Читать книгу Churchill’s Angels - Ruby Jackson - Страница 7

The alarm clock woke Daisy. She groaned, as usual, burrowed even further under the counterpane, as usual, and then, remembering her promise, threw back her covers and jumped out of bed. It was cold, so cold that, completely forgetting her sleeping sister, she did a little war dance right there on the strip of carpet between the beds. A quick look proved once again that Rose Petrie could sleep through anything.

Daisy slipped past her bed to the window and pulled the curtain back sufficiently to let her see out. ‘Crikey.’ She could see nothing but beautiful paintings by one Mr Jack Frost on the window-pane. Daisy breathed on the glass and rubbed it with the sleeve of her nightgown until she had a peephole.

Outside lay a frozen world. The year had blasted in accompanied by snow storms that seemed determined to maintain their icy grip. The snow that had fallen over the weekend and been churned into muddy heaps by the traffic was now frozen solid. Daisy grabbed her clothes, washed her face and such parts of her neck as she thought might be seen, dressed and slipped out. She looked towards the kitchen door. No time to boil the kettle for some scalding tea. She crept down the stairs, pulled on her heavy outdoor coat and the cheery hat and now-finished scarf that her mother had knitted for Christmas, grabbed her hated gas mask – there weren’t going to be gas attacks; there was no sign of any attacks – and hurried out.

Her breath seemed to freeze in her throat and, for a second or two, she panicked. It was cold, colder than she had ever known. Then she pulled herself together and began to stumble over the frozen sculptures to a stretch of fairly clear road.

Slithering and sliding, Daisy battled on to the little cottage where Grace lived with her half-sister. Grace opened the door and ushered her in. It was obvious that she had been crying.

‘What’s up, Grace? Ever so sorry I’m late; road’s treacherous.’

Grace shook her head. ‘Doesn’t matter. They’re all ruined. Come on through.’

In her hurry, Daisy put her gas mask haphazardly on a chair. It landed on the wooden floorboards with a loud thump. Daisy winced and looked towards the ceiling.

‘She didn’t come home last night and, anyway, takes more than a noise like that to wake our Megan.’

Daisy followed her friend through the cold little house. Grace was almost fanatically tidy but Daisy had time to see at least three pairs of fully fashioned pure silk stockings hanging from a wire across the fireplace in the kitchen. She looked down at her lisle-covered legs. ‘Bet they feel ever so wonderful on, Grace.’

‘Much, much too expensive for me, Daisy, and you an’ all, I should think, if you get my meaning. I saw some in Kerr’s Stores. Three shillings a pair.’

‘Nine shillings spent on stockings. Who’s got that kind of money, Grace?’

Grace said nothing but opened the door to the back garden, and she and Daisy stood for a moment looking at the disaster that had been their pride and joy, their garden. Even Sally had risked her precious long scarlet-painted fingernails to work there.

‘It’s froze solid, Daisy. Not so much as a sprout fit to eat.’

The previous evening Grace had gathered two cabbages, one for the Brewers, one for the Petries. She had admired the amazing number of plump firm Brussels sprouts that were still on the stocks. Now, less than twelve hours later, she saw disaster. ‘Damn it, Daisy, it weren’t that great to start with but look at it now.’

‘We’ve had lovely fresh veggies for weeks, Grace, and I’m sure Mum will make soup with this lot. It’ll be delicious.’ She looked at Grace, wondering how to read the expression on her face. ‘What is it, Grace? It’s not just a few frozen sprouts.’

‘No, I suppose. It’s just … I was really happy working here, Daisy. It were special somehow, a good feeling, being in touch with the soil, putting in a little seed and weeks later frying up my own cabbage. I planned to be really serious this year: better beds, deeper digging and not just doing the safe old stuff like cabbage, but peas – can you imagine fresh peas, Daisy. And why not rhubarb and strawberries?’

‘And lovely fresh lettuce, maybe even tomatoes.’

‘You are going a bit far,’ smiled Grace, and Daisy was pleased to see her looking happier, but she was serious.

‘I think I saw tomatoes growing down The Old Manor once,’ she said. ‘You’ll do it, Grace, and I’ll help you. We’re stronger than we look, you and me. Come on, let’s put these ruined sprouts in the bag with any of the kale worth keeping.’

‘Glad we finished the spuds at Christmas,’ interrupted Grace. ‘Frozen spuds are the worst. They fall apart and they smell something awful.’

‘Where did you learn that?’

‘Dunno, musta read it somewhere.’ Grace sliced a stock bearing several sprouts off at the base and popped it into Daisy’s bag.

Since Grace was due at the munitions factory where she worked in the office, Daisy left her to close up and she walked home with the bag.

Flora was in the shop. She ignored the bag. ‘Who was it said something about rationing, Daisy, love?’

‘The vicar, I think, Mum. Why?’

‘Why’s sugar so scarce? Between that and the shortage of butter and bacon, some customers is saying they’ll take their custom elsewhere.’

‘One thing at a time, Mum. Sugar’s scarce because it’s shipped into this country – we don’t grow it. Ships are needed now for other things – munitions, soldiers, I don’t know – but there’s no space for sugar. Same with bacon and butter.’

‘We know Nancy Humble makes lovely butter up at the farm and there’s two farms near her as keeps pigs.’

‘Not enough to feed the whole country. I don’t know where these things come from, but could be as far away as New Zealand; the Commonwealth, you see. But, Mum, more important right now, can you do something with poor Grace’s veggies?’

‘’Course, waste not, want not, and are we not going to be singing that song a lot more? If that freeze was all over the country last night and not just in poor old Kent, then there’ll be greengrocers closing faster than you can run upstairs with those vegetables.’

Daisy picked up her shopping bag of unpleasantly defrosting vegetables and, two stairs at a time, soon reached the kitchen where she dumped them unceremoniously in the sink.

‘Porridge on the back of the fire,’ her mother’s voice floated up to her, and so Daisy helped herself to a bowl of porridge. She put a scraping of Nancy’s Christmas butter on top to melt and pulled her father’s comfortable chair up to the fire. What a lovely smell a fire had; simply smelling wood smoke made Daisy feel warm.

A few well-fed minutes later, Daisy, washed properly in hot water, dressed in a warm woollen skirt and a fair-isle jersey, descended to take her turn in the shop. In the short time that she had been upstairs, the store had filled with people all talking and gesticulating. At first Daisy thought there must have been an accident.

‘You all right, Mum?’

‘’Course I am, love. Vicar’s just brought some unwelcome news.’

Daisy looked around until she could see the kindly, wrinkled face of the local Church of England vicar. ‘Good morning, Mr Tiverton, bad news, is it?’

He smiled, a particularly sweet smile, and Daisy smiled back. She couldn’t help it; there was something about that smile – the smile reserved, according to Sam, for saintly Church of England vicars.

‘Well, my dear,’ said Mr Tiverton, ‘that will really depend on how we deal with it. Rationing came into force this morning: sugar, butter and bacon. From today we are officially allowed four ounces each of butter and bacon or ham, and twelve ounces of sugar, per adult per week. We will each be given a jolly little ration book that must be registered with local shops. I’m quite sure that soon everything but the air we breathe will be rationed.’

‘If there are indeed to be gas attacks, Vicar, we won’t want our air.’

Daisy and Flora stared at each other in disbelief. Miss Partridge had a sense of humour. Who’d have thought it?

Fred, who had been stocking up at the strangely empty wholesalers, came in the back door just as the last customer went out the front. As wife and daughter began to speak Fred held up his hands. ‘I saw ’em leaving as I slithered down the street. Telling you they was looking for the best deal, was they? Well, if they don’t trust us enough to know our prices are the best we can do, Flora, love, then they can take their custom elsewhere. The ’alt, the lame and the lazy will stay with us, and we’ll deliver to our ’ousebound any time they needs something delivering.’

‘I don’t fit in any of those categories, Fred.’ Mr Fischer had come quietly into the shop while Fred was talking.

‘I don’t worry about a gent like you, Mr Fischer. You’re always welcome in this shop.’

‘I hope that will always be the case.’

‘And why wouldn’t it be?’ Fred asked somewhat belligerently.

The old man looked at him sadly. ‘You really do not know, my friend? I am not only a hated German, Fred, but a hated Jewish German.’

The family stared at him in consternation. Flora recovered first. ‘What’s that got to do with the price of tea, Mr Fischer? Why, you was one of our first customers. You came in here two days after me and Fred got married.’

‘And, my God, wasn’t that a lifetime ago?’ said Fred, attempting to lighten the mood.

‘And you will take my ration book?’

Fred and Flora reassured him while Daisy stood in the background and thought of all the implications hidden in the simple conversation she had just heard. Poor Mr Fischer. To be hated in his own country because of his religion and hated everywhere else because he was German. People could be horrid. They were not at war with Mr Fischer; surely just the Germans that lived in Germany. But she didn’t much like that idea either, and decided to think instead of what she should now be doing.

There was the first-aid course, and God help anybody who needed aid from Daisy Petrie. ‘I can’t even get the blasted bandages right,’ she said aloud, earning a reproving look from her mother who was still talking to Mr Fischer. As well as the first aid, her dad thought she might sign up for a bit of fire-watching. Fine, she would do that. But compared to what others were doing, was it enough?

Her racing thoughts focused on the young man with the plane. Alf had said that he was already in the air force. Where was he now, back with his unit, or in Alf’s old stable working on the plane? It could not possibly be fit for active service in its present condition.

I’m good with engines, Daisy reminded herself fiercely. I could work on it if he’s had to go.

Doubts flooded in, undermining her resolution. He’s a toff and he owns a plane. He’d laugh me out of the yard. Bet he’d say, ‘No woman’s capable of working on my beautiful aeroplane.’ But he talked to me like we were both human beings. And if he’s more interested in planes than in girls, he might, just might, not care that I’m a girl. Woman, she corrected herself quickly. Maybe he’ll just see another good mechanic.

‘Daisy, love, fetch some porridge oats from the storeroom, please.’ Mr Fischer had gone and her parents were alone.

Daisy took a deep breath and a life-changing decision. ‘Sorry, Dad, I promised Nancy Humble I’d deliver some tinned peaches when they came in. I’m off to get the van.’

She was whipping off her apron as she spoke and, without giving her parents a chance to speak, she took the keys to the van from their hook and hurried out into the back lane. The van was in the garage directly across the lane. With some difficulty because of the sheet of ice that was the back lane, Daisy backed it up to the shop’s rear door. ‘Come on, Dad; give me a hand with the boxes.’

Flora returned to the flat. Monday was her usual washing day and as Christmas Day and New Year’s Day had been the last two Mondays, she was behind with her household chores and could see no way to spend any time in the shop. The weekly wash took hours. First water had to be boiled in kettles and pots. The clothes were sorted and washed, much use being made of Flora’s scrubbing board. Next the clothes had to be rinsed, put through the mangle that Fred had set up on the iron tub in which the family took baths, and then hung up to dry, either on the pulley on the kitchen ceiling or, if the weather was good, on the clothes line on the small square of concrete beside the garage. On washing day it was virtually impossible for Flora to help out in the shop.

Downstairs, Fred propped open the door so that he could hear the front doorbell, and began to load.

‘Starting at Old Manor Farm, Dad. I promised Nancy I’d deliver there first. One of the family’s there, on leave, I think.’

‘He’ll have gone, love. Lucky to get twenty-four hours, never mind a week.’

‘Just in case.’

Fred grumbled but loaded the van in the order that Daisy wanted and soon she was on her way. A cloud of butterflies cavorted in the pit of her stomach. It was a pleasant excitement.

Think positively, Daisy. After all, what can he say? No or yes. When she drove through the ancient iron gates she felt her heart beating rapidly. And by the time she reached the old stables her hands were sweating. Why? Surely it had nothing to do with the toff, even though he has a nice voice and nice eyes and he’s a real, live pilot. No, Daisy assured herself, I am excited by the machine, the plane.

Anti-climax. The stables were deserted and all the doors and gates closed. There were windows high up on the main stable doors, but they were inaccessible. Daisy looked round but all that remained to show that an aeroplane had once stood on these cobblestones was a patch of engine oil. She bent down, touched it with her fingertips and lifted them to her nose. Now that was a lovely smell, better even than logs. If only …

Thoroughly cast down, she went to the farmhouse.

‘Well, this is a nice surprise. Wasn’t expecting anything today, Daisy, since you was here on Saturday.’

Daisy pulled out a small box. ‘I thought you might like some tinned peaches.’

Nancy looked at her in some surprise and, blushing, Daisy explained, ‘I know you put up berries and apples but thought maybe a peach would make a nice change.’

Nancy nodded in agreement. ‘Well, if that isn’t right thoughtful of you, Daisy, love, and has nothing to do with a handsome young flyer that was here. My Alf says if he sees another jar of stewed rhubarb he won’t be responsible. Me, I never tire of it.’

Daisy looked at her, blushed even more furiously and decided that she had to ask about the plane before she lost her courage. ‘Sorry, Nancy. Dad knows I’m up to something; peaches wasn’t a great idea for someone with an orchard.’

‘We don’t grow peaches, love. ’Course I’ll take them.’

Daisy sighed and relaxed. ‘Where’s the plane gone then?’ she asked bluntly.

‘Plane or pilot, Daisy Petrie? Which one are you really looking for?’

‘The plane, of course. I wouldn’t recognise Adair whatsit if I was to fall over him. But rationing coming in makes the war real somehow, and I’ve got to do something … meaningful.’

‘Your mum needs you, Daisy.’

‘No, sorry, Nancy, but that’s just not true. I’m in the shop because I worked in there Saturdays and Mum’s got it into her head I’m delicate, kidding herself really, probably because I’m smaller than Rose. Everybody’s smaller than her. You know I’m good with engines, Nancy, as good as my brothers. I thought I could help with the plane. Can’t be all that different from a lorry engine or the van, and I can take them apart and put them together again. I’d be doing something important, more valuable than sitting in a cosy little shop weighing dried peas.’

‘Folks’ve got to be fed, love.’

‘Mum and Dad can do that, and if things get tough they can hire someone.’ She was surprised by the idea that jumped fully formed into her head. ‘For instance, I just bet old Mr Fischer would jump at the chance of earning a few extra bob a week.’

‘Happen he would. Now, I’ll take these into the larder and make us a cuppa.’

‘Wait,’ said Daisy, grabbing Nancy’s arm. ‘I mean, Dad’s alone in the shop so I can’t stay, but what about the plane?’

‘Lad’s a pilot, Daisy. He comes here whenever he has a spare weekend to work on it, but he just turns up. He looks after himself, has the 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 see a light on in the Brewers’ front room.

Sally herself, looking as if she was dressed for a special meeting, opened the door and was equally thrilled to see her friend. ‘How terrif, Daisy. Mum and Dad are at work but I have lines to learn. We’ll have a cuppa and you can hear them for me. It’ll be like old times. Remember doing our homework together in primary school?’

Daisy nodded. ‘Yes, Sally, and I’ll be thrilled to listen to your lines, but I’ve got a letter here I need to show you.’

‘Sounds scary, Daisy. Who’s it from?’ She was leading the way into the kitchen. ‘Sit down and tell me.’

Daisy handed the letter to Sally.

Sally stood quietly beside the table and read the letter. Daisy was not surprised when Sally, the great dramatic star of stage and screen, started to cry. ‘Oh, Daisy, poor, poor Grace. She must have been so miserable and we didn’t notice.’

Sally, a much loved and, to be honest, somewhat indulged only child, was not given much to introspection. She had accepted some responsibility for Grace because the twins had accepted her, and they always did things together, but she had not really thought about what it must be like to live, an unwelcome guest, in a home without love.

Daisy, a member of a large loving family whose creed could have been ‘we are responsible for those less well off than ourselves’ knew what Sally was feeling and gave her a quick hug.

‘You’re right, we didn’t realise how miserable she was, but we did know her life wasn’t happy. How could it be – living with that horrible, selfish sister? And, look, she loves our mums – and dads too, probably. So, cheer up, we can’t have been too bad. Next time we hear from her we’ll write back to tell her she’s always welcome with us.’

‘We can’t,’ said Sally, pointing dramatically at the letter, ‘unless she tells us her address.’

‘Don’t go looking for trouble,’ Daisy quoted her father. ‘It finds us easy enough.’

‘I have to go,’ she said some time later, after the girls had gone over and over the problem. ‘She’ll write again and she’ll write her address, but we have to be patient and wait till she’s ready. Now you go and learn your lines and we’ll all come and see the play. We’re all looking forward to it.’

A few days later, the Dartford Chronicle spread out in front of her, Daisy was totally involved in a report of German aggression all over Europe when she heard the melodic ping of the shop bell. She looked up. A tall fair-haired young man in air force uniform was standing looking at her with a puzzled expression on his face.

Cigarettes, Daisy decided, and stood up with a friendly smile. ‘Can I help you?’

‘Yes, if you really know how to take an engine apart, clean it, and put it together again.’

‘Well, if you don’t scrub up well.’ The words came tumbling out of her mouth before she could stop them, and Daisy wanted to bite her tongue at this evidence of her lack of sophistication. She just knew that no one had ever spoken to him like that before. Girls from his class weren’t rude.

To her surprise he laughed. ‘So my grandmother used to say.’ He held out his hand. ‘Adair Maxwell.’

Daisy took his hand and the most pleasurable jolt went through her whole body. Why, why, why had she not put on the dark blue real linen dress with the pale blue Peter Pan collar that Mum had found in the market? She blushed furiously but obviously the jolt, or whatever it was, had not been felt by the young man in front of her, and so she managed to stutter, ‘Daisy Petrie.’

‘Who was born with a hammer in her hand, or was it a spanner?’

Had it been one of her brothers or one of the hordes of boys and young men who had been in and out of her home all her life, Daisy would have known how to answer. She would not have been left standing, as she thought, like a raving idiot while a real live pilot stood before her.

He put her out of her misery. ‘I have a twelve-hour pass, drove to the farm, and Alf passed on your extremely generous offer.’

She looked at him. Was this some kind of joke? How was she supposed to respond? ‘You’re welcome, I’m sure’ or, ‘Think nothing of it’? Again she said nothing.

‘Miss Petrie,’ he began, and then he laughed. ‘Your eyes shot open like one of those toys – what do they call them – automatons. I’ll start again. Miss Petrie, Daisy, I am extremely grateful for your offer of assistance with … my plane. Thank you very much.’

Daisy, who was now staring at the floor, said, ‘You’re welcome.’

Adair looked at his watch. ‘Nine hours and twenty-three minutes left, twenty-two, twenty-one.’

‘Stop laughing at me.’

‘Oh, my dear Miss Petrie, I’m not laughing at you, but it’s very difficult to talk to someone who finds the floor so fascinating. Did you mean it? Will you come out with me and have a look at her? Damn, you’ve done your automaton again – and lovely eyes they are too.’

A strange feeling travelled right down Daisy’s spine. She should have worn her new frock. He said she had lovely eyes. Sally had lovely eyes; everyone said so. She gained control of herself. ‘Right now? You want me to come and see the plane right this minute?’

‘Yes, please, my car’s outside.’ He looked again at his watch.

‘I’ll have to find my dad.’

He was startled. ‘You’re perfectly safe with me, Miss Petrie.’

‘Maybe, Mr Adair Maxwell,’ said Daisy, and this time she was laughing, ‘but somebody’s got to mind the shop.’