When Skies Have Fallen

by Debbie McGowan

  Chapter Three: March, 1944

  The mess hall floor had been polished until it gleamed like glass, making it a little slippery for normal operations but perfect for the evening’s dancing. The band had set up onstage and were tuning up, with most of the Minton service people already in attendance; only those on duty were absent, although they were covering each other in order to put in an appearance. Boosting morale was everything right now; just that morning Charlie had told Arty that the American airmen were all about morale. They’d formally met their counterparts at Gaskell the day before, and they were pleasant chaps, if not a little slack, with their rolled-up sleeves and caps worn on the backs of their heads. A sloppier drill Arty had yet to see, such as he was paying attention, his eyes straying to every man wearing sergeant stripes. None were Technical Sergeant Jimmy Johnson, and it was probably just as well.

  Several WAAF entered the mess hall, all smiles and best frocks, but Jean stood out from the rest in her long, white dress with a feathered hem that lifted delicately and swished from side to side as she walked, revealing dainty white shoes and a flash of smooth, shapely legs, the dim light reflecting off her nylon stockings. The Americans had brought plenty of booty with them, including the stockings, and Jean had confided that she was delighted: no more drawing on seams and worrying whether they were straight, or fretting about rain making the gravy browning run.

  “You’re going to shame them tonight,” Charlie said, watching Jean and her fellow WAAF drift across the hall; some stopped to chat to airmen, others continued on to get drinks.

  “You do a mean foxtrot yourself, Charlie,” Arty said.

  “Not a patch on you though, eh?”

  “I don’t know about that.”

  “You could waltz across the Western Front and still return home unscathed,” Charlie joked, always trying to make light of their losses.

  Arty shook his head but laughed anyway. “The waltz I can manage. The jive is an entirely different matter.”

  Charlie waved his hand dismissively. “Oh, the Americans know how to do all that showy business, but you and Jean…” He smiled and his eyes sparkled.

  Arty nudged his friend knowingly in the side. “She’s an extraordinary dancer,” he agreed.

  “And you and she?”

  “Just friends.”

  Charlie nodded thoughtfully. He was evidently seeking Arty’s approval, though Arty was loathe to give it. Who was he to permit or deny such things? Jean had firmly stated that she had no interest in courtship or marriage; Charlie, at twenty-six, was the middle son of three, the youngest killed in Belgium, the eldest still fighting over there, hence his glib humour, for it tempered the reality. No doubt Charlie felt the loss keenly, and he was under duress to carry on the Tomkins family name, but there were many more women on the base and in town. Surely any of those would be more than willing to court Charlie? Arty chastised himself; what a preposterous notion, that Charlie could pick and choose whom to like when Arty had endeavoured and failed to do the same.

  “What do you think, Arty? Do I stand a chance?”

  “Better than most, I’d say. If you want to dance with her tonight—”

  Charlie laughed. “Captain Taylor would have my guts for garters. Maybe next time.” He clapped Arty on the shoulder and stepped off towards the bar. “She’s all yours tonight, my friend.”

  Arty watched Charlie weave his way through the small groups standing and chatting casually, noticeably more floor space between the British and the Americans, but that would change, once each recognised that they were not so different from the other, and their enemy was the same. The Americans seemed brash, boastful of their victories to date, in contrast to how reserved the British were. There was a great deal of arrogance, but they were in a strange country; their ways were young compared to the rich history of the British Empire to which they had once belonged.

  Arty had been born the year after the Great War ended, nine months to the day from his father’s return. It was a common occurrence, and he was one of many children born around that time, their understanding of war being one of adventure with no notion of death to blacken its majesty. Their fathers and uncles did not speak of what they had endured, nor of the lives lost, until war broke out again, and Arty often wondered if a peaceful agreement might have been reached had those returning home spoken out sooner. War was not glorious; war was not proud. What victory was there to be had in so many losing their lives? It did not stop history repeating.

  These thoughts, like the other thoughts he had, Arty kept to himself. It would do no good to share with anyone how strongly he disagreed with warfare, but he would fulfil his duties in the war effort, and fulfil them well. As for his other thoughts: they could be just as dangerous, and it worried him tremendously that Jean had read him as if he were an open book, like that book his sister Sissy held dear. Being some ten years older, Sissy had been in service to a wealthy gentleman in London for most of Arty’s living memory, and she had evacuated with her employer to Kent, only to be ousted when he was forced to return to his native Italy. Poor Sissy went home distraught, for she loved everything about her job, not least the gentleman’s collection of fine art and literature. His claim that he had been a friend of the author D H Lawrence was well substantiated by his library, which boasted a complete set of Lawrence’s works, including a certain publication deemed too obscene for general consumption.

  Lady Chatterley’s Lover; Sissy’s employer refused to let it leave his house, but, being the sort of man he was, an artist and intellectual, he agreed to Arty visiting with Sissy, and he did so, many times. Those nights, huddled together in the vast, lumpy reading chair, embers glowing in the hearth, while they pored by candlelight over page after page of Lawrence’s words… Such wonderful memories; Arty clung to them with every part of his being, though it was not the recounting of Lady Chatterley’s pursuits that stayed with him, but those of Aaron Sisson.

  Robert went with the bicycle lamp and stood at Aaron’s side.

  “Shall I show you a light to the road—you’re off your track,” he said. “You’re in the grounds of Shottle House.”

  “I can find my road,” said Aaron. “Thank you.”

  Jim suddenly got up and went to peer at the stranger, poking his face close to Aaron’s face.

  “Right-o,” he replied. “You’re not half a bad sort of chap—Cheery-o! What’s your drink?”

  “Mine—whiskey,” said Aaron.

  “Come in and have one. We’re the only sober couple in the bunch—what?” cried Jim.

  Aaron stood unmoving, static in everything. Jim took him by the arm affectionately—

  “Did you read that, Sissy?” Arty whispered. “A man affectionately taking the arm of another man.”

  “Indeed. That is why I wished for you to read Mr. Lawrence’s work.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “It occurred to me, Arty. Most young men of your age are interested in one thing alone.”

  “One thing?”

  “Yes, brother. Young ladies.”

  Arty’s eyes fell and his shoulders rounded. “I am not worrying unduly then. There is something very wrong with me.”

  Sissy set the book down in her lap and tugged Arty close. “No. There is nothing wrong with you, dear brother. Come, read with me some more.”

  When Jim woke in the morning Aaron had gone. Only on the floor were two packets of Christmas-tree candles, fallen from the stranger’s pockets. He had gone through the drawing-room door, as he had come. The housemaid said that while she was cleaning the grate in the dining-room she heard someone go into the drawing-room: a parlour-maid had even seen someone come out of Jim’s bedroom. But they had both thought it was Jim himself, for he was an unsettled house mate.

  There was a thin film of snow, a lovely Christmas morning.

  “Good evening to you, Corporal.”

  His voice, a slow, deep rumble, startled Arty from his remembering. His breath caught in his throat as he fought
to reply. “A good evening to you also, Sergeant…Johnson, isn’t it?”

  “Sure is.” The man held out his hand for Arty to shake. “Technical Sergeant Jim Johnson, at your service.”

  Arty reciprocated: “Corporal Robert Clarke.” The palm against his was big, rough and cool to the touch.

  “Robert, Bobby, or Bob?”

  “None, actually. Arty is what they call me, on account of my initials. My middle name is Thomas.”

  “Arty,” the American airman repeated with a wide smile displaying straight, white teeth that made Arty hide his own behind tight lips. “Great name, Arty. Has a good ring to it. They call me Jimmy, but I prefer Jim myself. You’ll be wooing us again this evening, I take it?”

  “Wooing?” Arty’s vocabulary had abandoned him, along with his propensity to take in air.

  “You and Sergeant McDowell.”

  “Oh, yes. The waltz.” What an absolute fool he must seem.

  “Looking forward to it,” Jim said. The smile remained in place, as did the firm yet gentle grip of his cool fingers on Arty’s own. “Well,” he drawled, bringing the other hand up to sandwich Arty’s, momentarily increasing the pressure and then releasing, “let’s talk later.” He looked Arty in the eye, capturing him with a piercing blue gaze.

  Jim departed, and Arty quickly turned away, fearful that someone had seen their exchange. It was, to all purposes, an innocent introduction, but the look Jim had given him offered much more than words. Arty’s heart was thumping hard and he was panting like a dog on a hot day. He closed his mouth and drew air through his nose, slowly, deeply.

  Love is the soul’s respiration.

  When you love, your soul breathes in. If you don’t breathe in, you suffocate.

  “Are you feeling unwell, Arty?” Jean asked.

  “No, no. I’m quite well.” He attempted a smile of reassurance.

  She pursed her lips, her finely pencilled brows arched high. “We are to commence the dancing in five minutes,” she said.

  “I’ll go and get, er, a…a drink.” Arty nodded to confirm that’s what he’d do. “Yes. A drink. Would you like…” He stopped and took another deep breath, releasing it slowly. “Oh, Jean.”

  “Get your drink. You can tell me while we dance.”

  Arty nodded again and did as she suggested, blinkering his vision against Jim and his friends standing together at the end of the bar.

  “Arty,” Charlie greeted him with a clap on the back and a cheery smile. “Here.” He handed him a pint of beer. “I thought you were on your way over, until I saw you talking with Sergeant Johnson.”

  “Ah, yes. He was…wishing Jean and me luck.”

  “Luck?” Charlie laughed too loudly. “That was decent of him.”

  There was a gleam in Charlie’s eye that betrayed his true feelings, and whilst Arty wanted to placate his friend, he was relieved to sense envy coming from Charlie, rather than suspicion. But could he be certain Jim wasn’t interested in Jean? That was the problem: how did one communicate about such dangerous matters?

  Keep mum, she’s not so dumb.

  Arty glanced over to where the poster hung on the wall of the mess hall; it was a mildly amusing premise, that the one person apart from his sister he had confided in looked like the attractive woman in the poster cautioning against careless talk. An RAF mess hall was a place where it felt safe to speak with a little more candour. Yet for almost all of these people, and he estimated there were eighty or more present, there was only one enemy. Tonight men and women would dance together, perhaps drink a little too much, share a moment of affection, a kiss, even. Where usually this state of affairs did little more than sadden Arty, he was feeling something far more powerful than sadness this evening. They did not face imprisonment simply for following their heart, so why should he?

  As Arty’s indignation rose to anger, Jean beckoned him from across the dance floor. He took down a mouthful of beer and handed his glass back to Charlie before meeting Jean halfway. They moved together as would new lovers, a slow step towards each other; Arty offered his hand and Jean accepted. Nervousness temporarily took over Arty’s senses so that he barely heard any of the bandleader’s announcement, welcoming the USAAF servicemen from Gaskell, nor his and Jean’s introduction. But with the count of three, the buzzing in his ears ceased, and he and Jean were swept up in The Blue Danube waltz.

  Moving slowly at first, the flow of the melody lifted their heels and then let them drop. They spun to the left, and slid to the right, so they now could traverse the length of the floor. As the tempo picked up, Jean’s skirt twirled around, caught in eddies that she and Arty had made. At the end of the room, as they spun, Arty glanced past Jean and gasped.

  “You are making me bold, Jean,” he whispered through almost closed lips.

  She leaned near to his ear and whispered back, “I know. You feel different tonight, Arty. Charged, full of vigour. Is he watching now?”

  “Yes.”

  Jean used her body to steer Arty around so that she caught a glimpse of Jim Johnson. She hummed knowingly and smiled.

  “I’m more certain than ever that he likes you.”

  “Perhaps he likes you,” Arty speculated.

  Jean laughed and leaned back. Arty smiled at her. He was going to do it. He was going to take the chance, and if he landed in prison? Well at least he wouldn’t have to be part of this blasted war.