Keep Smiling Through (16 page)

Harvey loped beside him, turning now and again to check on the airman who was falling in and out of consciousness. He whined when the lad was awake, and Ron would stop and try to encourage him to drink a bit of tea, but these short stops were exhausting, and it became harder and harder to get going again.

Ron plodded on in the darkness, the scrape of the travois and the moans of the boy accompanying him across the rough terrain he knew so well. They were almost there now, he could make out the shapes of the houses against the sky, the alley behind Beach View – the bomb-damaged wall – the gate.

He was almost spent. The travois was too wide to go through the gate, and he simply didn’t have the strength to haul it through the hole in the wall. He put the travois down and rested, hands on knees as his chest heaved. ‘Jim,’ he rasped. ‘Jim, I need some help.’

Harvey gave three sharp barks and Jim finally appeared at the back door. ‘What the divil are you doing, old man?’

‘Stir yourself and help me get him inside,’ Ron panted. He saw Anne and Mrs Finch appear in the doorway. ‘Telephone for an ambulance,’ he ordered, ‘and be quick about it, I’ve got an injured man here.’

Jim helped him hoist the travois over the hole in the wall, but then discovered it wouldn’t fit through the back door. ‘We’ll have to get him off this thing,’ said Jim. ‘Give me your knife.’

Ron was drained but still had his wits about him. ‘Don’t cut the parachute. It’s valuable.’

‘To be sure, I know that much,’ retorted Jim. ‘And I suppose you’ll be claiming the silk for yourself?’

‘I think I’ve earned it,’ Ron replied wearily. He watched his son cut the strings holding the coat to the travois and carefully untie the parachute, then used the last of his strength to help carry the boy inside and settle him in the chair by the fire.

The room seemed to spin round him, the familiar faces blurring, the concerned voices muffled as wave upon wave of darkness filled his head. He stumbled towards the other chair, desperate to sit and dispel the giddiness.

But he never reached it and didn’t feel the thud as his head caught the corner of the table and he sank into oblivion.

‘
IT’S NO USE
you coming in here every five minutes,’ said the woman sternly. ‘I don’t have the authority to tell you anything.’

Rita felt she was being a bit unfair, this was only the third time she’d been in since yesterday. She shuffled from one foot to the other. The reek of the oil heater was exacerbating the queasy feeling in her stomach that had been troubling her all day. ‘I just thought you might know if my application got through all right?’

‘It has been less than twenty-four hours,’ the woman said, her expression softening. ‘I admire your enthusiasm, Miss Smith, but please go home. You will be notified soon enough, I assure you.’

Rita was forced to accept that the agony of waiting was to continue. She left the enlistment office carrying her helmet and goggles and swung her leg over the motorcycle’s saddle, sitting for a moment to quell the squirms of doubts that were plaguing her.

This was probably the most daring thing she’d ever done outside racing the motorbike on the pre-war circuits, and although she was desperate for her application to be accepted, that yearning was tempered by her responsibility for Louise. Her acceptance into the dispatch riders’ unit would mean leaving home to live in the barracks at the airfield, and giving all her attention to the needs of the WAAFs. Would Louise be able to manage without her? She gave a deep sigh and told herself she must stop worrying.

It was late afternoon and the town was already in darkness, with only a few hardy souls finishing their shopping before they hurried home. Heavy waves of enemy planes had been coming over most of the afternoon, and although it was quiet now, the blackout meant there was no tree with fairy lights twinkling in the centre of town – no gaily decorated shop windows, or glimpses of tinsel, streamers and silver balls in the upstairs apartments. Christmas would be very different this year, and without her dad, Papa Tino or Roberto to celebrate with, it was all a bit depressing.

‘Hey, great bike.’

She snapped out of her reverie, looked up at the brash young American, and couldn’t help returning his broad smile. If this was his idea of a pick-up line then he’d chosen well, for any praise of her bike was certain to be appreciated. ‘Thanks,’ she replied.

He eyed the Norton with delight before he looked back at her. ‘I guess you’re waiting for your boyfriend, huh? This his bike?’

Why did men always assume a girl couldn’t own a motorbike? ‘It’s mine,’ she told him, with rather more than a hint of pride and annoyance.

He gave a low whistle as his gaze swept her from head to toe. ‘Boy, oh boy, but you’re just an itty-bitty little thing. You sure you can handle that monster?’

Now he’d spoilt it. She had long grown weary of this question, which had been asked repeatedly since she started riding the bike. ‘I’ve handled bigger.’ She rammed the helmet over her lank hair and prepared to kick-start the engine.

It seemed he was impervious to her hurt feelings and cool response. ‘You don’t say,’ he breathed in admiration. ‘My brother had one of these back home in Oregon.’ His hand ran over the front mudguard. ‘It’s a powerful piece of machinery.’

Rita heard the longing in his voice and decided she was being a little harsh with him. He was probably homesick, and the bike had become a sort of symbol of all he was missing. ‘Me and Dad rebuilt it,’ she said. ‘It was in a bit of a state when we found it.’

His brown eyes widened. ‘You found it? But they’re worth a heap of money.’

Rita grinned. ‘This one wasn’t at the time. It had been left to fall apart behind an abandoned house. It took me and Dad two years to sort it out.’

‘You helped your dad rebuild it?’ The disbelief was clear in his expression.

Rita laughed. ‘Just because I’m a girl doesn’t mean I can’t mess about with bikes. My dad has his own garage, and I was training as a mechanic before the war.’

She reddened as she caught his glance at her heavy trousers and boots, the moth-eaten flying jacket and old leather helmet. ‘I’m a welder now – hence the get-up,’ she quickly explained. It was suddenly rather important that he knew she didn’t always look quite so scruffy.

He gazed at her in silence, and then seemed to remember his manners. ‘The name’s Chuck Howard, by the way,’ he said, snatching the American Air Force issue cap from his head.

‘Rita Smith.’ She tried not to wince as her hand was smothered in a vice-like grip. ‘Been over here long?’

‘A few months,’ he replied, his gaze still trawling the Norton. ‘I’m based up at the camp yonder.’ He pointed vaguely in the direction of the hills. ‘We feel kinda useless not being allowed to join your RAF boys. But I guess President Roosevelt will get us involved soon enough now the conscription bill has gone through.’

Rita nodded. ‘Still,’ she said, ‘you Americans are doing a sterling job clearing up after the bombing. Our street was in a terrible mess.’

‘We do what we can.’ He grinned down at her.

As silence fell between them Rita felt a rush of awkwardness and began to fiddle with the strap on her goggles. ‘I should be getting home,’ she murmured.

He looked crestfallen. ‘Aw, shucks, I was hoping you might like to come for a drink. We could talk about bikes,’ he added hastily. ‘My brother used to race them, you see.’

‘So did me and Dad before the war,’ she replied. ‘Is your brother here too?’

He shook his head. ‘Nah, he joined the navy and is based somewhere in Hawaii.’ He reddened. ‘I guess I shouldn’t have said that, what with all the warnings about spies and such.’

She smiled back at him. ‘I won’t tell anyone.’

‘So,’ he prompted. ‘About that drink? There’s one of your great little pubs on that corner.’

She was tempted, for he was young and handsome and seemed like a really nice chap. It might be fun – and it was her birthday the next day. Then she saw a group of young women hurrying down the street in their high heels and best coats and remembered how much of a fright she must look. It would just be embarrassing.

‘I’m sorry,’ she said with genuine regret, ‘but as you can see I’ve only just finished work and I need to get home.’

‘I have a night pass,’ he said quickly. ‘Maybe you could meet me later?’ He looked at her hopefully.

His open, honest face and friendly smile made Rita hesitate. She chewed her lip and gave it some serious thought. It wouldn’t take long to wash and change into something more respectable. But Louise was expecting her home for the evening, and as it was the first time they’d both had a night off for some time, she couldn’t let her down.

‘I don’t think I can,’ she replied softly. ‘You see, I have someone waiting for me back home.’

He stiffened and took a step back. ‘Oh, gee. I’m sorry, ma’am. I didn’t realise you were married.’

There seemed little point in putting him right when they probably wouldn’t see each other again – but she felt a twinge of regret, for their short interlude had been flattering and pleasant. ‘It was nice to meet you, Chuck,’ she said, and smiled. ‘Now, I really must be off.’

‘Well, so long, ma’am. You take care on that bike now.’ He snapped off a salute and stepped back onto the pavement.

Rita shoved the goggles over her eyes and kick-started the bike, revving it just a little more than necessary before she shot down the road and reluctantly headed for home.

The kitchen at Beach View Boarding House was in chaos as Anne returned from telephoning for the ambulance. Harvey was barking and whining and trying to lick Ron awake. The young airman was groaning with pain, Mrs Finch was muttering and wringing her hands, and Anne was torn between the needs of the boy and her grandfather.

‘Da!’ shouted Jim, as he fell to his knees beside the inert form on the floor and shoved the dog out of the way. ‘Da? Can you hear me?’

‘It’s no good yelling at him,’ said Anne. ‘He’s out cold.’ She struggled to her knees, the bulk of the baby making it awkward, as she wrestled to grab Harvey’s collar. ‘Get Harvey out of here, Dad, he’s making it impossible to get to Granddad.’

Jim made a grab for the dog, which skittered out of reach and continued to bark and paw at Ron.

Anne was shocked by the prodigious amount of blood coming from Ron’s head wound. ‘How did this happen?’

‘He fainted and hit the corner of the table with a terrible thud,’ said Jim.

Anne could see that her grandfather was the colour of old porridge, his skin cold and clammy to the touch. She’d done a first-aid course as part of her teacher training, so understood how vital it was to keep him warm and his airway free. ‘Help me get him on his side,’ she ordered her father. ‘And then get a couple of blankets and some pillows. We must keep them both warm until the ambulance arrives.’

‘It’s not his heart, is it?’ Jim’s eyes were wild with fear as he wrestled to keep Harvey out of the way while they saw to the old man.

‘I really don’t know,’ she said softly. ‘Just get the blankets, Dad. The ambulance should be here soon.’

Jim dashed off and Anne looked across at the young flier who was slumped in the armchair, his injured leg stuck at an awkward angle in front of him. He was a ghastly colour too, and although he was moaning, he was clearly out of it – which could only be a good thing. That leg looked nasty. ‘I wouldn’t undo the tourniquet, Mrs Finch,’ she warned sharply as the elderly woman began plucking at it. ‘He’ll start to bleed again.’

‘Oh, dear,’ flustered Mrs Finch. ‘He’s so young. Poor boy,’ she muttered, stroking back his hair and patting his pale, soft cheek. ‘I feel so helpless. What can I do to help him, Anne?’

‘See if you can get a drop of brandy down him,’ said Anne, feeling for Ron’s pulse as she shoved the dog away. ‘I hid the bottle at the back of the dresser drawer.’ She counted the thready beats beneath her fingers. Ron’s heart was definitely struggling. ‘What the hell have you been up to, Grandpa?’ she muttered.

Harvey barked and whined and pawed at Ron’s inert body. ‘Be quiet,’ shouted Anne as she batted him away. ‘You’re really not helping.’

But the animal was too upset to obey her and continued to whine and paw at Ron as he licked his face.

Anne gave up the struggle and made herself as comfortable as possible on the hard floor, nestled Ron’s head against her thighs and kept an eye on Mrs Finch, who had scrabbled in the drawer, found the bottle Anne had hidden from her father and grandfather, and was now dribbling a thimbleful into the bottom of a glass.

Gently lifting the boy’s head, she tried to get some of it in his mouth without choking him. ‘Come on, young man,’ she crooned softly. ‘Try and swallow some of this. It’ll do you good. I promise.’

‘Here you are,’ panted Jim, racing into the kitchen loaded with blankets and pillows. ‘What do you want me to do with them?’

Anne took two blankets and a pillow. ‘Take the rest and wrap up the boy while I see to Granddad.’ As Jim hovered, she spoke more sharply. ‘See to the boy, Dad – and then get this damned dog out of here.’

Jim stumbled away to do as he was told, but Mrs Finch soon became impatient with his ineptitude and shooed him away. ‘Isn’t there something else you should be doing before the ambulance and police arrive?’

‘Police?’ His eyes widened. ‘What would the police want here?’

Mrs Finch finished cocooning the boy in the blankets and looked back at Jim as if he was half-witted. ‘They always turn up when something like this happens,’ she said calmly. ‘Hadn’t you better see to that?’ She nodded towards the canvas bag that lay forgotten on the kitchen floor, its contents strewn across the lino.

‘Oh, bejesus, what’s the auld fool been up to now?’ He hastily gathered up the rabbits and birds and stood in the middle of the kitchen in a panic. ‘Where shall I put them – and what about the two birds he’s got hanging in the cellar?’

Anne looked up at him. ‘The rabbits are nothing to worry about,’ she told him calmly. ‘Wrap the birds in newspaper and bury them under the compost heap. It won’t do them any harm, and as long as you keep Harvey away, they won’t be found.’