String of Pearls

by Madge Swindells

  Daisy snuggled hard against him and he stirred uncomfortably, remembering what her Gramps had said, ‘I don’t want to see you here again, at least not until the war is over. When the war’s over you can do what you like, by which time Daisy will be old enough to know her own mind.’

  She brushed her lips against his cheek. His frustration hurt. Something stronger than him needed to impale her under him, take her far away and guard her forever. Oh, Jesus! I don’t know how to handle this. I never felt like this. I need to get out of here.

  He said, ‘Let’s get out of the jeep and walk a bit.’

  ‘All right.’

  There was a gap in the hawthorn hedge. Mike held back the branches and helped her through. He took off his coat and laid it on the grass.

  ‘But we’re going sailing, aren’t we?’ She looked anxious.

  ‘Of course. I just thought we might sit here and talk for a while.’

  She flung her arms around his neck and snuggled up close, but Mike was reluctant to start again. He’d come here to spill the beans and she wouldn’t like it, but with Daisy pressing against him he could hardly bear the frustration. It was too painful.

  ‘Ease off, Daisy. I just can’t trust myself. I’m worried about you. We’ve gone about as far as we can go without “doing it”. If we were to make love and I got killed and you got pregnant . . . Hell! It doesn’t bear thinking about. No more petting. Truly. If I survive the war, I’ll be back for you, you can count on that.’

  He’d intended to tell her that this was goodbye, but he didn’t have the guts, so he stood up, feeling foolish and chicken-hearted.

  ‘You will survive, dearest darling Mike. You must for me.’

  ‘One last kiss,’ she said, grabbing him and pushing her mouth towards his, but he didn’t respond, so she hung around his neck. Legs dangling, she tried to reach his lips. She fell back rubbing her arms. ‘You are a spoilsport today,’ she grumbled.

  ‘Let’s make the most of the day. Come on. Race you back to the car.’

  As they bumped along the uneven country road, they were equally awkward and tongue-tied, each engrossed with their own worries. Mike had booked a flat-bottomed boat at Sandbanks Yacht Club and he hoped they would enjoy a day fooling around Poole Harbour. He had a hamper hidden under his parka in the stern. They would find a great place to picnic and he would tell her afterwards.

  All the way to Sandbanks, he felt unbelievably awful, his throat so swollen he could hardly swallow. His lips were parched and his eyes burned, but men don’t cry, so of course it was hay fever.

  Why was Mike acting so strangely? What had he meant by ‘we have this day’? She could see that he wasn’t intending to tell her, but why spoil the treat by sulking. It was a lazy, somnolent morning, hot, but not unpleasantly so. They sailed for a while and then Mike pulled the boat up on the banks of Brownsea Island, which was private property, but there was no one around. They sat on the sandy shore and listened to the water splashing over the sand and the drone of insects. A blackbird was singing in a wild peach tree. They had little to say to each other. When Mike reached out and put his arm around Daisy, she felt happy beyond anything she could remember. She sat breathless, watching a cormorant diving in and out of the water.

  ‘This is the happiest day of my life,’ Daisy said eventually. She smiled at him and he felt entranced by her and pulled her roughly towards him, crushing her against his chest. But he kept his hands to himself and Daisy wondered why he had changed so much. It became hotter and the sea water gurgled invitingly.

  ‘Let’s . . .’ they both began.

  They had been naked together before, but always at night. Never in broad daylight and never in the sunshine. Daisy looked around nervously. ‘I should have brought my bathing costume.’

  ‘Nonsense. I’ve seen all of you, bit by bit.’

  ‘But not all together,’ she said.

  Mike jumped up and took off his shirt and trousers. When he kicked off his pants and stood naked, Daisy gasped. She had never taken in the whole of him. He was lovely. His suntanned body rippled and shone, but his buttocks were pure white. When he turned she saw that he wanted her so much, and she him.

  ‘Cold water is what I need . . . and fast,’ he muttered. He waded into the water and soon he set off in a fast crawl. Daisy went behind a rock and thought about it. Shall I? she asked herself wistfully. ‘No.’ she said firmly. But for some strange reason she was removing her clothes piece by piece. The breeze caressed her skin, the sun soaked in and she had the strangest feeling that this was so familiar, yet she had never done this before. She set off after Mike, and soon they were swimming side by side. He was her man. She felt so strongly that they had always been together, but were separated by some accident of birth. The afternoon flashed past and suddenly it was time to go.

  The silence on the drive home was louder than any words.

  ‘What is it?’ she said eventually. ‘You have to tell me what’s wrong.’

  ‘I shouldn’t have fallen asleep. I should never have let Gramps catch us out like that. He said I was being selfish. That if I survive the war I can come back here and start something serious with you, but meantime I should get lost.’

  ‘Who cares what he said. He’s very old-fashioned. It’s my life . . . and your life. Not his life.’ Indignation surged, bringing a purple flush to her cheeks. ‘Silly old fool,’ she added.

  ‘Unfortunately, that’s not all, Daisy.’ Mike braked and pulled into the verge. He switched off the engine, took out a pen and wrote his number on her wrist. ‘There you are,’ he said, trying to make a joke of it. ‘Labelled and purchased. Mine forever.’ He tried out a smile, but it didn’t work too well. ‘Promise me to learn the number by heart. Look, here.’ He took an envelope out of his pocket. ‘I wrote it out, too, so put it in your purse and keep it safe. If I’m suddenly gone, at any time, for any reason, you can write to US Military Headquarters and put my name and number on the envelope. I’ll get your letter wherever I am, I promise you.’

  She knew he was trying to be light-hearted. Everyone knew that the troops would face a sudden, overnight, mass evacuation to a secret port of embarkation prior to the invasion, but not yet.

  ‘The invasion is months away,’ she said. ‘Everyone says so. Even the newspapers.’

  ‘Of course it is, but keep it safe, Daisy. You see, your grandfather complained to our commander, Captain Rose.’ Mike’s words were blurted out before he could stop himself. He wasn’t sticking to his plan.

  ‘I don’t believe you.’

  ‘D’you think I’d lie to you? I got hauled up before Rose and forbidden to see you again. I’m to be transferred at once. I stole today by pretending I had a mission for Captain Johnson. It helps to have two bosses. I wanted us to have one last day together.’

  ‘This can’t be true.’ She was glaring at him with wide, hostile eyes, her chest heaving. ‘Gramps would never, never do that.’

  ‘Don’t blame him too much. I reckon he’s scared of losing you both . . . that is, you and your mum, to American husbands.’

  ‘Mum!’ She giggled. ‘That’s crazy. Mum’s too old. But Mike, this is the absolute limit. We don’t have to do what they say. We can lie. Say you’re not seeing me. Pretend I’m someone else.’ Even while she was arguing with him, she knew it was no good. There was a pain in her chest that hurt and her eyes were burning. She had to hit out at someone and she would, but not Mike. ‘So what can we do?’

  ‘It’s too late. I’m under orders and I’m being transferred. This is the army, it’s not like civilian life. Surely you understand.’

  ‘I understand that you’re prepared to take this lying down.’ But she would be strong for both of them, she decided.

  ‘That’s not fair, Daisy. It would take more than an hour to explain how the army works and how Rose views fraternization. Meanwhile, I can be sent wherever he likes.’

  ‘They can all go to hell.’ She hammered her fists on his chest. ‘What are we going
to do?’

  ‘Don’t fret so. When the war’s over we’ll be married, that’s if you still want me.’

  ‘Kiss me. Just kiss me. It’s now I’m worried about. I won’t allow this to happen. I won’t let them win. We can’t waste what little time we have. This is the twentieth century and we’re not Romeo and Juliet.’

  He folded her in his arms and they hung on to each other. Neither of them saw the military police vehicle speeding towards them until it drew up beside them, blocking the narrow road. Two military police sergeants stepped out.

  ‘Sonovabitch,’ Mike muttered.

  ‘Are you Sergeant Mike Lawson?’ Mike nodded. ‘OK. Get out of the car and put your hands on the bonnet.’

  Daisy sat in shocked silence as Mike got out of the car. An MP stepped out holding handcuffs. ‘You don’t need them,’ Mike said. ‘I’m not going anywhere. We were saying goodbye.’

  Daisy shivered, part humiliation to see her hero so browbeaten, and part suppressed anger. Mike had volunteered, but she had not. Her life was not going to be run by the US army. Come to that, not by Gramps either. She used every bit of self-control she could muster to sit still and bide her time.

  Mike was bundled into the back of the vehicle. Before she could even call out to him, the vehicle took off at speed, leaving Daisy with the second MP, who was getting into the driving seat.

  ‘Whereabouts do you live, ma’am?’ he asked coldly. ‘I’ll take you home.’

  ‘Next door to your camp. What will happen to Mike?’

  ‘Nothing much if you don’t want to lay charges. He’s being transferred.’

  ‘Why should I lay charges. He’s done nothing wrong. We love each other.’

  He smiled, but said nothing until they drew up at her front gate.

  ‘This it?’

  ‘Yes,’ she said angrily. She longed to hit out at him, but he wasn’t the culprit.

  ‘Hi darling, did you have a nice day?’ Helen approached smiling from the kitchen, but froze with alarm when she saw Daisy’s expression. ‘What’s happened? What is it? Are you hurt?’

  ‘Very hurt, Mum. Gramps reported Mike and me to his commanding officer and he’s being transferred away from here. They were out looking for us and they picked us up on the road as we were driving back. I was driven home by a military policeman. They behaved as if we were criminals. All because we overslept in the stable after the party, but nothing happened, Mum.’ It took all her will power not to burst into tears. She longed to throw herself into her mother’s arms, but she sensed that she had to grow up fast or she would lose Mike.

  ‘I’m not taking this lying down, Mum. This is not the Victorian age and Gramps is not my guardian. He’ll regret this and so will you.’

  ‘Calm down, Daisy. Dad is out. We’ll sort it out in the morning.’

  Daisy raced upstairs, bathed and locked herself in the bedroom. She didn’t answer when her mother called her down for supper. She wasn’t hungry. Besides, she was too busy packing. She could only take as much as she could hold in a knapsack on her back and a smallish suitcase which she would tie on the back of her bicycle.

  ‘Goodbye forever’ she wrote on a notepad which she left on her table when she woke in the morning. She would miss Miro . . . and her home . . . and the horses . . . and especially Mum, but she intended to lead her own life, so this was the way it had to be.

  Twenty-Seven

  Daisy had noticed the sign on a farm gate the day she and Mike had driven towards Corfe Castle after her birthday. It had read:

  Land Girls needed. Good food and accommodation provided. Apply within to Leslie Bates.

  Hoping that the notice was still there, Daisy arrived on her bicycle at eight o’clock, her suitcase precariously strapped on the wobbly pannier over the back wheel. She paused outside the gate and worried about what she was doing. Mum would be devastated, but how else could Daisy assert her independence? She would never forget the look on Mike’s face when the MPs marched him away. Gramps had gone too far.

  She pushed open the gate and walked up the gravel driveway. As she approached, she read: Land Girls’ Hostel typed on a sheet of paper and pinned to the door. I’ve come to the right place, she thought.

  Leslie Bates, who ran the hostel, was a middle-aged woman, with brassy blonde hair, dark skin and a cheery smile. Everything about her seemed to be in excess: her costume jewellery, her smile, her make-up, her breasts and more than anything else the compassion that oozed out of her. Daisy was taken under her wing, given a man-sized breakfast, with real eggs, bacon and chips, and a heart-to-heart talk while she ate.

  ‘Some men can be real sods, love. These farmers are a tough lot and their wives are no better. They’d work you to death as soon as look at you, so unless there’s an emergency you’ll work regular hours: from eight thirty until five thirty. If there are cows to be milked you simply adjust the hours to fit. Nine hours is the maximum. Any longer and you’ll come and see me. If any of the lads try it on, tell me and I’ll be after telling them where they get off. Now, let’s get you kitted up. You’ll be a temp until you’re registered. I’ll help you fill in your form tonight. As a matter of fact I have an emergency. An old lady nearby, who lives alone, has broken her leg and she needs help to look after her goats. Have you ever milked a goat?’

  Daisy shook her head.

  ‘Or a cow?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Tch! One of my girls will be here soon. I’ll send her with you to show you how it’s done.’

  Two hours later, dressed in the green and khaki uniform of a land girl, with a peaked cap and sensible shoes, Daisy was learning to milk a goat at Mrs Jenkins’ farm. She was a ‘temp’ until she was properly accepted by the authorities, but who cared, all the farmers were crying out for help, registered or not.

  Mrs Jenkins supplemented her income by selling goats’ cheese to the local co-op. Some of it went under the counter, too, Daisy learned. The job entailed feeding and milking almost a hundred goats, cleaning out their sheds, scrubbing the dairy and making the cheese. It was fun, except for the old billy goat who butted her into the mud if she didn’t watch out.

  Daisy was working three miles from Sandbanks’ ferry, which was roughly sixteen miles from home and she was enjoying herself. She was freer than she had been in her life and she was earning her keep which gave her huge satisfaction. She had a large room to herself. It was clean and bright, freshly whitewashed, with a raffia mat on the wooden floor and pictures of land girls at work on the walls. There was a wardrobe and a chest of drawers, but since she had only brought one change of clothes and a little extra underwear, she did not need much space. Admittedly the room contained two extra single beds, but right now there were only six girls for the hostel’s six rooms.

  On her first day off Daisy wrote to Mike, but before long she began to worry that her letter had gone astray, or Mike had decided to end their relationship, or maybe they had sent him back to the States. As the days passed and she did not receive a reply, her depression worsened. How would she ever find him? She missed her mother, and Miro, and she knew that she should have stayed at home. At least Mike could find her there, if he ever wanted to. Life had become a burden and when Billy butted her into the hay, instead of laughing she cried.

  Daisy had gone and Helen was livid. Her fury was mainly directed at John, but Daisy was also at fault. How could she be so selfish and headstrong? Imagine writing ‘goodbye forever’ to her own mother? It was an undeserved slap in the face, as if the past seventeen years counted for nothing. Then Helen’s mood would change to one of acute anxiety. Where was she? How was she surviving? All would be forgiven if she would only come home.

  Simon realized that he must try to persuade Daisy to return, but first he must find her, and his best chance was via Mike Lawson.

  From Captain Rose he learned that Lawson had been sent to a Devon camp. He used his contacts to persuade Rose to bring him back as soon as he completed his training course in Brixham. A call to Lawson
made him feel more confident.

  ‘If I know Daisy she’ll be here just as soon as she finds out where I am,’ Lawson said. ‘When I see her I’ll persuade her to call her mother.’

  Next, Simon had to find a convincing reason for Miro to be absent from home for the next four to six weeks. The PWE came up with the answer, with the connivance of Professor Frederick Joshua Pemberton who, when he wasn’t engaged in counter espionage, coached gifted musicians. The professor, otherwise known as Uncle Fred was one of the founding members of the intelligence organization that preceded the PWE, but he was also a composer of some note, and it was rumoured that he took in talented pupils to make ends meet. He would provide Miro’s alibi for the month.

  ‘But are you sure you want to go?’ Helen asked Miro. She had the strangest feeling that she was missing out on most of the facts.

  ‘More than I’ve ever wanted anything,’ Miro assured her. Then he added: ‘Whatever you’re thinking, you’re probably right, Helen, but please leave this to me. It’s very important to me.’

  He didn’t even notice that he called her Helen instead of Mum, but Helen did. He, too, is growing away from me, she thought sadly. He’s almost a man.

  ‘Don’t worry,’ John said when she voiced her concern. ‘They always come back. Miro will . . . Daisy will . . . just like you did. Can you imagine how I felt when you married Eric at eighteen?’

  As Simon’s prodigy, Miro’s recruitment was conducted by personnel from both the British PWE and the American MO (The Morale Operations Branch of G2). It took place in a safe house within a mile of PWE headquarters. The so-called ‘discussions’ were scheduled to take five days. They consisted of non-stop interrogations for fourteen hours a day.

  The room was brilliantly lit with spotlights, each of which were trained on Miro, so he could not see much more than dark shapes behind the lights. Every night, when the questions were over, Simon looked in on Miro in his bare room, bringing him fruit and treats from Helen, chocolate from the canteen and anything else he had requested. This was the fourth evening and although Miro was pale, he showed no signs of strain or distress.