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iii
Daisy had been on a long journey that had brought her around in a circle.
When Lloyd was sent to France she was heartbroken. She had missed her chance of telling him she loved him--she had not even kissed him!
And now there might never be another opportunity. He was reported missing in action after Dunkirk. That meant his body had not been found and identified, but neither was he registered as a prisoner of war. Most likely he was dead, blown up into unidentifiable fragments by a shell, or perhaps lying unmarked beneath the debris of a destroyed farmhouse. She cried for days.
For another month she moped about Ty Gwyn, hoping to hear more, but no further news came. Then she began to feel guilty. There were many women as badly off as she or worse. Some had to face the prospect of raising two or three children with no man to support the family. She had no right to feel sorry for herself just because the man with whom she had been contemplating an adulterous affair was missing.
She had to pull herself together and do something positive. Fate did not intend her to be with Lloyd, that was clear. She already had a husband, one who was risking his life every day. It was her duty, she told herself, to take care of Boy.
She returned to London. She opened up the Mayfair house, as best she could with limited servants, and made it into a pleasant home for Boy to come to when on leave.
She needed to forget Lloyd and be a good wife. Perhaps she would even get pregnant again.
Many women signed up for war work, joining the Women's Auxiliary Air Force, or doing agricultural labor with the Women's Land Army. Others worked for no pay in the Women's Voluntary Service for Air Raid Precautions. But there was not enough for most such women to do, and The Times published letters to the editor complaining that air raid precautions were a waste of money.
The war in Continental Europe appeared to be over. Germany had won. Europe was Fascist from Poland to Sicily and from Hungary to Portugal. There was no fighting anywhere. Rumors said the British government had discussed peace terms.
But Churchill did not make peace with Hitler, and that summer the Battle of Britain began.
At first civilians were not much affected. Church bells were silenced, their peal reserved to warn of the expected German invasion. Daisy followed government instructions and placed buckets of sand and water on every landing in the house, for firefighting, but they were not needed. The Luftwaffe bombed harbors, hoping to cut Britain's supply lines. Then they started on air bases, trying to destroy the Royal Air Force. Boy was flying a Spitfire, engaging enemy aircraft in sky battles that were watched by openmouthed farmers in Kent and Sussex. In a rare letter home he said proudly that he had shot down three German planes. He had no leave for weeks on end, and Daisy sat alone in the house she filled with flowers for him.
At last, on the morning of Saturday, September 7, Boy showed up with a weekend pass. The weather was glorious, hot and sunny, a late spell of warmth that people called an Indian summer.
As it happened, that was the day the Luftwaffe changed their tactics.
Daisy kissed her husband and made sure there were clean shirts and fresh underwear in his dressing room.
From what other women said, she believed that fighting men on leave wanted sex, booze, and decent food, in that order.
Boy and she had not slept together since the miscarriage. This would be the first time. She felt guilty that she did not really relish the prospect. But she certainly would not refuse to do her duty.
She half-expected him to tumble her into bed the minute he arrived, but he was not that desperate. He took off his uniform, bathed and washed his hair, and dressed again in a civilian suit. Daisy ordered the cook to spare no ration coupons in the preparation of a good lunch, and Boy brought up from the cellar one of his oldest bottles of claret.
She was surprised and hurt after lunch when he said: "I'm going out for a few hours. I'll be back for dinner."
She wanted to be a good wife, but not a passive one. "This is your first leave for months!" she protested. "Where the heck are you going?"
"To look at a horse."
That was all right. "Oh, fine--I'll come with you."
"No, don't. If I show up with a woman in tow, they'll think I'm a softie and put the price up."
She could not hide her disappointment. "I always dreamed this would be something we did together--buying and breeding racehorses."
"It's not really a woman's world."
"Oh, stink on that!" she said indignantly. "I know as much about horseflesh as you do."
He looked irritated. "Perhaps you do, but I still don't want you hanging around when I'm bargaining with these blighters--and that's final."
She gave in. "As you please," she said, and she left the dining room.
Her instinct told her that he was lying. Fighting men on leave did not think about buying horses. She intended to find out what he was up to. Even heroes had to be true to their wives.
In her room she put on trousers and boots. As Boy went down the main staircase to the front door, she ran down the back stairs, through the kitchen, across the yard, and into the old stables. There she put on a leather jacket, goggles, and a crash helmet. She opened the garage door into the mews and wheeled out her motorcycle, a Triumph Tiger 100, so called because its top speed was one hundred miles per hour. She kicked it into life and drove out of the mews effortlessly.
