Whisper on the Wind (47 page)

In the Nissen hut that served as a barrack room and guard room and anything else the gunnery sergeant-major cared to call it, the duty army private picked up the telephone. She was very young and homesick and the day was much too hot to be wearing a thick khaki shirt and jacket. She wished she were back in Greenock in the apartment that was home. She didn’t like all these great open spaces and not for anything had she wanted to leave Scotland to be an ATS girl.
They
had said she had to.

‘Air-raid warning purple,’ she repeated, suddenly dry-mouthed!

‘Message timed at fourteen-twenty hours.’

‘Fourteen-twenty hours.’ A purple alert meant they were coming! German aircraft, and only minutes away!

‘Purple alert!’ she called to the duty corporal, reaching automatically for her steel helmet. ‘Message timed at fourteen-twenty hours,’ she added, trying to keep her voice calm as the sound of running feet and barked orders jerked the gun emplacement into sudden, tingling alertness.

The young girl in the khaki uniform swallowed hard and noisily. She was afraid; very afraid. She closed her eyes and crossed her fingers, hoping to God they wouldn’t come. It was a hoax, a false alarm – it had to be. At half-past two on a sunny afternoon that was all it
could
be. But for all that, she wanted her mother. Lord, how she wanted her.

Jonty connected the mowing machine to the tractor tow-bar. The sun was high and fierce; heat danced in the distant corner of Ten-acre field. He was eager to start. The blade was newly sharpened, the teeth freshly honed. Given luck, he could cut the lot before the light went. Marco and the old man could have their horses; this was the age of the machine and Jonty Ramsden was a tractor man.

He squinted into the distance at the slowly-rising barrage balloons, fat like white whales wallowing puffily in the sunlight, secure at their cable ends. They ringed the entire aerodrome, a recent addition to its defence; an extra deterrent to bombers that could come screaming out of the sun to hit and run before the gunners could get them within range.

He looked around a sky empty of aircraft. Only practising, today; a dummy run to keep bored balloon crews on their toes. He started up the tractor, inched forward slowly, then carefully lowered the blade.

From his seat he could see the church clock. Half-past two. He’d be twice round the field before Marco was back; just see if he wasn’t. He wiped his face and arms with a red and white handkerchief. My, but today was a hot one, all right …

Hester would prevaricate no more. She had dithered on the edge of indecision for long enough. She would find Roz and give her Paul’s message then tell her granddaughter what she had done.

So she had cheated. Hadn’t Roz needed a push? After tonight it would be all right, she was sure of it, she smiled, all at once happy. Tonight they might even be wondering what all the fuss and bother and evasions had been about.

She skirted the ruins where a late-flowering clematis clung purple to the wall; where honeysuckle in its second flowering would throw out its sweetness when the light began to fade. It would be good to walk this evening in the scented cool. Tonight, she would know if Paul Rennie was right for Roz. Soon they might even be planning the calling of the banns in St Mary’s. She closed her eyes briefly and imagined children at Ridings again. The noise of children – that’s what the old place needed. She hoped she would find Roz in the Beck Lane field. She had seen the prisoner leading the shire back to the yard and there she hoped he would remain. Their first encounter was still fresh in her mind. It had angered and unnerved her and she had no wish for it to be repeated. Italian or German, he was still the enemy. It was monstrous that she must tolerate his presence on Martin’s land; best she took care to avoid him this afternoon and who knew but that soon she could find a way to be rid of him?

Paul Rennie stood at the window of the small, bare room he shared with S-Sugar’s flight-engineer. The room was abnormally quiet. These last few days Flight had been away a lot, spending his off-duty time and every free night, come to that, at the Black Horse.

He unfastened his battledress top, throwing it on the bed, loosening his tie. Today it was too hot for comfort; tonight, with luck, it would be cooler.

Tonight. A little before eight, at Roz’s house. It had thrown him at first, hearing the unexpected voice, but now he was glad it had happened. He had never liked the lies and deceits, had wanted all along for their affair to be open and above-board. Tonight, if things went well for them, he would try to get through to Bath and tell his parents that he and Roz wanted to be married. He was old enough to fight; old enough to get shot at. They’d have to accept that he was a man, now; had suddenly hurtled into full maturity on that first, frightening raid over Germany. And he wouldn’t ask; he’d
tell
them.

Roz, he thought fondly, staring out over the wide expanse of the airfield and the two crossing runways, almost white in the sun. Lovely, lovely Roz …

They were winching up the balloons out there. The one at the end of Peddlesbury Lane would be the first up, he wouldn’t mind betting.

Peddlesbury Lane, where he and Roz met, close by the wood of beeches and oaks and green, dark places. Rosalind Fairchild-Jarvis; intense, moody, exquisitely beautiful Roz. The more they loved, the more he wanted her. He envied Skip his unborn child. When they were married he wouldn’t care how soon Roz got pregnant – if she wanted to, of course. Children would be one of the things they must talk about, agree about, if Mrs Fairchild said yes.

He pulled off his shoes and lay down on the grey-blanketed bed, arms behind his head, staring at the familiar pattern of cracks in the ceiling paint. What are you doing, Roz, right now? Are you in the hayfield or are you starting the afternoon milking? He looked at his watch. Not quite half-past two. Too early, yet, for that.

Roz. Roz, his lovely love. Roz of the cheeky nose and eyes so green he’d never seen their like before. Red-haired, tempestuous, fun-loving Roz, who’d lately had lapses of quietness he hadn’t been able to penetrate. But she was worried about that last op. He was worried, too. Skip was; they all were. But they’d make it! It was as certain as anything could be in this damn-awful war. The next one might well be tomorrow night and only three to go, then. Four more take-offs; four more times sighting those bloody wonderful cliffs of home, golden-white in the morning light.

Four more times, then two fingers up to flying. Freedom from it for as long as they could wangle and some nice cushy instructor’s posting to Somewhere in England, Roz with him in civvy digs and every night – every
safe
night – together like it had been in the house in Micklegate.

Be good to us, Sugar.

Duke drank deeply from the pump trough in the yard, pausing to raise his head, splashing cold droplets of water against Marco’s chest. The horse had worked well. One field was already cut; by nightfall perhaps two.

He would be staying late tonight. The camp truck would not call for him until ten o’clock and that was good; would be ten cigarettes to his credit at the end of the month.

He reached up for the bridle, clicking his tongue against his cheek, leading the animal back to its stable and a feed of hay and oats. His father’s horses were of a different breed, yet still Duke reminded him of Italy and the farmhouse at the foot of the hills. What would they say at home if they knew that Marco who boasted that no woman would entice him into marriage had fallen in love with a foreigner; with a woman who was married to a man she had not seen for two years and whom, would she admit it, she no longer loved. Ah-ha! his brothers would laugh. A married one, was it? Okay, Marco – so have your fun, get the wildness out of you, then find yourself a good north-Italian girl to marry and father your children on; a girl still a virgin, eh?

But he wanted Katarina; her of the sad blue eyes and the too rare, so beautiful smile. Only Kat should have his children; Kat who belonged to a faraway soldier who should be writing daily, telling her of his love. The saints be thanked that he was not, though it made little difference. Kat was married and only a miracle would free her from it, and though he ached to have her he could not, would not, wish widowhood on her. He was coming to dislike Barney Allen more and more; it bordered on hatred, sometimes, when the wanting got bad, but he couldn’t wish him dead.

He closed the stable door, then thrust his arms deep into the pump trough, scooping water in his hands, splashing his chest, his face, wetting his body all over. On the walk back to the field the water would dry on his skin and take the heat of the sun from it, briefly cooling him.

Kath; Kat; Katarina-mia. I wish I’d never met you; I’m glad that I did.

Mat saw them as he neared the smallholding on the Helpsley road. Daft young beggars, flying that low. Hedge-hopping, didn’t they call it? They’d come a cropper one of these days if they weren’t careful.

Automatically his hold tightened on the horse’s bridle in case the young fools frightened the creature with their sudden noise; making hushing sounds, reaching up to stroke its neck. Fighters, weren’t they? Not the big ones from Peddlesbury. Not bombers. He squinted into the sun as they climbed and wheeled.

‘Hell! Bloody hell!’
Theirs
, not ours. Black crosses on them! Three hit and runners, out to get Peddlesbury again!

He pulled and pushed the shire close into the shelter of the hedge, stroking its nose, whispering, ‘Steady, old lad. Hold still … still …’

Three of
theirs
, out for a sudden, swift strike. Machine gunning, strafing, out to get the bombers that sat like decoy ducks around the perimeter track.

The fighters wheeled again, snarling for position. They couldn’t come in low; the balloons were stopping them and damn-well serve them right! Didn’t know we’ve got balloons now, did you?

‘Steady, there …’ he soothed as the sudden hollow scream of shells caused the horse to whinny softly. The ack-ack guns were on to them now, blasting out from all sides! Let ’em have it, lads!

Messerschmitts, weren’t they? Three ME109s. Mat took his forearm across his brow, wet with sudden sweat, all the time hushing and patting, passing on his calmness to the anxious animal. ‘Be still, Marquis …’

A single fighter dived out of the sun, came in low, slipping with wings almost vertical through the balloons, its guns spitting bullets to smack and bounce along the edge of the runway in little puffs of dust.

Airmen and women ran, flattening themselves against anything solid, avoiding trucks and transports that could explode into a ball of fire with a single hit.

Then it swept up to join its fellows; up into the sun again for another dive.

Marco saw her standing there, eyes shielded, gazing bewildered into the sky.

‘
Signora
!’ Couldn’t she hear them – hear the guns? What was she thinking about? ‘
Signora! Giù! Giù
!’ Down, for God’s sake! Get down!

He ran the length of the lane, heels pounding, making downward movements with his hands, but still she gazed up. Didn’t she know whose they were?

‘Down,
signora
! Into the hedge!’

He heard the sudden spat! of bullets. God! It wasn’t the bombers they were after! Fear gave him more speed. ‘
Signora
!’

The roar of the engine blasted his ears; a dark shadow passed over him. He heard her small, bewildered gasp, saw her throw up her arms, spin round and fall, arms and legs straddled. Even as he threw his body over hers he knew it was too late. He clasped his hands around his head, closing his eyes tightly, pulling in his breath as another hail of bullets slammed into the hedgerow.
Bastards
!

‘
Signora
!’ He gathered her to him, whispering softly. ‘It’s all right. They’ve gone, now. They’ve gone …’

Her head rolled limply against his arm, her blood warm on his hand. In the back they’d hit her; they’d shot a woman in the back! Crying out with rage he held her closer, rocking her gently, whispering softly. Her lips were moving and he bent closer.

‘Martin? Is that you?’

‘I’m here.’

‘It’s dark, Martin. I can’t see …’

‘It’s all right. I’ve got you.’ He laid his lips on her forehead, on her eyelids. Her mouth moved in the sweetest of smiles, then she sighed softly. It was a gentle passing. She was still in his arms when Jonty found them.

‘Marco! Oh, God,
God …
’

‘The fighters, Jonty. She just stood there. I called out, but she stood there. I got to her too late …’

Carefully he eased his arm from beneath her; gently he lowered her to the grass. Her blood had stained his chest; already the edges were drying brown. The smile was still on her lips.

‘She’s dead, Marco?’

‘
Si.
’ He was no stranger to violent death. Slowly, reluctantly, he crossed himself. ‘Who is Martin?’

‘He’s her –
was
– her husband. Why?’

‘She said his name. She thought I was him.’

Jaws clamped tight, Jonty looked down. Her face was white, her hair lay ruffled against her cheeks. On her blouse a dull red stain was spreading web-like. ‘Let’s get her home,’ he said.

They lifted the gate of Ten-acre field from its hinges and laid her on it.

‘We’ll have to get the doctor, Marco – tell the police …’ Death was death. Even in wartime the ritual must be observed. Jonty looked at Marco and the silent tears that slipped down his cheeks. Lucky Marco. Perhaps it was all right for him to cry. ‘And we’d best get Polly over.’