The Daisy Club

by Charlotte Bingham

  Dear, dear, he really must be getting old to keep on looking for what was definitely not there. He climbed up into the hall followed closely by the dogs, his old army coat wrapped tightly round him, his mittened hands holding on to various leads. He hadn’t heard from anyone about Johnny. Hope he got delivered to Peckham all right. Hope the train was all right. Hope that he wasn’t missing Twistleton Hall too much, and his brothers of course, hope he wasn’t missing them. The Lindsay boys were all turning out to be the mainstay of the place. Alec and Dick helping with the cows and the rest, and Tom always on hand to run errands. They were a tribute to Peckham, and to themselves, really and truly they were. And more than that, the fact that they had changed physically so much for the better was a source of some pride to Branscombe. Where once their faces had been pallid, and their ribcages like toast-racks, now they were well-covered, and their eyes bright as the pony’s when he saw his feed bucket coming towards him on a frosty morning.

  Branscombe pushed open one of the pair of old half-glassed doors and gasped. Brrrh! The marble-floored hall behind him was hardly what anyone would call warm, but once the door was open, and the dogs squeezing past him, the full force of winter cold seemed to hit him not just in the face, but, even as he gasped, in the back of his mouth. The truth was that the air was so cold it hurt.

  Branscombe pulled his knitted hat further down his ears, and his old coat tighter round him, thankful for once that he had only one eye uncovered, one eye exposed to the cold. The dogs pulled him along their usual route. The lake ahead was frozen over, and the trees so stilled and frost-covered that they might have been sculptures. The studs on his old army boots rang out on the hard ground as he walked briskly along, the pugs on their leads, the dachshunds at his heels. He liked to cover a good distance after luncheon – it gave him much-needed energy when he needed it – thankful always that the park was so hidden that neither the army in the village nor those at the Hall could see each other. So there was no grim sight of tanks on manoeuvres, although the sounds that rang out of poor old Twistleton these days made his heart sink, and he an army man since he was a boy.

  He stopped suddenly, the dachshunds crashing into his legs, the pugs reeling back against their taut leads.

  There was someone at the large old gates, guarded as they were by two lead dogs on plinths. Someone in a dulled black uniform, pushing a bicycle. Someone with a black cap on his head, someone with bicycle clips, and he was carrying the unmistakable, the unwanted, the much-dreaded dull little envelope. A telegram.

  Aurelia stared at herself in the mirror. Why was she doing this?

  Her face, looking, if the truth be known, a great deal more bleached than usual, was a mask of suppressed terror.

  ‘I am doing this,’ she replied to her mirror image, ‘to prove to myself, and everyone else, that I am not an hysterical little nobody, and if I come through – IF I do – I will be able to respect myself. That is why I am doing this, and for no other good reason.’ She stopped. ‘Well, there is one other good reason, and that is that I am trying to prove to Guy, and to Clive, and to Laura and Freddie, and Daisy, that I am a worthwhile person. And not just someone content to be desk-bound, hearing about other people being brave, while being rather less so myself.’

  It was a good lecture, and one that seemed to satisfy her mirror image.

  ‘Very well, now I am fully equipped,’ she went on, speaking silently to herself. ‘Nothing to do now, except put myself in my motor car, and drive to the destination which has been designated, and get on with the job in hand.’

  The aeroplane that had just been delivered was not of the usual type. It was something quite special, and faster than normal. Aurelia, as she climbed into it to sit alongside others on the same mission, wondered fleetingly if it was one that Daisy might have delivered. If it was, then she hoped to goodness that it now had been checked-over by a competent mechanic, because, as she well knew, the planes flown from factory to airstrip often had modifications made to their instruments at the last possible minute, which meant that the girls flying them – girls like Daisy, who delighted in flying but did not court danger – had to have a great deal more guts than they were actually ever given credit for. Especially since, together with the worry about whether the controls were going to work properly, they never knew exactly what they were going to have to fly. And also, they had no fighting training, their aircraft never contained ammunition, and there was a distinct possibility that they might meet an enemy aircraft while in flight.

  ‘Girls of no consequence, that’s us, old thing!’ Daisy had often joked, on the few occasions when they saw each other, either fire-watching, or queueing for some futile necessity.

  Aurelia had the feeling that the same could be said of her. She was a girl of no consequence, hardly trained in parachuting, hardly able to think of the danger she was putting herself through without feeling so faint that she had to cling on to the nearest piece of furniture, but – and this was the important thing – she was determined.

  She was so determined, to do her bit. She would come through if only for Guy – and Clive – most particularly now that Guy had been imprisoned.

  ‘What for? I mean what do they think putting Guy in prison is going to do? What is it for? Why have they put him there?’ she had kept asking Clive when he met her for a much-needed drink.

  It had been difficult for Clive to explain it to Aurelia, not just because they were both so devoted to Guy, but because he could not tell her all that he knew. And of course, after a little while, Aurelia had realised this, and stopped throwing questions at him, and they had both repaired to a dark corner of the pub.

  ‘Guy has enemies, Aurelia, many enemies.’

  ‘Why should he have enemies? Who could dislike Guy, for goodness’ sake? This talented man with so many gifts who always works so hard to make everyone happy with his plays and his songs, who could possibly dislike him?’

  ‘You would be surprised how many people dislike Guy,’ Clive had said, lighting a cigarette, and passing it to Aurelia. She had immediately started to smoke it too fast, while he lit one for himself.

  ‘But why should anyone dislike him?’

  Clive had looked suddenly affectionate, paternal, protective, and loving, all at the same time.

  ‘Guy is disliked by many, many people for a very, very good reason, Aurelia.’

  ‘Because?’

  ‘Because he is talented. As he himself said, shouting over his shoulder to me even as they led him away – bless him – “Don’t put your head above the parapet, Clive. See what happens if you do?”’ Clive blew a smoke-ring which he watched for a second, waiting for the memory to pass. ‘It’s only for a month, he has only been incarcerated for a month. And knowing Guy, he will soon make friends with everyone in the prison, have the gaolers eating out of his hand, everyone singing his best-known songs, and be out before anyone can say West End. Then, you may be sure, he will be writing a play about it in two minutes flat, and shortly after that he will be found moaning that they want to put Mavis Arledge in it, and it will be over his dead body, because she hasn’t been able to remember a line since 1921.’

  ‘Of course, the charges are trumped-up, aren’t they?’ Aurelia had asked in an urgent voice.

  ‘Of course,’ Clive had agreed, without giving the question much thought, because just at that moment, after night after night of fire-watching, he had found acceptance a great deal less fatiguing. ‘The authorities, or someone in authority, wanted to make an example of someone famous, wanted to crack down on people flouting petrol restrictions. They hoped the rest of us would go about saying, “Well, if that can happen to Guy Athlone, it can happen to me, so I had better behave.” And believe me, it will work. It will work, and the authorities will congratulate the person responsible, in fact he will probably be given a knighthood after the war, and no one will remember why. His friends and acquaintances will only assume that he has done something quite terrific, which, of course, in the eyes
of our dear government he has: he has effectively terrified everyone into taking account of petrol-rationing and abiding by the rules, car-sharing, and so on and so forth. Time was when people were knighted for brave deeds. Think of that.’

  ‘Exceeding the petrol-allowance!’ It had been Aurelia’s turn to sound bitter.

  ‘Of course the irony is that he was on government business, but because he has to look after his own paperwork just at this moment, because he is always dashing about doing work for you know what—’

  He had nodded in such a significant way that Aurelia had known that he meant Operation Z, and the mysterious brothers, who were still running networks of rescue teams all over Europe.

  ‘He has been working day and night for the people who do so much to help the cause, and because of that he has not paid much attention to rules and regulations. It is only understandable. And really it took – what? – just a few gallons over, or something like that, and they got him.’ He snapped his fingers. ‘Just like that, they got him. A ghastly woman, may all her hair fall out and her toenails curl over, a woman scorned targeted him, just for revenge. Anyone can bring anyone else down, innocent or guilty, it doesn’t matter at all – and that goes on even more when a country is at war.’ Clive sipped his drink, before reflecting on the good times he and Guy had enjoyed, and looking, without his realising it, suddenly sad. ‘Never have anything to do with being famous, Aurelia. There’s always someone waiting to cut you down to size if you are famous and, worse, talented. They were waiting for Guy, and they got him. So they must be very pleased with their work.’

  ‘And he can never now be vindicated, I suppose?’

  ‘Because of Z,’ Clive had lowered his voice, ‘because of the Bros, no. What an irony, when you think what he has done, and how hard he has worked, and yet he will go down in history, not just as a wonderful writer of comedies and songs, but as a cheat! Guy, of all people, one of the most generous men you could ever meet, as open-handed as he is open-hearted.’

  ‘It could turn you cynical, truly it could, could it not?’

  ‘Yes, it could. Of course, despite his age barring him from being called-up, the publicity was still angled in such a way as to make him look as if he sidestepped the army in favour of the bright lights of the West End. Ha, ha, ha.’

  Aurelia closed her eyes, shutting out the engine noise, as she remembered the sad look in Clive’s eyes as he had pretended to laugh, and it strengthened what was left of her resolve, which was very little. She had to remember – every minute of the next few days – just why she was doing this. It was for Guy and Clive, and everyone like them; and because she hated her parents, who loved Hitler and Fascism in equal measure. After even the little bit of the war that she had been through she didn’t care too much for them at all, any more. She was also doing it so that places like Twistleton would always be Twistleton, and Britons would never, ever be slaves, and all that kind of thing.

  Besides which, as she kept joking to her teacher on the short course they were all dragged through – ‘It will make a man of me!’

  And what a hilarious course it had turned out to be, with the poor man in charge of all the girls due to be parachuted into enemy territory not knowing whether to laugh or cry at their antics, and the girls not knowing whether to or not, either, when they saw what the powers-that-be expected them to wear. And as for the handbags that were meant to conceal heaven only knew what! Once across the Channel carrying one of those ghastly creations, they would be arrested at once, if only for offences against fashion.

  ‘Jones!’

  Aurelia jumped.

  Or rather she was pushed, and as she was, miracle of miracles she managed to make her parachute open, thank God! Might have been a bit of a squish if she had made a bish of it.

  Suddenly it was all real, the wind rushing up to her as if in greeting, the sound of the sea a long way behind her. Normandy! The place where she had so often holidayed as a child, alone with her French nanny. The place where she had first started to speak French. Not polite French, either: country French, with a country accent, which she could still do, despite having been taught what was called ‘drawing-room French’ or ‘salon French’ as Miss Valentyne called it.

  That was how she had realised just how useful she could be to the war effort. It was when she saw all those pegs being removed from the board, and realised what bad French all those blown agents had spoken; all the crass mistakes they had made, like not crossing their sevens, and not knowing their slang properly, and forgetting to eat with a piece of bread, rather than a knife. Stupid, stupid things that had cost them their lives, because they were not in the way of being French, didn’t wave their hands about enough, all that. It was when one of the prettiest and cheekiest of the agents was blown that Aurelia had known, without any doubt, that she had to volunteer to be dropped into France. The truth being that she was perfect for the job with her ability, not to mimic, but to reproduce really good country French, not to mention her knowledge of Normandy – not the well-known places, but all the little lanes and by-ways, places where she had walked, and walked, and walked some more, when she was a child. She was perfect agent material.

  ‘Ouch! Double ouch! Triple ouch! Not to say merde alors!’

  She pulled herself free of sudden pain, with some considerable difficulty.

  Dear God in heaven, she had just landed in a stunted tree, which had disobligingly attempted to slice her in half. She rolled free, cursing silently, and then quickly untangled herself. There were torches ahead. She was sure of it, torchlight. She had to hide somewhere. Happily she was dressed as a simple French girl, papers all tickety-boo, everything as it should be, even her hat with a provincial label from a French shop sewn in the back. She was Yolande Marie Charbonne. Just please, please, God, help her get out of her boiler suit, and hide her parachute in time! Please, God! But God, it seemed, was not listening, because the torches were getting nearer and nearer, and she was certain now that she would never be able to hide her parachute in time.

  Jean was bringing in the cows with Alec, the eldest of the Lindsay brothers, when the telegram had arrived. She liked Alec as much as she liked anyone, now that Joe had been taken from her. He was quiet, and he was strong, and he liked cows. He respected cows. He knew that a cow-kick could come quicker than any horse-kick, and that they could kick from the front, and just when you least expected it. He knew the names of all the cows, and had thought up some of them himself. Alec knew about cows because Jean had taught him, and also because he had taken the trouble to learn about them.

  At night, when the other two were asleep, Alec had told Jean, he studied farming books by the light of his precious torch, old leather-covered books that he had found in the library at the Hall. They were old-fashioned all right, but they taught him about land, and the way of it, and he and Jean talked about land, and cows and sheep, and how animals all had different personalities, and how you had to know them, same as humans, or you would slip up. It was as important as how you fed them.

  Nowadays most of the cows came when they were called. Alec had learned to make a ‘yip-yip-yipping’ sound. He had learned it from Jean, of course; but more than that he had learned to do it with difficulty, because he was shy.

  Jean respected his shyness, just as she respected the way he had learned to make a cow-calling sound, because he was anxious to fill in for her when the time came, when the baby arrived. Of course they never talked about the baby, or its imminent arrival. Why should they? It wouldn’t be right, and it wouldn’t be decent – no one talked about the baby – but they all knew it was there, and that it would be coming soon, no matter how much Jean tried to hide it with long pullovers, and farming clothes of every kind pulled down over her land girl uniform.

  Alec had heard enough babies arriving in his time not to be impressed by the idea. As the eldest of four boys, all born at home, he knew all about kettles being boiled (although he still had no idea what they did with the hot water), and the loc
al midwife arriving, and when he was old enough he had rounded up the others and taken them out, to the park if it was daytime, or to play outside The Duck and Horse if it was evening. Playing in the road, in the dirt, was better for them, he had always reckoned, than watching their father boil kettles, and listening to their mother yelling her head off.

  ‘Ow, ow, ow! Oh my God, why did no one tell me? Why did no one warn me what would happen, ow!’

  Alec was way up the hill, but because of the cold still air he could hear the sound, and it reminded him of when Tom and Johnny – oh God – it was Mrs Huggett! She was two fields away, but he could hear her sharp as anything, hear her cries. Maybe old Goldie had kicked her in the baby? In the front!

  He started to run, but he was too fast, and he fell, he fell flat, and he cut his face and hands because the ground was so hard it might as well have been made of concrete, or granite. It really was that hard. Might as well have been a Peckham pavement that he had fallen on, really it might. He picked himself up, and stumbled on again, groaning a little as he tried to wipe the blood from his eyes, where he had cut his forehead. The blood dripped down over his hands, which made him suddenly realise what a good idea it might have been to take Branscombe’s advice, and pack a handkerchief into his back pocket.

  If his father hadn’t always leathered them for swearing, Alec would have said every swear word he had ever heard, but he respected himself too much nowadays to swear.

  That was what Miss Maude always said to him: ‘You respect yourself too much to use bad words, don’t you, Alec?’ And she was right. He did. He told himself this as he staggered up through the fields to where he could see the black of Miss Jean’s farm coat, and hear her cries.

  ‘You been kicked by Goldie, then, Miss Jean?’

  Jean looked up at him.

  ‘Oh, Alec, you’re here. Good boy! No, no, I haven’t been kicked. I fell and I think it’s brought the – I think I have started. Can you go for help?’