Wish Me Luck (3 page)

‘Ma? Ma, what is it?’ Robbie was on his feet and moving swiftly to catch hold of her. He helped her to a chair, whilst Fleur hurried to the tap in the scullery to get a glass of water.

‘Here,’ Fleur said gently. ‘Drink this.’

Meg took the glass with shaking hands and sipped it. ‘I’m sorry. How stupid of me.’

The young couple glanced at each other and then, concern on both their faces, looked back at Meg, but neither asked the questions that were racing around their minds. It had been Fleur’s name – her surname – that had startled Meg so.

‘I’m sorry,’ Meg said, placing the glass of water on the table and taking a deep breath. ‘It was just . . . hearing your name.’ She looked up into the open face of the lovely girl standing in front of her, so smart, so confident in her WAAF uniform.

And now she looked more carefully she could see the likeness. The rich, brown hair and deep, dark brown eyes, watching her at this moment, with such concern.

‘How is he?’ Meg asked softly. ‘How’s Jake?’

Now it was Fleur who sank into a chair, staring at Robbie’s mother. ‘My dad? You … you know my dad?’

Meg nodded.

‘He . . . he’s fine.’ Fleur waited a moment but Meg volunteered no more. ‘How d’you know him?’

‘I—’ Meg hesitated. It was an ironic and cruel fate that had conspired against her to bring these two young people together. The past that she wanted to keep buried was doing its best to catch up with her. She must say nothing. It was not her place to be telling this girl things that perhaps her parents had never told her and most likely didn’t want her to know. After all, she hadn’t told her own son, had she?

Meg shuddered, and Robbie sat down beside his mother too, chafing her hand that was suddenly cold between his warm ones. He was willing Fleur not to ask any more questions that were obviously upsetting his mother. ‘Are you all right, Ma?’

Absently, as if she had only just become aware of the pain, Meg rubbed her leg. ‘The fat splashed, but it’s nothing.’

‘You ought to put something on it.’

‘Don’t fuss, Robbie,’ she said sharply, her spirit returning, the colour coming back into her face. ‘I’m all right.’ Now she turned to Fleur. ‘I’m sorry, my dear. How silly of me.’ She was back in control of her feelings now and of the situation. But inside she was still quaking. I must be careful what I say, what I ask, she was thinking. Forcing a brightness into her tone, she said, ‘It was just hearing the name after all these years. Of course I knew your father when we lived there. Both your parents.’

The two young people were aware that there was much more to it than just that. They glanced at each other, wanting to ask more, but afraid of distressing Robbie’s mother again.

But in her turn and despite her desire to let secrets stay hidden, Meg could not stop herself asking, ‘Are they still at Middleditch Farm? Still working for the Smallwoods?’

Fleur hesitated but, seeing Robbie’s slight nod, she answered, ‘Dad owns the farm now. The Smallwoods both died about eight years ago and they left the farm to my father and mother.’

Meg gasped and before she could stop herself, she blurted out, ‘Not – not to their daughter?’

Fleur was puzzled. ‘I didn’t know they had a daughter.’

Meg closed her eyes and shook her head. ‘I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have said anything.’

Again Fleur and Robbie exchanged a glance, but their attention was brought back to his mother as she asked one last question. Was it Fleur’s imagination or was there a slight hardening of her tone as Meg asked, ‘And your mother? How is Betsy?’

‘So – what do you make of all that then?’ Robbie said as he pulled the front door shut behind them and shouldered Fleur’s kitbag. They began to walk side by side along the street towards the station.

Fleur frowned. ‘I honestly don’t know.’

‘There’s more to it than she’s letting on,’ Robbie said.

‘Well yes, I thought so too, but I didn’t like to say. I mean, it’s none of our business, is it? Certainly not mine.’

He touched her arm. ‘I’d like it to be. I’d like to see you again. We’re going to be on the same camp. It shouldn’t be too difficult. I mean – that is if … if you … ?’ He was suddenly boyishly unsure.

She smiled up at him, surprised that he even needed to ask. ‘Of course I want to see you again. That’s if you want to be seen with a lowly ACW, Flight Sergeant Rodwell?’

‘Mm,’ he murmured absently as if the matter of rank was the very last thing on his mind at this precise moment. He squeezed her elbow. ‘It’s strange, but I feel as if I’ve known you years.’

‘I know,’ she said simply and without being conscious of what she was doing, she slipped her arm through his and they walked closely side by side, matching their strides.

They didn’t speak again until they were standing on the platform. Robbie had put her kitbag in the carriage and now they stood facing each other. He put his hands on her shoulders, smiling down at her. ‘I’ll see you soon then?’

She nodded and now she did what she’d been wanting to do almost since they’d first met. She stood on tiptoe and kissed him. Not a chaste kiss on the cheek, but on his wide, generous mouth.

As she drew back, he laughed softly and murmured, ‘You hussy . . .’ Then his arms were tightly around her, his warm mouth on hers. Her arms wound themselves around his neck, her body pressed to his.

A whistle sounded and a merry, gruff voice said, ‘Break it up, now. Train’s leaving if you’re catching it.’

They broke apart and turned to see the guard with the whistle in his hand, grinning at them. ‘Sorry, folks, but the train can’t wait.’ The man’s craggy face softened. ‘Not even for you.’ In his job he saw so many partings, so many tears. He often wondered what happened to all those youngsters whose poignant goodbyes he witnessed. Did they meet again or did those tears of ‘sweet sorrow’ become a deluge of grief?

But these two were laughing and blushing, and the older man guessed their love was new and young, just on the threshold . . . But his train couldn’t wait – not even for love.

Fleur scrambled aboard and leant out of the window, clasping his hands. ‘Come out to the farm later,’ she invited rashly, ‘and bring your mother.’

‘I’ll be there. Can’t vouch for Ma, but I’ll be there,’ he vowed.

He stood watching the train out of sight, marvelling that in the space of a few hours he had found the girl he wanted to spend the rest of his life with. However long or short, he thought soberly, that life might be.

‘I wish you’d’ve let me know you were coming. I could’ve come to fetch you from Nottingham last night.’ Jake Bosley frowned worriedly. ‘I don’t like the idea of you going home with a complete stranger. Even if he is in the RAF, he could be anyone.’

Fleur grinned as she dropped her kitbag to the floor, returned her father’s bear hug and then dutifully kissed her mother’s cheek.

Betsy sniffed. ‘It’s nice of you to remember you have a home.’ There was a pause before she added, ‘When are you going back?’

Deciding to ignore the barbed remark, Fleur responded gaily, ‘Good old Mum. You always say the same thing. It sounds as if you can’t wait to get rid of me again.’

Betsy’s mouth tightened. ‘You know very well that’s not the case. We never wanted you to go in the first place. But you had to have your own way, didn’t you? Couldn’t wait to get away. Anyone would think—’

‘Now, now, Betsy love. Don’t spoil the precious time we’ve got with her,’ Jake said, trying as he always did to quench the sparks that so easily flared between mother and daughter.

‘I’m sorry, Mum. I was only teasing.’ Fleur kicked herself mentally. She ought to know by now that her mother rarely took teasing from anyone – unless, of course, it was Fleur’s younger brother, Kenny, doing the tormenting.

Fleur turned back to her father. He was still frowning anxiously. He was a good-looking man and middle age was being kind to him, for there were only a few flecks of grey in his thick, brown hair. His build was stocky and strong from years of farm work even though he walked with a stiff leg – the result of a wound in the Great War that everyone had believed would ‘end all wars’. How wrong they had all been! But she saw now that the laughter lines on his face were deepening into anxiety and the look in his dark brown eyes troubled her, for she knew she was the cause.

He hadn’t wanted her to join up. Neither of them had. Her mother had cried and stormed and demanded that she stay at home, whilst her father had gone about his work on the farm with a worried frown permanently on his face.

‘You don’t have to go. You’re doing important work here on the farm,’ he’d tried to insist.

‘You’ll be killed,’ Betsy had wailed dramatically. ‘I know you will.’

‘Oh, Mum, girls don’t fly. I’ll just be on an aerodrome. In the offices or the canteen or – or something.’

‘Airfields get bombed,’ Betsy had persisted. She’d got Fleur dead and buried already before she’d even signed up. But for once Fleur had stood her ground. She wanted to do her bit, wanted to see something of life away from the farm, though of course she didn’t tell them that.

‘Kenny’s still here.’ She’d tried to soften the blow. ‘He’s too young to go.’

‘That depends on how long this wretched war goes on,’ her mother had said bitterly. ‘He’s seventeen now.’

‘Only just,’ Fleur said.

‘What if it lasts another two years?’ her mother persisted. ‘He’ll get called up when he’s nineteen. And I bet,’ she added bitterly, ‘it won’t be long before they lower the age for call up.’

‘But he’ll work on the farm. Dad can apply for a deferment for him. He won’t have to go,’ Fleur had argued.

‘But he
will
go.’ Betsy’s voice had risen hysterically as she’d said accusingly, ‘Because he’ll copy you. He idolizes you. You can’t do anything wrong in his eyes.’ There was more than a tinge of jealousy in Betsy’s tone. It was she who idolized her son, and she made no effort to hide her possessiveness. Miraculously, the boy himself was unspoilt by her favouritism and Fleur enjoyed an easy, bantering relationship with her brother.

‘It’s the mother–son and father–daughter thing,’ he’d once said laughingly, showing a surprising insight for one so young. ‘You’re Dad’s favourite.’

But Fleur wouldn’t allow that. ‘No, he doesn’t have favourites. You know that. But maybe he’s a bit more protective of me because I’m a girl.’

Kenny had grinned. ‘Nobody’s ever going to be good enough for his little girl, eh?’

Fleur had laughed. ‘Something like that.’

It hadn’t mattered then – there’d been no young man she’d been serious about. But now … ? Well, now it was different.

‘As a matter of fact,’ she said carefully, ‘the young man I went home with wasn’t a complete stranger.’

Jake’s face cleared. ‘Oh, it was someone you know?’

‘Not exactly,’ she said carefully. ‘Someone
you
know, or at least, used to know.’

The frown was back, but this time it was a puzzled look rather than a worried one that creased Jake’s craggy features. And, strangely, there was a touch of wariness in his eyes.

‘Do you remember someone called Mrs Rodwell and her son Robbie?’

Before Jake could answer a cry escaped Betsy and, her eyes wide, she pressed her hand to her mouth. And then to Fleur’s utter amazement, Betsy began to scream. ‘No, no, not her. Oh, not her. I thought she’d gone for good. I thought—’ She clutched wildly at her daughter, her fingers digging painfully into Fleur’s arm. ‘You’re to have nothing to do with him. Do you hear? He’s a bad lot.’

Jake moved forward at once and put his arms about his wife. ‘Now, now, Betsy love, don’t take on so. Surely, after all this time—?’

Betsy twisted to face him. ‘Leopards don’t change their spots, Jake. She’ll never change and her son’ll be like her. Self-centred, devious, spiteful.’ She rounded again on Fleur. ‘What did she say? Does she know who you are?’ Betsy was still like a wild thing, screaming questions at her daughter. Fleur stared at her. She’d seen her mother in some tempers, but never – in all her life – had she seen her quite like this. Completely out of control.

‘Mum—’ She reached out but Betsy slapped her hands away as if her daughter’s touch was suddenly abhorrent.

Fleur let her arms fall to her side. ‘Actually,’ she said flatly, realizing that the tentative romance that had already begun between her and Robbie was doomed. ‘She was as shocked as you are when she heard my surname, but she … she didn’t react quite as … as …’ Fleur faltered and her voice dropped to a whisper. ‘Well, not like this.’

‘She took you in, you say?’

Fleur nodded.

Betsy’s voice hardened. ‘So – what was in it for her?’

‘Mum!’ Fleur was appalled. She’d liked Robbie’s mother. She couldn’t believe the things her own mother was saying about her. Mrs Rodwell had been so kind, so welcoming. And the old man; she hadn’t had much of a conversation with him, but he’d seemed a dear old boy.

Fleur sighed and said flatly, ‘I don’t know what you’re getting at, Mum. But there was nothing “in it” for her, as you put it. She was just nice to me. Cooking breakfast for me. Apologizing because she had no eggs when there I was – a complete stranger – taking their rations.’