Churchill’s Angels. Ruby Jackson

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      ‘Very funny.’ She turned to her father, who had stopped reading to pass the time of day with the postman. ‘You all right here, Dad, while I run up and read this to Mum? See you tomorrow, Bernie.’

      Upstairs Flora was busily preparing sandwich fillings. She was excited that there was a letter from her eldest son, but a little disappointed that it was not addressed to her. ‘What’s he saying?’

      Daisy sat down, opened the flimsy envelope, and read it quickly.

      Hello, Daze,

      Tell Mum sorry I haven’t written, been busy. Rose says as you’re arranging a party for Sally on the 18th. Wish I could be there. Drama college, imagine. Little Sally Brewer. She’ll be too posh for the likes of us when she’s finished. Remember there was an order for men my age to sign up for six months last April? Lads even younger did too, and you bet my words our Phil and Ron’ll be joining them afore long. I like the life, Daisy, and it’s treating me right. Got room to breathe. Don’t listen to them politicians, Daze. Either they don’t know or they don’t want to tell us but there’s going to be a war and women’ll be needed, so think careful about what you’re going to do. Best to choose than wait to be ordered. Rose is fine in Vickers. Shouldn’t think they’ll shift her, but the shop has three employees and happen they’ll say two is enough.

      If this gets to you before the party, tell Sally, well, wish her all the best.

      Sam

      ‘It’s nothing really, Mum. He likes the army and he says hello to Sally.’

      ‘That’s it?’

      Daisy nodded. ‘At least he writes to us.’

      Flora almost grunted. ‘Daft lad is sweet on Sally, always has been, and she’ll not look at him.’

      Daisy was startled. Sam, sweet on her friend Sally? No, Sam was kind to everyone. ‘Don’t be daft, Mum. He’s just as kind to Grace, or to me.’

      ‘He sees Grace as a wounded bird. Too soft, by half, my Sam. And not a word about where he is or what he’s doing.’

      Daisy took some troublesome thoughts down to the shop. If there was a war, and surely Sam was in a good place to know, would the Government decide that a local shop with three employees – even if one was mainly for delivering – was overstaffed? Might an opportunity for her to spread her wings be just round the corner? Scary. And then there was Mum’s remark about Sam and Sally. Sam sweet on Sally? No. Never. If Sam was sweet on anything it was a machine, not a girl. Her big brother had always looked after his twin sisters and their friends.

      ‘Bernie says enjoy the party. Seems the whole street’s talking about it.’

      ‘Talking about it is all that has happened, Dad, except for Mum’s baking.’ She frowned. ‘What do you think about moving the tinned beans up to the shelf below the Spam, and the tinned pears below them? Could give a customer an idea for a whole meal.’

      ‘Good idea. We haven’t shifted many of those pears. I’ll deal with customers.’

      What a brain you have, Daisy Petrie. World-shattering idea there. Daisy started work on the shelves beside the door that led to the stairs. War, according to Sam, would bring opportunity. But do I want opportunity at such a price? Thoughts went spinning around in her head as she worked, completely ignoring the musical ping of the doorbell as customers came in. Mr Fischer, an elderly resident and a particular favourite of Daisy, came in to buy his paper. He also bought some tea and, as tin after tin of various teas was opened, the scents of the east obliterated the mundane smell of sardines.

      Daisy thought of her sister, Rose, busy at the Vickers munitions factory until seven and so unable to help with party preparations. The boss there obviously had no faith in the ‘there will be no war’ newspaper articles and had, in fact, stepped up production.

      Baked beans, Spam, pears followed one another onto her dusted shelves and at last she was finished and free to return to the flat to prepare for the party.

      ‘I’ve given the front room a bit of a dust, and brought in some extra chairs. Any more turns up and they’ll have to sit on the floor.’ Flora was now arranging her sandwiches on her best plates.

      ‘Thanks, Mum, but we can’t dance if the floor’s cluttered up with chairs. I’ll have a look once I’ve washed.’

      ‘You should have a rest, pet.’

      The words, ‘I’m as healthy as one of Alf’s horses’ formed on the tip of her tongue but she managed to swallow them. If there was going to be all-out conflict, she would not spend many more days weighing porridge oats and rice and reading the newspapers. ‘Don’t be scared, Daisy. Start thinking about what you can do that’s useful,’ she muttered under her breath as she effortlessly carried two bedside chairs – complete with pink ruffles – back to her parents’ bedroom.

      The party went with a swing. Flora Petrie had made new full skirts for the twins: Rose’s was a multi-coloured floral, perfect on her tall, slim body, but for the daintier Daisy she had chosen a dark green cotton that went perfectly with a puff-sleeved sea-green blouse that she had found on a stall at a local market. Even Grace Paterson, Daisy and Rose’s other close friend, had dressed in party mood and confided to her friends that she had found her sleeveless, full-skirted black and white dress on sale in the charity shop managed by her sister.

      Somehow it seemed as if no one had told Sally about her ‘surprise’ party. The postman knew all about it – and therefore everyone on his route knew – but Sally swore she did not. She exclaimed over the large poster, drawn by Daisy and Rose, which said in large letters, ‘Good Luck, Sally’, and, ‘Sally Brewer, Dartford’s Star’, and asked if she could have it to hang in her own bedroom in her parents’ flat next door to the picture house, where her father worked as the projectionist. Of the nineteen former school friends who had been invited, four had had to refuse the invitation or have it refused for them. Two lads had already joined a branch of the growing military and two others were working overtime in the Powder Lane munitions factory.

      The fifteen remaining ate the sandwiches and apple turnovers, and drank the fruit punch to which a carefully measured amount of alcohol had been added, and proceeded to dance the night away. Most of the young people had left school aged fifteen. Only Sally, Dartford’s star, had gone on to a grammar school. Now that she was to begin a three-year course in speech and drama, her friends dreamed of seeing her on screen in the local cinema. Daisy, Rose and Grace intended to keep the friendship strong.

      The twins had known Sally since primary school. Grace, however, had arrived in Dartford at the age of seven when, for reasons that no one seemed to know, she had been sent from her foster home in Scotland to live with her adult half-sister, Megan Paterson. Sally and the twins, children from loving homes, had unquestioningly accepted the newcomer into their solid friendship.

      The party was finally over and when all the others had taken their leave, the twins and Grace made Sally sit down in the best chair.

      ‘We have a present for you, Sal. Close your eyes,’ ordered Rose.

      There was the sound of paper rustling and then, ‘Open your eyes. Tada!’

      The three girls had saved part of their wages all summer and Sally saw herself looking at a most elegant two-piece costume. It was navy blue, perfect with her blue-black hair. The jacket СКАЧАТЬ