The Bluebirds Trilogy Box Set

by Melvyn Fickling

  ‘Oh’ – Bryan stopped the movement – ‘we should be careful, we need to stop.’

  ‘No!’ Jenny pushed hard against him. ‘Don’t stop.’

  Bryan thrust once more, the clench of his climax curled his spine forwards, pushing his face into her hair. She screwed her head about and bit him on the chin, their bodies stiffening together in the rictus of passion.

  The moment ebbed. Bryan put both his arms around Jenny, holding her close, and she relaxed into the embrace. He rested his forehead against the back of Jenny’s skull and felt his subsiding erection slip from her body. She clasped her hands over his, pulling him tighter against her back.

  ‘I’m sorry.’ Tentacles of guilt already tightened around Bryan’s heart. ‘I meant no disrespect.’

  ‘It’s not you, Bryan.’ Jenny’s voice was quiet but resolute as she gazed out at the searchlights still seeking vengeance amongst the dark clouds. ‘The bombs have made me want to take risks’ – she twisted her neck to nuzzle an ear against his face – ‘made me want to enjoy taking risks.’

  Bryan propped himself up onto his elbow and looked down into her face. ‘Is that all I am?’ he asked. ‘A risk?’

  Jenny studied his face for a moment and turned to watch the searchlights once more.

  ‘I don’t know, Bryan. That’s the shame of it.’

  Chapter 6

  Monday, 14 October 1940

  Jenny stirred as the strengthening light of the grey dawn rolled back the darkness in the room. Behind her, the sound of Bryan dressing brought her fully awake. She turned and smiled at him.

  ‘Good morning,’ she said.

  Bryan grimaced as he struggled to fasten the top button on his shirt. ‘Morning. I’m sorry, I didn’t know what time you had to be up.’

  ‘Just about now, as it happens.’ Jenny yawned, leaning over to grope on the floor for her dressing gown.

  ‘God, now it looks like I was sneaking off.’

  A mischievous edge tweaked Jenny’s smile: ‘Isn’t that what you are doing?’

  ‘No, not at all.’ Bryan walked around the bed, retrieved the dressing gown and handed it to her. ‘I hadn’t planned on staying in London overnight. I’ve got a bloody fighter squadron to run.’

  He faced out the window as Jenny rose and put on her gown. Movements on the road below caught his eye. People streamed along the pavement, heads down against the early morning chill.

  ‘Look at them,’ Bryan murmured. ‘Carrying on as if nothing out of the ordinary is happening.’

  Jenny stood next to him, leaning into him as she craned her neck to see.

  ‘Of course they carry on. Of course they go back to work. No-one gets paid for staying at home. They have to eat, you know.’ She bent to making the bed. ‘What are you going to do today? What am I going to do today? We’re going to carry on.’

  Bryan reached out and touched her arm. ‘Are you alright. After last night, I mean?’

  ‘Are you talking about the bomb, or the sex?’

  ‘I…’ Bryan floundered, his face reddening.

  Jenny took his hand between hers. ‘Nothing’s changed, Bryan. I meant what I said at the beginning of the evening.’ She let go of his hand and walked to the dressing table, bending to peer at her face, pawing critically at the skin under her eyes. ‘I don’t want to mislead you.’

  ‘Well, as long as you’re alright’ – Bryan gestured to the door – ‘I really have to go.’

  Jenny didn’t look up from the mirror. ‘Yes’ – her voice carried an edge – ‘you do.’

  Bryan left the bedroom and stepped across the hall. The sound of a spoon against a cereal bowl drifted from the kitchen. He eased the latch open and slipped out the front door. The abrupt cessation of cutlery noise suggested his exit had not gone unnoticed.

  ‘Hallooo. Who’s there?’

  Jenny stared into the reflection of her own eyes as she listened to Bryan leave.

  ‘It’s alright, Alice,’ she called. ‘It’s only Bryan.’

  A timid knock sounded at her door and Alice peered in: ‘Bryan?’

  ‘Yes’ – Jenny’s gaze stayed locked on the mirror – ‘Bryan.’

  Bryan trotted down the last flight of stairs and crossed the lobby. Nodding to the porter as he passed, he pushed through the doors and hurried out into the courtyard. His stomach growled with hunger and his breath held the taint of stale alcohol. He crunched across the shingle to his car. The black paint held a faint patina of cement dust blown from the collapsed buildings around the tube station. Bryan unlocked the door and climbed in. Rummaging in the glove compartment he retrieved a stray boiled sweet. Grunting with relief as the citrus tang of the sweet cut through the clag on his tongue, he turned the ignition.

  The engine growled into life, but Bryan let it idle. He sat flicking the gearstick backwards and forwards in its neutral position. The memory of Jenny’s warmth invaded his mind and with it came chagrin, like the remorse of a petty thief caught in the act of his first crime. He shook his head to clear the notion. Today could not be different from any other day, because today might be his last, and he had no space for any other distraction.

  He jammed his foot on the clutch, put the Humber into gear and pulled out through the gates. He glanced left, towards the station. The road was blocked off and behind the barriers men moved in weary concert, some shovelling rubble, some busy in the maw of the bomb crater and some lifting wrapped bundles into an army truck parked under the railway bridge. As he watched, a train chuffed across the bridge heading towards Victoria, carrying passengers from the southern suburbs on their way to work. Bryan blinked against the absurdity of the tableau, turned south and accelerated away from the city, vainly fleeing the clinging tendrils of sex and fear.

  ***

  Harry Stiles sat next to Bryan’s desk, glancing from the squadron leader’s empty chair to the telephone next to the blotter. Technically Bryan was absent without leave already and it wouldn’t be long until the adjutant’s delay in reporting it would count as aiding and abetting. Stiles had sent ‘B’ flight up to cover the day’s first patrol, but if a full squadron scramble was called in, there’d be big trouble.

  The crunch of tyres on the gravel outside prised a sigh of relief from the adjutant’s chest. He stood up and straightened his cap as Bryan entered the office and strode across to his desk.

  ‘Thank the stars, Bryan. Where have you been?’

  Bryan slumped into his chair.

  ‘I got caught up in an incident.’ He scrabbled in a drawer for a fresh pack of cigarettes. ‘It’s a bit much when you can’t take a lady out for a stroll without someone trying to blow your bloody head off.’ He lit a cigarette and hunched over his desk. ‘My car got blocked in a side road’ – he lied – ‘I had to wait for the army to clear away the rubble.’

  ‘You should’ve telephoned, Bryan,’ the adjutant said. ‘Anyone else would’ve been on a charge by now.’

  Bryan looked up. ‘Did I miss anything?’

  Stiles shook his head: ‘‘B’ flight have it covered for the moment.’

  ‘There we are then, no damage done.’ Bryan stood up. ‘I’m off to clean my teeth.’

  ‘You should be with the squadron at readiness. Your name is on the board. What sort of example is this to be setting?’

  ‘Example?’ Bryan cocked his head. ‘What’s wrong with you, Madge? Sometimes you act like you’re the head boy at your own bloody public school, flapping around looking for something to witter about. There’s a war on, I got caught up in a bombing raid, it made me a bit late. Now, I need to clean my teeth and have a shit. I’m sure Goering can wait another fifteen minutes.’

  Bryan shouldered past the older man and stalked to the door. The adjutant flinched as the door slammed shut.

  ‘Roll on bloody Scotland.’ He muttered under his breath.

  ***

  Bryan gargled with cold water and spat into the cracked porcelain basin. He rinsed his toothbrush and scrubbed the fur from his tongue.
Rinsing and spitting again, he watched the yellow-tinged water circle the plughole twice before disappearing.

  He stowed his toothbrush in his toilet bag, grabbed a newspaper from the dresser and walked down the corridor to the toilets. Choosing a cubicle, he dropped his trousers and underpants. Settling himself on the rough, wooden toilet seat, he lit a cigarette and scanned the frontpage of the paper.

  ‘Northern Town Suffers Light Raid – Casualties as yet Unknown.’

  ‘Light raid…’ Bryan muttered to himself and flipped the page.

  ‘Port on South Coast Suffers Heavy Raid – Nearly 100 Killed and Over 200 Made Homeless.’

  Bryan folded the newspaper and dropped it onto the floor. He tried to picture one hundred dead bodies lying in and around the houses they’d called home. Jenny’s words came back to him: ‘Imagine if this whole building came down…’

  Bryan dropped his cigarette between his knees and it extinguished in the fouled water with an angry hiss. Bryan finished and stood, fastening his belt and pulling the chain. The cistern clanked, flushing a guttural surge of water that sluiced the yellowing bowl.

  Stepping over the paper on the floor, Bryan walked to the locker room. Minutes later he left the officers’ mess and clumped across the airfield in flying boots, his sheepskin flying jacket slung over his shoulder, oxygen tube and wireless cables swinging across his chest to the beat of his footsteps.

  Bryan chose a circuitous route to the readiness hut that took him within hailing distance of his Spitfire. His whistle pierced the morning air and his rigger turned to locate the noise. Bryan stuck up a questioning thumb. The rigger stuck up two thumbs in affirmative response. Bryan nodded and curved his path away from the dispersed machines and towards the pilots lounging outside the hut.

  This was his life: This was where he lived. Bryan Hale and Bluebird Squadron had been the two halves of a dovetail joint when he’d left on Sunday lunchtime. Now, on Monday morning, an uneasiness rested on his shoulders, an otherworldliness chafed and gnawed at his being.

  The solid, detached growl of Merlin engines built like a breaking wave in the chill autumnal air. Bryan glanced up at the six Spitfires of ‘B’ flight swooping into the landing circuit, the yellow patches still intact over the ports of their unfired guns.

  As Bryan walked closer, the other five pilots outside the hut hauled themselves to their feet. He waved them down and slumped into a deck chair slightly apart from the others.

  “Bugger,” he muttered under his breath.

  Tuesday, 15 October 1940

  Bryan sat in the mess, pushing his scrambled egg around the plate with his fork. The adjutant came in, poured a mug of tea, walked to the table and sat down opposite him.

  ‘Morning, Madge.’ Bryan did not lift his eyes from the plate, instead he forked a lump of the egg breakfast into his mouth, forcing it down with a grimace.

  ‘Look, Bryan, I’m sorry about yesterday. But I can’t help it if it’s my job to point out the rules. You can’t run a bloody air force if you don’t have rules.’

  Bryan looked up. ‘Do you know Balham tube station at all?’ he asked.

  The older man nodded: ‘Been through it on my way up to the Oval cricket ground.’

  ‘I was there on Sunday evening’ – he laid his fork on the table – ‘or I would’ve been, if Jenny hadn’t suggested we walk back from Clapham Common rather than take the Underground. There’s probably a rule that prevents me talking about it, but to hell with it.’

  The adjutant said nothing.

  ‘It was a single bomb, a bloody big one. We saw it fall, like a lightning strike. God only knows how many people got trapped in that station.’

  ‘They have wonderful rescue teams. I’m sure they did their best to get them out.’

  ‘No, Madge’ – Bryan shook his head – ‘not this time. The explosion ruptured the main sewer pipes. The poor bastards drowned in filth, pinned down under the rubble.’

  The adjutant straightened his back and exhaled a long breath. ‘We’ll be away from all this in a week, Bryan. When we get to Scotland there’ll be a chance to relax and forget all the bad things.’

  Bryan dropped his eyes back to his eggs and picked up his fork.

  ‘Who is Jenny?’ the older man asked.

  Bryan raised his head and stared through his companion.

  ‘I’m not sure yet.’

  He got up and walked out the door, the fork still dangling from his hand.

  ***

  Bryan’s Spitfire climbed steadily away from the rough grass of Kenley’s landing strip. He flew at the head of ‘A’ flight, five other Spitfires climbing in formation around him.

  He thumbed the transmit button: ‘Flight Leader here, course one-zero-zero, angels three thousand. We’ll stooge over as far as Maidstone and then double back and drift south until we get to the seaside. Watch out for ‘B’ flight on their way home. We don’t want any hunting accidents. Loosen up, stay alert.’

  The group levelled out at three thousand feet. Four pairs of eyes scanned the terrain below for low-level fighter-bombers, the other two pilots peered into the grey blankness of the autumnal English sky, wary of danger from above.

  ‘Yellow Three to Flight Leader,’ Simmonds’ voice crackled onto the air. ‘That’s ‘B’ flight above us. They’ll be crossing over from the starboard quarter.’

  Bryan glanced up and smiled as the leader of the other flight dipped his wing to get a better view of the ‘bogeys’ below him, then waggle his wings in recognition.

  The dark smudge of Maidstone’s crowded buildings, grey against the brown landscape, rolled out over the horizon’s edge.

  ‘Beehive Control to Bluebird ‘A’ flight. Observers are calling twenty hostiles crossing the coast south of Folkestone. Low and fast, repeat, low and fast.’

  Bryan glanced at his compass and calculated the heading.

  ‘Flight Leader to ‘A’ flight, follow me onto vector one-two-five. Let’s lose some height, that should bring us head-on with the bastards. We engage in sections. Green Section loosen up a bit, Yellow Section stick with me.’

  The three aircraft of Green Section drifted away to port as the whole flight banked to starboard and sunk closer to the rushing fields. Their descent lifted the horizon and Bryan discerned a few tiny black specks against the sooty clouds, clawing for more altitude.

  ‘They called twenty,’ he muttered, ‘where are they?’

  Bryan squinted against the blur of his propeller. There! A speck of yellow moving against the dun earth… and another.

  Bryan stabbed transmit: ‘Bandits ahead and below. Green Section break left, Yellow Section break right. They’ve got top cover so watch your tails. Engage the lower formation. They have the bombs. Tally-ho!’

  Bryan flipped off the safety and dipped his nose another fraction. The German fighter-bombers barrelled towards him at no more than five hundred feet, their angry yellow cowlings growing larger at an alarming speed. He stabbed the firing button for a second before the enemy flashed below him.

  ‘Break!’

  Bryan kicked his Spitfire onto its starboard wingtip and hauled the stick into his belly. G-force squeezed the air from his lungs and his vision blurred with tears. Then he was around, levelling out and ramming the throttle flat out in pursuit of the raiders. Gritting his teeth, he leaned against his harness, willing the gap to close.

  Voices exploded into his headset; ‘109s coming down now…’

  ‘Green Section, break, break, break…’

  ‘Watch out, he’s firing…’

  ‘On your tail… On your tail…’

  Tracers bent over Bryan’s canopy. He sensed Agutter, on his right, peel away steeply to starboard. The tracer curved and sparkled, sliding past Bryan’s port wingtip towards Simmonds… A blast of orange flame deflected Simmonds upwards and his Spitfire rolled onto its back. Somehow his transmitter clicked on and his banshee howling rang in Bryan’s ears for long seconds until the transmission was silenced by the hard ea
rth.

  Bryan kicked his aircraft into a violent jink to the left, then the right. The tracer had stopped. His rearview mirror was clear.

  Ahead, in loose formation, twelve bomb-laden Messerschmitts roared towards the capital, one Spitfire laboured to catch them.

  The first fringes of the suburbs rolled away underneath and the Germans fanned out across the rooftops.

  Bryan wrestled with a moment of indecision, then stuck with the raider nearest to his nose. Closing to firing range Bryan’s thumb hovered over the button. Low industrial buildings gave way to houses and a church spire reached up out of the cityscape. Bryan lurched up instinctively, putting his Spitfire squarely in the centre of his quarry’s rearview mirror. The Messerschmitt reacted, screaming up into a violent climbing turn, hanging from its propeller. Bryan banked in the same direction, watching his adversary climb to the point of stall. An object detached from the 109 and a parachute unfurled behind it. The fighter hung motionless for a sickly moment, then dropped towards the ground. Bryan gurgled in hopeless rage as the machine, laden with its bomb, dropped onto a terrace of houses, exploding in a ball of flame amongst the collapsing walls.

  ***

  Fagan, the intelligence officer, scribbled on his notepad. ‘You say there were six escorts?’

  ‘Six or eight.’ Agutter scratched at his tangled hair.

  ‘And they jumped you?’

  ‘We had seen them above us’ – Agutter explained – ‘but they came down faster in the dive than we expected, I suppose.’

  Fagan’s gaze turned to Bryan.

  Bryan sighed. ‘We chased the bombers on their way to London. There were twelve of them. We had to try stopping them.’

  ‘You’re claiming one destroyed?’

  ‘No’ – Bryan shook his head – ‘I didn’t fire at him. I was closing in, he got windy and bailed out.’

  ‘And’ – Fagan glanced at his notes – ‘the other eleven?’

  ‘They dispersed. There were no other defending aircraft.’ Bryan’s eyes dropped to his shoes. ‘I assume they released their bombs and ran.’