Lover

by Wilson, Laura

  ‘Ten o’clock, ten o’clock!’

  A 109 shoots past me, followed by a Spit—Ginger, I think—and a mouthful of Polish is spat into my ear. Balchin bellows, ‘Speak fucking English, can’t you?’

  I can’t see Holden-Whatsit anywhere. ‘Yellow Two, where are you?’

  A Spit streaks straight in front of me with a 109 behind, knocking chunks off it—‘Help me, somebody help me!’ High, choir-boy voice…realise it’s my wingman, whatever his fucking name is, trying to get himself killed.

  ‘You stupid bastard!’ I charge after the 109—get right up his arse and let him have it, a four-second burst—Bloody Kraut, I’ll give you something to take home—and again—he breaks left but not fast enough—leaking coolant—I give it another squirt and then all hell breaks loose behind me: an almighty thud and she lurches and bumps—tracer flashing over the starboard wing—get out of here for Christ’s sake get out—feel my bladder emptying, sweat running into my eyes, and cut the throttle and shove everything into the corner for a sharp turn. For a second I think she’s not going to respond and I’ve had it, but then—clever girl—she goes, it’s working, and the giant hand pushes my guts to the base of my stomach and presses down on my head, forcing it into my chest, I can feel the blood rush from it, can’t see but can feel my way round the turn, not yet…further, further…she judders—don’t stall, don’t stall…rudder pedals heavy as lead, don’t black out, don’t bloody black out…and…now! 180 degrees, straighten out and I can see again and two 109s are coming straight at me—hear myself scream and she screams too as I yank her into a half-roll to get out of their way—can’t swallow so turn my head aside to get rid of the puke that’s coming up my throat, everything vibrating like hell, grey spots in front of my eyes and for a moment I am as weak as a baby, hands and legs helpless and quivering, then the plane seems to right itself and I see that one of the machines is crippled and wallowing, trailing smoke, port aileron shot up, the pilot a red smear against the Perspex, and the other—definitely a 109—is shooting at it, so it must be one of ours. Get off a long-range shot at the Messerschmitt—tracer seems to bounce off his wing, then the Spit is on fire and falling, falling, and there’s nothing I can do—out of ammo—I see the 109 start to turn and I pull the tit and shove the throttle through the gate to get away from it and she shrieks and shrieks and I’m trying to stay calm, think, be logical, and then I find myself, miraculously, in empty sky, clammy and shivering with cold sweat, and the smell of fuel and cordite and a wet left leg.

  Strange how that happens. One minute all hell’s breaking loose, and the next minute, the sky’s empty and you’re on your own. Quick, look round: row of holes in the starboard wing. Doesn’t look too bad—there might be damage behind that I can’t see, but she’s flying all right. Now then, where’s Holden-Whatsit?

  ‘Yellow Two, where are you?’

  No response.

  ‘Yellow Two…’

  Nothing. Silly sod must have been jumped.

  Oh, well. Time to go home. God, that feels good: to be up here, all alone, the sun just beginning to set. Wonderful sense of contentment. She’s happy, too, almost flying herself. I could stay up here for ever.

  You couldn’t get that from any woman.

  Tuesday 17th September

  Lucy

  Miss Crombie told me, in a shocked voice, about a notice she’d seen on the train this morning—Blinds must be kept down after dark—only someone had crossed out the word ‘Blinds’ and written ‘Knickers’ instead. She was terrifically worked up about it. I agreed that people shouldn’t write on notices, but secretly wanted to laugh. Thought afterwards that this is clearly what happens to spinsters who spend their lives toiling in offices and never do anything else—to be avoided at all costs. That started me thinking about Frank again, what it would be like if I were to marry him. I got as far as imagining what the children would look like before I realised that the whole business was absurd, embarrassing, and horribly typical of the sort of female turn of mind I thoroughly despise. In any case, the man hasn’t proposed to me yet! I wondered how I shall feel if he doesn’t, and realised with horror that I shall be rather put out… Heavens! Vanity, thy name is Lucy Armitage.

  Great excitement when Mr Bridges came in to see Miss H, and on the way out stopped at my desk. He said he’d seen me in the shelter yesterday, and admired my frock. I managed to stammer out a thank-you, and he said, ‘I should thank you, Miss Armitage. Gazing at you was a delightful way of passing the time.’

  In for a penny, I thought, and I said, ‘I saw you looking.’

  ‘Oh, you noticed. And I thought I was being so discreet. Ever thought of becoming a spy?’

  I said I didn’t think I’d be terribly good at it, and he said, ‘Well, aren’t you at least curious about my knowing your name?’ Because we don’t have them on the desks—well, Miss Henderson does, but she’s in charge. The rest of us don’t. I said I was curious, and he said, ‘I asked La Belle Henderson.’ He leaned forward. ‘She’s a bit of a dragon, isn’t she? But she didn’t scare me, because I asked her something else, too—how’d you like to be borrowed for the day, tomorrow? We need a capable pair of hands upstairs, and it’s much easier to bring Mohammet to the Mountain than t’other way round. Not that you’re a mountain, of course…far from it. More of a reed, if I may say so. The old girl puts your price above rubies, you know—it took all my powers of persuasion. I had to bribe her with torch batteries.’

  ‘You didn’t, did you?’

  ‘No, but I would have done, in order to secure your services. And I promised faithfully that we’d return you in one piece. What do you say?’

  ‘Well…yes.’ As if I had any choice in the matter—but it was nice to be asked for a change, instead of ordered about.

  ‘Good. I knew you wouldn’t let me down in my hour of need. See you tomorrow, then.’

  I was flabbergasted! Afterwards, all the girls crowded round, wanting to know what he’d said to me. Vi and Phyllis are crazy over him, but Miss Henderson overheard and pulled us all up short by saying, ‘That’s enough nonsense; he’s a married man.’ She sounded disappointed. Lord knows why—she must be forty-five if she’s a day! But I felt a tiny prick of disappointment, too, and Vi and Phyll looked most downcast. Still, Mr Bridges chose me, and not them, which certainly says something, although I’m not quite sure what. Probably better not to speculate. Perhaps he’s just a flirt. Some men are, and that’s harmless enough. I heard Mums’s voice in my head, telling me I’m sailing in dangerous waters, and some men go all out to spoil a girl. This expression irritates me no end because it seems to put the entire female species on a par with a fancy tablecloth. Mums managed, with no effort on her part, to needle me all afternoon, no matter how much I tried to ignore her.

  Frank met me on the corner after work, and we had a cup of tea and some very forlorn-looking currant buns. At least, the waitress assured us that’s what they were, but it was all bun and no currant. I broke mine in pieces and unearthed two tiny ones that looked very sorry for themselves. Probably the shape of things to come.

  I found myself making a special effort to be nice to Frank because I felt guilty about having enjoyed the conversation with Mr Bridges quite so much. But I couldn’t help comparing the two of them, and Frank seems such a boy, somehow. He’s clever and funny and, on the whole, fairly sophisticated, but… There’s something else, and it isn’t just the age difference.

  He asked me if I’d heard the one about the girl who gave her boyfriend a white feather because he was leaving London to join the army. I hadn’t thought of it like that before, but I suppose they will be far safer when they’re off doing their training than we are here.

  Frank said, ‘I wish you were out of it,’ and I said, ‘Well, I don’t. I’m glad I’m here—right in the swim,’ because it’s true, I am. I tried to explain to Frank that I do get frightened, but I want to be part of it, not stuck out in the country somewhere, missing everything.

  He
said, ‘I didn’t think women felt like that.’

  I said, ‘Well, I don’t want to fight anybody, it’s just that I want to be on the spot. Anyway, it would feel like running away. Ever since the war started we’ve been retreating from everywhere in a great hurry…someone’s got to stay put. And London is my home, Frank. I’m not going to be driven out of it by Hitler.’

  Frank looked at me for a long time without speaking. Then he said, ‘We could just as easily be sitting in a café in Berlin, drinking coffee and eating kuchen, and having this conversation.’

  ‘It couldn’t be worse than this.’ I prodded the bun.

  ‘That’s true. But I didn’t mean that. I meant we’d be German.’

  ‘But we’re not German, we’re British.’

  ‘Yes, but that’s just chance, isn’t it?’

  ‘I don’t know. I suppose so. But we’re different…it’s the way they’re trained, isn’t it? To think that the only good race is the German one.’

  ‘Yes, but we’d think that, too, don’t you see?’

  ‘No we—’ I was about to say that we couldn’t possibly think that, but I stopped because I realised he was right.

  ‘We would, you know. We’d think we were in the right. And of course we are, it’s just that everyone seems to have swallowed this business about how we’re the ones fighting against injustice and oppression, and standing up for peace and democracy, but when you look at our position in India, you wonder how we have the nerve. Our history is all aggression in the name of Empire. Same as the French or Dutch, or even Belgium, taking possessions overseas—and now we’re saying the Germans can’t do it because it’s in Europe. We wouldn’t care if it was Africa; look at Somaliland.’

  ‘That was the Italians.’

  He shrugged. ‘It’s no different.’

  ‘Yes, but Europe’s different, and as for the Empire, it’s… well, it’s ours.’

  ‘Only because we conquered it.’

  ‘But that doesn’t make the Germans right, Frank.’

  ‘I know it doesn’t, but…’ Frank sighed. ‘It’s just…you wonder what it’s all for. All that King and Country stuff went out in the last war.’

  ‘But we can’t just let Hitler invade.’

  ‘Of course not, but… I just wish I felt a bit clearer about things, that’s all.’

  ‘You mean, why you’re fighting?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Well?’

  ‘To get it over with, I suppose.’

  ‘Frank… What happens if, well, if we don’t? Win, I mean.’

  He sighed. ‘I don’t know.’

  ‘I suppose I shouldn’t even be saying that. I haven’t said it to anyone else.’

  ‘Good. Best keep it to yourself.’ He squeezed my hand. ‘We’ll get through it, somehow.’

  When he said that I thought, yes, but what then? I didn’t say it, though—even thinking about the future seems a waste of time. All the same, it was an odd conversation, because Frank is usually so certain about things—the way men are, I suppose. It made me feel uneasy all the way home, although I couldn’t quite put my finger on why. But that’s nothing new; I don’t seem to be sure about anything these days. The things Frank said about England, and the Empire—I’ve never heard him talk like that, and, to be honest, I’ve never really thought about it much.

  The whole business made me feel as if I’d done something wrong. Talking to Frank often has that effect on me. I’m sure he doesn’t mean it to, but it does. I suppose it’s because he’s a couple of years older than me, and better educated, but I can’t just take on his opinions and pretend that’s what I think, too, even if I don’t have opinions of my own. I want to look at life through my eyes, not his.

  We did talk about other things after that—although not about us, thank heaven—and then he said he was travelling to Gloucester to see his parents and would see me at the weekend, before he ‘goes for a soldier,’ as he put it. I meekly agreed to this arrangement and allowed myself to be kissed. Halfway through I was appalled to discover myself thinking about Mr Bridges. I’ve christened him B—if I am going to think about him, which appears to be the case, Mr Bridges is far too cumbersome.

  I came back to earth when Frank broke off with a peculiar look on his face and said, ‘Lucy, are you all right?’

  I gazed at him with what I hoped was a suitably spooney expression, so he shouldn’t realise… Oh, I’m horrible, horrible, horrible! Feelings of guilt and also—most unfairly—irritation with Frank, meant that I allowed him to carry on kissing me for far longer than usual to make up for it, then scuttled off to catch my train before anything more could be said.

  The station was packed, as usual, and everyone looked weary and dispirited. I wondered how long we can go on in this state. Frank is certainly right about getting it over. The thought of spending all winter like this fills me with despair, but what choice do we have?

  When I got back, Minnie told us about a girl at her office who went to the pictures and came back to find the back blown off the house. Mums was very upset by this, saying that people shouldn’t go out. When I pointed out that the girl was safer at the cinema than she would have been at home, she didn’t reply, but there was a lot of sighing and fussing and slamming about of tea-things. Being so nervous makes her quite impossible.

  I said to Minnie afterwards, when we were washing up, ‘You shouldn’t tell her things like that, you know what it does to her.’

  Minnie said she was sorry, and then she said, ‘I suppose it’s because I feel we ought to talk to her more—she’s at home so much by herself.’

  ‘She goes out to the shops, and she’s always popping into the neighbours’ for tea.’

  ‘Not any more. It takes her an age to work up the courage just to open the door and get outside, even for shopping, and then she just rushes there and back as fast as she can. She used to stop and talk to everyone, but now she doesn’t even want to do that, in case there’s a raid, or a gas attack, or—’

  ‘When did she tell you all this?’

  ‘Last week. When we had that really bad one, she suddenly blurted it all out. She’s ashamed of it, Lucy, that’s the awful thing. I know it was the wrong thing to tell her, about that girl at work—I could have bitten my tongue—but I feel I’ve got to say something, just…you know…so she knows we’re all right, and… I don’t know. To be friendly, and just…just for the sake of talking, really.’

  ‘Perhaps we should get the doctor to give her something.’

  ‘She won’t go.’

  ‘Have you mentioned this to Dad?’

  Minnie shook her head. ‘He’d only worry. Anyway, I think he sort of knows, but there’s nothing he can do, and that makes it worse, because he can’t protect her.’

  ‘I suppose so.’

  I could see what Minnie meant, and resolved to spend more time with Mums and talk to her, if I can bear it. I should have realised how bad her nerves are. The combination of that, and feeling hateful for being bored by Frank’s lovemaking, made me not want to talk to anybody, so when we heard the siren I retreated straight under the kitchen table and stayed there with one of Mums’s Ethel M. Dells. Terribly old-fashioned, but soothing. I realised, about twenty pages in, that I’d read it before, although not very carefully as I don’t have the foggiest idea of what happens next. Dad lifted the tablecloth to see what I was reading, then made a face and said, ‘Slop.’ Which it undoubtedly is, but I don’t care, because it takes my mind off everything else. It was quiet by midnight, so I went upstairs, though I didn’t undress until the All-Clear went at three. Then I had four hours of utterly blissful sleep.

  I tried to be very brisk and efficient all morning, with no flirting (well, not much, anyway). B was in the other office, but came in from time to time with requests for me to make tea and type things. The latter I found a little odd as he has his own secretary, Miss Dale, but she’s terribly old, poor thing—nearly retiring—so perhaps she can’t manage all of the work. Miss H
came up a couple of times as well, ‘to see how you’re doing,’ or—far more likely—to make sure there was no interdepartmental poodlefaking. B contrived to be out of sight on both occasions, which obviously satisfied Miss H, because he told me later that he has secured me ‘on permanent loan’ for one day every week. I thought this made me sound like a library book, and—very much to my surprise—heard myself saying so out loud. B laughed a great deal and invited me to have a cup of tea with him after work. I said yes, but spent the rest of the day telling myself that he is married and that I must not be taken in by him. These strictures were only moderately successful—even invoking Mums couldn’t stop me looking forward to it, and as for Frank, well…here’s a dreadful confession: I realised on the way home that I hadn’t given him so much as a thought the entire day.

  The other girls will be green when they find out. About my one day a week, that is. I shan’t tell them about the tea, and certainly not about the kiss afterwards. We were walking to the station and suddenly—I’m really not sure how this happened— found ourselves in a doorway. He said, ‘I know I shouldn’t, but you’re so lovely I can’t resist you,’ and pulled me into his arms and kissed me. I tried to push him away—well, a little bit—but found myself…how to put this? Responding. Wriggling, that’s Frank’s word for it. But it was all very discreet, and I don’t think that people notice or mind these things so much, nowadays. I wondered afterwards if this was due to moral laxity or because they have other things on their minds, like getting home before the raids start, and decided it must be the latter.

  I know I should have been offended by B’s behaviour, but it seemed such a little thing, really, in spite of his wife. My goodness, though! I thought I knew what kissing was, at least, but that was a revelation. Quite different from Frank. I suppose I am turning into the most awful tart, but B made me lose my head completely, and I suddenly understood what Frank had been talking about. And it does seem unimportant, when you think that we might not be here tomorrow. Mums wouldn’t think it unimportant, though, and the way she was looking at me this evening made me think she knew, somehow. But in a way, these restrictions only go to make it more exciting…what a dreadful thought! It’s all very odd. Nothing makes sense or matters much any more, and I don’t seem to care what happens to me.