War Baby (15 page)

Stan was feeling happier than he'd felt in a long time. Ideally he would have preferred to have collected his grandson from the adoption society by now, but as always with such institutions there were formalities to be dealt with. He was becoming increasingly impatient with all the red tape.

Ruby had calmed him down. ‘Let's get the wedding over first, Dad. At least you can smile on the day, especially when you think of what's to come.'

The wedding march struck up as Mary and her father stepped into the church. All heads turned round to smile at the bride. Expressions of admiration were whispered from one guest to another as she swept past. The lace trimming around the neckline showed up her creamy complexion. Beneath the veil her hair was glossy and woven into a soft white hairnet studded with seed pearls. The tulle overdress floated like gossamer over the satin underdress, small seed pearls shimmering as Mary made her way down the aisle to where Pilot Officer Mike Dangerfield was waiting for her.

Standing in front of the altar, Mike looked over his shoulder and smiled. He and his best man, the legendary Guy, plus other pals from Scampton, were wearing their distinctive blue air force uniforms.

Stan Sweet whispered in his daughter's ear. ‘That lot are going to set hearts racing. No girl can resist a man in uniform.'

‘Are you remarking on this from experience, Dad?' Mary whispered back. Her father had served in the Great War back in 1914 to 1918, but in the army not the air force.

Her father grinned and patted her hand as he passed her over to the man she was about to marry. The vicar smiled, his pale eyes looking at them over a pair of glasses that resolutely clung halfway down his deeply pink nose.

‘Dearly beloved …'

Decked with ribbons and bows made from off-cuts of Mary's wedding dress, the car provided by the Ministry of Food took Stan, Ruby and Frances to the village hall for the reception. Corporal John Smith drove them.

‘You look lovely in blue,' he whispered as he helped Ruby from the car.

‘You look pretty good yourself,' she whispered back, her eyes sweeping over the double-breasted grey suit, the crisp white shirt and burgundy tie.

After that it did a second trip to collect the bride and groom. The rest of the guests walked from the church to the reception.

John came in from parking the car and made straight for Ruby.

‘My,' she said, looking him up and down yet again. Seeing him dressed in a suit instead of his usual uniform had come as something of a surprise. He looked so different. Even his countenance was more cheerful. Although desperate to ask him how he was getting on without her, she held off. ‘I'm seeing Corporal John Smith out of uniform! A rare privilege. Did you find a seat in the church? I didn't see you.'

‘I stood at the back. It was crowded.'

He was right. The pews on either side of the aisle had been packed with people.

‘Thank you for coming, and thank you for driving.'

‘I had a free weekend and you sent me an invitation, after all,' he said somewhat flippantly. Realising his tone was falling back into his old brusque manner, he flashed a reassuring smile. ‘Anyway, I quite fancied coming down to see you, if only to check on how you're gettin' on without me. Started driving yourself around yet?'

‘A bit. If my sister can drive herself around, so can I.' He didn't seem to know that she'd asked for him to be her driver again. She presumed he'd been asked but had refused. Pride wouldn't let her mention it.

‘Two Sweet girls on the road. Things are getting dangerous!'

He gave her a cocky grin, his usual habit before telling her what a cushy number she had working for the Ministry of Food. Just for once he broke the habit. The words were gone, but the grin persisted.

The toast to the bride and groom plus a speech from the best man and Stan Sweet came first. After that it was help-yourself time.

‘Pasty?' Taking a platter of pasties from the buffet table, she held them so they were only just under his nose. Even she thought the smell was tantalising. ‘I made them.'

‘Of course you did.' John frowned, and eyed her warily. ‘Pilchards?'

She shook her head, wishing a lock of hair would escape and hide the mole. Her headdress consisted of a cream-coloured silk flower nestled into her hair on either side of her face. She fiddled with the one on the same side as the mole so that her hair fell forward slightly.

‘It's corned beef.' She'd remembered John didn't like pilchards.

Ruby took one for each of them, and while she held on to them, John fetched a bottle of stout for himself and a lemonade for her.

They looked for a chair, but none were free, the older guests having bagged them first, some already pushing off their shoes and rubbing their aching corns.

Ruby inclined her head in the direction of the door. ‘Follow me.'

There was a small area outside the main door leading to a flight of stone steps descending to ground level. The parapet surmounting the top of the wall was wide enough to act as a shelf for their food and drinks. Resting their elbows on the warm stone parapet, they held their pasties with both hands while enjoying the view: Lansdown in the distance, the road leading down the hill, the green fields and trees in the distance. The smell of freshly mown grass and warm weather mixed with that of cottage gardens, resplendent with delphiniums, dusty-smelling geraniums, stock and lavender.

Ruby was aware of the warmth of his body close to hers.

‘I suppose you know that Brenda's left me without a driver.' She eyed him sidelong looking for a reaction.

‘Of course I know. She's up the duff.'

‘Don't let Mary hear you refer to getting in the family way like that. She thinks it's common.'

‘I am common.'

‘I would never have guessed,' Ruby shot back sarcastic-ally. ‘Anyway, you don't look so common today. That suit looks as though it cost you a packet.'

‘As a matter of fact, I had it years. I bought it for a job I was up for only, Mr Hitler started a war and I was one of the first blokes to be called up. I've been sidelined for a while – resting, they call it. But not for long. I hope.'

She knew what he was saying, that at some point he would ask to go back on active duty. He showed no sign of being injured – not physically – but then, she thought, not all injuries showed.

Finishing off the last of the pasty Ruby took a good swallow of lemonade.

She felt his eyes on her. ‘You sure you don't want something stronger?' he asked.

She grinned. ‘Are you trying to get me drunk?'

‘You flatter yourself. I came here just to be sociable.'

‘I don't believe you. Hang on while I get us some more pasties.'

She returned with two more wrapped in a linen napkin.

‘Glad I'm wearing a suit. Couldn't come here wearing my khaki when I knew all the boys in blue would be here. Do you know how many DFCs and DSOs are among that lot? And from all over too. They might be Royal Air Force, but besides Mike there's a few with a flash on their shoulders; some Canadian, some Australian. An elite lot, them. Not the sort the army mixes with.'

‘You met Mike.'

He nodded. ‘Yeah. I like him.'

The noise from inside the hall drifted out on to where they were finishing off their food and drink. A few people emerged, fanning their faces and complaining about the heat.

John ran his fingers around his shirt collar. His face, like hers, was beginning to glisten with sweat. The sky glowed with the shining blueness of summer. The fields reflected the heat. Over to the east a speck in the sky swooped and dived leaving a trail of smoke behind it.

‘I want to go back in there.' He jerked his head at the hall behind them.

‘You could get us two more drinks and then we could go for a walk. There are some nice paths at the sides of the fields, and nice lanes brimming with wild flowers – and shade!'

‘Sounds good to me.'

They'd only got to the bottom of the steps when she looked down at her blue dress and the pretty white shoes with chunky heel and lots of straps. ‘On second thoughts I'm not really dressed for hiking.'

‘Neither am I. But I'm game if you are.' Giving into the heat, John took off his jacket, folding it neatly over his arm. He loosened his tie and thrust his trilby on to the back of his head. ‘All right. We'll keep to the lanes.'

The lane running behind the village hall was shaded by ancient elm trees. Pimpernel, speedwell, primroses and anemones peeped from between ground-covering ivy. Foxgloves, their purple flowers heavy with pollen and bees, nodded from among clutches of ragged fern growing against the fence bordering the railway line.

The sound of the bees got louder as they approached a field of hay. Because of the wonderful weather, the hay was already being harvested, an army of land girls and older men using pitchforks to get the hay into bales. A tractor bumped its way around the edge of the field, scraping the hay into handy stacks with some contraption it was dragging behind it.

Ruby frowned. The bees were getting even louder, much too loud to be ordinary bees. On turning to remark about it to John, she saw that he had stopped, his hands resting on the top rail of a five-bar gate and was staring skywards. An aircraft was approaching the field of hay, a plume of smoke trailing out behind it.

‘It's a plane!' he said. ‘A fighter plane! And it's coming down.'

Ruby saw that he was right. The plane was coming down, its nose pointing downwards, the rest of the craft smothered in thick, black smoke. Everyone in the field began to scatter to the edges watching as the aircraft, its insignia hidden in smoke, grazed the treetops on the other side of the main road to Bath and headed straight for the trees at the far end of the field. There was a loud bang. Everyone gasped as a plume of flames and smoke erupted from the other side of the trees.

‘Poor bastard,' she heard somebody murmur.

One of the land girls burst into tears.

‘Look!' Johnnie pointed skywards to where a parachute was floating gently downwards. It was coming straight for them. There was a shared gasp of surprise before everyone in the field began running towards it.

In a billowing surge of white silk, the parachute spread over the close-cropped stalks of wheat.

John leaped over the gate. Clutching her skirt around her thighs, Ruby followed him. ‘Stay away,' he shouted, waving his arms as he ran. ‘Stay away in case it's an enemy pilot. He might shoot.'

The people with the pitchforks got there just as the pilot hit the ground.

Parachute silk billowed in big fluffy lumps until finally falling in upon itself to lie in a massive white sheet like washing left out to dry.

The pilot emerged from the midst of it beaming from ear to ear as he unbuckled his harness. ‘Good afternoon,' he said in heavily accented English. He gave a stiff bow from the waist and clicked his heels. ‘I am very pleased to meet you.'

‘Good afternoon? Good afternoon? You bloody Nazi bastard. I'll give you good afternoon!' The speaker brandished a pitchfork at the unfortunate pilot. ‘Somebody go for the police,' he shouted. ‘You!' He indicated one of the more athletic-looking land girls.

‘No need.' John was standing between the pilot and the man with the pitchfork. ‘He's not a German. See the uniform? He's Polish. There are two Polish squadrons in the RAF, or so I've heard. Air Field Marshal Dowding won't easily forgive you if you put holes into one of his fighter pilots.'

The rotund man with the pitchfork eyed Johnnie sceptic-ally. ‘Are you sure about that?'

‘Positive. If you don't believe me, there's a whole team of Brylcreem boys up at the village hall. Ask them.'

They decided to take Johnnie's word for it. The pitchforks were lowered.

‘I'm sorry,' Ruby said to the pilot. ‘It was your accent, you see. We don't get to hear many foreign accents round here.'

‘I am sorry too. My name is Ivan Bronowski. I need to learn better English,' he said to her. He had golden eyelashes and the bluest eyes she had ever seen – either that or it was just the way they lit up when he looked at her.

‘That might be a good idea,' she said, feeling her face turning red.

He beamed at her. ‘Will you teach me? If I am to be taught, I would very much prefer to be taught by a pretty lady like you. With a beauty spot.'

The question was unexpected and took her by surprise. So did the flattery. So did the mention of her mole – the beauty spot, as he put it.

She touched her mole nervously and gushed, ‘I would, if you happened to be close by.'

‘Whitchurch,' he said. ‘I am at Whitchurch airfield. That is not too far, yes? I am very hungry. Do you have more food?' He rubbed at his stomach.

‘Have one of these. Both if you like.'

She ignored Johnnie's scowl as she handed the Polish pilot the napkin holding the two pasties. She snatched the bottle of lemonade from Johnnie Smith. ‘I expect you're thirsty too.'

She would have preferred offering him the beer, but Johnnie was hanging on to it for grim death. And he was still scowling. Not that she cared. She was mesmerised by the pilot's eyes, his smile and the charm he exuded like falling rain.

‘I'm Ruby Sweet and these are from our family bakery. This here is Corporal Smith. I give cookery demonstrations to aid the war effort. Corporal Smith is my official driver.'

Johnnie nodded a welcome to the Polish airman and scowled once Ivan had turned his attention back to Ruby. Ruby threw him a warning look.

‘Ruby, I think we should be getting back to the wedding. They'll be looking for us.'

‘You are getting married?' asked the Polish airman.

The spell he'd cast over her broke long enough for her to explain that Johnnie was referring to her sister's wedding.

‘If you're that hungry you can come with us,' she suggested, a comment that brought a scowl to Johnnie's face. ‘There's plenty of food.'