Churchill’s Angels

An outburst like that was so unlike Rose that even her father took notice. ‘Pour your sister a cuppa, our Daisy,’ he said as he reached across and patted Rose’s knee. ‘Don’t fret, love; they don’t know neither.’ He turned back to Daisy, who was filling the big breakfast cups. ‘Anything I need to know about the shop, Daisy?’

‘No, except, thank heaven, it’s Sunday tomorrow and I don’t have to go near the place.’

Two Sundays later, after church, the family put their gas masks in the hall cupboard with their Sunday coats and settled down in the front room to listen to the wireless while their dinner was being prepared. Fred was reaching for the switch when, with a groan of exasperation, Flora turned to Daisy.

‘Be an angel and run down the shop for peas. Go nice with that lovely bit of beef, and I forgot them yesterday.’ She gestured to the table by the door. ‘My purse is in my shopping bag.’

Daisy took the purse and hurried downstairs. The Petrie family were meticulous about never taking anything from the shop without paying for it. According to Daisy, reading the newspapers from cover to cover was ‘not exactly stealing’. She stood for a moment enjoying the unusual quiet of the empty shop. The blackout blinds were still on the windows and she pulled one aside for a moment to light her way. Sunlight streamed into the little shop, burnishing the polished oak counter and the brass scales and making a tiny rainbow as it shone on a glass jar of multi-coloured boiled sweets. No customer ever saw it like this. Daisy smiled in satisfaction as she found a tin of peas. She toyed with the idea of opening the old till to pay for her purchase – she loved the musical ping that the machine sang out each time the lever was depressed – but decided against it. After all, it was hardly worth opening the till only to close it immediately. She left a shilling on top of the till, closed the blinds again and hurried back upstairs. Mum wouldn’t mind waiting for her change and, first thing Monday morning, she would finish the transaction.

She found her family standing in a stunned group in the kitchen. Flora was sobbing loudly as tears ran down her cheeks and Fred and Rose were patting her back in an attempt to comfort her. Her older brothers, Phil and Ron, standing close together, watched helplessly.

‘What’s happened?’

Everyone except Flora turned to look at her. ‘We’re at war with Germany, Daze,’ her father said as he continued to hold his almost hysterical wife. ‘Prime Minister’s just announced it on the wireless.’

Everyone began to talk at once but eventually Fred’s voice rose over those of his children. ‘Do the dinner for your mum, girls, and that’ll give her a chance to take it all in.’ He turned back to Flora. ‘That’ll make you feel better, love.’

Poor Flora had no time to feel anything for, just at that moment, the air was full of the piercing wailing of an air-raid siren.

Flora screamed and the twins clutched each other in terror.

‘In the kitchen, under the table,’ ordered Ron. ‘Come on, Mum, kitchen’s safest. You know we decided that earlier. Good girls, keep calm; it’s a drill, let’s show we know what to do if …’ He could not finish his sentence.

The family struggled to get under the large table, wincing both at their crushed uncomfortable positions and the fiendish sound that went round and round the room. They held their hands over their ears, willing the shrieking to stop. Ron held his mother, who had closed her eyes as if, somehow, that action might make the noise go away.

‘Ron’s right, Mum, it’s a drill.’ Phil was always ready to look for the brighter side. ‘I’ll put the wireless on. There’ll be news or music or something.’

‘Spilled a half of best golden ale,’ complained Fred as he peered under the table at his wife and daughters. ‘I got to go, love. Our Ron’s right, it’s only a practice, but I have to be out there. The boys’ll take care of you. We forgot the gas masks. I’ll toss ’em under before I leave.’

‘I don’t want to be gassed right here in my kitchen.’ Flora felt silly sitting under the kitchen table being held by her son as if she were a five-year-old, but she tried to smile. Feeling silly was better than feeling a bomb land on her head. She grabbed hold of the twins’ hands. ‘We’ll have such a tasty dinner, a nice bit of good beef, perfect for roasting with potatoes; glad I were a bit late with it. Awful to have it too well done, right, lads?’

At last the alert was over and the family, each one with tingling limbs, crawled out from under the table.

Ron stretched. ‘All I can say is thank heaven our Daisy isn’t as tall as the rest of us. Would’ve had to push you out from under, Daisy. No offence?’

Daisy said nothing but playfully slapped her long, lanky brother. ‘Come on, Rose, we’ll get the dinner on before we die of hunger.’

Even though the mouth-watering smell of roast beef permeated the small room, no one had much of an appetite. Once Fred had come home, however, and Flora had pulled herself together, they were able to sit down and talk.

Phil was full of bravado. ‘Don’t fret, Mum, we’ll sort ’em out in no time. With Sam, Ron and me in the Forces, you’ll see. Just watch them run.’

The younger Petrie boys had decided to enlist immediately. ‘We’ll get the top jobs, Mum. Our Sam was right,’ Phil said.

That night, unable to sleep, Daisy and Rose sat up in bed and talked. Rose brushed her hair until it shone. Daisy envied her. ‘You really ought to leave it hanging down, Rose. You look like a princess in a fairy story.’

‘Princesses don’t work in munitions factories. Even with my horrible turban on, dust seeps in somehow.’

Daisy yawned. ‘You should let it down at the dancing. Being tall, you can get away with such long hair.’

Rose laughed and began, as usual, to braid her hair for the night. Then she stopped. ‘Blinkety blink, I completely forgot. Paul Robeson was on at the pictures, Daisy; we should have gone.’

‘Too upset. What was the film?’

‘King Solomon’s Mines.’

Daisy, who loved going to the cinema, thought about that. ‘Can’t really see much great singing going on down a mine, Rose. C’mon, better get to sleep.’

‘You scared?’

‘Dunno. Haven’t had time to think. I mean, what could happen to me? The Germans are hardly likely to be interested in a grocery shop on Dartford High Street.’

‘Suppose not.’ Rose was quiet for a moment. ‘But there’s the docks, Daisy, the Vickers factory, chemical works, Hall’s engineering …’

‘They’re not on our street.’ Then Daisy threw back her blanket and jumped out of bed in alarm. ‘God, did you hear me, Rose? I was working out that no one will drop a bomb on me, and you and the boys work in a munitions factory.’

‘Don’t fret. Get back into bed and go to sleep. You’re the one what’s going to have to handle all the worried old ladies in the morning. Lads’ll be off enlisting.’

But no old lady rushed into the shop next morning. Daisy was measuring out tea leaves when Sally almost burst through the door. ‘It’s closed, Daisy.’ She looked round the little room to make sure that no customers were lurking among the shelves. ‘What am I going to do? There was a notice on the college door.’ She drew the shape of a large notice in the air. ‘Closed for the duration. What will I do? Look, I even put on my new costume.’

‘You look lovely,’ said Daisy automatically. ‘What did your mum say?’

‘They don’t know. They’re already at the picture house.’ She could say no more. Huge tears began to spill over and run down her beautiful face.

Daisy was at a loss. She put her arms around her sobbing friend. ‘The duration, Sally. It’s not going to be long, really it’s not. Everybody says so. It’ll be over by Christmas and you can start college next year. New year, new career.’

Sally pulled herself away. ‘Christmas. That’s a lifetime away,’ she said dramatically. ‘And what if it’s not over? What will I do – work in a factory? I can’t go to a university now because I turned them down.’ Her voice rose hysterically. ‘First one in the family ever to qualify for a university and I said no because I wanted to be in pictures.’

‘Stop it, Sally.’ Daisy’s voice was kind but firm. ‘So one college closed. That’s not your fault. Ring up another one somewhere else.’

Sally straightened up and was suddenly very mature. ‘How can a working-class girl like me afford to go somewhere else?’

Heavy footsteps on the stairs heralded Flora’s arrival with a tray. She smiled when she saw Sally. ‘Hello, love, I thought you was starting in the acting college today.’

Sally stared at her for a moment, burst into tears, turned and ran from the shop.

‘What on earth …?’ began Flora, and Daisy filled her in, finishing drily, ‘She’ll be a great actress once she gets started. First the local rep, then London, then Pinewood Studios, I bet. Something exciting is bound to happen to Sally.’

‘But such a shame the school closed. Poor Sally. That shows it’s really beginning, Daisy.’ Flora broke off to greet a customer cheerfully. ‘Morning, Mrs Richardson. Your usual Monday shop? We’ve got some nice tinned peaches just in.’

The declaration that Britain was at war with Germany had, on the surface at least, made very little difference to daily routine. Life went on more or less as it had been before the Prime Minister addressed the nation. Phil Petrie was excited because he had been accepted for training in the Royal Navy and younger brother, Ron, discovered that his mechanical skills were much prized by the army. ‘I told ’em I could drive anything, Mum, and strip and fix it too. The recruiting sergeant was thrilled. “We gotta keep our army moving,” he said, and told me I would be invaluable – that’s the exact word he used – invaluable. We’ve got to take medicals first and learn basic drill and stuff, but then we’re off.’

‘We’ll come home before we join our units, Mum.’

Daisy listened to their excited boasting and found herself wishing heartily that she too was joining a unit, any unit, anywhere. But for the next few months she continued working in the family shop and, with Grace, took a first-aid course.

‘Some use I’ll be Mum,’ she moaned. ‘Even working on a doll makes me ill. Remember how useless I was when the engine fell on Ron?’

‘Without knowing what to do, Daisy Petrie, you did the right thing and you helped your brother. You’ll be fine if and when something happens.’ Flora laughed. ‘Then you can be as sick as you like.’

‘Thanks a lot,’ said Daisy, but she was laughing too. She was determined that, in whatever way she could, she would contribute to the war effort. Therefore she forced herself to attend all the first-aid classes and also to work a few hours a week in Grace’s garden. With the help of her friends, Grace, who was the only one of the four friends to have a garden, attached to the tiny rented cottage halfway up West Hill, had started growing vegetables as part of her war effort. Almost every week there were fresh vegetables for the three families and everyone was delighted when the tiny patch Grace had been able to dig over yielded enough crunchy Brussels sprouts for the Paterson, Brewer and the Petrie Christmas dinners.

Flora had ordered a capon from the usual farm near Bexley and, on the Saturday before Christmas, Daisy drove out to pick it up.

Nancy Humble, the farmer’s wife, was in her kitchen. ‘Alf’s down the old stables, Daisy, love. Walk round there and you won’t believe your eyes when you see what we’re housing where the shires used to be.’

‘What is it? You’ve not put pigs in there?’

Mrs Humble looked as if she was seriously considering the proposition. ‘What a good idea; I’ll suggest that to Alf. Now off you go, you have to see it with your own eyes. Go on, it won’t bite you, and I’ll have a pat of fresh farm butter for your mum when you get back.’

Encouraged by ‘it won’t bite’, and being naturally curious, Daisy left the van in the yard and made her way past the big hay barn and a pen of hens busily pecking at some discarded cabbage leaves. Hmm, wonder if there’s room at Grace’s for a hen. We’ve got plenty of cabbage it could nibble, she thought.

Hens, cabbage leaves and even the Christmas capon went out of her head when she reached the stables that had once housed seven magnificent shires on which Daisy and Rose had used to sit.

‘It can’t be real,’ she said aloud.

‘It jolly well is,’ said a cultured voice reprovingly. ‘I’ll have you know, madame, that this beautiful aeroplane is an extremely fine specimen of the Aeronca C-3, manufactured in Ohio in the United States of America in 1935. It’s one of an amazing number of aircraft – one hundred and twenty-eight, to be exact – to be built that year.’

At the word ‘Ohio’, Daisy had almost laughed. Dad’s till and this aeroplane. Was there anything that was not made in Ohio, USA?

A young man in an oil-spattered overall had finally manoeuvred himself up out of the cockpit, not an easy task as the wings were in the way, and so he towered above her. Daisy had no idea whether to laugh or to run away. His face was streaked with oil and grease, which had managed to get itself into his almost flaxen hair. In one hand he brandished a spanner and the other held an extremely dirty rag with which – as he addressed Daisy – he was having no luck at all in cleaning his face.

Daisy gave up and started to laugh. The man’s feet and legs were inside the plane and so she had no real impression of how tall he was. Having grown up with three tall brothers, she decided that the odds were that he was not as tall as they were.

‘Does it really fly?’

‘Of course it does,’ he said as he jumped to the ground. ‘At least it will when I’ve got a few minor problems ironed out.’

‘Shame my brothers aren’t here. There is nothing they don’t know about engines,’ Daisy informed him. It was then that she realised that she was every bit as good as any one of the boys, having been taught by her brothers not only to drive but also to look after the engine. ‘I could have a look at it for you, if you like,’ she offered diffidently.

He looked at her as if he could not believe what he was seeing – or hearing. ‘You? A girl?’

‘Don’t mess with a Petrie, lad,’ broke in Alf Humble, the farmer. ‘They were born with wrenches and spanners in their hands.’

‘Beautiful picture that, Alf. Not sure what my mum would think of it.’

‘No woman is capable …’ the young man began, and then blushed to the roots of his hair. ‘I do beg your pardon, that was fearfully rude, but I mean, I’m sure you have some ability and that’s to be applauded, but this beautiful little yellow bird is going to help defeat the German might.’

His embarrassment made him more like one of her brothers, and Daisy smiled. ‘You plan on throwing things at them, then?’ She could scarcely believe that she was bandying words with a toff. Usually such a voice alone would have had her hiding herself away. Perhaps it was because, with oil all over his face and a wrench in his hand, he could have been Sam.

‘Don’t be facetious. She’s not going to be fitted with guns, although chaps are doing that to planes all over England. But she’s roomy, can reach speeds of eighty miles an hour; she’ll carry equipment, even personnel, between aerodromes. We’ll beat the blighters, just see if we don’t.’ He hauled himself athletically back under the wing and lowered himself into the cockpit.

‘Come on, Daisy. I’ve got a good, fat capon for your mum.’

Daisy and Alf walked together back to the farmhouse.

‘What’s facetious mean, Alf?’

‘No idea, love, but it can’t be good! Don’t think badly of the lad, even though he’s out of a top drawer. He’s in the air force – just got a few days’ Christmas leave – and he’s giving the plane to the country.’

‘Nice – if you’ve got the money.’

‘He hasn’t, Daisy. Third cousin, God knows how many times removed from the money.’ He stopped and turned back to face the plane. ‘Want a cuppa, Adair?’ he called.

A muffled answer came from the depths of the aeroplane.

‘I take it that’s a no then,’ said Daisy, who continued her walk back to the house to collect the star of the family’s Christmas dinner. ‘Adair? Never heard the name before.’

‘Me neither, but the lad doesn’t get all uppity when we use it. Known him since he were living here during his school holidays. He were Adair then and he’s still Adair.’

Daisy tried to match her stride to Alf’s longer steps. ‘But this is Lord Granger’s place, isn’t it? We used to be chased away if we came here on our bicycles.’

‘Young Adair’s mother was a relative of ’is lordship. Died very young; the father went back to America. Adair came ’ere in his holidays and now the house is closed he stays in the attic above the old stables.’

A picture of her three brothers came into Daisy’s head. ‘Is there a kitchen up there, Alf? My brothers would starve to death if they had to look after themselves.’

‘He does sometimes come for a meal in our kitchen. Nancy’d have him move in but the lad’s proud, has a little Primus stove, and now he’s in the air force he’s hardly ever here.’

‘What does he do in the air force, Alf? There’s a war on but nothing happens, if you know what I mean.’

‘I suppose they practise, and he teaches them as wants to fly.’

‘But he’s only a lad, same age as our Ron, by the look of him.’

‘Seems he’s been flying for years. Lads are joining up, he tells us, wanting to fly, and some of ’em han’t never seen a plane outside a picture house.’

‘Just as well nothing’s happening then,’ said Daisy as she refused the offer of some tea and, picking up the capon, and Nancy’s creamy-gold pat of newly churned butter, got back into the van to finish her deliveries.

Only the Petrie twins were at home for Christmas, but still the family tried to behave as normal and all preparations went ahead as they had done for as many years as Daisy could remember. Because Christmas Day was on Monday they were delighted to have two days’ holiday, as the shop was never open on a Sunday. The family members who were not on active service relaxed in their front room, the little Christmas tree twinkling in the window. Flora insisted that the tree be placed there every year.

‘Lots of folk who don’t have a home, never mind a tree, pass our place,’ she said. ‘This way we can share a bit of Christmas spirit, and isn’t that needed more than ever in these awful times?’

Presents had been opened and exclaimed over, and Flora was summoning up the energy to get up out of her nice comfortable chair to put the capon in the oven. With roast potatoes and fresh Brussels sprouts from Grace’s garden, followed by Christmas pudding and custard, Christmas dinner would be a feast fit for a king.

‘Come on, Mum, I’ll give you a hand,’ said Daisy, just as they heard the front doorbell. She was nearest and so she pulled herself up and went to answer it.

‘Have you seen Grace? Sorry, everyone. Merry Christmas,’ said Sally as she spilled into the room. She was wearing the costume bought for her by her friends, but it was obvious that she had not come to have them admire it or the smart red hat, perched on the back of her curls, which her parents had given her for Christmas. ‘Sorry again, but she’s never this late and there’s no one at their house.’

Sally looked as if she was about to burst into tears. Grace had spent Christmas Day with Sally’s family almost every year since she had arrived in Dartford as a timid seven-year-old. Megan Paterson had very unwillingly taken in the little girl but, apart from providing a bed for Grace to sleep in, had done little to make Grace feel welcome. Megan, manageress of a charity shop on the High Street, lived her own life. The presence of her half-sister was obviously an inconvenience and not a pleasure.

‘Where else could she be, Sally? Can’t think of any other close chums.’

Sally shook her head. ‘You know Grace; she’s not a talker. I don’t think I’ve even heard the names of anyone she works with. Dad and I went to the shop in case Megan had got a delivery she wanted unpacked and sorted, but it’s definitely closed and empty.’

She waited but no one spoke and so Sally carried on. ‘She’s been funny since my party but I thought she’d forgotten all about that silly teasing. Mum took her to the pictures one night last week and they spoke about Christmas dinner as usual. Today we can’t find her anywhere.’

‘Maybe her sister—’ began Flora.

‘Oh, please, Mrs Petrie. We’re all old enough to know exactly what her sister is. Grace won’t be with her. Dad went round the house; it’s empty. We hoped she’d be here. Maybe she’s gone to somebody at her work but why didn’t she tell Mum?’

‘No idea. I don’t think Grace’d do a thing like that. We’ll just have to go looking,’ said Daisy decisively. ‘Probably she went for a walk, and lost track of time – and distance.’ She looked at her mother.

‘Dinner’ll keep, pet. Go and find your friend. After all, we’re planning to eat her Brussels sprouts.’

Rose followed Daisy into the hallway where they picked up their woollen coats, and rammed the new berets that Flora had knitted for Christmas onto their heads. ‘Sorry, Mum, you and Dad start without us.’

When the door had closed behind them, Flora and Fred sat down by the fire. They had no option but to celebrate Christmas without their sons. ‘I’ll be damned if I touch a mouthful without my girls,’ said Fred.

Flora nodded and picked up her knitting.

The scarf she was making for Daisy was well under way by the time the girls returned.

‘Sorry,’ the twins said together. ‘We found her, would you believe, in that awful Anderson shelter; passed it twice, never thought to look in. She’s all right, Mum. As usual says nothing, but maybe she had a row with Megan. We talked her round and Mrs Brewer had the dinner keeping nice and hot.’ She looked suggestively towards the kitchen.

‘You had five more minutes, girls. Your dad wouldn’t start without you. Come on, it’ll be grand, and wait till you see what your dad ’as brought up from the shop.’

Neither girl had much experience of alcohol and each was thrilled to be given a glass of sherry.

‘Spanish,’ said Fred. ‘Best kind there is. Don’t neither of you let anyone give you sherry from anyplace else.’

Was the meal perfect or did the excitement of drinking sherry help cast a golden glow over it? No one appeared to notice that the capon was a little dry or that the sprouts had been cooked a little too long.

Daisy looked at the firelight shining in the liquid in her glass and found herself thinking of the pilot. Was he drinking real Spanish sherry with his Christmas meal? He had to be. Surely sherry was the height of sophistication.