‘Sally, that’s awful,’ protested Daisy with a shudder. ‘Anyway, chickens don’t run about if they have no head. I used to live on a farm, so I know.’
Daisy had no intention of falling into the trap of discussing the war; she heard too much of it at home. But Sally was insistent.
‘What would you do if a German parachutist landed in your back garden?’ Sally demanded. ‘Me dad’s got a gun hidden under the bed. And he’s gonna shoot the first German he sees right between the eyes.’
Daisy turned on her friend with a gasp. ‘A gun?’
‘Would you rather be killed?’
‘No, of course not. But the German might not have a gun or anything. Not if he’s just jumped out of an aeroplane. He might even be friendly.’
‘Why would he be friendly?’ Sally asked as they left the cloakroom. ‘The Germans are our enemies, right? Me dad says everyone should have a gun in the house to defend their family with. They should be government issue really. Dad lost two fingers and four of his toes in the trenches. His hand and foot nearly dropped off from gangrene. He says he’s not going to give the bloody enemy any more body parts. Not likely.’
Daisy wondered if Mr Watson ever overbalanced with an almost toeless foot? Not that it would be less or more painful than being shot in the calf, as Pops had been. However, Pops rarely talked about his “gammy leg”. Everyone in the family knew he was reluctant to discuss his service in the Great War. Which was the opposite it seemed, to Mr Watson who frequently revealed the details to Sally who word for word, repeated the gruesome details.
Once outside in the playground, Daisy and Sally made their way to the corner set aside for playing marbles. But long before they got there, Daisy stopped still, unable to believe her eyes. Bobby was crouching on the ground, shielding his head with his arm. Above him towered Peter Brady. The first kick found Bobby’s ribs and he cried out in pain. The second blow went into Bobby’s exposed shin.
Daisy watched in horror as the assault continued. Where was the duty teacher? The playground seemed unattended. Only the children were present, gathering in groups around the spectacle of a smaller boy being bullied by a much larger one.
Bobby tried his best to crawl away, like a beaten dog, attempting to dodge the wicked boot that tormented it. Daisy felt a stab of revulsion. How could this possibly happen in broad daylight with everyone watching and doing nothing? It seemed to her that some of the children were even enjoying it.
Suddenly there was a high-pitched, searing scream. Daisy gulped. The sound appeared to be coming from her. She knew it was a frightful noise, yet she couldn’t stop making it.
All the faces turned towards her as she flew like the wind across the playground. It was as if her feet weren’t touching the ground. She didn’t care how she looked. The louder and uglier the better. She only cared about Bobby. Nor did she know what she was about to do. Her fingers tingled. Her hands stretched out, waving and clawing.
Before Peter Brady could move, she launched herself on him. Her nails met the unguarded skin of his face and and they fell to the ground.
CHAPTER 7
‘DAISY, what have you to say for yourself?’
Miss Bailey’s office stood in the corridor three doors before the First Aid Room. Daisy could hear the faint echo of Peter Brady’s cries as Mrs Potter, the caretaker’s wife, applied tincture of iodine to the raw scratches on his face. Daisy knew of course that Peter’s protests were exaggerated. His act was for the benefit of the headmistress.
‘Peter claims that you assaulted him without reason. Your brother, whilst being attended by Mrs Potter, asserts you were not involved. Now which of these stories am I to believe?’
Daisy kept her eyes down. She knew that her offence carried with it some kind of punishment. On the other hand, if she didn’t protest Bobby’s innocence and explain why she had flown at Peter Brady in a rage, how would the truth come to light?
The last thing she remembered was clinging to Peter Brady with some sort of miracle strength. Her nails had done their work without any thought on her part at all. When he’d bashed her on the mouth, she’d spat at him and made him blink so fiercely she’d managed to get in another blow, knocking him off balance. He’d soon recovered and was about to deliver a clenched fist when Bobby appeared. Dirt streaked her brother’s face and muddied his hair. But with arms around Peter’s neck, Bobby had strangled and jostled until Peter’s face had reddened, deepening the scratches on his cheeks to crimson.
At that moment the duty teacher had returned and the boys pulled apart. Daisy was left flattened, the inelegant subject of the entire school’s gaze.
Miss Bailey sat ramrod-straight under her woollen twin set. ‘Is there really nothing you’d like to say for yourself?
Daisy ached to say so much but how could she? Both hers and Bobby’s punishments, detentions or the cane, or inconceivably both, simply could not be avoided.
The headmistress took a thin sheet of paper from her drawer. ‘In that case, I shall write to your parents,’ she decided. ‘They will be extremely disappointed in you and your brother. A disagreement is one thing, but physical violence on another pupil will not be tolerated. I hope for your sake that Peter’s injuries are not serious enough to warrant a doctor. Mrs Potter is doing her best to repair the damage.’
Daisy was afraid to look up in case Miss Bailey read her angry thoughts. The
