A Kestrel Rising (15 page)

“Ah.” Francis appeared before her. “There you are. I always seem to find you with your nose in a book.”

She put the book away and rose. “That’s because I like to read.”

He kissed her cheek. “Hello, Ilke. It’s good to see you.”

“It’s nice to see you too.” Summer suited him and she thought he looked at ease in trousers and a white shirt, the sleeves rolled up to reveal arms that had already begun to turn brown.

He offered her his arm. “Shall we go? It’s a bit of a walk, so I thought we’d cut through the Botanical Gardens. It seems a better idea than walking along a busy road.”

“That sounds fine.”

They walked out of the station onto Station Road, the pavement shaded by large trees that screened huge Victorian houses. A light breeze whispered through the leaves and made the dappled shade dance across the pavement.

“We got lucky with the weather,” Francis said while they waited at the top of the road for a gap in the traffic.

“We did. Especially after all the rain we’ve had.”

“You look very summery.”

“I feel very summery. It’s nice to dress in normal clothes for a change.” It did seem strange to have a nice, light skirt swirling around her legs instead of the dress blues or overalls.

“How do you like Duxford?” he asked as they walked into the Botanical Gardens, leaving the traffic behind them.

“It’s all right. It’s very big and very busy. I just seem to keep busy driving around the base all day.”

“I still miss the place. There was always a lot happening there. Have you found the John Barleycorn yet?”

“Yes, Betty, Lily and I went with a few of the others a couple of Saturdays ago. It’s very nice.”

“I’ve drank a few in there.” His voice was wistful. “I wish I could join you.”

“You’ll have your hands full with your new squadron. No time for carousing about and drinking.”

“Probably not,” he replied, with almost comic gloom.

“Heavens, look at that tree.” Ilona paused to admire a massive Cedar of Lebanon that spread a deep, velvety umbrella of shade across the neatly mown grass. “It’s beautiful.” She touched the bark and was almost dizzy from the heady scent.

“It’s impressive.” Francis stared up through the branches. “And huge.”

She would have liked to remain under the shelter of the tree. There was something very comforting and timeless about it but Francis snatched at her hand. “Come on. We need to find some food and a boat.”

They wandered through the gardens and made their way along Trumpington Street until they found a shop where they bought provisions for their picnic. The proprietor told them to go to Fitzbillies for their pastries, which he claimed were the best to be found in the city. Following his instructions, they found the bakery and waited patiently in a long queue.

“These had better be worth it,” Francis muttered.

“I’m sure they will be,” Ilona replied, while she gazed across the street at the college buildings. The place was rich with history. She wished that they had more than a day to explore the place. Eventually, they reached the counter and Francis bought a couple of pastries. They escaped back out into the street, having received directions on how to find the boat hire yard.

“It’s down here.” Francis took her hand while they made their way along a narrow street lost in shade.

A cool breeze brought the smell of the river with it. As they came out into the sunlight, there was the river and the boatyard. A small flotilla of flat-bottomed boats was tied together, bobbing gently on the dark water. While Francis took care of hiring the boat, Ilona leaned against the railing and watched the efforts of others while they maneuvered the punts away along the river. She noticed that those who did best were the ones that put the pole in the water, pushed then used it as a rudder when they pulled it up. She wondered if her companion would take kindly to her advice, if the occasion called for it. He seemed rather confident and, she guessed that since he could fly a complicated, temperamental piece of machinery like a Spitfire, a punt on a gentle river would be easy.

The proprietor led them along the narrow dock to a boat at the far end, giving Francis instructions, which echoed what Ilona had discovered for herself. She hoped that Francis was listening. He helped her into the boat, made his way to the platform at the back and picked up the pole. Ilona settled herself down on a seat, opposite him, watching his face, which was all concentration as he maneuvered it away from the dock and out into open water. She thought that he did quite well once he’d managed to balance himself on the gently rocking platform. She leaned back and watched the banks drift by, the backs of the colleges peaceful in the late morning sun. It was a lifetime away from the rest of the world. Eventually, they left the colleges behind and found the meadows, houses and the hum of traffic along Trumpington Road. The water lapped against the sides of the punt and lost itself in the rich, green reeds and bulrushes on the banks. The meadows were speckled with daisies and clover. Cows grazed peacefully amidst a riot of buttercups and cow parsley. Martins swooped low over the water in search of flies. Dragonflies, their wings iridescent in the sunlight, hovered and darted across the river. Ilona stole a glance at Francis, who was lost in concentration. The breeze caught at his hair.

He caught her looking and grinned. “Am I doing all right?”

“You’re doing very well. I feel guilty just sitting here.”

“You’re more than welcome to have a go.”

“All right, I will.”

“Excellent.” He eased the boat up to the bank and jammed the pole into the river bottom to keep the punt in place while they changed over. “Do you know what to do?”

“Yes, I think so.” Ilona took off her shoes, feeling happier barefoot on the smooth, warm wood. He handed her the pole and sat down. She bit her lip and pushed the pole into the riverbed, propelling the punt back into the open water. Water dripped down her arm as she lifted the pole and used the end to steer back on course. Ilona was glad she had taken her shoes off and that she had a good sense of balance. She was aware that her companion watched her as she guided the boat toward open countryside, until even the sound of traffic yielded to birdsong and the lowing of cows. The sky was a cloudless arc of rich blue, dotted by birds and dragonflies. The only other sound was the river as it whispered against the sides of the punt and among the reedy, muddy banks. A cool breeze skipped across the water, stirring little wavelets and disturbing the fish—one or two broke the surface and left tiny ripples behind them. A kingfisher, its feathers gleaming in the sunlight, skimmed across the river, swift and silent as it swooped down, caught a fish and became airborne once more. The landscape dozed under a spell, preserved in amber and magic where no war could ever intrude. Ilona found it easy to move the boat and she lost herself in the simple rhythm while they floated farther between the peaceful fields.

“This looks like a good spot.” Francis’ voice interrupted her reverie. “Over here.” He pointed to a stand of trees on the left bank, a willow spread its long, green veil over the quiet water and swifts shrieked as they dove for flies. Ilona steered the punt toward the bank and held it there while Francis scrambled out and pulled it up onto the grass. She wedged the pole into the soft mud and let him help her. He took the cushions from the boat and set them on the grass, which was cool and soft beneath the restless, dancing shade of the willows.

“It’s perfect.” Ilona was grateful for the sit down as she sank onto a cushion.

“It’s peaceful.” He handed her a wedge of bread and a piece of cheese. “It’s a simple meal,” he said. “But it’s better than nothing.”

“I like bread and cheese.” Ilona took a sip of her ginger beer. It was lukewarm, but good. Francis put the remaining two bottles in the water.

“Wine would be better. Wine and plenty of time.” His voice was wistful.

“Yes, that would be nice.”

They finished their meal in companionable silence, the pastry sticky enough that Ilona had to wash her hands in the river. When she returned, Francis was lying down, his arms behind his head while he stared into the restless canopy of the tree. “It’s a pity we only have a couple of hours here.”

“It’s better than no time at all.”

“I’m glad you came.”

“So am I,” she replied, meaning it.

He closed his eyes. “I could use a nap, all this fresh air.”

She smothered a yawn. “I know what you mean.”

“Dare we?”

“You sleep. You need the rest more than me. I’ll wake you in an hour.”

“You don’t mind? I mean we came all this way. It seems rather rude to leave you sitting there.”

“I just like the peace and quiet. I’ll be fine, and it’s not rude. You have a busy time ahead, I really don’t mind.”

“Thanks, Ilke.” He closed his eyes once more and, before too long, his deep, even breaths told her that he was sleeping. Ilona left him and sat on the riverbank, dangling her feet in the cool, muddy water. The drowsy hum of the bees no longer hurt to hear. They were just part of the idyll, along with the birds that swooped low over the river and the cows dozing in the sun on the opposite bank. All too soon, they would both be back in the war. At least
she
would be safe. Worry for him stirred within her. She supposed it was inevitable given that the more she spent time with him, the less restraint there was between them. He had been right when he had promised that she would like him. She wondered how much time had passed and slipped back under the willow. Francis still slept and she peered at his watch and noticed that the hour had passed. It seemed a shame to wake him.

She nudged him, gently. “Francis.”

The first nudge went unheeded so she tapped his nose. “Francis.”

He stirred and took a weak swipe at what he clearly thought was a fly. “What?”

“Your hour is up.”

“Already?” He opened his eyes and sat up, raking his fingers through his hair. “That didn’t seem to last long.”

“I’m sorry.”

“That’s all right. It was still nice and I can think of worse ways to be woken up.”

Ilona blushed and made a business out of gathering their things together while he returned the cushions to the punt. They tossed a coin as to who would punt first and Ilona elected to take the first turn. She retrieved the pole and they headed back toward Cambridge. She was sad to leave the idyll. They swapped places about halfway back. She sat and watched Francis as he propelled the boat down the river with great confidence, too much confidence. He put the pole in the water too close to a bridge. As the boat rushed forward, the pole remained stuck in the mud and he had to grab the bridge and hang on as the boat carried on without him. Ilona laughed helplessly while she scrabbled for the oar and paddled back to rescue him. She could hardly see for her tears while she maneuvered the boat underneath the bridge and held it in place long enough for him to lower himself back onto the platform. They paddled back to retrieve the pole. She couldn’t stop giggling at the thought of him dangling from the bridge, trying to avoid getting his feet wet.

“It wasn’t that funny.” He looked like a sulky child.

She wiped her eyes. “I’m sorry, but it was.”

“I could throw you in the water you know, quite easily.”

“I know. But you won’t.”

“No I won’t, but I will get you wet.” He knelt, scooped a handful of water and splashed her.

She gasped and splashed him back, still laughing.

“If we didn’t have a train to catch I would make sure you got a good drenching, but I have a long memory, Ilke. I won’t forget.”

They returned the punt to the boatyard and Francis glanced at his watch. “Let’s head back toward the station. We should have time to stop off in a pub on the way.”

They found a pub on Trumpington Street that had a little courtyard at the back. Ilona found a table in the shade and Francis brought her a sherry and sank down in the other chair. He took a long draw of his beer. “Lovely,” he sighed. “Perfect.” He raised his glass to her, “Here’s to a nice day. Thank you, Ilke.”

“Thank you. It
has
been a lovely day.”

He leaned close. “You’ve caught the sun. You have freckles.”

“It’ll probably be the only sun I see this summer, unless it’s through the windscreen of a lorry.”

“You never know. You may get a break.”

“Perhaps, but I suppose that depends on Mr. Hitler and the RAF. If you fighter boys do your job properly, perhaps there will be a lifetime of days like this.”

“I’d like to think so. A day like today is worth fighting for, don’t you think?”

“Yes, I do.” She sipped her sherry. Francis had caught the sun too, his skin browner against the white of his shirt.

“Can we do this again?”

“I’d like to.”

“Debden and Duxford are only ten miles apart, a bit easier to work than Mildenhall and Ludham. I think we could have another day or two.” He finished his beer. “I suppose we had better go, because neither of us can afford to miss that train.”

* * * *

At the station, Francis retrieved his case from Left Luggage and they found the platform for the Liverpool Street train and stood in silence. Ilona wasn’t surprised when his hand crept over hers and she let it remain there. She liked that he didn’t feel the need to fill the silence with words. He kept hold of her hand when they walked onto the train and sat down.

“Perhaps I can come up one Saturday evening and we can go to the John Barleycorn,” he said, as the train lurched away from the platform.

“I’d like that.” She felt his fingers wind their way through hers.

He smiled. “Then I’ll see what I can do.”

Ilona found herself warming to the idea of sitting at a table in front of the pub on a summer evening, watching the swifts swooping after flies and listening to their plaintive cries. Suddenly it seemed that life was worth looking forward to again and she thought that Grace had been right after all.

All too soon, the train began to slow as it approached Duxford. Ilona rose and Francis walked with her to the door. The evening breeze was cool through the open window and the sun was beginning to slide to the west, casting long shadows across the fields. A plane circled the airfield, reminding Ilona that the war carried on and that she was returning to the real world.