Churchill’s Angels. Ruby Jackson

window to make sure she had her key to the side door. Her little change purse with the key inside was deep down in her coat pocket and, as she stood fishing it out, she heard a strange sound coming from the alley that ran along the side of the shop.

      Daisy, suddenly reminded of her father’s constant warnings to her and to her sister about ‘wandering home alone late at night’, froze to the spot and listened more intensely.

      Scuffling and rustling and occasional hushed voices.

      Someone, obviously up to no good, was at the side door to the family flat. What was she to do? Her parents, if they were awake, were on the other side of the building. Even if she were to break the shop window – and how she could manage that she had no idea – it was probable that Fred would not hear it. And what if she smashed an expensive window only to discover that a courting couple were sheltering in a doorway?

      Come on, Daisy Petrie, there’s a war on, and you keep moaning about wanting to do something meaningful and the first chance you get – you do nothing. Holding her breath, she listened again. Was that a crackling noise? What made crackling noises? Fire.

      Daisy raced round the corner.

      A tea crate was on fire. Two shapes – boys, she thought – were manoeuvring the crate against the wooden door, not of the flat but of the lockup across the alleyway.

      ‘Hey, stop!’ she shouted.

      The boys stopped – for a split second.

      ‘Give ’er one, Jake,’ yelled the bigger one. ‘The door’s catching perfect.’

      Jake was obviously afraid to hit Daisy, who shook her head in mixed sorrow and anger. She knew these lads. Were they not always in the group who needed anything that was being sold at a discount? A quick glance told her that they had tried and failed to force the door open. Silly boys. Inside the lockup stood the shop van. Did they want to steal it?

      She tried to scare them off. ‘ARP warden’ll be round here in a jiff, you two – with a policeman, I shouldn’t wonder – and you two’ll be in Borstal afore you—’

      She had no time to tell them what they would have no time to do as the older and larger of the boys, furious both with Daisy for interfering and Jake for not ‘giving her one’ threw himself at Daisy, knocking her to the ground. The last thing she heard was, ‘Oh Gawd, our George, you’ve killed her.’

      Daisy woke several hours later with a splitting headache and an immediate irresistible urge to be very, very sick. The next fifteen minutes were too hideously uncomfortable for her to worry about modesty, which was just as well as she found urgent unknown hands stripping her of her nightgown and the same hands, surprisingly competent, washing her.

      ‘Well, and won’t you be after feeling a lot better now,’ a soft Irish voice said. ‘And such a pretty frock you were wearing too, Irish green; must say, I’m surprised to see a frock like that in a brawl.’

      A brawl. Daisy tried to sit up but fell back again as the pain exploded once more in her head.

      ‘Am I dead?’ she heard her voice say.

      ‘Sure, you are not, but with a bump the size of the egg on the back of your skull, I don’t doubt you wish you were. There now, that’s the second time I’ve cleaned you up in less than an hour so will you be a good girl and keep your head and your stomach quiet while I take care of someone else.’

      Daisy stayed quite still; she could not have moved had she wanted to, for the nurse, if the Irish woman was a nurse, had tucked starched white sheets tightly around her.

      ‘Good, macushla, now I’ll be letting your mammy in for five minutes and then I want you asleep.’

      Daisy lay, aware of nothing but enveloping pain, and then a voice she knew and a touch she welcomed.

      ‘Daisy, Daisy, my dearest girl, you could have been killed by those boys. Lucky for you that Rose and Stan was there.’

      Rose and Stan; boys, what boys? Daisy closed her eyes and, her hand tightly clasped by her mother, drifted off to sleep.

      She woke much later in a narrow hospital bed in what she later discovered was a women’s ward in the County Hospital. ‘You sustained a nasty crack on your skull, Miss Petrie.’ A doctor was taking her pulse and looking down at her with clear, sympathetic eyes. ‘Seemingly you’re quite a little heroine, preventing those young vandals from setting fire to a garage door. Could have been quite nasty. A policeman was here earlier to speak to you but we’ll let you get over your unpleasant experience before we allow that.’

      ‘My parents?’

      ‘Will be here at the regular visiting time. Now, tell the nurse if you feel like eating. The porridge isn’t bad.’ And he was off.

      Daisy lay there remembering what had happened. The police had been informed. Who had done that? Surely not her dad? The last thing he would want would be more trouble for that particular family, who always seemed down on their luck, and Jake and George forever dodging the law.

      ‘And if I don’t really remember what happened …’ Daisy was shocked by the way her mind, usually so aware of the difference between wrong and right, was working.

       FOUR

      Daisy had expected no family visits in the afternoon as the shop was always open – and busy – between four o’clock and closing time, and so she was very pleased to see Miss Partridge, complete with gloves and Sunday hat, walking smartly down the ward between the long rows of identical iron bedsteads.

      She won’t be coming to see me, though, Daisy thought, and closed her eyes so that Miss Partridge might not feel obliged to speak to her.

      ‘Daisy, dear, if you’re tired I’ll drop this off …’

      Daisy tried to sit up, a bad move as pain shot through her head. She did open her eyes, though.

      ‘Oh, you poor girl, I do hope there is no serious injury.’

      ‘No, they want to keep me until tomorrow, just to be sure, but apart from a lump and a headache, I’m fine.’

      Miss Partridge pulled a chair up to the bedside. ‘I was in hospital once, a long time ago, Daisy dear, and my papa brought me a magnificent basket of fruit. I’m afraid there was no fresh fruit today.’

      ‘There’s a war on,’ they said together and laughed.

      Daisy had been mulling over her problem all morning. Was Miss Partridge an ideal confidante?

      ‘I did bring a box of embroidered handkerchiefs, Daisy, dear, unused, of course, and so useful in a situation like this – and Mr Fischer sent you this.’ Miss Partridge opened her large, much-used leather handbag and took out a book with a beautiful Moroccan cover. ‘Rather fine, isn’t it. It’s a copy of Palgrave’s Golden Treasury. He says it was his first poetry book in English and so he hopes you will enjoy it. He has inscribed it to you.’

      Daisy opened the book and saw thin spidery writing on the very fine inside page.

      For Daisy, my very first English friend, in the hope that within its pages she will find some words to make her feel better.

      Siegfried Fischer

      Her stomach churning with happiness and excitement at the amazing kindness. Daisy said, ‘I don’t know how to thank you both.’

      ‘By enjoying our little gifts, my dear. Now I must be off.’

      Daisy held out a hand to keep Miss Partridge near. ‘You haven’t asked what happened?’

      ‘Flora told me who Rose saw. You could have been seriously injured, Daisy. George and Jake Preston are becoming quite wild and, I’m sorry, my dear, but if something isn’t done about them, they’ll both end up in prison.’