When Skies Have Fallen
Page 10
Chapter Seven: Spring–Summer, 1944
Arty and Jim met regularly at their secret liaison point, in the middle hangar of the three, where there were enough crates to conceal their presence, should anybody happen their way. The four-inch space below one of the corrugated panels provided an excellent lookout, though it also created a terrific draught. As the weather turned warmer, the blankets they had stowed in between the crates were no longer required, and in any case the heat they produced when huddled together, venting the heat of their passion through their kisses, was quite sufficient to stave off the chill.
Arty, who was much closer to the hangars, usually arrived long before Jim, which gave him an opportunity to inspect their hideout and make sure it had not been tampered with. He checked for disturbances, and there was always something, although thankfully never caused by human beings. They often had the company of smaller rodents, and the bigger ones: rats, mice and rabbits were their constant companions, seeking shelter from rainy days, or from the many stray cats who fancied them for dinner. There was nothing quite so startling, for man and beast alike, as a cat suddenly leaping from its hiding place and pinning its prey to the ground, although more often than not the cats would flee as Arty entered the hangar.
There was, however, one cat that did not flee. At first, Arty and Jim thought the animal had come to the hangar to die. Its dull fur rippled over its bony spine and ribcage, and it was listless, turning circles on the blanket they had spread on the floor for it. Neither man could stand to see it suffering, and Arty immediately set off back to the base, returning twenty minutes later with scraps of meat and a canister of water. The animal ate hungrily, but still it did not leave.
Not wanting to return to a corpse, Arty and Jim settled in on their other blanket to mind the poor, brave beast. Their chatter was inconsequential, a means to pass the time and ignore the ache each felt in his heart for how that little cat endured.
But it, or rather, she did not die. Both men shed silent tears as the skinny stray birthed her three kittens, and openly sobbed when her nursing failed to revive the smallest of the litter. When the mother cat left briefly to hunt for food, Jim took the kitten from its brothers, and he and Arty buried it in the field behind the hangars. For all the human tragedy of war, it was the loss of this one tiny beast that seemed to hurt the most, at the same time strengthening the bond between the two men.
Over the weeks that followed, Arty and Jim always brought food scraps for their cat family, rightly proud of their role in assisting the mother to care for her kittens. Now young cats, they were typically boisterous and forever putting themselves in harm’s way, but they were learning as fast as they were growing, and they were fine, handsome animals. Like their mother, the smaller of the two was black with a white belly and three white socks; the larger was pure black and both were sleek as silk. Soon after they were weaned, the mother left, and Arty and Jim never saw her again, but her sons came to visit regularly, knowing there would always be scraps to be had.
“Think I’ll get me a cat after the war,” Jim told Arty one evening, while their feline friends chased after the balls of dried grass tumbling around in the warm draughts.
“We’ve always kept dogs,” Arty said, “though I must confess I’ve grown attached to Socks and Soot.”
“Me too,” Jim admitted. He lay back, leaning on his elbows, his eyes still trained on the cats’ activities. “I’d like to stay in England,” he said. “It’s not just the cats I’ve grown attached to.”
Arty raised an eyebrow, uncertain how to respond, though the meaning of Jim’s words was clear enough, and the feeling was mutual.
“It’s not just me, is it?” Jim asked.
Arty shook his head. “No.”
“All right!” Jim fairly yelled.
“Shhh!” Arty hissed, but he was laughing.
“C’mere.” Jim tilted his head back to beckon Arty closer.
Arty shuffled backwards on his bottom until he was level with Jim’s shoulders, and Jim turned and rested his head on Arty’s lap, his golden-blonde hair catching the last wisps of the setting sun spilling through the open front of the hangar. Arty brushed his fingers over the red-orange glow, and Jim sighed in contentment.
They remained just as they were until long after the sun had dipped below the horizon, waiting out the dark and the time when their return to their respective bases was more urgent than their need to be together. When that time arrived, they reluctantly pulled each other to their feet and embraced, neither wishing to let go. At least a dozen times they kissed good night and tried to move apart, each kiss taking them a step closer to the outside, before finally Jim sighed and stepped out into the open.
“Tuesday afternoon?” he confirmed.
Arty nodded. “Yes. I’ll be here.”
Jim waved and set off across the fields for the five-mile run back to Gaskell. When Arty could no longer distinguish him from the darkness, he collected his bicycle and rode home in a glorious daze.