by Ruby Jackson
Since they had already arrived at the shop Fred didn’t answer. He closed the door behind them and locked it. Then he walked to the foot of the staircase and called up, ‘I’ve somebody here wanting a cuppa, Flora, anything doing?’
A few minutes later a slightly flustered Flora was at the top of the stairs seeing one of her children walking upstairs.
‘Hello, Mum, ten days’ leave. Today was passing out parade.’
Naturally she had to explain what ‘passing out’ meant and then had to take off her handbag from where she’d strung it across her body, having no free hand because of finding the lost suitcase. In her handbag were her papers that showed that Aircraftswoman Petrie Daisy was now a mechanic, first class.
‘Oh, we’re that proud of you, and just wait till Rose hears, and our Phil.’
Fred explained that letters from Phil were few and far between. ‘We hadn’t heard a peep since he left after Christmas and then your mum gets four all at once just two weeks ago. Very confusing since we didn’t know which one to open first. First letter says the new ship is the last word and the next one says he hoped they’d soon transfer to their new ship. He’s been in Malta, would you believe, but they couldn’t go ashore. They was just delivering supplies and I think something happened to the ship there and that’s why they needed a new one. Malta’s had a battering, and no supplies getting through. But you can read them later. Now have a nice cuppa while we wait for Rose. Tell us all about where you go next and then we’ll let Rose tell her news.’
‘She’s not marrying Stan?’ asked Daisy as she accepted a cup from her mother. To her horror, Flora burst into tears.
Fred and his daughter tried to soothe and comfort her but Flora was too upset. They held her and let her cry until she hiccuped to a halt.
‘Drink your tea, Mum. You’ll feel better.’
Flora found her handkerchief in her apron pocket, wiped her wet cheeks, and then blew her nose somewhat ferociously. ‘Why would I be worried about Stan? It’s you I’m worried about.’
Daisy had not the slightest idea what her mother meant. She could not know about Adair, could she?
‘Great, here’s Rose,’ she said in excitement, and began to run downstairs.
‘No, Daisy, don’t hug me,’ said Rose. I’m filthy. We had a bit of a fire; I’m covered in smoke and stink to high heaven. Mum, Dad, see you in a minute.’ She disappeared into the bathroom and Daisy returned to the kitchen.
‘A fire? In a munitions factory? Who’d credit it?’
‘She’s OK?’ asked Flora, getting to her feet.
‘Just needs a bath, Mum. Know what’s the best thing about the WAAF? Showers. Next base might not even have hot water; some have—’ She stopped as a look of distress had crossed Flora’s face. ‘What is it, Mum? Rose’s fine.’
‘Oh, Daisy, love, Alf told us. He said you was upset.’
So that was what had made her cry. Not Rose and whatever her news was, but Adair. She closed her eyes for a second. She should have known she would have to talk about … about Adair’s death. But how could she without losing control herself?’
She took a deep breath. ‘Right, let’s talk about this once and then it’s over, Mum, over.’ Could she tell them the absolute truth, tell of the wonder of falling in love and the greater wonder of having that love returned? If they discovered the real tragedy, they would weep more. She tried to smile. ‘Adair, my friend, a very special friend, was shot down and killed. He’s buried in the crypt at The Old Manor because the house belongs to his family. But Alf hasn’t seen me, I wasn’t there, and so he shouldn’t have said anything to you about me. I lost another friend. Now I’m going to change out of my uniform and we won’t talk about it any more.’
She did not wait for an answer from either parent but as she walked away she heard Flora say, ‘She’s bottling it all up inside, Fred, and that’s not good.’
In the small bedroom that she had shared with Rose for eighteen years, Daisy took off her blue uniform and hung it up in the wardrobe. Then she found her old dressing gown, put it on and lay down on her bed with her eyes closed. Sam missing, Ron dead, Charlie dead, Adair dead. What good would crying do? It could not bring the dead to life again.
‘Daisy.’ Rose had come back in. ‘Super to see you. Heavens, it’s months. Sorry about your friend.’
She could not talk, even to Rose, the sister who had shared every secret of her life, her other half. She had a feeling that once started, talking or weeping, she would never stop. She sat up and watched Rose brush her lovely hair and smiled as she remembered how she had envied her sister’s golden curls. ‘Mum says you have news. I thought she meant that you were getting married.’
‘Married? What an awful thought. No, I’ve finally applied to the ATS. We’re army really, and there’s lots of jobs, everything from cooking and cleaning, which I will not do, all the way up to driving lorries and even staff cars, you know, for senior officers and the like. Just think, Daisy, what if I was to drive Mr Churchill? Would Dad ever come off the ceiling?’
‘He’d be the proudest man in England, Rose. It does sound fantastic.’ Daisy remembered the driver who had driven Tomas – a man, and in air force uniform, but she said nothing. After all, maybe each service had its own rules.
‘I had to get permission, and Mum didn’t want Dad to sign, but I said if he didn’t I’d run off to London or somewhere and get a job in a garage till I was older.’ She saw the expression on Daisy’s face and laughed. ‘I could get a job in a garage, Daisy, because I’m good and I’m not exactly what you’d call a delicate little flower, am I? And Daze, it’s easier now. Two years ago, there was lots of men. There aren’t so many available now, so …’ She stopped as tears of unbearable grief began to run silently down Daisy’s face. Rose got onto the bed beside her, held her sister in her arms and they stayed there until much later, when Flora tentatively called them for supper.
SEVENTEEN
A letter from Grace was sent on from Halton and Daisy answered it, explaining that she had no idea where she was to be posted now that she had finished her training. To Grace’s request for news of Sam, she was able to say nothing but did pass on the Red Cross address in Geneva and, of course, told her friend that if any news was received, Grace would be informed. Apart from her concern over Sam’s wellbeing, Grace had written of little except the pleasure she felt at being outdoors in lovely weather watching much-needed food grow.
It was quite a happy letter and Daisy was pleased.
Her father told her that he had met Alf Humble at the farmers’ market.
‘He hopes you’ll cycle out to see them, pet. Nancy needs a bit of bolstering too. She loved that lad like he were her own.’
‘I can’t Dad, not yet.’ She did not add that she felt that if she were to go out to Old Manor Farm a ghost would accompany her. It would walk with her up the driveway, sit with her under the shade of a great tree, laugh with her … No, she sent her love and added, ‘Next time.’ She knew the ghost would be there because he was with her now. Sitting wrapped in her sister’s loving arms she had felt the most amazing peace, had looked up and there looking at her were Charlie and Adair, both smiling. That was when she learned that the people we love do not die. They stay alive in the heart for ever. There were no memories of Adair in the flat above the shop, but at the farm … she could not bear them, not yet.
Each day of her leave she helped her mother with housework or with cooking, and she waited until Bernie had brought the mail. But she could not speak even to Bernie, and waited, heart in mouth, at the top of the stair until he carried on with his round. She did force herself to go down to talk to Miss Partridge and to show her the beautiful recovered frock.
It was surprisingly easy to talk to Miss Partridge; Daisy had never appreciated her more.
‘How lovely, Daisy, dear, and how wonderful that there is still honesty in this sad little world of ours. You shall wear it again, won’t you, at some lovely occasion at your next base? How
terribly exciting.’ She sighed. ‘I should so love to see you wear it, my dear.’
And so Daisy had hurried back to the flat with the dress and had made a splendid entrance wearing it and, oh, something she had quite forgotten, a pair of silver dancing shoes that Charlie had sworn hurt her feet.
That was when she had taken the silver-framed picture of Charlie out of the drawer and put it proudly on the little mantelpiece in her bedroom. She saw Charlie with her heart; let others see her with their eyes.
Each day life grew brighter. If only the letter about her posting would come.
Flora and Miss Partridge were in the shop a few mornings later when they were surprised to see a Roman Catholic priest walking down the street, obviously looking for a particular number.
‘I’ve never seen this priest before, Flora,’ said Miss Partridge. ‘I thought I knew most of the clergymen in the area. Wonder who he’s looking for. Let’s hope George hasn’t been up to something.’
George and Jake Preston, Daisy had been delighted to see, were doing extremely well at Petrie’s Groceries and Fine Teas where, each day, Flora looked forward to cooking their next meal.
The priest saw them watching his progress and tipped his hat to them as he stopped outside on the pavement. To their surprise he then walked to the shop door and came in.
Flora had no idea how to address a priest and since, in her opinion, High Church Miss Partridge knew all there was to know about religious matters, she urged her forward.
‘Good morning, Father, may we help you?’
‘Good morning,’ said the priest. ‘I am looking for Mrs Petrie, Mrs Flora Petrie.’
‘I’m Mrs Petrie,’ said Flora, ‘but what can I do for you?’ She tried but found that she could not bring herself to address a man young enough to be her son as ‘Father’. This one, too, had a foreign accent, a familiar one, but she could not place it.
The priest took a very creased and crushed envelope out of his pocket and with a smile handed it to Flora. ‘This has taken some time to reach you, Mrs Petrie, and for that I do apologise. Please do read it and then we can talk, yes?’
‘Perhaps you could take Father …?’ Miss Partridge looked questioningly at the priest.
‘Petrungero. Alessandro Petrungero.’
‘Flora, why don’t you go upstairs where you can sit down? I’ll take care of the shop, don’t worry.’
‘Would you like to come up to the flat …? I’ll make tea.’
Flora led the way upstairs and into their rarely used front room.
‘Don’t concern yourself with me, Mrs Petrie. I will sit here and you can read your letter and then ask me whatever you want.’
Father Petrungero sat down in one of the two armchairs and Flora seated herself on the sofa. She looked at the envelope but it told her nothing and again she looked at the priest as if she could not bring herself to hope for happiness.
‘Read your letter, Mrs Petrie. It reached me from a good friend in Switzerland.’
Flora opened the envelope, carefully so as not to damage either the envelope or the paper inside. Her heart leaped with joy as she recognised the handwriting.
Dear Mum, Dad and family,
It’s me, Sam, and I’m safe. I can’t tell you where I’m staying except that I’m in Italy. The people are very kind and took care of me when I got here and never asked for nothing. I will still be fighting and I will work for my keep – this is a poor country and I can’t just take. Trust who brings this to you. There are good people everywhere.
I love you all,
Sam
By the time she had finished reading, tears were streaming down her cheeks. She lifted the letter to her face to try to reread but the words swam before her eyes.
‘Let me make a pot of tea, Mrs Petrie.’
Flora had recovered her composure by the time Father Petrungero had made tea. He found cups and milk, and brought the filled cups into the front room.
‘Very pleasant room, Mrs Petrie. I imagine the family has had some lovely times in here.’
He chatted on about the flat, the street, Dartford and his own home, Rome, and by the time he had finished describing several of Rome’s historic sites, Flora was prepared to ask questions.
‘My Sam’s well?’
‘He says he is.’
‘But you haven’t heard or – ’ she started up from her chair – ‘you haven’t seen him?’
‘No. I am but one of many cogs in a wheel, Mrs Petrie, useful only because I speak English and Italian. The letter came, as I said, from a friend in Switzerland. He received it from his brother in Rome, who received it from someone in the place where your son is hiding.’
‘And where’s that? Oh, please tell me, and tell me how he got to where he is.’
He leaned forward and looked at Flora out of eyes that were too old for his face, eyes that had seen things no one should be made to see. ‘Mrs Petrie, very brave people are caring for your son and for others like him. They have little, but what they have they share. One of them has risked a great deal by starting this letter on its journey across Europe. It is like a chain, one end is here in Dartford, and the other end is wherever Sam is.’
‘It’s dangerous, isn’t it?’
‘Yes,’ he answered simply.
‘Can you tell them we thank them more than we can say?’
He smiled and stood up. ‘They know that. Goodbye for now, Mrs Petrie.’
‘Will I … can he …?’ She stopped, fearful of asking too much.
‘God bless you, and if a letter comes, someone will get it to you.’
She walked with him to the top of the stairs. ‘Don’t come down,’ he said, ‘I know the way.’
‘Thank you, Father.’ She was surprised at how easily the word slipped out now.
Daisy and the priest passed each other in the doorway. He raised his hat to her and, at the same time, she stepped aside to let the clergyman go first. She was taken completely by surprise when she entered the family shop only to see her mother and the very proper Miss Partridge dancing around, narrowly avoiding the barrels of rice and lentils.
‘Well, well,’ laughed Daisy. ‘Lovely footwork, Miss Partridge. Don’t ask me to return your frocks.’
Two middle-aged ladies, feeling decidedly silly, stopped their mad waltz and Flora handed Daisy the letter. ‘Look at that, Daisy Petrie, and tell me if it doesn’t deserve a dance.’
Daisy, who had been walking in the lovely Central Park, took the thin scrap of paper and read it. ‘Oh, Mum, oh, Mum …’ She could say no more.
‘I’m going off to the ARP depot to let your dad see this. Can’t bear for him not to read it until tonight. Will you two look after the shop?’
She took their assent for granted and without even putting on a cardigan, hurried out of the shop. Daisy looked in dismay at Miss Partridge. She had not planned to help in the shop.
‘George will be here soon, Daisy, dear, and, in the meantime, you must face old customers sometime; most of them will be quite in awe of you, you know. Everyone knows you’re a WAAF and everyone knows that you have had flying lessons. You’re quite the celebrity.’
‘I don’t want—’ began Daisy.
‘We very rarely do get what we want out of life, my dear. Now off you go upstairs and make us a nice cup of tea. Father Alessandro made it for Flora but she was too excited to remember me. I’ll hold off the starving masses till you come back down.’
Daisy was laughing as she went upstairs. When had she last laughed? Miss Partridge was funny. How could she possibly have terrorised them, even Sam, as they were growing up? How had they not been able to see her, the real Miss Partridge? ‘I see you now, dear Miss Partridge,’ she whispered, as she put another half-spoon of tea leaves in the pot.
The hour she spent in the shop with Miss Partridge was not a busy one. The vicar came in for his allocation of eggs and assured her that he was there if, at any time, she needed to talk or seek counsel. ‘Did you really have flying lessons,
Daisy?’
‘Yes, Vicar, and we flew over the church and I waved to you but, of course, it was daylight and you weren’t guarding the tower.’
‘How exciting, Daisy, dear. I should like to see what this little world of ours looks like from the sky.’
‘You will, Vicar,’ said Miss Partridge, and Daisy held her breath until the vicar laughed and then she joined in.
‘I do hope so, my dear Miss Partridge, I do hope so.’
‘Such a holy man,’ said Miss Partridge when the vicar had left with his two eggs. ‘And surprisingly practical. My own dear father was functioning on a different level from the rest of the family. So impossible to communicate with and, of course, his church would have burned to the ground before he could work out how to use a stirrup pump. That word always makes me smell horses. Don’t know why.’
Daisy, wisely, said nothing and turned round to serve Mrs Roberts, who had come in to see if Daisy was actually working in the shop.
‘You’re looking well, Daisy. And different somehow.’
‘I’m older, Mrs Roberts.’
‘Grown up too fast, lass, like all our young people. I hear you’re in the WAAF and passed your examinations.’
‘Yes, I did,’ said Daisy as she weighed tea leaves on the beautiful brass scales.
‘Never thought I’d say good can sometimes come out of bad, but it’s true. The world will be a different place for women when this war is over. They told me you flew a plane, well, I know that’s not true – men would never allow it – but life’s opening up, isn’t it, lass?’
‘Yes, Mrs Roberts.’
‘Hope you weighed this proper.’ She held up her packet of tea leaves as if testing the weight.
‘Yes, Mrs Roberts.’ Through the wide shop window Daisy was delighted to see her parents walking home, arm in arm. Their son had contacted them. They were happy.
