Churchill’s Angels (7 page)

‘Adair says he learned to fly in just a few hours, simple controls.’

‘A few hours? Don’t believe it. Two hours and you could maybe get it to go along the ground but how does it get up in the air?’

‘No idea, but I’m going to find out. He talked about something called …’ she thought for a moment, ‘… aerodynamics, whatever that is. Didn’t tell him I hadn’t a clue but I’ll find out.’ She clenched her fists. ‘Somehow. Anyway, he says when we get it ready, he’ll take me up. It’s got two seats, one behind the other. Remember Sam’s big go-kart?’

Rose nodded.

‘It’s like being in that but with higher sides.’

‘Time you two was sound.’ Their father, wearing his pyjamas, his disreputable old dressing gown, his hat and a scarf, was standing at the door. ‘You’re at the factory early tomorrow, Rose, and you need to clean your hands, Daisy. Picture the poor vicar’s face if you was to cut his cheese with hands like that.’

Daisy, laughed, said, ‘Aircraft oil,’ as nonchalantly as she could and blew out Rose’s candle.

Rose had the last word. ‘Sally’ll be ever so excited, Daisy. Mrs B told Mum she thinks Sal will get a real theatre job soon with real actors an’ all, not just training, and here’s you meeting a toff and being friends. You two are for the high life.’

‘Don’t be daft, our Rose. Adair and me … and I … are working together is all.’

‘I know, Daisy, and I sing as good as Vera Lynn.’

Daisy became accustomed to such phrases as dual ignition, interchangeable ailerons, magneto generators, which soon became as easily recognisable and understandable as spark plugs, brakes and crankshafts. By May of 1940 she was as at home in the cockpit of Adair’s beloved little yellow plane as she was in the driving seat of the family’s old van. Adair managed to get away only twice in those months but he wrote long letters in which he answered Daisy’s many questions and each time reinforced his feelings of gratitude towards her. Never, however, did he repeat his promise to take her for a flight. She had not expected it, and so was not overly hurt. After all, he was one of those brave young men who, every day and night, flew on what they called missions. Some never returned, having sacrificed everything so that others might live in peace.

She did keep the letters and read each one several times – for the information, she told herself, not because they were from a rather handsome young man.

Adair managed a pass early in May and, for once, had been able to bring Daisy to the farm. Usually she cycled, as petrol was now very scarce and the Petries’ allowance was needed for deliveries. Daisy had watched for him, one ear on her customer, the other desperately listening for the sound of his motorcar on the street outside.

‘I’ll pick you up about eleven,’
he had written, and Daisy knew that meant that Adair Maxwell, pilot, would come into the shop and happily introduce himself to whichever parent was there. For a reason she could not quite understand, Daisy did not want that to happen.

Was it because her parents, solid hard-working people, did not quite trust young men like Adair, who had been born, not in a crowded flat above a shop, but in a magnificent manor house surrounded by thousands of acres of family-owned land? She pushed the disturbing thought away.

The trees around Old Manor Farm were in glorious pink, white or purple bloom. The scent of lilacs floated gently around them as, after working hard for a few hours, Daisy and Adair sat on the ground under a great beech tree to enjoy the sandwiches Flora had prepared for them.

‘This is too good of Mrs Petrie,’ Adair said as he bit happily into a fish paste sandwich. ‘I never think of sensible things like food, and I ought to bring your mum something.’

‘She’s used to feeding boys.’

He looked straight at her and Daisy felt her face warming, and not from the May sunshine.

‘I’m not a boy, Daisy,’ he said as he reached for a second sandwich.

Daisy was speechless. No, he was not a boy, he was a man, a very exciting man. A thought entered her head and she tried to stifle it. Could he possibly be reminding her that she was no longer a girl? At eighteen, she was a woman. A woman who could … who could what? Love a man? Be loved by him in return? That thought was just too much. She was someone who could help him repair his engine and that was all.

After a few minutes of slightly uncomfortable silence Adair spoke again. ‘You ought to go into the WAAF, you know; you’re wasted in a shop.’

Daisy knew what the WAAF was: the Women’s Auxiliary Air Force. She had read about it in the
Chronicle
, and even the London papers, which a few of their customers ordered. She thought she could learn how to pack a parachute and probably she would be qualified for a catering job – after all, she had washed dishes and peeled potatoes all her life – but how could she be a meteorological officer or work with ciphers and such? She almost wept as she realised she scarcely knew what the words meant, let alone how to do the jobs.

‘Thanks a lot, and which job do you think the air force might be anxious to give me?’

‘You’re a good mechanic; we need mechanics.’

‘You need bits of paper, Adair. I left school at fourteen. I walk in there and say I’d like to be a mechanic in the WAAF and, after they’ve all had a good laugh, I’ll be dishing out plates of egg and chips to people like you.’

‘Vision, Daisy. You could train to be a pilot. Damn it, woman, you’re smart. Sometimes education is what goes on after you leave school, you know.’

Woman.
Her heart began to beat more quickly. What was happening to her? She felt wonderful but strange. She tried to joke. ‘You’re mad, Adair Maxwell, nice but mad. Come on, finish the apple pie and let’s get back to work.’

He stood up and, reaching down, pulled her up to stand beside him. ‘I’ll teach you. Every day I teach men who’re not half as smart as you are.’

Now her pulse was racing. She tried to remain calm and focused. Never once had she thought seriously that she might learn to fly. Her vision, as Adair called it, had allowed her to think, hope, pray that perhaps she might be accepted to help out with aircraft engines, but flying …

‘You don’t mean that.’

He held her by her shoulders. ‘Dash it; I didn’t when I said it. The words popped out … but, Daisy, why not? You know my little plane every bit as well as I do myself. Besides, she’s basically a glorified powered glider; she always lands gently, very different from some of the planes I’m flying as an air force pilot. Next time I can get away I’ll take her up; I wasn’t going to tell you, but she’s ready, thanks to you. If I bring her down again safely, then we’re in business.’

They cleared up their picnic and returned to the stable yard where the plane sat waiting.

‘Don’t tell me you haven’t handled the controls and thought, I bet I could get this crate off the ground.’

Daisy smiled but said nothing. Of course she had enjoyed wonderful daydreams in which she soared above Kent in the Aeronca, but they were just dreams. Planes did get off the ground and into the air but how they got up there was still a mystery.

‘Come on, you can steer the old girl into the stable. All she needs now is a name. Can’t take her up without a name.’

‘What was her name before?’ Daisy asked as she lowered herself into the cockpit, the excitement in her stomach threatening to spoil the experience.

‘Don’t remember, something trite like
Messenger of the Gods
.’ He looked at her sitting there in the pilot’s seat. ‘You’ve never asked why she was in such a poor condition.’

‘Not my business.’

‘She was my father’s but he died in a silly accident before he could fly her.’

‘I’m sorry.’

‘Long time ago, Daisy. Park her right in the back, please.’ He was himself again, professional, businesslike.

When they had closed up the stables, they walked up to the farmhouse to let the Humbles know that Adair was leaving.

‘Take care, lad. Any idea when we’ll see you?’

Adair shook his head.

‘We’ll see you, Daisy?’

‘Only with grocery orders, I think, Alf.’

‘The best mechanic in England has brought the plane up to scratch, Alf. Our Daisy is going to be the RAF’s secret weapon, but right now I’ve got to get her back home.’

They said nothing during the drive into Dartford. Adair easily found a parking place on the High Street and moved as if to get out of the car. Daisy jumped out before he could.

‘You need all the time you’ve got, Adair. Thanks for letting me work with you.’

She turned to hurry towards the shop door but he caught up with her, his firm grip on her arm making her pulse race again. ‘This isn’t thanks for working your socks off and goodbye, Daisy. I meant what I said. As soon as I can I’ll be back and I’ll teach you to fly.’

For a moment he looked as if he wanted to say more. After a long moment he said, ‘Scout’s honour,’ before hurrying back to his car.

Daisy stifled the urge to turn and watch him drive away. She did not look after him but walked on into the shop.
Scout’s honour.
She smiled. She just bet Adair Maxwell had been a patrol leader.

‘Good time, Daisy, love?’ Flora was sitting knitting behind the counter in the empty shop.

‘Work’s finished, Mum, and Adair thanks you for the sandwiches.’

‘He’s welcome. You should have brought him in for a nice cuppa.’

Adair and her mum sitting chatting in the front room? Never. Her mother found it difficult to chat to the vicar. How would she cope with Adair’s even more polished tones? ‘He’s not that kind of friend, Mum, and besides, it’ll take him all the time he has left to get back to his base. If you don’t need me in the shop I’ll go up and have a bath.’

Flora waved her knitting. ‘Really quiet day. Don’t know why but customers aren’t fighting to get in. I only started this sock for your dad this morning; two more rows and I’ll be turning the heel.’

Daisy went to the flat, turned on the wireless and almost immediately ran back downstairs. ‘Put the wireless on, Mum. No wonder the shop’s quiet. The whole of Dartford must be listening to the wireless; Mr Chamberlain has resigned.’

Daisy and Flora stood in the unusually quiet shop and listened to the news with bated breath.

The Prime Minister, Neville Chamberlain, had lost the confidence of the Government and had resigned.

It appeared that what had been dubbed a phoney war was very, very real indeed. There had been questions in the papers and on the wireless about the German invasion of Norway and, more important still, about Britain’s ill-fated part in the defence of that country. Now it appeared that German troops were swarming across both the Belgian and Dutch borders. In the House of Commons, Leo Amery had made a vitriolic speech against the Prime Minister and ended it by quoting Oliver Cromwell: ‘In the name of God, go.’

Mr Chamberlain had gone.

Now, in almost the middle of the beautiful month of May, after countless debates and questions, King George VI had asked Mr Winston Churchill to head a truly national government.

‘I have all three of my lads in the forces,’ Flora said quietly.

‘You just wait, Mum, Churchill will get it all sorted. The boys will be home in no time, full of stories about their deeds of derring-do.’

‘I don’t give a toss about deeds, Daisy Petrie. I want my boys home in their own beds. I don’t even know where two of them are.’

Daisy put her arms around her mother, who suddenly looked frail and tired. ‘They’re fine, Mum, but if you’re on a ship, you can’t pop a letter in the post. Who’s going to pick it up and deliver it – a seagull?’

As she had hoped, Flora laughed. ‘Oh, I’m sorry, Daisy, pet. Don’t let on to your dad. You’re right, o’course. Mr Churchill’s the right one for the job. And don’t tell your dad I were a watering pot.’

‘He’ll be here in a minute. Let’s have a nice tea all ready for him.’

Fred had heard the news but was more positive than his wife. ‘Now we can really get in and teach mighty Germany a final lesson. We thought we’d done it in the Great War but sometimes lessons needs relearning. And we’re the ones to do it.’

As if there wasn’t enough for the Petries to worry about, more foodstuffs were rationed. Many of the customers were stoical but a few complained bitterly and seemed to believe that Daisy could provide more if she really wanted to do so. It was hard sometimes to remain friendly and calm.

‘Meat, eggs, cheese, jam, tea, milk. Wot’s left for God’s sake? Rabbits and fish. If you can catch them you can eat them.’

‘It’s a sensible measure.’ Fred was not so easy to intimidate as Flora and Daisy. ‘This way everyone’s looked after, and anyways, eggs and milk isn’t rationed, they’re allocated.’

‘And wot does that mean when it’s at home, Fred Petrie?’

‘You can’t tell a hen how many eggs she has to lay, or a cow how many pints she has to give. It all depends on supply. If there’s a lot, we gets more, if the animals slows down a bit then we gets less. Whatever comes in gets divided equal. Allocated. Simple.

‘Don’t take no nonsense, Daisy,’ Fred told her later. ‘I got to queue up everywhere to get supplies, and customers is going to have to queue up to get theirs. Tell ’em there’s a war on, if there’s any more grumbling.’

Almost everyone accepted the growing lines outside every shop. Housewives like Flora, and Nancy Humble at the farm, had preserved fruits in their larders and jars of jam on their pantry shelves, and both shared generously. Flora looked at her diminishing stocks and decided that toast, scones, and oatcakes would be served with either butter
or
jam, never with both.

‘Wish Grace were ’ere, pet. We could have encouraged her to grow strawberries. Next year Alf’s putting potatoes where most of his strawberries are.’

‘Maybe the war will be over by then, Mum.’

Mother and daughter smiled sadly. Each knew that it would not be over.

For weeks there was no word from any of Daisy’s brothers. They were gone and no one could or would tell the Petries where they were. Rumours abounded. The war had begun badly and was taking an even more downward course. Thousands of British troops, who had gone so bravely to free Europe, were themselves now marooned on a French beach, the sea in front of them, the enemy behind them.