Chapter Five: March, 1944
“Corporal Clarke. A moment of your time, please?”
Arty was riveting a panel to the underside of a Wellington’s wing, and he’d been so far into his thoughts that he startled and almost fell off the stepladders. Wiping his hands on a rag, he descended to the ground.
“Sergeant McDowell,” he acknowledged Jean formally, though the joy twinkling in her eyes told him this was not a formal RAF matter.
“Have any of your men remarked on receiving extra in their pay packets this week?” she asked.
“No, Sarge, can’t say they have, though I doubt they’ll be rushing to mention it.”
Jean smiled. “Yes, indeed. When you come to a suitable pause, call up to the wages office, please?”
“Yes, Sarge.”
Jean nodded once and marched away, her heels clacking against the asphalt. She stopped to briefly converse with a group of young airmen who puffed their chests and stood tall in her presence, only relaxing when she continued on her way. Even at a distance, Arty could see their delight at the good-looking WAAF sergeant taking the time to say hello. Jean was very beautiful and received a great deal of attention from men of all ranks. She knew how to play their game, convincingly acting the part of the shy young thing if it worked in her favour, as she had when Charlie first introduced her to Arty at the Palais. Since then, Arty had come to realise she was confident and independent; she enjoyed men’s company, but she was neither floozy nor the kind of woman who needed a husband.
“Got a three-quarter-inch spanner there, Art?” Charlie called.
“In the right-hand tray, Charlie. Try not to lose this one, eh?”
“I’ll bring it straight back.”
“Hm. That’s what you said when you borrowed my oil can. And my bradawl.”
“I wondered where I got that from,” Charlie said, dodging a playful cuff around the ear. He departed with a grin. Arty shook his head and chuckled to himself. Charlie was forever borrowing his tools and rarely returned them without being reminded, assuming he could find them to return at all. On this occasion, however, Charlie was true to his word: five minutes later he was back, waiting at the base of Arty’s stepladders, spanner in his hand and a thoughtful frown on his face.
“Just stick it in the toolbox,” Arty told him.
“Hm?” Charlie said without moving.
Arty continued tapping rivets along the left edge of the panel, occasionally glancing unnoticed at his friend.
“What’s on your mind?”
Charlie shrugged his shoulders. “Everything and nothing. I received a letter from my brother this morning with a bloody great hole in the middle so all it said was ‘Dear Charlie, love Walter’. I’m sure our mother dropped him on his head.”
“Twice, if you’re the sensible one,” Arty tormented. He descended the ladder and clapped Charlie on the back. “At least you know he’s alive and well.”
“But for the grace of God. No news about your uncle?”
“Nothing. Sissy says Mum is staying hopeful, but Dad is assuming the worst. Apart from that they’re all quite well. Sissy got hold of a couple of hens. That was her main news. They’ve been having eggs for tea every night.”
“A cause for celebration,” Charlie said, his tone partly mocking, but the small things were worth celebrating, and there had been no real eggs at Minton since the previous September.
“I hope we’re home by this time next year. It’s Mum and Dad’s ruby wedding.”
“Forty years married.” Charlie shook his head. “Can you imagine it?”
“Yes, I can,” Arty replied wistfully. Had Charlie asked that question even a fortnight ago, Arty’s answer would have been a definite no. Now he dared to imagine a lifetime shared with another.
“I’ll let you get on,” Charlie said, already walking back to the garage. “And if you can squeeze in a good word for me with Sergeant McDowell—you know? That I’m reliable, look after myself, take good care of my equipment, never lose anything…”
Arty laughed and threw an oily rag at Charlie. It missed.
Since he was already stopped, Arty decided to go and see what Jean wanted to talk to him about. When he’d told her about meeting Jim, she’d been just as excited as if she were going herself. She more than likely wanted to give Arty a pep talk; it was all she’d done for weeks, and it was as annoying as it was endearing.
The wages office was Jean’s domain and she kept it spick and span, not a paper out of place, not a speck of dust, and daylight poured through the sparkling-clean windows. Usually there were four women in there, eyes trained on the sheets of numbers in front of them, speedily typing on their comptometers whilst conversing with each other about all manner of things. It made Arty wonder how they didn’t make mistakes. In fact, they so rarely cocked up he was certain Jean’s remark about the men being overpaid was a ruse.
“Where is everyone?” Arty asked, peering through the door of the office, deserted apart from Jean. She beckoned him in and greeted him with a peck on the cheek.
“Betty’s gone to a funeral and the other two are in the mess hall.”
“Oh,” Arty acknowledged. He walked past her and looked out of the window, towards the distant hangars where he would be meeting Jim in less than an hour’s time. Jean came over and stood next to him.
“Have you washed behind your ears?” she teased. She tugged at his earlobe, squinting and pulling funny faces as she gave him a once-over. Arty raised his eyes and waited out the moment. She grinned up at him. “You’re nervous?” she asked. He nodded. “About someone seeing you, or being with Jim?”
“Both.”
“You’re not going to chicken out, are you?”
Arty shook his head rapidly, but the cat had got his tongue.
Jean gave his hands a squeeze of reassurance. “I’m proud of you,” she said. “Love is brave.”
“And foolish.”
“Yes. It makes a fool of most of us at some point in our lives.”
“Speaking of which, I’m to tell you that Charlie is a good, honest man.”
Jean started to laugh. “He’s a relentless man. Next time you and he speak, tell him I’m thinking of him. In the meantime, Corporal Clarke, don’t you need to be somewhere within the hour?”
“Yes, Sarge,” Arty replied. He gave her an American-style salute and headed for the door.
“Have fun,” she called after him.
“I’ll do my best,” he promised.
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When Skies Have Fallen Page 8