Beauty Chorus, The (4 page)

The boy glanced up, swept his dark hair away from his face. Megan blushed. The first time she had seen him, last summer, he was fly-fishing in the stream down in the valley. She had thought he
looked like Errol Flynn. ‘Yes, Mr Jones. Hello, Megan.’

‘Bill.’ She lowered her eyes as he smiled at her.

Rhodri caught the exchange. ‘Come on.’ He took her arm. ‘They’re waiting.’ As they took their boots off in the porch, he frowned. ‘You’re not to spend
so much time with him.’

‘What do you mean?’ Megan couldn’t look at her father.

‘He’s a good lad …’

‘But not good enough for me? Is that what you mean?’ She flashed him a quick, angry look.

‘He’s a hard worker, but …’ He brushed a strand of hair from his daughter’s face. ‘You’re young, Megan, and he was working in the fairgrounds when he
came here.’

Megan thought of the silvery scars on Bill’s face, reminders of the bare-knuckle fights and baying crowds. She could never reconcile his gentleness, the way he could calm any animal, or
his stillness when she read to him, with his brutal past.

‘I’ve been helping him with his reading and writing, that’s all,’ she said defensively.

Rhodri tilted his head. ‘Megan, I can see the way you look at one another. I was young once too, you know.’ Megan gazed over her father’s shoulder as Bill strode up the hill,
the dogs bounding along behind him. ‘Perhaps it’s a good thing you’ll be away for a while.’

‘Ma doesn’t think so.’

‘Leave your ma to me.’ Rhodri put his arm around her. ‘She’s just worried she’ll lose you too. I think it will be good for you to get on and do something, meet some
new people. Perhaps it will help.’

He opened the door to the kitchen and a warm draught carrying the scent of roast beef met them. Nia was at the range, making gravy from the scrapings of the roasting pan. Megan’s two
cousins sat at the table, napkins already tucked into the necks of their shirts. They reminded her of the photographs of crocodiles she had seen, the way their eyes swivelled hungrily towards
her.

‘Hello, Megan,’ the plump one said. His fingers were laced over his pot belly. His skinny brother carried on chewing the end of his pipe, adjusting his wire-rimmed spectacles to get
a better look at her. She lifted her chin in silent greeting.

‘Now then Megan, wash your hands, love. Lunch is ready.’ Her mother placed a dark, glistening joint of beef in front of Rhodri. As he sharpened the carving knife on the steel with a
swish, swish, swish, Megan scrubbed her hands in the kitchen sink, sensing her cousins’ eyes as keenly as a knife blade between her shoulders. She turned as she dried her hands on a clean
linen towel, defiantly holding their gaze.

‘So you’re off tomorrow are you, Megan?’ the fat one asked, his attention distracted by the thick slices of beef Rhodri was carving from the steaming joint. Megan helped her
mother carry bowls of vegetables to the table, carrots and potatoes, all from their own garden.

‘Megan.’ Her mother nudged her.

‘Yes I am.’ She sat opposite the cousins, and folded her arms.

‘We were just saying to your mother we’d be glad to help out more on the farm now Huw and you are gone.’

‘I’m not “gone”.’ Megan leant forward.

‘Arms off the table, love,’ Nia said as she sat beside her.

‘Ma,’ Megan whispered out of the corner of her mouth, ‘I’m not a child any more.’

‘Let’s say grace.’ Nia took her hand. Rhodri lay down the knives and took Megan’s other hand. ‘Dear Lord.’ Nia closed her eyes. When Megan peeked she saw both
cousins staring straight at her. ‘Thank you for our food and family. We ask you to look after our son Huw, and take care of our daughter Megan when she is in London.’ Nia said
‘Lon-don’ with such distaste it was as if Megan were travelling to Sodom and Gomorrah. ‘Amen.’

‘It’s not London, Ma,’ Megan said. ‘It’s Maidenhead I’m going to.’

‘Close enough.’ Nia looked at her lap as she shook out her napkin. Her brow furrowed. ‘Oh, when I think of those bombs ...’

The grandfather clock by the settle ticked away the minutes as plates were passed to and fro and awkward small talk was made. The wind rattled the kitchen door on the latch. Megan stared
sullenly at the chipped gilt edge of the vegetable bowl as she chewed her beef, wondering when the cousins would make their move.

‘How’s business in town?’ Rhodri asked, as the fat one pushed back his empty plate.

‘Mustn’t grumble,’ he said as he untucked his napkin from the greasy collar of his shirt. ‘Things are hard for people, but you can always find a bit extra for your best
customers, if you know what I mean.’ He nudged his brother, their laughter dying away as they realised Rhodri and Nia weren’t laughing with them. ‘How about the farm now? Are you
coping?’

Megan fiddled with the crocheted tablecloth, twisting a loop of thread tight around her fingertip, cutting off the blood.

‘We’re fine,’ Rhodri said. ‘Bill’s a good lad.’

‘Is he now?’ The thin one spoke up. ‘I’d watch him if I was you. No one knows who his family is, he just blew in with the fair didn’t he?’

‘What do you know about anything?’ Megan leapt to her feet. ‘Come on. Why don’t you just get on and say what you’ve really come for?’

‘Megan!’ Her mother grasped her arm. ‘I’m sorry, she’s still upset about Huw. We all are.’ She blinked quickly, looked down at her lap.

‘I can talk for myself—’

‘That’s enough!’ Rhodri thumped his fist on the table, and the colour drained from Megan’s face. Her father never raised his voice. ‘You’re upsetting your
mother.’

Angry tears stung her eyes. ‘Well it’s just as well I’m leaving tomorrow, isn’t it? But I tell you one thing.’ She jabbed her finger at the cousins.
‘I’m coming back. This is my family’s farm and I will run the airfield after the war.’

‘But there’s no call for it round here.’ The fat one turned to Rhodri, ignoring her. ‘Think about it. If you plough up the airstrip, how much more money you could make
with—’

‘No!’ Megan cried. ‘Don’t do it, Da.’ She wiped away a burning tear from her cheek. ‘It’s mine, and yours, and Huw—’

‘Huw’s dead, love,’ her father said softly.

‘It was Huw’s dream.’ Megan pushed back her chair, the legs scraping on the flagstones. ‘No one is going to take that away.’ She turned on her heel and flung open
the kitchen door, the latch rattling as it slammed shut after her.

Rhodri stood up slowly and patted Nia’s stooped shoulder as he passed. It was getting dark now and with a taper he lit the gas lamp over the table. The warm light illuminated the
cousins’ expectant faces.

‘I’m sorry. She’s young.’ He ran a hand through his hair as he sat down again.

‘Which is why she needs our guidance,’ the thin one wheedled.

Rhodri thought to himself how he had never seen twins so unlike one another. His sister had died giving birth to them. For that he had never quite forgiven them.

‘Rhodri, we’re family. Are we not doing a good job of running Father’s butchers? Just think what we can do with this.’

Megan’s father studied their faces closely – pockmarked, blotchy from too much ale. He was a strict Methodist himself, and he disliked what he had heard about them around the
village. ‘No.’ He shook his head as he took Nia’s hand. ‘Megan is right. The airfield was Huw’s dream. I have to at least give her a chance.’

Megan ran, unseeing, into the grey afternoon, snow eddying around her as she pounded up the steep hill, her boots slipping in the frozen ruts of the sheep track. She
didn’t know where she was running to, but something was drawing her up towards the winter barns. Against the leaden sky, the open barn door glowed invitingly, golden lamplight spilling out.
As she drew closer, Bill stepped out, Rex following.

‘Megan?’

‘Bill, oh Bill.’ She ran into his arms, buried her head in the rough knit of his thick sweater. She felt safe there, as he held her, and she gave in to her tears.

‘Hush now,’ he murmured, stroking her head. ‘What’s the matter?’

‘Those horrible, horrible men.’ She balled her fist against Bill’s chest. ‘They want to take all this away from me, from us.’

She sensed Bill stop breathing for a moment, and realised what she had let slip. Warily, she raised her eyes to his.

‘Do you mean that?’ he asked. ‘You’re going away, I thought …’

Megan blinked, brushed away the tears that had soaked her lashes into dark points. ‘I’ll come back though, Bill.’

He cupped her cold cheek in his hand, and kissed her, crushing her lips to his. Megan’s eyes flew open in surprise. She had kissed a few of the lads in the shadows of the village hall at
dances, but nothing like this. Bill was a man, his face rough with stubble, and his dark moustache tickled her nose. She couldn’t help laughing.

‘What is it?’ He stepped back, panting slightly.

‘Nothing!’ She giggled. ‘It’s just I’ve never—’ But it was too late, Bill stormed back inside the barn. She ran after him, pulled at his sleeve.
‘Wait! I’m sorry, Bill.’

In here it was warm, with soft hay underfoot, and the gentle shift of the sheep’s solid bodies in their stall. Snow fell silently beyond the door. When she saw the wounded look on his
face, she stepped closer to him, traced the silver scars on his cheek with her fingertips.

‘I don’t understand. Why are you so cross?’

‘You laughed at me.’

He tried to turn away from her, but she stopped him, took his face in her hands. His jawbone was hard against the palm of her hand as she kissed him again.

‘There,’ she murmured. ‘You took me by surprise, that’s all, Bill.’

‘I’ll not have anyone laughing at me. Not even you.’

Megan remembered the stories he had confided in her, how he had struggled at school, how tough it had been in the fairgrounds. Bill was proud, and she had hurt his feelings. She reached up and
wrapped her arms around him, held him close.

He rested his head against hers. ‘I’m sorry. It’s just I’ve wanted to kiss you for so long.’

‘And what do I do? Burst out laughing,’ she said. ‘I’ve never been kissed like that before, that’s all.’

‘Never?’ Bill smiled shyly. ‘I thought I’d lost my chance.’

‘Because I’m leaving tomorrow? I’ll come back, I said so.’

‘Will you?’ Bill took her hand in his, pressed her fingers to his lips. ‘You won’t forget?’

‘Forget you? This place?’ She smiled. ‘This is my home, Bill. My heart is here with you.’ She cocked her head playfully. ‘What about you then? How do I know the
minute I’m off you won’t be down the village with Bronwen Maddocks? She’s had her eye on you for ages.’

Bill laughed as he hugged her, lifting her clear off the ground. ‘Don’t you be thinking about Bronwen Maddocks. Just get yourself home in one piece, alright?’ He gazed into her
eyes as he set her down. ‘I love you, Megan. I’ll be waiting right here for you.’

I flew with the forgotten pilots, the ‘Ancient and Tattered Airforce’ of one-armed veterans and adventurers, and the beauty chorus of debutantes and pink-cheeked
Oxbridge graduates. We had conjurors, strippers, joyriders and decorated heroes in our ranks.

I was just a jobbing ferry pilot, but it would have been different if they had asked me to run the show. Why they chose Pauline over me I don’t know. While she flew joyriders, I flew
single-handed around the world with just an evening dress and a tennis racket in my luggage. I pitched up in deserts where I fended off sheikhs with ju-jitsu, and mended my plane’s wings with
sticking plasters. Actually, I do know why they chose her. The English are snobbish about celebrity. They did not like the trace of Hull in my accent, in spite of all the elocution lessons, nor
that cod and herring bought me my wings. They did not like that I commanded headlines, dined with Roosevelt and Chaplin. How else was I supposed to fly, but earn my way? I have paid my dues. I was
a secretary. I was a teacher. I always wanted more.

I feel guilty sometimes. I made flying glamorous, encouraged girls to see it all as a great adventure. Pauline said ‘all women should fly’, but by the end of the war one in seven
of my ATA sisters were dead, and I was among the first to go.

Perhaps that is why they chose her. Pauline was a safe, established pair of hands. It was easy to imagine her charging down a hockey field. She ensured that we earned more than the RAF
fighter pilots, and eventually the same as our male ATA colleagues, another first. No glass ceilings for us girls – the sky had no limits. Not everyone was happy about this – there was
sugar in our fuel tanks, vital tools and parts often went missing. But Pauline knew the secret of getting ahead. She orchestrated a quiet revolution. Get in, get your head down and do better than
expected without making a fuss.

Perhaps you’ve heard of me? On Civvy Street everyone knew my name. In the fug of a pub’s back room you’d often hear someone strumming out the song on a banjo: ‘Amy,
wonderful Amy, how can you blame me for loving you?’ Or maybe you’ve seen the film
They Flew Alone
? I used to love the cinema. Frankly you couldn’t make me up – no
one would believe you. It amused me, sliding into an empty seat beside Pauline at the premiere in Leicester Square, my spirit unnoticed as they celebrated my memory on screen. How strange to see
your life, your loves and losses, played out in black and white, the image of ‘me’ and ‘Jim’ flickering on a grand scale. We pranged a lot of planes between us, in truth,
but no one seemed to mind.

In black and white what you cannot smell is the cocktail of doped canvas, fuel and engine oil, of sweat and adrenalin. You cannot feel the wind, hear it whistling in the wire braces as the
wings sing, or taste the salt of our kiss in the blazing Australian sun. We were the ‘Flying Sweethearts’. I wonder what Jim thought of it, when he watched the film. Did he feel regret,
mourn my loss again? I hope so. I broke records, but that man broke my heart.

‘Marry me.’ He reached across the crisp white tablecloth in Quaglino’s and took my hand, the sleeve of his dapper double-breasted suit riding up over his tanned wrist. I
could tell he was shot up, on his second White Lady of the day. Close to, his breath smelt of booze. It often did, but he was mine, and I loved him.