Читать книгу Churchill’s Angels - Ruby Jackson - Страница 9

Daisy had expected no family visits in the afternoon as the shop was always open – and busy – between four o’clock and closing time, and so she was very pleased to see Miss Partridge, complete with gloves and Sunday hat, walking smartly down the ward between the long rows of identical iron bedsteads.

She won’t be coming to see me, though, Daisy thought, and closed her eyes so that Miss Partridge might not feel obliged to speak to her.

‘Daisy, dear, if you’re tired I’ll drop this off …’

Daisy tried to sit up, a bad move as pain shot through her head. She did open her eyes, though.

‘Oh, you poor girl, I do hope there is no serious injury.’

‘No, they want to keep me until tomorrow, just to be sure, but apart from a lump and a headache, I’m fine.’

Miss Partridge pulled a chair up to the bedside. ‘I was in hospital once, a long time ago, Daisy dear, and my papa brought me a magnificent basket of fruit. I’m afraid there was no fresh fruit today.’

‘There’s a war on,’ they said together and laughed.

Daisy had been mulling over her problem all morning. Was Miss Partridge an ideal confidante?

‘I did bring a box of embroidered handkerchiefs, Daisy, dear, unused, of course, and so useful in a situation like this – and Mr Fischer sent you this.’ Miss Partridge opened her large, much-used leather handbag and took out a book with a beautiful Moroccan cover. ‘Rather fine, isn’t it. It’s a copy of Palgrave’s Golden Treasury. He says it was his first poetry book in English and so he hopes you will enjoy it. He has inscribed it to you.’

Daisy opened the book and saw thin spidery writing on the very fine inside page.

For Daisy, my very first English friend, in the hope that within its pages she will find some words to make her feel better.

Siegfried Fischer

Her stomach churning with happiness and excitement at the amazing kindness. Daisy said, ‘I don’t know how to thank you both.’

‘By enjoying our little gifts, my dear. Now I must be off.’

Daisy held out a hand to keep Miss Partridge near. ‘You haven’t asked what happened?’

‘Flora told me who Rose saw. You could have been seriously injured, Daisy. George and Jake Preston are becoming quite wild and, I’m sorry, my dear, but if something isn’t done about them, they’ll both end up in prison.’

Daisy said nothing. She had known the boys and their mother since their arrival in Dartford six years before. There was a rumour that, somewhere, there was a Mr Preston, but no one knew with any certainty. A second rumour had it that Mr Preston was in prison. All that the Petries knew for sure was the boys were badly cared for, and that the bigger fourteen-year-old George grew, the more impossible he was to control.

‘Jake will be as wild as George if something isn’t done, Daisy. He follows George like a puppy and does everything his brother tells him.’

‘No, Miss Partridge. He wouldn’t hit me when George told him to.’

To Daisy’s surprise, Miss Partridge laughed. ‘You’re more than a match for Jake.’

‘Not with the crowbar he was holding.’

Miss Partridge almost fell back into the chair. ‘That settles it. You must report them to the police; breaking and entering, fire raising, causing serious injury – or worse.’

Daisy moved her head as if to shake it and winced as pain shot through her skull. ‘No, please, Miss Partridge, those boys have nothing, and I could have handled George easily if he hadn’t taken me by surprise. What would the police do with him?’

‘Send him to a correctional institution, which will do him a power of good, my dear. You are much too soft-hearted.’

‘And if his father is in prison? What might the police say: like father like son? Please, Miss Partridge.’

‘It’s you they’re going to question, dear. I will say nothing to anyone. If you are absolutely sure …’

‘Yes.’ The kindness she was receiving strengthened Daisy in her purpose even more. The boy must be given a chance.

When the policeman spoke to her much later that afternoon, perfectly aware of what she was doing, Daisy Petrie did not lie but she seemed confused.

‘Medication,’ said the Irish nurse, ‘plus quite a knock on the head. Give her a few days.’

The might of the law withdrew.

The next day, when Daisy was allowed to return home, she found that her father did not agree with her. ‘Daisy, that lad almost set fire to the lockup. There is petrol in the van – it would have gone up like a firework, and what about the houses either side?’

‘He only wanted to burn the door down to get inside.’

‘“Only wanted”? Are you out of your mind?’

‘Dad, maybe he wanted to steal the van, maybe he thought you kept food in the lockup. They’re always looking for marked-down scraps, and they’re skinny as …’ she could think of nothing thin enough, ‘… too thin,’ she finished.

‘Daisy, love, you’re always ready for the halt, the lame and the lazy. What that lad did was criminal. He coulda killed you.’

‘Never. He took me by surprise is all. I should have handled it better, Dad, chased them away. That policeman wants to put him in an approved school. There was a lad in Sam’s class came out worse.’

Realising that they would never agree, Daisy was glad to go to her room for an afternoon’s rest.

She was surprised to be disturbed by her mother.

‘Daisy, a policeman was here. Did you tell him you couldn’t remember what happened?’

‘I told him that it was pitch-black out there and that I saw two shapes, possibly boy size.’

‘They’ll be watching them close.’

‘That’s good, Mum. I’ll warn George and he’ll stay out of trouble.’

Flora shook her head and returned to the shop.

When she could no longer hear footsteps on the stairs, Daisy carefully sat up. No explosion of pain, not even a dull ache. She manoeuvred herself out of bed.

I am, she decided, perfectly well and able to return to work. She dressed and followed her mother down to the shop. Flora was anxious but Daisy’s mind was made up. Every day after that, she added another hour to her workload until she was full time again. George and Jake were nowhere to be seen. A neighbour did their mother’s shopping.

‘A bit busy,’ she excused Mrs Preston.

‘I think I’d like some fresh air, Mum. Can you manage for half an hour?’

‘I managed for eight when you was in the hospital, Daisy, but don’t you go tiring yourself.’

Assuring her mother that she would not strain herself, Daisy hurried out of the shop to a poorer part of the town where the Prestons lived.

George was leaning against the wall of the building, a pack of Capstan cigarettes ostentatiously visible in his hands. Slowly, so as to show her that he was not afraid – although Daisy saw the pack tremble a little – George eased his thin body off the rough brick wall and stared at her.

‘Your mum home?’

He said nothing but gestured with his lit cigarette to the door.

‘Gives you horrible breath for kissing,’ said Daisy, and walked past him.

Mrs Preston started with fear when she saw who was standing on her doorstep, but she moved aside to admit Daisy. ‘Are you going to tell the polis?’

‘I’m hoping George didn’t intend to put me in the hospital, Mrs Preston.’

George’s mother burst into loud sobs and between sobs she told Daisy a long, heart-breaking story of how she was trying to bring up the boys on very little money and little or no support from her husband, who was, she said, in and out of prison like a yoyo. ‘And when he’s ’ere he’s too ’ard on Georgie, brutal really. Lad’s never ’ad a chance.’

‘Mrs Preston, if that door had burned, the whole lockup, van and all, would have been destroyed. The van would probably have exploded and the houses on either side could have been damaged or destroyed. Have you explained that to him?’

More heart-broken sobbing. ‘He never listens to me.’

‘Then he’d better listen to me or I’m going straight from here to the police station.’

‘I’m sorry I hit you. What d’you want to say?’ George, the cigarette gone, had entered so quietly that neither had heard him.

Trying to remember that he was only fourteen years old, Daisy repeated everything that she had said to his mother. ‘My sister told the police she saw a boy run off but she was too concerned about me to be sure who it was. You have a really bad reputation, George, and the policeman I talked to wants to have you sent to Borstal. What do you think of that?’

‘Get three meals regular,’ he said with bravado.

His mother began to wail again. They shouted at each other for some time with neither actually paying any attention to what the other was saying.

‘Be quiet, both of you,’ said Daisy. ‘Maybe you would be better off in gaol, George, because the way you’re going, looks like you’ll get there anyway. If you don’t want that you have to get a Saturday job till you leave school.’

‘I tried. No one wants me.’

His reputation was known all over Dartford. Was there no chance for him or his younger brother?

‘Have you asked my dad?’

‘You’re crazy. I near set fire to his van.’

‘Keep out of trouble till I sort something out or I’ll be down the police station with a list of complaints. All right?’

He looked at her and she could not read his expression.

‘Are you willing to try?’

She decided to be content with his nod and hurried out of the dirty, damp little house. It was worse than Grace’s old home. At least Grace had tried to keep it reasonably clean and tidy.

Now to tackle her father.

Fred Petrie was not at all keen to hire a boy who was constantly in a great deal of trouble.

‘Plus I don’t need a lad, Daisy. What is he supposed to do?’

‘I’ll be called up soon, Dad. What then?’

‘Then I might think of taking on someone to help out, someone dependable who doesn’t half kill my daughter or set fire to my lockup.’

‘If you was to bring him in an hour or so after school, Dad, then I could help him a bit.’

Eventually, much against his wishes, Fred found himself agreeing to ‘try to keep that holy terror out of jail.’

‘But I’m not paying him, Daisy. He can have his tea here, him and Jake, and maybe I’ll pay their way into the pictures of a Saturday and we’ll see how it goes. And no cigarettes smoked anywhere near my shop.’

George grumbled, but with the threat of a stint in an approved school hanging over his head, he reluctantly agreed.

So, every afternoon the Preston boys made their way from school – on the days that George bothered to attend – to the Petrie shop and were set to work tidying shelves, unloading boxes and even cleaning the van until the shop closed. Then they were taken upstairs where they scrubbed their hands in the sink before sitting down at the table where Flora took delight in putting plates of hot, nourishing food before them. George said nothing, refused all offers of second helpings and sat quietly while his younger brother tucked into an extra plate of whatever was offered.

Daisy said nothing either, but she and her mother were delighted to see the boys fill out a little.

‘See, Fred, told you,’ teased Flora, forgetting that she had not wanted the boys in her immaculately clean home.

‘Leopards don’t change their spots,’ said Fred firmly.

Daisy watched quietly while she made plans and then at last her mind was made up. If she stayed at home any longer a letter would come telling her that she had been conscripted into a potato-peeling unit at some godforsaken army base somewhere or – possibly even worse – storekeeping. All of the service units she had read about were very keen on that, but Daisy Petrie had already spent more than enough time in a shop. Today, instead of eating her sandwiches behind the little curtain in the shop, she would cycle over to the Recruitment Office and attempt to make her case. She tried to feel positive. If only she had bought that stunning costume she had seen in the windows of Horrell and Goff in the High Street last week. It was so elegant, just exactly what a well-brought-up young WAAF would wear, and it was in her favourite colours. The white linen jacket was collarless and was link-buttoned, like the cuffs on Dad’s best shirt. Under it was a blue and white backless, sleeveless dress in the new diagonal stripes, finished with a collar and tie. So gorgeous. With it, the model in the window wore a dashing man-type little hat pulled down over one eye. It had to be the latest word in fashion. The hat was extra, of course, but she could just have managed to scrape together two pounds, two shillings for the costume.

At the thought of spending her entire holiday savings on clothes, Daisy went hot and cold, and regretfully put the flattering picture of herself in the beautiful outfit to the back of her mind. But oh, it would have made the recruitment officer sit up and take notice.

Besides, Daze, she consoled herself, a frock like that needs the hat, good shoes and a bag, not to mention silk stockings at three shillings the pair.

Then: I bet Adair Maxwell knows lots of girls who wouldn’t have to think twice about buying it.

She did not want to think about Adair and was delighted to be disturbed for the next hour by the constant ping of the shop bell.

Bernie Jones and Mr Fischer arrived together. For once Bernie was not smiling.

‘Your dad around, Daisy?’

A cold hand seemed to clutch Daisy’s heart. There was something about the tone of Bernie’s voice. ‘He’s off getting his petrol ration, Bernie, but Mum’s up in the flat.’

‘There’s a telegram from the army, lass, and maybe your mum shouldn’t be alone when she reads it.’ He handed her the thin buff-coloured envelope, and Daisy was surprised to notice that both his hand and hers were shaking as the envelope was handed over.

‘I’ll leave it here till Dad comes back. He’ll only be a minute and it could be anything, couldn’t it?’ She turned as she saw her kind and generous friend Mr Fischer heading towards the door. ‘Your paper and your … sausages, wasn’t it, Mr Fischer? Don’t go, I’ve got them right here.’ She tried to smile cheerfully. ‘Thanks, Bernie; see you tomorrow.’

The postman left quietly and Daisy went into the back shop to find Mr Fischer’s sausages.

‘I am so sorry, Daisy. It might be bad news, but we trust in God, not the worst news. And here is your father.’ He put a half-crown on the counter. ‘I can receive the change tomorrow.’

Daisy and her father, who had come in with his usual cheerful smile, which had changed immediately to a half-fearful look, were alone in the shop, the envelope on the counter between them.

Fred looked at it for some minutes without touching it.

‘Put the “Closed” notice on the door, pet, and we’ll take this up to Mum.’

Her heart pounding, Daisy did as she was asked. She considered adding a note to George, but decided that they would be open by the time school was out.

Priority Mr F. Petrie, 21 High St., Dartford, Kent.

Regret to inform you that your son, Sgt Samuel Petrie, is reported missing from operations on the night of 2 June.

Letter follows.

Fred had no need to read the date. What difference would that make?

‘Make your mum a nice cuppa, Daisy, there’s a good girl.’

Daisy went into the kitchen and tried to think of nothing but the simplest things, like making a pot of tea. Her mind was refusing to work and she closed her eyes, hoping that might clear her head. Missing, no; make tea. How? Boil water, warm the teapot, find Mum’s favourite cup in case she’s able to notice. Daisy found herself reacting automatically. What was that posh word Adair had used about her eyes opening and closing like those of a china doll? She could not remember, but trying to remember stopped her thinking about the pitifully thin sheet of paper with the few lines of typing on it.

‘My Sam’s a sergeant, Daisy.’ Her parents were sitting side by side on the sofa and Fred was holding Flora’s hand tightly. ‘Can’t drink my tea if you don’t let go, Fred. Oh, this is nice, Daisy, you’ve put sugar in. I never take sugar, gave it up for Lent once and never went back to it.’

‘The first-aid manual says to put sugar in,’ said Daisy, gulping her own tea.

‘Told you you’d know what to do, our Daisy.’ Flora sobbed a little but drank more tea. ‘A sergeant. They only made him a corporal a few months ago.’

‘Sam’s a good soldier, Mum.’

Flora put down her cup so fiercely that some tea slopped out into the saucer. ‘He’s only missing, my Sam, only missing, and there’s nothing about Ron and Phil so they must be all right.’

Fred stood up. ‘Maybe you should have a wee lie-down, Flora, love. Daisy, I’ll mind the shop if you stay with your mum.’

Daisy stayed sitting by her mother’s bed long after Flora had fallen into a fitful sleep. She forced herself to be positive. Buying the costume would have been a ridiculous waste of money. How glad she was that she had not done that. She would not be joining the WAAF, not for the present. How could she leave her parents while Sam was missing? When they heard that he had been found then she might try again, but for the moment her place, whether she liked it or not, was by her mother’s side.

Was there anyone in the entire nation who was happy? Daisy found the next few months almost unbearable. Flora seemed unable to cope without news of her sons, and her care and most of the work in the shop fell on Daisy’s narrow shoulders. She and Mr Fischer became even closer friends as he came into the shop almost every day and stayed to discuss news items with Daisy, and even to laugh over a programme they had both heard on the wireless. Both found Tommy Handley very funny, but they loved Mona Lott and her catchphrase, ‘It’s being so cheerful as keeps me going.’ It was even funnier spoken in Mr Fischer’s light German accent.

Each day they started up in hope when the cheerful ping 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.