The Bluebirds Trilogy Box Set

by Melvyn Fickling

  On the seventh floor they walked into the restaurant. Sleek, shiny black furniture contrasted sharply with light polished oak on the floors and walls. Bryan stopped for a moment and surveyed the luxurious décor.

  ‘I know!’ Jenny said. ‘I told you. If it weren’t for Hitler and the war I couldn’t afford to live here.’

  They ordered two Martinis and found a seat.

  ‘Thanks for a wonderful afternoon, Jenny. To be honest, I wasn’t sure I’d get to see you again.’

  Jenny stirred her drink with the olive. ‘Think about what you’re saying, Bryan. Neither of us can be sure about anything. They’re dropping bombs on me and they’re trying to shoot you out of the sky. It’s like a game of Russian Roulette where somebody else is pulling the trigger.’

  ‘I meant I didn’t know whether you’d want to see me again.’

  Jenny’s eyes flitted up from her drink and a wry smile spread across her face: ‘See previous answer.’

  A moment’s silence stretched between them as Jenny swirled her olive around the glass.

  ‘I have some news,’ Bryan continued. ‘Bluebird Squadron is moving up to Scotland on Monday.’

  ‘That is such good news.’ Jenny reached across and squeezed his hand. ‘It will be a lot quieter up there, a lot safer.’

  ‘I had hoped you might be a little upset.’

  Jenny looked into his eyes. ‘Let’s go through, I think our table’s ready.’

  ***

  They were the last to leave the restaurant and the waiter smiled and nodded as he gave Bryan their coats. They pushed through the doors into the dimly lit corridor, descended one flight of stairs to the sixth floor and came to Jenny’s door.

  ‘So, Squadron Leader, can I interest you in a nightcap?’

  Jenny opened the door and kicked off her shoes. Bryan laid their coats on the chair in the hallway and held the door open with an outstretched arm so the lights in the corridor penetrated the flat.

  ‘Good girl,’ Jenny purred. ‘Alice closed the blackouts before she went out.’

  A table lamp came on in the living room and Bryan let the door close.

  ‘What kind of war is this that makes an enemy out of the light?’ she sighed. ‘Take a seat. It’s brandy again, I’m afraid.’

  He sat down. ‘I can live with that.’

  He heard the clink of bottle on glass from the kitchen and enjoyed the feeling of sexual tension creeping into his stomach.

  Jenny returned and crouched next to his chair, handing him his drink. She took a sip from her own and placed the glass on the coffee table.

  The lamp backlit her and chocolate tones glinted in her hair. Bryan reached out to stroke it.

  ‘Maybe,’ he said softly, ‘if we’d met earlier, before the war…’

  ‘We did. Remember?’ She smiled. ‘You didn’t even notice me.’

  Bryan frowned and gazed down into his drink. Jenny lifted his chin and leaned over to kiss him. The tenderness of her lips overlaid a breathless passion and Bryan felt the blood quicken in his temples.

  She pulled her head back to regard him. ‘But here we are.’ She stood, scooped up her drink and walked along the hallway to her bedroom. Bryan finished his drink, placed the glass on the coffee table and followed her.

  He found her standing by the window in the darkened bedroom staring out across London, watching the searchlights slash and probe the sky across the capital. Her head dipped slightly as she heard Bryan enter the room behind her, then she returned her gaze to the tenebrous expanse of the city.

  ‘I watch the raids every night until I can’t stay awake anymore.’ She took a sip from her drink. ‘I’m glad you called. I’m glad you’re here.’

  Bryan stood behind her and put his arms around her middle. ‘I’m sorry,’ he said. ‘It’s the fact that you so obviously don’t love me that makes the whole thing somehow… awkward.’

  Jenny snuggled back into his embrace. ‘It’s not really so complicated. This whole war is a monstrous act of misplaced passion. People are dying for reasons they don’t understand and we’ll all have to take a bit of the blame. So why should we feel any guilt for the things that make us know we’re alive?’ She squeezed his hands clasped against her belly.

  Across the dark sky, in the middle distance, three searchlights latched onto a raider, holding it in their icy glare as it traversed the city. Another battery of lights swung upright to join the cone, pinning the bomber like a specimen against the night. Moments later shell bursts blossomed around the beleaguered plane as it weaved in a frantic attempt to escape the dazzling fingers of light. Suddenly it bucked from the force of a direct hit and a cascade of prematurely exploding incendiaries spilled from its belly. Broken, it dropped into a burning spiral of destruction, down and away into the swallowing darkness.

  ‘Jenny, I think I-’

  ‘Shush, Bryan.’ Jenny began undoing the buttons of her blouse. ‘Don’t get obsessed with me, I’m really not worth it.’

  Sunday, 20 October 1940

  Jenny woke to the dawn light slanting through the open curtains. She pulled a stray strand of hair from her mouth and arched her back against the stiffness of her muscles. She reached out to find the other side of her bed empty. A piece of paper, neatly folded, lay on the other pillow. She grasped it and flattened it out. Written there in pencil were the words ‘I’m not going.’

  PART 2

  MERIDIEM

  Chapter 8

  It was still early morning when Bryan’s Humber swept past the guard hut at Kenley Aerodrome and cruised to a halt outside the officers’ mess. He rolled out of the car and strode towards the station offices. Through the window he noted the adjutant’s desk lamp illuminated a figure hunched over the desk. Trotting up the steps he pushed through the entrance and clopped the short distance along the boarded corridor to the adjutant’s door. He knocked once and went in.

  Harry Stiles raised his head from the chaotic spread of papers on his desk. ‘Hello, Bryan. You’re back early. Anything wrong?’

  Bryan slumped down into a chair and scrabbled in his pockets for his cigarettes. ‘You said they needed pilots for night-fighting.’

  The other man nodded.

  Bryan lit a cigarette. ‘How do I go about volunteering?’

  Stiles leaned back in his chair. ‘Should I ask what’s brought this on?’

  ‘No’ – Bryan’s eyes flashed – ‘you should tell me how I go about volunteering.’

  The adjutant opened a drawer and shuffled amongst some forms. ‘Do you want to take some time and sleep on this? The admin people won’t be around until Monday, so it makes no odds. You might want to consider the implications.’

  ‘And they are?’

  ‘Well, you relinquish leadership of a squadron, so that will stick on your record…’

  Bryan nodded.

  ‘And it’s goodbye to single-seat fighters’ – Stiles leaned forward – ‘and, quite frankly, Bluebird Squadron will miss your example. There’s still a lot of work to be done on the newer pilots, and we’ll probably be heading back to the south coast by Easter at the latest. You’ve got many friends in this squadron, don’t discount that.’

  ‘I can’t leave…’ Her name stuck in his throat and he gritted his teeth against the guilt. ‘I can’t leave London.’ He gestured at the ceiling, shaking his head disconsolately. ‘The bombers…’

  ‘Alright, Bryan.’ The adjutant picked up his pen. ‘Let’s get the form filled out.’ He paused in his scribbling and looked up. ‘I really hope everything works out for you.’

  Monday, 21 October 1940

  Bluebird’s Spitfires coughed and choked into life around the dispersal pens of Kenley. One by one the squadron’s full complement of eighteen aircraft taxied out onto the grass strip and roared into the air. The first flight to take off banked into the circuit to await the others. Once all became airborne, the squadron formed into six vics of three, dipped in salute over the aerodrome and climbed away northwards into the grey Octo
ber sky, away from the Channel, away from the menace of German raiders.

  Bryan and the adjutant watched them go.

  ‘I telephoned your transfer request through this morning,’ Stiles said, ‘and they’ll post the paperwork direct to your new station.’

  Bryan’s eyes lingered on the sky, squinting at the dots receding against the grimy clouds. ‘And that’s where?’

  ‘You’re joining 604 Squadron at Middle Wallop.’

  ‘And that’s where?’

  ‘In between Salisbury and Winchester. Lovely part of the world by all accounts. You’re required to report by midday on Wednesday.’ He smiled. ‘I’m packing off the ground crews this afternoon, but I’m not away until the morning. So, if you fancy a couple of beers this evening?’

  The sight and sound of Bluebird Squadron faded into the distance.

  Bryan nodded: ‘It doesn’t seem like there’s much else left to do.’

  Tuesday, 22 October 1940

  Bryan brushed his teeth, screwing his face against the pounding in his forehead. He threw his toilet bag into his suitcase and fastened the leather straps. One last check around the room and out, down the corridor to where his Humber sat waiting, grimy and black. A flight of three Hurricanes buzzed the field and banked away into the landing circuit. Bryan sucked in the faint taste of cordite in their backwash, a testament to recent combat.

  He threw his suitcase into the back seat and climbed in. The engine started on the first turn and he pulled away down the drive. The guard on the gate saluted as he passed. Bryan gunned the engine and swung north, towards London.

  ***

  Bryan pulled up into the courtyard of Du Cane Court and looked at his watch. It was just past lunchtime. He locked up his car and strolled towards the railway station.

  The crater still gaped between the wrecked shops on the High Road. He walked past the station and peered over the barrier at the crater’s edge. Ladders poked up from its depths and the sounds of hammering and digging echoed up to the road. An army guard eyed him with lazy suspicion.

  ‘I saw it hit,’ Bryan said, nodding at the chasm.

  The guard wrinkled his nose and returned to eyes front.

  Bryan strode back to the station, climbed the stairs to the mainline and boarded the next Victoria-bound train. Under the benign arch of broad daylight, the general public displayed a kinder outlook to his uniform. Women smiled at him with pleasant, bovine warmth, and men nodded, sometimes touching the peaks of their hats. A young boy sat on the opposite side of the carriage, apparently alone, staring at Bryan with unblinking eyes.

  ‘Shouldn’t you be at school?’ Bryan said.

  ‘Bombed out,’ the boy replied. ‘Are you a fighter pilot?’

  ‘Yes, I am.’

  ‘I bet you don’t fly a Spitfire.’

  ‘No, I’m afraid I don’t.’

  ‘You can’t be very good, then. Not if you don’t fly a Spitfire.’

  The boy, satisfied he had put the world to rights, turned to stare out of the window at the slate roofs gliding past below the elevated track.

  Belching great furls of steam, the train sighed to a halt at Victoria. The doors swung open, clattering a tattoo along the side of the carriages as people flowed out of the train and hurried on their way.

  Bryan had no appointments to keep, so he loitered on the platform to light a cigarette and look around at the cavernous station. Surprisingly, there was no bomb damage to be seen, and he could imagine no bigger target. Shaking his head, he sauntered off in search of food.

  The steamy windows of the Station Café drew him across the concourse and he was soon hunched over a hot mug of tea and a round of toast, sparingly scraped with butter. His eyes rested on the girl behind the counter who had served him and taken his money.

  ‘Doesn’t it worry you?’ he asked.

  The girl looked up from polishing cutlery. ‘Doesn’t what worry me, sir?’

  ‘Working in the railway station’ – he grimaced skyward – ‘when there are bombers about.’

  The girl smiled: ‘I don’t think that much about it, to be honest. We had a bit of a scare last month when one of them crashed in the forecourt’ – she furrowed her brow – ‘but I’m more scared at home. We don’t have a shelter so we have to sit under the stairs.’ Her smile dropped away to introspection and she bent to polishing again.

  Bryan finished his tea and stood to leave. He dropped a penny in the tips jar as he passed the counter. The girl watched him go in silence.

  Bryan emerged from the station and walked across the forecourt. He ignored the taxi rank with its expectant cabdrivers and started east on foot towards the river. Halfway down the tall funnel of buildings bounding Victoria Street was a large ragged gap, newly punched into the tall façade. Bryan slowed as he approached. The fetid aftertaste of brick dust and burnt timber clung around the remains of two buildings. One still thrust its metal girder skeleton upwards from the pavement, although blast had stripped it of its once elegant flesh. Its neighbour had succumbed completely, sitting in a heap of layered masonry in the open grave of its own basement. Bryan strode on, fastening his overcoat against the chill creeping over his skin.

  He strode on into the sedate bustle of Parliament Square. Khaki-uniformed sentinels with fixed bayonets dotted the long walls, in between the squat megaliths of grey sandbags, stacked in moss tinged regimentation around doorways, guard huts and the fine statues of Empire. Bryan hurried past, through the shadow of The Clock Tower, its bulk looming in naked vulnerability as if offering Big Ben to the care of the gods.

  A river breeze ruffled the air as Bryan crossed the road and dropped down to the walkway on the north bank. His pace slowed to match the ebbing tide and the physical tensions that had stiffened his muscles for the past two days slackened with the river’s languid flow.

  Stepping up his pace again he followed the curve of the Thames eastwards and crossed to the south bank at Blackfriars. He continued east, watching the tugs battling the tide until the urge took him to strike out into the labyrinthine streets lined with the homes, shops and pubs of the city he’d stayed to defend. Through Southwark towards Elephant and Castle, he meandered his way south. Dogs sniffed at his trousers as he passed and damp, unswept leaves stuck to the soles of his shoes. Occasional broken tiles and cracked panes bore testament to the blast wave from nearby bomb strikes in neighbouring roads.

  Aircraft noise teased at the edge of Bryan’s hearing and he stopped walking, cocking his head to better catch the sound. It was more than one engine, but the echoing baffle formed by the rows of terraced houses blurred its direction. A short, spluttering burst of machine gun fire sliced through the growl of pistons, seeming almost delicate with distance. Bullets clattered into the roof and wall of a house further down the road.

  ‘Bloody hell.’ Bryan scurried to the opposite side of the road and crouched in the lee of a garden wall scanning the sky beyond the ridge tiles. The engines swelled to a crescendo and a yellow-nosed Messerschmitt fighter careened into view only one hundred feet above the rooftops. As it passed over, a large black shape swung down from its fuselage and, with an audible ‘clank’, disengaged from its cradle to begin its wobbling downward arc. The German hauled into a climbing bank and the racket echoing between the houses redoubled as a pursuing Hurricane skidded outside the intruder’s turn and accelerated into the chase.

  ‘Boom…’

  Bryan’s attention snapped away from the battle above as the suck and blow of blast wave compression rattled the windows and doorknobs around him. A black, boiling smoke cloud rolled over itself into the sky two hundred yards behind the terraced houses. Bryan ran along the road in the direction he’d been walking, searching for a left turn that would take him closer to the bomb strike. An alley opened up between the houses. He dashed down its length, body-swerving dustbins and rabbit hutches. The alley dog-legged left into an enclosed yard. Dead end.

  ‘Shit.’

  Bryan retraced his steps to the road and r
an in the other direction. The black smoke cloud had detached itself from the earth and drifted away in the breeze, elongating as it went, like a dark, spindly finger pointing back at the doom it had delivered.

  Bryan accelerated to a sprint, skittering to a halt at a crossroads and turning right. Running hard, he cursed the blank end walls of the terraced rows as he pounded down their length. Another crossroads, another right turn, and there it was ahead of him.

  Glass and rubble fanned out into the road in a ghastly mix with broken cups and cutlery. The tea room’s sign swung lopsided on its bracket from a single hook. Breathless now, Bryan loped along the pavement towards the wrecked façade. The road was empty, but Bryan heard coughing and raised voices coming from inside the building. He slid to a halt and peered through the shattered front wall. From the billowing dust two soldiers emerged dragging a younger man between them. Fear danced on the man’s features and his voiced cracked with terror; ‘Please, no. You don’t understand. She’s my friend, I know her.’

  ‘What’s happening, lads?’ Bryan’s confusion coloured his own voice with tension.

  The larger of the soldiers turned to him. ‘Looter,’ he said. ‘This tasty gentleman was helping himself to a lady’s jewellery and her purse.’

  ‘But he knows her. He’s just said so.’

  ‘We saw him slinking in there after the bomb hit. He doesn’t know her. She’s got no face left.’ He turned to his companion: ‘Around the back. In the yard. That’ll do.’

  Bryan stepped forward. ‘What are you going to do?’

  The soldier raised his arm and placed the flat of his palm squarely on Bryan’s chest. ‘Like I said, he’s a looter. You’ve seen the public notices. I suggest you run along and leave us to it.’

  The soldiers dragged the sobbing man along the pavement and down the side of the broken building into the yard behind.

  Bryan stood frozen for a moment, then cast his frantic gaze up and down the street. A police car approached the junction at the end of the road. Bryan ran towards it waving his arm and shouting.