Bluebirds (33 page)

There was a moment's silence. At last Mrs Shaw put out her hand and took the envelope. She looked down at it and then up again. Her face was white and set.

‘He was very shy with girls. Very reserved. He wouldn't have given you this unless he thought a lot of you.'

It was like an accusation. In some way she was badly at fault in Mrs Shaw's eyes – perhaps because she had
not been in love with her son. Or maybe because he might have been in love with her.

‘I don't know about that . . . We were good friends, that's all.'

‘You must have known all about him being a pilot.'

It was another accusation – full of bitterness.

Anne said apologetically: ‘Well, I couldn't really help knowing.'

‘Everybody knew, it seems, except
us.
His own parents.'

‘He said he kept it from you because he wanted to spare you the worry. He was thinking of you –'

‘He discussed that with you?'

‘Just a bit.'

‘I see. Well, he might as well not have bothered, mightn't he? It was all the same in the end. Worse, because of the shock. I always knew we'd lose him. I knew it all along. It's worse to know he kept things from us, and talked to other people about it.'

Nothing she had said seemed right and yet she had to say something. Keep trying. Jimmy would have wanted her to say consoling things, to comfort his mother.

‘I'm terribly sorry about Jimmy, Mrs Shaw –'

‘His name was James.'

‘James, I mean. He was one of the nicest and kindest people I've ever known. He would never have wanted to hurt you in any way. He asked me to give you that letter because he didn't want you to get it through the post. He wanted to try and explain things, he said . . . about the flying, and not telling you, I think. His wings are inside that envelope too. He told me he took them off his best blue. He wanted you to have them –'

To Anne's horror, Mrs Shaw gave a loud, wild sob – a dreadful animal-like moan that seemed to come from deep inside her. She flung her hands up to her face and collapsed sideways into one of the armchairs.

‘Please go! Just go away now and leave me alone. Don't say another word . . . I can't bear it!
Go!
'

Anne looked at her helplessly. She would have liked to have put an arm round her shoulders, but she dared not. She had done far more harm than good in coming here and had somehow made a mess of the whole thing. She tiptoed out of the room and looked back as she closed the door. Jimmy's mother was sitting with her head bowed. She had torn open the envelope, taken out the silk-embroidered RAF wings, and was pressing them against her lips.

‘I made a complete hash of it, Kit. Said all the wrong things . . . It was awful!'

‘Don't eat your heart out, old girl. It was a pretty tricky assignment, by the sound of it. You did your best.'

Kit was sitting on the window-seat in the nursery, where she had found him when she arrived home. She had flung open the door to see him there, reading a book, one leg crooked up on the cushion, his back leaning against the embrasure, in exactly the way he always used to sit there as a child. It had given her quite a start to see him like that – as though she had suddenly gone back in time. Then he had turned his head towards her and stood up – tall and man-sized – and the illusion had been broken. They had hugged each other, rather clumsily because his wounded arm was still in a sling.

‘Wotcha!' he had said, just like he used to do, too, when he had come home for the holidays. ‘I nearly didn't recognize you in that uniform. You look frightfully smart and grown-up.'

He was smiling, but she had looked at him with a sinking heart. He was so pale and drawn. And the light seemed to have gone from his eyes: they were as dead as Mrs Shaw's. And yet Ma had said that he had made a good recovery. The arm had been in a pretty bad mess but it had mended well. They had just sent him home for the final part of his convalescence . . .

She had looked at the book open on the window-seat. ‘
Winnie the Pooh?
'

He had smiled again. ‘I'm reverting to childhood. A jolly good book, don't you remember?'

‘Almost every word.' She had turned the pages. ‘
Isn't it funny how a bear likes honey
. . .'

‘
Buzz! Buzz! Buzz! I wonder why he does
.' Kit had picked up the book and sat down again, stretching his legs out this time and looking what he was – a grown man in a children's nursery. ‘Have you got a cigarette on you, by any chance? I've run out.'

She had found a half empty packet of Players in her tunic pocket and some matches. He had lit her cigarette for her and she had wandered round the nursery while he sat smoking and watching her.

‘When I was last here this was a shambles – those bloody little evacuees had just about wrecked it. Thank God they've gone!'

‘I gather they were something of a trial.'

She had opened the toy cupboard and shut it and moved on to inspect her dolls' house. ‘Mummy seems to have done her best, but it'll never be the same again.'

He had shrugged. ‘Does it really matter? We'll never play with any of the things any more.'

She had known he would probably say that, and that it was the only sensible way to look at it, but it still upset her to see the damaged toys and the weals across Poppy's dappled hindquarters from Fred's stick. She had hitched up her WAAF skirt and got onto the horse, her legs dangling to the ground each side, reins in one hand, cigarette in the other. The wooden stand had creaked under her weight as she rocked gently to and fro. She had watched Kit narrowly. In the car, on the way home from the station, her mother had said: ‘He seems rather tired, darling. The arm's much better but he's still not quite himself. He's been through a lot, I think, but he won't talk much about it. He doesn't seem to want to . . . just clams up. I shouldn't probe, if I were you.'

‘How are you then, Kit?'

‘Alive and kicking, as you can see.'

‘The arm's OK?'

‘Getting better every day.'

‘That's good.'

He had flicked ash out of the open window. ‘How's the WAAF?'

She had made a face. ‘Bloody awful, really. But at least I'm not stuck in the kitchens any longer.'

‘Ma said you were on the R/T, blabbing away to pilots. Sounds interesting.'

‘It's all right. A lot better than peeling spuds. It makes you feel quite important, even if you're not. Actually, it's been fairly grim lately. We've all been warned that the Germans could attack the station at any moment. Masses of mock air raids and gas attacks and hours spent sitting around in shelters, wearing our respirators. All that sort of thing. Bloody boring! Do you know, the WAAFS have been told not to put up any resistance if the Germans invade. We're supposed to just do as we're told by them. The general idea is that although we'll probably all get raped we might not get killed if we don't put up any fight. I think that's pretty feeble, don't you? I'm jolly well going to have a bash at shooting a few of them myself, if it comes to it. I got one of the erks to show me how to aim and fire a rifle.'

‘Don't try anything of the kind, twin. The RAF are right. Keep out of it. The Huns are complete swine and they wouldn't hesitate to shoot you if they felt like it. Believe me, I
know.
You might think they've got normal, decent, human feelings, but they haven't. They're vicious, rotten scum and I'm going to kill as many of the bastards as I can when I get back.'

His voice had risen and it shook with emotion. She had slowed Poppy down and looked at him in alarm. What had happened to him? In the old days he would have been laughing and joking, making light of everything . . . His face would have been alive, animated, amused . . . not the pale mask it was now. He had turned away from her
towards the window, shoulders hunched. To change the subject she had told him about her visit to Mrs Shaw and he had listened sympathetically enough but without any real interest.

She got off the rocking-horse and wandered about the nursery again, touching things here and there. Kit watched her in silence, smoking his cigarette. She tapped the ash from hers into the ‘Present from Swanage' mug on the mantelpiece that they had brought back from a seaside holiday long ago.

‘I don't suppose Nanny would approve of us smoking in here, would she?'

‘Or anywhere.'

‘Do you remember all those funny sayings of hers, Kit? I want, never gets. Leave some for Mr Manners. There'll be tears before bedtime . . .'

‘There usually were.'

‘Yes . . .' Anne lifted the lid of the old musical box – broken, naturally. It used to play
Annie Laurie
and
Here's a Health Unto His Majesty
, before Fred and Betty had got their sticky little hands on it. ‘By the way, did you ever come across someone called Johnnie Somerville at school? A good bit older than you.'

‘There was a Johnnie Somerville who left just before I arrived. He won quite a few cups, as I remember. Wet Bob and a terrific all-rounder. Held the long-jump record. I know that because I tried to beat it. I think he got a scholarship to Oxford, or something. Why?'

‘Oh, I came across him at Colston. He's a pilot with one of the auxiliary squadrons.'

‘Have you fallen for him? That would please Ma. The family's probably stinking rich.'

She pulled another face. ‘God, no! He's appalling! Disgustingly conceited. The worst sort of Etonian. Nothing like as nice as your friends. How's old Villiers?'

‘Villiers is dead.'

She swung round, shocked. ‘
Dead!
Oh, Kit, I can't believe it . . .'

He said tonelessly: ‘It's true, I'm afraid. He was killed in France when we were retreating.'

‘I'm terribly sorry.'

She looked at Kit, feeling as helpless as she had felt with Mrs Shaw. Villiers had been his best friend since prep school days. Ten years of friendship.

‘So am I.' Kit chucked the butt of his cigarette out of the window and stood up. ‘Let's go and find a drink before dinner. I could do with one.'

During dinner he was something like his old self. Their mother had turned the meal into an occasion, with candles and silver on the table, and favourite food. She had put on a long gown and her pearls and diamond brooch. From time to time she would lean forward and touch Kit, as though to make sure that he was really there. Their father, back late from his hush-hush job in London, was in a very good mood. The meal passed with a good deal of laughter and reminiscence. It was a long while since they had all been together.

Anne watched Kit. He was smiling too, and making occasional jokes, but she could tell that it was a great effort for him. It was a little show put on to please the parents.

Afterwards, when their parents had finally gone to bed, they went out onto the terrace. They had turned the drawing-room lights off and left the french windows open so that they could hear the record playing on the gramophone. She had chosen the most cheerful one she could find, and danced up and down the terrace to it. In the old days, Kit would have probably joined her and they would have Charlestoned up and down together, waving arms and kicking legs. Now, he sat silently on the balustrade, smoking his cigarette and drinking brandy. When the record had finished she collapsed, breathless, into the swing seat. They were both sitting exactly where they had sat on the night of their birthday dance a year ago. She lit a cigarette.

‘What's the matter, Kit? Something's badly wrong. What's happened to make you like this?'

There was a near-full moon sailing high above the beech trees and shining down onto the terrace, but his face was in shadow and she could not see his expression. After a moment he spoke.

‘Is it so obvious?'

‘To me it is. But then I'd always know. I don't think the parents do. Ma just thinks you're a bit tired – shattered by everything. Still getting over your arm. But it's more than that, isn't it? Is it to do with Villiers?'

Again, he was silent, drawing on his cigarette.

She said: ‘Wouldn't it be better to talk about it? To me, at least? It might help and you know I'll never tell another living soul.'

There was another long silence. When, finally, he spoke it sounded as though it was with a great effort.

‘As a matter of fact, it is to do with Villiers. Very astute of you.'

‘So, tell me about it, Kit. Tell me what happened.'

‘Well, I told you he was killed when we were retreating in France . . .'

‘Go on.'

‘It was all a pretty bloody frightful shambles over there. A monumental cock-up, I'd say. The Hun tanks just kept steam-rollering forward and we just kept on pulling back, digging in, and then pulling back again – scattered all over the place. Communications went to pot. Half the time nobody knew what the hell was going on, or what to do next. There were no proper orders. A bloody disaster!'

‘That's what we heard.'

‘Yes. We'd dig ourselves in overnight behind some canal or river, fend the Germans off during the next day and then pull back to the next river. That went on day after day. There was no time to sleep. We got totally exhausted. Those bloody Huns never let up – just kept on pushing us back. In the end they got our lot surrounded in a wood. They kept on shelling us and a lot of the chaps
were killed, including our CO. He was a damned fine bloke, too.'

There was a long pause. Anne waited. The scent of the roses on the wall behind her was sweet on the night air – an English country garden smell which had nothing to do with what Kit was talking about.

He went on. ‘There wasn't much we could do except keep our heads low while the shells went on raining down . . . Then the Stukas turned up and had a go too. That was hell. They make this ghastly whining noise as they dive down – a sort of terrifying screeching – and then the bombs explode all over the shop. It was bloody frightening, I can tell you.'