Churchill's Angels Part 12

'Dunno. Depends on who reads your form and who needs what. When did you leave school?'

Blast. She should have kept quiet. 'In 1936.'

'What have you been doing since? Working, I hope.'

'Yes, in my dad's shop.'

'Well, who knows? Off you go.'

'I can drive, and strip an engine and I've worked on an aeroplane.'

'An' me and Princess Elizabeth went riding our 'orses at the weekend. Frightfully lovely it was, an' all. Go home. You'll hear one way or the other.'

Her hopes in tatters, Daisy went home. She was furious with herself. Adair had said to tell the WAAF recruiting officer about the plane, not the local recruiting sergeant. She had been so anxious to make a good impression that she had made an absolute fool of herself. Would the woman who had laughed at her write something unpleasant on the form? 'Shop girl with ambition and no qualifications'?

For the next few weeks it seemed that she had, for Daisy heard absolutely nothing.

There was great excitement when a second letter arrived from Phil. It told his parents no more than that he was alive and liked the navy. Those few words, however, were more than enough for the little family.

'One of our boys is safe, Fred,' said Flora, who went to sleep that night with the letter under her pillow. 'Now I'm going to tell our Daisy, no half measures, I want her to go away. They always learns the quickest way home, don't they, Fred, when you've let them go,' she finished bravely, tears threatening to spill down her pale cheeks.

As the days rolled around towards the second Christmas of the war Daisy tried to think positively. Surely thousands of young women were now trying to join the services before there was forced enlistment. It would take time.

Her heart broke, though, as she walked through her town. Everywhere there was destruction: roads were pock-marked by great holes, buildings by empty windows, broken chimney pots and smoke was hanging thickly over everything. She hated the stench of it. People scrambled over the ruins of their homes or gardens trying to find some part of their former lives.

Daisy looked down as she made to cross a street and almost stepped on a child's winter boot. It reminded her of the blood-soaked little body on the Heath. His shoes had not been blasted from his frail body and she hoped fervently that this little boot had been lost in a childhood game. She stood looking at it, wondering if she should pick it up and put it on what remained of a garden wall.

'There it is, Henry. And 'aven't I told you before not to take yer shoes off without unfastening 'em?'

A small boy, a year or so older than the child on the Heath, darted out, almost b.u.mping into her, picked up his boot, and ran back towards the damaged house.

His cheeky grin cheered her and she carried on home.

The family flat was dark and quiet, strangely so, since Freddy Grisewood was usually presenting his programme, The Kitchen Front, at this time, and Flora never missed it.

'h.e.l.lo, the house.'

The light went on, startling her, and there in the kitchen doorway stood her mum, waving a letter. Fred, grinning from ear to ear, stood behind her.

Sam? Oh, what a Christmas present that would be.

'It's for you, love.'

It was a buff envelope and so she knew it was not from Adair. Grace might write but surely her envelope would be white.

'Come on, love. Open it up.'

Trembling, Daisy took the envelope and with shaking fingers, tore it open, took out the two pieces of paper it contained and began to read.

'What's it say, Daisy?'

'Sorry, Dad, they want me to go to London next Tuesday. This is a railway warrant, which means I don't have to pay a fare. I can't believe it, I really can't believe it. I was so sure I'd made a mess of it.'

'Where in London, pet?'

'The actual headquarters of the Royal Air Force. The RAF. Me, Daisy Petrie, in their offices. I've got the address here.' She looked at the letter again as if she could not believe it. 'It's for a medical, not the questions Adair told me about. And, look, I have to take my night things, my was.h.i.+ng things and my ration book, in case they keep me.'

'Well, they do move fast once they start moving, our Daisy, and here's you waited near a year for it and it's come. We're d.a.m.ned,' he stopped and started again, 'dashed proud of you, aren't we, Flora, love?'

With tears in her eyes, Flora hugged her daughter. ''Course we are. An' I'm sorry I made it hard for you, love.'

'I understand, Mum.'

'They're bound to keep you and so we'd best check things, undies especially, and your stockings. We should get new, shouldn't we, Fred? Don't know who's going to be seeing them.'

'n.o.body better be seeing them,' said Fred fiercely.

'It's a medical, Daddy.'

'Wonder how much that'll cost. Never mind, my Daisy will have the best. Don't worry about it. My, but we'll miss you, pet. Miss Partridge's pleasant enough and her counting's good, but she's not one of us, is she?'

The prospect of losing Daisy to the WAAF was the family's sole topic of conversation for the rest of the week and everyone who came into the shop was told all about her prospects in ever more glowing detail. George and Jake said nothing, but on her last day in the shop George gave her a bar of chocolate.

'An' he never nicked it neither,' explained Jake.

'I know, boys. Thank you. I'll send you a postcard every now and again.'

'Dad'll have me "Head of the Air Force Petrie" come Tuesday, Mum,' complained Daisy, but on Tuesday morning she found it difficult to pull herself out of his arms and climb aboard the train that, barring an air raid, would have her in London in plenty of time for her appointment. She took comfort from the feel of the soft scarf wrapped around her neck.

Flora had admired the scarf and, unlike Fred, accepted the expensive gift at face value. 'He's out of her life, Fred, and so he's given her an old scarf.'

The train heaved and puffed as it sat waiting to set off, all the time filling up with men and women in uniform of one colour or another, but predominantly khaki. Daisy knew that, with the increased movements of troops, her chances of finding a seat were slim, but she stayed at the door waving to her parents until long after the train had pulled out of Dartford Station.

If Dartford was a nightmare of destruction, London was ten times worse. A pall of smoke had settled over the city and, because of road closures and diversions, it took all the time she had at her disposal for her to arrive, winded and slightly dishevelled, at her destination.

A uniformed official directed her to a ladies' room. 'Tidy yourself up a bit,' she suggested curtly.

'Wonder what she'd look like if she'd just run from the station,' Daisy muttered as she peered at her face in the pock-marked lavatory mirror.

'Even worse than the poor old thing does now,' said a cultured voice from behind her. A slim and beautifully dressed young woman emerged from a cubicle. Her lemon dress with toning pale grey coat made the 'dream' outfit in the shop in Dartford High Street look like something from a market stall. 'But, bless,' she said, 'both her face and her disposition were set at birth.' She held out her hand. 'Charlotte Featherstone.'

'Daisy Petrie,' said Daisy as she shook the slim hand, which she could not but notice was as beautifully manicured as the blue-black hair was styled.

'Here to be interrogated?'

What a frightening word. Daisy's surprise must have registered on her face, for Charlotte smiled. 'Interviewed, Daisy. I'm afraid I tend to levity when the old b.u.t.terflies swarm.'

'I'm a bit nervous myself.'

'Good, that's two of us. Let's find the interview room. They're running late and so we have a few minutes.'

There were several young women in the room a.s.signed to those waiting for the medical. Daisy and Charlotte joined them. Obviously they were not alone in battling with nervousness for no one spoke at all. Some stared at the photographs on the walls while others seemed to study their fingernails or even their shoes.

One by one the room emptied.

'Featherstone.'

Charlotte stood up, turned and smiled at Daisy. 'I'll wait for you. I know a Lyons Corner House nearby; let's have lunch, frightfully inexpensive and awfully good.'

'Featherstone.' The voice was louder, more demanding.

'Coming,' said Charlotte, and smiled at Daisy as she left the room.

Forty minutes or so later, after a far-from-comprehensive medical examination, Daisy walked out carrying her little suitcase, a warrant for the underground to Uxbridge, and a postage-paid card to send her parents to say that she would not be returning home. It seemed that, on the basis of what she had written on the original form and the satisfactory medical examination, she was now Aircraftswoman Petrie D. She had been too nervous to take it all in, but the words 'four years' had been uttered. She hoped that was not how long it was going to be before she returned home.

'You look as if you could do with a nice hot cup of tea.'

Charlotte had waited and stood there at the foot of the steps, smiling. She too carried a little suitcase and, no doubt, a ticket for the underground. Daisy was slightly uneasy, feeling that perhaps they ought to go straight to their next interview.

Her hesitation was not lost on Charlotte. 'They were hours late doing the medicals,' she exaggerated, 'and so I'm perfectly sure time is relative at this moment. I need to eat and so do you. The WAAF seems to have us, body and soul, for years, which was a teeny-weeny shock, but "Courage, mon ami, le diable est mort."' She laughed at the expression on Daisy's face. 'Sorry, this does seem to be my day for alienating the rest of the world. That's just a sentence from a book my grandfather read me when I was about eleven. It means, "Courage, my friend, the devil is dead." They were the first words I learned in French and the family use them as a sort of mantra. In other words, Daisy, dear, everything's going to be all right. Come along, a bowl of soup, not nearly so good as Mother used to make, and a cup of tea, and then we shall deliver ourselves to the war effort.'

They did just that, and when they got to their next destination the reception was the same as before. The girls were late. 'Don't look so worried, love,' a uniformed WAAF encouraged Daisy. 'We do know there's a war on. Get off your feet for a few minutes Gawd knows when you'll get the next chance to sit and do go to the little girls' room.'

'Before or after we get off our feet?' Charlotte wickedly asked Daisy.

But eventually the time came for Daisy to be interviewed by a careers officer.

'What would you like to do in the service? Any other experience apart from shop work?'

This was it. Remember what Adair had said. 'I'd like to work on aircraft, miss. I have been driving since I were ... was ... fifteen, and I can maintain the engine.'

The careers officer eyed her carefully. 'You're a shop girl.'

'Yes, miss, but my dad has his own shop and a delivery van for ... deliveries,' she finished weakly. 'Most days I did the deliveries. The van's past it really, but I can get her going again.'

'Interesting. We'll have you take a test,' began the woman.

'I spent a lot of time this year stripping an aircraft engine and putting it back together again.'

'Really, Miss Petrie ...'

'An Aeronca C-3.'

'Which is?'

'A plane, miss, an American one. And the pilot took me up in her and I had a few lessons.' She would not mention the Czech wing commander. That really would sound as if she were boasting. 'Once he even let me fly solo.'

'How wonderfully useful you would have been to us had your American followed through with a recommendation. Sit at that desk and answer as many questions as you can.'

She doesn't believe me. She thinks I'm a storyteller and she hates me. And the cow thinks I can't answer her questions. Well, maybe I can and maybe I can't.

Daisy walked over to the desk, sat down and picked up the pencil.

Her parents would be thrilled.

With all her might, Daisy hoped that was so. Mum had been so down and clinging one minute and the next saying how much she wanted Daisy to go. Which was truer? Sometimes Daisy had heard her mother weeping from her parents' bedroom difficult to hide anything in a building like theirs. 'My boys is gone ... my Rose near lost her hand ... I can't let Daisy out of my sight ...'

Hard to bear her mother's tears. But now a pleasant RAF officer had told her that the tests showed that she was much too intelligent to work in the stores, which was where the female interviewer had suggested that she work.

'You show apt.i.tude for engineering, and I think it was said that you have worked on an aircraft engine. Had it been car engines only, I might have suggested you transfer to the ATS, but we desperately need aircraft mechanics. You won't let me down, Petrie, if I put you there?'

Stunned, Daisy could only shake her head.

'Good, it's a Grade Two occupation, well paid, two s.h.i.+llings per day.'

Two s.h.i.+llings. How could she live on that?

Her terror must have shown on her face for he said very gently, 'And of course that's your pocket money, as it were. We take care of everything else.'

She smiled with relief.

'Good luck, Aircraftswoman Petrie. Welcome aboard.'

She tried to walk smartly out of his office. Aircrafts-woman Grade 2. She would not snivel because she could not tell her parents face to face.

She met Charlotte crossing the frighteningly vast parade ground. She was grinning too.

'Well?' they chorused.

'Grade Two, and, Charlotte, he believed me about planes and he's given me a job working on them. I've got to do a course but he says as how I probably know it all. What about you?'

'An office job somewhere.' She laughed at Daisy's disappointed expression. 'Call me Charlie, by the way, and don't worry about me, I won't be typing the boss's letters, Daisy. Trust me, it's exactly what I wanted.'

Everything, apart from her black lace-up shoes and her grey lisle stockings, was blue: blue skirt, blue tunic, blue overcoat, blue cap and blue underwear.

'Hope to G.o.d it doesn't come out in the first wash, or worse still, on me. I'll be blue apart from white hands, white legs and feet, and a white face.'

Daisy looked down at the complete uniform she had been given when she and Charlie had finally arrived at RAF Wilmslow, after an uncomfortable twenty-minute walk from the station. Daisy had often walked for far longer than twenty minutes, but not wearing heels or carrying suitcases. Wilmslow, also known as No. 4 School of Recruit Training, was where, for the next eight weeks, they were to learn the basics of becoming WAAFs. The walk, however, was not over at the gate, for it seemed that the building housing WAAF intake was as far from the main entrance as it was possible for it to be.

'Whose little joke was this?' asked Charlie as she rubbed her right heel where she could feel a blister forming.

But they had got there, been processed, a.s.signed a hut, and issued with uniforms in double-quick time. RAF or WAAF efficiency?

'Are you all right, Daisy?' asked Charlie now as they tried to find places both for the clothes they had brought with them and also for the issued uniform. 'You had such a strange look on your face, as if you'd remembered something nasty.'

'Not exactly nasty, Charlie. I had a friend who went into the Women's Land Army; a dear girl; we were great friends growing up. She didn't have much of a home life and she wrote a letter when she reached her first posting. They'd given her a uniform and she was so pleased because everything was new. I'd never thought of real poverty before. My mum and dad have a little shop. There are no, were five children and we didn't live in luxury but we always had enough and a little over for people like Grace.'

'Where is Grace?'