Home Sweet Home (7 page)

There were signs that the injuries disturbed him more than he let on. Sometimes he woke in a cold sweat in the middle of the night, screaming that the flames were coming closer, that everyone had to bail out.

Mary tried to calm him down, shushing him and speaking as softly to him as she did to Beatrice when she cried.

The secret, so the doctor at the hospital had told her, was not to press him, to treat him as normal, regardless of the cruel marks that remained on his hands and torso. This she promised to do.

By the beginning of the new year, Michael still came home, though not so often and not with the same spring in his step. His mood changed, a deep frown permanently creasing his brow. There were also long silences as though he had heavy thoughts on his mind. Only the sight of his daughter seemed to chase the haunted look from his eyes. Something was going on at the base, but he wasn't letting on what it was and Mary knew better than to press him. However, what with lonely days and weeks at the cottage when nobody called, she could do without the morose silences that Michael fell into nowadays when he was at home. She guessed some important mission was in the offing but knew better than to ask him for details.

Much to her annoyance, he did not respond to other subjects of conversation. She needed somebody to talk to after being left with only a baby for company. One evening, Mary finally snapped. ‘Michael! You haven't been listening to a word I've said.'

He was staring into the fire, elbows resting on his knees, hands clasped tightly. ‘Don't nag, darling.'

Mary was stunned and it took a great deal of self-control to keep her voice calm and level.

‘I wasn't nagging, Michael. It's you. You're not listening.'

‘Of course I was!' His tone was sharp and totally out of character. ‘It's you, keeping on. You have to understand I have things on my mind.'

‘So do I!'

‘Not the kind of things I have on
my
mind. The demands of war weigh a darn sight heavier than the demands of a housewife.'

‘How dare you! You're the one who wanted me to be a housewife. If I was still back in Oldland Common, I would be doing a great deal more than baking bread! I worked for the war effort, Michael. I did my bit then and I could do the same now. If I could have a nanny—'

‘Our daughter is not to be left with strangers …'

This was the first time Mary had voiced the possibility of returning to her work with the Ministry of Food, travelling around to local towns and villages just as she had back home.

‘Well, I'm not sure I want to be just a housewife. Obviously you consider it a pretty worthless job and—'

‘This is ridiculous!'

Their first proper argument was interrupted by the sound of Beatrice crying.

Mary eyed him furiously, her fists clenched and her eyes blazing. ‘Now look what you've done!'

‘Me? What have I done? I merely said—'

Mary ignored him, marching to where Beatrice was lying in her pram. ‘There, there,' she cooed, lifting her out and laying the little mite over her shoulder.

Michael followed her. ‘I'm sorry. It's just the tension …'

Mary turned her back on him, but Michael wasn't to be fobbed off that easily. Drawing his wife and child against his chest, he kissed the top of Mary's head and laid one hand on that of his child's.

‘I'm sorry, sorry, sorry. Call me an ill-mannered pig, if you like.'

‘You're an ill-mannered pig – but I still love you.'

The tension between them was broken. Mary allowed herself to smile. She wasn't one to hold grudges and didn't believe in prolonging a confrontation. It was over. They were one again.

Michael sighed heavily. ‘I shouldn't be telling you this, but something special is being talked about.'

‘I guessed.'

Mary became tense. Michael hadn't been on any missions since coming out of hospital. His commanding officer firmly believed in having his men fully recovered before they became operational again. However, Mary knew that the time would come when he would be required again, but she'd pushed that fear to the back of her mind. Stupidly she'd told herself that perhaps the war would be over before he had to go up again. It was a faint hope but one she'd clung to. The dreaded time had now arrived and the fear she'd resisted facing was unavoidable. However, she mustn't let Michael see that. She had to be strong for him, dependable and supportive.

She looked down at Beatrice, who was snuffling around her breast. ‘Hungry again,' said Mary, biting her bottom lip to stop herself from crying. She sat down on a chair, opened her blouse and put her child to her breast.

‘Can I ask what it is?' Even to her own ears, her voice sounded thin, almost frightened. She kept her gaze on Beatrice, unable to meet Michael's eyes until the wave of fear had flowed over her and was manageable again.

‘I've told you more than I should have done.'

‘Which isn't very much.'

‘I'm sorry. It's top secret.'

Mary felt full of wonder as she watched the rosebud mouth sucking on her nipple. It was at times like these that she missed her family the most. Michael had his duty and although she'd made friends with a few air force wives, it would have been lovely if Ruby or Frances could visit. But the distance was too great and they couldn't leave the bakery.

She knew from Ruby's letters that she was managing to fulfil quite a number of cooking demonstrations; the Kitchen Front Economists were still thriving. She'd even passed on some recipes in her letters.

I think you and your lovely little family will like these. Coconut cakes made with breadcrumbs and coconut. Mix with just a little butter and a good dollop of treacle. I do hope you can get the ingredients up there.

Frances sends her love. She's shepherding the Gates children shortly over to the Forest of Dean. They're being evacuated in order to give their mother a rest. Mrs Gates has had another baby.

Dad says he can't wait to see baby Beatrice, and neither can I. Charlie is growing straight and strong and is tiring of Bunz, his toy rabbit. This is because he's discovered the real thing in the churchyard – not that he's managed to catch one yet.

Give our love to Beatrice and also of course to Michael. We miss you.

‘I hate war,' she said to her husband.

As she looked down at the sleeping Beatrice, she wished very much she could be like her baby, completely oblivious of it all.

Michael shook his head mournfully. ‘I'm sorry you're left here alone,' he whispered against her hair. ‘I shouldn't have dragged you up here.'

‘You're my husband. You were injured. I had to be here.'

Michael sighed. ‘All the same. Don't think I don't know how much you're missing your sister and the rest of your family.'

Mary managed a smile. ‘We write to each other and we telephone.'

The telephone was a necessity for all the pilots and senior officers in case they were needed urgently. Mary was extremely thankful they had it. Her family in Oldland Common never let a week go by without ringing her. Although she made a point of sounding bright and breezy, she was always glad when somebody telephoned and didn't let on how bored she was and how much she was missing everybody. It wouldn't do to have them worried about her.

The time for Michael to fly again came too quickly.

‘I'll be away for a few weeks on this next mission. Don't worry if I'm not home quite so often before then too.'

‘No. I won't.' She beamed up at him with a cheerfulness she didn't feel. She would worry about him. She couldn't help worrying about him.

On an April morning, following a breakfast of porridge and farm fresh eggs, she watched him leave the house. She wondered what he was up to and whether she would ever see him again. The last thought was the one that was best ignored and thus quashed immediately. All the other air force wives agreed that they had to think positively. But it wasn't easy. All of them feared being widows only a short time after they'd been brides.

His visits home had become briefer, as he'd said they would. During those first weeks of the new year, when he was at home, he was secretive and looked tired. He'd also spent time poring through books from the groaning shelves, though on reflection she realised it was the same book every time.

It was on one such occasion, just after she'd put Beatrice down for her post-feed nap, that she found him sound asleep in his favourite chair, his scarred hands resting on an open book. Gently she took the open book from his hands. Before putting it back on the shelf, she glanced at a fuzzy photograph and descriptions of Derwent Water in the Lake District.

She frowned, her fingers tapping the cover as she tried to work out why he would be studying the book so often. Did he have it in mind to surprise her with a short holiday? She hoped not. Surely the north of England was chillier than the south at this time of year, and besides, if they were to have some time away, she'd prefer to go home. She pined for her family and guessed that Michael's aunt, Bettina Hicks, would love to see them too.

‘What?'

Michael jerked into wakefulness. On seeing the book she was holding, the look on his face was one of alarm.

‘You fell asleep,' said Mary attempting a weak smile.

He snatched the book from her hand. ‘I'll take this. I might need it later.'

‘Was it a surprise?'

He frowned. ‘Surprise? What the hell do you mean?'

Mary ignored the sharpness in his voice and tried again even though it looked as though she might have made a mistake. ‘Have you got any leave coming up? I mean, after this next job is over – whatever it is?'

His weary eyes blinked. ‘I don't know. Probably.' He sounded thoughtful.

‘Have you arranged for us to have a holiday in the Lake District? Only if we are, I'll need to make arrangements for Beatrice. She's too young to travel and Derwent Water is a long way away and—'

She saw the look in his eyes, confirmation as if she needed it, that she was very much mistaken.

‘We're not going to the Lake District?'

He hugged the book to his chest, rose from his chair and stuffed it back on the bookshelf. ‘No. We are not!'

Mary felt hurt. Michael didn't usually snap at her. The way he spoke was usually calm and collected unless he was really riled. A sudden knot of alarm started deep in her stomach and her skin prickled with fear. His attitude was confirmation enough that something big was on the cards, something that would put him in danger.

She took a step closer and looked up into his face, reaching out to touch it.

He jerked back as though her touch had stung him. There was a hooded, secretive look in his eyes. She realised that she was right. The big thing he'd hinted at some time before was on. What was it and, more to the point, how dangerous was it?

She knew she shouldn't ask, but couldn't help herself. ‘Michael. What is it?'

‘Ask no questions; you'll be told no lies.'

She ignored the childish rebuke. Michael was obviously under a lot of pressure.

Her eyes swept the spot where he'd put the book back. The books to either side of it were red. The one relating to the Lake District was green. Somehow it seemed very appropriate, the Lake District being a watery area of both natural and manmade lakes surrounded by lots of green trees and grassy hills.

‘I don't think I deserve this,' she said, shaking her head. ‘Trust me, Michael. Please trust me.'

He had his back to her. She sensed his reluctance to share what he was involved in, which of course meant it was dangerous.

‘Michael. You can trust me.' There was pleading in her voice even though it was little more than a whisper.

She saw his shoulders heave in a huge sigh before he turned from the bookcase, his head turned slightly to one side. He attempted a smile. ‘It's nothing to concern yourself about. We've been doing some training exercises up there. I just wanted to check up on the details, you know, see how the land lies. Literally. Still, who knows,' he said with a smile that came swiftly and did not reach his eyes. ‘We might go there one day. When Beatrice is older.'

She instinctively knew that wasn't the reason why he'd been reading the book, but she wouldn't press him. He'd been more secretive than usual, lately; this was just one more step to convince her that something very special was going on. The fear still prickled her skin, making her feel as though she'd been plunged into icy water. Needing to feel warm and needing his strength, she flung her arms around his neck. ‘Michael. Hold me. Tightly! As tightly as you can.'

‘Hey!' Although taken by surprise, he recovered quickly, his hands running up and down her back before he wrapped his arms around her.

She leaned her head against his chest, closing her eyes as she listened to the sound of his heart thudding against her ear.

She clutched his upper arms tightly. ‘Promise you'll take extra special care of yourself. Promise me!'

His lips brushed her hair. ‘How could I refuse?'

Michael had closed his eyes, silently praying that he would survive the dangerous mission in a few weeks' time. The heights they were required to fly at were ridiculously low. No matter what anyone did to reassure him, he suspected the casualties would be high, not that the man with the codename Geoff seemed aware of that fact. The professor – he couldn't be anything else – was adamant that his bouncing bomb would work. It was just a case of delivering it to the right depth and the right distance, he'd assured them. As yet they had not been told the probable target, but Michael had guessed that it was over a stretch of water with a similar layout to Derwent Water, the area they'd been practising over.

‘Do you have to go on this mission?'

Michael remained silent until he could find the guts to lie, which was all his reassurance would be. ‘Don't worry. I'll be fine.'