Churchill’s Angels. Ruby Jackson
of the door handle alerted them to the arrival of the postman and, at last, just as Daisy thought she would go out of her mind, there was a letter for her parents, not from the War Office, as promised, but from their middle son, Phil.
‘If you trust me, Daisy, I will mind the shop while you run upstairs.’
‘Can’t think of anyone I trust more, Mr Fischer. I’ll only be a minute.’
Daisy took the stairs to the flat two at a time. ‘Mum, look, it’s from Phil, from his ship.’
Flora held the letter to her heart for a moment before opening it. ‘Read it to me, our Daisy. My eyes is watering.’
Daisy thought quickly. Who usually popped in at this time? The vicar? He’d be all right with Mr Fischer. ‘It’ll have to be quick, Mum; I’ve left poor Mr Fischer minding the shop.’
‘He’s a clever man, Daisy, very educated, your dad says, with letters an’ all after his name. He’ll yell up the stairs if he needs you.’
‘Sorry I haven’t written as I’ve been busy and was sick a lot on the boats at first. That’s all gone now and I even walks jaunty like a real sailor. We’ve been in action is all I can say and you never heard the likes of the noise and I hopes you don’t never hear it, but we did well. Our captain who’s a really posh guy but very decent with it says we all ought to get a medal and maybe we will.
Learning to be on a ship was fun but a bit scary, like when we used to play Tarzan up the woods. Remember how you used to yell at us for jumping from tree to tree but some of the blokes I sail with has never seen a blooming tree, never mind climbed one. It’s easier than the way we did it. We got this thing called a breeches buoy – looks a bit like one of your apple fritters but on a rope. It’s better than Tarzan except when there’s
‘Next bit’s scraped out, Mum, and then he talks about learning all the aeroplanes. I must go.’ She handed her much happier mother the thin water-damaged sheet of paper and started down the stairs just as the siren went again.
The Petries, having no garden in which to put an Anderson shelter, had been forced to prepare a refuge room to which they could run if there was an air raid. The kitchen had only one window and only two outside walls and so they had thought that would be the best choice. But they were told that, on no account should the refuge room be on the top floor.
‘Incendiary bombs will probably burn through your roof and then through to the ground floor,’ they were told. ‘Have you got a basement? Best place, but if not, on the ground floor.’
There was no basement but there was a storeroom between the shop and the back door, which they were told would be perfect. It had a small window, which was there only to allow a little natural light to enter from the back door and only one outside wall. The Petries put as many of the stored goods as possible into the small corridor and carried everything else, especially the tins, upstairs. Daisy did not look forward to having to carry tins downstairs each time they needed to restock but, as her father reminded her, ‘There’s a war on.’
Into the rather claustrophobic refuge room they put candles, matches, an ancient oil lamp and a tin of oil, several air-tight tins in which food could be stored, and bottles of water. Every night before bedtime, Flora or one of the twins filled a Thermos flask with tea and put it inside the door of the room. It had been suggested that a wireless set might be a good idea as it was likely that the family would spend several hours at a time cooped up, but there was no electrical outlet for their precious Bakelite wireless and so it remained on Grandma Petrie’s old dresser in the kitchen. Instead they took playing cards and some old board games: Snakes and Ladders, and their favourite, The Farmyard Game with the awful Freddie the Fox. All of them were heartily sick of rushing into the room at the first wail of the siren, only to find that it was one more false alarm. One day soon, it would be real, if this was not the day.
But now Flora and Daisy sped down to the shop. Flora hurried to the refuge room but Daisy saw that Mr Fischer was still standing behind the counter and wearing Fred’s apron. ‘Oh, Mr Fischer, you should have gone to your shelter.’
‘It’s a street away, Daisy. I’m safer here under the counter.’
Daisy thought quickly. She locked the shop door. ‘Quick, into the refuge room with me and Mum. Dad’ll have gone to a shelter and there’s plenty of room.’
If Flora was surprised to have one of her customers in the room with them, she showed only pleasure at seeing the old man. ‘So much better than the Anderson shelter you’ll have, I think, Mr Fischer.’
‘Indeed, this is most luxurious, Mrs Petrie. There is an entire family of cockroaches in my shelter and various other species of entomological life.’ He looked at his companions’ puzzled faces and laughed. ‘Sorry, ladies, old habits die hard. Creepy-crawlies, Daisy.’
‘Ugh,’ mother and daughter said together.
‘Were you a teacher, Mr Fischer, in Germany, I mean?’ Daisy asked.
Flora mumbled something about nosiness but Mr Fischer didn’t seem to mind the question. ‘In a way, I suppose,’ was all he said.
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