by Lizzie Lane
Blood rushing with excitement, Lyndon leaned forward in the chair, elbows on knees, cigar dripping ash onto the dark green carpet. ‘When do I leave?’
His father smiled through the fug of the cigar that he was smoking. He wouldn’t say it, but he was proud of his son and the fact that he was off to do something useful. His wife would be furious when he eventually told her. But there, she’d have to live with it.
‘The delegation departs in three weeks on one of our own planes. You’ll land in Croydon, just south of London. After that, your job is to observe how things really are.’ A sudden twinkle came to his father’s eyes. ‘And not just in London. Fact is, I want you to call in at our biggest buyers. Report back to me how W. D. & H. O. Wills are faring.’
Lyndon’s head jerked up. ‘In Bristol?’
His father smiled. ‘Sure. Might be able to look up that little friend of yours whilst you’re there.’
‘Bridget. You mean Bridget,’ said Lyndon, his eyes shining.
‘If you say so.’
‘I do say so. Thanks Dad.’
He sprang to his feet, shook his father’s hand, then left the walnut panelled room, his feet seeming to be at least six inches above the floor. He was going back to England after all this time. He would see Bridget. He only hoped she’d be pleased to see him.
35
Bridget
The first snowdrops were in full flower, greeting the first months of 1941 with their pristine whiteness, and Phyllis had written from West Drayton, where she was training to be even faster at typing than she currently was.
I’m also getting to use other more specialised equipment. They’ve even given me a promotion already which they tell me will broaden my options. I’m not sure what they mean by that. One of the girls said they might be earmarking me to go abroad. I’ve never been any further than Weymouth, so it does excite me. I might also meet up with Sam. He did say he was being posted abroad, though didn’t quite know where and was wary of telling me.
The stockings are scratchy and the shoes pinch my toes. As for the underwear!!! I’m sure I can make two pairs from each pair of bloomers. They’re huge.
Missing you both so much. Please write as soon as you can.
Love, Phyllis.
The letter had arrived at Bridget’s. Both she and Maisie had taken it in turns to read it.
‘I’m almost envious,’ declared Maisie. ‘I wonder if she will get posted overseas. Bet she’ll ‘ave a fine old time if she does.’
Bridget sighed, smiled weakly and refolded the letter. ‘I just pray she stays safe.’
‘I just pray we don’t get the push,’ said Maisie. ‘We ain’t receiving nowhere near as much baccy as before the war. And we ain’t producing so many fags either.’ She glanced at the floor. ‘I’ve never seen this floor so clean. Every little speck’s bin swept up and chucked back in the bin. Reckon this rate some’ll be smoking dust and splinters of wood. Aggie said that there’s a rumour they’re bulking fags out with horsehair. Imagine that! Glad I don’t smoke.’
The sudden interruption of the air-raid siren was wound up to full crescendo, enough of a noise to put nerves on edge.
Almost as one, those working on the factory floor and those from the offices and other facilities began to make their way en masse to the cellar, feet clumping thunderously down the steps and into it.
Maisie had been trying to get a decent conversation out of Bridget all morning, but hadn’t quite succeeded.
‘Are we still friends?’ she asked.
‘Of course we are. Why shouldn’t we be,’ Bridget responded, her voice somewhat brittle and an uncompromising look in her eyes.
To Maisie’s mind, she didn’t look at all herself and was behaving out of character. It was as though there were two Bridget’s inside her at odds with each other.
‘Seeing James again tonight, are you?’
Bridget said that she was. Mrs Cottrell had gone back to the demands of the farm and the evacuees she’d taken under her wing. ‘There’s no one else, except somebody from the base.’
‘One of his mates?’
‘That’s right.’
She felt Maisie’s searching look, dark eyes as sharp as steel.
The air raid seemed to be going on a bit – if there was one going on that is. It was impossible to hear explosions down deep below ground and Vera Lynn singing her heart out helped, plus anyone who had a voice was singing along in the hope it would steady their nerves.
Although she was younger than Bridget, Masie felt very protective towards her. She mulled over, thought and mulled over again. Finally she couldn’t hold it in any longer.
‘Just you be careful, Bridget Milligan, that your feeling sorry for ’im don’t go too far. I’m tellin’ you now, I ain’t gonna let you make the same mistake as Phyllis.’
Bridget retaliated. ‘For goodness’ sake…!’
‘Phyllis married that bloody awful Robert ’Arvey because she got persuaded into it – oh, and it turned out a bit ‘andy when she found she was up the spout. I ain’t saying you’re gonna get yerself in the family way, but you might end up doin’ it because you feel sorry for the bloke.’ She shook her head dolefully. ‘That ain’t right, Bridget.’
It wasn’t in Bridget’s nature to get flustered or angry but she did now, raising her voice in a way that she rarely did. ‘You wouldn’t know. You’ve never had a sweetheart, and before you say it, Sid doesn’t count, even though he’s asked you to get engaged.’
Maisie sniffed. She knew very well that she and Sid had a very casual relationship, but it wasn’t so bad for all that. ‘We understand each other,’ she said loftily. ‘When he gets back – if he gets back – we’ll just take up where we left off and see where it goes.’
Maisie was hurt. Bridget confused and frightened. In consequence, both fell to silence.
The all-clear sounded and the crowded cellar emptied, everyone heading back to their work, chattering as they went, some still singing the latest Vera Lynn offering.
Bridget and Maisie lingered before bringing up the rear, climbing the wide steps back up to the ground-floor corridor where management and those who worked in the offices came up from the far end cellars and threaded off back to their cosy domains.
Bridget contemplated her options. She and James hadn’t made any commitment, yet for all that she felt obliged to give him comfort. Just as a friend, she told herself. There was nothing else and no one else in her life at the moment – nobody close to hand that is.
And then everything changed. It was as though a sunburst had broken through the low hanging clouds of despair.
‘Bridget! Hey! Bridget, honey!’
‘Blimey,’ said Maisie, her jaw dropping on spotting who it was. ‘He’s here!’ She sounded as though God had suddenly landed on earth.
Bridget gasped.
Lyndon O’Neill was back. Nearly two years on, he was just as well dressed, his complexion more tanned, his hair a more sun-kissed blonde than before.
Seeing her friend’s shocked face, Maisie made herself scarce. ‘See you later, darlin’.’
Bridget was dumbstruck. Was she dreaming? No. She could smell him, his clothes, the oil on his hair. ‘Lyndon. I didn’t know…’
‘It seems I got here before my letter. I did write. I’m here courtesy of Uncle Sam.’
‘Uncle Sam?’
‘The United States of America. It’s a government directive that I couldn’t refuse.’
When he came close, she felt she was drowning in the smell of him, the close proximity and warmth of his body.
Her mouth felt dry, but at last she came to and said, ‘I have to get back to work.’ She didn’t want to. She wanted to stay here, to talk to hug, to kiss until she was too dizzy to kiss any more.
He shook his head. ‘No you don’t. I’ve cleared it with management.’ He took hold of her arm and led her upstairs into an area she hadn’t ventured for some time. The Medical Unit was to her left, but Lyndon took her onwards
and upwards to more hallowed areas where the carpet was thick and the walls panelled in a reddish coloured wood.
‘We’ve got the boardroom to ourselves.’
‘The boardroom?’
Going upstairs into the management area was something ordinary workers never did and certainly nowhere near the boardroom.
‘It’s a matter of national importance,’ he said to her as he pushed open one of the pair of solid mahogany doors.
More mahogany lined the walls. The eyes of past chairmen looked down at them from frostily posed portraits. Here and there were portraits of a number of employees who had served a lifetime with the firm, even the workers from the factory floor.
Lyndon held out a chair and motioned for her to sit. His hand brushed her shoulder, then caressed her face.
‘Please,’ she said, jerking forward so he would know not to do that. ‘Don’t do anything until I know this isn’t a dream.’
He looked slightly hurt. ‘I’m sorry. I’ve no right. I was just hoping…’
She said nothing, just sat there staring down at the highly polished table that seemed to run almost the whole length of the room. He was here. She’d dreamed of seeing him again. She should be throwing herself into his arms, but found it difficult to do that, almost as though he’d become a stranger all over again.
‘It’s like this,’ he began. ‘The idea is to gather first-hand experiences from the British people, though not just the politicians and high-ranking military. I’ve been asked to measure morale, to get some idea of what ordinary people are feeling. Thing is, I need to know where to find these ordinary British people and who best to observe. That’s where you come in. I want you to take me to see ordinary people like you.’
For a moment, she was tongue-tied. This was like a dream that she’d dreamed many times, dreams that had featured Lyndon, though certainly not the US government!
‘Will you do that,’ he asked when no answer was forthcoming.
She thought quickly of how best to explain what her country was going through, not the military side of it, but the home front and not just about food, fuel and clothing. The emotional side mattered too. When she at last opened her mouth, this was exactly what she said to him and he agreed with her.
‘As usual, you understand what’s needed.’ His smile lit up her world. ‘That’s exactly what we want. How the war is affecting lives, women and relationships. It all counts. I recall you telling me about your dad, how he came back injured from the Great War. If we could touch on something like that…’
‘We can,’ she said, nodding her head vigorously. ‘We can.’
She had to mention James. There was no getting away from it.
‘I’ve a friend who’s in hospital. He was shot down.’ She licked the dryness from her lips. ‘He’s lost his legs.’
She hung her head, afraid of meeting his eyes, but she felt his disappointment.
‘Does he mean something to you,’ he said slowly, all the joy of being reunited gone from his voice.
She shook her head. ‘I don’t know – not really. We had a bit of a fling. Nothing much. No more than a night really.’
There. She’d said it. She waited for his response, the rejection that surely must come.
‘Just a fling.’
She nodded.
‘And now you’re thinking you’re Florence Nightingale.’
‘What?’ Her head jerked up. ‘Don’t make fun of me! James needs me to be there for him even though…’
‘Even though you don’t love him. You love me.’
It happened so quickly, him putting his arms round her and her burying her face against his shoulder, breathing in the smell of him, feeling the warmth. Her hands clutched him so tightly. His hands were warm against her back. What was that he’d said? That she loved him?
‘You’re right. I do love you, Lyndon, but I thought I’d lost you. Then your letter came, then I found out about the other letter – or letters. I’m not sure which.’
For a moment he held her at arms’ length and eyed her questioningly. There was no alternative but to tell him what her mother had done.
‘She kept telling me that we were of different classes so could never have a future together.’
He shook his head and without hesitation pressed his lips to hers. If their bodies had been close before, they were even closer now, not even a hair’s breadth between them.
‘Our future together is as positive as that kiss.’
She smiled through her tears. She hadn’t meant them to come to her eyes, but she just couldn’t help it.
‘We’re going to have a fine future together, Bridget. It can work. We’ll make it work.’
Everything was so right, she thought. Everything could be so complete. There was just this niggling concern about poor James who had made her come alive on that warm summer night.
‘You’re right,’ she said. ‘I really do love you. Honest I do, but I don’t know how it happened, well I do and I know why. The only thing is…’
‘You’ve got to visit this guy and get it off your chest.’
Their embrace lessened as she nodded.
‘So when are you aiming to see him again?’
‘Tonight. I promised.’
Lyndon heaved a sigh. ‘Well, like my old grandpappy used to say, you should never break a promise.’
She almost laughed. ‘He must have been a very wise man.’
He kissed her again. Her feeling of responsibility towards James seemed much more foolish now, though she would still visit him. ‘He’s been through so much and his family have been so good to the kids. All but two are billeted with his parents on the farm. They’re good people. They work hard to grow the food we need, plus taking in members of my family, and now this with James though at least he won’t be flying any longer.
A thoughtful look came to Lyndon’s face. ‘They sound a typical British family; putting in the extra effort in order to obtain final victory, plus a serving pilot. How about I bring my notebook and take down a few details for this project I’m working on?’
She couldn’t see James objecting to that and so agreed
‘Tonight then,’ he said, his index finger running down her forehead and nose until it rested on her lips.
‘Yes. I’d better go now. I’ve got work to do.’
‘We both have,’ he said. ‘For the rest of our lives.’.
36
Bridget
Together they entered the hospital. Every so often, Lyndon eyed her enquiringly.
‘You OK?’
She nodded. ‘Fine.’
The truth was there was a knot of sheer nerves twisting and turning in her stomach. How would James be? Would he fall apart once she’d made it clear that there was nothing between them, that there never had been?
There’d never been any spoken commitment and those trite little postcards couldn’t compare to a romantic letter of the sort Lyndon wrote to her. It wasn’t in her nature to harden her heart. She couldn’t help but feel sorry that his mother was his only visitor. Besides, she told herself, getting involved in Lyndon’s project might lift his spirit and give him something interesting to talk about and so he would know that somebody cared for him, that there was still a life beyond flying.
She shoved aside that it might not be a good idea to bring them together, these two men who looked so alike and had touched her heard. Bringing them together did worry her. How would they react to each other? She couldn’t be sure but it still seemed good to do something.
As they approached, James’s head jerked in their direction. His smile was hesitant as he eyed the big man with the looks of a film star.
As she introduced the two young men, Bridget saw them do a double take.
‘You could be my twin, except you’ve got legs,’ James said grimly.
‘In which case we were separated at birth. I’ll ask my mom,’ returned Lyndon. ‘Pleased to meet you.’
He took James’s hand and shook it vigor
ously whilst carefully avoiding letting his eyes rest on the frame positioned over his legs. The guy was understandably sensitive about his injuries; Bridget was in tune with that, caring soul as she was.
He gritted his teeth when Bridget gave James a friendly peck on the cheek. The sharp-eyed pilot noticed Lyndon wince. He clenched his jaw, devilment in his eyes.
‘Bridget and I have been talking about getting engaged.’
Bridget blushed. ‘That’s not true, James.’
It struck her then how much James liked to be in charge, to control the proceedings, whatever those proceedings might be. Her thoughts went back to how the children had adored him. Now she saw how much he’d enjoyed their admiration and positively encouraged it. But it wasn’t only that now. Telling a lie and casting aspersions was his way of coping with how he was. If he wasn’t going to be happy, he didn’t want anyone else to be happy either.
Lyndon’s response was stilted, not quite believing but unwilling to give offence. ‘Oh. Congratulations. I didn’t know that.’
Bridget’s response was instantaneous. ‘James is elaborating.’
Lyndon’s expression was very controlled. He was here for a purpose and would give James no reason not to help him with his research into British morale. He was here to support Bridget, but also to carry out a task for his government.
‘I see. Well, let’s get to the reason I’m here – and it’s not to steal Bridget away – though I have to say I’d like to.’
There was a grim set to James’s jaw as Lyndon explained why he was there and what he was doing.
James made comment. ‘So, you Yanks are weighing things up before you enter the war.’
‘I can’t confirm one way or another whether that will happen,’ Lyndon replied courteously. ‘This is basically to report on the lives of real people. I understand your parents run a farm. That in itself is of interest. Keeping people fed.’