Wish Me Luck (9 page)

‘I’m staying.’ Fleur nodded as her thoughts turned to Robbie. ‘Oh, I’m staying, Mr Chambers.’

‘Right then, lass,’ he said as he levered himself up from the battered chair. ‘Then you’d best start calling me “Harry”. I don’t know who on earth you’re talking about with all this “Mr Chambers” business. Now, let’s go and see if I can find this ’ere scythe for you.’

When he opened the door of his shed, Fleur could not prevent a gasp of surprise escaping her lips. All the gardening tools were neatly stacked against the walls or lined up in order along the shelves or hanging from hooks. Each item had been cleaned and oiled before being put away. She almost laughed aloud to see the contrast between the old man’s garden shed and the state of his house. But, she reflected, the smile dying on her lips, this was his domain; the house had been his wife’s and he’d lost her.

‘’Ere we are,’ Harry said, carefully unhooking the huge scythe from its nail. ‘It’s a big ’un, lass. Sure you can manage one this size?’

Not wanting to sound boastful, Fleur said, ‘I think it’s the same size as me dad’s.’ She took it from his hands, feeling the weight. ‘Yes, I’m sure it is. Anyway, I’ll soon know.’

‘Just you be careful, lass.’ Harry was still anxious.

‘I will,’ she smiled. ‘And thank you.’

‘Don’t mention it. There’ll be no one more pleased than me to see old Arthur’s garden looking a picture again. I just wish …’ His voice faded away and a sad, faraway look came into his old eyes as he glanced back towards his own house.

‘What do you wish, Harry?’ Fleur prompted softly, but he sniffed and forced a smile. ‘Nothing, lass, nothing at all.’

But as she walked past the open back door and saw again the cluttered state of the old man’s kitchen, she thought she knew what he had been going to say.

Of course, as she thought might happen, Harry leant on the fence between the two gardens to watch her taking the first few sweeping strokes. Soon she was into a steady rhythm. When she paused for a breather, she looked up to see him nodding at her.

‘Aye lass, you’re right. You can do it. Never seen a lass frame so well, I haven’t. In fact’ – his expression was comical – ‘I can’t say I’ve ever seen a lass scything afore.’ He levered himself off the fence. ‘Well, can’t stand here all day chatting. I’d best be getting on with a few jobs mesen.’

‘Harry, before you go, could you pass the sharpening stone over? I’m going to need it.’

‘Right you are, lass. Ah, and here comes Mary with a cuppa.’ Fleur turned to see Mary Jackson tottering along the mud path down the centre of the garden. Laying down the scythe, Fleur hurried towards her. ‘Oh, you shouldn’t have bothered,’ she scolded the old lady gently, but reached with eager hands to take the mug. ‘Mind you, it’s thirsty work. I’m ready for it.’

‘Any left in the pot, Mary?’ Harry called out and the old lady chuckled.

‘Course there is, Harry. Think I’d forget you?’ And she turned to walk stiffly back towards the cottage.

‘Don’t you be struggling out again, lass,’ Harry called. ‘I’ll come round.’

Fleur stifled her giggles to hear the old lady called ‘lass’, but maybe they’d lived side by side for years and that’s how he still thought of her.

Before long the two elderly people were sitting on a couple of old stools in the back yard chatting amiably – Harry’s jobs forgotten – whilst Fleur worked herself into a sweat cutting the long grass. She was still at it when Ruth appeared round the corner of the cottage.

‘Well, it’s all right for some. ’Ello, Harry – Mrs Jackson.’ She shaded her eyes and looked down the garden. ‘What on earth is she doing?’

‘Cutting the grass. Mekin’ a good job of it an’ all,’ Harry said with a note of pride, almost as if he had trained Fleur himself.

‘Then what’s she goin’ to do?’ Ruth turned wide eyes on Harry. ‘She’s never going to dig that lot?’

Harry began to chuckle and Ruth cast her glance skywards. ‘Don’t tell me! She is.’

At that moment, Fleur, red faced and breathing hard, paused and looked up. Seeing Ruth, she waved.

‘I’ve got a message for you,’ Ruth shouted. ‘From Flight Sergeant Watson and …’ Her eyes were full of mischief. ‘From lover boy.’

Fleur dropped the scythe and pushed her way through the long grass, her eyes anxious. ‘What is it? There’s nothing wrong is there?’

Ruth shook her head. ‘Far from it. Flying’s cancelled tonight. Low cloud over the target.’ She pulled a face. ‘Wherever that was. So he’s got the night off.’ She grinned. ‘And so have we, ’cos we’re not needed if they’re not flying. A gang of us – including your Robbie – are going to the Mucky Duck in the village.’

Fleur’s eyebrows rose. ‘The Mucky Duck? What on earth is that?’

She heard Harry’s deep, rumbling chuckle and saw Mrs Jackson’s smile. ‘It’s the locals’ name for our pub – the White Swan. It’s been called the Mucky Duck for as long as I can remember.’

‘Right,’ Fleur said. ‘I’ll just clean the scythe and—’

‘No, no, lass,’ Harry said, pulling himself up off the stool. ‘I’ll see to that. You get off and enjoy yourself.’ He seemed about to say more, but then cleared his throat and, instead of whatever he had been about to say, added, ‘You’ve earned it.’

‘Thanks, Harry. Can I borrow the scythe next time I get some time off?’

‘Course you can, lass. Any time. Just come round and help yoursen out o’ me shed.’

‘And I’d better get you girls a bite to eat if you’re going out.’ Mary was struggling to pull herself up. Ruth and Fleur held out their hands to haul the old lady to her feet. ‘Thank you, my dears. Now off you go and make yourselves pretty.’

‘That won’t take too long to do,’ Harry laughed. ‘Pretty as a picture already, they are.’

‘By the way,’ Ruth said. ‘Sorry, but we have to wear uniform. Ma’am’s orders.’

Fleur shrugged. ‘I don’t mind. I’m proud to wear my uniform.’

‘You might change your mind when you see all the local girls in their pretty dresses being chatted up by all the fellers.’

‘There’s only one I want to be chatted up by and he’d better not be looking at other girls while I’m around – uniform or no uniform.’

The two girls laughed and hurried into the house to wash at the sink in the back scullery and change their clothes.

The two old people watched them go. Quietly, Harry said what he had stopped himself from saying earlier. ‘Aye, let ’em enjoy themselves, eh, Mary? While they can.’

The moment Fleur and Ruth stepped into the public bar of the pub, she spotted Robbie with three other airmen. Kay and Peggy were already sitting with them. Robbie must have been watching the door for he rose at once and threaded his way around tables to reach her. He didn’t kiss her, but took her hands in his and squeezed them warmly. ‘Come and meet the rest of the crew. They’re great lads.’

He pulled her behind him, weaving his way through the crowded bar room, and made the introductions. He reeled off the names. ‘This is our skipper, Tommy Laughton. And these two reprobates are Alan Hardesty and Johnny Jones.’ Then Robbie waved his arm to encompass other airmen sitting in small groups around the bar room. ‘We’ll no doubt get to know a lot of the other chaps on our Flight in time. They all seem a great bunch.’

Tommy unfolded his lanky frame and shook her hand warmly. He was thin faced with sharp eyes that missed nothing and he sported a moustache that stuck out on either side of his upper lip like a stiff, bristly shaving brush.

It was a merry evening. The beer flowed as did the conversation and laughter. They talked about anything and everything. Everything, that is, except the war. But Fleur was acutely aware that perhaps the jollity was a little forced, the laughter just a little too hearty.

‘Fleur, you must meet Bill Moore, the landlord.’ Tommy Laughton, the pilot of the newly formed crew, got up and held out his hand to her. ‘Come on. You can help me get the next round in and I’ll introduce you.’

Fleur glanced at Robbie, who stood up to let her move past him.

‘Bill,’ Tommy called to the middle-aged man behind the bar. The landlord was dressed casually in a collarless striped shirt, the sleeves rolled up above his elbows, and a black waistcoat. His strong arms pulled pint after pint effortlessly. What hair he had left was dark, yet the pate of his head was bald, and he sported a black moustache that drooped over the corners of his mouth.

‘This is Fleur Bosley. She’s come to work in Control. She’s the lovely voice we’ll hear when we’re coming home. And a very welcome voice it’ll be too, I can tell you.’

‘Of course, it could be mine,’ Kay chipped in. ‘You’d better be able to tell the difference or there’ll be trouble.’

As Tommy grinned briefly over his shoulder at Kay and winked, Fleur realized that the newly arrived pilot that Kay had ‘got her eye on’, as Ruth had said, must be Flying Officer Tommy Laughton.

‘Pleased to meet you, love.’ Bill Moore enveloped her hand in his huge paw. She felt the calluses on his work-hardened hands – strong, capable, reliable hands. The sort of hands you could trust …

‘Pleased to meet you, Mr Moore.’

‘Eh now, lass. None of that there “mister” stuff. Bill’s the name.’

Standing behind the bar amongst the pumps, the bottles and the glasses sparkling against the polished wooden surface of the bar, Bill Moore was master of all he surveyed. Fleur smiled. The man was just like Harry had been when they had first been introduced. No standing on ceremony. What a friendly bunch these locals were. Actually, she was surprised. She would have thought that the locals would resent having the airfield quite so close to their village. Despite the custom that came the pub’s way and maybe to the local shop too, she was sure the disadvantages of noisy aircraft day and night and the danger of attacks, not to mention having a lot of strangers milling about the place, would far outweigh any advantages.

But it seemed she was wrong. The locals – young and old alike – were mingling freely and in a friendly manner with the RAF boys. Especially, Fleur noticed with a wry smile, the local lasses, who were being very friendly with the handsome RAF lads in their smart, blue uniforms. And the only looks of resentment were on the faces of one or two local youths not in uniform and obviously feeling that their noses had been pushed very much out of joint.

As Fleur began to ferry the drinks back to their table, Johnny jumped up and said, ‘I’ll give you a hand, Fleur.’ He went to stand beside Tommy, but at once a young blonde girl in a short-skirted dress sidled up to him and tapped him on the arm.

‘Hello, Johnny.’

‘Hello, Kitty. Would you like a drink?’

‘Ta. Don’t mind if I do.’

Johnny bought her a drink and they stood at the bar chatting.

‘I reckon we could have trouble from one or two of the local lads,’ Fleur whispered to Robbie as she took her seat beside him again. ‘See that lad in the white shirt and sleeveless green pullover? Over there – near the fire.’

Robbie glanced casually around him. ‘I see him. What about him?’

‘Well, just keep your eye on him for a few moments. He’s watching Johnny talking to that lass, and if looks could kill, Johnny would be feeling decidedly ill.’

Robbie didn’t seem perturbed. ‘I expect the girl old Johnny’s chatting up is the lad’s girlfriend.’

‘Did you ought to warn Johnny, ’cos I don’t think he’s noticed?’

Robbie chuckled. ‘No. He’s otherwise occupied, isn’t he? And Johnny can take care of himself. Besides, there’s plenty of us here if—’

As if on cue, the youth in the corner got up and brushed back the flop of hair from his face. Then he stumbled his way between the tables, knocking against a chair and then someone’s arm.

‘Watch it, young ’un. You’re spilling me beer.’

But the young lad took no notice. His eyes, bleary with drink, were fixed on the girl who was now sitting with Johnny and cuddling up to him quite openly.

‘I really think you should do something, Robbie,’ Fleur muttered.

Robbie put down his beer and unfolded his tall frame. He held out his hand. ‘You’re right. I should get you out of here before any trouble starts.’

‘I didn’t mean that. I meant—’ Fleur began, but at that moment the landlord’s thunderous tones cut through the chatter and laughter. ‘Now then, young Alfie. I want no trouble in my pub.’

Alfie stopped in his tracks and stood swaying unsteadily in the middle of the bar-room floor.

‘Go home, lad, an’ sleep it off. Kitty’s doing no harm. She’s only being friendly, like.’

‘A bit too – friendly,’ the lad slurred his words. ‘Kitty! You’re my girl. You come here this minute.’

Now all eyes were turned towards Alfie or on Kitty sitting with her blonde head against Johnny’s shoulder. She raised it briefly and waved her hand towards Alfie as if brushing him away. ‘Oh, go home, little boy.’

Incensed by her dismissive taunt, Alfie launched himself towards the pair, knocking over drinks and tables.

‘Steady, lad.’

‘’Ere – watch what you’re doing.’

With one accord, the rest of the crew – including Robbie – rose to their feet and moved together. Tommy and Alan caught hold of the youth’s arms and Robbie grasped his kicking legs.