Churchill’s Angels

by Ruby Jackson

  She took Mrs Roberts’s money, gave her the correct change and was ready to whisk back upstairs unless her parents wanted her to stay.

  ‘I think we’ll take a break when George comes, Miss Partridge,’ said Fred. ‘Our Sam out of Germany, our Daisy home for a holiday. I think a small toast is required.’

  Miss Partridge was pleased to help him put up the blackout curtains as young George was not tall enough to handle them.

  The letter arrived in the next day’s post.

  Fred shouted from the foot of the stairs – it was a busy time and he could not leave the shop – and Daisy almost fell in her haste to get downstairs.

  ‘Back in a minute, Dad.’

  It was from the War Office, and Daisy found that she was almost afraid to open it. Why did it somehow loom larger than other letters she had received?

  She sat cross-legged on her white cotton bedspread and opened the envelope. She read the letter and then reread it.

  Why?

  She read it again. But, no, there was no mistake. She had not been given a new posting. Instead she had been asked to attend an interview, the following week, in London.

  Gazing at the neatly typed letter with the cramped, indecipherable handwritten signature told her nothing. Neither did the small, framed picture of Lake Windermere on the wall above her bed help. She looked across at the picture of amazing red autumn leaves on trees in a place called Vermont. She had cut both those pictures out of a National Geographic Magazine while she was at school, and usually gazing at their beauty soothed her. She planned to visit both to see for herself if such beauty really existed.

  ‘Daisy?’

  On hearing her father’s voice, she jumped off the bed and hurried downstairs. If she was lucky her mother would be back from the market and she would not have to discuss the letter twice.

  There was no sign of Flora.

  ‘What do you think it means, Dad? Bit cryptic, I think the word is. I’m in the WAAF, I’ve passed all the courses and they’re supposed to say something like Aircraftswoman Petrie is to report at dadada on dadada. A travel warrant is enclosed.’

  Fred too examined the letter for hidden meanings. ‘There’s two Daisy Petries in England, common enough name. They’ve sent hers to you and yours to her.’

  Daisy wanted to believe that. ‘The letter’s not quite the same as the other one; all that’s the same is the bit about the travel warrant.’

  ‘Don’t fret, lass. Why don’t you take advantage of your time off and this sunshine and go off on your bike?’

  A cycle run would clear her head. She was being stupid. But what if the WAAF was angry with her, if somehow she’d got something wrong when she was at Halton, or, oh God, the top brass has heard about the flying and they’re furious? Too much time this week to think, that was the problem.

  ‘Good idea, Dad.’

  A few minutes later she was cycling through Dartford with no particular destination in mind. Some flowers on the pavement, tall bronze irises, caught her eye as she passed a flower shop and then she knew where she was going.

  Nancy Humble was surprised but delighted to see her. ‘Daisy, love, I’m that pleased you’ve come by, and it’s good timing – there’s an apple pie in the oven. How are you, pet?’

  ‘I can’t stop for pie, Nancy, or I’ll never do what I came for. She lifted the glorious flowers out of her basket. ‘Alf around?’

  ‘He’s tidying up the path outside the chapel, Daisy. Two lads were here yesterday, Simon and Toby, saying as how others’ll drop in as and when. We want it all nice for them, and for him.’ She took out her handkerchief and blew her nose, but if that was supposed to halt the flow of tears, it did not, and once again Daisy found herself the comforter.

  ‘Don’t mind me, sorry, I’m like a watering can – can’t seem to stop.’ She sniffed loudly. ‘Least his mother’ll be glad to have him with her, never knew ’im at all, from what we hear. Off you go, pet, over to the big house and round the back. It’s all there.’

  Daisy walked sadly back towards The Old Manor, thinking of Simon and Toby. And others would come too. One day maybe I’ll be happy just to remember that I knew you, Adair, she thought.

  Alf saw her coming long before she saw him. He straightened up from weeding between the paving stones and waited for her. ‘Hello, lass.’ He looked down at the irises. ‘That were his mother’s name, Iris. I only knew that because it’s on her headstone. He’ll like them.’ He took the large ring of over-sized keys from his tool bag and took her through the lovely old chapel to the darker and sadder crypt. ‘There you are, pet. Them irises’ll brighten the place up. You take as long as you want. I’ve plenty of work needs doing.’

  Daisy stood by the huge marble resting place of several members of Adair’s family. How cold she was. Would she ever feel warm again? The reality, the finality of death hit her. The tears ran unchecked down her face and into the neck of her cotton blouse. Adair is dead. Oh my God, it’s true. I will never see him, hear his voice …

  Whispering promise … his beautiful voice had whispered promise, hope.

  Some seed had been sown and had begun to grow. Such a tiny pearl, she thought now, a beautiful little pearl. Had it been given time, one day it would have grown into a pearl of such perfection that those who saw it would have wondered.

  Daisy put her head down and wept till she could weep no more. The irises had dropped out of her nerveless hands and spilled their glorious bronze and purple spikes across the ground at her feet. She bent to pick them up and then arranged them on the monument. She closed her eyes. Is he here? Will something tell me he is not gone for ever? Nothing happened. Nothing. She was alone in the crypt … Daisy smiled. She was not alone. She would never be alone. Those we love stay alive in our hearts.

  ‘Adair, I have to go up to London next week. It’s a bit scary because they haven’t sent me a notification of my next posting. But it’s fine, I did well. I got top marks. You’d have been so proud. I have to go or my mum’ll worry but I’ll come back. Maybe Christmas.’ She held back a sob. ‘I miss you in the world. Be well, Adair Maxwell.’

  She walked towards the open door and stopped to look back. No, she could not possibly have heard, ‘Be well, Daisy Petrie.’

  EIGHTEEN

  Flora made a fish-paste sandwich for Daisy to eat on the train, together with a slice of her now perfected eggless cake and an apple. When had they last seen bananas or oranges? They had had cherries a few weeks ago, large and luscious, but there had been no way to keep them fresh for Daisy coming home. Maybe, she thought, the WAAF was able to get cherries and Daisy had had some. She certainly had eaten strawberries – possibly they grew in Buckinghamshire, well as Kent. She had been clever like Nancy this summer and put up some fruits. And, her big, special surprise. She had made some chutney, bottled it and had it hidden under their bed for a Christmas surprise. Wouldn’t that be ever so special on Christmas Day with the share of ham they was to get? She’d ask the Humbles for Christmas dinner. Ever so kind and generous with the children, the Humbles had been over the years, and now Nancy was not coping well with that boy dead. Funny how worrying about a pal’s misery helps you deal with your own. She’d make a point about telling the Humbles about George and Jake Preston helping out around the shop. ‘You’ll see George soon; Fred’s going to take him on rounds,’ she would say. But mainly she would let Nancy read the letter from Sam. That would cheer them up – all his life they’d known Sam.

  Daisy interrupted her thoughts. ‘Mum, I’ll miss the train.’

  Gawd, she’d be much too early if she left now. ‘You’ve time, love. Here, I made you a nice picnic lunch and you can get a really good cuppa in the canteen at the station. Eat your sandwich with it; nobody’ll mind.’

  ‘I have to go, Mum. Thank you. Picnic looks super and I’ll have a cup if I’m early. See you tonight.’

  ‘You look so … so just right, Daisy, like that uniform was made special for you. Dad’s on tonight but Rose and me’ll
meet every train from London. No, don’t fuss, what else would we be doing with the evening?’

  ‘Not every train; I’ve no idea how long this interview will take.’ She smiled. Of course her mother would meet her train; nothing she could say would dissuade her. ‘If I’m there before you I’ll start to walk home.’ Daisy picked up her packed lunch and put it in her bag, kissed her mother and left.

  Her mind was still in turmoil and the idea of a picnic lunch was unappealing. All she wanted was for the day to be over.

  Four hours later the meeting that she had feared so much was finished and she was walking out of the office, still reeling from the effect of everything she had heard.

  She had arrived early; not a good idea as she had had more time to worry. But at last she was called in. Several men, most in uniform, a few in civilian clothes, were seated round a table. She was pleased to see that Tomas was there.

  ‘Do sit down, Aircraftswoman Petrie.’ A man in civilian clothes directed her to an empty seat between two other empty seats, so that she was, at the same time, part and not part of the group.

  ‘Miss Petrie, would you mind telling the Board just why you joined the WAAF.’

  She recognised Group Captain Lamb, the base commander at Halton. When she did not answer immediately he smiled at her. ‘Several of us see a remarkable young woman, Miss Petrie. Is the answer a simple one?’

  ‘I don’t know, sir. I wanted to work with planes.’

  ‘Why?’ asked a vaguely aggressive voice. ‘Why planes, not boats or lorries or, perhaps even better, ambulances.’

  Daisy had never really asked herself the simple question but now the answer came. ‘I had some experience of planes, sir.’

  ‘Explain.’

  ‘I helped …’ She looked across and her gaze met Tomas’s kind eyes and an almost imperceptible nod. ‘I helped a pilot strip and repair the engine of his Aeronca.’

  A different voice came from one of the blue uniforms. ‘By Jove, an Aeronca, lovely little plane; haven’t seen one in ten years.’

  ‘And he took me up with him, sir, by way of saying thank you for my help.’

  ‘And so you joined the WAAF and asked to train as a mechanic.’

  ‘No, sir. I promised the little boy …’ she blushed furiously. Silly, unsophisticated Daisy Petrie.

  ‘The little boy?’ Wing Commander Anstruther was beside Tomas. ‘What little boy, Miss Petrie?’

  ‘My sister and me, I mean my sister and I saw a Messerschmitt deliberately strafe a little boy flying a kite on Dartford Heath.’ She stopped for a second as the horror of that day enveloped her but she recovered and continued. ‘I couldn’t help him but I promised him I’d do something to stop them, the enemy. I’m good with engines, been driving them and working on them with my brothers since I was about eight.’

  ‘Why not the ATS?’ Another voice she did not recognise.

  ‘A friend … was teaching me to fly.’ She could not say another word. If she did, she would break down and cry.

  ‘Our distinguished Czechoslovakian friend has also given Aircraftswoman Petrie a flying lesson, have you not, Wing Commander?’

  Tomas looked at Daisy and she saw a question in his eyes that she did not understand. He smiled and said, ‘Indeed, sir, a most capable pupil, and if I may add what Miss Petrie seems too modest to say, her original flying instructor was Squadron Leader Adair Maxwell.’

  Looks were exchanged among the interviewing board and then Group Captain Lamb stood up. ‘Miss Petrie, was there time for you to fly solo?’

  For a moment she could not speak. She closed her eyes and said quietly, ‘Yes, sir.’

  The civilian stood up. ‘Lieutenant Travers, would you take Miss Petrie to my office? There should be coffee for her there. See to it, if it isn’t. The rest of us will have coffee here and talk. Thank you, Miss Petrie. You have been most helpful.’

  She was dismissed. The young air force officer indicated that she should follow him and she saluted, hoping that she was facing the right person, and followed him.

  ‘No one prepared you for all that brass, did they? Scary lot, one or two dinosaurs who think women should stay in the home cooking tasty treats, but some you’d follow anywhere, men like Anstruther and Lamb. I don’t know the Czech officer.’ He looked at her enquiringly.

  ‘Wing Commander Sapenak? I’ve met him a few times; occasionally he flew in and out of Halton.’

  He laughed. ‘How much of that grilling did you take in, Miss Petrie? He told the Board, and I quote, “a most able pupil”.’

  He opened the door to a rather imposing office just as a WAAF came hurrying along the corridor from another direction. She was carrying a heavily laden tray.

  Daisy may have been too nervous to fully assimilate what had happened in the interview but she did notice that Lieutenant Travers did not take the tray. Adair would have … any of the men she knew well would have taken it.

  ‘I’ll come back for you when they want to see you again, Miss Petrie.’

  She thanked him. He left and Daisy sat down thankfully and looked round. Her attention was drawn to a large signed photograph of the Prime Minister and, awed, she got up to examine the signature. What would Dad say? There were other photographs she did not recognise, including one of the civilian who was part of the Board. One day, perhaps she might be brave enough to ask Tomas who the man was.

  She poured coffee into a beautiful little cup that had the Royal Air Force insignia printed on it, sat down in a very comfortable armchair and sipped her coffee. She had no idea of the purpose of this meeting and was quite sure that whatever it was, she had failed but, oh, to be able to share this experience with someone. Two beloved faces appeared in her mind’s eye and she struggled to hold back a tear.

  She had begun to count the number of aircraft in the spectacular pictures spread across two walls and had reached twenty-nine when Lieutenant Travers returned.

  ‘Enjoy your coffee?’

  ‘Yes, thank you.’

  ‘Good.’

  He led Daisy back along the corridor to the boardroom, held open the door and Daisy entered. A picture from a book from her Sunday school days flashed before her – Daniel in the Lion’s Den.

  ‘Do sit down, Miss Petrie …’ The voice was kind.

  Two hours later she was on her way home, happy in the knowledge that her mother and her sister would be at Dartford Station. She saw them anxiously scanning the windows as the train pulled in.

  Daisy opened her window and waved. ‘Got a seat for once,’ she called to them, and then she was out of the train and hugging her mother till poor Flora protested.

  ‘Are you all right, Daisy? They haven’t thrown you out? You’re going to another base, right?’

  ‘Yes, I’m all right. No, they haven’t thrown me out. Yes, I’m going to another base, a place called White Waltham, which is a spit from here, near Maidenhead. I could have been posted to Northern Ireland or Scotland but there I’ll be a train journey from home. Isn’t that wonderful?’

  Daisy enjoyed tantalising them as she deliberately held back the beautiful, beautiful words. And then she said, quite calmly, ‘Guess what? I’m going to be a pilot.’

  Flora immediately burst in to tears, but these tears were happy ones.

  They walked home, all three talking at once, until Daisy said, ‘Dad’s going to want to hear the whole story. Let’s go home, make some tea, Mum; lost my sandwich somewhere and all I’ve had is two cups of coffee.’

  ‘Oh, you poor thing. Well, let’s hope somebody as needed it found it. Didn’t you get nothing at the office place, pet?’

  ‘Coffee on a tray out of a china cup, Mum – couldn’t touch the biscuits – and guess what, a signed picture of Mr Churchill watched me drink it.’

  ‘Well, I never did,’ said Flora in awe.

  Daisy would have had time to tell most of her story long before Fred returned, for there was an air raid that sent them tumbling downstairs and into the refuge room.

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nbsp; ‘Try to sleep, Mum,’ suggested Daisy at some point during the long night, but any attempt at anything other than sitting together in terror listening to the devastation going on all around them was futile.

  ‘I wish I’d signed up for fire-watching,’ said Rose. ‘It’s not being able to see as gets to me. There’s people being killed and injured out there and we can’t do nothing.’

  ‘Our soldiers and airmen are doing it for us, Rose, love,’ said Daisy, putting her arm around her twin sister. ‘Listen, some of the guns are our guns, firing back at them.’ She thought desperately. ‘I had a walk round after the interview, walked up Oxford Street. I tell you, we have got to go up there just to look in the shops. There was a large picture, a bit difficult to see with the paper on the windows, but it was of an American actress, Lucille Ball. Ever heard of her?’

  Her listeners shook their heads.

  ‘She’s ever so pretty, the reddest curly hair you ever saw, really short, not natural, though. She was wearing a dress that was lovely. A pale gold material, very simple, long-sleeved but the sleeves were really unusual. I don’t know how they did it, but they were sort of loose to the elbow and then they got really tight to the wrist and there wasn’t a join at the shoulders. It was all one-piece, lovely. And she had such elegant shoes with it, heels, of course, but they had a fairly wide strap around the ankles.’

  ‘Fastenings,’ said Flora suddenly, and her daughters looked at her.

  ‘Fastenings?’

  ‘The sleeves, o’course. Fastenings on the inside of the arm, all the way up to the elbow.’

  ‘Clever you, Mum. I couldn’t work it out, but the dress, or dresses copied from it, I suppose, are on sale. Latest look for autumn, it says.’

  They went quiet as they all realised they had been so involved with the description of the dress that they had not noticed that the noise in the world outside had changed. They could hear the clanging of the volunteer fire brigade, but it grew fainter and fainter as the trucks moved away from the centre of the town.

  No one spoke as they tidied up the refuge room, gathered up their things and walked wearily back upstairs. Only then did Flora speak. ‘Don’t turn on any lights, girls. I’m going to risk a peek.’