Ruby Jackson - Churchill’s Angels

She stepped behind the counter where her father’s pride and joy, the beautiful old till from the National Cash Register Company from far-away Ohio, had stood for as long as she could remember, and looked along its length. She spotted a tiny pool of oil on the usually spotless surface. She sniffed it. Sardines? How had oil from a tin of sardines got on the counter? She took a clean cloth from a bucket hidden under the counter and mopped up the oil, noting that the fishy smell still hung in the air. Opening the door to let in fresh air would take care of that.

‘Well, I timed that perfect.’ Her father had arrived on the doorstep just as she opened the door. He looked questioningly at the cloth still in her hand.

‘Sardine oil on the counter.’

‘Sorry, love, I opened a tin for next door’s cat. Like to encourage him to visit, very discouraging to any little mouse who happened to pass by. Anything happen while I was gone?’

‘Just the usual. Steady stream first thing and then three of the usual complainers complaining one after the other. Mrs Richardson made a fuss because she was last in line and had to wait, Miss Shoesmith complained about the price of bacon. Miss Partridge asked why we never had the width of knicker elastic she needed, and I bit my tongue and didn’t remind her that this isn’t a haberdashers. Even the vicar said with sugar already as scarce as it is what shall we do if there’s a war and rationing. A usual Friday morning.’ She looked at him more closely. ‘You look a bit tired, Dad. Why don’t you sit down and I’ll run upstairs and make us a cuppa?’

‘Good girl, Daisy. I am a bit worn. Afraid I don’t handle heavy sacks the way I used to, so I’ve left supplies in the van till the lads get home. And next time Mr Tiverton comes in tell ’im there isn’t going to be a war. I fought in the war to end all wars.’

‘Yes, Dad, and that’s why they’re reopening the old fever hospitals, like the Joyce Green – and not for plague victims.’

‘They’ve all got it wrong, pet. Besides, the King, God bless him, is family.’

‘That’ll make a difference, I don’t think,’ whispered Daisy as she hurried up the narrow carpeted stairs to the crowded flat in which the family lived. Her mother was in the comfortable, cosy kitchen and the smell of baking apples filled the air.

‘Time for a cuppa, Daisy, love? Did I hear yer dad? He’s early back from the wholesaler.’ She moved the always-filled kettle over on the stove to an already hot plate.

‘Apple turnovers for the party, Mum?’

Flora Petrie, as round as her apple turnovers, smiled. ‘I might be able to spare one for a hard-working shop assistant.’

Less than ten minutes later Daisy was sitting on the bottom stair drinking her tea and reading the newspaper. Her father drank his propped up behind the counter ready to deal with any customer.

Daisy read the papers cover to cover as often as she could in order to keep up with everything that was happening, not only in their home town of Dartford but in the wider world. Newspapers and the wireless kept the family abreast of all the rumours that were flying around.

‘Grand baker, your mum,’ commented Fred when Daisy joined him.

‘Is that a Times you’ve got there, Dad? Don’t get apple on it. Mr Fischer hasn’t been in for his yet.’

Before Fred could answer, the door pinged its warning. ‘Lovely smell of baked apple in here this morning.’ The local postman, Bernie Jones, was framed in the doorway, and bright sunshine poured in behind him.

Bernie held out a slim envelope. ‘Got a fellow in the army, Daisy, or do I recognise Sam’s handwriting?’

‘Very funny.’ She turned to her father, who had stopped reading to pass the time of day with the postman. ‘You all right here, Dad, while I run up and read this to Mum? See you tomorrow, Bernie.’

Upstairs Flora was busily preparing sandwich fillings. She was excited that there was a letter from her eldest son, but a little disappointed that it was not addressed to her. ‘What’s he saying?’

Daisy sat down, opened the flimsy envelope, and read it quickly.

Hello, Daze,

Tell Mum sorry I haven’t written, been busy. Rose says as you’re arranging a party for Sally on the 18th. Wish I could be there. Drama college, imagine. Little Sally Brewer. She’ll be too posh for the likes of us when she’s finished. Remember there was an order for men my age to sign up for six months last April? Lads even younger did too, and you bet my words our Phil and Ron’ll be joining them afore long. I like the life, Daisy, and it’s treating me right. Got room to breathe. Don’t listen to them politicians, Daze. Either they don’t know or they don’t want to tell us but there’s going to be a war and women’ll be needed, so think careful about what you’re going to do. Best to choose than wait to be ordered. Rose is fine in Vickers. Shouldn’t think they’ll shift her, but the shop has three employees and happen they’ll say two is enough.

If this gets to you before the party, tell Sally, well, wish her all the best.

Sam

‘It’s nothing really, Mum. He likes the army and he says hello to Sally.’

‘That’s it?’

Daisy nodded. ‘At least he writes to us.’

Flora almost grunted. ‘Daft lad is sweet on Sally, always has been, and she’ll not look at him.’

Daisy was startled. Sam, sweet on her friend Sally? No, Sam was kind to everyone. ‘Don’t be daft, Mum. He’s just as kind to Grace, or to me.’

‘He sees Grace as a wounded bird. Too soft, by half, my Sam. And not a word about where he is or what he’s doing.’

Daisy took some troublesome thoughts down to the shop. If there was a war, and surely Sam was in a good place to know, would the Government decide that a local shop with three employees – even if one was mainly for delivering – was overstaffed? Might an opportunity for her to spread her wings be just round the corner? Scary. And then there was Mum’s remark about Sam and Sally. Sam sweet on Sally? No. Never. If Sam was sweet on anything it was a machine, not a girl. Her big brother had always looked after his twin sisters and their friends.

‘Bernie says enjoy the party. Seems the whole street’s talking about it.’

‘Talking about it is all that has happened, Dad, except for Mum’s baking.’ She frowned. ‘What do you think about moving the tinned beans up to the shelf below the Spam, and the tinned pears below them? Could give a customer an idea for a whole meal.’

‘Good idea. We haven’t shifted many of those pears. I’ll deal with customers.’

What a brain you have, Daisy Petrie. World-shattering idea there. Daisy started work on the shelves beside the door that led to the stairs. War, according to Sam, would bring opportunity. But do I want opportunity at such a price? Thoughts went spinning around in her head as she worked, completely ignoring the musical ping of the doorbell as customers came in. Mr Fischer, an elderly resident and a particular favourite of Daisy, came in to buy his paper. He also bought some tea and, as tin after tin of various teas was opened, the scents of the east obliterated the mundane smell of sardines.

Daisy thought of her sister, Rose, busy at the Vickers munitions factory until seven and so unable to help with party preparations. The boss there obviously had no faith in the ‘there will be no war’ newspaper articles and had, in fact, stepped up production.

Baked beans, Spam, pears followed one another onto her dusted shelves and at last she was finished and free to return to the flat to prepare for the party.

‘I’ve given the front room a bit of a dust, and brought in some extra chairs. Any more turns up and they’ll have to sit on the floor.’ Flora was now arranging her sandwiches on her best plates.