Churchill’s Angels

by Ruby Jackson

  And one evening when she returned, hungry and tired, from a flight to East Fortune Airport, a station in Scotland, there Tomas was, in uniform, beside the runway watching her fly in.

  Her heart, which had been heavy, began to dance with joy.

  ‘Almost perfect, Flying Officer,’ he said with a smile as he helped her leave the little plane.

  She held his arm as she took off her heavy flying boots and then released him to shrug herself out of the flying suit. They stood, for a moment, simply looking at each other. Slightly embarrassed, Daisy broke the silence. ‘Tomas, it’s lovely to see you. Are you well?’

  She could hardly believe that she had actually asked such an inane question.

  He took it seriously, and with her flying clothes over his arm said, ‘I am very well, Daisy, and I am so happy to see that you are also.’

  They walked together towards the officers’ mess. ‘I am told that you have now flown, can I say, internationally?’

  Quickly she looked up to see if he was laughing but his face was quite serious. ‘All the way to Scotland, over the Lake District, which I have always wanted to see. Have you been there?’

  ‘I have flown in and out of Prestwick but that is not seeing a country. Some of it is very beautiful, from the air.’

  He was ill at ease and knowing that made Daisy feel in control. She had not seen nor heard from him since Christmas Eve and now it seemed that he wanted to chatter about scenery.

  She stopped walking. ‘Tomas, why are you here? Are you here to see me or are you here because you are delivering one of your special cargos, your valuable parcels?’

  ‘I have tried to see you several times. Today I, what is it they say, called in the favours. I was going to Belfast but asked a friend to go in my place. Then I borrowed a plane and came … to see you, Daisy Petrie.’

  She smiled. ‘Thank you. Are you staying with us?’

  ‘I have been offered a bed for the night and I have accepted. So now we can join our colleagues for a meal. This is good with you?’

  ‘I’m only third class.’

  He laughed and moved towards her as if he might … no, she could not allow herself to think what he might have wanted to do.

  ‘You have always been of the first class, Daisy Petrie. Come, you can freshen up in the mess and while you do I will see what they can find for us to eat.’

  As always, the mess was busy. Tomas knew many of the pilots and they chatted together over some very watered-down alcoholic drink that Daisy was quite sure she had never sampled before – and would be quite happy never to have again. At last, however, the group split up naturally and she found herself at a small table with Tomas. Plates of some wonderful-smelling stew were put down in front of them.

  ‘Rabbit, or is it chicken, which is in fact an old hen, or lamb stew, which is really mutton?’ Tomas was remembering their pub meal.

  ‘I don’t care. I’m so hungry and it smells wonderful.’

  ‘It does, but let’s not spoil it with the boiled cabbage.’

  They laughed like old friends, ate the stew that they never did truly recognise, and talked and talked.

  ‘My brother came home, my oldest brother, Sam. A priest, a Roman Catholic one, brought Mum a letter – from Italy. Sam said he had escaped from the prison camp. Somehow he made his way to Italy but I’ve no idea where the camp was. He was working in Italy.’ She stopped. ‘I thought I must have told you on Christmas Eve but I didn’t.’

  ‘We were talking of other things. Now tell me, how did he come home from Italy?’

  ‘He got to France somehow and a British plane picked him up. That’s the sort of work you do, Tomas, isn’t it?’

  ‘We all pick up and deliver many kinds of parcels, Daisy. I’m glad your brother is safe. Is he well?’

  She explained that she had not yet been given a pass to go to Dartford to see him.

  ‘It will come. He writes?’

  ‘Out of the habit of writing. He never was good. But he’s alive and he’s safe. Rose thinks he plans to rejoin his regiment.’

  ‘That will depend on his physical and mental state, my dear.’

  ‘I know, and I know Sam; he’ll want to be back doing his bit.’

  It was time to go. They said good night to the others and Tomas, who was sleeping in the mess, said that he would walk back with Daisy to her billet.

  ‘Bed for you any time you need one, Wing Commander,’ called one of the senior officers, and some of the others laughed. Daisy did not see Tomas blush.

  It was a beautiful evening, piercingly cold, but the sky was bright with twinkling stars and a bright moon showed its face. Daisy thought she would not be able to bear it if there were to be an alert or a raid. There had been two recently; jumping into trenches had become a regular part of daily life.

  How odd to find that Tomas was thinking the same. ‘The night sky is a thing of great beauty. Obscene to think that any minute death and destruction could come screaming towards us.’

  ‘Don’t say that, Tomas; don’t even think it. It happens too often without our dwelling on it.’

  He stopped, turned towards her as if there was something really important that he must say.

  Daisy looked up at his finely drawn face and waited but he said nothing. ‘What is it?’

  ‘Daisy, I am wondering about how to say what I want to say. You may have noticed, I lose control of the English language when I am …’

  He could not continue and Daisy hid a smile. He could not possibly have been about to say ‘nervous’. No, not a much-decorated flying ace.

  ‘With nerves,’ he finished, and once more she had to hide her smile.

  ‘It’s only me – Daisy Petrie. You can say whatever you want.’

  He grasped her by the arms and, aware of what he was doing, let her go again. ‘But I cannot; it is not right.’

  Suddenly it was as clear and shiny to Daisy as the magnificent sky above. Did she want him to say it? She looked down at the ground, aware that she knew more about the heart of a plane than the heart of a man.

  ‘Tomas, why did an experienced pilot like you come down to an old stable to help me learn to fly?’

  ‘But that is easy. The first time, the first time only, I came because it was something I could do to repay Adair for his infinite kindness. I came to help teach you because Adair was my first friend in this new country. But, believe me, after that I came because I wanted to see you. One day, the day you flew solo, Adair told me – in so many words – that he was falling in love. What could I do? He was my friend; he had little, but everything he had, he shared with me. I was pleased for him that he had found a nice girl and when I understood that, I liked Daisy Petrie too. I said, Good, because it is good that you like the woman your friend will marry. Besides, I am so much older than you.’ He bowed his head and she wondered if it was so that she could see the silver streaks in the thick, once-black hair, but he straightened up and looked directly at her. ‘I have thirty-four years.’

  ‘Thirty-four? Oh, Tomas.’ Daisy started to laugh. ‘I’m sorry; I thought you were older. Perhaps it’s your eyes; they are so sad.’

  He looked at her with those sad eyes, eyes that had witnessed so much pain, and she understood that he had decided to leave. He would not stay in the mess. He was going. But he must not leave, not like this, not with misunderstanding. ‘Tomas, don’t go. I didn’t care. Do you understand? I thought you were older but I didn’t care, I don’t care.’

  He removed his cap and held it in both hands in front of him. Now his eyes, which had been so dull a few seconds before, were shining – surely not with tears. ‘You don’t mind that I am old enough to be your father?’

  Daisy did a quick piece of mental arithmetic. ‘My, oh my, but you mature early in Czechoslovakia.’

  She smiled as a light blush warmed his pale cheeks. ‘You are barely fourteen years older than me, Tomas.’ She looked down at his cap. ‘Put it back on before you ruin it.’

  ‘Belie
ve me, Daisy, I want nothing more than to stay here with you for ever but …’

  ‘I know, Wing Commander, there’s a war on.’

  He stood for a moment and Daisy stood looking back at him.

  ‘Are we still friends, Tomas?’

  He took a brisk step towards her and then stepped back. ‘If that is what you want, Daisy, I will always be your friend.’

  What should she say? Did she want friendship or, could it possibly be that she wanted more? ‘Can you tell me where you’re going?’

  ‘Of course, tomorrow early, I return to my squadron and where I go from there depends very much on the enemy.’

  ‘No more flying into occupied territory to pick up “special cargo”?’

  ‘Daisy, you, better than anyone, know that I will do whatever I am asked to do.’

  ‘I know, and, Tomas …’ Should she say it? Was it too soon? ‘… I love you for it.’

  He threw his cap in the air and hugged her tightly against his chest. The night air was freezing cold but Daisy felt that she would never, could never, be cold again.

  They were at the door of her billet and again stood silently, looking into each other’s eyes, asking and answering questions without a word being spoken.

  He bent and kissed her very gently on the lips. ‘Good night, my little love. I will see you as often as I can.’

  ‘Be well, Tomas Sapenak.’

  Daisy wrote letters when she returned from her delivery the next evening. The first one was to Tomas. It was very simple.

  My darling Tomas,

  Guess what. Tomorrow they’re going to let me fly a Spitfire. I wish you were here to see it but, of course, I remember that you said that I was in your heart as you are in mine. Ergo, as our dear Adair would say, you will see me.

  Love,

  Your Daisy

  Read on for an exclusive extract from Grace’s story, Wave Me Goodbye. The next compelling book to feature Churchill’s Angels …

  Late February 1940

  She had been right to do it, to pack up her few personal belongings and go without a word to anyone, even to those who had been so kind to her for many years. She regretted that. Not the kindness, of course, but the manner of her leaving. How could she explain to them that she could no longer bear her present existence; the hostility of her own sister, the uncomfortable, unwelcoming damp little house that she and, she supposed, Megan, called home? Even her job in the office of the Munitions’ factory was unfulfilling. The only thing brightening her life had been the friendship of the Brewer and Petrie families, the small garden that she and her friends had created, and daydreams of Sam Petrie. Winter frosts had killed the garden that had given her such pleasure but Sam, like too many others, had gone bravely to battle and had not returned. As far as she knew Sam was a prisoner of war somewhere in Europe. She tried to picture Europe; surely in school she must have seen a map, but all she could visualise was a huge land mass somewhere across the English Channel. Useless to dream of him, not because he was missing – Sam would return, he had to return – but because he loved Sally Brewer.

  It was easy to picture Sally, with her long black hair and her glorious blue eyes. Sally, an aspiring actress, was almost as tall as any one of the three Petrie sons, and a perfect foil for Sam’s Nordic blondness. How could she, plain Grace Paterson who did not even know who her parents were, be attractive to a man like Sam? Oh, he had been kind to her when she was a child but Sam, oldest of a large family, had been kind to everyone. What would he think of her when he heard some day that she had disappeared without a word?

  Grace sobbed, burying her face in her pillow in case any of the other girls were to come in and hear her. Her conscience, however, kept pricking her and eventually she found that intolerable. ‘You have to write, Grace, you owe them that much.’

  She got up, straightened the grey woollen blanket and thumped her fat pillow into shape. ‘Right, I’m not going to lie here whimpering. I will write to everyone and then, when it’s off my mind, I’m going to try to be the best Land Girl in the whole of the Land Army.’

  She picked up the notebook she had bought in nearby Sevenoaks, and moved down the room between the long rows of iron bedsteads, each with its warm grey blankets, and here and there an old, much-loved toy brought from home for comfort. She reached the desk where, for once, no other girl was sitting and examined the lined jotter pages. Immediately Grace worried that she ought to have spent a little of her hard-earned money on buying proper writing paper. She shook her head and promised herself that she would do just that when her four weeks of training were completed and she had moved on to a working farm.

  ‘Mrs Petrie and Mrs Brewer won’t mind,’ she told herself.

  When had she first met them? More than half a lifetime ago but, since she was not yet twenty, half a lifetime wasn’t long. Grace sighed. Ten, eleven Christmases spent at her friend, Sally Brewer’s home, ten birthdays either with the Brewers or with the Petries. But when she thought of the Petrie family, it was not kind, comfortable Mrs Petrie or even her school friends, the twins, Rose and Daisy, who immediately came to vivid life in her mind but Sam, the eldest son who, for all she knew, might be dead.

  No, he could not be dead. God would not be so cruel. She closed her eyes and immediately saw him, tall, blond, blue-eyed Sam, chasing the bullies who had pushed her down in the playground. He had picked her up, dusted her down and handed her over to the twins.

  So many kindnesses and she had repaid them by slinking away, like a cat in the night, without a word of explanation or thanks. Again Grace turned her attention to the notebook and began to write.

  Dear Mrs Petrie,

  I’ve joined the Women’s Land Army and I’m learning all about cows.

  That unpromising beginning was torn up. She started again.

  Dear Mrs Petrie,

  I am very sorry for not telling you that I applied to join The Women’s Land Army. It was working in the garden, growing the sprouts and things. It’s hard to explain but, although it was really hard work, I enjoyed it. I felt …

  She could not explain the pleasure or the satisfaction that growing things had given her and so that effort, too, ended in the wastebasket. She tried to write to Mrs Brewer and four attempts ended beside the others. Grace stared in despair at the wall in front of her.

  ‘Still awake? Want some cocoa? We’re making it in the kitchen and they’ve left us some scones – with butter. Amazing how we’re able to squeeze more food in at bedtime just a few hours after a three-course tea.’

  One of Grace’s roommates, Olive Turner, was standing in the doorway and the appetising smell of a freshly baked, and therefore hot scone wafted across the room.

  Grace rose in some relief. ‘It’s hard work and fresh air does it,’ she said. ‘That smells heavenly.’

  ‘And it’s mine.’ Olive laughed, and together the girls ran down the three flights of uncarpeted stairs to the kitchen where several of the other girls were crowded round the long wooden table. A plate, piled high with scones and several little pots, were clustered together in the centre of the table. Each pot was marked with a land girl’s name and they were filled either with her own rationed pat of butter or raspberry jam.

  ‘Home sweet home,’ said Olive as she and Grace found empty chairs.

  ‘My home was never like this,’ said another girl, Betty Goode, as she bit into her scone.

  The others laughed and Grace smiled but said nothing and the trainee land girls drank their hot cocoa and ate scones filled with farm butter and jam until their supervisor came in to remind them that cows would be waiting to be milked at five o’clock next morning. Groaning, the girls finished their supper, washed up, and made their way back upstairs to bed.

  Acknowledgements

  This book could not have been written without the help and support of many people.

  Firstly my agent, Teresa Chris, who not only has always had faith in me but also has the ability to make me believe in myself.

&
nbsp; All I knew about Dartford when I started my research was that it was on the flight path of the German bombers during WWII. I went to Dartford to find out for myself.

  Thank you to all the lovely helpful people of Dartford who answered all my questions. I would like to thank all the librarians and historians in the central library who found books, maps, memoirs, letters, newspaper articles, films and who patiently explained all the things I did not understand. Very special thanks are due to the archivist, Dr Mike Still, who took me round the town and patiently showed me interesting places, nooks and crannies that I would never have found without him and who has since continued to send me snippets when he finds something that might be (and always is) of interest to a writer.

  Personnel at Leuchar’s Air Force base were friendly and helpful and set me on the right path! – Thank you.

  Enormous thanks and admiration are due too to the staff of the National Flight Museum on the East Fortune airfield near Edinburgh. The staff in the bookshop made browsing – and buying – an absolute delight, but most of all I would like to thank Duncan Johnston, Peter Moulin and Alistair Noble who patiently answered all my questions about aircraft, flying, and learning to fly. Like all knowledgeable enthusiasts, they told me so many things that I didn’t know I needed to know but which have proved invaluable.

  Michael Hilton generously shared his knowledge of Wilmslow – and I would ask him to thank ‘Alec’ whose maps made it so easy for me to design my own airfields. Thank you both.

  I am so grateful to Dr Andrea Tanner, archivist at Fortnum and Mason, who kindly shared her knowledge concerning the availability of supplies of honey, both home and imported during WW11 and even gave me accurate prices.

  And, of course, without Ian and his scrambled eggs, this book would never have been finished.