by I'll Get By
She wrote a small passage to describe the effects the burglary had on herself and especially her aunt – but using different names.
Police Sergeant Benjamin Blessing, she named the file.
Nick’s filing cabinet was the only one kept locked. She found a bunch of keys in his drawer and tried each one. When none of them worked she inserted the flat blade of a penknife into the lock and juggled it around until something gave. The drawer opened an inch before it stopped, but that was enough room to slide the file inside.
She pushed the drawer shut again.
Fourteen
Everyone knew that the pilots of the Royal Air Force had a fight on their hands in defence of England.
The day raids increased, and it seemed that if it were not for the need to refuel, the pilots would have stayed in the air permanently.
Day after day people went to the coast to watch the battle unfold. It seemed like a high wire trapeze act. Planes fell from the sky in scribbles of vapour and exploded into the sea. Parachutes floated across the sky like mushrooms, their flimsy silk sometimes tangled in the strings, so the first instant of safety offered, sometimes degenerated into a swift, deadly plunge. Some half open, made it to earth and bumped their occupants along the ground like puppets on strings. Some stood upright afterwards. Others were driven away in ambulances, glad to be offered a rest, however short.
The Germans had a bigger air force, and it seemed that they were going to win the battle, except the British, with their facility to land, refuel and take off again almost immediately, managed to shoot more of the German planes down.
The battle was taking its toll of the pilots. Deprived of sleep they were totally exhausted . . . yet still they carried on. Planes rolled off the assembly line and young, hardly trained pilots walked out of wrecks on the runway and took to the skies in the next available aircraft. Many lost their lives.
At forty-three Queen Street, Esmé waited for her precious baby to arrive. She scanned the casualty list every day, trying to remain hopeful when she didn’t see Leo’s name there. She kept herself busy stitching small garments.
She was in the middle of reading the latest casualty list when the telephone rang. It was Leo. ‘I’ve just called to tell you that I love you.’
She burst into tears, mostly from the relief of hearing his voice.
‘Hush, my love,’ he said. ‘Everything will be all right . . . I promise.’
She sniffed back her tears. ‘I’m sorry, darling. I’m a bit emotional at the moment. I seem to cry at the slightest thing and I feel horribly hormonal. All that practical training in midwifery and the advice I dish out, and I’ve just discovered I know nothing about being the broody hen.’
‘You’ll do wonderfully well at hatching the egg. Did we decide on a name yet?’
She knew he’d said it to take her mind off the negative and give her hope for a future together. Leo was so brave, and it was agony trying to imagine what he was going through. ‘I thought Lydia Jane would be pretty for a girl.’
‘Lydia Jane Thornton it is then.’
‘You can choose a boy’s name if you like.’
‘What about John Oliver? We could call him Johnno.’
‘Perfect. He sounds like a member of parliament already.’
‘The prime minister at the very least.’
She managed a watery giggle. ‘One thing . . . he couldn’t be mistaken for anything but an Australian with a nickname like that.’
The phone call was too short, and she knew others were waiting to use the telephone so as to reassure their loved ones. She sent him a kiss down the phone. ‘Lots of love Leo, and from Meggie as well. She’s looking after me, and is turning out to be a treasure. Her superior officer said that if I need her, to phone him and he’ll send her home and she can have a few days off. He’s very nice.’
‘I’m relieved.’
They said goodbye and she put the receiver down and had a prowl round. She felt restless. Meggie usually came home straight from work. Today she was late . . . half an hour late.
She went back to the paper, and with the cat balanced on the portion of lap she had left, she went down the casualty lists in the paper. She found names of people she had known on the pleasure cruisers, who’d joined the navy and been torpedoed and drowned. How long ago that time seemed now. Sadness crept over her. Leo had advised her not to read the casualty lists.
Meggie usually attended the navy memorial services, which were happening more and more. Her natural ebullience seemed to desert her on those occasions. She was far more unselfish and thoughtful. The destruction going on had a profound effect on her, though the changes had been gradual.
Esmé hadn’t heard from her friend Minnie since before the war. Married to Leo’s brother, her best friend had achieved all she’d ever wanted in life . . . a family who loved and appreciated her. And she’d found it in Australia, as had Esmé.
Her finger hovered over a name and shock filled her. William Denison (corporal). Her eyes filled with tears again as she remembered the man she’d almost married and she whispered, ‘Poor Liam.’
She’d been luckier than either Liam or Minnie, having a loving family to turn to for most of her life, if the need arose.
She heard a key in the lock. Jack Frost’s ears pricked up and he gave an imperious meow, just in case she hadn’t heard. She called out, ‘I’m in the kitchen, Meggie.’
Meggie’s arms came around her from behind and she kissed her cheek before placing the carrier bag she held, on the table. ‘Why are you crying?’ Then with more alarm, ‘Everything’s all right, isn’t it?’
‘Leo rang, and I felt lonely and missed him, and I didn’t feel like being brave about it so decided to be miserable instead. We’ve decided on baby names. It will be Lydia Jane for a girl.’
‘That’s very pretty.’
‘Leo wants John Oliver if it’s a boy. He intends to call him Johnno.’
Meggie laughed. ‘I like that. They’re both nice names.’
‘Do you remember Liam Denison? I found his name in the lists, and got a little melancholy when I read that he’d died on active service.’
‘That’s the man who used to be your dancing partner on the Horizon Queen, isn’t it? I’m so sorry to hear it. He taught me the Charleston once. He was terribly good. Didn’t he go to Hollywood to try his luck? And didn’t he give you that engagement ring you gave to me.’
‘That’s him. We were engaged for only a short time. He got into the chorus line in a couple of films. Poor Liam. He wasn’t content with who he was, as though he’d lost himself on the way to becoming a man. He wanted so much to be somebody. Even though he appeared confident he didn’t have much confidence in himself. He didn’t like responsibility.’
Meggie reminded her, ‘He did become somebody . . . a war hero, like my father. But that doesn’t count unless there is someone left who remembers them and can feel proud enough of them to bask in their glory. I still remember the Charleston Liam taught me, but nobody does it any more.’ Meggie went into the dance routine, kicking her legs about and singing. When she tried to cross her hands on her knees in unison her knees knocked together. ‘Ouch!’
‘Liam wouldn’t have taught you that move.’ Esmé stood, spilling the cat to the floor. Holding her stomach she crossed her legs and began to giggle. ‘Don’t make me laugh . . . you know it makes me run to the lavvy . . .’
‘Better out than in,’ Meggie said when Esmé was moving towards the door.
Esmé stopped and turned. ‘Tell that to the baby.’
‘Be patient. It’s not due for a couple more weeks. I’m going downstairs to change into civvies, and then I’ll get on with dinner. Judith won’t be in until later. She’s got herself another boyfriend. She said she’s going to enjoy herself while she can.’
‘Good for her. I quite like her, and it’s nice that you’ve got someone nearer your age to talk to. Now . . . what do we have for dinner?’
‘We’ve got a prop
er potato each, though we’ll have to have the reconstituted stuff if you want more. There are carrots, turnip and two slices of corned beef each. We’ll have to have tapioca pudding and bottled rhubarb.’
‘Ug!’
‘Don’t be a baby, Es. It’s good for you, and the rhubarb has medicinal properties.’
‘Stop lecturing me, Meggie Moo. You’re just repeating back what I said to you in the first place. By the way you’d better put that blouse into soak in cold water. It’s got blood on the cuffs. What have you been up to? You didn’t kill someone by any chance, did you?’
Meggie thought fast because there were more bloodspots further up the arm and a splash of iodine on the front in the shape of an octopus. She didn’t even want to think about what she’d done . . . something she was proud of, now it was over. ‘Would you believe I was shaking a bottle to get the sauce to run and the top flew off and splotched me? Or would you prefer it if I told you that I changed into a vampire on the way home and had to find a quick snack.’
Nick’s blue blood came to mind. It hadn’t looked any different, or any tastier than hers. Baring her teeth at the cat, who had leaped on the table to investigate the carrier bag, she hissed at him. Jack Frost shot to the floor and gave her such a look of surprised disdain that she laughed.
Esmé laughed even more at the thought of her having vampire tendencies. ‘That would have been something to see. I thought you’d abandoned fiction in favour of presenting the facts . . . studying law, that is.’
‘I knew you wouldn’t believe me.’ Meggie had counted on it. ‘Go and have a wee before you do it on the floor. You look undignified standing there with your legs crossed.’
‘What’s in the carrier bag? I thought I smelled chocolate earlier.’
‘So did the cat, obviously. It’s a gift for you, from Nick Cowan. You can open it when you come back.’
‘What a splendid creature that man is. I used to be all prissy in case it was black market . . . my holier-than-thou attitude has fallen by the wayside now you’ve met him.’
So had Meggie’s. ‘Creature being the operative word,’ was all she could manage to say.
21 August
‘Never in the field of human conflict was so much owed by so many to so few.’
The speech by Winston Churchill to the House of Commons was published in the morning paper and like most of the prime minister’s speeches they were designed to inspire.
It reminded Leo of school, of the St Crispin’s Day speech from Shakespeare’s Henry V that he’d had to learn by heart. He’d solemnly recited it at assembly, his heart throbbing like a drum.
‘From this day to the ending of the world.
But we in it shall be remembered –
We few, we happy few, we band of brothers,
For he today who sheds his blood with me
Shall be my brother . . .’
He gazed around at his companions and felt a strong connection to them that he knew would last for as long, or as short, as he lived. It was almost like they’d become one.
They were fighting for everything Britain represented . . . for the lives of the wives, their way of life and a future of freedom for their children. Despite the danger . . . or perhaps because of it, Leo enjoyed what he was doing. At the back of his mind he worried about Esmé. But there was nothing he could do about the situation. He wished she’d gone to stay with her sister Livia when he’d asked. London was an obvious target, and the raids were increasing day by day.
Over the past few days the German long-range bombers had been busy. The raids had been heavy and had extended to Liverpool. They had also begun to target RAF airfields. Several aircraft on the ground had been destroyed, and personnel killed or injured.
Then there was the safety of their baby to consider. He didn’t have the faith in Meggie that Esmé had. She didn’t like the sight of blood and would probably fall to pieces in the face of an emergency.
On the other hand, his Es was in good health and there had been no problems during the pregnancy, except for the occasion when her iron levels had plunged, but iron pills had restored the balance. But like she said, she could deliver it herself if she had too. Perhaps he could persuade her to move out of London after their child was born.
Once inside the mess the smell of food made everything else fade from his mind. Placing a fried egg and some bacon between two slabs of bread, he considered that he was probably worrying unnecessarily. He ate the doorstop sandwich quickly, and lifted a mug of tea to his mouth, taking great gulps.
‘Scramble! Scramble!’
A chorus of groans went up. Not surprising when they’d not long ago got down. Today, the enemy was using a new tactic, prowling along the coast in small groups. They attacked one of the airfields, destroying a hangar and planes in Cornwall.
Eddie Richards got to his feet and followed after Leo through a summer rainstorm. Leo smiled to himself. Eddie was an old hand now, and the proud possessor of a brand new aircraft. He’d earned every rivet in it. Leo supposed he looked equally tired, though he seemed to have gone past tiredness and into an automatic state.
He was still drinking the remnants of tea that had managed to stay in the cup, and when he reached his aircraft, which was already armed and ticking over, he dashed the dregs to the ground and tossed the mug to the engineer, who grinned at him and said, ‘She’s full and flirty, Doc . . . raring to go. See you when you get down.’
The ground crews as well as the pilots had the scramble down to a fine art now.
Then it was chocks away and he was off, racing down the runway with Eddie on his wing, having lost Collins a couple of sorties ago. But upstairs, it was mostly every man for himself.
He nearly gasped when he saw what they were about to take on. About eighty aircraft belonging to the Luftwaffe were up there.
But the Spits were above them, so had the element of surprise. Saying a short prayer he gave the thumbs up to Eddie, then put the nose of his craft down and began the dive down among them.
Two bombers and a Messerschmitt were downed before the Luftwaffe was turned back and encouraged to go home.
The next day the raids were light but well spaced, as if the object of the exercise was to prevent the pilots from resting.
He managed to telephone Es again, grinning like a shot fox when he heard her voice.
‘How are you, my lovely girl?’
‘Stuffed to the gills . . . Meggie’s been rubbing olive oil on my belly. She read it in a magazine and said it will prevent stretch marks. It seems to be working. I honestly don’t think I can stretch much further. I saw the gyno yesterday. He said if the baby isn’t here in a week he’s going to induce the birth. I might take a dose of caster oil tonight to help it along.’
‘You poor darling.’
‘Don’t sympathize with me, Leo, else I’ll feel sorry for myself and get the weeps. And don’t say anything to make me laugh either because my bladder is touch-and-go.’
‘That doesn’t leave me with much else to say except I love you. Hold on sweetheart. This time next week at the latest, you’ll have our baby snuggling against your breasts . . . the lucky little devil.’
‘Behave yourself, Leo. That sort of thinking got me into this state in the first place, and my breasts are now the size of watermelons.’
He chuckled. ‘Let’s hope it likes its tucker then. It will all be worth it in the end.’
‘I know.’
Leo swore when he heard the order to scramble over the tannoy. ‘I’ve got to go, my sweet. I’ll ring you again when I get down. Take care. Always remember that I love you.’ He hung up.
A little while later he flew out over the cliffs and up through the clouds into a bright blue sky that seemed full of promise. It was a perfect day for flying.
Jerry obviously thought so too. They had sent the entire Luftwaffe out to deal with them.
Fifteen
Esmé had been a little uncomfortable during dinner the previous evening. She’d
wondered, as she’d got into bed, if the malaise was caused by the cocktail of castor oil, orange juice and bicarbonate of soda she’d swallowed previously – though once the fizz had died down she was sure she’d retched most of it up.
It was early the next morning – too early, the hall clock having just chimed two a.m. Her bladder was full to bursting. Getting out of bed she stood, and, placing her hands against her back she cautiously stretched, smiling when a weak contraction rippled across her stomach.
‘At last,’ she whispered, excitement rippling through her as if she were a teenager looking forward to her first date. Patting her baby gently on the bottom she whispered, ‘I love you.’
She felt her way to the bathroom, remembering to avoid the buckets of water, gas masks, clothes and torch kept ready on the landing in case there was a fire to extinguish, or just the need to evacuate the house in a hurry.
No need to wake Meggie yet, but she must alert her midwife, she thought.
The operator told her there was no answer. There must be a rush of births on and her allocated midwife was attending someone else, Esmé thought. But she probably wouldn’t need her until the morning to do the birth.
‘Could you put me through to the hospital?’
‘I’m afraid their switchboard doesn’t operate this time of morning. Is it urgent?’
‘Not at the moment . . . I’ll try again later. Thanks.’
There was a rustling noise from the stairs to the basement and she had a moment of fear when she remembered the intruder. She gazed into the dark maw of the stairwell and froze to the spot, her tongue stuck to the roof of her mouth as if glued there.
A torch was switched on and the thin beam bounced up the steps. Meggie whispered, ‘Is that you, Aunt Es?’
Esmé’s tongue peeled off and her held breath exhaled in a relieved rush. ‘You gave me such a scare, Meggie.’