‘Off home then?’ she said. ‘Got your torch?’
‘Yes. And my dad’s coming to meet me. He doesn’t like me going home on my own.’
‘Good. I was going to ask Mr Browning to give you a lift. He’s just leaving.’
‘I didn’t realise he was working late.’
‘Stock-taking,’ Mrs Green said.
Thank goodness Dad’s coming, Daisy thought. She didn’t fancy walking home in the dark with the manager, still less sitting beside him in the van. She said goodnight to the supervisor and got her coat, hurried out into the mild spring night.
When she reached the garrison gatehouse she paused, looking up the road. No sign of her father. Should she start walking alone? As she hesitated, a figure loomed out of the darkness.
She gasped, a hand on her chest as she struggled to catch her breath. ‘Oh, it’s you. You scared me.’
Lofty was leaning against his motorcycle which was propped up against the kerb. ‘Sorry, I didn’t mean to frighten you. I was worried about you going home in the dark on your own. Fancy a ride?’ He indicated the bike.
‘On that? No thanks.’
‘You might enjoy it. Thrill a minute, like a fairground ride.’
She was tempted but just at that moment she saw the glimmer of a torch and her father appeared out of the darkness. ‘Here’s my dad. I’d better go.’
‘Some other time then?’ He swung his leg over the bike, kick-started it and turned into the garrison and roared away across the parade ground.
‘Was that bloke bothering you?’ Stan asked.
‘No. It’s all right, Dad.’ She linked her arm in his and they set off towards town, Stan pointing his dimmed torch towards the ground.
‘Been busy, love?’ he asked.
‘Yes, as usual.’ Daisy paused and asked hesitantly, ‘How’s Jimmy?’
‘Not too good to tell the truth. God knows what the lad’s been through. I was all for sending him away again until your mum showed me his back.’ Stan muttered a string of swear words. ’Sorry, love. I don’t often use language but...’
Daisy squeezed his arm. ‘I won’t tell, Mum. I know how you feel though. Still, he’s home safe now.’
‘Let’s hope he stays safe, that’s all. Things aren’t going too well over there.’
Daisy didn’t want to think about ‘over there’ where Bob was, fighting for his country. And here she was, toying with the idea of going out with another man. How could she? Just because Bob hadn’t written. A wave of guilt swept over her and she resolved that the next time Lofty came into the NAAFI she would ignore him.
‘Here we are, love,’ Stan said, opening the back gate and dispelling her thoughts. ‘Nice cup of cocoa and then bed.’
As Daisy followed him into the house, Dora put her knitting down and got up. ‘I’ve got the milk on for your cocoa.’
For once, Daisy’s gaze did not go immediately to the mantelpiece in search of a letter. ‘Thanks, Mum. How’s Jimmy?’
‘He’s fine now. Good food and a long sleep’s done him the world of good. He won’t talk much about what went on. He wants to put it behind him, just glad to be home and happy not to be sent back.’
‘I’m glad. Any news from Sylvia? We ought to let her know Jimmy’s safe.’
‘Nothing.’ Dora gasped. ‘But, oh dear, I almost forgot. There’s a letter for you.’ She pointed to the clock where the corner of an envelope poked out.
A wide smile split Daisy’s face and she grabbed the letter, tearing it open, tears running down her faced. ‘Oh, it’s from Bob. He’s written.’
She sat down at the kitchen table and devoured the single sheet of paper, ignoring the cup of cocoa which Dora placed beside her.
His note, for that was all it was, not a proper letter, said that he was sorry for not writing before. ‘Thing’s pretty hairy here. Can’t tell you much – not allowed,’ he wrote. ‘But I think of you all the time, picturing you back home and doing your bit for the war.’
‘Oh, Mum, He’s all right.’
‘I knew it, love. And look at the date. He wrote it weeks ago. And we know from the news they’re fighting hard, no time for love letters.’
‘I know. I’ve been silly, being cross with him.’
She tucked the letter into her handbag to read again later and drank her lukewarm cocoa. She kissed her parents goodnight and went up to bed, first looking in on Jimmy, who was fast asleep, the blankets all in a tangle. Perhaps he’d been having a nightmare. She straightened the blankets, tucking them round him and, in an unusual gesture for her, stooped to kiss his cheek.
My annoying little brother, she thought with a fond smile.
***
Christopher Jameson stretched out on his bunk and sighed. Trust her dad to come along and spoil things, he thought. He’d been just about to ask her out. He knew she already had a boyfriend. But Bob was overseas and who knew when, if ever, he’d be back. It was wrong to think that way, he knew, but he couldn’t stop thinking about her.
He’d noticed her straight away the first time he’d seen her telling Taffy Jones off for his cheek – but in a nice way. All the lads liked her and treated her with respect. He had started going in to the NAAFI more often now, always hoping for a chance to see the girl with the laughing brown eyes, not to talk to her but just to sit and watch as she deftly poured tea and dished up plates of egg and bacon. He liked to sit there with his cup of tea watching her dashing around, so quick and efficient, not slapdash like Lily.
Until now, he’d preferred to stay in his billet reading up on motorbikes, or tinkering with his Matchless motorcycle. He’d always loved motor bikes and saved up to buy a BSA Bantam, the only one he could afford. He’d joined the Royal Corps of Signals solely for the chance to become a despatch rider. His application had been granted and he had been promoted to Corporal. It set him apart from the other lads who were Royal Artillery and teased him about his obsession with bikes, but he didn’t care. He’d never been one for going down the pub and getting drunk like some of them. Not that there was much chance of that these days. Riding the bike or working on keeping it in tiptop condition was like heaven to him. That was, until he met Daisy, giving his mates more reason to tease. They were always on at him to ask her out.
As he lay on his bunk brooding and wondering if he dare ask her, three of the lads burst into the billet and threw themselves down on their bunks.
‘Still mooning over the fair Daisy?’ Jim asked.
Christopher ignored him.
‘Go on, Lofty, you know you like her,’ Jim said.
‘She’s got a boy friend.’
His friend laughed. ‘Out of sight, mate...’
‘She’s not the sort to cheat on him,’ Christopher snapped. He picked up one of his bike magazines and tried to concentrate on it, pushing all thoughts of Daisy Bishop out of his mind.
After a while the lads gave up and talked among themselves, reliving the fun they’d had on their evening off duty after a day’s anti-aircraft training. All too soon, it would be morning and the training would start once more.
Chapter Eight
Over in France, everything seemed to have come to a halt. No one seemed to know what was happening, even the officers. There had been some fighting near the Belgian border and then Bob’s unit fell back. They were now camped out in a deserted village with an unpronounceable name awaiting further orders.
Bob and his mate Tom had been sent out by their sergeant to forage for food, their rations having almost run out. On their long march they ate whatever they could scrounge - produce from farms, food from deserted shops.
Now, there was little to find, another troop had obviously been through here before them, although they once found a couple of hams hanging in a cellar. They’d eaten well that night.
They turned down a narrow lane on the outskirts of the village and Tom stared around him. ‘Nothing here, mate. Everyone’s gone – probably taken everything with them.’
‘Let’s take
one more look,’ Bob said opening a gate. They found themselves in a dusty yard where a few scrawny looking chickens scratched in the dirt. It was quiet, only the wind stirring in the trees along the lane.
‘These’ll do,’ Bob said, creeping up and diving on one of the hens. He missed, and it scuttled off with a squawk and flurry of feathers.
‘Damn and blast,’ he muttered, while Tom looked on laughing.
He stood up, dusting the knees of his trousers and was about to swear again when he caught sight of a young woman peeping round the edge of a barn door.
‘S’il vous plait. Non. Les poulets,’ she said, a sob in her voice.
‘We thought there was no one here.’ Bob walked towards her, holding out a placating hand. ‘I’m not going to hurt you. Do you speak English?’
She shook her head. ‘A little only.’ She pointed to the chickens. ‘Not kill. We need eggs.’
‘Oh, sorry,’ Bob muttered.
Tom pushed him aside. ‘We need eggs too. Soldiers hungry.’
‘Leave her alone,’ Bob said, turning to the girl. ‘Can we buy some from you?’
‘I will ask Maman.’
‘We should just take them,’ Tom protested.
‘That’s OK if the owners have gone. But we can’t just steal from them. We’re not savages.’
The girl ran across the yard towards the house calling for her mother and the two men followed. An older woman came to the door, letting loose a torrent of words and waving her hands at them.
‘Non, Maman. English, not German.’ The girl took her mother’s arm and beckoned the men into the house. ‘She is afraid,’ she said. ‘So many strangers in our land.’
‘We are here to help you against the Germans,’ Bob said. ‘We will be moving on tomorrow.’
‘But first you need food.’ She turned to her mother and spoke rapidly, all the while opening cupboard doors and filling a basket – not just eggs, but a large piece of cheese, freshly-baked bread, and onions. She placed the basket on the table and smiled at their expressions of surprise.
‘This is too much,’ Bob said, ‘but thank you.’ He felt in his pocket for some money.
But she shook her head. ‘No need money, you keep,’ she said.
‘You shouldn’t have offered it,’ Tom said, picking up the basket and turning towards the door.
Bob hung back and put a few coins on the table. ‘We must pay,’ he said, then, blushing a little, he asked, ‘What is your name?’
‘Francoise – Francoise Lebrun.’
He noticed she was blushing too but, greatly daring, he took her hand and said, ‘I’m Bob Gardner. Very pleased to meet you, Francoise.’ He turned to her mother. ‘And you, Madame Lebrun. I hope we meet again.’
‘I too,’ she whispered.
Outside, Tom leaned on a wall, smoking. He grinned. ‘Made a conquest there, mate. And you know what these French lassies are like.’
‘She struck me as a nice girl - not like in those places in Cherbourg.’
Tom chuckled. ‘What would you know? You steered clear back then – too busy writing love letters to that girl back home.’
Bob ignored him and started walking back to the village hall.
***
Bob moved closer to the window to catch the last of the light. He chewed the end of his pencil and peered at what he had already written. – ‘My dearest Daisy...’ He hadn’t written for weeks but now that he had the chance he just couldn’t think what to say. A picture of that petite French lass with the golden hair and lovely blue eyes would keep intruding on his thoughts, despite his efforts to push them away.
They had received orders to move up towards the river and he and the remnants of his unit were holed up in a farmhouse, not far from the Belgian border. The occupants had fled. ‘They must have thought we were Krauts,’ Tom said as they explored the deserted building.
‘Well, they’re not far behind,’ Bob said. But so far there had been no sign of the enemy.
Tom was sure they had been held back on the far side of the river. The British blew up the bridge and Bob’s unit had been ordered to hold steady for further orders. Two days later those orders still hadn’t come. But that’s how it had been since they’d landed. No one seemed to know what was happening; their officers had disappeared and here they were, waiting for orders that never came. It had been like this for weeks, two steps forward and one back. The rumour was that they were pulling out altogether, but their sergeant told them not to listen to rumours.
In this period of unaccustomed quiet, Bob decided that he must write to Daisy, although there was little chance that she’d ever get the letter. Before he could continue with it, a rattle of gunfire followed by the crump of shells made him leap up, dropping his pencil and paper, the letter forgotten.
Tom peered through the broken window. ‘I think we should get out of here,’ he said, grabbing Bob’s arm.
Sergeant Williams shouted at them to get their kit together and Bob’s letter was forgotten.
A week later they were back in the village where Bob had met the Lebruns – only the sergeant and five of them left. The place had been bombed and smoke still drifted up from the ruins. Bob thought about Francoise and her mother. Were they safe? She had never been far from his thoughts since that first brief encounter.
The church was still standing and Sergeant Williams pushed open the heavy oak door. ‘Come on men. This’ll do for tonight. We’ll move on in the morning.’
In the shaft of light from the open door they saw a group of villagers huddled in the front pews, the priest kneeling at the altar. Anxious faces turned towards them and the priest stood.
‘Carry on,’ Sergeant Williams said. ‘We won’t disturb you. Just need a place to rest.’
‘You are welcome, my sons. Please, sit.’
Bob and his mates shuffled off their packs, dropped their rifles and sank wearily into the pews.
The priest completed his prayers and came up the aisle to speak to Sergeant Williams. Bob listened to the murmur of their voices but couldn’t make out what was being said. Exhaustion claimed him and he sank into a deep sleep.
He was woken suddenly by someone shaking his arm. ‘Bob, Bob. Is it really you?’
He looked up into the face of Francoise Lebrun and for a moment he thought he must be dreaming. He struggled to sit up and became aware of his grinning mates and the priest’s disapproving frown. He ignored them and clasped the girl’s hand. ‘Are you all right? What happened? Is your mother OK?’
She shook her head and put a finger to his lips. ‘Speak slowly so I understand. OK – I know that word. Yes, we are OK but the farm is gone, the house bombed.’
‘Not our people?’
‘Germans.’ She almost spat the word.
Bob turned to Sergeant Williams. ‘Did you hear that Sarge?’
‘The priest told me. Well, lads, looks like we’d better not hang around here. We need to go north, try and meet up with our lot.’
Amid groans and protests, the men got to their feet, shrugging on their packs. Another long night of marching lay ahead.
‘What about the villagers, Sarge?’ Bob hated leaving Francoise and her mother.
‘Nothing we can do, son. If we had transport, we could take them. But most of them are old, can’t expect them to march with us. Besides, who knows where we’ll end up?’
‘S’pose you’re right, Sarge.’ Bob turned to Francoise, who was anxiously watching their exchange. He took her hand. ‘We have to leave. But I’ll come back for you - I promise.’
She shook her head. ‘No, we will not be here. My mother and I will try to get to the village where my aunt lives. It is near Amiens.’ She thrust a small piece of paper at him. ‘This is her address. Maybe – when the war is over...?’
‘Come on, lads. Get fell in.’ Sergeant Williams bawled.
The men stumbled out of the church and lined up in the street. Francoise stood in the doorway. She gave a tearful smile and raised a hand in farewell.
When they reached the edge of the village Bob looked back. She was still standing there.
‘Forget her, mate.’ Tom’s voice penetrated Bob’s misery. ‘No future in it. She’s just another pretty girl.’
Bob sighed. ‘You’re right, Tom. I’m being daft. It’s just – the thought of her – all of them – left there and the Krauts marching in any day.’
‘Well, we can’t do anything about it. I don’t care what Sarge says about rumours, I reckon we’ll be on our way home soon. And you’ve got your Daisy waiting for you, haven’t you?’
Bob didn’t answer. Since meeting the French girl he had hardly given Daisy a thought and Tom’s words started a little niggle of guilt in his head.
They trudged on through the night, ears alert for the rumble of tanks and gunfire behind them. As dawn broke, they saw ahead of them streams of people walking, some pushing carts and prams, some bowed down under heavy bundles.
‘My God, look at that. Where are they all going?’ Tom said.
‘They probably don’t even know, just want to get away,’ Bob replied.
‘I don’t believe it. Looks like they’ve just given up. I thought we were falling back to another defensive position,’ one of the other men said.
‘No lad,’ Sergeant Williams said. ‘I’m pretty sure we’re retreating. God knows what happens when we get to the coast.’
It was the first time Bob had heard the sergeant sound so tired and defeated. Usually he was gungho, jollying them along. Now, Bob began to realise their true position.
He looked up at the sound of a motorcycle coming towards them. The despatch rider skidded to a halt and hailed them. ‘There’s transport up ahead. Taking you to Dunkirk on the coast.’
The men sent up a faint cheer and marched on with more vigour in their flagging footsteps, until, a few miles on, they spotted a column of smoke up ahead. The lorry they hoped would take them on to Dunkirk was completely gutted. There was no time to bewail the fact that they had to keep on walking as a scream and whistle from overhead had them diving into the roadside ditch. Machine gun bullets kicked up the dust as the Stukas dived over them and headed off into the distance, only to wheel round and come back at them.
Daisy's War Page 6