Churchill's Angels Part 31

She wrote telling her parents that she was now studying the Cla.s.s Two planes. She did not say that Cla.s.s Two consisted of fighter planes, but she named two types, the Defiant and the Mustang, names she was positive would mean nothing to her parents. Very carefully she omitted two others, the Hurricane and the Spitfire. Was there anyone in Britain who did not know those planes? She knew her mother would lie awake at night worrying if her daughter were to say that she might soon be allowed to fly a Spitfire.

Neither did she tell her parents how close she had come to cras.h.i.+ng. On the day that they received her letter, however, they were much too excited to actually concern themselves with something so mundane as the types of planes their daughter was flying.

Early one morning, Fred had been opening the blackout curtains when he glanced out into the street as he always did. As usual, even so early, the street was busy. At the far end of the street and moving briskly towards him was a figure that caught his eyes; there was something so very familiar about the tall thin form. It was the way the man walked, more than anything else, but Fred felt his heart begin to beat more quickly and the blood to run around his body as if it was suddenly so glad to be alive.

He wiped his eyes, which seemed to have misted over, looked again and then Fred Petrie, known throughout Dartford for imperturbability, threw down the duster he was holding and ran out of the shop and into the street.

Flora, who had just reached the foot of the stairs, saw her husband in his slippers race out of the shop and, terrified at what she might be about to see, raced after him.

She ran a few paces, stopped and burst into tears. 'Sam, my Sam,' she sobbed, and attempted again to catch up with her husband.

'There, there, Flora, it is your Sam.' Miss Partridge, coming in a little early, for today was fresh egg day, put her arms around her friend and employer. 'You're not seeing things, Flora dear. See, Sam is hugging his father, and he'll be here with you in no time at all.'

And so it was. Sam Petrie, thinner than when he had left England, but bronzed and weather-beaten, caught his mother in his arms and, as if roles had been reversed, became the consoling parent to the sobbing child. 'There, there, Mum, don't cry. It's me and I'm fine. I'm home again and all the way across Europe I were dreaming of your apple fritters.'

They reached the shop and there, at the door, stood a young lad whom Sam did not know. The boy looked at him, smiled shyly and made to slip past him but Sam reached out a very strong hand and held the boy. 'Who's this then, Mum? A new help?' He looked down at George. 'No need to leave, lad. By looks of that crowd gathering there, seems to me you'll be needed more than ever.'

Petrie's Groceries and Fine Teas had never been as patronised by non-customers as it was that day. Even the editor of the local newspaper sent a reporter and a photographer. At last a piece of local news that everyone could share. Sergeant Sam Petrie, injured at Dunkirk, captured by the Germans, from whom he eventually escaped, had returned safe and sound to the bosom of his family. In the few minutes before 'customers' started filling the shop, Fred had time to explain George's presence.

'He sleeps in your room, Sam, but we'll find somewhere else for him.'

'D'you snore, lad?' asked Sam, looking down at the boy.

George nodded. 'Somethin' terrible, sir.'

'Good,' said Sam, ruffling his hair. 'It'll be like old times, an' I'm Sam.'

Miss Partridge tentatively suggested that the shop close for the day but Fred said no, it was unfair to their customers.

'Customers looks forward to their fresh eggs of a Tuesday, Miss Partridge. We'll take it in turns to be behind the counter.'

Flora wanted nothing more than to take her son upstairs and to look at him. He had been gone for two years. She felt that she never wanted to let him out of her sight again.

After the initial rush of visitors, Sam asked to be left alone in the flat above the shop with his family and he included George. In a day or two, he added, he would be happy to see old friends.

Rose, overwhelmed by the return of her brother, had refused to go into the munitions factory. 'They can sack me,' she said, 'but today I'm staying at home.'

The vicar, Mr Tiverton, went to make Rose's apologies to the management and returned with good wishes to the whole family.

Miss Partridge stayed in the shop for the wholeday, and even though Fred and Rose and George took turns helping, she was exhausted when they closed the doors at five thirty.

'Come upstairs and eat a bite of supper with us,' Rose tried to persuade her, but she was adamant. The family needed to be alone with their son and brother.

'I'll take George, Rose.'

Rose smiled. She had seen Sam look at George the way he had once looked at Grace, and at any other child who needed help. 'Sam'll care for him, Miss Partridge, and just you wait, wee George will care for Sam.'

Miss Partridge agreed, but was surprised when Fred came down to walk with her to her home. 'I'm on duty tonight, Miss Partridge. Not much of an example to my son, as brave as he's been, if I use him as an excuse not to do my duty. I know he's home and will sleep sound in his own bed tonight. That thought will keep me company on my rounds. Now we'll need to get a letter off to our Daisy.'

But here Miss Partridge had a better idea.

A few days later, Daisy was thrilled to hear that she was to expect a telephone call at two o'clock in the afternoon.

'Just as well you got back last night, Daisy. He rang up but said he'd ring again today.'

He? Tomas. It had to be Tomas. How she longed to talk with him, to tell him of the frightening experience, to hear his measured view on how she had handled herself.

She lunched with other pilots, who found her distracted. It was, however, quite common for overworked pilots to be a little distracted and so no one made any remarks. Each pilot knew exactly what the others went through and accepted occasional lapses.

At five minutes before two, Daisy was walking up and down outside the officers' mess waiting, waiting, and waiting. And then came that distinctive ring and she pulled open the door. 'h.e.l.lo, Daisy Petrie speaking.'

'h.e.l.lo, Daisy.'

It was not the voice she expected but, in some ways, it was even better. She was so stunned that she leaned back against the gla.s.s for support. 'Sam? No, it can't be. Sam, is that you, really you?'

'It's me, Daisy. Mr Tiverton let me use The Rectory telephone. He and Miss Partridge arranged it. How are you, Daisy? A flyer? I can't believe it. I'm that proud I could burst with it.'

They talked for a few minutes and Daisy discovered that, yes, he had heard of Ron's death and knew that Phil was somewhere on a s.h.i.+p. She asked about his escape.

'Too much to tell on the telephone, Daisy; it's the vicar's money. I got to the south of France and a British flyer picked us up, me and some others that I met along the way; scariest thing ever, getting in that crate. How can you do it? I'll tell you the whole story when you come home. Got to go.'

The line went dead and Daisy, trembling with emotion, replaced the receiver and walked out into a snowstorm. She had been so enthralled at hearing her brother's voice that she had not even been aware of the clouds that had come in.

No flying today, she thought as she ran for shelter.

For the next two weeks, Daisy and the other ATA pilots, weather permitting, were ferrying not once each day but two or three times. The aircraft factories were turning out new planes to reinforce the air force and, sadly, to replace those that had been shot down. The ATA pilots spent days picking up new planes as they came off the factory floor and delivering them to stations anywhere in Great Britain and Northern Ireland where they were needed. Daisy found that she preferred short flights, as she began to learn the shortest, safest ways to get from one station to another. Two nights out of three she was happy to sleep in what she now called 'my own bed'. For a girl who had lived in the same comfortable but rather crowded flat all her life, becoming used to living in different billets and feeling 'at home' was quite a surprise. She felt older, more mature, ready to go anywhere at any time.

Every pilot had looked forward to spring. It had been such a long cold and dark winter. Spring brought colour, and Daisy looked with delight on the early green shoots of daffodils and other spring flowers. She remembered the arduous work of digging in the hard soil of her friend Grace's little garden, scarcely more than a patch. It had been tough but they had enjoyed the challenge, and Daisy felt that she, like Grace, would never forget the joy of picking and eating the few vegetables that they had planted and cared for themselves.

Each station she visited had plantings of some kind and Daisy enjoyed them all.

One day, when this war was over, somehow she would find a way to have a garden, an English cottage garden like one she had seen in a magazine. In the meantime, life went on.

She had applied for a pa.s.s; even twelve hours would allow her to get home and hear her brother's truly amazing story. She'd learned only the bare bones: that he'd been shot and almost drowned at Dunkirk, rescued and taken to a hospital run by Roman Catholic sisters. Next, a prison camp and later an escape. Somehow he had escaped from his prison and made his way to Italy. Why? How? Who had helped, for he must have had help from somewhere? It was like a story in a book except that it was not a story. What had actually happened to her big brother? He had lived and worked in Italy, had left the wonderful people who had hidden him and had made his way to France and from there, home. Twelve hours was not long enough to do more than skim the surface of his story.

Two weeks after she had applied for leave, there was still no hint that she might be granted a few hours to go home. She had not heard from Tomas or Grace; in fact no one had been in touch with her for weeks. She blamed the war. Everyone blamed everything on the war.

And one evening when she returned, hungry and tired, from a flight to East Fortune Airport, a station in Scotland, there Tomas was, in uniform, beside the runway watching her fly in.

Her heart, which had been heavy, began to dance with joy.

'Almost perfect, Flying Officer,' he said with a smile as he helped her leave the little plane.

She held his arm as she took off her heavy flying boots and then released him to shrug herself out of the flying suit. They stood, for a moment, simply looking at each other. Slightly embarra.s.sed, Daisy broke the silence. 'Tomas, it's lovely to see you. Are you well?'

She could hardly believe that she had actually asked such an inane question.

He took it seriously, and with her flying clothes over his arm said, 'I am very well, Daisy, and I am so happy to see that you are also.'

They walked together towards the officers' mess. 'I am told that you have now flown, can I say, internationally?'

Quickly she looked up to see if he was laughing but his face was quite serious. 'All the way to Scotland, over the Lake District, which I have always wanted to see. Have you been there?'

'I have flown in and out of Prestwick but that is not seeing a country. Some of it is very beautiful, from the air.'

He was ill at ease and knowing that made Daisy feel in control. She had not seen nor heard from him since Christmas Eve and now it seemed that he wanted to chatter about scenery.

She stopped walking. 'Tomas, why are you here? Are you here to see me or are you here because you are delivering one of your special cargos, your valuable parcels?'

'I have tried to see you several times. Today I, what is it they say, called in the favours. I was going to Belfast but asked a friend to go in my place. Then I borrowed a plane and came ... to see you, Daisy Petrie.'

She smiled. 'Thank you. Are you staying with us?'

'I have been offered a bed for the night and I have accepted. So now we can join our colleagues for a meal. This is good with you?'

'I'm only third cla.s.s.'

He laughed and moved towards her as if he might ... no, she could not allow herself to think what he might have wanted to do.

'You have always been of the first cla.s.s, Daisy Petrie. Come, you can freshen up in the mess and while you do I will see what they can find for us to eat.'

As always, the mess was busy. Tomas knew many of the pilots and they chatted together over some very watered-down alcoholic drink that Daisy was quite sure she had never sampled before and would be quite happy never to have again. At last, however, the group split up naturally and she found herself at a small table with Tomas. Plates of some wonderful-smelling stew were put down in front of them.

'Rabbit, or is it chicken, which is in fact an old hen, or lamb stew, which is really mutton?' Tomas was remembering their pub meal.

'I don't care. I'm so hungry and it smells wonderful.'

'It does, but let's not spoil it with the boiled cabbage.'

They laughed like old friends, ate the stew that they never did truly recognise, and talked and talked.

'My brother came home, my oldest brother, Sam. A priest, a Roman Catholic one, brought Mum a letter from Italy. Sam said he had escaped from the prison camp. Somehow he made his way to Italy but I've no idea where the camp was. He was working in Italy.' She stopped. 'I thought I must have told you on Christmas Eve but I didn't.'

'We were talking of other things. Now tell me, how did he come home from Italy?'

'He got to France somehow and a British plane picked him up. That's the sort of work you do, Tomas, isn't it?'

'We all pick up and deliver many kinds of parcels, Daisy. I'm glad your brother is safe. Is he well?'

She explained that she had not yet been given a pa.s.s to go to Dartford to see him.

'It will come. He writes?'

'Out of the habit of writing. He never was good. But he's alive and he's safe. Rose thinks he plans to rejoin his regiment.'

'That will depend on his physical and mental state, my dear.'

'I know, and I know Sam; he'll want to be back doing his bit.'

It was time to go. They said good night to the others and Tomas, who was sleeping in the mess, said that he would walk back with Daisy to her billet.

'Bed for you any time you need one, Wing Commander,' called one of the senior officers, and some of the others laughed. Daisy did not see Tomas blush.

It was a beautiful evening, piercingly cold, but the sky was bright with twinkling stars and a bright moon showed its face. Daisy thought she would not be able to bear it if there were to be an alert or a raid. There had been two recently; jumping into trenches had become a regular part of daily life.

How odd to find that Tomas was thinking the same. 'The night sky is a thing of great beauty. Obscene to think that any minute death and destruction could come screaming towards us.'

'Don't say that, Tomas; don't even think it. It happens too often without our dwelling on it.'

He stopped, turned towards her as if there was something really important that he must say.

Daisy looked up at his finely drawn face and waited but he said nothing. 'What is it?'

'Daisy, I am wondering about how to say what I want to say. You may have noticed, I lose control of the English language when I am ...'

He could not continue and Daisy hid a smile. He could not possibly have been about to say 'nervous'. No, not a much-decorated flying ace.

'With nerves,' he finished, and once more she had to hide her smile.

'It's only me Daisy Petrie. You can say whatever you want.'

He grasped her by the arms and, aware of what he was doing, let her go again. 'But I cannot; it is not right.'

Suddenly it was as clear and s.h.i.+ny to Daisy as the magnificent sky above. Did she want him to say it? She looked down at the ground, aware that she knew more about the heart of a plane than the heart of a man.

'Tomas, why did an experienced pilot like you come down to an old stable to help me learn to fly?'

'But that is easy. The first time, the first time only, I came because it was something I could do to repay Adair for his infinite kindness. I came to help teach you because Adair was my first friend in this new country. But, believe me, after that I came because I wanted to see you. One day, the day you flew solo, Adair told me in so many words that he was falling in love. What could I do? He was my friend; he had little, but everything he had, he shared with me. I was pleased for him that he had found a nice girl and when I understood that, I liked Daisy Petrie too. I said, Good, because it is good that you like the woman your friend will marry. Besides, I am so much older than you.' He bowed his head and she wondered if it was so that she could see the silver streaks in the thick, once-black hair, but he straightened up and looked directly at her. 'I have thirty-four years.'

'Thirty-four? Oh, Tomas.' Daisy started to laugh. 'I'm sorry; I thought you were older. Perhaps it's your eyes; they are so sad.'

He looked at her with those sad eyes, eyes that had witnessed so much pain, and she understood that he had decided to leave. He would not stay in the mess. He was going. But he must not leave, not like this, not with misunderstanding. 'Tomas, don't go. I didn't care. Do you understand? I thought you were older but I didn't care, I don't care.'

He removed his cap and held it in both hands in front of him. Now his eyes, which had been so dull a few seconds before, were s.h.i.+ning surely not with tears. 'You don't mind that I am old enough to be your father?'

Daisy did a quick piece of mental arithmetic. 'My, oh my, but you mature early in Czechoslovakia.'

She smiled as a light blush warmed his pale cheeks. 'You are barely fourteen years older than me, Tomas.' She looked down at his cap. 'Put it back on before you ruin it.'

'Believe me, Daisy, I want nothing more than to stay here with you for ever but ...'

'I know, Wing Commander, there's a war on.'

He stood for a moment and Daisy stood looking back at him.

'Are we still friends, Tomas?'

He took a brisk step towards her and then stepped back. 'If that is what you want, Daisy, I will always be your friend.'