Churchill’s Angels (2 page)

‘Talking about it is all that has happened, Dad, except for Mum’s baking.’ She frowned. ‘What do you think about moving the tinned beans up to the shelf below the Spam, and the tinned pears below them? Could give a customer an idea for a whole meal.’

‘Good idea. We haven’t shifted many of those pears. I’ll deal with customers.’

What a brain you have, Daisy Petrie. World-shattering idea there.
Daisy started work on the shelves beside the door that led to the stairs. War, according to Sam, would bring opportunity.
But do I want opportunity at such a price?
Thoughts went spinning around in her head as she worked, completely ignoring the musical ping of the doorbell as customers came in. Mr Fischer, an elderly resident and a particular favourite of Daisy, came in to buy his paper. He also bought some tea and, as tin after tin of various teas was opened, the scents of the east obliterated the mundane smell of sardines.

Daisy thought of her sister, Rose, busy at the Vickers munitions factory until seven and so unable to help with party preparations. The boss there obviously had no faith in the ‘there will be no war’ newspaper articles and had, in fact, stepped up production.

Baked beans, Spam, pears followed one another onto her dusted shelves and at last she was finished and free to return to the flat to prepare for the party.

‘I’ve given the front room a bit of a dust, and brought in some extra chairs. Any more turns up and they’ll have to sit on the floor.’ Flora was now arranging her sandwiches on her best plates.

‘Thanks, Mum, but we can’t dance if the floor’s cluttered up with chairs. I’ll have a look once I’ve washed.’

‘You should have a rest, pet.’

The words, ‘I’m as healthy as one of Alf’s horses’ formed on the tip of her tongue but she managed to swallow them. If there was going to be all-out conflict, she would not spend many more days weighing porridge oats and rice and reading the newspapers. ‘Don’t be scared, Daisy. Start thinking about what you can do that’s useful,’ she muttered under her breath as she effortlessly carried two bedside chairs – complete with pink ruffles – back to her parents’ bedroom.

The party went with a swing. Flora Petrie had made new full skirts for the twins: Rose’s was a multi-coloured floral, perfect on her tall, slim body, but for the daintier Daisy she had chosen a dark green cotton that went perfectly with a puff-sleeved sea-green blouse that she had found on a stall at a local market. Even Grace Paterson, Daisy and Rose’s other close friend, had dressed in party mood and confided to her friends that she had found her sleeveless, full-skirted black and white dress on sale in the charity shop managed by her sister.

Somehow it seemed as if no one had told Sally about her ‘surprise’ party. The postman knew all about it – and therefore everyone on his route knew – but Sally swore she did not. She exclaimed over the large poster, drawn by Daisy and Rose, which said in large letters, ‘Good Luck, Sally’, and, ‘Sally Brewer, Dartford’s Star’,
and
asked if she could have it to hang in her own bedroom in her parents’ flat next door to the picture house, where her father worked as the projectionist.
Of the nineteen former school friends who had been invited, four had had to refuse the invitation or have it refused for them. Two lads had already joined a branch of the growing military and two others were working overtime in the Powder Lane munitions factory.

The fifteen remaining ate the sandwiches and apple turnovers, and drank the fruit punch to which a carefully measured amount of alcohol had been added, and proceeded to dance the night away. Most of the young people had left school aged fifteen. Only Sally, Dartford’s star, had gone on to a grammar school. Now that she was to begin a three-year course in speech and drama, her friends dreamed of seeing her on screen in the local cinema. Daisy, Rose and Grace intended to keep the friendship strong.

The twins had known Sally since primary school. Grace, however, had arrived in Dartford at the age of seven when, for reasons that no one seemed to know, she had been sent from her foster home in Scotland to live with her adult half-sister, Megan Paterson. Sally and the twins, children from loving homes, had unquestioningly accepted the newcomer into their solid friendship.

The party was finally over and when all the others had taken their leave, the twins and Grace made Sally sit down in the best chair.

‘We have a present for you, Sal. Close your eyes,’ ordered Rose.

There was the sound of paper rustling and then, ‘Open your eyes. Tada!’

The three girls had saved part of their wages all summer and Sally saw herself looking at a most elegant two-piece costume. It was navy blue, perfect with her blue-black hair. The jacket had the new squared shoulders and a close-fitting waist, and the fashionable-length skirt had a small pleat that would make movement easy.

Sally was speechless. ‘I don’t know what to say,’ she managed after a while. ‘It’s fabulous.’ She thought for a moment and gave it the ultimate accolade. ‘It’s exactly what Margaret Lockwood would wear, and perfect for interviews. But you’re all very wicked. Now I know why no one’s had an ice cream at the pictures all summer. Next Friday the ice creams are on me.’

‘Oh, and I forgot,’ said Rose later as they stood chatting in the middle of the brightly coloured rag rug, ‘Mum tells me big brother Sam wrote today.’ She made a pose perfect for a swooning heroine in one of the desert sheik films so loved by all four girls. ‘He’s sweet on you, Sally; can you believe it? Our big Sam and Sally.’ She began to laugh and the others laughed, Sally, Daisy, Rose … but not Grace. Quiet Grace, in appearance more like Daisy than Daisy’s own twin sister, was not laughing. Little orphaned Grace, who had been protected by the tall, blond, sports hero Sam Petrie since her arrival in Dartford all those years ago, and who had loved him devotedly ever since, stood on the edge of the rug looking as if her world had just fallen apart. Grace, who had been taught by her sister that she was both worthless and useless, had never expected the shining light that was Sam to love her but she had dreamed of a miracle.

‘He sent her a special message, Rose, didn’t he?’ teased Daisy. ‘Couldn’t quite bring himself to say, “Tell her
to come with me to the Kasbah,
” but you could see where he’d scraped something out.’

Sally turned to her. ‘Daisy, you are wicked. Poor Sam; he wouldn’t say anything of the kind. Don’t you think that’s funny, Grace, me and Sam? Sam Petrie. I’ve known him my whole life.’

Grace had half turned so that she was not looking directly at her friends but had not really turned her back on them. Her eyes were suspiciously bright but possibly the others did not notice. ‘I don’t think that feelings should be laughed at. Whatever Sam said, it was a private message to Sally and not a joke.’

‘How about a nice cuppa before we all trot off?’ Daisy, aware that the frivolous atmosphere was now heavy – and she would worry about the reason later – broke in. ‘Rose, Mum and Dad’ll want something hot before bed, and Dad did say he wanted to walk Grace home. He’ll pass your door too, Sally, and help you carry your loot.’

‘And didn’t I do well considering it isn’t a birthday or anything?’ Several of their friends had brought ‘good luck’ gifts.

‘Try it on, Sally,’ begged Daisy. ‘We’ve had it hanging on the back of the bedroom door for two weeks now and we just have to see if it fits.’

Sally looked towards the kitchen door beyond which the Petrie parents were listening to the wireless. She held out her arms. ‘Come here, all three of you. You are the best friends I will ever have and I want nothing to come between us.’

‘If you squeeze us much more, Sally Brewer,’ laughed Daisy, as the girls hugged one another, ‘a flea couldn’t come between us.’

The moment of tension passed but was not forgotten.

A few days later Daisy was reading the local paper, the
Dartford Chronicle
, when the shop door opened. She looked up to see her favourite customer, Mr Fischer. He was carrying a newspaper.

Daisy grimaced, guessing what the problem was, but managed to greet him politely.

‘There was a sticky bit on the sports page of this one, Daisy, and so I’ll have one you’re not reading today, if you don’t mind,’ the old man said with an understanding smile.

Daisy hurried to get a pristine copy from the pile behind the counter and handed it over. ‘Sorry, Mr Fischer, no charge today.’

‘But of course I will pay, my dear. It is a privilege to walk calmly into a shop, be greeted by a pretty girl, and be allowed to buy what I can afford.’ He put the coins down on the counter. ‘Anything of interest I shouldn’t miss today?’

Over the years, while she had worked in the family shop part time and then full time, Daisy and the elderly man had developed a friendship. Daisy knew that he was German and that he had left Germany almost ten years before for reasons he did not divulge. The family had decided that he was Jewish and gradually they had learned that he was also very well educated, for he had talked to Daisy about things that her parents could not begin to understand. She was in the habit of reading the newspapers while she waited for customers, and when there was a picture or a headline that she did not understand she would talk to gentle Mr Fischer about it. In this way she had learned about stars and galaxies, early civilisations, the development of language and of mathematics, and of countless other fascinating things. He discussed with her the life cycle of a frog, the birth of a butterfly, and he tried to explain how a bird or a plane could fly and even why a huge ship did not sink under its own weight. These days, however, all their discussions were of the prospect of war.

Daisy looked at the old man, wondering for the first time if he was as old as he appeared to be. What horrors had he encountered that had forced him to leave his own country to live in another where he could worship in his own way? Every day that he came in for his paper or a few groceries, he was always perfectly dressed: collar, tie, hat and, in cold weather, gloves. He had his standards and dignity. She smiled at him with affection. ‘I don’t suppose you’re interested in wedding pictures and lists of the guests, but …’ she looked at him shrewdly and decided cricket rather than football might interest him, ‘… there’s some cricket coverage and a very good recipe for cabbage soup.’

‘Today no war and rumours of war, Daisy?’

‘Not really, but my brother Sam – the one in the army – well, you do know that he has been saying since last year that there will be a war with Germany. He says I should think hard about what I want to do for the war effort.’

‘And what have you decided, young Daisy?’

Daisy shook her head ruefully. ‘It’ll be factory work, I suppose, same as Rose. Clever girls with an education will get the exciting jobs.’

‘Someone will still have to sell the newspapers, with or without jam on them.’

‘Actually, it was stewed apple. Mum baked turnovers for the party. Sorry, Mr Fischer, I like you, and most of the customers, but measuring out bits of cheese and weighing tea leaves isn’t very exciting, is it?’

The old man folded the newspaper. ‘One day, Daisy, you may thank God for the comforting ordinariness of it. As always I like our little chats. I may try the cabbage soup; I have a liking for cabbage. Good morning.’ He left the shop, lifting his hat to Daisy as he went and she stood looking after him. Such an odd Dartford resident …

Someday I might be glad to be doing something ordinary – I don’t think so, Mr Fischer. What happened to you? Daisy wondered. She recalled some of their serious discussions and many of the wonderful things he had explained so that she could understand. He should have been a teacher, she decided, and went back to reading the paper until several housewives arrived, almost every one accompanied by children of various ages.

It was a very tired Daisy who closed the shop at the end of the day and climbed the stairs to the flat. Customers accompanied by children were always the most difficult to serve. Sometimes children whined or opened the doors of cupboards they had been specifically told not to touch, and tried to pull out the contents. Some mothers were good at keeping their children in line, others paid no attention to them; it all made extra work.

In the kitchen a pot of carrot, not cabbage, soup was keeping warm on the back hotplate.

‘Thanks, Mum,’ Daisy said aloud to the empty room as she helped herself to a large serving and cut herself a slice of bread.

Daisy had been on duty in the shop all day because Flora and Fred had gone to an afternoon meeting in the Market Street Clinic. Mr Chamberlain might still be telling the nation that there was not going to be any conflict but Dartford had taken the threat of war very seriously and had been preparing for some time. The town had been designated a vulnerable area. To find out the exact meaning of that word, the family had consulted the heavy dictionary in the front room.

Early in May Fred and Flora had gone to the State Cinema in Spital Street to see a film called
The
Warning
, which dealt with the possible effects of an air raid, and Fred had been so affected that he had immediately volunteered to become an air-raid warden.

‘Dartford’s not the safest place to be if war comes,’ Fred had told his children. ‘The enemy’ll have to fly over us before they reach London.’ He tried to smile. ‘Could get quite noisy here.’

Already there were thousands of sandbags, stacked like secondary walls, protecting important buildings, and since it was believed that, if war came, there would be gas attacks, gas masks had been issued. Air-raid shelters and first-aid stations had been set up in the St Alban’s Hall and at the County Hospital. Trenches that reminded Fred and others of the ‘war to end all wars’ had been dug in Central Park and on Dartford Heath. As one of the first wardens to volunteer to help in assuring that Air Raid Precautions were carried out, Fred was learning how to deal with incendiary bombs at the clinic. Flora went along to all the meetings. After all, Fred would often be away from the flat and the shop, and she was determined to find out how to deal with anything that might fall on her home and her children.