Bluebirds (78 page)

The village boys were throwing clods of earth at each other and tumbling about. Jack had his hat over his eyes and was probably asleep. Prince and Smiler were swish-swishing the flies away with their tails. The sun glared down.

Virgil brushed a fly away absently. ‘They jumped us goin' back too. Gave us hell again. I saw a coupla Forts just blown clean to pieces. No chutes then . . . An' all the way back we could see the smoke 'n flames from the wrecks down on the ground. Reckon we could've found our way home by them. Jeez, were we glad to see our fighter boys show up, and then the English coast! When
we landed Buzz knelt down an' kissed the ground. Know just how he felt. Nearly did the same myself.'

She looked at him again, troubled. ‘Will you have to go on more raids like that?'

‘Guess so. Gotta fly the mission.'

At the end of the day she tried to thank him for his help, for Dad wouldn't, but he brushed her words aside.

‘Weren't nothin', Winnie. Only wish I could stay an' help finish the job, but I gotta go back tomorrow.'

They were walking across the yard in the darkness. The moon looked like a huge orange hanging over the farmhouse. Rusty rattled his chain softly.

‘Before the war,' she said, ‘we always used to have a supper in the barn when the harvest was over – horkey, we call it. It's like a thank-you to everyone who helped gettin' it in. A kind of feast.'

‘With turkey an' that sort of thing?'

‘Oh, no, nothin' like that. We'd have things like rabbit pie an' those jellied pigs' trotters I was tellin' you about.'

‘Then I ain't sorry I'm missin' it.'

‘We don't have it any more anyway, not since the war started. It was fun, though. Jack used to play the fiddle an' people danced . . . not like your sort o' dancin', o' course, more like hoppin' about.'

‘Well, I guess that's pretty much all we do too,' he said. ‘Hop about.' He stopped walking. ‘Remember that dance? I already told you, Winnie – moment I saw you standin' there I knew you was the girl for me. You thought I was kiddin', but I wasn't. I've had all kinds o' dreams an' plans for you 'n me when the war's over . . .' He sighed. ‘But right now I figure there ain't no sense in dreamin' or plannin' anythin' no more. The way I see it, I ain't got a prayer o' gettin' through this tour.'

Her mother's voice called out sharply to her from the back door.

‘Guess she don't trust me out here with you in the dark.'

She could tell by his voice that he was smiling a bit. Dad would soon start bellowing for her too.

‘I'd better go in . . .'

‘Reckon you had.' He moved towards her and put his hands on her shoulders. ‘In a moment.'

IT SEEMED TO
Felicity, walking down Bond Street after a visit to the tailors for a new uniform fitting, that London no longer carried her battle scars wearily, but flaunted them with pride. The stoic ‘London Can Take It' had became the ‘London Can Dish It Out', and it showed on people's faces and in the way they held themselves. The landings in Italy and the Italian surrender had boosted spirits and she had walked past a bookshop earlier that had filled its windows optimistically with guide books for Rome, Naples and Milan. Somewhat prematurely, as the Germans were now demonstrating, but it had been a small sign that perhaps the tide was turning at long last. There had been rumours all summer of a landing being planned across the Channel in France as well. Everyone had hoped it might happen in August, but the month had come and gone and now it was late October and nobody expected it to happen before the spring. There were other signs too, though, like the bookshop. Crates of oranges had appeared in greengrocers – fruits of the African victory – and were on sale to children, many of whom would never have seen one.

The biggest sign of all was the presence of the Americans. They were everywhere in London – on every corner and every street, gazing into shop windows, cramming into taxis, sauntering along, snapping right and left with their cameras, and arm-in-arm with the English girls. They looked like conquerors already. The fact was, though, that their noses had been badly bloodied lately. There had been huge American losses on the daylight bombing raids over Germany and that nice-looking young airman from the
New World who was standing and staring about him at grimy old London would probably never set eyes on his own homeland again.

The newsvendors' placards were carrying stark warnings in big letters:
New German Secret Weapon! Terror Rocket Threat!
There had been vague rumours in the papers for months about some kind of rocket that could be lobbed over from France, but nobody seemed very worried about it. ‘So long as they don't come and drop no more of them bloody bombs, who bloody cares?' she'd overheard someone say on a bus. ‘Can't do much damage from that far away.'

A tall American GI, loping along, bumped into her and apologized with a charming smile, touching his cap and addressing her as ma'am. Some of them are real heart-throbs, she thought. No wonder our girls are bowled over like ninepins.

As she reached Piccadilly she turned the corner and nearly collided with another man in uniform, but this time an RAF Air Commodore. She saluted quickly and would have hurried past him if he had not caught at her arm.

‘Felicity!'

‘Hallo, sir.'

David Palmer was staring at her. ‘What on earth are you doing here? I thought you were miles away, up in Yorkshire.' He was looking as though he could hardly believe his eyes.

‘I'm on leave, on my way home.'

‘I wish I'd known you were going to be in London.' He was still holding on to her arm. ‘Look, at least we could have a drink together. No harm in that, don't you agree?'

He steered her firmly along. He was taking charge, just as he had done once before at Liverpool Street Station, and she felt equally helpless. She found herself sitting opposite him in a corner of a cocktail bar, with a sherry set before her. He looked a little greyer and
older and he wore his new rank well, as she would have expected.

He was smiling at her wryly. ‘Forgive me for abducting you, Felicity. I'm so glad to see you . . . if only for a moment. It's incredible to have run into you like this. You're a flight officer now . . . congratulations. I'm not a bit surprised.'

‘And to you, on your promotion.'

He waved that aside impatiently. ‘How have you been? How are you getting on in Yorkshire?'

She hesitated. ‘Actually, I've just been posted down to Bomber Command HQ. They wanted someone and a WAAF officer there remembered me from my training course.'

‘Is that what
you
wanted?'

‘I wasn't sorry to leave the Station. So many were being killed. It was tragic.'

He nodded. ‘It's hard to have to watch it happening to fine young men. I could never get used to it at Colston. But I miss being on an operational station, for all that.' His eyes were fixed intently on her face. ‘Do you remember that day you first came to Colston and I treated you so appallingly? That haunts me. I'm ashamed of it.'

She remembered it very well. How she had stood in front of him, perspiring, pink in the face, and terrified.
Just exactly what are you women supposed to be doing here, Company Assistant Newman? Perhaps you can explain that to me
.

‘It was difficult for you.'

‘No, it wasn't. I was just a dyed-in-the-wool misogynist. A blinkered old fool. I know better now, but I must have made life very hard for you then and I regret that very much.'

‘It was hard for everyone at the beginning.'

‘All the more reason why I should have helped you.' He smiled at her gently. ‘It's getting on for a year since we last met, Felicity, and I've thought of you every single day. Is there any hope that you'll change your mind about us?'

She almost weakened – but only for a moment. I mustn't, she told herself desperately. It would ruin his career and the RAF is his life. He would never have been promoted if he'd been involved in a sordid divorce case over a WAAF. Because I love him, I can't let that happen. And I can't steal another woman's husband, no matter what she's like.

‘I can't,' she said stiffly. ‘I'm sorry, but there's no hope.'

‘I understand,' he said quietly. ‘Just tell me, though, is there someone else now? Dutton, for instance? He was always very keen. I used to watch him with you.'

It was better to let him think so. ‘I see Speedy quite a bit, as a matter of fact.'

He looked down at the table between them and fiddled with his glass. ‘Well, I suppose it's not very surprising. Dutton's a young man. Your age.'

She stood up, making herself look and sound brisk and indifferent. ‘I really must go, or I'll miss my train . . .'

‘Yes, of course.'

He helped her on with her coat and they went outside into the street. It had started to rain.

He touched her arm. ‘Take care of yourself, Felicity.'

‘You too, David,' she said. She turned and walked quickly away.

The young army captain sitting opposite Anne kept on trying to catch her eye. In a moment he'll go and say something, she thought, and I don't feel in the least like talking. She stared out of the train window, deliberately avoiding his gaze. I'm sick of the war, she thought. Sick to the stomach with the whole ghastly business. Now Frank's dead too – just like I knew he would be, and
he
knew he would be. Killed over Germany on some stupid raid that probably won't have made any difference to winning the war. The thought of it made her want to cry buckets and yell out loud that it wasn't bloody fair. He was so nice. Why couldn't he have gone back
home to Chicago and had a life, instead of it being ended horribly like that. Nobody ever died anything but horribly on those raids. And why couldn't Latimer have lived? Or Digger? Or Jimmy? Or any of them? The hundreds of decent, nice young men who would never have proper lives. Twenty-something wasn't very long to live. Not much of an innings. And Michal . . . better not to think about him at the moment or she would really start crying and disgrace herself in front of the rest of the carriage – the two tweedy spinsters, the stuffy-looking old colonel, though he had gone to sleep, the three RAF penguins and the young captain, who was
still
trying to catch her eye – bother him! Why couldn't he leave her in peace?

London had given way to the suburbs and now they were getting into the country. It all looked grey-brown and wintry. November was halfway through and there were hardly any leaves left on the trees – just a few dead ones that would blow away with the next strong wind. Soon it would be Christmas again. Another bloody Christmas! Awful camp concerts, tatty decorations, officers dishing round the turkey to other ranks, false bonhomie, false merry-making – for what was there to be merry about, with everyone dying like flies? And then a few days later it would be 1944. Another bloody year of war notched up.

The train slowed to a stop in the middle of nowhere and stayed there, engine hissing away up front. This was the fourth time since they'd left Paddington. It was the usual business. Stop-start. Start-stop. You never knew what was going on. And it was freezing cold in the carriage. Naturally, the heating wasn't working. Or if it had been it would probably have roasted them alive. One or the other. Her feet felt like blocks of ice and there was probably another two or three hours to go. She wriggled her toes uncomfortably.

Why was she doing this anyway? Giving up precious leave to go and stay with the Somervilles?
Dear Anne
, Lady Somerville had written in a very nice, flourishing
hand.
Johnnie is home for a while, in between operations on his hands, and he's very down in the dumps. He tells me that of all his hospital visitors, you cheered him up the most. Would you come and stay with us when you next get some leave? I think he'll be here for some time. He doesn't know that I'm writing to you – for some reason he won't ask you himself, so I decided to. I would be in your debt if you would come. Yours sincerely, Mary Somerville
.

She'd been rather flattered, in a way. And maybe a bit curious to see the Gloucestershire pile. And not that keen to go home and face the parade of suitable young officers who would be dragged round for drinks by her mother. Oddly, she didn't mind seeing Johnnie again too much, though whether she'd be able to cheer him, as his mother hoped, was another matter. They'd be more likely to end up rowing.

The train jerked forward and crawled a few yards before it stopped again. Just teasing us, she thought. Raising our hopes that we might get there before tomorrow, only to dash them again.

The captain leaned forward. ‘I say, excuse me, but aren't you Anne Cunningham? Kit's sister?'

She looked at him reluctantly. ‘Yes, do I know you?'

He flushed. ‘Well, not exactly. We did meet once, but I'm sure you won't remember. It was at the Fourth one year. I'm Alastair Crawford.'

‘I'm sorry. There were so many of you always . . .'

‘Oh, I didn't expect you would remember. It was only for a moment. But Kit had a photo of you in his room, and of course you're so like him. I thought it must be you. Actually, I saw Kit quite recently. In Alex.'

He had her full attention now. ‘How was he?'

‘Fine. Absolutely fine. I ran across him in a bar . . . we just had a few words, that's all. Of course he didn't know I was going to run into you too, like this, or he'd have sent some sort of message.' He laughed. ‘Didn't know it myself. Extraordinary coincidence.'

And he's a captain, she thought, God save us. ‘Are you here on leave?'

‘Yes. On my way home to the parents. I get out at the next stop – if we ever get there. Simply frightful these trains, aren't they?'