garden, followed by Christmas pudding and custard, Christmas dinner would be a feast fit for a king.
‘Come on, Mum, I’ll give you a hand,’ said Daisy, just as they heard the front doorbell. She was nearest and so she pulled herself up and went to answer it.
‘Have you seen Grace? Sorry, everyone. Merry Christmas,’ said Sally as she spilled into the room. She was wearing the costume bought for her by her friends, but it was obvious that she had not come to have them admire it or the smart red hat, perched on the back of her curls, which her parents had given her for Christmas. ‘Sorry again, but she’s never this late and there’s no one at their house.’
Sally looked as if she was about to burst into tears. Grace had spent Christmas Day with Sally’s family almost every year since she had arrived in Dartford as a timid seven-year-old. Megan Paterson had very unwillingly taken in the little girl but, apart from providing a bed for Grace to sleep in, had done little to make Grace feel welcome. Megan, manageress of a charity shop on the High Street, lived her own life. The presence of her half-sister was obviously an inconvenience and not a pleasure.
‘Where else could she be, Sally? Can’t think of any other close chums.’
Sally shook her head. ‘You know Grace; she’s not a talker. I don’t think I’ve even heard the names of anyone she works with. Dad and I went to the shop in case Megan had got a delivery she wanted unpacked and sorted, but it’s definitely closed and empty.’
She waited but no one spoke and so Sally carried on. ‘She’s been funny since my party but I thought she’d forgotten all about that silly teasing. Mum took her to the pictures one night last week and they spoke about Christmas dinner as usual. Today we can’t find her anywhere.’
‘Maybe her sister—’ began Flora.
‘Oh, please, Mrs Petrie. We’re all old enough to know exactly what her sister is. Grace won’t be with her. Dad went round the house; it’s empty. We hoped she’d be here. Maybe she’s gone to somebody at her work but why didn’t she tell Mum?’
‘No idea. I don’t think Grace’d do a thing like that. We’ll just have to go looking,’ said Daisy decisively. ‘Probably she went for a walk, and lost track of time – and distance.’ She looked at her mother.
‘Dinner’ll keep, pet. Go and find your friend. After all, we’re planning to eat her Brussels sprouts.’
Rose followed Daisy into the hallway where they picked up their woollen coats, and rammed the new berets that Flora had knitted for Christmas onto their heads. ‘Sorry, Mum, you and Dad start without us.’
When the door had closed behind them, Flora and Fred sat down by the fire. They had no option but to celebrate Christmas without their sons. ‘I’ll be damned if I touch a mouthful without my girls,’ said Fred.
Flora nodded and picked up her knitting.
The scarf she was making for Daisy was well under way by the time the girls returned.
‘Sorry,’ the twins said together. ‘We found her, would you believe, in that awful Anderson shelter; passed it twice, never thought to look in. She’s all right, Mum. As usual says nothing, but maybe she had a row with Megan. We talked her round and Mrs Brewer had the dinner keeping nice and hot.’ She looked suggestively towards the kitchen.
‘You had five more minutes, girls. Your dad wouldn’t start without you. Come on, it’ll be grand, and wait till you see what your dad ’as brought up from the shop.’
Neither girl had much experience of alcohol and each was thrilled to be given a glass of sherry.
‘Spanish,’ said Fred. ‘Best kind there is. Don’t neither of you let anyone give you sherry from anyplace else.’
Was the meal perfect or did the excitement of drinking sherry help cast a golden glow over it? No one appeared to notice that the capon was a little dry or that the sprouts had been cooked a little too long.
Daisy looked at the firelight shining in the liquid in her glass and found herself thinking of the pilot. Was he drinking real Spanish sherry with his Christmas meal? He had to be. Surely sherry was the height of sophistication.
8 January 1940
The alarm clock woke Daisy. She groaned, as usual, burrowed even further under the counterpane, as usual, and then, remembering her promise, threw back her covers and jumped out of bed. It was cold, so cold that, completely forgetting her sleeping sister, she did a little war dance right there on the strip of carpet between the beds. A quick look proved once again that Rose Petrie could sleep through anything.
Daisy slipped past her bed to the window and pulled the curtain back sufficiently to let her see out. ‘Crikey.’ She could see nothing but beautiful paintings by one Mr Jack Frost on the window-pane. Daisy breathed on the glass and rubbed it with the sleeve of her nightgown until she had a peephole.
Outside lay a frozen world. The year had blasted in accompanied by snow storms that seemed determined to maintain their icy grip. The snow that had fallen over the weekend and been churned into muddy heaps by the traffic was now frozen solid. Daisy grabbed her clothes, washed her face and such parts of her neck as she thought might be seen, dressed and slipped out. She looked towards the kitchen door. No time to boil the kettle for some scalding tea. She crept down the stairs, pulled on her heavy outdoor coat and the cheery hat and now-finished scarf that her mother had knitted for Christmas, grabbed her hated gas mask – there weren’t going to be gas attacks; there was no sign of any attacks – and hurried out.
Her breath seemed to freeze in her throat and, for a second or two, she panicked. It was cold, colder than she had ever known. Then she pulled herself together and began to stumble over the frozen sculptures to a stretch of fairly clear road.
Slithering and sliding, Daisy battled on to the little cottage where Grace lived with her half-sister. Grace opened the door and ushered her in. It was obvious that she had been crying.
‘What’s up, Grace? Ever so sorry I’m late; road’s treacherous.’
Grace shook her head. ‘Doesn’t matter. They’re all ruined. Come on through.’
In her hurry, Daisy put her gas mask haphazardly on a chair. It landed on the wooden floorboards with a loud thump. Daisy winced and looked towards the ceiling.
‘She didn’t come home last night and, anyway, takes more than a noise like that to wake our Megan.’
Daisy followed her friend through the cold little house. Grace was almost fanatically tidy but Daisy had time to see at least three pairs of fully fashioned pure silk stockings hanging from a wire across the fireplace in the kitchen. She looked down at her lisle-covered legs. ‘Bet they feel ever so wonderful on, Grace.’
‘Much, much too expensive for me, Daisy, and you an’ all, I should think, if you get my meaning. I saw some in Kerr’s Stores. Three shillings a pair.’
‘Nine shillings spent on stockings. Who’s got that kind of money, Grace?’
Grace said nothing but opened the door to
