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‘Rob, oh Rob.’ She spoke his name softly, her lips gentling his cheek. Then, pulling a little way from him, she closed her eyes, lifting her lips to his.
But he did not kiss her. Instead he took her face in his hands, forcing her eyes to his.
‘Jenny, I can’t stay.’
‘Darling, no! Why not?’
‘They’ve just told us we’re on standby.’
‘Which means you’ll be flying,’ she whispered dully.
She traced the outline of his face with her eyes, loving the dear, untidy hair, the mouth that smiled widely and often, the eyes that were old in a young man’s face.
She reached out for him again, and his arms felt lean and hard through the sleeves of his tunic. He was too thin. Flying was feeding off him, draining him, leaving him taut as an overwound spring.
‘You’ll be flying,’ she whispered again. ‘That’ll be three nights out of five. It’s madness.’
She disliked herself for what she was saying, for she knew the risk he had taken to be with her. When the bombers at Fenton Bishop were under orders, a blanket of security covered the aerodrome and to breach that security was the most serious thing. If there should be a call to briefing and Rob wasn’t there …
‘Have you been briefed yet?’
‘No, but there’s a call out for pilots and navigators in –’ He glanced at his watch. ‘In fifteen minutes.’
‘That makes it pretty certain then, doesn’t it? And if anyone finds you here, you’ll be in terrible trouble. I love you for coming, darling,’ she whispered, ‘but you mustn’t stay.’
‘I’m all right for a couple of minutes.’ He shook two cigarettes from a paper packet, lit them, and placed one gently between her lips.
She pressed closer. Last night, perhaps, the bombs that fell from Rob’s plane had killed women and children and old, helpless men, but for all that he was a tender lover. She wished the dead ones could have known that.
‘Any news, Jenny?’
‘No.’ She smiled up at him, knowing what he meant. ‘I had a fright this morning, though. There was a long buff envelope in the post with OHMS on it and I thought, “Oh, my God.” But it was only something for Dad.’
‘They’ve forgotten you. How long is it now since your medical?’
‘Oh, ages.’ She didn’t want to talk about it or even think about it. Before they met she had accepted her call-up into the armed forces because it was one of the things that happened in wartime; accepted it because it was a moral necessity. There was a war on, so you didn’t question anything; and if she was completely honest, there had even been times when she had looked forward to leaving home with a kind of guilty relief. But not any longer. Now there was Rob, and even to think of being parted from him left her sick inside.
She turned to him and closed her eyes, reaching for the back of his head, pulling his face closer.
‘Forget it.’ She shivered, without knowing why, and he took off his tunic and wrapped it around her shoulders. Longing flamed in her again at the smell and feel of it.
She was not ashamed of the need that screamed inside her. Sometimes she wanted to shout, ‘Listen, world, Rob and I are lovers!’ But their loving was a secret thing and their meetings furtive because of her parents.
‘How was it, last night?’
‘Like it always is,’ he said quietly.
She felt the shrugging of his shoulders as if he were trying to forget for a little while the fear that never seemed quite to leave him. Fear of a bad take-off, of night fighters, of flak and searchlights. Fear of cracking up; fear of fear itself. Rob did not subscribe to the popular image of a bomber pilot, didn’t talk about wizard prangs or pieces of cake, or sport a handlebar moustache. Rob flew with calculated care, mindful of the lives of his crew and the need to get them back to the safety of the debriefing room and steaming mugs of rum-laced tea.
‘Rob, let’s go to York on Saturday and stay the night.’
The words came out in a rush and she felt her face flame. But she had no pride now where Rob was concerned, and what had pride to do with loving?
‘The night?’ He asked it quietly but she felt a tensing of his body. ‘Could you make it?’
‘I know I could.’ She nodded confidently. ‘My cousin will say I was with her. You want us to, don’t you?’
‘I love you, Jenny.’ His voice was rough and his arms tightened around her. ‘Remember that, always.’
Always. She recalled the time of their first coupling. It had been gentle, a sweet, surprised discovering, and they had looked at each other shyly afterwards, unable to speak. But now her need of him was desperate and unashamed, and their clandestine meetings were not enough. She wanted something to keep secret inside her; something to balance the loneliness of life without him if one night he shouldn’t come back.
‘If I start a baby, will you marry me?’
‘You won’t.’ He kissed her harshly, as if to add strength to his denial.
‘But I might. I could easily –’
‘You won’t, Jenny.’ He drew deeply on his cigarette then sent it spinning away with a flick of his fingers. ‘And we’ll talk about York tomorrow, sweetheart.’
‘All right, then.’ She shivered again. ‘If you’re flying tonight, Rob, what time will take-off be?’
‘I don’t know. They haven’t told us anything, but if something doesn’t happen by nine, I reckon they’ll stand us down.’ He was looking at his watch, again. ‘Sorry, Jenny. You’ll be all right?’
‘I’ll be fine. Just fine.’
She wasn’t fine. She was angry they had wasted the precious minutes on stupid small talk. Then she took off his tunic and gave it back, helping him into it, fastening the buttons possessively. ‘Take care, Rob. Promise to be careful.’
‘I will.’
‘And promise never to stop loving me.’
‘Never. I promise.’
The same dear words, each time they parted. The same sweet promises, part of the ritual of their loving.
‘Goodnight, Rob MacDonald,’ she whispered, and he reached for her and kissed her gently, the sadness in his eyes making her suddenly afraid.
‘Goodnight, Jenny.’
He went abruptly and she stood there, eyes on his back, willing him to turn, knowing he would not.
She watched as he broke into a run along the perimeter track; the same track his bomber would lumber round tonight if standby became reality.
Despair shook her, her body screaming silently at the pain of leaving him, choosing not to think of the risk he had taken to be with her.
Damn this war, she thought. Damn it, damn it!
She turned then, tugging at the wire-mesh fence, squeezing through. Head down, she ran through the wood, past the beech tree and the stile, not stopping until she came to Dormer Cottage.
‘Hi!’ she called to no one in particular. ‘I’m home.’
She took the stairs at a run, up and up to the attic she slept in. Breathlessly she flung herself down on the window seat.
She liked this large, low room at the top of the house. From its windows she could see for miles, across fields and trees to the aerodrome beyond. From here she could watch and wait for take-off, count the bombers out, bless them on their way.
There was nothing to see, yet. Toy trucks moved between hangars; a minute tractor drove slowly down the main runway. Maybe they wouldn’t go tonight. Maybe it would be all right.
She pulled her knees up to her chin, hugging them for comfort, thinking about Saturday and York, and Julia, who had reluctantly agreed to alibi her.
She closed her eyes. On Saturday night she would be Jenny MacDonald. No one else called her Jenny. She was Jane, except to Rob; and now no one else would ever be allowed to use that diminutive. Jenny and Rob. Mrs Robert MacDonald, of Glasgow, though where in Glasgow she wasn’t at all sure. What she did know was that he lived with his mother and two brothers, and that after the war he would go back to work in an insurance office.
Frowning, she made a mental note to ask his address, though where a man lived was not important. What really mattered was that he loved you and that tomorrow he would be waiting by the beech tree, at seven. Everything else was a triviality.
She rested her chin on her knees, preparing herself for the long wait. Her parents were down there in the garden, Missy, her labrador bitch, at their heels.
She was sorry about the tension between them. It had started when they discovered she was meeting Rob, and they had asked for her promise that she would never see him again. It was the start of the lies and deceit, but she didn’t care. Only Rob mattered now.
She closed her eyes, easing into her favourite fantasy. She did it all the time when Rob was not with her, recalling words they had spoken, hearing music and shared laughter.
Tonight the air was gentle and the earth green with tender things growing, but when first she met Rob a bitter wind blew from the north-east and the bombers were grounded, standing shrouded against the frost and snow like great wounded birds. Candlemas, and there was a dance in the sergeants’ mess. Often, now, she thought with wonder that she almost hadn’t gone …
Her mother was against it. Aerodromes were dangerous places, she fretted, the recent air raid and the death of two young Waafs still fresh in her mind. Her parents didn’t want her to become involved with Fenton Bishop’s aircrews. They were a wild lot, her mother said. They had rowdy parties at the Black Bull and sang dubious songs. She only gave in when she learned that the vicar’s niece would be going to the dance and that the Air Force would be providing transport.
Jane had never been to the aerodrome before – not actually past the guardroom and through the gates – and she hadn’t known what to expect that night. All she was able to see from the back of the truck was the rounded outlines of scattered Nissen huts and, on the dark horizon, tall, wedge-shaped buildings hung with dim blue lights.
A corporal wearing an SP’s armband helped her down, and from the distance she sensed the clunk and slap of a double bass and drums that tapped out a rumba beat.
On either side, white-painted kerb stones glowed faintly through the blackness as she walked with the rest towards the sound of the dancing, for ears were of more use than eyes in the blackout.
The aircrew mess was a drab building, erected in the haste of war, with a brown polished floor and girders that criss-crossed to support a low tin roof. Thick blackout curtains covered the too-small windows and cigarette smoke hung in a blue haze, drifting lazily, trapped in the roof space above.
The room was noisy and hot. She laid her coat across a table then stood, not knowing what to do, wondering irritably why she had made such a fuss about coming …
But thank heaven she had, she thought now. Oh, Rob, imagine. We might never have met.
Her foot began to tingle and she shifted her position. Her father was still in the garden. He was wearing his blue police shirt and the strap of his truncheon hung from his left trouser pocket. The war had brought extra responsibilities to the village constable and now they were beginning to show in the tired lines on his face.
She wished her father and mother were like other parents and not so narrow-minded. But they were old. Her mother must be nearly sixty.
‘We waited so long for you, Jane. We had given up hope, then suddenly there you were, a little stranger …’
A little stranger. God, how awful. And how awful to imagine people of their age doing that. It made her glad she was disobeying them; gladder still that she and Rob were lovers.
All seemed normal and quiet at the aerodrome and the sun was beginning to set. She lifted her left hand. Almost nine o’clock.
‘… if something doesn’t happen by nine …’
The cough and splutter of an aircraft engine came to her clearly on the still evening air. Fear sliced through her and she tried to close her ears to the sound, but as if to mock her it was joined by another and another until the air was filled with a shaking roar. The pilots were revving up the aircraft engines; there would be no stand-down. Soon, Rob would take S-Sugar on to the runway and wait for clearance from the control tower. Then a green light would stab through the gloom and he’d be roaring down the narrow concrete strip, faster and faster, holding Sugar back until it seemed the boundary fence was hurtling to meet them. Then slowly, reluctantly almost, they would rise into the air and Rob would let go his breath, and his flight engineer would say, ‘Bloody lovely,’ as he always did.
That was when she’d wish them luck, as they roared over the village, and she would watch them all until they were silhouetted against the dying sun, small and graceful in an apricot sky.
She counted twelve green lights, blessed twelve Halifax bombers on their way. In less than half an hour they were all airborne and Rob was flying on his seventeenth raid over occupied Europe.
Take care, my love. Come home safely.
God, but she was so afraid.
2 (#ulink_00d0428f-eb23-5961-b82b-bfaa8a0431f8)
At the door of St Joseph’s church, Father O’Flaherty waited impatiently and importantly.
‘Down ye go, Theresa.’ He always used Vi’s second name, declaring that the name of a flower, however sweet and modest, must give precedence to that of a saint.
‘Thanks, Father.’
Vi walked carefully, eyes on the trailing habit of Sister Cecilia, who negotiated the twisting downward steps with a child beneath each arm.
The crypt was damp and smelled of the occupation of the past six nights. Benches and chairs had been placed around the walls, and biscuit mattresses, still folded, were stacked in the corner nearest the stone steps. Not for sleeping on, it was stressed, but for direst emergencies only, such as dying, birthing or suspected heart attack. Opposite, alongside a loudly dripping tap, Sister Annunciata topped up the already bubbling tea urn, switched on, Vi suspected, without the priest’s permission.
Vi took a corner seat farthest away from the door. Tonight she didn’t want to talk. Tonight Gerry had died, really died. After the letter came she had hoped for a miracle and prayed for one, too, but Richie Daly’s visit had snuffed out that hope in one short sentence. Gerry was dead, because no seaman, not even a little toerag like Richie Daly, would lie about a thing like that.
She closed her eyes. No more tears, Vi, she told herself. You and Gerry had four good years. Just be thankful you didn’t get the baby you wanted so much. No fun for a kid, is it, growing up without a da. Better face it, Vi, you’re on your own, now. There’s only Mary and the sisters you haven’t seen for ten years, if you can count them. Margaret and Geraldine had gone to Canada as domestics in the early thirties and married Canadian husbands, and wouldn’t come back to Liverpool, they wrote, for a big clock.
They’d been good to Mam, though, sending her money when they could. Neither had been able to get home for her funeral, but they had telegraphed a big wreath and paid their fair share of the undertaker’s bill, after which the letters and dollars stopped and Vi and Mary had grown even closer.
A child cried and was silenced with a bottle of orange-coloured liquid. Lips moved without words, fingers counted rosary beads. Tonight, everyone seemed to be waiting. Two hours gone and still nothing had happened. Weren’t they coming, then, and if they weren’t, why didn’t the all clear sound?
Sister Annunciata caught the priest’s eye and held up a packet of tea, but he shook his head and pulled aside the blackout curtain at the foot of the circular staircase. Vi jumped to her feet and followed him to the door of the church, wincing in the sweet, cold air.
‘Father, can you spare a minute?’
‘What’s to do, Theresa? Go back down, where it’s safe.’
‘Just a word, Father.’
She followed his upward gaze. The sky was dark, with only the outlines of dockside warehouses standing sharp on the skyline. Long, straight fingers of light searched the sky in sweeping arcs, meeting, touching briefly as if in greeting, then sweeping away again to circle the brooding night.
‘Almost beautiful, isn’t it?’
‘It is, Father.’
‘And what’s on your conscience, Theresa?’ The priest’s eyes followed the wandering searchlights.
‘It’s Gerry. He – he’s dead, it seems certain now. Someone who was there came to tell me tonight.’
‘Dead-is-it-God-rest-his-soul.’ Father O’Flaherty’s thumb traced a blessing.
‘Will you say a Mass for him?’ Two half-crowns, warm from her fingers, changed hands. ‘Tomorrow, Father?’
