The Daisy Club (23 page)

She leaned forward and kissed Freddie briefly.

Freddie watched Jessica leave the kitchen, and stared down at her empty plate. With Aunt Jessica gone, and all her friends, that just left Branscombe and the dogs.

‘I'll manage,' she murmured, and then felt ashamed that she felt desolate, that the house was too large, and she for some reason too small for it.

She stood up. Time to get going again. She had to drive through the dark to the hospital. They were desperately short-handed, everyone needed, patients coming in from all directions, the flow from Dunkirk still being constant, not to mention the pregnant mothers that had been evacuated from Wychford to make room for the wounded.

For the first time in her life Daisy was beginning to find out what it was to be really tired, and it was a salutary experience. She had known that ferrying aeroplanes from factory to airstrip, again and again, and yet again, would be quite a task, but had sadly underestimated the battle fatigue. No time to ask questions, just get in and get on with it. They had to get the planes to the men – young men, most of whom had barely finished their training, some of whom had not even finished it – waiting, playing cricket, smoking, wondering whether their number would be up, or whether they would return. France had seen the loss of three hundred fighter pilots. To make up the numbers the Fleet Air Arm had to be called in, the Royal Canadian Air Force, too, and squadrons now desperate for men were manned by escaped Czechoslovakian and Polish pilots.

The rumour was that over a hundred squadrons were needed, and yet even with all the additions, they still only had sixty.

‘There are no ground forces at all, unless you count the Home Guard, who are armed with everything from old muskets to broomsticks and frying pans, and no anti-aircraft guns to speak of, so how we will defend ourselves on the ground I don't know . . .'

Guy shook his head. He lunched and dined at the top tables, heard everything, and could do nothing; peeling away every few hours from some new stiff-upper-lip gathering, only to have to attend another, experiences which were far from uplifting.

He and Clive were now based in London. It was rumoured that the theatres would soon reopen, although when, exactly, no one quite knew. However, Guy had other plans besides presenting his clever little comedies.

‘I hope to be fielding a troupe of players, taking them out to the provinces, going to sing to the workers in the factories, because that, after all, is what I am famous for, is it not, dear Miss Jones?'

Now that Aurelia was in London all the time, her role of looking after Guy had both increased and decreased. He did not need her in connection with his particular work, but he did, it seemed, need her for other duties.

‘It will be your task, Miss Jones, to go around and about, to be seen everywhere, the Savoy, the Dorchester, all the while, of course, keeping your pretty little ears open in order to bring me back relevant information.' He paused, pulling on his cigarette holder. ‘We want to know everything that is being said, and even everything that is not being said. There are still British-born Nazi spies and agents all over town, and we want to know about them. Not everyone has a file on them, you know, not everyone in society is open about their political affiliations. We need to know more about these society Fascists, a great deal more, and you after all have the entrée to society. You know these people because you have grown up with them, Miss Jones.'

Aurelia flinched at that. Her last visit to her mother had revealed that Hotty had a quite serious chest infection, and her father had already lost over a stone in weight, which succeeded in making him look both younger and more lined. However, thanks to Clive Montfort's behind-the-scenes influence they had both been moved to less harsh surroundings, sharing their quarters so that they could look after each other, which was a great relief to Aurelia, although a source of open disgust to Guy.

‘Why the special treatment?' he asked Clive, disapproval written all over his face as he lit a cigarette.

‘Not special, old boy, just different.'

‘Appeasers! Fellow-travellers! Fascists! Why?'

Clive looked across at Guy. He did not share either his confidence, or his black-and-white vision of the world, which was probably why Guy was a successful playwright, and he no more than his secretary.

‘Thoroughbreds and carthorses, old boy. Different treatment. Some live out, some live in, some have thinner skin, some have thicker. Can't treat even the naughty ones all the same. Mercy in war is as much a victory over the enemy as defeat, as some great man once observed.'

But Guy had walked away. Nothing that should have been done to prevent the war had been done, and everything that was happening now was just a confounded waste of beautiful lives. If he had had a heart he was sure that by now it would have broken, and yet the proper war had hardly begun. Everyone was going around calling
now
the Phoney War.

The Bros at Operation Z had told him that someone truly bright had suggested bombing the Krupps arms factory, which would after all have put paid to a lot of, if not all, their present difficulties; but needless to say the idea had been firmly vetoed in cabinet, because, it seemed, it would offend the French! Well, with the Nazis crawling all over France at that very moment, the French were well and truly offended now, and if that was not the truth, nothing was.

Jessica knew that both Branscombe and Freddie would look after the dogs and the house. She also knew she was expendable at the Court now that the Lindsay brothers were being put to work in the fields and garden, not to mention the house, for even little Johnny had stopped crying, and had learned to trot after Branscombe chattering his head off, while Branscombe contented himself with the idea that had he ever been able to attract a wife, which with his wounds from the Great War would never have been possible, little Johnny could have been his grandson.

The girls who had been occupying the cottage in the stables were now dispersed, while Alec, the eldest of the Lindsay brothers, had gone to work for Jean alongside her army of land girls. She sometimes heard him getting up in the morning at the same time as she had just done, tiptoeing downstairs as the light came up, that perfect light that was pale pink and grey, and blue, and somehow purer than at any other time of day.

She had to walk to Twistleton Meads Station, leaving the car behind for Branscombe's use. Even at a brisk pace the walk between the Court and the station took some time, and when she did arrive she knew she would be forced to sit in the ladies' waiting room with her knitting, waiting for hours to get on a train that might take as much as a day to travel to the factory where Blossom was working.

As she sat knitting, the silence around her seemed ominous, as if even the countryside was waiting, even the awakening birds, the wild rabbits, the squirrels, the foxes, the badgers, the sheep and the cows. As if they were all waiting for the sound of that siren that would signal, not the arrival of the train, but the arrival of the enemy. She wished that she could knit faster, and faster, just to stop thinking, because thinking brought back memories of that other war, of that time of such despair, that time which was upon them again, except the war was to be here, above them. Not in France, not in some foreign field, but here in their own fields.

Her fingers ached, her arms ached, and yet the blasted sock did not seem to be getting any bigger. She pushed her needles out in front of her, examining the neat work in which she was pretending to be engrossed, remembering now that she had been told that all those socks they had knitted for the troops in the last war had been used to clean guns! What a futile occupation, to be knitting something which would probably end up cleaning a gun! But it was something to do, better than nothing. Nowadays she couldn't read, couldn't write, had no one to whom she wanted to write, just had to do something repetitive.

At last the train arrived, at last the peace was thankfully shattered by that reassuring sound of brakes applied, steam and noise welding into one effect, people staggering with their luggage, doors opening and closing – thank God for noise, for people.

Except, perhaps not!

As she walked into the factory where Blossom had been working for some time now, it was Jessica's turn to be shattered. She had never imagined in all her wildest nightmares that such noise could exist, never imagined that a place could be in such ferment, the air filled with such a fog of cigarette smoke that it would be difficult to see anything beyond your own work. She had hardly been there a minute before the effect on her eyes and her breathing was noticeable. In a matter of seconds, when she saw the hideous conditions under which everyone was expected to work, Jessica found herself envying anyone who was not in the factory that day; and then she remembered exactly why she was there, and felt ashamed.

She glanced briefly up above her. The roof had been blacked in to prevent the factory being seen from the air, and targeted. For obvious reasons therefore, the work had to be done by artificial light, which made it even more tiring, because you had to peer through a fog at what was in front of you.

The head of her group beckoned to her, and then to another young woman, who immediately joined them. The leader mouthed to Jessica that she would be shown what to do, but before starting to take note, Jessica could not help glancing down at her watch. In eleven hours' time they would go home, perhaps to their own homes, or perhaps, like Jessica, to temporary lodgings. Blossom had written to her that the work was long and hard – but not just necessary – vital. Without it they would lose the war. The hours just had to be put in.

Jessica braced herself, and then tapped the pocket of her boiler suit, the one where she had carefully placed the photograph of Esmond. She didn't care how long the day would prove to be, she knew for whom she was doing it. It was for all those other Esmonds, all those other young men waiting ‘at readiness' – some playing cricket, some smoking, some sitting in cockpits, all of them waiting for the order to scramble, to climb into the skies and defend their country, perhaps for the last time.

Daisy knocked back her drink.

‘I'd like to be in the RAF if they would have women,' she confided to one of her newer, older, flying friends. ‘But I don't know that I could stand the waiting. I mean, at least we fly in and get on with it, whereas the others have to hang about waiting for the starting bell. It would get on my nerves, truly it would.'

Her companion looked at her, shaking his head, and then he laughed.

‘But you don't have any nerves, do you, Daisy?'

Daisy thought for a minute, and then frowned.

‘Oh, I think I do.' She stubbed out her cigarette. ‘In fact, I'm sure I do.'

They were in a pub much frequented by airmen, and one which had become quite used to the sight of uniformed women customers.

‘Although—' Daisy stopped suddenly. ‘Actually – maybe not. I always think I will be nervous before take-off, but I never am.'

‘Some people just don't suffer from 'em. Let me buy you another snifter. Same again?'

‘Oh, very well, hung for a sheep as a lamb.' Daisy turned back to the bar once more, thinking that if Aunt Maude could see her now, drinking and smoking in a pub, she would have fifty fits, and then her eyes widened. ‘Good Lord, Joe Huggett!'

They shook hands, and as they did so, Daisy turned back to her drinking companion. ‘This is Brian Ashford, Joe.' Then to Brian. ‘Joe and I are from the same village, Twistleton . . .'

It was obvious Joe was not going to stay for more than the minute or two it took him to knock back a drink. He just wanted to get back to Twistleton. He was on twenty-four-hour compassionate leave from his training – how he had swung it was anybody's business – but he had to see Jean, had to get back to her lovely arms, just for a moment, and feel her body against his, perhaps for the last time. Who cared, who knew? It was all he could think about now he was on the ground.

‘Can't stop. See you around.' He smiled suddenly. ‘But look who's here, too!' He thrust out a hand in greeting to a tall, immensely handsome airman who had just swung into the bar. ‘David Moreton.' He turned back to Daisy. ‘Daisy, this is a shocking man. He and I were at school together. How are you, old boy? Top form, as far as I can see. Sorry, I can't stop – my girl awaits me!'

They all laughed, and shook hands.

‘I was just teasing Daisy here that she has no nerves,' Brian joked, while at the same time wishing that he was not a middle-aged man with receding hair, but as young and handsome as David Moreton. ‘Daisy flies with flair, better than the rest of us by miles. The way she lands and takes off would make a bird jealous.'

Daisy looked embarrassed.

‘You must forgive Brian. He likes to blow a trumpet for our poor old skills, because he thinks you lot look down your noses at Air Transport Auxiliary, and I daresay he is right.'

Taking in Daisy's long elegant legs, her beautiful face, blonde hair, and startlingly blue eyes – but most of all the faintly mocking manner that told him she was quite a girl – David felt odd, dizzy and strange, as if he had been flung out of his cockpit and his parachute refused to open.

‘You should be in the RAF proper,' he heard himself say, after a short pause. ‘Cheer us all up no end—'

‘No, no, old boy,' Brian interrupted. ‘If the RAF took Daisy, she would be running the whole show by the end of the year, and you would be taking orders from her.' Brian joked on, determinedly, while knowing all the time that he might as well talk to himself, for it was quite clear that there were now only two people in the room as far as David was concerned, and not even a bomb dropping would get him to take his eyes off Daisy.