The room was silent and Daisy knew that Matt was up in the air, fighting the Luftwaffe already, even though he had yet to be sent on a mission. It seemed that this, even more than his marriage to Amelia, was what he was meant for. As Daisy turned her gaze towards Amelia, she could see at a glance that she had recognised this too. Her pale face was full of love and longing, but also of a new and desperate acceptance that Matt would never be fulfilled until he had tasted battle.
‘Son, you make us proud,’ said Pops in a gravel voice. ‘But take care.’
Suddenly, Matt returned to the present. ‘Don’t worry, Pops, I’m not in action yet.’
‘But you will be,’ said Mums softly. ‘Do you know how soon?’
Matt shook his head. ‘I’ve already said more than I should, Mother. But let me assure you we have the finest fliers out there. You should know that no matter what happens, the RAF will run rings around Jerry.’
Daisy saw tears fill Mother’s eyes as she quickly stood up. ‘I think it’s time for lunch, don’t you? Daisy, I’d like your help in the kitchen.’
As Daisy followed her mother out of the room, the conversation turned again to Matt’s training. So she was not surprised when Amelia joined them, eager to find a space where she could hide her emotions knowing the danger that Matt was in.
CHAPTER 36
IT WAS the beginning of June when Daisy stood at her window and saw the first of the Little Ships leave London. Fishing boats, pleasure boats, launches, tugs and yachts, armies of water-borne ants heading towards the open sea.
Pops had explained that Churchill’s plan to rescue the troops in France was imminent. Therefore, everyone who was able had been encouraged to stand on the dock wharfs and wave off the rescuers. Children had been given leave from school. Factory workers, labourers, shop assistants, lorry drivers and just about all of London crowded the dock walls.
‘Are you ready?’ Bobby called from downstairs. ‘We’re waiting.’
‘Coming,’ she called back, grabbing her homemade flag.
Together with the family, Daisy made her way to the factory where all the staff had gathered. She spotted Mrs Hayes at once, perched on an upturned crate clutching her battered old handbag. ’Hello, luv,’ Mrs Hayes greeted. ‘Me legs have swelled up like balloons, so I’m resting on me bum for a bit. ’
Daisy sat beside the tea lady as the many hooters, horns, bells and whistles hailed the outgoing craft.
‘Poor buggers are risking their boats as well as their lives,’ Mrs Hayes said with a tear in her eye. ‘But it’s what everyone supposed to do in wartime. Look after others first instead of number one.’ She heaved a big sigh. ‘Me neighbour’s out there. Fred Kennedy. Old boy of sixty he is, fisherman all his life. Sailing up to Ramsgate to meet with all the other Little Ships. He refused to bear the cross of others’ judgements - that at his age he was of no use to his countrymen. So yesterday he tidied up his house, locked his front door and knocked on mine.’ Mrs Hayes shuddered at the memory. “Goodbye, ducks,” he told me. “Be away for a day or two, I expect.” Just as if he was taking out his boat like he did every morning ten years before.’
Daisy felt sad for her friend who had always seemed so strong, with firm opinions that often set her apart from others. But now she looked a bent and frail old lady, the warrior inside her, gone.
‘Mrs Howard, our teacher, said the British are trapped in a pincer movement,’ Daisy attempted, trying to recapture the spirit of when Mrs Hayes had an answer for almost anything and was glad to give it. ‘What’s a pincer?’
‘A death grip on our blokes, ducks,’ replied Mrs Hayes, without taking her eyes from the river. ‘That’s what it is. Can’t go back ‘cos of Jerry. Can’t go forward ‘cos our warships are too big to get close to shore. The sea’s the only place left to retreat. Die drowning or die with a bullet in your brain. Ain’t much of a choice, is it?’
Daisy shivered. This too, was terrible to dwell on. Yet all the people around had family or friends or knew of a distant relative who at this very minute were struggling to survive those cold and unforgiving beaches at Dunkirk. She looked about her, at the familiar faces of the people who worked in the factory; the women who stood in their turbans and grey overalls and the few men who were left behind, bearing the cross that Mrs Hayes had talked about.
‘Do you think Micky Wolf is in France?’
The tea lady lowered her voice. ‘Not him ducks. He did the proverbial vanishing act soon as his call-up came. Here one day, gone the next. You were away at your gran’s at the time. It was the talk of all the factory. Micky was a coward at heart. But as for our Joe …’ Mrs Hayes lifted an eyebrow. ’Appearances can be deceiving as I once told you. Joe offered his services to the country immediately. Would have taken on Hitler single handedly if given a chance. But of
