A Fragile Peace

  Her smile faded as she remembered the battered Hurricane that had limped into Hawkinge late that afternoon with its fabric streaming and half its tail shot away. ‘I think I saw you come in.’ The recollection of the lurching, clumsily dangerous landing that the little, battle-damaged plane had made suddenly stirred sickness in the pit of her stomach.

  ‘Glad somebody did. Work of art, that was.’ They stood, smiling, watching one another, almost oblivious of the sound, movement, laughter around them.

  Sue, turning, looked from one to the other with interested, amused eyes. ‘Well, well, well, Sergeant, who’s your friend?’

  Allie did not look at her; she was studying Buzz Webster’s bright, mobile face, trying to interpret the warmth that she found there, almost afraid to admit to what she saw. ‘Buzz Webster,’ she said. ‘You remember? I mentioned him to you.’

  ‘So you did. Once or twice.’

  ‘This is my friend Sue Miller,’ Allie said to Buzz.

  Without taking his eyes from Allie’s, Buzz stuck a hand out. ‘How do you do?’

  Sue took it gravely. ‘She’s very well, thank you. At least, she was until a moment or so ago.’

  He walked Allie back to the house, later, in a darkness that was like blindness and a brittle cold that was the very breath of winter. Their hands were linked together, lightly, in the most natural way. His hand was small for a man’s, hard and very strong. Allie carried a small, shaded torch, shining it at their feet.

  ‘Been a bit busy round here lately?’ His voice, though quiet, echoed in the chill silence.

  ‘Yes, it has. Watch it here, the ground’s a bit rough. You’ve been in action?’

  ‘Fair bit. Did I hear that someone got Helmut Wick yesterday?’

  ‘That’s right.’ Wick had been the Luftwaffe’s leading ace with too many kills to his credit for anyone with sense in the RAF to regret the loss of a true genius of a flyer. Allie did not mention that the pilot who had destroyed Wick’s 109 had himself died just seconds later.

  ‘How’s your brother?’ It was said in the same, inconsequential tone. Allie wished she could see his face.

  ‘He’s fine.’ What else could she say? ‘I don’t see a lot of him.’

  ‘You mustn’t worry about him.’ His voice was gentle. ‘It’s not the first time I’ve seen it. It’s funny, but the lads who drop the bombs seem to suffer worse in a raid than the rest of us.’

  ‘Why’s that?’

  She sensed his shrug in the darkness. ‘I don’t know. Hard to live with, p’raps – knowing what you’re doing to the civilians in Berlin and Dusseldorf…’

  ‘Maybe.’ She left it at that.

  He drew her towards him, slid her hand through the crook of his arm. ‘I’ve flipped over this place a dozen times in the last couple of weeks. And every time I’ve thought of you.’

  ‘It must be catching.’ Her voice was soft.

  He stopped walking, reached for the shaded light, took it from her and, turning it off, slipped it into the pocket of his flying jacket. Then he turned her gently towards him. She lifted her hands and rested them lightly on his shoulders, feeling, through the worn leather, the warmth, the reality of him. Not thinking – desperately not thinking – of the venomous airborne dogfights, the swooping flights of enemy fighters, the lunacy that reduced young men like this to charred wrecks…She sensed in the darkness his move towards her. She lifted her face. His lips were ice-cold, as were her own. He slipped his hands inside her coat, wrapped his arms tightly about her. She stood quite still. The touch of his mouth was beguilingly gentle, in contrast to the strength of his arms, the urgency of his slight body against hers. Somewhere within her, like the opening of a flower, she felt her own need stir and come to life, aching pleasurably, almost unbearably exciting; a feeling she had never experienced before, that indeed she had convinced herself she never would. She trembled. His lips moved, roughly tender, over her cheeks to her eyes, the tip of her cold nose, her ears. With an odd, shaky sigh, he buried his face in her hair, his breath warm on her neck. She tilted her head, closed her eyes, shut her mind to everything but the feel of him. At that moment, had he willed it, she would have surrendered to this stranger any part of her body, mind or spirit that he cared to demand. His hand moved tentatively on the buttons of her uniform jacket; she shifted her body against him so that her breast, constricted beneath her shirt, lifted and pressed into his hand. His mouth opened, and this time his kiss was not gentle.

  Footsteps clipped the tarmac road, accompanied by an unmistakable giggle.

  ‘Now, you, Ben – just give over.’

  ‘It isn’t Ben!’ The voice was aggrieved.

  ‘This is Ben.’

  Another explosive giggle.

  Allie and Buzz stood quite still. The world settled around them, dark and cold. Buzz was breathing very fast. He reached for both her hands, drew them up, warm, between their bodies. ‘Allie, I’m sorry. Did I…?’

  ‘No.’ She whispered the word quickly, not allowing him to finish.

  ‘Well, whichever one of you that is,’ Sue said in the darkness, ‘he’d just better keep his hands to himself or he’s likely to get ’em chopped clean off!’ A small, dancing light moved like a will o’ the wisp, erratically, towards them. Buzz drew Allie into shadows that were damply leaf-smelling and deep as black velvet. Their feet rustled in ice-dry leaves.

  ‘What’s that?’ asked a man’s voice, startled.

  ‘Mice,’ Sue said, imperturbably. ‘Don’t worry. I’ll protect you.’

  ‘Didn’t sound like mice to me.’ The words were a little slurred.

  ‘Well, you’ll just have to take my word, won’t you?’ As the three passed, their footsteps just a little unsteady, Sue’s voice sang out again, full of laughter. ‘’Night, Allie. ’Night, Buzz.’

  ‘Good night.’ Allie smiled into the darkness. As the sound of voices and laughter receded down the lane, she turned back into Buzz’s arms.

  ‘I’ve thought about you every day,’ he said, ‘every single damned day.’

  ‘And I you.’

  The rough trunk of a tree was at her back. With light strength he caught her wrists, holding her captive between his body and the tree. The surge of excitement that engulfed her took her by surprise. Her heart thudded painfully in her throat beneath his cold mouth.

  High above them an engine sounded, spluttered, died, and revved again. Buzz stilled. She felt the echoes of the sound in his body, throbbing with his blood. They stood stone-still for a moment, listening as the crippled aircraft circled, looking for the airfield.

  ‘It’s a Spit,’ he said.

  The engine coughed again, stopped for the space of a few frantic heartbeats, crackled into life once more. They waited. Allie laid her face against Buzz’s, felt the tense throb of the muscles of his jaw. A few minutes later they heard the plane land, bumping and slithering on the cold ground. Allie held her breath, waiting for the crash. Nothing happened.

  ‘He’s down,’ said Buzz, lightly. ‘Silly bugger. Someone should have told him the pubs shut half an hour ago.’

  Allie wrapped her arms tightly around his neck and buried her face in the shoulder of his flying jacket. ‘Fifteen days ago I didn’t know you.’

  ‘That’s right.’ He held her, gently.

  ‘And now…’

  ‘Now?’

  ‘The world’s changed.’

  He laid his cheek against her hair. ‘You, too? I was afraid to think it.’ He laughed, softly. ‘If I’d known, I’d have got myself shot up earlier.’

  ‘Don’t say that! Please, don’t joke about it.’

  ‘Hey!’ He moved her a little away from him, peered into her face. ‘What’s this?’

  She shook her head.

  ‘They won’t get me, Allie Jordan,’ he said, the lovely note of laughter still in his voice, ‘not now they won’t. Don’t you know only the good die young?’

  She closed her eyes and leaned against him. On the nearby airfield the Spitfi
re’s engine gave a last, coughing roar and died.

  Chapter Fifteen

  ‘I strongly suspect,’ said Sue Miller, feet swinging six inches from the floor, the winter sun, through the wire-protected window of the wireless room, blazing in the fair nimbus of her hair, ‘strongly suspect – that Sergeant Alexandra Jordan is in love at last. And about time, too.’ She jumped from the desk where she had been sitting and regarded Allie with mischievous eyes.

  ‘Don’t be daft.’ Allie pulled off her headset, rubbed sore ears. The girls had decorated the wireless room, a little prematurely, for Christmas, and the headset, courtesy of Sue, was wreathed in mistletoe.

  ‘Daft, is it? Oh, no. You can’t fool me, Sergeant. This is your Aunty Sue, remember? I’m the expert around here.’

  ‘Expert in talking too much.’ Allie’s smile took the sting from the words.

  ‘You should blush more often,’ Sue said, unrepentantly. ‘It suits you.’

  Allie acknowledged the greeting of the relief operator who stood waiting to take her place, and followed Sue to the door. Sue was still talking over her shoulder. ‘I must say I approve. I wasn’t sure at first – he somehow didn’t seem quite your type – but on closer acquaintance…’

  ‘Sue, do shut up.’

  ‘…I’ve decided that he’s just right for you. You take life too seriously, you know that? Buzz is just the fella for you.’

  ‘Well, that’s very nice of you. I appreciate your approval no end. Didn’t anyone ever teach you to mind your own business?’

  ‘Nope. Anyway, this is my business. Lord, when you think about how much you know about my love life!’ Sue rolled her eyes.

  Allie sighed.

  ‘Oh, all right. I’ll stop talking.’

  The girls walked out into the cold air. The weather was changing. Although for the moment the sun still shone, slate-grey clouds were piling over the landscape to the north, the downs lifting darkly against them. Allie stretched tiredly, breathing deeply the sharp, cold air.

  ‘When are you seeing him again?’ Sue, once on a subject close to her heart, could no more leave it than she could stop breathing.

  Allie took an exasperated breath, which turned somehow into a snort of laughter. ‘Tomorrow. Satisfied? Or would you like a written itinerary?’

  Sue lifted smug eyebrows. ‘No, thank you. I’ve got a very vivid imagination. Let’s see – that’s three times in ten days, isn’t it?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Not bad going.’

  Allie said nothing. The cold air stung her face, refreshing and reviving her after the fuggy, smoke-filled radio room. Tomorrow. A day to live through, and a night. Twenty-four hours of ignoring the constant, gnawing anxiety, of trying not to picture Buzz up there in the perilous sky, playing the desperate game of death that he so enjoyed. The only time she did not worry was when he was with her, when she could touch him, watch him, know him whole and for the moment unthreatened. Every other minute was a quiet torment of anxiety. Yet she would not have had it any other way. Sue was right. She was in love. Head over heels. Incredibly, marvellously in love. She lived for the sight of him, the sound of his voice.

  ‘Coming on the Norton, is he?’

  Allie came back from her reverie. ‘Hm?’

  ‘Buzz. Coming on his motorbike?’

  ‘Oh – yes.’ They turned from the cold into the warmth of the requisitioned house.

  ‘Ever been out with him on it?’

  Allie shook her head.

  ‘You should give it a try. Motorbikes are fun.’

  ‘Like this?’ Allie looked down at her tailored, skirted uniform. ‘Don’t be an idiot.’

  Sue surveyed her with bland composure. ‘It’s a good job I don’t take offence easily, isn’t it? Listen, girl, where there’s a will, there’s a way. There’s a girl in MT must be just about your size. And she owes me a favour or three.’

  ‘What’s that got to do with anything?’ Allie was yawning, ready for bed. She had been up since four.

  The other girl shook her head in comic disbelief. ‘You’ve got to be in love. Or you couldn’t be so slow on the uptake. Do the girls in Transport climb in and out of their little lorries in ladylike skirts? No. They’ve got nice, comfortable trousers, haven’t they?’

  Light dawned. ‘Sue, I couldn’t possibly—’

  ‘Let’s give the lad a surprise. I’ll bet you’ll look smashing in battle-dress.’

  * * *

  The big Norton, Buzz Webster’s pride and joy, raced along the narrow lane, its engine reverberating thunderously. Allie, clinging like grim death behind him, consigned Sue and her bright ideas to perdition. The day was overcast, trees and hedges were skeletal in winter leaflessness, and a pall of drifting mist drenched the landscape. She was freezing cold, her back ached, the unfamiliar trousers and battle-dress jacket, for all Buzz’s wholehearted and delighted approval when he had seen them, chafed her skin, and she was certain that every bone in her body had shaken loose from its neighbour. Neither was she now convinced that her impulsive suggestion as to their destination was as good an idea as it had at first seemed. The last time she had seen Ashdown had been just before the boisterous evacuees had moved out. She hated to think of the house shut up and empty. Yet when Buzz had asked her where she would like to go, she had found herself suggesting that he might like to see her old home, and his enthusiasm for the idea had done the rest. Now, though she knew the actual distance to be only a little over thirty miles, she felt, bouncing uncomfortably on the Norton’s pillion, that they must have covered at least three hundred. Her only consolation was that the familiar lanes and villages they were passing meant they were almost there; the return journey, she decided grimly, she would not contemplate until it was actually upon her.

  The gates of Ashdown were closed. As Buzz, at her shouted instructions, rolled the bike to a halt, she climbed stiffly from the pillion seat and opened them. The hinges creaked dismally. Flakes of red dust came off on her hand, and the wetly acrid smell put her teeth on edge. She wondered how it was that the gates had escaped being requisitioned and turned into the hardware of war. Rather to her own surprise, she discovered that she was very glad that they had, and was glad too, after all, as she paused for a moment and looked at the house, that she had come. Here were her roots. She was glad to bring her happiness home.

  The drive was weed-grown and unkempt. The lawns were gone – even the front garden had been given over entirely to orderly rows of vegetables. In contrast to the weedless, neatly husbanded land, the house looked neglected. Paint peeled from the windowsills and Allie could see the untidy vestiges of last spring’s birds’ nests still cluttering the gutters, so that rain-dirt streaked the brickwork beneath them. Buzz wheeled the sputtering motorbike up the drive, parked it and, in the silence left by the dying engine, surveyed his surroundings.

  ‘What a wonderful old place.’

  ‘You like it?’

  ‘Very much.’

  ‘The gardens used to be lovely. Mother’s pride and joy. I can quite see why she doesn’t come down here much. It must break her heart.’

  ‘Someone’s certainly digging for victory.’

  ‘Browning, our old gardener. He keeps almost the whole village in vegetables from what I hear – and he’s a corporal in the Home Guard to boot. Damn it, this lock’s stiff. Ah, there we are…’

  The big door swung open. The house was cold, and the darkness of the winter afternoon shadowed the corners and the stairs. Automatically, Allie’s finger went to the light switch. As the light clicked on, Buzz’s hand covered hers. ‘Better not. The blackouts aren’t up.’ She turned the light off again and the contrasting gloom seemed deeper than ever. Buzz tossed his leather gauntlets onto the hall table, looked doubtfully down at his heavy flying boots. ‘Should I take these off?’

  She shook her head. ‘The carpets, other than the ones they took to Kensington, are in store. We had to take them up when the evacuees were here. The floors are in a pretty bad stat
e already – a dozen or so kids in hobnailed boots saw to that. I believe Dad’s got a chitty from the War Office entitling him to have them sanded and polished for nothing when the war’s over.’ She grinned. ‘There’s something worth fighting for.’

  She pushed open the dining-room door. Across the white, shapeless humps of the dust-sheeted furniture, through the french windows, the ploughed-up garden suddenly looked ridiculously incongruous. High on the hillside opposite, the tangled wreckage of a crashed plane stood out against the dark woods. Only the orchard looked the same as it ever had, and the brown glint of water in the distance. Allie remembered the garden parties that now seemed part of another life, another person; tried to remember, and amazingly could not, what it was like to live a normal, settled life with everyday problems that did not include the exigencies of war and the fear of death, for oneself and for others. She walked to the tall windows, stood for a moment pensively looking out, not at a bleakly cold afternoon and a sweep of ploughed and planted earth, but at sunshine, and a drift of rose-petals on velvet grass. She found that, from nowhere, a tune had begun in her head. She hummed it softly: ‘A cigarette that bears a lipstick’s traces…’ Why did the room remind her of that particular song? She searched her memory, but the recollection eluded her.

  ‘I say – what a lovely room.’ She went back into the hall. Buzz had pushed open the drawing-room door. Again, the furniture that was left was covered, and the walls and paintwork were finger-marked and dirty. Soot had splashed down the chimney with the rain, and flecked the floor and the fireplace; the room smelled of it. Yet the beautiful proportions, the lofty ceiling, the tall, diamond-paned windows still retained their grace.

  ‘What’s in there?’ Buzz’s boots clicked on the wooden floor as he walked the length of the room.

  ‘The conservatory. I shouldn’t think that—’