The bell on an approaching ambulance jangled.
‘I’ll go and tell them there’s no hurry.’
Bryan sauntered back around the brick-strewn wreckage and disappeared into the trees. Andrew raised the camera to his eye.
****
Andrew sat back on his haunches watching the ambulance crew lift the pilot onto a stretcher. The limbs flopped around their shattered bones. In places blood seeped into the uniform and a large wet patch soiled the man’s trousers. The stretcher-bearers turned the pilot to lie on his back and Andrew looked into his face. The coarse soil had scoured the skin from his forehead and the impact had crammed his eye sockets with earth. Striations in the flesh, gouged by sharp fragments of stone, oozed a clear liquid that glistened against the dirt. The man’s broken jaw sagged onto his chest, leaving his tongue-less mouth agape. Yet still the breeze tugged at his hair.
Andrew stood as the ambulance crew hefted the stretcher. A glint of sunlight flashed on the dead man’s wedding ring as they carried him away.
Andrew switched his gaze to the fire crew dousing the wreckage with foam. The Blenheim’s fuselage lay like a shattered torso, brittle bones piercing its aluminium skin. The trunking and wiring coiled across the ground like twisted intestines, bright and colourful in the autumn sunshine. Scorched and burnt Perspex lay scattered around like pork crackling and the sordid stench of burning rubber hung heavy over the scene.
Andrew flew this same type of aircraft. This is what happened when one of them fell from the sky. He walked back through the trees to the readiness hut.
For the next hour Andrew tried to write a letter. For much of the time he stared at the blank writing paper. No words would sit well on the page:
‘Dear Molly, I’ve just witnessed a terrible crash…’
‘Dear Molly, now we’re at war there’s every chance I shall be killed…’
‘Dear Molly…’
Defeated, he sat and stared out across the field at the Blenheims until the squadron came off readiness.
****
Avoiding company, Andrew walked to the aerodrome gates and the telephone box just outside. While he waited for the operator to connect his call a smile crept across his face for the first time since the crash.
‘You’re through now, caller.’ The operator’s impassive voice cut through his thoughts.
‘Hello, Molly Lloyd here.’
Andrew’s smile broadened: ‘Hello Molly. It’s Andrew. Listen, darling, I love you. I want us to get married and have a baby…’
A moment’s silence stretched down the line. When Molly answered he could sense tears in her voice: ‘That would be wonderful.’
‘Are you all right, Molly? I’m sorry this is a bit sudden, it’s just—’
‘I heard on the radio,’ Molly cut across him. ‘I heard that things… might get difficult. I hoped you’d call. Andrew, if you hadn’t asked me, I might’ve asked you. I want to spend the rest of my life with you…’
The line fell silent while each of them caught up with what they’d said.
Andrew broke the silence: ‘Go and see the vicar, darling. I’ve got three days’ leave at the end of the month. I’m sure they’ll still let me go. Talk to the vicar and let me know what he says.’
‘I will, darling. Bye, bye.’ Molly’s voice sounded far away and lost.
Andrew listened to the buzz of the disconnected line for a few moments before he hung up the receiver.
Walking to his room, his thoughts drifted back to the dead pilot. The man’s wife wouldn’t be told about the crash until tomorrow or even the next day. Andrew pictured this faceless woman preparing her evening meal, maybe putting her child to bed. Certainly she’d heard the news of war, but perhaps she’d taken comfort in the thought that her husband worked as a ferry pilot. That’s safe enough, she’d think to herself as she closed her eyes to sleep tonight. But tomorrow they’d tell her. Tomorrow or the next day.
****
Vincent sat in his room. With his father in the house he couldn’t relax, but being alone helped. A voice on the radio wafted up from the sitting room, but Vincent couldn’t make out the words. The radio stopped and his father’s voice took over. His mother’s voice sounded next, raised in protest, cut short by the slap of hand on flesh.
A commotion broke out at the foot of the stairs, his mother’s sobs grew louder accompanied by his father’s rasping breath as he dragged her up the staircase. His mother landed on her iron bed, the force of the impact clattered the bedhead against the wall.
Vincent clawed open his door and lurched out onto the landing.
‘Stop it! Please… Stop it.’
Samuel’s back stiffened and he turned to face his son. With his left hand he loosened his belt; with his right he grabbed Vincent’s face and pushed the boy back into his room. Vincent’s head banged against the door and he sprawled out on the floorboards, coming to rest with a jolt against the chest of drawers. The door bounced back on its hinges and swung shut.
After a moment’s silence there came a tearing of fabric and the rhythmic clanking of bed against wall.
Vincent clambered to his feet and stared out of his bedroom window, his hands pressed over his ears. The clanking continued, undercut by his mother’s gasping sobs. Vincent could taste his own fear. It was too much.
He pushed some clothes into a duffel bag and retrieved his saved wages from the sock drawer. Opening his bedroom door carefully, he slipped across the landing and crept down the stairs. As he pulled his coat from the hook and opened the front door, the noises behind him approached a crescendo. Biting his lip until the oily taste of blood filled his mouth, Vincent closed the door on his family and hurried down the street towards the railway station.
4th September, 1939
The train pulled into Liverpool Street station and the passengers stood, retrieved briefcases and shuffled to the doors. Vincent remained huddled in his seat. For the last few hours the train had done his running away for him and he’d sat passive in its grip. Now he looked at the terminus platform with abject trepidation.
A cleaner moved through the carriage. ‘Are you all right, son?’
Vincent nodded: ‘Just tired.’
Vincent stepped down from the carriage and closed the door. The station’s noises and smells crashed in on his senses. The rushing of steam and the sweet, pungent scent of the engines filled the vast space around him. Vincent wandered down the platform, handed his ticket to the collector at the gate and walked onto the main concourse.
He’d never seen so many people, all hurrying about their business. Many men in different service uniforms departed or arrived with their mothers or girlfriends crying or smiling. Policemen stood around the periphery, watching and waiting. Porters weaved their way through the crowd and hawkers shouted above the din selling newspapers full of the news of war.
A swathe of bunting tied across the front of a trellis desk caught his eye. Above the desk a sign read: ‘Join the RAF here.’
15th September, 1939
Andrew found Bryan in the mess reading a newspaper.
‘Hello, Bryan. How would you like a promotion?’
Bryan folded the paper and looked at Andrew through narrowed eyes.
‘I’d accept nothing less than wing commander, but I fail to see what you could do about that.’
‘I need to promote you from chauffeur to best man. I’ve just received a note from Peter saying he can’t make it, but he can’t tell me why.’
‘Ah, dear boy, that’s exactly why it’s called “Best Man” rather “Best Friend”.’ Bryan tilted his chair backwards and lit a cigarette. ‘And I consider myself eminently qualified, so the answer is yes’ – he blew out a stream of blue smoke – ‘as long as you buy me a pint.’
When Andrew returned to the table with two pints, Bryan tossed the paper onto his lap.
‘Looks like the Government is sending your friend Peter off on a little trip to France with the British Expeditionary Force.’ Bryan p
aused in mock reflection. ‘You’d think they’d change the name after the shambles the last one got into.’
Andrew scanned the article. ‘Peter’s dad took part in that shambles. He’s hardly been sober for a day since he got back.’
‘At least he got home. How many of these young scrotes are likely to survive a garden party with the whole German Army?’
‘Well hopefully, now we’ve got soldiers on the ground, the Nazis will stay their side of the Maginot Line.’
‘I admire your optimism, Andrew. Now Hitler’s got Austria and Poland, he’ll likely want France as well’ – Bryan took a swig of beer – ‘wherein lies the tragedy.’
Andrew shook his head: ‘Which tragedy are you talking about?’
‘I don’t expect Hitler really wants war with England. But we’ve just sent our entire bloody army to stop him taking France.’
‘Meaning?’
‘Meaning, when he’s killed or captured the whole of the Glorious BEF, a defenceless Britain will look a whole lot more attractive.’
‘Come on, Bryan. Surely the British Army has at least an evens chance of winning this one?’
Bryan took a deep draw on his cigarette: ‘Let’s say they’re shipping out 400,000 troops, more or less. Obviously, the French Army will sit in their lovely safe bunkers and gun emplacements on the Maginot Line. So, the only place they’ll have left to put our poor bloody infantry is in a long thin line along the French-Belgian border.’
‘But Belgium is neutral…’ Andrew trailed off in thought. ‘So instead of attacking the Maginot Line, you think the Germans will go through Belgium?’
‘If it’s obvious to me, it’s obvious to Hitler.’ Bryan took another deep draught from his glass. ‘Punch a hole through the British lines and drive as much artillery as you can in a straight line to Paris’ – Bryan grimaced a sickly smile – ‘lob a couple of hundred shells towards the Eiffel Tower and the French will be falling over themselves to surrender. Which puts the British Army firmly up shit creek.’
Andrew slumped back in his chair, frowning.
‘So,’ Bryan chirped up, ‘enough of advanced military strategy, let’s talk about this best man lark.’
30th September, 1939
Andrew’s eyes wandered over the whitewashed walls and up to the ancient oak beams of the roof. He stole a glance at his watch.
‘How can she be late?’ he hissed, ‘she only lives a mile down the road.’
Bryan raised an eyebrow: ‘Did you not pack a parachute?’
‘I do not need a parachute. Thank you, Bryan.’
‘Looks like it’s too late to bail out anyway.’
The vicar emerged from the vestry, taking up his position in front of the two men, and the ancient organ ground out the opening bars of the Wedding March.
‘Atten-tion!’ Bryan muttered under his breath and craned his head over his shoulder for a look at the bride.
‘Good Lord,’ he murmured, ‘well done, old man.’
Andrew held his gaze fixed at a point over the vicar’s left shoulder until a bustle and sway of fabric announced Molly’s arrival at his side. He turned to look at her as her father retreated to the front pew.
Molly gazed up at him, unveiled. Her cream cap-sleeved gown was covered with a delicate pattern of leaves. The fabric hugged her figure to just above her knee and then flared out to the ground, forming a small oval train behind her. The neckline looped down under her throat and the fitted bodice accentuated the rise and fall of her breathing. In her hands she carried a bouquet of small sunflowers.
‘Hello darling,’ he whispered.
Molly smiled and turned to face the vicar.
****
The village hall thrummed to the musical murmur of happy conversation as the wedding guests tucked into sandwiches, cakes and tea. Andrew spotted Bryan talking with Mr and Mrs Lloyd and sauntered across to their group.
Andrew shook Mr Lloyd’s hand and smiled warmly at his mother-in-law: ‘Thank you both for coming up and helping us with the spread.’
‘Don’t mention it, Andrew, you’re family now,’ the older man said. ‘I was just asking Mr Hale what he thought about the situation in France.’
‘Oh, dear—’
‘He seems to think the British Army will stop the Huns in their tracks and it will all be over within the year.’
Andrew glanced at Bryan who smiled and nodded sagely.
‘Well, Mr Lloyd, I hope that is the case,’ Andrew said. ‘I’d prefer not to get into a bun fight with the Luftwaffe.’
Andrew and Bryan drifted back to the buffet.
‘So, now you think the British Army will stop the Germans in their tracks?’
‘Of course not,’ Bryan snorted, ‘but it’s not my place to scare the old folk, especially on a day like this.’ He picked up a plate and browsed over the food: ‘The fact is, sometime in the next six months or so, you and me could very well find ourselves floating face-down in the channel with our arse on fire.’ He wolfed down a cucumber sandwich. ‘Which is why’ – he nodded across the room – ‘you need to concentrate on that.’
Andrew followed his gesture and saw Molly chatting and laughing with his father. ‘She is beautiful, isn’t she?’ he breathed.
‘Which is why’ – Bryan said around a mouthful of cake – ‘you must leave her to me in your will. Just in case you get your arse burnt off first.’
Chapter 9
Totum
14th December, 1939
Andrew pulled his greatcoat closer around his chest and tucked his chin down further into his muffler. He glanced at Bryan’s sallow features and turned back to watch the fitters manhandle the wood-burning stove into place in the corner of the dispersal hut.
‘Can we light it yet?’ The freezing air compressed Bryan’s flat tone.
‘No, sir. Not yet. We have to fit the chimney.’ One of the fitters smiled in apology.
‘Shall I kill him, Andrew?’
Andrew shook his head: ‘No, I think he’s doing his best.’
Andrew spoke through the vaporised breath rising around his face: ‘Give him another 20 minutes.’
Bryan threw a cigarette into Andrew’s lap and lit one for himself. ‘Do you remember the last flap we were invited to attend?’ Bryan screwed up his face in mock concentration. ‘Camels… lots of sand…’
‘Egypt.’ Andrew lit the cigarette and held his fingertips over the still-burning match. ‘That was Egypt.’
‘Yes.’ Bryan brightened. ‘Egypt.’ He nodded to himself. ‘I seem to remember we did fuck-all fighting there. Just like here’ – he wagged a finger in Andrew’s face – ‘except…’
‘It was too bloody hot in Egypt,’ Andrew intoned.
‘Exactly.’ Bryan relapsed into his seat, hunching deeper into his overcoat. ‘And d’you know what?’
‘What?’
‘I’d rather do fuck-all fighting against the bloody Italians in the warm than do fuck-all fighting against the bloody Germans in the freezing bloody cold.’
‘Come on, Bryan. You can hardly expect the Germans to invade in this weather.’
Bryan raised an incredulous eyebrow: ‘We declared war on them two-and-a-half months ago, and what have the Luftwaffe done since then?’
‘Nothing.’
‘Precisely. The bastards.’
29th December, 1939
Bryan dropped the keys into Andrew’s hand: ‘Don’t bend her. She’s not much, but she’s all I’ve got.’
‘Don’t worry, Bryan. It doesn’t go fast enough to get bent.’ Andrew climbed in and gunned the old Humber’s engine. ‘Thanks again, old man. I’ll see you on the 2nd. If me and Molly don’t get snowed in,’ Andrew winked and pulled away.
Bryan watched him drive through the aerodrome gate and accelerate down the road. ‘Oh, I forgot to tell you, the heater doesn’t work.’
****
Dusk gathered in dense shadows as Andrew reached London. The snowbanks along the sides of the country roads gave way to p
ools of grimy slush on the city streets. The blacked-out capital surrendered to the fall of darkness and Andrew’s progress slowed to a crawl amongst the dark shapes of pedestrians hurrying through the cold.
Once across the river he upped the pace as much as he dared and soon took the familiar dog-leg turn past Biggin Hill and cruised along the last stretch to Leaves Green. Pulling up outside the hairdressing shop, he grabbed his suitcase from the back seat and stepped out carefully onto the frozen tarmac.
After a couple of knocks, Molly appeared at the bottom of the stairs. Flicking on the shop lights, she unlatched the door and opened it wide.
‘In!’ she commanded. ‘Hurry, it’s freezing.’
‘I know,’ Andrew chided, ‘that bloody tin box doesn’t have a heater.’
Molly swung the door closed and Andrew leaned down to kiss her.
‘Your nose is cold,’ she said.
‘So is everything else’ He smiled.
‘Good’ – she smiled back – ‘then I have just the thing for you.’
She took his hand and led him up the stairs to the flat. In the living room the log fire popped and crackled, warming the air with a fragrant heat. In front of the fire stood a large tin bath, steam rising in lazy curls.
‘That’s for you,’ Molly said. ‘I’ve got more hot water on the stove.’
‘You’re an angel,’ he said, unbuttoning his coat. ‘I don’t deserve you.’
‘You probably don’t deserve the pheasant and roast potatoes I have in the oven either’ – she stood on tip-toes and kissed the end of his nose – ‘but you’re the best I’ve got so I’ll let you have some.’
Andrew took his case through to the bedroom and undressed, laying his clothes out on the chair. The cooler air made him scamper back to the warmth of the fire.
As he lowered himself cautiously into the hot water, Molly came and knelt by the bath. She handed him a glass and took a sip from her own. Andrew raised an enquiring brow.
‘Scotch and green ginger,’ Molly said. ‘Daddy’s present to us both “before the rationing starts to bite”.’ She smiled and raised her glass: ‘Happy belated Christmas, darling.’
Andrew sipped his drink and gazed into the fire: ‘What hope is there for a happy new year?’
The Bluebirds Trilogy Box Set Page 9