The Daisy Club

by Charlotte Bingham

  Chapter Six

  Daisy could hardly believe the sudden rush of relief she felt on hearing Chamberlain’s broadcast, as in sombre tones he declared that Britain was at war with Germany. The euphoria she felt – that at last something, rather than nothing, was happening, that the dreadful suspense was over – was swiftly followed by guilt as she saw Jessica’s ashen face turn away from the wireless. In that split second Daisy realised that despite everything that the older generation had said, despite the planning, and the plotting, despite the lists and the stores, they had all still clung to a tiny thread of hope; hoping, always hoping, that something would happen, that a solution could be found, that war would be put off in favour of a less terrible alternative, that a nation which had already devastated Europe could be stopped from doing it again.

  ‘Of course nothing could be done once Germany made a pact with Russia,’ Branscombe said, standing by the back door to the kitchens, puffing on a cheap cigar. ‘Nothing at all. And so I said to Miss Jessica – and Miss Blossom, when she was back on the weekend. Although she never thought there would be any other outcome, no more than Miss Jessica, not really. And when you think about it, Miss Blossom has been busy in the factory now for longer than we care to think about, poor soul.’

  Daisy passed Branscombe, quickly making her way to the Daisy Club above the stables, a home from home indeed, still filled with jolly things begged and borrowed from the Hall.

  The last weeks had been spent notching up her flying hours, and attending flying school – which was brief and to the point – while also helping Miss Valentyne. She had done all that she could to pretend that she was not feeling horribly frustrated, while at the same time knowing that until someone, somewhere, saw the sense of using girls like herself to do what they could do just as well as the men – flying aeroplanes – they might well lose the war before it had even begun . . .

  At least now, though, they had the off.

  Daisy paused, half-remembering Chamberlain’s words.

  ‘For it is evil things we shall be fighting against, brute force, bad faith, injustice, oppression . . .’

  Yes, they would be fighting against all that, and Daisy would be in the forefront of the fighting. She was sure of it. She would never give up until she had become part of the fighting force, doing what she was now quite sure that she was good at: namely, flying aeroplanes.

  At long last a letter came from Gervaise, written hastily, as his letters always were, but signed off with his usual caricature.

  Now you are eighteen and you have a private pilot’s licence and the statutory hours logged, all you have to do is to prove fitness, and pass a couple of tests. So go to it, my goddaughter. They need everyone they can get to fly the aircraft from the factories to the airstrips, so don’t take ‘no’ for an answer. Turn up here and tell them I sent you, much good it will do you, I daresay – [He had scribbled the appropriate address.] And good luck. My friend Gerard d’Erlanger has been banging on about the need for amateur pilots, women too, to be allowed to duty fly from factory to airstrip for these past God knows how many years. No call-up papers needed, you will be glad to hear.

  Daisy needed no further encouragement.

  ‘Right, Miss Beresford,’ the flying instructor called up to her. ‘You can start. Remember,’ he went on, raising his voice and speaking with over-clear enunciation, as if to a child, ‘you have to climb to two thousand feet and—’

  But the rest of his words were drowned as the aeroplane took off in a high wind, and Daisy resigned herself to her task, which was landing within a hundred or so feet of the object that the training officer had chosen. Up, up, up she went, and it was exhilarating, no doubt of that. The only trouble was, in his wisdom, and obviously all-too flustered by having to deal with a girl, the instructor had failed to tell her what the object might be, and she, arriving late and in a fluster to get on with the job, had forgotten to ask.

  Up she climbed in the Tiger Moth, and off they went, circling with ease the airstrip attached to the motor-racing circuit, Daisy feeling exultant, free, liberated at last, as she did so. She was on her way, up into the sky, two thousand feet above the countryside, two thousand feet away from the chains that had bound her to the rest of the world. Now all she had to do was land somewhere vaguely near where she was meant to.

  Jessica held open the door for Daisy, and Daisy strode past her, finally collapsing at the bottom of the hall stairs.

  ‘You look a bit wind-blown, Daisy.’

  ‘Phew!’

  After a short pause Daisy looked up at a startled Jessica, and started to laugh, before reaching into her top pocket and lighting a cigarette.

  ‘Do you mind if I swear?’

  Jessica took her glasses off the top of her head, and stared at Daisy.

  ‘Do you have to?’

  ‘Well, yes.’

  ‘Very well, but allow me to cover my ears, would you?’

  ‘No, it’s all right, no need. I’m beginning to see the funny side.’

  ‘The funny side of . . . ?’

  Daisy stood up, and leaning against the newel post she laughed and laughed. It was a full minute before she could speak, or Jessica could make much sense of what she was attempting to tell her.

  ‘I went for my test, as you know, and I climbed to the required two thousand feet, and having climbed up there I was then required to land within a hundred and fifty feet – or was it yards? To tell you the truth I couldn’t have cared less by then. At any rate, pretty close to an object on the ground, thus proving accuracy of plane and pilot. Good old Tiger Moth, she did as she was told, despite the wind, and up we were, at just the right height, everything as it should be, only trouble was that my instructor had somehow failed to say, or else I had forgotten to ask – either way I realised that I had no idea what the object might be next to which I was supposed to be landing.’ She swallowed the laughter that welled up once again at the memory of the flying instructor’s face. ‘So I thought the object must be him, and nearly finished by landing in his lap!’

  ‘And?’

  ‘He wasn’t very pleased, you may be sure.’ Daisy wiped her eyes. ‘But there was not much he could do, really. At any rate, despite all that, to my amazement, he passed me, if only to get me off his patch.’ She paused, finally recovering. ‘Now all I have to do are half a dozen figures of eight at six hundred feet. At least I think it’s six hundred feet—’

  ‘Sounds rather low, dear,’ Jessica said, turning away, glad only that Daisy was safe, at any rate for that evening.

  ‘Oh it is low, and fairly dangerous, but great fun. I love doing figures of eight.’

  ‘All well and good then, time for supper,’ Jessica called back, trying not to seem at all interested.

  Daisy followed her downstairs to the basement, where they now ate in what had been, long ago, the servants’ hall.

  ‘Do you want to come and see me do my figures of eight, Miss Valentyne?’

  ‘No, Daisy dear, I would really rather not, if you don’t mind.’

  Daisy looked so disappointed that Jessica sighed, realising suddenly that the time had come to tell this wonderfully dizzy girl what someone should have told her years ago, but then, seeing her face – so eager, so full of life – she couldn’t bring herself to do it. Besides, she had to ask herself, what good would it do? And more than that it might do harm, and also it might stop her ever flying again, and, after all, they were going to need good pilots now.

  Along with just about everyone else Freddie had done a first-aid course, and then put in to become a Voluntary Aid Detachment nurse, which was only natural since both the Hall and the Court had long-time voluntary connections, reaching back to the Great War, with the VAD. So into that she went, only to decide after three months that if she was going to nurse, she must do it properly.

  ‘Very sensible,’ Jessica told her, not looking up from her list of evacuees, most of whom seemed, for some reason, to be destined to be put up at the Court. ‘If you w
ant to do something you have to do it properly, perfectly understandable. So where were you thinking of heading?’

  ‘Nursing school.’

  Jessica looked up at that.

  ‘Might not take you, ducky, because of not having passed your matriculation. Being schooled here won’t really count, I’m afraid, and being bright won’t be enough. You must have a piece of paper to say that you are bright.’

  Freddie looked resigned.

  ‘I can’t see myself passing exams at this time,’ she said, busily running a pencil down a list of names of children to be picked up at the station. ‘You know how I have always been, Aunt Jessica: all right on my feet talking the hind legs off the nearest donkey, but sit me at a desk and put a piece of paper in front of me, and I become as frozen as an Eskimo.’

  Jessica stood up.

  ‘In that case best to stay where you are, and do what you can in the VAD. After all, you have a motor car, which should be excellently useful for both your and their purposes, always providing we don’t run out of petrol, for rationing is just about to hit us. Now, off you go to the station. I will follow in the old Vauxhall, and Branscombe in the pony cart. What a thing that so many are coming to us! I think the authorities must think we’re the size of Texas, which we most certainly are not. Poor old Twistleton: no central marketplace, no town hall, and yet it looks as if we are being sent over fifty evacuees.’

  Jessica knew she must have summed up the numbers about right, as the train drew into the station, and Budgie’s eyes seemed to bulge to match his nicely rounded stomach.

  ‘Well, I never did! Have you ever seen anything like it?’

  Jessica had not seen anything like it, certainly never seen anything like them, and nor, it would seem, had Twistleton.

  For some reason, among all those skinny children with their name labels attached to their coats, and their hats held down by tense little hands, their grey socks anchored somewhere around their knees with elastic garters, there were only a clutch of mothers. Jessica did not know whether to be pleased or appalled, although it certainly meant there would be fewer places to find with Twistleton families. She turned as Jean hurried up to her.

  ‘I will be able to take two in my cottage, and Dan Short will take one, which is good of him, really. Oh, and I just passed Mrs Huggett of Holly House – she is waiting outside the station in a pony and trap. She says she will be taking three, but doesn’t seem too enthusiastic, even though it still leaves her another five bedrooms for her own use . . .’ Jean’s voice tailed off as her eyes searched for a couple of the smallest children, for given the size of her cottage she had to be careful not to choose anyone too tall, or they would be leaving their brains among the lathe and plaster before you could say Adolf Hitler.

  She glanced sideways at Jessica, who she knew must know of her association with Joe, gossip in the village being what it was, but Jessica’s expression was impassive. The truth was that those with the largest and most elegant houses had proved to be the least willing to take in any of the children.

  ‘Afraid for their silk covers, I daresay,’ Branscombe had opined, when Jessica discussed the matter with him.

  ‘Well, it’s very short-sighted, for in a few weeks’ time we may none of us have anything to put covers on, Branscombe.’

  Branscombe looked resolutely unimpressed.

  ‘You can’t blame them really, Miss Jessica, not really.’

  ‘No, I can’t blame them,’ Jessica agreed. ‘On the other hand, I can’t sympathise with them either, I’m afraid. By taking in these children we are saving the future of our country, and that really is the truth.’

  Jessica sympathised even less when she realised just what a miserly intake of evacuees was going into the bigger houses, and saw how generous was the welcome from The Cottages, with everyone there doing their best to welcome as many as possible of the dazed and forlorn little scraps standing about the station platform.

  ‘I’ll take three, Miss Valentyne,’ Budgie announced suddenly, as the crowd of those taking them up dwindled to nothing, and three small rejects were left on the platform huddled close to Jessica, while a wind blew the last remaining petals in the arrangements at the station window-boxes in a flurry around their feet.

  ‘Does your wife know about this, Mr Budgeon?’

  Budgie nodded, turning away, but Jessica stepped in front of him in an attempt to make him see reason.

  ‘Your wife may prove to be a little shocked by your generosity, Mr Budgeon, if she hasn’t been expecting to take anyone in.’

  ‘Got to do it, Miss Valentyne, Lord bless us, most of them look half-starved. Got to get them into a hot bath and give them a nice plate of Mrs Budgeon’s steak pie.’

  Jessica mentally shrugged her shoulders, not wishing to tell the dear man that Mrs Budgeon’s cooking might not be to East End kids’ tastes.

  ‘Off we go,’ she said, realising with a sinking feeling that she was sounding all over-bright. ‘One, two, three, four, climb in, won’t you?’

  Three children dutifully followed Budgie out of the station platform and from there down the road to The Cottages, while the four brothers destined for the Court followed Jessica. Once at the car, as the others climbed in, all thrown together hugger-mugger, the youngest started to cry.

  ‘I ain’t gettin’ in that thing!’

  Jessica picked him up, and despite realising that he was not the sweetest-smelling of little personages, she hugged him to her.

  ‘Come on, Johnny,’ she cajoled. ‘Your brothers are all sitting in the car, and they’re not frightened. Tell him, Alec,’ she called to the tallest of the Lindsay brothers, above the sound of the wailing. ‘Tell Johnny that going in a motor car is going to be great fun, will you?’

  ‘Shut yer cake hole, Johnny,’ Alec, the eldest, called across to Johnny. ‘Or I’ll knock yer block off.’

  This idea, rather than the idea of a motor car ride being fun, seemed to make great sense to little Johnny, because he immediately stopped crying, and climbed into the front passenger seat without fuss.

  The Lindsays were all to be put into a big bedroom together on the second floor. Freddie and Jessica had gone to great trouble to make it look as bright and welcoming as possible, with patchwork quilts and colourful blankets and teddy bears on each pillow, but despite all this, the four Lindsay boys stood in the doorway, looking at the room with suspicion, refusing to move any further. Finally Alec turned to Branscombe who had shown them up.

  ‘Yer going to lock us in ’ere?’ he asked, a stubborn look in his eyes as the other three stared at the floor, feeling only too grateful that they had an elder brother who could act as spokesman for them.

  Branscombe, whose childhood had been far from sumptuous, understanding immediately what the problem might be, turned to the bedroom door.

  ‘See here,’ he told Alec, swinging the door. ‘No lock, no key, just a handle to turn.’

  ‘Yeh, but s’posin’ you take the handle off of it?’

  ‘Then the door won’t work, see, the door just won’t work, and besides,’ it was his turn to point, ‘you have a rope ladder there, fire precautions, see? You can just throw it out of the window, and it will stretch down to the ground. And you can go where you like after that, always providing you can see your way around the grounds, of course.’

  Alec stared around him, beginning to trust his surroundings a little more, but then not wanting to let go of his discontent, he finally pointed at the beds.

  ‘I’m too old for toys,’ he told Branscombe, accusingly. ‘I dun have no teddy bears, and that.’

  Branscombe walked up to the first of the beds, and picked up the teddy in question.

  ‘Very well,’ he said in a dignified voice. ‘Since this is my personal teddy bear, Master Alec, and I was quite prepared to lend him to you, you will forgive me if I take him back to my room, where he will be more appreciated.’

  Alec stared at Branscombe, realising that he was talking to someone with authority who
was neither a policeman, nor a doctor, nor a teacher, nor a school bully.

  ‘I’m fourteen, see?’ he said, by way of a sudden explanation. ‘If it got back to Dad I was in bed with a teddy, he’d knock my block off.’

  Branscombe sighed.

  ‘There seem to be an awful lot of blocks being knocked off where you come from, Master Alec, but enough of that. Time to take off all our clothes and have a nice bath. If you follow me to the basement there is a tub all hot and soapy, ready and waiting for you lot there.’

  Branscombe was so tired after all the scuttling about that the day had brought that he could have willingly climbed into the tub himself, and never mind the evacuees, but Johnny obviously didn’t feel the same. He let out a sudden, vigorous, and fresh howl.

  ‘I ain’t havin’ no bath, I don’t have no baths, baths make you weak, my nan says!’

  Branscombe turned away, half-closing his eyes, and his hand went out to the now really rather controversial handle on the door. He had tried to warn Miss Jessica just what they would be in for, taking in London children, but as always she had become instantly deaf when confronted with something she did not want to hear. Besides which, she was the area officer in charge of evacuees, which meant, she maintained, that it was imperative that she set a good example.

  ‘Just stay here, until further notice, if you don’t mind,’ he said, raising his voice above yet more wailing, and yet more threats of blocks being knocked off. ‘And I will be back with a change of plan.’

  As he went slowly down to the ground floor, he came across Freddie in the act of descending to the basement with an armful of bath towels fresh from the linen cupboard.

  ‘No point in bothering with those for the moment, Miss Freddie,’ he announced. ‘No point at all. Apparently the Lindsay brothers will not take a bath for fear of weakening themselves.’

  ‘Oh, I expect we can overcome their prejudices, unless they are based on some kind of religious principles, in which case we will have to call in the vicar!’ Freddie joked, continuing on to the basement, followed by Branscombe.