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 almost every day and stayed to discuss news items with Daisy, and even to laugh over a programme they had both heard on the wireless. Both found Tommy Handley very funny, but they loved Mona Lott and her catchphrase, ‘It’s being so cheerful as keeps me going.’ It was even funnier spoken in Mr Fischer’s light German accent.
Each day they started up in hope when the cheerful ping of the door handle alerted them to the arrival of the postman and, at last, just as Daisy thought she would go out of her mind, there was a letter for her parents, not from the War Office, as promised, but from their middle son, Phil.
‘If you trust me, Daisy, I will mind the shop while you run upstairs.’
‘Can’t think of anyone I trust more, Mr Fischer. I’ll only be a minute.’
Daisy took the stairs to the flat two at a time. ‘Mum, look, it’s from Phil, from his ship.’
Flora held the letter to her heart for a moment before opening it. ‘Read it to me, our Daisy. My eyes is watering.’
Daisy thought quickly. Who usually popped in at this time? The vicar? He’d be all right with Mr Fischer. ‘It’ll have to be quick, Mum; I’ve left poor Mr Fischer minding the shop.’
‘He’s a clever man, Daisy, very educated, your dad says, with letters an’ all after his name. He’ll yell up the stairs if he needs you.’
‘Sorry I haven’t written as I’ve been busy and was sick a lot on the boats at first. That’s all gone now and I even walks jaunty like a real sailor. We’ve been in action is all I can say and you never heard the likes of the noise and I hopes you don’t never hear it, but we did well. Our captain who’s a really posh guy but very decent with it says we all ought to get a medal and maybe we will.
Learning to be on a ship was fun but a bit scary, like when we used to play Tarzan up the woods. Remember how you used to yell at us for jumping from tree to tree but some of the blokes I sail with has never seen a blooming tree, never mind climbed one. It’s easier than the way we did it. We got this thing called a breeches buoy – looks a bit like one of your apple fritters but on a rope. It’s better than Tarzan except when there’s
‘Next bit’s scraped out, Mum, and then he talks about learning all the aeroplanes. I must go.’ She handed her much happier mother the thin water-damaged sheet of paper and started down the stairs just as the siren went again.
The Petries, having no garden in which to
