by Carol Rivers
Daisy stumbled, expecting another instruction. She mustn’t faint away. Reaching out for the wall to steady herself, she thought of Mother and Aunt Betty and Bobby and all the things they had been through together. There must be something she could do …
‘Daisy! Daisy!’
Someone had called her name. Not Aunt Betty or Mother. But someone so familiar that Daisy could hardly believe her ears. It was Pops’s voice.
Daisy opened her mouth and screamed. She screamed and screamed again, waving her hands, trying to warn Pops, to somehow avert the flight of that bullet. She didn’t care for herself. But Mr Calder was mad …
‘Go away, Pops,’ she yelled at the top of her voice. ‘Stay away!’ Her heart turned over in waves of dread. Was Mr Calder about to shoot her or would he shoot Pops? How long before the bullet entered her body? Or worse, much worse, followed a path towards Pops?
Suddenly a blackness swallowed her.
She had been there before and recognized the landscape. It was fear. She understood now, that fear never left you. The war, the death and destruction, the grey, ruined landscape of the blitz; these were all part of her now. But there was another part too, allowing in the bright and precious light that Daisy recognised as love.
‘Daisy, it’s me,’ said Pops, gathering her in his arms. ‘I’ve got you.’
‘Did he shoot us?’ she mumbled, clinging to the strong, familiar shoulders. She couldn’t feel any pain. Did a bullet go right through you or lodge somewhere inside before it killed you? Pops’s face became clearer now; arctic blue eyes and tussle of wavy hair. He was smiling and said reassuringly, ‘You’re safe, quite safe.’
Mr Calder hadn’t pulled the trigger? She was still alive and so was Pops! But where was Mr Calder?
Suddenly there was a flash of lightening and a roar of thunder. She felt Pops shudder and drag her against the wall, until the roar of the explosion subsided. Then all at once Mother and Aunt Betty and Bobby were there, embracing her and Pops.
‘There must have been another bomb,’ said Mother in a shaken voice, ‘under the debris of the demolished house.’ The air was thick with the smell of cordite and burning and clouds of dust and vaporous fumes revolved around them.
‘Thank God, you’re both safe,’ Aunt Betty said with tears in her eyes.
‘What happened?’ asked Bobby in confusion.
’It was Mr C … Calder,’ Daisy stammered. ‘He wanted me to fetch Aunt Betty. He had a gun and said he would shoot us all if I didn’t do what he said. But then Pops came and saved me. And Mr Calder must have run into the garden and - ’ Daisy burst into tears.
Mother held her close. ‘There’s nothing we can do for him now.’
‘I didn’t want that,’ Daisy protested. ‘I didn’t want him to be killed.‘
‘You weren’t to blame,’ Pops said gently. ‘No one was.’
‘It’s me who is to blame,’ Aunt Betty assured her. ‘I made a terrible mistake, Daisy. Sometimes adults can be reckless. I never guessed at the hurt and sadness such an ill-advised friendship might bring. Your mother and father have been very understanding. Nicky has taken compassionate leave so that we can talk things over before I speak to Uncle Ed.’
Daisy gasped a breath. Her parents knew?
‘Uncle Ed and I have to work things out,’ Aunt Betty whispered. ‘I’ve never stopped loving him and I hope he’ll forgive me.’
Daisy slid her arms around her aunt. ‘I’m sure he will,’ she murmured, choking back her tears. ‘He loves you too.’
Daisy saw the anguish in her aunt’s face and in her parents’ eyes. She guessed there would be more heartache ahead. The war had threatened everyone’s happiness. Yet the conflict had brought this family together. What was more, they loved each other for better or worse, in peace or in wartime, just like a family should.
Epilogue
4 months later
It was a mild, sun-swept morning in May, when Daisy sat with Bobby in the rear of the car as Pops drove them through the East End. His long-awaited leave had finally arrived. Uncle Ed had accompanied him and was, at this very moment, with Aunt Betty.
Today’s visit to the island had come at last. Daisy found it almost impossible to believe that day had finally arrived. After the terrible event of Mr Calder’s accident, the war had become very personal. His death had signalled the end of her’s and Bobby’s carefree days playing in Aunt Betty’s garden. The cart and rope had been abandoned, as if somehow they were attached to that fateful day. The blitz had continued until last week when Germany had turned its attention on Russia. Daisy knew that like every other family in Britain, they were trying to recover and repair their lives.
Before they had left Aunt Betty’s, Mother warned them to expect the worst. Their home might be broken and battered, or like many other buildings, a mountain of smouldering bricks and masonry. Yet returning home was their hopeful dream, a lifeline from their past that they all needed to keep alive.
Daisy glanced at Bobby. Like her, he wore a look of anxious expectation as he stared out from the window. To celebrate the occasion they were dressed in their best clothes; a new skirt for her that Mother had made on Aunt Betty’s sewing machine, a pressed white shirt and tie for Bobby. This visit was special. A visit to be remembered. That is, if they were lucky. If they still had a home to return to.
Pops drove slowly through the blitzed streets, flanked by blackened, deserted buildings. The Isle of Dogs bore its untold scars like old soldiers’ medals, a maze of boarded windows, fire singed bricks and collapsed roofs. Worst of all, were the gaps that spoke of the missing families, friends and neighbours.
An eerie silence descended as Pops turned the car into Poplar Park Row. Daisy took a breath. Not one house, it seemed, had escaped the cruel ravages of war.
Pops brought the car to a halt. Daisy climbed out and stood with Bobby under the bare, black branches of the plane trees. Every house in the row had been victim to the Luftwaffe’s attacks.
‘Oh, Nicky,’ gasped Mother, as she stepped onto the splintered pavement. ’Look at what this terrible war has done!’
Daisy watched her father’s arm slip comfortingly around her mother’s waist. ‘Chin up, Flo. Look! Our home is still standing, which is more than can be said for many in this area.’
They all paused at the open gate, propped to one side on its creaking hinges.
‘Is it safe to go inside?’ Mother asked tentatively as they stared at the battle-scarred building.
‘Nothing ventured, nothing gained,’ Pops replied. ‘But let’s go carefully.’
Mother nodded. ‘But I’m afraid of what we might find.’
‘There’s nothing we can’t achieve together, Flo,’ Pops urged. ‘We’ll repair or re-build after the war is over.’
Daisy listened to her parents’ conversation and marvelled at their courage. They were country folk, but had claimed a small piece of the city as their own and refused to abandon it.
‘Look,’ shouted Bobby, springing into the garden. ‘There’s my old football!’ He leapt towards the side of the house and the apple tree where the swing hung limply from its branches.
It was no time at all before Bobby was kicking the ball and Daisy was swinging as high as she possibly could. How long was it since she had last occupied the little wooden seat? She swung higher and higher, straining to see the crane tops and tall chimneys of the factories. Would she ever see Mrs Hayes again and talk in whispers about Elsie Shiner and Joe Rawlings and the wicked Micky Wolf?
Daisy breathed in the tarry, salty air that was so familiar. The course of her life in wartime had taken her from the island, but her friendships were not forgotten. Fond memories of Cawdor School and playing on the waste ground and Iris and Sidney and Gary and Grace burned as vividly as ever.
Daisy slipped from the swing, planting her feet firmly on the ground. The football flew past her and Bobby ran up, his cheeks flushed. ‘You’re too big for that swing now.’
‘I don’t car
e,’ Daisy replied. ‘It still works.’
‘It’s good to be home,’ he said, idling around her.
’When we left Wattcombe I thought we’d never get used to Poplar Park Row,’ she admitted. ‘I missed the village. Then I slowly forgot. Not forgot exactly, but we made friends here. ‘Do you ever think of Grace?’ Daisy knew it was the kind of intimate question she wouldn’t have asked once. But somehow it was easier now.
‘I s’pose I do,’ he admitted.
‘I miss Sammy too. He was brave,’ she faltered. ‘He saved my life on the hospital roof.’
Bobby studied her for a while. ‘I wonder what happened to Peter Brady?’
‘Poor Tommy didn’t deserve a cruel brother like that.’
Bobby shuffled his feet, his eyes fixed on the house. ‘Do you think we’ll ever get our factory back?’
‘I hope so. I’d like to see Mrs Hayes again.’
Bobby frowned. ‘I suppose it all depends on Bletchley.’
Daisy frowned. ’What’s Bletchley?’
Bobby’s blue eyes flickered. ‘I shouldn’t have said that. And it’s not a what. It’s a where.’
‘So,’ Daisy persisted, puzzled, ’where’s Bletchley?’
‘I overheard Pops speaking to Mother,’ Bobby replied in a whisper. ‘Bletchley is a place near Milton Keynes. I looked it up on the map. And it’s all very hush hush. My guess is that the government send boffins like Uncle Ed and Pops to work there. To plan out Britain’s defence for the rest of the war.’
‘What’s a boffin?’
‘Someone who knows as much as an encyclopaedia.’ He pointed a stern finger towards her. ‘You mustn’t breathe a word. Bletchley’s a secret.’
‘I’m good at keeping secrets.’
‘You’d better be.’
Daisy smiled. Bobby had taken her into his confidence and that was something she valued. ’I’ll play football with you if you like?’ She jumped from the swing.
‘We’ll line up some bricks from the chimney to make a goal.’
Daisy considered the suggestion. ‘You can do all the lifting. You’re stronger than me. I’m only a girl.’
Bobby’s blue eyes danced. ‘I’m just surprised you’ve remembered for once.’
Daisy watched with interest as her brother constructed the goal. This was what girls did; they stood on the sidelines, letting boys take the lead. Or so they thought.
‘Daisy? Look what I’ve found.’ Mother waved from the front door. In her hand she held an envelope.
Daisy ran up. ‘What is it?’
‘This letter’s addressed to you.’
Daisy studied the untidy, looped scrawl which covered the best part of the crumpled envelope. ‘It’s from Sally,’ she gasped. ‘I recognise her handwriting!’
Mother smiled. ‘The letter was trapped under the matt. It must have been here some while. ’
Daisy slid her finger along the sealed edge and drew out the single sheet. Sally had written her new address. ‘Is Somerset far away?’ she asked.
‘Too far to walk,’ replied Mother.
Daisy returned to the swing, sat down and savoured the brief note. “Dear Daisy, this is to let you know I got a bilit with an old gel and a dog. I take it for walks. There are 2 other girls here. Not my cup of tea. I want to come home. It’s nearly Christmas and all. Please write qwick. Love Sally. ps. Mum wrote to me that all the Bradys got nicked. Good ridance I say. Thought youd be pleased. pps I got my monthlys, have you?”
Daisy swept a tear from her eye.
‘What’s that?’ Bobby called.
‘It’s a letter from Sally. She’s in Somerset.’
He shrugged and picked up the ball. ‘Come on, let’s have a kick-about.’
Daisy stuffed the letter in her skirt pocket. It was funny how everything got sorted in the end. She would write to Sally this evening. Though she wasn’t quite as grown up as Sally and hadn’t had her dreaded monthlies yet, she did have Bobby’s secret; a secret that was better than any secret she had ever kept before.
‘You stand there,’ her brother ordered. ‘I won’t kick the ball too hard. But remember, you must stop a goal. That’s what being goalie is all about.’
Daisy didn’t argue, it was easier to let Bobby have his way. She was almost twelve and though she had missed a great deal of schooling, she had learned a good many lessons. The best, was gratitude. Gratitude for Amelia and Matt who had just brought a baby daughter into the world. For Aunt Betty and Uncle Ed who still loved each other in spite of everything. For Grandma and Aunt Pat, now enjoying their new home and Aunt Minnie and Uncle Leo and Will who had returned safely to the studio.
And lastly, she was grateful for today. For Mother and Pops and Bobby. It was true the war wasn’t over. But the Purbrights were united and strong and there was a glimmer - just a glimmer - that their happy lives might be resumed once again, at Poplar Park Row.
THE END
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Also by Carol Rivers
Also by Carol Rivers
Bestselling Lizzie Flowers series
BOOK ONE LIZZIE OF LANGLEY STREET
BOOK TWO THE FIGHT FOR LIZZIE FLOWERS
BOOK THREE LIZZIE FLOWERS AND THE FAMILY FIRM
Seasonal Christmas themed books
CHRISTMAS CHILD
CHRISTMAS TO COME
TOGETHER FOR CHRISTMAS
A WARTIME CHRISTMAS
IN THE BLEAK MIDWINTER
MOLLY'S CHRISTMAS ORPHANS
LILY'S CHRISTMAS WORKHOUSE BABY (Short story)
Page-turning wartime books
GIRL WITH SECRETS
EAST END ANGEL
TOGETHER FOR CHRISTMAS
A WARTIME CHRISTMAS
Gritty East End family dramas
A PROMISE BETWEEN FRIENDS
A SISTER'S SHAME
EAST END JUBILEE
COCKNEY ORPHAN
LILY OF LOVE LANE
EVE OF THE ISLE
Excerpt of Christmas Child
Chapter 1
Part One
Poplar 1894
Thirteen-year-old Henrietta O’Reilly scuffed aside a lock of curling copper-coloured hair that fell stubbornly over her brown eyes. The icy water in the big china basin where she toiled, was freezing; her fingers were numb to the bone. Yet, after a hard morning’s laundering, there was still so much to do.
‘A labour of love,’ so Sister Patrick regularly assured her. ‘You’ll be fitting those curling tresses of yours into a halo before long.’
The thought of a halo appealed to Ettie, as she was know by the nuns. All the saints looked radiant in the pictures hanging on the convent walls. Their holy images with auras of gold inspired her. But it was hard to conjure a smile in the ancient orphanage laundry. Draughts as strong as storms rushed in from the broken windows. The mucky steam dampened her clothes. The air smelled strongly of soap and starch, and made her eyes sting.
Not that she minded, for having spent all her life in the care of the Sisters of Clemency, Ettie considered the orphanage her home. Situated in the hamlet of Poplar, East London, it was rare that she ever ventured beyond the high stone walls of the convent.
Sister Patrick was her favourite nun and though she had lived many years in England, she still spoke with her native Irish accent. It was Sister Patrick who, on her way to chapel on Christmas Day fourteen years ago had discovered the dying Colleen O’Reilly.
‘Sure, t’was a heartbreaking sight,’ Sister Patrick had related many times. �
��The ice was hanging sharp as knives from the eaves of the laundry. The snow was banked knee-high. I couldn’t believe me eyes when I saw a tiny figure, fallen against the laundry wall. And there you were, safe in the wee girl’s arms, a tiny speck of life. With the last of her strength, your mother was keeping you warm against her breast. Wrapped only in filthy rags, she was in no fit state to help herself let alone her baby.’
’Where is she now?’ Ettie had asked when she was small.
‘The good Lord called her to be his angel.’
‘Is she an angel now?’
’She’s a Dublin angel for sure,’ Sister Patrick assured her. ‘Colleen O’Reilly, Jesus rest her soul, was from the land of shamrocks just like me. She was born in a road I know well meself called Henrietta Street and she named you after it. Though saints preserve us, we all got lazy and know you as our darlin’ Ettie.’
Ettie never tired of listening to Sister Patrick’s explanations of her heritage. It gave her great comfort to know that Sister Patrick and her mother were so closely connected and that Dublin was the city of her mother’s birth. ‘What did she look like, Sister Patrick? Was she pretty?’
‘Ah, as pretty as a picture she was, just like yourself. A replica. Hair and eyes the colour of God’s own soil. And her countenance, well, it might have lit up the whole convent if she’d lived.’
‘And she really did love me?’
At this, Sister Patrick would look astonished. ‘Jesus, Mary and Joseph, child, why wouldn’t she? You were her very own miracle.’
’Will I see her again?’ Ettie persisted, having studied the bible and her catechism sufficiently to know that angels appeared on earth with great frequency.