She glanced briefly up above her. The roof had been blacked in to prevent the factory being seen from the air, and targeted. For obvious reasons therefore, the work had to be done by artificial light, which made it even more tiring, because you had to peer through a fog at what was in front of you.
The head of her group beckoned to her, and then to another young woman, who immediately joined them. The leader mouthed to Jessica that she would be shown what to do, but before starting to take note, Jessica could not help glancing down at her watch. In eleven hours’ time they would go home, perhaps to their own homes, or perhaps, like Jessica, to temporary lodgings. Blossom had written to her that the work was long and hard – but not just necessary – vital. Without it they would lose the war. The hours just had to be put in.
Jessica braced herself, and then tapped the pocket of her boiler suit, the one where she had carefully placed the photograph of Esmond. She didn’t care how long the day would prove to be, she knew for whom she was doing it. It was for all those other Esmonds, all those other young men waiting ‘at readiness’ – some playing cricket, some smoking, some sitting in cockpits, all of them waiting for the order to scramble, to climb into the skies and defend their country, perhaps for the last time.
Daisy knocked back her drink.
‘I’d like to be in the RAF if they would have women,’ she confided to one of her newer, older, flying friends. ‘But I don’t know that I could stand the waiting. I mean, at least we fly in and get on with it, whereas the others have to hang about waiting for the starting bell. It would get on my nerves, truly it would.’
Her companion looked at her, shaking his head, and then he laughed.
‘But you don’t have any nerves, do you, Daisy?’
Daisy thought for a minute, and then frowned.
‘Oh, I think I do.’ She stubbed out her cigarette. ‘In fact, I’m sure I do.’
They were in a pub much frequented by airmen, and one which had become quite used to the sight of uniformed women customers.
‘Although—’ Daisy stopped suddenly. ‘Actually – maybe not. I always think I will be nervous before take-off, but I never am.’
‘Some people just don’t suffer from ’em. Let me buy you another snifter. Same again?’
‘Oh, very well, hung for a sheep as a lamb.’ Daisy turned back to the bar once more, thinking that if Aunt Maude could see her now, drinking and smoking in a pub, she would have fifty fits, and then her eyes widened. ‘Good Lord, Joe Huggett!’
They shook hands, and as they did so, Daisy turned back to her drinking companion. ‘This is Brian Ashford, Joe.’ Then to Brian. ‘Joe and I are from the same village, Twistleton . . .’
It was obvious Joe was not going to stay for more than the minute or two it took him to knock back a drink. He just wanted to get back to Twistleton. He was on twenty-four-hour compassionate leave from his training – how he had swung it was anybody’s business – but he had to see Jean, had to get back to her lovely arms, just for a moment, and feel her body against his, perhaps for the last time. Who cared, who knew? It was all he could think about now he was on the ground.
‘Can’t stop. See you around.’ He smiled suddenly. ‘But look who’s here, too!’ He thrust out a hand in greeting to a tall, immensely handsome airman who had just swung into the bar. ‘David Moreton.’ He turned back to Daisy. ‘Daisy, this is a shocking man. He and I were at school together. How are you, old boy? Top form, as far as I can see. Sorry, I can’t stop – my girl awaits me!’
They all laughed, and shook hands.
‘I was just teasing Daisy here that she has no nerves,’ Brian joked, while at the same time wishing that he was not a middle-aged man with receding hair, but as young and handsome as David Moreton. ‘Daisy flies with flair, better than the rest of us by miles. The way she lands and takes off would make a bird jealous.’
Daisy looked embarrassed.
‘You must forgive Brian. He likes to blow a trumpet for our poor old skills, because he thinks you lot look down your noses at Air Transport Auxiliary, and I daresay he is right.’
Taking in Daisy’s long elegant legs, her beautiful face, blonde hair, and startlingly blue eyes – but most of all the faintly mocking manner that told him she was quite a girl – David felt odd, dizzy and strange, as if he had been flung out of his cockpit and his parachute refused to open.
‘You should be in the RAF proper,’ he heard himself say, after a short pause. ‘Cheer us all up no end—’
‘No, no, old boy,’ Brian interrupted. ‘If the RAF took Daisy, she would be running the whole show by the end of the year, and you would be taking orders from her.’ Brian joked on, determinedly, while knowing all the time that he might as well talk to himself, for it was quite clear that there were now only two people in the room as far as David was concerned, and not even a bomb dropping would get him to take his eyes off Daisy.
As for Daisy, she didn’t seem to notice him noticing her, concentrating on her, but turned to introduce him to other friends who had arrived. She carried on as normal, but then that was Daisy – she always scythed her way through admirers, leaving them gasping for more.
All leave for the FANYs had long been cancelled, which meant that as soon as the bombs did start dropping on London and the south-east, Laura found herself driving a much-needed canteen nightly to the increasingly beleaguered East End. Driving in the dark with the sirens wailing and fires blazing became so much a way of life for her, that it was not until the end of the first month that she realised she had enjoyed so little sleep that she did not know whether she would ever again be able to doze off for more than two hours at a time. In fact, sleeplessness had become such a habit that she had actually managed to convince herself she only needed those two or three hours.
And the East End was not the only place in need of refreshment.
Since the people of London had taken it upon themselves to remove the locked gates to the Underground, the FANYs had been ordered to help with subterranean canteen duties, tending to the crowds through the night. Once down the steps into those dark regions where trains still ran even now, Laura had discovered an unlooked-for resilience that was humbling, for here was a set of people determined not just on surviving the night, but on doing so with as much strength and courage as they did above ground. Until at last dawn came up, and they re-emerged into daylight, pale-faced, tired, but alive, summoning up the energy to resume the daily struggle, standing behind boards that read: ‘STILL OPEN FOR BUSINESS’.
Once again, as night fell, down they went below ground with their families, everyone carrying food and drink, and anything else they imagined they might need.
Over the days a fairground atmosphere had gradually come into being, everyone hoping against hope that the increased bombardment would soon be over, while knowing all the time that there was worse to come.
And there was worse to come, for everyone – including Laura, who, with the other FANYs, was only too willing to drive her canteen across a London which at times seemed to be exploding, to bring what little she could to the heartbreakingly cheerful crowds in their dark hiding places – had started to wonder if indeed they would be able to take it . . .
‘Carry on, carry on singing, all of you. I’ll join in “Roll Out the Barrel”.’ It was the Prime Minister, Winston himself, fresh from dinner, a cigar clamped in his jaw, his eyes taking in every detail of the faces in the shelter.
There was something about him – not just his voice, or his manner, certainly not his height or his looks, but the whole of him – that made everyone straighten their backs and want to smile and cheer. He radiated an almost childlike energy, as if he knew just how badly they all needed to feed off his belief in them. And although he was only with them for a few minutes, and was all too soon escorted off to some new place – leaving behind the inevitable smell of cigar smoke – after he had gone Laura noticed that it was as if he had left behind a brazier, as if in their imaginations they felt they could
all put out their hands to the spot where he had stood, and feel themselves warmed.
‘Good old Winston,’ someone near to Laura said in a cheerful voice. ‘Imagine him having time for us, with all that he must have on. He sang “Roll Out the Barrel” like a Cockney good ’un, didn’t he, now?’
A few minutes later the ground shook so hard that everyone fell to the ground, and Laura found herself starting to pray – and she was not in the least religious.
Aurelia stared at Jean.
‘I thought I was, too, a bit ago, but I wasn’t, I just couldn’t remember what had happened after an evening out. The thing is, the chap I was with drank gin, and it didn’t take much for him to persuade me to try some.’ She shuddered. ‘Never touched the stuff again, never will. Nothing worse than thinking you are you know what, and waiting and waiting, and then finding out that all along you have been wasting your time, and you simply passed out from too much tiddly and nothing happened. Most especially if it’s a married man, as, in my case – he was, or is still, for all I know!’
Jean smiled wanly. She knew that Aurelia was trying to cheer her up, but she didn’t dare tell her that it was quite useless. She was quite sure that she was what Aurelia called ‘you know what’; and there was another thing: she and Joe had dashed into a registry office and dashed out again. In other words, they were married, but she didn’t want to tell Aurelia, or indeed anyone else that, either, because Joe hadn’t told his mother and father, and judging from the expression on his angelic face, probably never would. It had been a joke between them, but now Jean suspected that their one-night honeymoon had resulted in pregnancy, she imagined that someone might have to tell the Huggetts, although perhaps not until the next time Joe had twenty-four-hour compassionate leave. She looked at the date on the wall of the farmhouse kitchen. It had an unreality about it that she couldn’t quite understand.
Aurelia, too, was looking around the kitchen, but for a different reason. She and Clive had been made responsible for shutting up the farmhouse – or rather, emptying it, putting everything in store, preparatory to its being taken over by the army.
When the news came through, Clive had found Guy groaning in the kitchen.
‘Longbridge will be like a bomb shelter by the time we get back to it, if we ever do get back to it.’
He stared round at the facade of the old house, its mellow exterior catching at that part of him which he liked to pretend didn’t exist, namely his heart.
‘We’ve had some wonderful times here,’ he murmured. ‘Some marvellous parties, and some unforgettable evenings. Let’s just shut it all up, and be thankful.’
But as always when Guy said ‘we’, he really meant everyone else except him. He fled back to London, to Operation Z activities, and rehearsals for his latest comedy, everyone being much in need of laughter.
‘I had better get on.’ Aurelia pulled a little face at Jean, at the same time feeling that since there was very little she could do to help her, hanging about and talking was not going to add much to the situation.
‘Sorry I can’t help. Have to get to cracking the whip behind my lot.’
Jean leaned forward and kissed Aurelia on the cheek. It was not something she had ever done to anyone before, so she found herself reddening.
‘Look, take care, won’t you?’ Aurelia smiled.
Jean nodded, and then hurried out to where she had left the tractor. Happily she had parked Old Faithful well out of sight of the farmhouse, so she was able to be sick without anyone seeing her – or so she hoped.
Laura was waiting outside a cinema for Daisy. They had arranged to go to a film that had been made from one of Guy’s comedies. Watching a comedy seemed a pretty strange thing to do when a war was raging, but everyone knew that it was all part of the general plan to stick two fingers in the air at Hitler, all part of the ‘we can take it’ attitude. No matter how many bombs dropped, they had to keep going as if nothing was happening.
Daisy eventually appeared, looking stunning. Laura stared at her. Daisy had always been beautiful, but now, in her ATA uniform, its very boyishness seemed to show up her femininity all the more. They smiled, touched each other briefly on the arm, and hurried into the cinema.
The film was frequently interrupted by the manager coming on to the stage to ask the audience to leave for the shelters, and would then be re-started once the all-clear sounded. This happened so often that the audience started to laugh every time the poor manager came on to the stage. Of course, this was just the thing to keep everyone’s mind off the bombs dropping. Finally the audience refused to move, just carried on staring at the screen and laughing wherever possible, seemingly impervious to what was happening outside, perhaps reckoning that what would be would be, and that if their number was up, not much could save them anyway. There was little Laura could do but sit still, pretending to be more nonchalant than she felt, while knowing that she was fighting a losing battle, not just with fear; she was fighting a losing battle not to fall in love with David Moreton.
Afterwards, when they had retired to the basement flat beneath Gervaise’s London house that Daisy was now intermittently occupying, Laura confided to Daisy that she thought she had fallen in love with this RAF chap she had met called David Moreton.
‘But that’s so exciting, isn’t it?’
Laura looked shy. It was exciting, but much as she loved Daisy, she did not dare tell her just how exciting. Nice girls like herself and Daisy were not meant to have love affairs, they were meant to wait for marriage. She knew she would now be considered damaged goods, at any rate in the eyes of society, but the worst of it was that she did not care.
‘I hope to see him again soon,’ she said, but before she could elaborate further, the wail of the sirens started up, and they both disappeared under the kitchen table.
‘A fat lot of good this is!’ Daisy moaned. ‘But do go on about this chap, whatever he’s called. Who knows? I might bump into him. He picked you up, did he? How quite marvellous. And you both took it on from there. I love that kind of cheek.’
The building shook, and they flattened themselves, not even Daisy being able to go on pretending to be interested in Laura’s romance as the world about them rocked – and then, for some reason, the world seemed to steady itself. At any rate, quite enough for them to be able to share a much-needed cigarette and have a laugh. It was only when they were both scrambling up the area steps, tumbling over dustbins, cursing themselves and everyone else, that Daisy realised exactly what Laura had just told her.
The bar was crowded with RAF and a few ATA girls, the air so thick with smoke that even the barman was leaning forward and frowning in an effort to see what drink he was pouring into which glass, while the chat, like the smoke, rose up to the dark, yellowed ceiling, accompanied by that particular laughter that comes out of relief at still being alive. David made his way through it all, across the crowded bar to the girl he couldn’t get out of his head, who was standing with a crowd of others. He pushed himself to her side.
‘Miss Daisy Beresford,’ he announced, quite unnecessarily.
Daisy turned, seeing him suddenly, and wishing that she hadn’t, wishing that he would go away.
‘Here you are again—’ Daisy heard herself saying.
‘Yes,’ David agreed. ‘Here I am indeed – again.’
‘It doesn’t seem possible . . .’
‘You mean you were hoping it wasn’t possible?’ he asked, raising his head a little to move away from the smoke of his own cigarette, but also so that he could get a better look at those fabulous legs.
‘Guess who I saw last week in London.’
‘Vivien Leigh?’
‘Laura Hambleton.’
‘You know Laura?’
He looked surprised, and at the same time embarrassed, as if Laura was already a name from the past.
‘I believe you picked her up!’ Daisy went on purposefully.
‘Yes, I did,’ David agreed. ‘And what is more I showed her h
ow the internal combustion engine works. Very important when you’re in the FANYs.’
‘Yes, I suppose it is.’ Daisy found that she had dropped her eyes, because it was obvious from David’s expression that he was not very interested in talking about either Laura or the internal combustion engine. ‘Laura and I were at Twistleton Court together.’ As David looked understandably puzzled, she went on. ‘Twistleton Court was a sort of finishing school where we learned how to do a court curtsy, and climb out of a car in an elegant fashion, swinging the legs out first, comme ça!’
To demonstrate, Daisy put her long, elegant legs together and swung them neatly, in an exaggerated fashion, off her chair, which made David laugh.
‘Any good for climbing in and out of Spitfires and Hurricanes?’
‘No, hopeless, I’m afraid. Particularly since they will not let us wear trousers, which makes life both tedious and embarrassing at the same time.’
Daisy quickly lit a cigarette. All that finishing school side of life seemed not just silly now, but ridiculous – and yet at the same time, very dear, too. She now thought of those months at the Court, when she had managed, at long, long last, to escape Aunt Maude and life at the Hall, as something that must have happened, not before this war, but before the Great War.
‘I expect Laura rebelled a great deal, didn’t she? I seem to remember that she told me she hated parties, hated having to socialise, that her father and her godmother had insisted on her being a debutante. She found it all a stupid waste of time, just wanted to run out. I expect she made a bit of a hash of finishing school, didn’t she?’
Daisy stared at David, realising that whether he realised it or not he was still talking about Laura as if she was in the past, which at once made her heart sink.
All of a sudden she found herself thinking that she hoped to God he would not lean forward and murmur, ‘Let’s forget about Laura, shall we, and think only of us?’
She determined at once to talk about Laura before he could further embarrass himself or her.
The Daisy Club Page 18
