturday. Cycling and walking though gardens full of dripping trees did not fill any of the girls with enthusiasm. They agreed to leave the visit until a better day.
‘Someone’s teaching the rumba in the recreation hall,’ Joan informed them. ‘Either of you know how to rumba?’
Two blank faces looked up at her.
‘Thought not. Right, let’s get our raincoats and go over. Come on, Daisy, put that manual down. In fact, put it under your mattress till Monday morning. Auntie has spoken.’
‘There is a test next Friday and we have to pass.’
‘Can you read and write?’
‘Of course.’
‘Then you’ll pass.’
Learning to do a proper rumba might be fun, Daisy decided, and she had danced with her sister and other female friends before. Happened all the time at church socials.
‘Sounds good.’
She left the manual on top of her locker and followed Joan and Maggie out into the rain-swept road.
A few minutes later, they shrugged off wet coats in the recce hall and, to their surprise, saw that it was full of personnel, and many of them were men.
‘Hey, hey, fabulous,’ said Maggie. ‘Let’s find one with a sense of rhythm.’
Daisy had no chance to look for a partner, for she heard her name called. Hurrying across the width of the hall came Corporal Singer.
‘Hello, girls, nice to see you. Will you be my partner, Daisy?’
‘Devil you know,’ whispered Maggie as Daisy walked into the middle of the hall with her partner.
Maggie and Joan were preparing to dance together but were delighted to be approached by several men.
‘Decisions, decisions,’ laughed Maggie. ‘OK, lads, step forward any lad who doesn’t have two left feet.’
FIFTEEN
The rumba class was a great success.
Corporal Singer, whose name was Matt, was actually an extremely good dancer, and Daisy, who was quite inexperienced, soon discovered that a good partner made dancing fun. They danced to records, learning each step individually and then putting them together. She could see that her friends were also having a good time although, she decided judiciously, the airmen they were partnered with were not nearly as good as Matt. Both girls had worried less about dancing ability and more about the height of prospective partners as Maggie assured Daisy that dancing partners usually came up to her neck and Joan seemed always to be chosen by men who towered above her. On that first dancing class they smiled happily, partnered by airmen of exactly the right height.
‘Made to measure,’ they said happily as all six sat out together during a break in the dancing and drank warm beer.
At the puzzled looks from the men, the girls just laughed. ‘Don’t worry, boys. All under control.’
Matt joined in the conversation and, during the remainder of the afternoon, danced with both Joan and Maggie. Daisy was never allowed to be a wallflower, and once or twice while she was dancing she saw
Matt looking over at her. The look made her somewhat uneasy. It was almost as if he disapproved of her dancing with someone else.
Couldn’t possibly be what he’s thinking, she tried to reassure herself.
Matt himself made his feelings clear when he partnered her in a later dance. ‘You’re one of my trainees, Daisy, and you’re doing well. I like you very much and you make a really good partner – great balance – but it wouldn’t be good for us to dance together too often. I hope you understand.’
‘Understand, Matt? Understand what?’
He held her uncomfortably close as he danced her round the hall. ‘Don’t want anyone thinking you got good marks because we’re stepping out.’
Daisy was so surprised that she stopped dead, smack in the middle of the floor. ‘But we’re not.’
‘Dance, Daisy, people are looking. I know we’re not, and we won’t while you’re doing my course, but I thought week after next when the course is over, well, maybe you’d let me take you out.’
Daisy was not completely taken by surprise but she still had trouble answering immediately. To her relief, and Corporal Singer’s annoyance, she was whirled out of his arms by another burly dancer.
‘Smashin’ dancer, pet. I bin watching you all afternoon. Want to sit out and have a beer?’
‘No, thanks. I’ve had one and actually I have to go back to my hut …’ she tried to find an acceptable reason for leaving in the middle of the class, ‘… because my mother’s going to telephone.’
He took no offence. ‘OK, pet, too bad, I’ll see you another time.’
‘Right.’
Daisy was grateful that her partner stopped trampling his way around the floor and led her over to the watching dancers. Joan was there, waiting for Maggie, who was dancing.
‘Great fun, Daisy, but my feet can take no more. Are you ready to go back?’
‘Maggie won’t mind?’
‘Of course not. Wave to her and let’s get out of here.’
Daisy, with or without Matt’s help, passed the initial course and progressed to the second one. She learned nothing there that she had not learned either by trial and error or from working with Adair, and passed again. She had managed to avoid meetings with Matt, and Joan and Maggie were very good at looking out for him.
