A Kestrel Rising (9 page)

“Don’t worry, Mama. I won’t.” She leaned back against the pillows. “I just need a bit more time to myself.”

“I understand.” She smiled and slipped out of the room, closing the door behind her.

Ilona pulled the covers up to her chin. She knew her mother meant well by telling her story, but it didn’t make her feel better. She was still one, huge ache. There was nothing of Ian in the house, only in her memories and they were creeping back again. They stole around her like smoke. She heard his voice in her ear and felt his fingers trail along the nape of her neck. She was not quite ready to let go and, although she realized that he would not want her to be sad, she curled up on her side and wept.

* * * *

“I need a walk,” she told her mother as she buttoned her cardigan. It was a dreadful day—the long, bright summery days of the previous week had been replaced by a glimpse of autumn, with heavy gray clouds hurried along by a bitter, north wind.

“All right, dear. It’ll do you good.”

Ilona called to the dogs and stepped out into the wind. It snatched at her hair when she walked down the drive and into the woods. The treetops swayed back and forth and roared like a waterfall. For the first time in days, she felt something other than raw sorrow. It was just as well, as she had received her new posting and was to be at Mildenhall in two days’ time. It would not do to turn up at a new place a weeping wreck. She would have to save her grief for moments when she was alone.

She headed through the woods and turned onto the grassy track that ran alongside the barley field. It followed the line of their property then doglegged to the right to run alongside the Reardons’ garden wall. The wind hit Ilona full in the face when she stepped out of the shelter of the trees. She followed the dogleg and reached a faded blue door in the wall. She paused, leaning against the wall and looking at a little bench. It was obscured by a wild tangle of vines, surrounded by a deep chamomile lawn and a riot of love-in-a-mist. The wind wasn’t as strong there. She took some time to clear away the tangle of vines and sat down on the bench, glad of a respite from the relentless gale.

The ripening barley was a sea of pale gold that shifted restlessly beneath the heavy sky. A bird, its feathers ragged, tried to make headway above the field. It struggled and fought, dropping once or twice before it tried to rise again. Ilona watched its progress while it battled its way toward the trees and to the shelter of the Reardons’ garden. She lost sight of it in the trees and returned to watching the barley and the clouds racing across the sky. There was peace in this place, something left over from another time when it had been a much-loved sanctuary for someone. She glanced down at the lace-framed blue of the love-in-a-mist and wondered who had once taken the trouble to care for them. They were all over the place, waving in the wind while chamomile flowers shone like stars at their feet. The scent of the bruised leaves rose to meet her and she bent and plucked a sprig to hold to her nose before she stood to leave. Ilona put it in her pocket and turned back toward home, glad that the wind was at her back. At the edge of the woods, something on the ground—small, pale brown and alive—caught her eye. She edged toward where it sat, partly hidden in the tall, soft grass and knelt beside the kestrel. It stared at her with fierce, black and familiar eyes, its sides heaving, its feathers ruffled against the chill of the wind.

“This seems to be my year for kestrels.”

Her eyes stung when the scent of heather rose from nowhere and she was back on the moor, her face hidden in Ian’s bright hair. Tears returned and slipped down her cheeks when she looked at the bird and it looked at her, unflinching and unafraid. She held her hand out toward it. “Come on, then. If you’ve something to say or do, just do it.”

It hopped onto her fingers and clung to her knuckles with sharp little talons while it regarded her. Ilona was too stunned to move while this little, wild creature sat on the back of her hand. Then, as swiftly as it had come, it spread its wings and rose back into the wind, riding with it as it soared away to the south, a sharp little arrow that disappeared in her blur of tears.

“Goodbye,” she whispered. Part of her disappeared south with it. She put her hands into her pockets and walked back toward the house.

Chapter Eight

Ilona shivered when she climbed out of the lorry. Even in spring, Newmarket Heath could be an inhospitable place when the wind swept down from the north. One of the ground crew told her that it was cold because there was nothing between Newmarket and Russia to stop it. It brought the chill of the North Sea and the Wash. This day in March was no exception. She hurried into the depot to tell the sergeant that the parts had arrived from Mildenhall then went to claim her cup of tea and sandwich, the custom on those days when she had deliveries.

“How are you today, ACW Lowe?” the sergeant asked when Ilona sank into a chair and took a sip of hot, milky tea.

“I’m fine thank you, Sergeant Nash, sir.” She always liked the drive to Newmarket, across the open Brecks under the broad East Anglian sky. There were no high green hills, only an unrelenting, flat landscape which stretched far to the north across the Fens. It had taken her a while to get used to the flatness, but she welcomed the change. It had been a long, hard and cold six months and she was glad that Mildenhall was a busy base, at the heart of a multitude of smaller airfields that needed deliveries. She had little time to mourn and wondered whether that was the reason she had been posted there, because some kind soul at Catterick had suggested that she needed to be kept occupied.

“Are they keeping you busy?”

“Yes, very busy, sir. But I don’t mind.”

“Good lass.” He smiled. “I heard you even turned down a promotion.”

“I didn’t want an office job. I like driving and if that means I remain an ACW, I can live with that. I’m not meant to be stuck behind a desk.”

Ilona finished her tea and peered out of the window. The lorry was empty. “I had better get back,” she said. “Before it gets dark.” She rose and waved to the sergeant before dashing out to her lorry, avoiding the biting wind as much as possible.

The other good thing about driving was that she had little time to think about anything other than keeping the lorry on the road. She found that unexpected things could reduce her to tears—the way the evening sunlight touched a meadow, a kestrel hovering over the Brecks or the long sweep of the Milky Way on a cloudless, moonless night. Ian would be there, his voice in her ear or his hand on her face, as light and fleeting as the touch of a moth’s wing. It was enough that she would dissolve into helpless tears, her longing for him a huge, burning ache that would not go away.

She tried her best to keep these moments to herself. She did not want fuss or too many questions but, once or twice, she had failed. There was a wireless in the WAAF hut, which was on most evenings for an hour of two before lights out. It wasn’t long after she’d arrived at Mildenhall, when her grief had still been raw and easily triggered, that the strains of
Moonlight Serenade
had drifted across the hut at a moment when there was a lull in the conversation. Ilona was back dancing in that tiny, dusk-filled sitting room and Ian’s hand was warm on the small of her back. She’d leapt from her cot with a sob and fled the hut, leaving a dozen or so startled WAAFs in her wake. Outside, she’d sank down on the steps in the dark and wept. The pain had still been too sharp to subdue and, although she had promised Ian that she would not grieve, she had found it a hard promise to keep. She’d buried her face in her hands, sobbed, and apologized to him for being such a crybaby.

“Ilona?” Grace, the girl who had the cot closest to hers, had sat down on the step beside her. “Are you all right?”

“No,” Ilona had sobbed.

“What’s wrong?”

“It’s that song.” She’d lifted her head. “It brings back so many memories and it hurts.”

“Oh, dear, I am sorry.” Grace had patted her shoulder. “An old boyfriend?”

Ilona shook her head when the sobs had subsided enough for her to talk. “My fiancé.” She’d had to tell someone. She’d wiped her eyes as she’d looked at her companion. “He was killed two months ago. He was a pilot. We met when I was posted to Catterick.” She’d looked up at the night sky, at the scatter of stars and a fingernail crescent of moon. “He made me promise not to spend too much time mourning him, but I can’t help it.”

“Two months is no time. Of course it still hurts, and it has to be hard to keep something like that bottled up. Perhaps it would help to talk about him.”

“Perhaps.”

“So, what was his name?”

“Ian. He was a Flight Lieutenant and he flew Blenheims.” Before she’d realized it, her story had fallen from her lips, from that first remark on the bus to the last morning. She’d told it all without stopping to cry, although she’d come close, more than once. She’d paused and gazed at the sky and it had seemed, for a moment, that Ian had been there with her. His fingers had brushed the silent tears from her cheeks and he’d whispered that she was doing very well and he was proud of her. By the time she’d finished, Grace had smoked several cigarettes and she’d sniffled and wiped her eyes. “Oh, heavens, Ilona…no wonder you’re in such a state. How very sad.”

Ilona had wanted to cry and she hadn’t been able to speak. She’d hurt but, it had been a sweet ache and she could live with that. “I miss him, Grace. He was everything to me.”

“I’m sure he was.” Grace had put her arm around her shoulder. “He sounds wonderful.”

“He was.”

“Are you going to tell the other girls?”

“I suppose they should know, so they know why I run out of the hut in tears now and then. I just don’t think I can stand there and tell them.”

“I will if you like, quietly.”

Ilona had managed a smile. “Thank you.”

Grace had risen. “Let’s go in before we freeze to death.”

In her grief, she hadn’t realized how cold it had become. She’d clambered to her feet. “I think you’re right.” She’d followed Grace into the hut and paused at the door to take one last look at the stars.

* * * *

Ilona returned the truck to the depot as the sun slipped toward the western rim of the Brecks. The wind had dropped but there was a chill in the air, not intended for spring. She was anxious to reach the warmth of the hut and rest. Today, at least, had been a good day. She thought that, six months on, she was slowly getting better. She had taken the photograph from Catterick and, while on leave one weekend in Bury St. Edmunds, had found a little picture frame in an antique shop. The photograph sat on the little box next to her cot because she could finally bear to look at it and find comfort in the memory of that day.

She was glad to reach the warmth of the hut. Most of the girls had finished their shifts. Grace was polishing her shoes as Ilona hung her jacket up in her locker and noticed the parcel on her cot. She sat down and examined it.

“Something from home?” Grace asked as Ilona began to pick at the string.

“No, I’ve no idea who this is from. I don’t recognize the writing, and I can’t read the postmark.”

“How exciting.” Grace set down her cloth.

The string gave way and she unwrapped the brown paper and a thick wrapping of old newspapers to reveal a record. “What on earth?” She held it up to the light and examined the label. A folded piece of paper fell out of the sleeve. “Well, I never,” she muttered and her friend was all eyes as she read the note.

Dear Ilona,

I was on leave in Cambridge the other day and wandered into a music shop just off the market place. We have a phonograph in our hut, and it was my turn to buy some records. I found this and immediately thought of you. I know you liked the tune and I thought I’d send it to you. I thought that, given what you’ve been through, perhaps it would bring you some solace, as the title suggests.

I hope you are keeping well.

Sincerely

Francis

“Who is it from?”

“A family friend, that’s all.” Ilona handed her the note.

Grace read the note and grinned. “It’s a good thing we have the phonograph now, isn’t it? Will you put it on?”

“Well, it’s not the usual sort of thing.” Ilona looked at the note again. “It’s hardly the Ink Spots or Glenn Miller. It’s ragtime and not fast ragtime, at that.”

“Come on. Let’s have a listen and then you can tell us all about this family friend of yours.”

Somebody turned on the phonograph and Ilona placed the needle on the record. Everyone sat and listened as the slow, hesitant tango stole across the silent hut. She picked up the note and the brown paper, but there was no return address.

“So,” Grace asked when the song was finished and the Ink Spots replaced Scott Joplin on the phonograph. “Who is Francis?”

“He is my mother’s cousin’s son.”

“So he’s a second cousin?”

“Sort of.”

“Oh, yes, of course. You were adopted. So he’s not really related to you.”

“No. I really didn’t care much for him.”

“He obviously thought enough of you to send you that.”

Ilona shrugged. “He was just being nice. That’s all. I don’t think he cared much for me either.”

* * * *

“You’re going where?”

Ilona fastened her jacket. “Newmarket. I want to get up early in the morning and watch the racehorses.”

“That’s an odd way to spend your leave,” Grace said.

“Not really. I just want some peace and quiet and it will be nice to be around horses again.” It was also August fourteenth and she did not want to be anywhere near planes on the fifteenth. It was an anniversary she needed to spend on her own.

She had found a small bed and breakfast just behind High Street at the east end of town, near Bury Hill. The landlady had been very welcoming and had told her the best time to see the horses. It had meant an early start because, in the summer, they worked the horses in the cooler hours of early morning. Ilona had woken before sunrise and slipped out of the house as the sun began to creep over the eastern horizon. A thin mist clung to the grass and the sunlight turned it to gold and amber when she walked along the verge alongside the gallops. Strings of horses were already milling about at the bottom of the long, sweeping slope. She heard the idle chatter of the stable lads and the occasional wolf-whistle when she walked past. She found a place, about half way up the hill, and leaned against the railing as the horses loped up the track. Apart from the occasional word of encouragement from their riders, all Ilona could hear was the rhythmic pounding of hooves on the ground and the jingle of bits as they passed. The early morning sun gleamed on coats of polished chestnut, rich, deep bay, sorrel and gray and she loved it and wished she could be one of those riders. The riders all wished her good morning as they walked their horses down the hill, and she smiled back at them.