Churchill’s Angels. Ruby Jackson
odd cuppa with me and Alf in the kitchen, no more. I’ve no idea where he’s based – happen Alf does. But if Adair does come back I’ll tell him what you said. Best I can do.’
Daisy had to be content with that. She finished the deliveries with ideas and plans spilling around as the butterflies had done earlier. He had to come back some weekend to see his beloved plane and Nancy would tell him what Daisy had said. He would be delighted by the offer of help and very soon Daisy Petrie – shop assistant – would be doing something that was vital to the war effort.
But weeks passed and he did not return.
Grace was absent from the first-aid classes at the beginning of February. Daisy did not concern herself too much. Everyone seemed to work longer and longer hours these days and all the extra hours did seem to be affecting Grace. Without much expectation of discovering anything, Daisy went to Megan Paterson’s shop.
‘Grace missed the classes this week, Megan. She’s not sick, is she?’
Grace’s sister looked nothing like Grace. She was tall and very thin, and her extravagantly styled hair was, to Daisy, the most peculiar unnatural shade of red. Her frock was certainly very modern and Daisy supposed she could possibly be described as sophisticated. To Daisy, however, there was something not quite right in the picture presented. Megan’s antagonism to Grace’s friends did nothing to help.
‘How would I know?’ Megan answered Daisy’s question. ‘I got more to do than look in her room every five minutes, haven’t I?’
A picture of the cold, cheerless kitchen and the three pairs of expensive stockings flashed across Daisy’s mind. She bristled. ‘I’m quite sure you have more to do than look after your sister. You certainly never have before, so why break the habit of a lifetime?’
‘Get out, you cheeky little bitch,’ snarled Megan, lifting her hand as if to strike.
‘You do that, Megan Paterson, and my dad’ll be round here in two minutes. If you see Grace, tell her we’re worried about her.’
Heart beating unnaturally quickly, Daisy hurried home. She could hear her voice shouting at Megan but could scarcely believe that she had lost control of her emotions so completely. She discussed her concern for Grace with her mother. She left out the bit about being rude to Megan and almost being slapped for it.
‘I think it started the day rationing started, the morning all the sprouts were frozen. Haven’t seen her much since then but we’re all busy and it’s been too cold to do much except stay in and listen to the wireless. But now she’s missed two classes and she loves them. She’s so good at first aid, much quicker at it than me. Why hasn’t she popped in for a cuppa in weeks, Mum? You don’t think she could have died, do you?’
‘Lawks a’ mercy, Daisy Petrie. ’Course she hasn’t gone and died. Megan’s a … well, she’s not the best sister in the world but even she would know. Now, my girl, you need to take yourself off dancing with Rose and her friends. She meets lots of nice lads in the factory and at the Palais. Doesn’t mean you’ve promised to marry a chap if you dance with him, love, and you used to enjoy the dancing. Why don’t you go with them next Saturday, take Grace along too? Be good for her.’
Daisy stood up. ‘Can’t seem to think about anything but the war, Mum, and I can’t take Grace if I can’t find her. I’m going to pop round to the theatre, see if I can have a word with Sally. Maybe she’s heard something. Seems I’ve seen hardly anything of her since the theatre company took her in to train and it’d be ever so exciting to see backstage.’
Mother and daughter looked towards the door as they heard the bell and breathed a collective breath of relief as Bernie Jones entered.
‘Morning, ladies, you got a bumper crop today: one each, and some nasty ones I’ll put over here for Fred.’
They both laughed at this old joke, offered Bernie tea, which he declined, and turned to their letters.
For a few moments the only sound in the room was the tearing open of envelopes.
‘It’s from Phil, first from ’is ship. Imagine, Daisy, a letter from a ship.’
Daisy said nothing but continued to stare at the page torn from a jotter, on which her letter was written. She read it again and again, turned it over and looked at the blank back as if somehow, somewhere on that empty space, there was a message that would explain it. Nothing. She turned it over and read it again.
Dear Daisy,
I’ve gone and joined the Women’s Land Army. I don’t know where I’ll be sent but right now I’m here in Kent, but that’s just for learning and when I get sent to a permanent farm I’ll let you know and Sally, and maybe you’ll write to me. We’ll have proper tools for digging and such and I’ll learn lots and growing our own food is really important. I got a uniform, Daze, and everything from the skin out brand new.
Tell your mum and Sally’s mum thank you and sorry to have left like this but I just had to.
Grace
P.S. Tell your mum and Sally’s I’ll write when I get nice paper and if you write to me and please, please do, will you tell me if Sally’s an actress yet?
‘Are you all right, Daisy? You’ve gone all funny.’ Flora was looking at her daughter, her eyes full of concern. ‘It’s not bad news, is it?’
‘Some friend I am.’ Daisy handed her mother the letter.
‘Poor Grace. Now, did that trollop of a sister know she was gone when you went over there? Well, just in case she didn’t, we won’t tell her either, Daze. Let her stew a little – do ’er the world of good.’
‘Why didn’t she put an address on it? She asked me to write and she hasn’t put an address. Did she never have anything in her life that was new, Mum? And she paid her share of Sally’s costume. Why didn’t I help her?’
Flora pulled Daisy into the alcove and sat her down on one of the rickety chairs. ‘Pull yourself together, our Daisy, and think. Of course you helped her. She wrote to you, didn’t she, not to anybody else? And she had new things; me and your dad and Sally’s mum and dad, we gave her something new every Christmas, even if I made it myself. I want you to put on your outside clothes and go over to the picture house and tell the Brewers because they’re worried too. Grace will write when she’s ready, when she’s got used to her new life.’
‘She was happy in her little garden, Mum.’
‘Then think of the fun she’ll have in a blooming great field. In the meantime, there’s work needs doing here so you can pop round the Brewers when the shop closes. Days are getting longer and so you can run down to the theatre if Sally’s not at home.’
Daisy gave in gracefully. ‘All right. What needs doing?’
‘Be a good girl and fetch in a carton of the Bonn’s digestive biscuits. They’re a good seller and there’s only one or two packets left. And I think there’s a roll of nice, yellow Lancaster cloth somewhere in there. Your dad was just after saying the shelves need a bit of brightening along of our spirits.’
Those two jobs, plus attending to customers who always came into the shop late in the afternoon in the hope that something perishable had been marked down, kept Daisy busy. Two boys in particular worried her. The older one tried always to seem tough but Daisy felt it was all a pose. When she could, she slipped something extra into their bag, earning a look of scorn from the older boy and a dazzling smile from the younger one.
As soon as her father had locked the shop door she hung up her apron, rushed upstairs to wash, and changed her shop overall for a smart lightly fitted blue wool skirt and a round-necked striped blue and white short-sleeved woollen jumper.
‘I won’t be late back,’ she called to her parents, and hurried out.
She was prepared to find the house in darkness as Sally’s parents were usually in the picture house. She was therefore delighted to