Where the Heart Is

by Annie Groves

  Poor Con, Emily reflected later when she was finally on board the train what would take her back to Whitchurch. Everything had happened so fast that it was still hard to believe that he was actually gone.

  Oh, she’d known from the look on the faces of the nurses that he was going to die, but somehow, what with sitting with him, holding his hand, and then later when Alice had arrived trying to help her over the shock, the reality of what was happening had mercifully been pushed to the back of her mind.

  The woman whose knife had killed him, Eva, had been in a dreadful state and had needed a doctor herself.

  As Emily had said to the police, from what she had seen, Eva hadn’t intended to hurt Con. It had all just been a terrible accident.

  Last night, sitting with him whilst he slipped away, Emily had remembered how it had been when she had first met him, how handsome and wonderful she had thought him, and how disappointed she had been when she had realised that all there was to him was just his good looks and his vanity. Poor Con indeed.

  ‘What’s wrong?’ Francine asked Marcus.

  They were having lunch at the Savoy and she’d known the moment he’d stood up from his seat at a table in the bar that something had happened.

  ‘White lady, please.’ Marcus ordered her favourite cocktail for her from the hovering waiter, before telling her, ‘We’ll talk in a minute, but first please let me tell you how beautiful you look and how lucky I am.’

  ‘I’m sure that there can’t be many women here who aren’t looking at me and thinking how lucky I am in having such a good-looking and dashing major as my lunch companion,’ Francine responded with a smile.

  Marcus was good-looking, with a pronounced air of masculinity and authority about him, and the right height and bearing to wear a military uniform as it should be worn, but more important than those things, at least to Francine, was the goodness that was inside him, as a person.

  She loved him so very much, her love for him growing with every day they spent together. She could see in her own mirror the glow that loving him and being loved back by him was giving her, and yet at the same time Francine knew that, as happy as she was, she was hurting him because she had refused to marry him. Marcus, man of honour that he was, had not returned to the subject of them marrying once she had declared it closed, but Francine knew how he felt.

  ‘Only this morning in the hairdresser’s she had overheard two other women talking, one of them telling the other, ‘I had told him that there were to be no babies until this war is over, but now, with him about to be posted overseas, I can’t help thinking that I’m being selfish.’

  ‘Selfish, in not wanting to take the risk of being left alone to bring up a child should the worst happen? My dear, how can you say that?’ her companion had asked.

  In response the first woman had answered her quietly, ‘It is selfish, because if Archie doesn’t come back then he and his family have lost the chance to create the next generation for ever, whereas if I lost him, my heart might be broken but I would still, if I wished, be able to remarry and have children. I will survive this war, but Archie may not. I feel I owe it to him to do whatever I can to show him my love and to make him as strong as he can be.’

  The women had moved out of earshot then but their conversation had lingered in Francine’s thoughts and her conscience.

  Marcus watched Francine. To him she was the most beautiful woman in the whole world. Everything about her was beautiful, from the way she smiled to the way she walked. He had seen the heads turn when she had walked into the bar in her sky-blue silk dress with its little white jacket, her matching sky-blue hat with a white trim perched just so on her dark blonde hair, her slender legs encased in silk stockings, which, like most of her current wardrobe, had been bought when she had been in Cairo.

  ‘I feel guilty having such pretty things when so many women haven’t,’ she had told Marcus.

  But he had shaken his head and told her truthfully, ‘You have earned the right to wear them through your work with ENSA. Not many women would agree to travel so far and in such dangerous conditions to sing to troops in the desert.’

  He loved her so much and he was so grateful to her for taking him back, and to Brandon for making it possible for him to ask her to forgive him. There was nothing he wanted more than her happiness, nothing he wanted more than to give her that happiness and to protect it and her so that she would have it for all time, but he knew that that wasn’t going to be possible. His heart was filled with love for her, and heavy with what he knew he had to tell her.

  ‘Marcus.’ Francine reached out across the table towards him, pulling off her glove as she laid her hand on the table. Such a small delicate hand, so easily lost when he held it in his own, and yet such a strong hand, holding as it did the will to reach out to others, to help them as she had helped Brandon and as she would help so many more through the foundation Brandon had set up.

  After this war had ended there would be much for her to do, and much for him to do also, but first he had another duty to perform.

  He took a deep breath and told her, ‘I heard this morning that we’re likely to be posted soon.’

  ‘Italy?’ Francine guessed. Her gaze was fixed to his.

  ‘It looks like it.’

  Italy, which had to be retaken from the Germans, in the same way that Canadian soldiers had attempted to take Dieppe less than a year ago, only to be repelled; massacred.

  ‘Can it be done?’

  ‘It has to be, if we are to win the war.’

  ‘When … when do you think you will go?’ Her mouth had gone dry, her heart thudding painfully inside her chest, her pain at the thought of losing him even worse than it had been when she had stood on board the ship sailing from Alexandria, watching him stride away from her.

  ‘Not for another month, so we shall have some time to—’

  ‘A month is four weeks. That’s three weeks in which to have our banns read and a week in which we can be married before you leave.’ Francine was speaking quickly, the words falling over one another as she said them hurriedly, not wanting to allow herself to think about them, following instead the agonised cry of her heart, listening only to it, thinking only of Marcus and their love, putting aside superstition and fear, wanting to give him all that she could so that when he left her there would be no regrets, and he would have no doubts about her commitment to him.

  For a few seconds Marcus neither moved nor spoke, but then when he asked her, ‘Do you mean it?’ his voice choked with his feelings and his hand gripping hers tightly, Francine immediately felt heart-wrenchingly aware of just how much her words meant to him and achingly guilty for having previously withheld from him what he wanted so much.

  When she answered, ‘Yes. It’s what I want more than anything else in the world, Marcus, to be truly yours in every single way,’ she was speaking with the passionate conviction of her own heart and not just out of her love for him, because suddenly and illuminatingly she knew that his happiness was hers; his trust in her, her own in him; his need, her need.

  Their hands were still clasped, their fingers interlocking as perfectly and seamlessly as though they were made to be together.

  The waiter had reached the table with their drinks. Without taking his gaze from her Marcus told him, ‘We’ve changed our minds. We’ll have champagne, please, instead.’

  Bobby was so nervous as he paced the floor of the Campions’ front room. It was a hot day and he was all trussed up in his uniform, his boots so shiny that he could have seen his own reflection in them had he been able to bend that far forward against the collar and tie he was wearing under his battledress jacket. The heat of the late May sunshine wasn’t the cause of his discomfort, though. That was due to the fact that any minute now Sasha’s dad was going to walk in through the door and Bobby was going to have to persuade him to allow him and Sash to get engaged.

  He’d been rehearsing what he wanted to say all week, good-naturedly listened to and then coached
by his mates in the unit, of which he was the youngest.

  The door opened and Bobby’s stomach churned. Sam Campion, Sasha’s father, was the kind of man that other men naturally looked up to and respected, but he was also a bit of a stickler, the kind of man who had strict values and high standards.

  Bobby already knew from what Sasha had told him that even though she had won her mother round, Jean Campion had warned her not to get her hopes up that her father would agree, and, even worse, Bobby’s request to ‘speak’ to him whilst he had leave had meant that Sam had had to give up his Saturday afternoon working on his allotment.

  ‘Well then, lad,’ Sam greeted Bobby. ‘Mrs Campion says that you’ve got something you want to ask me.’

  ‘Yes, sir. You see, the thing is that me and Sasha would like, that is, we were wondering if you would …’

  ‘Come on, lad, spit it out; I’ve got me toms to get watered.’

  ‘Me and Sasha would like your permission to get engaged.’

  Sam Campion was frowning now and Bobby’s heart sank.

  ‘How old are you, lad?’ Sasha’s father asked him.

  ‘Twenty-two, sir, almost twenty-three. Plenty old enough to know that Sasha’s the one for me,’ Bobby spoke up determinedly.

  ‘Mebbe, but is our Sasha old enough to be sure that you’re the one for her? That’s what I have to consider. She’s a few years younger than you.’

  ‘Sasha told me that Mrs Campion was only seventeen when you and she got engaged,’ Bobby pointed out, remembering what Sasha had told him to say.

  ‘Told you to say that, did she, Sasha?’

  Sam Campion’s astuteness had Bobby flushing up and longing to be able to unfasten the top button of his blouson jacket. He felt as though the tie he was wearing beneath it was strangling him.

  Sam felt a flicker of male sympathy for Bobby. The poor lad was doing his best, obviously coached by Sasha. Not that Sam had anything against him. Sam liked Bobby and got on well with him, and in different circumstances, if Sasha had been a bit older and there hadn’t been a war on, Sam would have given his permission for them to get engaged without any qualms. As it was, it was only thanks to Jean that the lad was here sweating uncomfortably in his uniform and preventing Sam from getting to his allotment at all. She was the one who’d told him that she thought they should relent and agree to Sasha and Bobby getting engaged.

  ‘She’s not herself at all, Sam,’ she had told him, ‘and I reckon not letting them get engaged will do more harm than good. Bobby’s a decent lad, after all.’

  He might be able to stand firm against his daughter but he couldn’t do so against the combined will of both Jean and Sasha, Sam recognised.

  ‘Very well, lad,’ he gave in. ‘But there’s to be no talk of any marriage until after this war’s over,’ he warned Bobby. ‘And no doing owt that wouldn’t be right either. I don’t want to see my daughter hurt or disgraced in any way,’ he added meaningfully.

  Bobby went bright red and stuttered wholeheartedly, ‘No, never, Mr Campion. You can depend on me for that.’

  ‘Good,’ Sam told him, extending his hand to take Bobby’s somewhat sweaty palm in his own. ‘Well done, lad. And welcome to the family.’

  One look at Bobby’s beatific expression when he and her father emerged from the front room and came into the kitchen told Sasha all she wanted to know.

  She flung herself into Jean’s arms, tears rolling down her face as she hiccuped, ‘Oh, Mum, I’m so happy.’

  ‘Well, now, I’d better put the kettle on,’ Jean announced once Sasha’s tears had been dried and Sam had disappeared off to his allotment, leaving Bobby to stand proudly in the kitchen, his face still pink with relief.

  ‘We’ve got the ring, Mum. Show her, Bobby,’ Sasha commanded.

  ‘Have you now? Well, that was a bit of a risk, wasn’t it?’ Jean commented drily.

  Watching them she couldn’t help contrasting this engagement with Grace’s to Seb. Bobby was a lovely lad but there was no denying that Sasha ruled the roost with him and bossed him around in a way that Grace would never have done with Seb. Mind you, it took all sorts, Jean acknowledged fairly, and if Sasha and Bobby were happy together then that was what mattered. It was certainly a welcome change to see her daughter smiling and relaxed instead of anxious and on edge, the way she had been these last months.

  Obediently Bobby produced the small jeweller’s box from his battledress tunic pocket.

  When his hand trembled when he tried to open it, Sasha said, ‘Oh, let me do it, Bobby,’ taking the box from him and opening it to show Jean the three small diamonds on the ring inside it.

  It was a lovely ring, Jean acknowledged, and Bobby must have saved ever so hard to afford it. He was a good lad and he thought the world of Sasha, there was no doubt about that.

  ‘Put it on for me, Bobby,’ Sasha commanded, handing the box back to him.

  Beaming with pride and pleasure, Bobby did as she had instructed. The ring was a perfect fit, the jeweller had seen to that when they’d first gone in and looked at it. It wasn’t new, of course–new jewellery was hard to come by now–but Sasha had fallen in love with it the minute she’d seen it and that had been good enough for Bobby.

  ‘Happy now?’ Bobby asked Sasha tenderly an hour later when Sasha’s mother had tactfully slipped out to go to the allotment with some sandwiches for Sam, leaving them alone in the kitchen.

  Perched on Bobby’s knee, her head on Bobby’s shoulder, his arm round her waist holding her tight, whilst she admired the sunlight striking sparkles of light off her ring, Sasha nodded.

  ‘Yes,’ she assured him.

  She was happy, wonderfully happy, but underneath her happiness, like a bit of grit in a shoe, there was still that feeling she hated so much. That fear was still there deep down inside where it lay waiting to leap out at her and drag her down with it.

  THIRTY-ONE

  She had done it. She had finished and passed her Primary Training. Lou felt so buoyant that she could almost fly without her ‘wings’ with the heady mix of excitement and relief.

  Not that the last few weeks hadn’t been without their disappointments and difficulties. She’d sailed through her twenty flying hours’ test, and the over-confidence and the impatience to be trained that had given her had led to her thinking she was a lot better than she was, she admitted now. At the time it had been a crushing blow when she had been told that her forty flying hours’ test had been so borderline that they had been tempted to drop her from the course. Not all the girls who were taking it were going to be good enough to be pilots they had all been told right from the beginning.

  Of course, the shock of nearly losing her place had done her good in the end. She had worked like a Trojan to make up for that poor forty-hour result, but she hadn’t taken anything for granted until yesterday, when she had been told that she had passed.

  If she was up in a plane right now, she’d be doing loops and rolls and every other exuberant aerobatic manoeuvre she could think of, Lou admitted, so it was probably a good job that she wasn’t because that would get her so many black marks that she’d be banished from ATA for good, and that was the last thing she wanted.

  Little had she known that December day in Liverpool, when she had been filled with such despair and misery, that a chance meeting and a throwaway comment from another girl who had just enlisted with the WAAF would lead to her discovering what now felt almost like a missing part of herself. A part to replace Sasha, her twin? Lou clamped down on that unwanted question. Whilst the rebellious streak within her had made her feel back then in Liverpool that it would be exciting and different to learn to fly, she had had no real idea of what would be involved, or that something about learning to fly would speak to her on so many different levels. She had been so lucky; she could have remained in Liverpool, at the telephone exchange, feeling resentful and unhappy. She could have joined the WAAF and ended up in an office filing paper, feeling equally bored, but somehow fate had taken a hand
and guided her into the perfect place for her, so that her life now fitted her as snugly as the cockpit of a Spitfire fitted round the body of its pilot.

  Spitfires. Lou was longing to try one, but of course she wouldn’t be able to do that until she had completed the next phase of her training–her Class 2 Conversion Course at Thame in Oxfordshire, where she would move on from the basics she had now learned, to learn to fly a wider variety and twin-engined aircraft.

  For now, though, excited as she was, it was almost enough to simply enjoy the thrill of actually being able to fly.

  Lou reached into the pocket of her dark blue regulation ATA trousers to remove her cigarettes, lighting herself one and then pushing her hand through her hair to let the breeze cool her down. Her hair needed cutting; her curls were well below the collar of her light blue RAF shirt, thick and wayward, the soft brown bleached gold at the ends by the sun. Lou inspected her nails. It was a point of honour amongst ATA pilots that they kept their nails polished, the camaraderie of the service ensuring that girls willingly shared precious bottles of varnish. Dark red was the favoured ATA pilot nail varnish colour–it went sooo well with their dark blue uniforms, as Lou had heard one of the American ATA pilots drawl in her lazy Deep South accent.

  Appearance was very important if you were to be welcomed and well thought of by the other pilots, and appearance covered not only the way one looked, but the way one acted. It was the ‘done’ thing to assume a certain degree of faked female helpless insouciance around male pilots that was totally at odds with the gritty ability and determination the girls really possessed.

  ‘It stops the boys from feeling too jealous of us,’ Verity Maitland had told Lou when she had paid her one of her brief visits, to check up on how she was doing and to gift her with a large number of verbal dos and don’ts.

  Although Verity hadn’t said so, Lou felt that she had in a sense taken her under her wing, and because of that Lou was determined to do her best to be worthy of Verity’s support.