Churchill’s Angels. Ruby Jackson

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      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.’

       THREE

       I’m helping a pilot friend maintain his aircraft …

       I am doing war work, as it happens. I’m working on an Aeronca. You don’t know the Aeronca? American, of course, and practically the aircraft that started the entire craze for owning a plane.

      Adair had to drop Daisy at the end of the back-street as he was already in grave danger of returning late to base, an unpardonable offence in the military. She walked slowly down the dark length of the street, feeling the euphoria of the afternoon seeping away, desperately trying to recapture some of it; trying out ways in which she might astound friends and family, and especially her brothers, by telling them about the experience. None of her carefully prepared little remarks would work with her brothers, of course. They would just laugh at her.

      She got the fright of her life when she collided with a rather solid form.

      ‘Look where you’re going, young Daisy. You almost had me on my backside. What are you doing out by yourself at this time of night in the freezing cold?’

      ‘Sorry, Mr Griffiths. I was …’ She stopped. ‘I was working on an aircraft’ would not be believed, and besides, might it not be possible that Adair would prefer that the fewer people who knew of the aeroplane’s existence, the better? ‘I’ve been out with a friend. I’m on my way home. Dad’ll be looking out for me.’

      Mr Griffiths, their local ARP warden, turned and looked up at the black shape that was the Petrie flat. ‘They better not be showing any lights, my girl. You get on home and tell your young man to see you to your door in future.’

      ‘Yes, Mr Griffiths,’ said Daisy again.

      ‘Your young man.’ Heavens. Mr Griffiths actually thought Daisy Petrie had a young man. She laughed. Adair Maxwell was not a ‘young man’. He was much more important than that. He was a pilot.

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