Too Late the Morrow

by Richard Townshend, Bickers

  Kate gave him a smile. ‘We are still going into Leeds to see that Bob Hope and Bing Crosby flick, aren’t we? You’re not night flying?’

  ‘No, it’s all right.’

  ‘Sally and Jumbo would like to come.’

  The other girl and a large flying officer pilot beside her looked at Roger. She smiled. ‘May we cadge a lift there and back?’

  ‘Of course.’

  Jumbo, who had a voice like a creaky hinge, which consorted ill with his bulk, said ‘Don’t mind if we join you for dinner at The Grand, do you, Roger?’

  ‘Not at all.’

  Roger couldn’t care less who accompanied them where. It was the climax to the evening which interested him. Assistant Section Officer Kate Lingham had turned out to be by far the best curative agent for his badly wounded leg and jangled nerves. Her therapeutic qualities evinced themselves most effectively when they were alone together in her room. The preliminaries, he was prepared to share with friends.

  Kate was, like him, a slow starter, cautious. They had been going out together for two months before she suggested that they might take a twenty-four-hour pass together and spend it at a snug and comfortable inn she had heard of in the dales. They intended to share a forty-eight in a couple of weeks from now, in London. In the meanwhile he was not excluded from her quarters once or twice a week. He would have preferred greater frequency but did not like to push himself. The W.A.A.F. officers slept in two large houses - the peacetime station commander’s and second-in-command’s - in what used to be officers’ married quarters. The eight other houses on ‘the married patch’ were occupied by male officers who could not be fitted into the mess. Clandestine ingress to and egress from the W.A.A.F. officers’ billets was not difficult. The R.A.F. had perverted the conventional meaning of ‘billet’ to refer to any sleeping quarters occupied by its officers and men, or women. The troops even used the word in reference to their barrack blocks. Roger, who was something of a purist about the English language, was indifferent to this aberration: intimate association with the lovely Kate had infused him with unprecedented gaiety, and her bedroom by any other name sounded just as sweet.

  Being a former bank clerk, he often thought in terms of the vagaries of profit and loss. He had escorted Daphne for a year and a half, but the only liberties she permitted him were kisses - often astonishingly heated; but always kept under control - and some fumbling at her torso, which the R.A.F., with cheerful vulgarity, knew as ‘tit-thrashing’: and not much of the latter, at that. On the other side of the books, his friendship with Kate had proved a sound investment and one which provided a quick return.

  The passage of time was seldom far from his thoughts. The war had been in progress for two years and two weeks. Fourteen weeks had passed since he arrived at the O.T.U. He had allowed himself a minimum of six months before he would be posted back to a squadron. He was well past the half-way mark and his thoughts had begun to turn more frequently towards the prospect of a return to operational flying.

  In the past week he had had two recurrences of the dreadful dreams from which he had suffered for two months after his last operational sortie. The ferocious Wing Commander Garland, D.S.O., D.F.C., Chief Flying Instructor, was notorious for his haste in having his officers and senior N.C.Os sent back to squadrons. He maintained that a long respite from operations was unfair to them because it weakened their nerve. He declared that he resented the fact that his own posting to the O.T.U. was, in view of his rank, for at least a year. He did not say so, but it was obvious to everyone that he would not be returning to operations: he would be promoted to group captain, which meant a Staff appointment or command of a station.

  Roger knew that Garland disapproved of people wearing air crew badges and not constantly flying in the face of the enemy. But he knew also that Garland genuinely thought it was in their interests to be on squadrons, where their prospects of promotion were good: even if it was mostly into dead men’s shoes.

  Hence his nightmares. He relived in them his last two terrific sorties: the deaths of two observers, ditching his Blenheim and being adrift on the wintry North Sea for a day and a half, wounded; and the bout of pneumonia which had almost killed him and thus completed what the Germans had half-done. Fond though he was of, and close in relations with, Flight Sergeant Devonshire, his wireless operator-air gunner, he had been avoiding him because Devonshire reminded him of all that he wanted to forget. He did not need to encounter Creamy Devonshire during working hours, and, although he knew it must be hurtful to his old friend, he had made plausible excuses lately to avoid seeing him outside them.

  When he brought Kate back that evening after dining out and going to the cinema, he was, as always in her company, free of all nagging worries. Not a thought about his past raids against the enemy lurked in his head. The other couple were pleasant companions. James did not know how far their relationship had gone and was not interested in finding out. Sally was plain but vivacious and flirtatious. Jumbo, a regular, had spent twenty-one months flying night raids in Whitleys but had other topics of conversation and other interests than shop. Roger was feeling as relaxed and happy as he had at any time since the war began.

  When he had parked his Morris Eight behind the mess, Jumbo suggested going in for a final drink. Sally was all for it. Sally, Roger suspected, was all for any activity which involved an encounter with a large number of young men.

  ‘Not for me, thanks.’ Kate put up a hand to stifle a yawn. Roger hoped it was only simulated.

  ‘I’ll see you back to your billet.’ He took her arm and led her away into the cool September night. ‘Not really sleepy, are you?’

  She chuckled and pressed his hand against her side with her elbow. ‘Don’t panic. You’ll get your oats. And what’s good for the stallion is good for the mare.’

  Roger, although he had become accustomed to her top-drawer occasional coarseness, could not help a slight pang of shock. His middle-class ethos was still adjusting to Kate’s aristocratic ways and county-set disregard for convention. It had gradually emerged in the course of their friendship that her father was a baronet and her husband was an Honourable, whipper-in to an expensive Leicestershire hunt, a member of Lloyds.

  He did not feel that he would have got on particularly well with Captain The Honourable Archie Lingham; had he been around, instead of, to quote Kate, ‘charging about the Western Desert in an armoured car with his Yeomanry.’ She put it as though he were pursuing the Germans and Italians in hunting pink, sounding a horn. Perhaps he was, Roger reflected; it would be concomitant with his wife’s style.

  Two W.A.A.F. batwomen slept in a room next to the kitchen in Kate’s quarters, but neither was on duty at this hour and both were probably at the camp dance in the N.A.A.F.I. Kate entered the house without subterfuge. Roger, carrying his shoes, slipped in behind her to creep upstairs. Three other W.A.A.F. officers were under the same roof, and, if they were in, and awake, it was as well that they should hear the front door close.

  It was a moonlit night and Kate opened the blackout curtains in her room as soon as they entered. Roger never knew quite what to expect when he came to her room. She was a vigorous lover with an astonishingly varied repetoire and her behaviour was almost as diverse. This evening, evidently, she was going to be docile. He had already taken off his tunic. She turned from the window and spread her arms.

  ‘Undo me.’

  Her voice, whenever they were about to begin the preliminaries of their love-making, whatever mood she were in, communicated her excitement to Roger. He already found her slightly nasal Mayfair-Belgravia-Knightsbridge drawl intensely erotic. It seemed incongruous with what they were doing and the energy with which, after a languid overture, she would throw herself into it.

  She closed her eyes while he unbuttoned her tunic and shirt, unknotted her tie and knelt to unlace her shoes.

  She defied regulations and wore silk stockings when she went out. She seemed to have an infinite supply of clothing coupons and no d
ifficulty in finding articles that were scarce. Unfastening the clips of her suspenders infused Roger with a lust that made his fingers tremble.

  He thought how delightfully different she was from the masterful, domineering Sister Agnes Yerby, who had brought a whiff of iodoform from her ward to the bedroom and dictated his every move in the ritual of their passion; which, on her part, had merely been simulated. He had almost expected her to take his pulse, temperature and blood pressure before pronouncing permission for him to make his entry.

  There was no reminder of mundane occupations here, no tyranny. The only odours were of scent and powdered skin. Kate was submissive and it was he who had the initiative in his hands; so to speak. Seeking to gratify her pleasure in variety, he improvised. The shifting of a limb here, the help of a pillow there, adjustment, adaptation and no little contortion. He knew he had succeeded, when, with a deep contented sigh, she gasped ‘Roger dear, you’re an absolute acrobat,’ and squealed.

  *

  It was a fine morning for flying and Roger came into the mess at lunchtime glowing with achievement. Recollection of his evening with Kate made a considerable contribution to his mood and the morning’s training exercise had been an excellent culmination to many weeks of instructing over which he had taken great pains.

  He had flown with a formation composed of four pupil crews and himself, with Devonshire at the wireless set and a navigation instructor as observer. They had found and attacked a simulated enemy convoy with complete success and carried out a difficult navigation exercise on the way back.

  He thought that Kate might like a glass of sherry on this crisp autumn day and he intended to buy the three officer pilots who had flown with him a drink when they came in. He looked for her in the ante-room and in the bar. He was later than usual in going to the dining-room, and she was not there either. He sat down next to Sally.

  ‘Did Kate have an early lunch?

  Sally was neither vivacious nor flirtatious this morning. He had seen her so sombre only when there had been a fatal flying accident. He looked at Jumbo and was conscious that Jumbo was avoiding his eye.

  Sally turned to him, giving him her full attention.

  ‘Kate’s gone on compassionate leave.’

  ‘Sickness at home?’

  He was clutching at straws. He had guessed from Sally’s expression what her answer would be.

  ‘Archie’s been killed in action.’

  *

  Kate returned a day early from her seven days’ leave, showing no signs of mourning in appearance or manner.

  Roger was hesitant to say anything directly about her bereavement or to offer condolences. He saw her walking towards the mess from her billet when he stepped out of the van which had brought him there for tea. He went to meet her.

  She smiled faintly in greeting.

  ‘Hello, Roger.’

  ‘Are you all right?’

  ‘I’m all right.’

  ‘You’re back early.’

  ‘Gloomsbury. Couldn’t stand it. Too morbid.’

  ‘Can I help? Would you like to go somewhere this evening?’

  It was a muted, dispassionate conversation and Roger felt he ought to say something that would sound less insensitive, but there was an air about her which discouraged him.

  She studied him for a moment.

  ‘I think we should, Roger.’

  He did not feel encouraged by the way she said it. ‘Would you like to go out to dinner?’

  ‘Somewhere quiet for a drink after dinner.’

  ‘Sure you wouldn’t like to eat out?’

  ‘No.’

  There was a lack of patience in her tone.

  She drifted away from him when they went into tea, and joined a group of other women in a corner. She did not appear in the ante-room or bar before dinner. Roger, feeling aggrieved despite his sympathy with her desire for privacy and a reclusiveness which would avoid malicious criticism, went to table with some of his friends and it was not until he was eating his pudding that she appeared. She did not join him until she sat down with a cup of coffee in the ante-room.

  ‘You’re still coming out for a quiet drink?’

  She responded to the concern in his quiet query with a soft look which was as intimate as though there had been no ripple on the surface of their relationship. It revived his hopes.

  ‘Of course.’

  He used some of his precious petrol to take her to a pub in a village where he had never seen anyone from the station. The landlord, in recognition of his medals, served them with whisky, which was rationed by the distillers. Roger, knowing that the locals seldom drank anything but beer, asked for doubles. The landlord, a good West Riding man, obviously disapproved of women drinking whisky at all, let alone large ones, and said something about ‘Southerners’; but in a dialect too broad for Roger to understand.

  The comment fanned into flame a smouldering exasperation which was at variance with Roger’s placid nature but had been vexing him for the past six days.

  He glowered at the landlord and at the sniggering men who sat stolidly with their pints in front of them.

  ‘You Northerners are glad enough to flock down south to find jobs and a civilised life. I’ve never heard of a Southerner voluntarily moving up here.’

  Bemused globular faces stared at him. He took the glasses to the corner where Kate was watching with a look of amusement.

  ‘What was all that about?’

  ‘Peasants. The sort of thing I detest: working-class wit. I haven’t a clue what the oaf said in his primitive accent, but he was trying to be funny at our expense.’

  ‘Oh dear, you are tetchy. Don’t take any notice.’

  She patted his hand. ‘I know why you’re upset.’

  He held her hand. ‘I’m sorry, Kate.’

  She knew he was not apologising for his display of ill-nature.

  Gently she took her hand away. ‘I know, Roger. And I’m sorry too, because it can’t go on. Us, I mean. I know it sounds absurd.’ She made a wry grimace. ‘Now that I’m a widow, there should be no reason at all why… ‘ She took a sip of whisky. ‘But as long as he… as Archie… was there, I felt that a bit of fun was fair game. After all, I didn’t for a moment expect him to live like a monk while he was a couple of thousand miles away… away from home comforts.’ She gave a little laugh which had no amusement in it at all. ‘But now… it just seems rather… rather shabby… now that he’s not around to give me tit for tat… and I did go to a memorial service in the village church… I’d feel so bogus… I know it’s illogical… but there it is.’

  ‘I understand.’ Some influence quite outside himself put words into his mouth then which he had had no intention of uttering. He heard himself speak them and they took him as much by surprise as though he had remained silent and someone else had mimicked his voice. ‘I’ve applied to go back on ops, anyway.’

  He had committed himself now. He had better put his application in first thing tomorrow morning. He did not know whether he felt better or worse for the involuntary declaration, relieved or apprehensive.

  He emptied his glass. ‘Come on, let’s have one for the road. And if that damn yokel dares say a word, I’ll… ‘

  She shook her head. ‘I want to go, Roger.’

  Chapter Four

  Christopher Fenton watched the Wellington join the circuit and come in to land, feeling like a prep school hoy on the first morning of the holidays. He had spent the only unhappy four months in his twenty years of life here and hoped never to see the place again.

  The knowledge that he would not be returning compensated for the delay in the granting of his leave. Someone had gone sick; somebody else had had to go on compassionate leave; he had been detailed to sit on a court of inquiry. And neither the senior air traffic controller nor the squadron leader in charge of administration nor the group captain commanding the station had been at all concerned about him, a mere flying officer; with, when he arrived, almost zero seniority: he had be
en promoted from pilot officer eight months before the sentence which had deprived him of six.

  To hell with them. The R.A.F. was not his career and the court martial would not make a jot of difference to the three years that awaited him up at Oxford when this show was over. But while he served, he intended to derive as much fun, excitement and promotion out of it as he could. Following his leave, he was going on a new posting: one which delighted him.

  He was glad he was making his escape before winter set in. He hated the cold. It was bad enough now in mid-October, wet, windy and twenty degrees lower than his native Hampshire at the time of year.

  He stood on the tarmac with his luggage beside him, gloating because he had got the better of the situation and those who had been hostile to him here. Two days’ travelling time had been added to his seven days’ leave, to allow for the usual journey by steamer and train: he did not need to squander them in that way. It was useful to have a cousin who was an instructor at an O.T.U. and, although also only a flying officer, had considerable authority. Roger was in that Wellington, checking out a crew that had flown to the Western Isles on a long navigation exercise. He would be landing at Roger’s base in Yorkshire before lunch.

  It was even more useful to have a brother who was a regular and in command of a squadron. James had arranged for an Airspeed Oxford, a twin-engined trainer, under the command of a pre-war friend who was now a wing comander, to fly up to Yorkshire from its base in the Midlands and fetch Christopher down to Dallingfield; also ostensibly on an exercise.

  Dallingfield was a short flight from both Thorney Island and Ford, R.A.F. stations very close to their home. James had promised to flip him over to one of them in an old de Havilland Dominie - formerly called the Rapide - which his station commander had managed to procure permanently for communications and alleged training purposes; although what useful training a slow old passenger biplane could offer fighter pilots was best not inquired into.

  All this meant that Christopher and his brother would be able to dine and sleep the night at their parental home: enough on its own to give Christopher great joy. The contrivance that had gone into achieving this added flavour to the event.