Churchill’s Angels. Ruby Jackson

he supposed to do?’

      ‘I’ll be called up soon, Dad. What then?’

      ‘Then I might think of taking on someone to help out, someone dependable who doesn’t half kill my daughter or set fire to my lockup.’

      ‘If you was to bring him in an hour or so after school, Dad, then I could help him a bit.’

      Eventually, much against his wishes, Fred found himself agreeing to ‘try to keep that holy terror out of jail.’

      ‘But I’m not paying him, Daisy. He can have his tea here, him and Jake, and maybe I’ll pay their way into the pictures of a Saturday and we’ll see how it goes. And no cigarettes smoked anywhere near my shop.’

      George grumbled, but with the threat of a stint in an approved school hanging over his head, he reluctantly agreed.

      So, every afternoon the Preston boys made their way from school – on the days that George bothered to attend – to the Petrie shop and were set to work tidying shelves, unloading boxes and even cleaning the van until the shop closed. Then they were taken upstairs where they scrubbed their hands in the sink before sitting down at the table where Flora took delight in putting plates of hot, nourishing food before them. George said nothing, refused all offers of second helpings and sat quietly while his younger brother tucked into an extra plate of whatever was offered.

      Daisy said nothing either, but she and her mother were delighted to see the boys fill out a little.

      ‘See, Fred, told you,’ teased Flora, forgetting that she had not wanted the boys in her immaculately clean home.

      ‘Leopards don’t change their spots,’ said Fred firmly.

      Daisy watched quietly while she made plans and then at last her mind was made up. If she stayed at home any longer a letter would come telling her that she had been conscripted into a potato-peeling unit at some godforsaken army base somewhere or – possibly even worse – storekeeping. All of the service units she had read about were very keen on that, but Daisy Petrie had already spent more than enough time in a shop. Today, instead of eating her sandwiches behind the little curtain in the shop, she would cycle over to the Recruitment Office and attempt to make her case. She tried to feel positive. If only she had bought that stunning costume she had seen in the windows of Horrell and Goff in the High Street last week. It was so elegant, just exactly what a well-brought-up young WAAF would wear, and it was in her favourite colours. The white linen jacket was collarless and was link-buttoned, like the cuffs on Dad’s best shirt. Under it was a blue and white backless, sleeveless dress in the new diagonal stripes, finished with a collar and tie. So gorgeous. With it, the model in the window wore a dashing man-type little hat pulled down over one eye. It had to be the latest word in fashion. The hat was extra, of course, but she could just have managed to scrape together two pounds, two shillings for the costume.

      At the thought of spending her entire holiday savings on clothes, Daisy went hot and cold, and regretfully put the flattering picture of herself in the beautiful outfit to the back of her mind. But oh, it would have made the recruitment officer sit up and take notice.

      Besides, Daze, she consoled herself, a frock like that needs the hat, good shoes and a bag, not to mention silk stockings at three shillings the pair.

      Then: I bet Adair Maxwell knows lots of girls who wouldn’t have to think twice about buying it.

      She did not want to think about Adair and was delighted to be disturbed for the next hour by the constant ping of the shop bell.

      Bernie Jones and Mr Fischer arrived together. For once Bernie was not smiling.

      ‘Your dad around, Daisy?’

      A cold hand seemed to clutch Daisy’s heart. There was something about the tone of Bernie’s voice. ‘He’s off getting his petrol ration, Bernie, but Mum’s up in the flat.’

      ‘There’s a telegram from the army, lass, and maybe your mum shouldn’t be alone when she reads it.’ He handed her the thin buff-coloured envelope, and Daisy was surprised to notice that both his hand and hers were shaking as the envelope was handed over.

      ‘I’ll leave it here till Dad comes back. He’ll only be a minute and it could be anything, couldn’t it?’ She turned as she saw her kind and generous friend Mr Fischer heading towards the door. ‘Your paper and your … sausages, wasn’t it, Mr Fischer? Don’t go, I’ve got them right here.’ She tried to smile cheerfully. ‘Thanks, Bernie; see you tomorrow.’

      The postman left quietly and Daisy went into the back shop to find Mr Fischer’s sausages.

      ‘I am so sorry, Daisy. It might be bad news, but we trust in God, not the worst news. And here is your father.’ He put a half-crown on the counter. ‘I can receive the change tomorrow.’

      Daisy and her father, who had come in with his usual cheerful smile, which had changed immediately to a half-fearful look, were alone in the shop, the envelope on the counter between them.

      Fred looked at it for some minutes without touching it.

      ‘Put the “Closed” notice on the door, pet, and we’ll take this up to Mum.’

      Her heart pounding, Daisy did as she was asked. She considered adding a note to George, but decided that they would be open by the time school was out.

      Priority Mr F. Petrie, 21 High St., Dartford, Kent.

      Regret to inform you that your son, Sgt Samuel Petrie, is reported missing from operations on the night of 2 June.

      Letter follows.

      Fred had no need to read the date. What difference would that make?

      ‘Make your mum a nice cuppa, Daisy, there’s a good girl.’

      Daisy went into the kitchen and tried to think of nothing but the simplest things, like making a pot of tea. Her mind was refusing to work and she closed her eyes, hoping that might clear her head. Missing, no; make tea. How? Boil water, warm the teapot, find Mum’s favourite cup in case she’s able to notice. Daisy found herself reacting automatically. What was that posh word Adair had used about her eyes opening and closing like those of a china doll? She could not remember, but trying to remember stopped her thinking about the pitifully thin sheet of paper with the few lines of typing on it.

      ‘My Sam’s a sergeant, Daisy.’ Her parents were sitting side by side on the sofa and Fred was holding Flora’s hand tightly. ‘Can’t drink my tea if you don’t let go, Fred. Oh, this is nice, Daisy, you’ve put sugar in. I never take sugar, gave it up for Lent once and never went back to it.’

      ‘The first-aid manual says to put sugar in,’ said Daisy, gulping her own tea.

      ‘Told you you’d know what to do, our Daisy.’ Flora sobbed a little but drank more tea. ‘A sergeant. They only made him a corporal a few months ago.’

      ‘Sam’s a good soldier, Mum.’

      Flora put down her cup so fiercely that some tea slopped out into the saucer. ‘He’s only missing, my Sam, only missing, and there’s nothing about Ron and Phil so they must be all right.’

      Fred stood up. ‘Maybe you should have a wee lie-down, Flora, love. Daisy, I’ll mind the shop if you stay with your mum.’

      Daisy stayed sitting by her mother’s bed long after Flora had fallen into a fitful sleep. She forced herself to be positive. Buying the costume would have been a ridiculous waste of money. How glad she was that she had not done that. She would not be joining the WAAF, not for the present. How could she leave her parents while Sam was missing? When they heard that he had been found then she might try again, but for the moment her place, whether she liked it or not, was by her mother’s side.

      Was there anyone in the entire nation who was happy? Daisy found the next few months almost unbearable. Flora seemed unable to cope without news of her sons, and her care and most of the work in the shop fell on Daisy’s narrow shoulders. She and Mr Fischer became even closer friends as he came into the shop