very different from some of the planes I’m flying as an air force pilot. Next time I can get away I’ll take her up; I wasn’t going to tell you, but she’s ready, thanks to you. If I bring her down again safely, then we’re in business.’
They cleared up their picnic and returned to the stable yard where the plane sat waiting.
‘Don’t tell me you haven’t handled the controls and thought, I bet I could get this crate off the ground.’
Daisy smiled but said nothing. Of course she had enjoyed wonderful daydreams in which she soared above Kent in the Aeronca, but they were just dreams. Planes did get off the ground and into the air but how they got up there was still a mystery.
‘Come on, you can steer the old girl into the stable. All she needs now is a name. Can’t take her up without a name.’
‘What was her name before?’ Daisy asked as she lowered herself into the cockpit, the excitement in her stomach threatening to spoil the experience.
‘Don’t remember, something trite like Messenger of the Gods.’ He looked at her sitting there in the pilot’s seat. ‘You’ve never asked why she was in such a poor condition.’
‘Not my business.’
‘She was my father’s but he died in a silly accident before he could fly her.’
‘I’m sorry.’
‘Long time ago, Daisy. Park her right in the back, please.’ He was himself again, professional, businesslike.
When they had closed up the stables, they walked up to the farmhouse to let the Humbles know that Adair was leaving.
‘Take care, lad. Any idea when we’ll see you?’
Adair shook his head.
‘We’ll see you, Daisy?’
‘Only with grocery orders, I think, Alf.’
‘The best mechanic in England has brought the plane up to scratch, Alf. Our Daisy is going to be the RAF’s secret weapon, but right now I’ve got to get her back home.’
They said nothing during the drive into Dartford. Adair easily found a parking place on the High Street and moved as if to get out of the car. Daisy jumped out before he could.
‘You need all the time you’ve got, Adair. Thanks for letting me work with you.’
She turned to hurry towards the shop door but he caught up with her, his firm grip on her arm making her pulse race again. ‘This isn’t thanks for working your socks off and goodbye, Daisy. I meant what I said. As soon as I can I’ll be back and I’ll teach you to fly.’
For a moment he looked as if he wanted to say more. After a long moment he said, ‘Scout’s honour,’ before hurrying back to his car.
Daisy stifled the urge to turn and watch him drive away. She did not look after him but walked on into the shop. Scout’s honour. She smiled. She just bet Adair Maxwell had been a patrol leader.
‘Good time, Daisy, love?’ Flora was sitting knitting behind the counter in the empty shop.
‘Work’s finished, Mum, and Adair thanks you for the sandwiches.’
‘He’s welcome. You should have brought him in for a nice cuppa.’
Adair and her mum sitting chatting in the front room? Never. Her mother found it difficult to chat to the vicar. How would she cope with Adair’s even more polished tones? ‘He’s not that kind of friend, Mum, and besides, it’ll take him all the time he has left to get back to his base. If you don’t need me in the shop I’ll go up and have a bath.’
Flora waved her knitting. ‘Really quiet day. Don’t know why but customers aren’t fighting to get in. I only started this sock for your dad this morning; two more rows and I’ll be turning the heel.’
Daisy went to the flat, turned on the wireless and almost immediately ran back downstairs. ‘Put the wireless on, Mum. No wonder the shop’s quiet. The whole of Dartford must be listening to the wireless; Mr Chamberlain has resigned.’
Daisy and Flora stood in the unusually quiet shop and listened to the news with bated breath.
The Prime Minister, Neville Chamberlain, had lost the confidence of the Government and had resigned.
It appeared that what had been dubbed a phoney war was very, very real indeed. There had been questions in the papers and on the wireless about the German invasion of Norway and, more important still, about Britain’s ill-fated part in the defence of that country. Now it appeared that German troops were swarming across both the Belgian and Dutch borders. In the House of Commons, Leo Amery had made a vitriolic speech against the Prime Minister and ended it by quoting Oliver Cromwell: ‘In the name of God, go.’
Mr Chamberlain had gone.
Now, in almost the middle of the beautiful month of May, after countless debates and questions, King George VI had asked Mr Winston Churchill to head a truly national government.
‘I have all three of my lads in the forces,’ Flora said quietly.
‘You just wait, Mum, Churchill will get it all sorted. The boys will be home in no time, full of stories about their deeds of derring-do.’
‘I don’t give a toss about deeds, Daisy Petrie. I want my boys home in their own beds. I don’t even know where two of them are.’
Daisy put her arms around her mother, who suddenly looked frail and tired. ‘They’re fine, Mum, but if you’re on a ship, you can’t pop a letter in the post. Who’s going to pick it up and deliver it – a seagull?’
As she had hoped, Flora laughed. ‘Oh, I’m sorry, Daisy, pet. Don’t let on to your dad. You’re right, o’course. Mr Churchill’s the right one for the job. And don’t tell your dad I were a watering pot.’
‘He’ll be here in a minute. Let’s have a nice tea all ready for him.’
Fred had heard the news but was more positive than his wife. ‘Now we can really get in and teach mighty Germany a final lesson. We thought we’d done it in the Great War but sometimes lessons needs relearning. And we’re the ones to do it.’
As if there wasn’t enough for the Petries to worry about, more foodstuffs were rationed. Many of the customers were stoical but a few complained bitterly and seemed to believe that Daisy could provide more if she really wanted to do so. It was hard sometimes to remain friendly and calm.
‘Meat, eggs, cheese, jam, tea, milk. Wot’s left for God’s sake? Rabbits and fish. If you can catch them you can eat them.’
‘It’s a sensible measure.’ Fred was not so easy to intimidate as Flora and Daisy. ‘This way everyone’s looked after, and anyways, eggs and milk isn’t rationed, they’re allocated.’
‘And wot does that mean when it’s at home, Fred Petrie?’
‘You can’t tell a hen how many eggs she has to lay, or a cow how many pints she has to give. It all depends on supply. If there’s a lot, we gets more, if the animals slows down a bit then we gets less. Whatever comes in gets divided equal. Allocated. Simple.
‘Don’t take no nonsense, Daisy,’ Fred told her later. ‘I got to queue up everywhere to get supplies, and customers is going to have to queue up to get theirs. Tell ’em there’s a war on, if there’s any more grumbling.’
Almost everyone accepted the growing lines outside every shop. Housewives like Flora, and Nancy Humble at the farm, had preserved fruits in their larders and jars of jam on their pantry shelves, and both shared generously. Flora looked at her diminishing stocks and decided that toast, scones, and oatcakes would be served with either butter or jam, never with both.
‘Wish Grace were ’ere, pet. We could have encouraged her to grow strawberries. Next year Alf’s putting potatoes where most