Whisper on the Wind (43 page)

‘Roz! I’ve been waiting ages! Listen – I spoke to Marco, after milking …’

‘And?’ Roz had known she would, given the opportunity – one which had necessitated giving the grateful farm cats a second ration of milk. ‘Thought you might have told me about it, but then I saw you belting back to Peacock Hey like you’d got something on your mind.’

‘I had. Believe me, I had! Marco knew what he’d said. He wasn’t pulling my leg, either. He meant it. He said so.’

‘Oh, my word! Seems I owe you –’

‘Forget the bet – this is serious! I’m in a mess, Roz; a heck of a mess, but at least one thing’s come out of it all.

‘I worried myself sick last night – cried myself to sleep. But this morning it hit me. I don’t have to put up with it, you see.’ She paced the length of the dairy then turned, eyes wide in a chalk-white face. ‘So I’m married? Well, I’ve had enough, so you’d better take it seriously about letting me have a cottage because I’m not going back to Barney when the war’s over!’

‘You’re not
what
? Say that again? You’re leaving him?’

‘I mean I can’t face it; can’t face that house nor Aunt Min nor Barney touching me ever again. I couldn’t let him. I couldn’t!’

‘Oh, lovey.’ Roz shook her head, her expression one of blank disbelief. ‘You’ve got yourself into a mess all right. And you can’t have Marco, you know that, don’t you? Not for years and years – if ever.’

‘I know it, though how we’re going to manage is beyond me. Marco said he wouldn’t come to Home Farm any more – well, they can’t make him work …’

‘Best solution all round, I’d say, but you’d both be miserable, then; it’d be worse, I should think, than the two of you being here and having to pretend the other doesn’t exist. But what do you intend doing? Will you ask Barney for a divorce?’

‘No! How can I? It’s me that’s the guilty one, not him.’

‘Guilty? But you haven’t done anything – have you?’

‘Of course I haven’t. It just hasn’t worked for me and Barney, that’s all,’ Kath whispered, tears trembling on her voice. ‘Isn’t it a pity when a marriage dies that you can’t bury it decently? Why does there have to be a guilty party? Why does one of us have to go off the rails?’

‘I wouldn’t know. Divorce is something I don’t know a lot about. But are you absolutely sure, Kath? Is walking out on Barney going to be worth all the bother and worry it’s going to cause? He can make it difficult for you – he probably will.’

‘I know, but my mind’s made up.’

‘So you’ll write him a dear-John letter?’

‘Of course I won’t. I couldn’t do that to a man overseas. I’ll carry on with the letters. When he writes to me, I’ll write back to him. And I’ll tell him what I’m doing – around the farm, that is, and what’s happening at Peacock Hey. I don’t want to hurt him, but I can’t go on being grateful to him for the rest of my life. I’ll tell him, face to face, when he comes back, tell him I’m sorry and that if he wants it he can have all the Army allowance money I’ve saved.

‘But this morning – all of a sudden – I thought I’m
me
! Not Kathleen Sykes, that was; not Mrs Barney Allen – I’m Kath. And I won’t apologize any more for being left on a doorstep. I won’t live the rest of my life being ashamed because I was abandoned. I can milk a cow and drive a tractor and if the worst comes to the worst, I can still go back to scrubbing and polishing when the war is over. I’ll manage!’

‘Without Marco?’

‘I’ll have to. Oh, I could love him with all my heart, but I won’t let it happen. Maybe like you said, either of us could get moved on and that would be that, wouldn’t it? And heaven only knows what a mess I’m getting myself into, but I’m sick of being sorry about myself. The good Lord gave me a chin – think I’m just going to have to stick it out, and see what happens!’

‘Atta girl!’ Roz grinned. ‘I take it you’ll be coming to the dance, then?’

‘I’ll be coming.’ Pretty summer dress, gold sandals and all! ‘Oh, Roz, what on earth has got into me?’

‘Search me – but whatever it is, it suits you. Now – are you going to harness Daisy, or am I? There’s work to be done – don’t forget there’s still a war on!’

But fancy that, now? Roz frowned. Kath giving Barney his come-uppance? Talk about worms turning! Whatever next? Flying pigs dropping bombs on Berlin?

The RAF transport driven by a woman corporal came to a stop at Peddlesbury guardroom gates. Leaning out of the window she called, ‘Dance!’ and the red and white striped pole that barred their way rose slowly to let them through.

The transport had started from Helpsley, made a stop at the Black Horse in Alderby then gone on to Peacock Hey to pick up landgirls there. Women partners were in short supply at the Friday dances at RAF Peddlesbury and the Air Force obliged by taking them there and taking them back when the dance was over.

‘Hi,’ said Roz as Kath took the wooden seat at her side. ‘Everything okay?’

‘If you mean were there any letters – no.’ At least tonight she could enjoy herself without being reminded too much about the decision she had made. Not that she had changed her mind – she hadn’t, but that first flush of heady defiance was taking a bit of getting used to and Kath Allen’s conscience had always plagued her, ever since she could remember. ‘Everything’s fine. I’ll enjoy myself tonight if it’s the last thing I do, so –’

‘Point taken.’ Roz smiled. A decidedly self-satisfied smile, Kath thought, but then very soon Roz would be with Paul, dancing close. Soon, the whole of her world would be enclosed by Paul’s arms and nothing and no one would exist but themselves. Lucky Roz, who lived her life on a knife-edge and loved wildly; Roz, who counted the days, now, as a child counted the days to Christmas. For Roz, the next few weeks would be agonies of apprehension and fear intermingled with frenzies of joy and relief. There would be no in-betweens. Life with Roz would be tumultuous until it was all over.

The transport drove slowly, past Nissen huts with roofs of curved metal sheeting; past camouflaged buildings and tall, wide-doored hangars. In the distance, at the far end of the runway, stood the control tower, angular and many-windowed, painted like the rest in the camouflage colours of black, green and khaki. Every building was utilitarian and unpretty, standing out with something akin to vulgarity against so beautiful a landscape. It would be good when it was all over and they were pulled down, the concrete runways broken up, ripped out and carted away. Or would the aerodrome be abandoned to rot and crumble? Kath frowned. Would elderly men and women come here to stand remembering their fear-filled youth and say, with just a little pride, ‘I was here at Peddlesbury in forty-two. My, but you should have seen it then. Lancasters all over the place, taking off every night,’ – with the passing of the years it would
seem
like every night – ‘and knocking hell out of the Krauts. Bloody marvellous, it was. Made you feel proud. You young ’uns haven’t a clue; haven’t lived …’

Looking back, it would seem marvellous, Kath supposed, all the bad times forgotten. Fifty years from now …

‘You’re quiet.’ Kath felt the jab of an elbow.

‘Mm. Just thinking about this and that. I’m looking forward to tonight.’

She was. She would forget Barney and Aunt Min – forget Marco, even – she would dance every dance in her gold slippers and have the time of her life. Tomorrow was another day. Tomorrow there might be a letter – from North Africa.

The truck braked to a stop and the driver let down the tail-board.

‘Right, girls. This is it. Straight ahead to the dance.’

She smiled as she recognized Kath, a smile that was returned.

‘Hi! I remember you. York station …’

‘York station.’ A cold, December night and no bus for two hours to take her to Peacock Hey. She had come a long way. ‘Nice to see you again, mate!’ Kath Allen was one of the crowd, now; a landgirl with six months’ service in. She’d changed some, since York station. She lifted her hand, smiled a goodbye.

Oh my word, changed? But she wouldn’t think about that. Not tonight.

With the exception of the flight-engineer, the whole of S-Sugar’s airmen had come to the dance. The flight-engineer, a valued member of the crew because he was a failed pilot who could land the Lancaster in an emergency, waited at York station for a fiancée who was booked in for six nights at the Black Horse, Alderby. And the very best of British! said the remainder of the crew, saucily.

Paul and Roz found seats in a quiet corner; Skip smiled at Kath, holding out his hand as the first dance was called, and the tail-gunner who had come to them as Jock’s replacement, went in search of little Juney, the driver who brought them all luck.

The dance hall – the gymnasium, really – was pleasantly cool. Tonight, blackout curtains need not be drawn until nearly eleven o’clock and open windows let in cooler air and let out cigarette smoke that in winter would have hung in shifting clouds at the ceiling.

‘Everything okay?’ Skip smiled, taking her in his arms. They took it for granted, now, that they were partners.

‘No complaints.’ Not tonight. ‘And Julia?’

Julia, Skip’s wife, at home with her mother in rural Derbyshire.

‘She’s doing great – finding it a bit difficult to sleep nights, now. Bump does his daily dozen the minute she lies down, she says. She’s sure we’ll have a boy. Got the kick of a footballer, she says – boots and all. And how’s your better half?’

‘Fine. Just fine.’ Kath smiled. ‘Not a lot of letters lately, but there
is
a war on.’

‘Mm.’ Skip pulled her closer and rested his cheek on her head. Kath knew the way things were. Both of them married, their weekly liaison was safe and uncomplicated. ‘Julia wanted to know how my landgirl was getting on last time she phoned and I told her you were still madly in love with me.’ He grinned. ‘A very understanding lady, my Julia. Doesn’t mind me going to dances. Expect your bloke’s the same?’

‘Oh, yes. Barney’s very understanding.’ She closed her eyes, begging forgiveness for so blatant a lie. ‘Last time I heard he’d been on a long convoy, had a look at some pyramids and managed to find a pint or two of decent beer.’ All of it true, really, though there were many shades of grey between black and white. ‘You’ll tell Julia I asked about her, won’t you? Y’know, it’s funny; we know each other so well, you and me, Skip, but I don’t know your name – except that it’s Johnny.’

‘That’s life, girl, when there’s a war on. It’s John Wright, as a matter of fact, though I answer better to Skip these days.’

John Wright, from somewhere in Cheshire. Captain of a massive bomber with a crew of seven; a father-to-be at twenty-four and well above the average age for aircrew. Life was a bit unfair, Kath frowned, if you let yourself dwell overmuch on the whys and wherefores. Life was two-faced, as well; like the talk they’d had in the sugar-beet field.

‘
… a nasty thing, divorce – still a stigma attached to it. Almost as bad as having an illegitimate child. Just not done …
’

Not done. Yet They, the faceless ones, separated husbands and wives without a second thought, then threw men and women –
lonely
men and women – together regardless of what might and often did happen. Yet still They clung to their dogma.
Thou shalt not
…

Life wasn’t a bit unfair, Kath brooded; it was bloody unfair, sometimes.

‘Sorry, Skip,’ she murmured, stumbling. ‘Got two left feet tonight. Be an old love, and buy me a beer?’

They left the floor, smiling at Paul and Roz as they made for the end of the room where beer was being sold.

Paul and Roz, dancing now, she with her arms clasped tightly around his neck, he with his hands laid possessively on her buttocks, their feet hardly moving. Lovers, their actions proclaiming it and they not caring who knew it.

Lucky Roz. She who met life head on and who would think about the consequences tomorrow. Roz who was loved as she, Kath, wanted to be loved,
needed
to be loved.

She wished she could get a little tipsy tonight. Not drunk; just relaxed enough to help her forget this war, this damn’ awful war. But you could never get drunk when you were miserable, and if you weren’t miserable, the need wouldn’t arise.

Oh, yes; life could be very unfair – if you let it.

It had been pleasant this morning, picking the raspberries, Hester thought. Getting up early and beating the blackbirds to it. Even so early, the sun had been bright and the walled kitchen-garden, though in a sad state of neglect these many years, had been warm and private and she had found herself singing quietly as she picked.

This year, the fat red berries were ready long before their time, due, no doubt, to an early spring followed by a week of rain at just the right time, and the warm, south-facing corner of the walled kitchen-garden in which they grew. Hester always gave raspberries to Polly and Grace; it was a custom that even a war couldn’t break, though what either would do with them when sugar was in such desperately short supply, she had no idea. But wars, she insisted stubbornly, could not be allowed to interfere with habit – not at Ridings.

She tapped on Home Farm kitchen door, then walked in. Walking-in was a country custom, just as it was the custom to enter a house by the back door, the front door being used only on important occasions, like a child being carried to its christening, a bride leaving for the church or, sadly, at times of bereavement. On all other occasions the back door sufficed, it being considered more neighbourly and better all round than depositing muck and mud in the hall.