Daisy's Wars

by Meg Henderson

  Looking at the headstone she cringed, as she always did, at the words. ‘Peter, beloved husband of Daisy.’ Words had to be used, she mused, but they were always the same, always so formal and they never said anything meaningful. She had often looked around this tiny place and read almost identical inscriptions with nothing but the names and dates changed, wondering if there wasn’t a way of saying something true about the people lying below. But what words were there to describe Peter? A man who, at a party long ago, had dragged her about the floor forcing her to dance with him, who good-naturedly refused to be refused, she thought with a smile, who presented her with the engagement ring she still wore and, by way of a romantic proposal, asked her please to confirm that she wasn’t a man. She twisted the ring on her finger, remembering how she had closed the box with the ring still inside and pushed it back at him. And when she had given into Mar’s bullying and phoned him to surrender, instead of taking the call he had instantly jumped into that ridiculous two-seater sports car and driven to her side. And just how could any words on his headstone describe the nonsense of Professor Quibbe or the business of the cold accordion player who ended up with an expensive cashmere coat? He had been quite the silliest man she had ever met, and that was saying something, during the war she had met a few. There was more to Peter than that, though, much more. She cleared a space beside the stone and sat down.

  ‘Peter,’ she said quietly, ‘I have something I have to tell you, well, things, actually, and I have to tell you now because I’m going away and I don’t know when I’ll be back, or even if, which is funny really, I fully expected one day to be lying right here beside you.’ She stopped, listening to the breeze rustling through the new foliage on the trees. He had once said to her, ‘Ever wondered why the trees in graveyards are so magnificent? It’s all that natural nourishment,’ and he had chuckled wickedly. ‘Peter!’ she had chided. ‘Do you have to be so graphic?’ ‘I think it’s wonderful,’ he had replied cheerfully. ‘I’ll be more than happy if my old bones can help a tree to bloom, won’t you? A nice, sweeping willow for me, I think.’ What had she said? Ah, yes. ‘In your case it would have to be a monkey puzzle tree!’

  ‘Peter,’ Daisy said, ‘you saved my life. I think you know that, but I want you to know that I know it, too. When you took me on I was a mass of fear, shoulder chips and confusion, I think you were the only one who could see that.’ She looked across the immaculate grass to where Mar and Par lay. ‘Though dear old Mar suspected something,’ she said with a smile. ‘You let me be myself, Peter, you gave me safety and freed me, I know that, and I never did say how grateful I am for that. I would have been a very different person if you hadn’t come along – with a push from Mar, of course. I always tried to be my own person, but I couldn’t have done it without you. No one had ever loved me unconditionally, I always had to earn it in some way, provide a service of some kind, be what they wanted me to be. It took me a while to understand that you just loved me. You gave me happiness and peace, as well as a great deal of laughter and exasperation, it must be said, and my life is empty without all of that, all of you, I suppose. I loved you, too, I hope I said that often enough. I still do, you’ll never leave me, but I think I have to go now, to move on with my life. I’ve met someone, well, re-met someone, the pilot I thought had been killed during the war. Remember? He didn’t die after all. I found him by chance and I’ve decided to take that chance, if he wants me, that is. If it hadn’t been for you I wouldn’t be the kind of woman who could try, and I suppose I’m asking for your blessing.’

  Around her the wind whispered again in the trees and she laughed. ‘I don’t know if that came from a willow or a monkey puzzle, but it’ll do,’ she said. ‘Thank you, Peter, my love,’ and placing a kiss on the headstone she got up and left, and this time she felt calm and optimistic.

  When she got back to the house, she called Edith and asked her to meet her at the airport, and two days later, like the friend she was, Edith was waiting for her.

  ‘Same place?’ she asked.

  Daisy nodded. ‘Same place.’

  When Edith dropped her off outside the farmhouse, Daisy told her not to wait. As the car moved away, she stood outside the house and gathered her confidence. ‘What’s the worst he can do, Daisy?’ she repeated to herself. ‘Tell you to get lost? Go on, take a chance, have some bloody guts, woman.’

  Then the door opened, and as he came down the path he was holding his open arms out to her.

  Acknowledgements

  As usual there are many people to thank, especially Pip Brimson who, as Pip Beck, was a serving WAAF with Bomber Command during WW2. Her story of those years was invaluable able and I thank her for the generosity and patience she showed in dealing with the endless questions I fired at her. Daisy isn’t Pip, but Pip gave me a valuable framework for Daisy’s working life and an understanding of that time. If we don’t give enough honour to the men of WW2, and we don’t, we certainly give considerably less to the women who served with them and, being women, they rarely draw attention to themselves or what they did during those years. They gave up their teens and early twenties and, having mastered every trade from Intelligence Officer through Lorry Driver and Mechanic to Pigeon Handler, they were demobbed at the end of the war and effectively sent back in to Civvy Street to become housewives and mothers. They were the women who gave birth to the Women’s Lib generation and, though there’s still a long way to go, I don’t believe women today would be where they are without that wartime generation’s efforts and influence. Thanks also to Frances Mahonney of the WAAF Association for supplying back editions of the WAAF News, a goldmine for anyone interested in learning more about that time from the women themselves.

  I also have to thank my son, Euan, once again, for his military knowledge, his endless supply of books and videos and his advice on which ones to read and watch! And Marion McMeekin and John Sheen for their knowledge of Newcastle life and history, and the staff of Newcastle Central Library’s Local History Unit, who provided many of their own publications and were always happy to help, no matter how obscure the information requested. Others I’ll never be able to repay for their patience include Peter and Janine Watters of Dalby in the Darling Downs in Queensland, Australia, James W. Irvine of Lerwick in Shetland and everyone else who found themselves being bombarded with questions they couldn’t understand why they were being asked. Oh, and Raymond Murphy, who sat beside me at primary school, purloining erasers, rulers and pencils, on a daily basis and who still thinks he should be paid for being sent off to properly research the snippets of information he passes on to me at various stages. Also, my friend Kath Hickey in Australia. And lastly, a lady who doesn’t even know she provided the ending for the book. Rene Callaghan of Ardross in Australia told an anecdote in the WAAF Association News of May 1997 that I had to have for Daisy. I haven’t been able to trace her, but Rene, wherever you are, I thank you for your wonderful story.

  Sources

  A WAAF in Bomber Command, Pip Beck (Goodall Publications, 1989)

  Buckinghamshire at War, Pip (Beck) Brimson (The Book Castle, 2004)

  There Shall Be Wings, Max Arthur (Coronet Books, 1993)

  Women in Airforce Blue, Squadron Leader Beryl E. Escott (Patrick Stephens, 1989)

  Tyneside Irish, John Sheen (Pen and Sword, 1998)

  Fashions in the Twenties and Thirties, Jane Dorner (Ian Allan, 1973)

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