Bluebirds (71 page)

‘Given me up?' He looked at her in mock horror. ‘While there is life there's hope.'

‘I knew you'd say that, but I didn't even know you
were
still alive.'

‘Would have dropped you a line, Titania, but there's not much of a postal service between Frogland and England at the moment.'

George was snuffling at her ankles and wagging his tail. She bent to pat him. He had lost weight, too, probably from pining. She looked up and smiled at Speedy.

‘Come in and meet Father.'

She led him towards the study and opened the door. ‘Father, this is Flight Lieutenant Ian Dutton.'

Before supper the two of them walked in the tangled wilderness that had once been the rectory garden. They wandered along the overgrown herbaceous border where delphiniums, lupins, canterbury bells and poppies
had struggled through to bloom among the weeds. George followed them, exploring with his nose in the undergrowth.

‘Tell me what happened, Speedy . . . in all these months.'

‘Long story, Titania. I'll give you the bare bones. We were doing a sweep over France – we've got Spits now, you know, instead of Hurries. Jolly good little bus. Climbs like a rocket. Very nippy. Though I was rather fond of the old Hurry . . . Anyway, I was tootling along, minding my own business, as usual, when all of a sudden someone started shooting at me. Jerry ack-ack where I didn't expect it. Pretty unsporting of them. Either they were good shots or they were lucky because they scored a bullseye. The kite went up in flames and I had to hop out smartly. Touched down right in the middle of a field of cabbages . . . never knew the French were that keen on them, but still. There was this old Frenchman digging away in a corner as I floated down but he didn't even look up.'

Felicity laughed. ‘Last time it was a girl.'

‘Wasn't so lucky second time around. I undid the parachute and sort of bundled it up in my arms and carried it over to the Frenchman. I thought I'd ask to borrow his spade, see, so I could bury it. I did the old
je suis aviateur anglais
bit and bowed very politely, then I couldn't remember the French for spade. So, I did a sort of mime – digging and so on.'

‘Did he understand you?'

‘Well, he may have done, but he started to spout a whole gabble of French at me that didn't sound very friendly and he made some rather insulting gestures. So, no help there. I pushed off sharpish and went and hid in a wood for a while. Got out my little escape kit, but that wasn't much help either.'

‘What do they give you?'

‘Bit rum, I thought . . . There was a booklet entitled
Instruction and Hints for Fishing
and a fishing hook. I suppose that would have come in handy if I'd landed near
a river or pond but I couldn't spot one in the immediate vicinity. And then there was a safety pin, which I'm glad to say I didn't need – not a tear in the old blue.'

‘What about a map?'

Speedy sighed. ‘Turned out to be of Norway. Not much use in France. So, I lay low 'til it got dark and then set off in what my compass button had vouchsafed was a northerly direction, to see if I could find a friendly farmhouse for some grub. I was feeling a bit peckish by that time. Not a morsel since breakfast the day before, you see. The first two or three wouldn't let me in or even give me a crust. Kept flapping their arms and aprons at me, telling me to go away. I was rather hurt, I can tell you. Anyway, I pressed on regardless in true RAF spirit and came to a village. Knocked on the first door and did the
aviateur anglais
routine yet again and, hey presto, this old crone beckons me in. Could've knocked me down with a feather. No beauty, she, I have to say. All in black, not a tooth in her head and a moustache like my Uncle Arthur, but she was all smiles and nods and made me sit down at the kitchen table while she got out a jolly decent bottle of
vin rouge
 . . . I felt considerably better after a few glasses.'

Felicity imagined the scene with amusement: the old peasant woman nodding and smiling as she kept pouring out wine for Speedy, undoubtedly at his most charming.

‘What happened then, Speedy?'

He picked a stick up off the grass and lobbed it ahead for George who scampered rheumatically in pursuit.

‘Well, after a while the son came home. No oil painting either, but he spoke passable English. He soon sorted the whole thing out. Off with the old RAF togs and on with some very smelly blue overalls and a pair of boots I think he'd been wearing to clean out the pigs. I was a bit choked about having to give mine up, I must say.' He kicked mournfully at the long grass.

‘Needs must when the devil drives.'

‘My thoughts precisely, Titania. In fact I muttered
those very words to myself as I handed them over to Pierre. Hung on to my gong and wings, though, so all was not lost.'

They had reached the end of the border and strolled on in the golden sunlight, past the dilapidated summer house and towards a bench set against the kitchen garden wall where Albertine had rampaged unchecked and smothered the brickwork with its pink flowers. They sat down and George collapsed at their feet, tongue lolling, flanks heaving. It was warm in the sun. Speedy leaned forward, arms resting on his knees, hands clasped, and looked about him.

‘Wonderful place this . . . peaceful, unspoiled . . .'

‘Rather a jungle, I'm afraid. It was lovely once.'

‘I like it this way: the long grass, the flowers all jumbled up, roses all over the shop. Perfect on a summer evening like this. Listen to that bird singing.'

‘It's a blackbird. He's on the top of the apple tree.'

Speedy craned his neck. ‘Can't see the little blighter. He's warbling away like fury . . . Sure it's not a
blue
bird? One of those ones that are supposed to be going to zoom around over the White Cliffs of Dover one of these fine days? Never seen one yet, I must say, and I've flown over there enough times myself. Don't think we even have them, do we? Jolly good song, though. Some Yank wrote it, apparently. Hence the bluebirds, I suppose. Never seen the place. Chap didn't have a clue we didn't even have them in this country.'

‘It's symbolic, isn't it? The bluebird of happiness.'

He smiled at her sideways. ‘Matter of fact, Titania, I've heard some of the RAF call you WAAFS bluebirds . . . for that very reason. You bring happiness.'

‘Not always,' she said.

‘Tomorrow, just you wait and see . . .'

‘I want to hear what happened next,' she told him quickly. ‘What did you do, dressed in your French disguise?'

‘They moved me onto another house in some other
village. Rather an attractive widow, as a matter of fact – teeth all present and correct and not a whisker. I stayed there for a few days. Quite pleasant, I have to admit.'

‘I'm sure it was.'

‘Don't look at me like that, Titania. I behaved at all times like a perfect English gentleman.'

‘Hum. That can mean anything. And after the French widow?'

‘Not so much fun. They parked me with the
curé
in the next village. Well, you know me and God bods . . . not really my line at all – excepting your father, of course. Still, the old boy turned out to be rather good at poker and he had some quite special brandy stashed away out of sight of the marauding Huns. I positively warmed to him by the time I had to leave. Almost converted me.'

‘Never.'

‘I said,
almost
. And you won't believe this either, but they dressed me up as a nun to move me on to the next place. A
bonne soeur
they called it.'

She put her hand over her mouth. ‘Oh, Speedy!'

‘All very well for you to laugh. He jests at scars that never felt a wound . . . Our old friend Romeo, I believe. I can tell you, Titania, that I've spent a jolly rum sort of time over there. Real cloak and dagger stuff – hiding from the Huns. All kinds of disguises. Wigs. False beards. Forged papers. The whole caboodle. I've biked miles. Walked miles. Gone on train journeys sitting bang next to Jerry soldiers . . .' He paused and glanced at her again. ‘Not sure I should tell you about the oddest hiding place of all. Not really fit for your ears.'

‘You may as well.'

He grinned. ‘Well, one of my last ports of call was what I shall politely call a house of ill repute. By this time I'd been joined by another RAF type – pilot officer by the name of Butterworth. He tagged along for the last couple of months. Nice chap, really, but hadn't been around much, if you get my meaning. Only nineteen and still
wet behind the ears. Anyway, the two of us were hidden in this particular house –'

‘How convenient.'

‘Jolly good place for a chap to hide, actually. The thing is that the Huns somehow got wind of something and raided the place. Butterworth and I were called upon to do a pretty fair imitation of paying guests, as you might say, only poor old Butters was such an innocent the Frogs were frightened he'd give himself and them away, so they dressed him up in women's clothes and stuck him in one of the rooms.'

She laughed. ‘You're not making all this up, are you Speedy? I never know whether to believe you or not.'

‘Absolute gospel, I swear it. Made rather a good-looking popsie, as a matter of fact. He was damned lucky none of the Huns took a fancy to him. They got us to the Spanish border after that and then it was a long slog over the Pyrenees. Butterworth and I finally showed up at the British Consulate at Figueras, a trifle the worse for wear. They put us up at the Embassy for a while, so we went to the odd cocktail party and did a fair bit of line-shooting before we managed to cadge a lift back by air. Home sweet home.' He sighed deeply and leaned back against the bench. ‘Still can't quite believe I'm here. Back in jolly old England. And with you. Can't tell you how much I thought about you in France – but then, as you know, I always do . . .'

She saw that he was perfectly serious now and wished that he weren't. Fond as she was of him, there was a world of difference between that and being in love with him – a huge gulf that she didn't think she could ever cross. But everything would have been so wonderfully simple and happy if it had happened with Speedy. There would have been none of this terrible heartache and misery. None of this guilt and despair. None of this wishing for what could never be. She hadn't seen David for nearly six months now – not since she had told him that what had scarcely begun was finished.
His sadness had been hard to bear and it had taken all her strength to keep to her resolution. Now she was far away at RAF Pickerton in Yorkshire, while he had been posted recently to Fighter Command HQ at Bentley Priory. It was very unlikely that their paths would ever cross again.

She stood up. ‘Come and see our church, Speedy. It's well worth looking at.'

He got to his feet slowly. ‘So am I, Titania. If only you would.'

The willow trees overhanging the river bank and trailing their long, pale leaves in the water, gave a prettily dappled shade. Sunlight filtered through translucent green and sparkled in bright blobs on the water's surface. Anne, admiring the effect, let her fingers trail too, dangling one hand over the side of the punt. The river water felt blissfully cool and her fingertips made tickly little furrows as the punt glided along. She leaned back against the cushion. It seemed a very long time ago since she had last been in a punt. One summer, before the war, her parents had taken her to visit a cousin who was up at Cambridge. They had gone to his rooms – a mullion-windowed den up a stone staircase at the corner of the quad. Kit had been there too so that he could compare Cambridge with Oxford. Afterwards Cousin Hugo had taken them out on the Cam. They had punted along the Backs and up the river to Grantchester where they had had, not Rupert Brooke's honey tea, but a picnic lunch with cold salmon, strawberries and cream and Pimms. It had been a perfect, baking hot summer's day – just like this one. There had been lots of other punts on the river, propelled by undergraduates in straw boaters, with girls in cotton frocks and floppy sun hats lazing back against the cushions and trailing their hands over the sides, as she was doing now. She could remember the sound of their laughter and voices across the water . . . 
I say, Frobisher, watch where you're going! Head down
,
Fiona! I'm taking us under that branch . . . oh God, you silly clot! I did warn you
 . . . A wind-up gramophone had been playing in one of the punts and she had listened to
Deep Purple
floating away down the river.

The weather was the same, and so was the scenery, but all the rest had changed. Gone were the dashing young men and the pretty girls, the laughter and the loud voices and the music. There were no picnicking parties on the banks, no wicker hampers, no pitchers of fruity Pimms. The church clock at Grantchester might stand at ten to three but there would be nobody there for tea. The quads in Cambridge were deserted and military lorries rumbled through the streets. Kit was in Africa, Cousin Hugo had been killed at Dunkirk and in his place at the punt's stern was an American pilot in uniform. She had never meant to come out with Frank Wallace. After the time she had met him in the Black Bull and refused to do so she had kept on meeting him there again. And he had kept on asking her.

‘I'd sure like to see Cambridge,' he'd said one evening in the smoke-filled, beer-soaked bar. ‘I want to know if it's all it's cracked up to be.'

‘It's not far. You can get there by train.'

‘I'd need a native guide. Someone to show me round and make sure I didn't miss anything.'

‘Don't look at me. I've only been there once for the day and that was years ago.'

‘Yeah, but you were born and bred in this country. You know all about its treasures.'

‘I can give you a list. Christ's College, Trinity, Clare, Queen's . . . well, all the colleges, really. The Bridge of Sighs, King's College Chapel –'