Bluebirds (50 page)

At Colston the trees on the station were coming into leaf and there were daffodils in bloom outside the Officers' Mess. Felicity, returning to her office after lunch, found four airwomen waiting outside her door. They stood at attention and saluted. The first in line, an aircrafthand, followed her inside and shut the door. Felicity sat down at her desk.

‘Well, what can I do for you, Jones?'

‘I want to re-muster, please, ma'am.'

‘To what trade?'

‘I'd like to train to be a telephone operator, please, ma'am.'

‘Why is that, Jones?'

The girl hesitated. ‘I've been scrubbing floors and cleaning things for nearly a year, ma'am, and I'd like the chance to do something else now. I always fancied working on a switchboard but there weren't any vacancies when I joined. I'd like to try, and I think I can do it.'

‘I see.' Felicity turned it over in her mind. Jones had a clean slate. She seemed sensible and hard-working and she had a clear speaking voice. Other aircrafthands would be arriving soon who could take her place. She deserved to be given her chance. ‘Very well, Jones. Write a formal letter in the proper way, giving your reasons and let me have it. You must start it: Ma'am, I have the honour to request . . . and so on. Then let me have it. It will all depend on vacancies still, of course, and it might mean you being posted to another station. Would you mind that?'

Jones shook her head. ‘I'd miss it here, ma'am, but I think it'd be worth it.' She beamed her thanks and saluted smartly before she went out.

ACW Hollis who came in next was far from smiling. Felicity who knew the reason, told her to sit down and the airwoman, who was a cook, started immediately to cry. Her mother and two sisters had been killed when their home in London had been bombed. Only her father and her small brother had survived. She was leaving the WAAF to go and look after them, and doing so with a heavy heart.

‘Your discharge has come through, Hollis, and you'll be cleared to leave early tomorrow.'

‘I don't want to go, ma'am.'

‘I know, Hollis, and we'll miss you. But your father and brother need you.'

The cook nodded. She blew her nose hard and wiped her eyes. ‘Thank you, ma'am. I'll do my best for them, of course, but I'm ever so sorry to be leaving the WAAF. I've been happy here. It's a good life – better than I've ever known.'

She was not the first WAAF who had had to leave for a similar sort of reason. Many of them had lost homes and relatives in the bombing of London and other big cities – Southampton, Bristol, Plymouth, Coventry, Portsmouth, Birmingham, Liverpool . . . the Luftwaffe had pounded them all. Some, like Hollis, had been needed by their families to help cope with disaster. And some, like Hollis, had been reluctant to go. Felicity had come to realize that joining the WAAF had provided a heaven-sent escape route for girls trapped in joyless, dreary, dead-end circumstances. They had seized the chance and flourished in their new life. Then, sometimes, they had to go back.

ACW Stratton was the next to enter. She tripped on her way in, fumbled a salute and stood blushing. Felicity smiled at her.

‘There's nothing to worry about, Stratton. Quite the contrary. There have been excellent reports on you, which is why you are here. I've been asked to put forward the names of two WAAF SD clerks suitable for special
training on top secret work, and I'm proposing that one of them should be you.'

The airwoman looked completely astonished and taken aback; she obviously had a low opinion of herself. Felicity mentally reviewed what she knew about Stratton: Christian name, Virginia, nineteen years old, good education record, worked as an insurance clerk before volunteering, no charges or misdemeanours of any kind while serving and, apparently, completely reliable. The self-confidence would probably come in time.

‘I'm afraid I can't tell you very much about the work because I don't know a lot about it myself and it's very hush-hush indeed. All I can say is that it would be related to the kind of work you are doing at present – concerning tracking aircraft and establishing their position. That sort of thing. It's very responsible and demanding work, I'm told, and absolutely vital. I already have one suitable candidate and I think you should be the other. Would you like to be put forward?'

The girl's brow furrowed anxiously. ‘If you really think so, ma'am . . .'

‘I most certainly do, Stratton,' Felicity said, encouraging her firmly. ‘I think you will do extremely well.'

The last airwoman waiting outside had plenty of self-confidence but, unfortunately, lacked self-discipline. As ACW Cunningham marched in and saluted, Felicity wondered if she was about to make a bad mistake. There was still trouble of some sort with her every so often – still complaints of lateness, lost kit, insubordination, dumb insolence, larking about . . . the night when she had been caught swimming naked in the static tank was still talked about all over the station. On the last occasion she had been caught climbing through the window of Eastleigh House at two in the morning and had refused to say where she had been. Presumably with the Polish pilot to whom she was now engaged, which meant that her mind would probably be even less on the WAAF than before. And yet she had always believed that Anne Cunningham
had all the qualities necessary to become a really good officer, if only she would use them. And the WAAF badly needed all the good officers it could find. The girl standing before her, meeting her gaze very directly, had it within her and it was an old maxim that poachers made the best gamekeepers. The question was, would she have the sense to do it?

She drew a breath. ‘Well, Cunningham, I have a proposition for you. I'm not quite sure why I'm doing this, but I'm thinking of recommending you for the WAAF Officers' Training School. I want you to tell me what
you
think about the idea.'

She couldn't wait to tell Pearl. Bicycling across to Eastleigh House, she went through the interview with Section Officer Newman again, and laughed aloud. It was the last thing she had expected when she had been sent for. Waiting outside the office she had been racking her brains over what she might have been reported for now. Perhaps that twerp of a Flying Officer with the falsetto voice she'd imitated had gone and complained, or Beaty had seen her stick her tongue out at her . . . When she had finally gone inside, prepared for the worst, she had hardly been able to believe what had been said.
My Gawd!
Pearl would shriek.
You a bloody officer! God save us all!

She pedalled on merrily in the evening sunshine. Michal would be so pleased for her. She couldn't wait to tell him either, and to see his smile.
That is wonderful, Anne. I am very happy for you. Very proud.
She could hear him saying it. For once there'd be something good to tell him about herself. And her parents would be pretty amazed. She'd never even been made a prefect at school.

Well, she'd been pretty amazed herself. For a moment she hadn't known what to say; just stood there like an idiot with her mouth open. The choice was hers, Newman had told her. She could either try for it, or she could just not bother and stay in the ranks as ACW Cunningham,
1st Class. She'd been inclined to do just that. It was much more fun in the ranks. She'd miss all the laughs, the fooling around, the lack of any boring responsibility . . . On the other hand, it would be a great deal more comfortable being an officer and, as well as better conditions, the pay would be better too: five shillings a day better, to be exact. And it would probably be more interesting. She was rather tired of twiddling R/T knobs and writing things down and enunciating like an elocution teacher. Besides, the officer's uniform was far nicer – finer material, flat pockets not those flappy pouches, and, blissful thought, decent shoes not blister-making, corn-rubbing beetlecrushers. And the cap was
tons
nicer. A stitched cloth peak, not a horrible black shiny one, and a smart gold and red woven badge with the laurel wreath, eagle and King's crown, instead of a plain gilt one.

She slowed down a little, sobering. The only snag was that she would be sent miles away for several weeks training, which meant being separated from Michal. Still, it was already April and after June, when she was twenty, they would be getting married. She took her left hand off the handlebars and admired the little cluster of stones twinkling on her fourth finger. Not long now before a gold ring was there too. They'd have to be at different stations anyway after that, because of the silly RAF rules, but at least they would be married at last. She'd stay in the WAAF for a bit until she had a baby. Then perhaps they'd be able to find a cottage near here, or wherever Michal was then – one like the cottage in the New Forest where they'd been so happy. She'd turn it into a proper home for him, find pretty things to furnish it with, grow vegetables in the garden. She could picture Michal coming back to a place all polished and shining, flowers in vases, the fire lit and burning brightly, a cat sitting on the hearth, perhaps even a dog too, like Barley, and the smell of something good cooking in the kitchen – if only she could manage to learn to cook better. And their child sleeping peacefully in its cot upstairs. She could see Michal leaning over to
watch it, talking to it softly in Polish, turning to smile at her, taking her in his arms . . .

All these thoughts went through her mind as she bicycled along the lane. A Bedford tooted as it went past and she waved at the airmen in the back. She began to hum, and then to sing.

She swept into the driveway of Eastleigh House, sending gravel spurting out from under the wheels, and swerved to avoid the cook's cat who was strolling across. As she skidded to a halt near the front door, a new WAAF whom she hardly knew leaned out of a downstairs window and called to her.

‘There's a man in the garden to see you.'

The silly clot had pulled her head in and gone before she could ask who it was. Michal? But he wouldn't come in here. The Waafery was out of bounds to RAF except for special reasons. Kit? He was miles away in Yorkshire. She left the bike and walked round the side of the house to the gardens. Someone in RAF uniform was sitting on the seat in the rose arbour at the end of the pathway. At first she couldn't see him clearly, but as he stood up she recognized the tall figure of Stefan. She thought, puzzled: what on earth's
he
doing here? Then, as he began to walk slowly towards her, without his usual beaming smile, and she saw the look on his face, she knew.

They stood facing each other on the path. He lifted his hands and let them fall again. A gesture of despair.

‘I am very sorry, Anne. Very, very sorry . . .'

He was unable to speak more. She saw that he was weeping, the tears sliding down his cheeks. She couldn't cry with him. She couldn't seem to do anything but stand
there and stare at Stefan, as though he weren't real and this wasn't happening at all. If she stood perfectly still he would vanish and everything would go on as before.

But now he was taking holding of her hands and leading her towards the garden seat, making her sit down, though she didn't want to in the least. She went on staring at him. At last she found her voice and it sounded so calm it might have been someone else talking. Another person who had taken over and was asking a question for her.

‘Is there any hope, Stefan?'

He shook his head. ‘None. I am there. I see.'

The other person spoke again. ‘Tell me what happened.'

He hesitated, very troubled.

‘I want to know, Stefan. Please tell me.'

He gave a deep sigh. ‘Very well. If you want. We were on patrol. Many patrols we have done these days, and we see nothing. But today we are vectored to intercept bandits. We find them. We go after them. Michal, he is shooting one and I see another coming from high at back of him. I try to tell him quick on R/T, but is too late, or he not hear. Then he is hit very bad. One wing is gone. His Hurricane go down fast . . .' Stefan twisted his hand downwards. ‘I go down too, so I am with him. There is fire and much smoke . . . All the time I am hoping to see parachute. I call him again and again on R/T but there is no answer. Many times I try. I shout . . . I am in terrible fear for him . . . Then I see him go into sea. There is big splash with aircraft. I fly low to see if perhaps he gets out . . . but the Hurricane she sinks very quick and there is nothing. I fly round and round. I look and look but there is just water . . .' He put his hands to his face. ‘I am very sorry, Anne. I could not help him. I could do nothing.
Nothing
.'

She looked over his bent head at the white squirrel scampering merrily across the lawn. After its winter hibernation it was full of the joys of spring. She watched it whisk up the trunk of the big copper beech and into the
branches where the buds would soon burst into young leaves. The whole garden was full of new life – birds nesting, green shoots sprouting, flowers opening, grass growing. It would all burgeon and blossom and bloom into a summer that Michal would never see.

‘Thank you for telling me, Stefan. And thank you for coming to give me the news yourself.'

He lifted his head. ‘Michal ask me to do this, if it happens to him. I promise. He was my very good friend. I never forget him.' He spread his hands helplessly and sadly. ‘He ask also I give you this.'

She hadn't noticed the suitcase tucked away beside the seat. Stefan placed it before her, at her feet. It looked scratched and well-used. A label hanging from the handle bore Michal's name. She remembered how he had opened it up on the cottage table in the New Forest.
I bring food for us. Eggs, bacon, potatoes, a tin of ham, bread, butter, tea, chocolate . . . and, most important thing of all, real Polish vodka
.