What would it be like to go to college, to learn new things every day, to earn a certificate with your name and special letters after it, which would show the world that you were very good at something?
I want to do more with my life than weighing tea leaves and lentils, but what?
Daisy looked at herself in the spotless mirrored art deco panel on the locked cupboard that held patent medicines. She frowned at her image. Oh, to look like Sally, tall, slender, with glorious eyes and blue-black hair, or even her own twin sister, Rose, who was as tall and slim as Sally but had the Petrie family’s corn-coloured hair, which reached almost down to her waist and which she usually fashioned into a long pigtail. Daisy could see nothing exciting in her own short dark hair, her beautifully shaped eyes or her compact athletic body. She did not see the kindness in those green eyes or the willingness to see the best in people that shone from them.
I’m stuck here because Mum needs someone to help out in the shop when she’s busy upstairs. Simple as that.
Four years. Four years, five and a half days every week. Rose had worked in the shop on odd Saturdays and sometimes during school holidays, but none of the three boys had ever been behind the counter. Sam, the eldest, had driven the van on deliveries and maintained the engine, a skill he had passed on to his sisters. They had learned how to drive while still in primary school and both girls could strip an engine almost as well as Sam by the time they were fifteen.
Neighbours and friends had often said to Sam, ‘You’ll be taking over from your dad, a big lad like you,’ but Sam had made it clear that he had no wish to continue in his father’s footsteps. He had joined the army as soon as he could. Ron, Phil and Rose had followed one another into local factories as soon as each left school, but Daisy had been given no choice.
‘You’re finer made than Rose, Daisy, pet. Working here in the shop you won’t never get wet or cold in the winter. Shut the door at six o’clock and you’re home.’
And bored stiff. Daisy could think it but could never say it.
Years before, her mother had got it into her head that Daisy was delicate – possibly because Daisy was not as tall as her sister and brothers, though certainly not because she had suffered more than her share of childhood illnesses. The Petrie children, well-fed, well-clothed and well loved, had sailed through childhood with the minimum of trouble. But nothing that anyone, including the local district nurse, said could make the over-anxious Mrs Petrie change her mind. And so ‘delicate’ Daisy stayed at home and dreamed of a different life. What it might be, she had not yet discovered.
She stepped behind the counter where her father’s pride and joy, the beautiful old till from the National Cash Register Company from far-away Ohio, had stood for as long as she could remember, and looked along its length. She spotted a tiny pool of oil on the usually spotless surface. She sniffed it. Sardines? How had oil from a tin of sardines got on the counter? She took a clean cloth from a bucket hidden under the counter and mopped up the oil, noting that the fishy smell still hung in the air. Opening the door to let in fresh air would take care of that.
‘Well, I timed that perfect.’ Her father had arrived on the doorstep just as she opened the door. He looked questioningly at the cloth still in her hand.
‘Sardine oil on the counter.’
‘Sorry, love, I opened a tin for next door’s cat. Like to encourage him to visit, very discouraging to any little mouse who happened to pass by. Anything happen while I was gone?’
‘Just the usual. Steady stream first thing and then three of the usual complainers complaining one after the other. Mrs Richardson made a fuss because she was last in line and had to wait, Miss Shoesmith complained about the price of bacon. Miss Partridge asked why we never had the width of knicker elastic she needed, and I bit my tongue and didn’t remind her that this isn’t a haberdashers. Even the vicar said with sugar already as scarce as it is what shall we do if there’s a war and rationing. A usual Friday morning.’ She looked at him more closely. ‘You look a bit tired, Dad. Why don’t you sit down and I’ll run upstairs and make us a cuppa?’
‘Good girl, Daisy. I am a bit worn. Afraid I don’t handle heavy sacks the way I used to, so I’ve left supplies in the van till the lads get home. And next time Mr Tiverton comes in tell ’im there isn’t going to be a war. I fought in the war to end all wars.’
‘Yes, Dad, and that’s why they’re reopening the old fever hospitals, like the Joyce Green – and not for plague victims.’
‘They’ve all got it wrong, pet. Besides, the King, God bless him, is family.’
‘That’ll make a difference, I don’t think,’ whispered Daisy as she hurried up the narrow carpeted stairs to the crowded flat in which the family lived. Her mother was in the comfortable, cosy kitchen and the smell of baking apples filled the air.
‘Time for a cuppa, Daisy, love? Did I hear yer dad? He’s early back from the wholesaler.’ She moved the always-filled kettle over on the stove to an already hot plate.
‘Apple turnovers for the party, Mum?’
Flora Petrie, as round as her apple turnovers, smiled. ‘I might be able to spare one for a hard-working shop assistant.’
Less than ten minutes later Daisy was sitting on the bottom stair drinking her tea and reading the newspaper. Her father drank his propped up behind the counter ready to deal with any customer.
Daisy read the papers cover to cover as often as she could in order to keep up with everything that was happening, not only in their home town of Dartford but in the wider world. Newspapers and the wireless kept the family abreast of all the rumours that were flying around.
‘Grand baker, your mum,’ commented Fred when Daisy joined him.
‘Is that a Times you’ve got there, Dad? Don’t get apple on it. Mr Fischer hasn’t been in for his yet.’
Before Fred could answer, the door pinged its warning. ‘Lovely smell of baked apple in here this morning.’ The local postman, Bernie Jones, was framed in the doorway, and bright sunshine poured in behind him.
Bernie held out a slim envelope. ‘Got a fellow in the army, Daisy, or do I recognise Sam’s handwriting?’
‘Very funny.’ She turned to her father, who had stopped reading to pass the time of day with the postman. ‘You all right here, Dad, while I run up and read this to Mum? See you tomorrow, Bernie.’
Upstairs Flora was busily preparing sandwich fillings. She was excited that there was a letter from her eldest son, but a little disappointed that it was not addressed to her. ‘What’s he saying?’
Daisy sat down, opened the flimsy envelope, and read it quickly.
Hello, Daze,
Tell Mum sorry I haven’t written, been busy. Rose says as you’re arranging a party for Sally on the 18th. Wish I could be there. Drama college, imagine. Little Sally Brewer. She’ll be too posh for the likes of us when she’s finished. Remember there was an order for men my age to sign up for six months last April? Lads even younger did too, and you bet my words our Phil and Ron’ll be joining them afore long. I like the life, Daisy, and it’s treating me right. Got room to breathe. Don’t listen to them politicians, Daze. Either they don’t know or they don’t want to tell us but there’s going to be a war and women’ll be needed, so think careful about what you’re going to do. Best to choose than wait to be ordered. Rose is fine in Vickers. Shouldn’t think they’ll shift her, but the shop has three employees and happen they’ll say two is enough.
If this gets to you before the party, tell Sally, well, wish her all the best.
Sam
‘It’s