“When we get back, go with him,” Carter told him. “Help get things sorted. I’ll beg, borrow or steal some transport and come back and pick you up later.”
“How?” asked Woods.
“I’ll square it,” said Carter curtly, he blew a final stream of smoke out the window and flicked the stub of cigarette outside. He took a bundle of notes and shoved them into Woods pocket.
“Here, give the silly sod this. I spent money on you, I suppose I have to spend some on him too.”
Carter went back to his seat. Woods shook his head and smiled, pleased that Carter was willing to go to bat for his crew, regardless of what happened. For the remainder of the journey they talked about their leave, rehashing the plot of the film. Carter had enjoyed it very much and he thought about how some women held power over men and got them to do things. He settled his eyes on Denise with those thoughts burrowing away.
They split up when the train got in, Carter told Woods he would meet them at the station in two hours and left to return to Amber Hill. Woods, Vos and Denise walked into town. Some discrete enquiries were made in a few pubs and they came to a respectable looking boarding house a few streets away.
The landlady showed them the room. It was clean, modestly sized and warm. A single bed was in one corner and it had a view of the street outside. They came to terms and Vos paid for two weeks. Woods accompanied the landlady downstairs and waited in the hall while Vos said his goodbyes.
“His girl is she?” asked Mrs Peck, although she had already guessed as much, seeing the look that passed between the two of them.
Denise sat on the bed, delighting in the feel of a thick mattress under her. The room was a vast improvement over her previous lodgings. Vos was pleased to see her happy. She had perked up immeasurably when they walked around Lincoln.
She flung her arms around his neck and stood on tiptoe as she planted a kiss on his cheeks and then a long lingering kiss on the lips.
“Thank you,” she said.
“You’ll be all right?” he asked her. She nodded, smiling, her eyes dancing.
“When will I see you?” she asked.
“Soon,” he promised. “I’ll send word when I can.” He had explained to her on the train that when ops were on they wouldn’t be able to get away or even communicate with anyone outside the station. Being away for a few days, he had no idea what would be waiting for them when they returned.
He kissed her again and left her then. He came downstairs at a fair clip, past Woods and out the door, his face set. Woods muttered a hurried goodbye to the landlady and then skipped along to catch him up.
When he got back to Amber Hill, Carter made straight for the Mess. The bar was heaving with the men back from leave. Buoyed by rest and time at home, they gossiped in good humour and with great animation. Carter scanned the crowd but the man he wanted was nowhere to be seen. He went along to the Admin buildings and found Saunderson hunched over his desk.
“Burning the midnight oil?” he asked, leaning against the doorjamb. Saunderson started in his seat at the interruption.
“Good lord, Carter.” He turned his attention from the returns he had been labouring over, glad of the distraction. “Good leave?”
Carter twirled his peaked cap around his finger and strolled casually into the office.
“Good enough. Cinema, booze, dancing girls, you know how it is. Yes, good enough.”
Saunderson stuck his tongue out. While everyone else had been here, there and everywhere, he had been the architect of their adventures.
“I need a favour,” said Carter. He perched on the edge of Saunderson’s desk and pulled out his packet of cigarettes. He offered one to the Adjutant who shook his head. Carter lit one for himself. Saunderson narrowed his eyes, waiting for the request. “I need a car, Uncle, or a truck” Carter said, his voice muffled round the cigarette.
Saunderson’s eyebrows shot up.
“My god, you could ask for the moon. What on earth for?”
Carter circled the area in front of Saunderson’s desk, forming his thoughts. He had rehearsed what he was going to say on the bus ride and walk from Lincoln. He laid out the tale step by step and his concerns. Saunderson nodded in agreement, Carter got his car. Saunderson called for a driver and they waited. A Humber pulled up outside and a WAAF driver knocked on the door. Saunderson waited until he heard the car pull away, then he reached for the telephone on his desk.
“Put me through to Intel please, Flight Lieutenant Kent,” he told the operator.
14 - Chance Meetings
While Carter, Woods and Vos had enjoyed the bright lights of the big city, Murphy had taken Todd to his home in Barnsley. A Yorkshire mining town in the Dearne Valley, there were nearly seventy collieries within a fifteen mile radius of the town centre. Vital to the war effort, the coal dug out of the ground fed the hungry furnaces of the steel foundries in Sheffield. Rough and tumble, the town never slept as the shifts worked flat out.
They went down the hill from the train station and cut over Old Mill Lane, coming to a row of terraced houses at the back of the gas works. That metallic tang of gas was on the air and they could smell it long before they turned onto the street.
The gas tanks loomed large out the back, big metal domes that would rise and fall as the gas was used and replenished. Murphy used to gauge the passing of the year by watching them. They always went back up to their full height at the end of October to mark the coming of winter.
As their row of houses backed onto the gasworks, they had a long narrow garden. His fathers prized lawn had been turned over to vegetables to supplement the ration. An Anderson shelter had been built at the end of the garden, a large mound of earth with corrugated sheeting at both ends replacing the rickety shed that had been there for donkeys years.
Murphy’s father was on shift at the gas works but his mother was in when they arrived. Todd was made welcome and they were shown to the box room above the stairs. It was cramped but it would do for a few days.
Murphy’s younger cousins went mad when he gave them bars of chocolate he had sneaked out of his survival kit. Todd produced a tin of pears and half a bag of sugar from his kit bag that he had appropriated from the kitchens. The cousins were fascinated by his Australian accent.
They accompanied his father to the Working Mens Club that first night. Murphy saw some old school friends who now worked in the gasworks or the mine. In a reserved occupation, they were safe from the threat of conscription. Some eyed Murphy as a bit of a celebrity, looking at his RAF uniform and wondering about joining up themselves. Others were quite happy as they were, safe in the mines. A very few thought him a fool to volunteer for something so dangerous.
A native of Deer Park just outside Melbourne, Todd felt right at home amongst this robust night life. He turned on his Aussie charm to the local girls and nearly got clocked for his trouble. Some of the men objected to him looking at their dates and Murphy had to do some fast talking to stop him from getting his face filled in.
The following day, they spent a few hours down the allotments with Murphy’s grandfather. He had them digging the ground over, doing some preparation work for the new year. Winter winds whipped down the hill and across the allotments and it made them feel like they were back at Amber Hill shoveling snow again. After cleaning the tools they headed home to warm up and found Murphy’s mother had put the sugar and pears to good use. She had made a big upside down sponge cake and lashings of custard. Home cooking like that was very welcome.
They were well sated by the time they met their dates and retired to the cinema for the evening. Sat on the back row they saw little of the film. Murphy lost himself in the voluptuous figure of a cute blonde. Todd tried his best with her brunette friend but didn’t manage much beyond a kiss, her legs stayed clamped shut. When the lights went up, they went to the pub round the corner. Todd had a Guinness and his date had a half of bitter while they sat making cursory conversation in the Tap room. She was a pretty girl, pleasant enou
gh but there was no electricity there.
All too soon, their leave was over. Murphy’s mother saw them off at the station with some sandwiches and they rode the train back to Lincoln.
White stayed with his parents in Essex. There was no direct route to Saffron Walden from Lincoln and it took him three trains and quite a bit of waiting on cold platforms to get back. He walked from the station with his kitbag slung over his shoulder.
Home was a modest cottage with small detached garage on the left. His mother had left his room untouched and it felt odd being surrounded by childhood things. It was so far in his past it was like stepping back in time. Balsa models of aircraft hung from the ceiling and RAF posters were pinned to the walls.
The first morning, White went up and down with the mower while his father watched from the living room, sipping his cup of tea. He went to Cambridge the next day and wandered around, just enjoying the opportunity to do things at his own pace. He visited the old haunts and did the same when he got back to Saffron Walden on the afternoon bus.
His father had been hauled out of retirement when the younger teachers had been called up. He taught at the local school and ruled over a pack of children as he tried to encourage an interest in Latin. White found himself the centre of attention when his father persuaded him to put in an appearance. His father wheeled him in after lunch and the boys bombarded him with questions, asking him what it was like to fly a Spitfire and how many kills he had. He didn’t have the heart to tell them he was a bomber pilot. He told them some funny stories instead, and they had gone out to the yard where they ran around with their arms outstretched making engine noises and machine gun sounds. All too soon, his visit was over but his father shot up in his pupils estimation after being able to produce a genuine war hero for them to see.
His father also saw his son in a new light that afternoon. White had left for the RAF a mere boy but his intermittent letters home had only given them a small insight into the man he had become. His father watched him quietly as he talked to the boys, answering their questions, telling a joke, giving them a sense of wonder at flying. His son was now part of a world far beyond this sleepy little town.
In the evenings his mother had the good sense to keep things low key, giving him the chance to relax. A few old family friends popped round but there was no big party or gathering. They listened to the radio and little was said about his own part in the war. His parents told him bits and pieces of what they knew concerning other people in the town and how their children had fared in the services. When the lights went out, he retired to his bed with a candle and reacquainted himself with his collection of pulp crime novels. On the final day his mother prevailed on him to pay a call on Elaine Bartholomew.
“She’s been very good to us,” his mother told him, almost shooing him out of the door.
The Bartholomew’s were the local money and had been on the board of Governor’s at Friend’s School where White’s father had once been a house master. One summer a long time ago she had stayed at their house while her parents were away.
Moody at having to play nursemaid to a girl, they had wandered the fields around Saffron Walden, flown kites and explored places on their bikes together. He delved into his memory for details and he had vague recollections of a gangly girl with lots of freckles and red hair.
He dressed casually, glad to get out of his uniform and walked up the gravel drive in tan slacks and a heavy winter coat. A large oak tree was on the front lawn, its branches bare. A groundsman putting a pile of leaves to the torch pointed him in the direction of the ornamental pond.
He walked round to the back of the big house to find her kneeling down, throwing bits of bread on the water. She stood up when she heard him walking towards her. White’s pace faltered for a moment when he saw her.
The gangly girl of memory had been replaced by a tall woman, the red hair now strawberry blonde cut in a short bob. The freckles were still there though, a light dusting across her nose and cheeks. She had dressed simply, pairing brown brogues with a plain brown knee length skirt and a grey cardigan over a cream blouse. She tucked a stray strand of hair behind her ear and then clasped her hands together in front of her.
“Hello, Paul,” she said.
“Hello, Elaine,” he replied. There was an awkward moment when White fluffed his introduction. He started to stick his hand out to shake hers as she leaned in to lightly kiss his cheek. Then she started to put her hand forwards as he changed and leaned in.
“Sorry,” he said. She was good enough to smile and he skimmed her cheek, catching a faint trace of perfume. She went back to the pond and picked up the brown paper bag which had the bread in. She handed him a crust and they stood close together as they threw crumbs at the fish. Large orange and white goldfish swam around, hoovering up the bread from the surface of the water
“How long has it been?” she asked him. He thought about that. He had been twelve, thirteen that summer?
“Ten years,” he breathed.
“A lifetime. I do remember that summer fondly,” she said, her voice wistful.
When all the bread was gone, Elaine up ended the bag and gave it a shake, letting the remaining flakes fall onto the water. They watched silently as the goldfish attacked, gobbling up each little morsel. The fish circled waiting for some more, but when it was apparent there would be no more they sank to the bottom where the water was warmer.
She gestured towards the house and he followed her. They went into a modest sized drawing room that looked out over the pond and the garden behind. He imagined it must be a pleasant view in the summer. The room was nice and warm, with a good blaze going in the fireplace to the left. To the right was a glass topped sideboard covered with a rectangular lace doily. Various framed pictures stood on top. A low table was in front of the fire, flanked by two delicate armchairs covered in patterned lemon silk. A matching two seat settee was between the low table and the sideboard behind it.
She closed the doors and they sat down in the armchairs by the fire. Heat penetrated his bones and he relaxed. A servant brought in a silver tray with a tea pot, cups and some homemade biscuits. She waited until they had withdrawn and then Elaine poured as they sat in silence. He looked at her while he waited, trying to reconcile his memories of her from that long summer with the woman in front of him now. She put one lump of sugar in his tea and gave it a stir.
“Your mother told me how you like it,” she explained, smiling as she handed him the cup on a saucer.
“What else did she tell you?” he asked. Her left cheek dimpled as she smiled.
“A few things,” she replied, her eyes dancing in good humour. “Although I’m sure she told me more than she should have.” He laughed at that.
“Oh, I’m sure she did.”
She asked him what Lincoln was like, keeping the subject relatively neutral. White responded in the positive, a little stuck for something to say. He felt a little shy in front of this person who he knew but did not know. He felt at a disadvantage, wondering what else his mother had told her about him.
“When’s your leave over?”
“Today. I’m getting the afternoon train.”
“Oh, well I don’t want to keep you.” She put her teacup down and made to stand. “I’m sure you have lots to do before you have to go back.”
“No, it’s all right, I’ve got time.” She frowned, sure he was just being polite.
Conversation stalled. He filled the gap first and asked her how she was and what she had been up to. He knew a few snippets of detail from his mother, but it had been so long since they had seen each other, he wanted to hear it from her.
She started hesitantly, but the more she talked, the more she relaxed. When her parents had returned at the end of that summer, they had sent her to a ladies finishing school near Gloucester. After that, she had lived with an Aunt in London for a few years, spending her summers in Brighton or on the continent, sometimes France, sometimes Italy. White was rather jealous, he had
only been to the continent in his Manchester, that wasn’t the same thing at all. Elaine went on to tell him she had given up her London job at one of the Ministries because her mother had been quite ill.
“I’m sorry to hear that,” he said, meaning it.
“Oh it’s all right,” she told him, downplaying the seriousness of it all, “Mother does like to make a fuss.”
“Mine’s the same. You should see her with my father, clucking around him like a mother hen, telling him off for not wrapping up in the cold.”
“I remember,” Elaine said, clapping her hands together in excitement. “Do you remember when you fell into the river? I reached out to pull you up and you ended up pulling me in as well.” She laughed with the memory. White’s face lit up as he remembered. They had gone down to the creek where the river was very narrow. The grassy banks were so close together you could almost jump across without getting your feet wet. In fact that was how he had fallen in. He had announced he could jump the gap and she had dared him to do it. He missed by a country mile, landed short and fell backwards into the water.
“Of course, gosh, I’d forgotten all about that. She went mad when we got home, covered in weed.”
“And she wouldn’t let us in the house until we had stripped down to our briefs on the back door step,” Elaine finished.
They laughed together. She saw the years fall from his eyes as he enjoyed the memory of happier times.
He coughed and then stood up and went over to a sideboard covered with framed pictures. Elaine swivelled in her chair to look at him in contemplation as he sorted through the pictures. He picked up a silver frame and scrutinised the photograph.
“You?”
“Me,” she said, smiling. She rose from the chair in one lithe move and took the frame from him, their hands touching for a moment. It was a photograph of her in flying clothing, hand on the cockpit of a Tiger Moth, one foot on the wings walkway. She stared at it wistfully before putting it back on the sideboard. She straightened it, putting in line with the other pictures. “The summer of ‘39. Then they closed the flying club when the war started.”
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