‘Wilson, take over for me.’ Mac reached for his canteen and gulped the water down. He rested his head back and screwed his eyes shut. He was tired. They all were. It spread like a disease, drifting first to your mind and then to your limbs and nerves, and moving was like wading through treacle.
He pictured the girl he’d met at the dance a few weeks ago. Slim, hair the colour of platinum. She’d refused to dance with him because she was with some other guy, but her moment’s hesitation and that flicker in her emerald-green eyes had instilled hope and soothed the dent in his pride. So, she’s loyal and beautiful. Those eyes bore depth and soul, and as he’d leant in close to speak to her, a scent like sweet prairie flowers soared to meet him. A voice in his head whispered that incredible girl was his guiding light, and he harnessed the memory.
The Channel shimmered up ahead and light flak sprang up but couldn’t reach them, and the bombers punched their way through cotton wool cumulus. As they left the French coast behind, Mac gazed at the sheet-metal surface of lead-grey, icy water. His toes were almost numb, and he wriggled them in his fur-lined overboots.
They’d almost done it. Another mission down, fifteen to go. They were old hands, the old men of the 324th Squadron. A well-oiled machine, so in tune with one another. ‘Pilot to crew. We’re at ten thousand feet. You can come off oxygen.’ It was a relief to tear the mask from his face, which was sore from where it chafed his skin, and he nudged his cheek with his gloved hand.
‘Hey, smell that sea air, boys,’ Danny said over the interphone.
‘Pilot to crew. We’re landing at Exeter to refuel.’ A chorus of groans erupted over the interphone. ‘It’s not all bad. We might get a cup of coffee.’
‘Pilot, with respect, Limeys don’t know how to make good coffee,’ Irv said. ‘But if it’s served up by a good-looking dame then I’ll drink it – and more besides.’ Laughter and whistles flowed.
Mac craved something stronger than coffee and was looking forward to the evening back at Bassingbourn. Drinks, cards, catch up on the mail . . . but first, they had to go through debriefing with a slug of bourbon thrown in as a sweetener. A tiny black dot up ahead caught his eye, or was it a smudge on the windshield? A smudge that moved, divided and grew into several larger specks. His heart quickened, but with a closing speed of over four hundred miles an hour, the specks merged into P-47 fighters within seconds and he exhaled. ‘Look, boys. Our little friends have arrived.’ Mid-afternoon sun glinted on silver as the fighter aircraft zipped through the sky to shepherd the bombers home.
‘Gee, now that’s one beautiful sight.’ Wilson whistled.
‘More beautiful than any girl on her wedding day,’ Danny drawled.
With a greeting waggle of wings, the P-47s flew by, turned, and escorted them back to England. Before long, the horizon surrendered the terracotta sandstone cliffs of the Jurassic Coast. Beyond draped the English tapestry stretched taut across the undulating land – a ripple of greens and browns. Home.
Chapter Three
AF Station 121, Bassingbourn
December 31st, 1942
Glen Miller’s ‘In the Mood’ drifted through the hangar doors, across the moonlit airfield, and bubbled out into the night. The passion wagons and American jeeps in olive-green glistened beneath a thin film of frost. Stella shivered, her cheeks smarting from the cold. She smoothed out her WAAF service dress tunic and skirt and tried to ignore the throbbing in her toes from the icy chill. Travelling for twenty minutes in an American Army truck, which only had a flimsy canvas canopy for cover, was no match for the winter’s eve.
Vera nudged her arm. ‘Here. Put some of this on, love.’ She held out her treasured lipstick. ‘Regimental red. Now remember, beauty is your duty.’ She smirked, casting Stella a knowing look, her eyebrows raised and one hand resting on her hip.
Stella dabbed a streak of red on her lips as Vera cast an approving look. ‘I hope Alex doesn’t find out.’ She gazed around as GIs helped girls down from the truck. A faint breeze teased out a platinum blonde curl, and she hastily tucked it back into place.
‘Come on. We’ll have a wizard time, and you can forget about Alex for the rest of the night, seeing as he’s forgotten you.’ Vera linked arms with her. ‘Besides, it beats spending the night in with your landlady, Miss Prim and Proper.’
‘Give over. She’s lovely.’ Stella took a deep breath, and muttered, ‘Oh well, in for a penny . . . ’
The music grew louder as they made their way across the frosted ground towards the hangar, their footsteps falling into time to the big-band music swinging out into the night. In the distance, the silhouettes of B-17s loomed all around the airfield, bathed in moonlight. Vera sang under her breath, releasing wispy, white vapour into the evening air.
As they passed through the hangar doors, the trumpet solo swung out, and the springy beat drew a crowd of eager dancers into a bouncing foxtrot. Bunting bearing the American flag decorated the vast space and adorned every wall. Wooden trestle tables stood in a procession along one side, laden with bowls of punch, bottles of Coca-Cola, and food. Plates of towering sandwiches sat next to jellies that wobbled and cakes and pastries that made Stella’s mouth water. Large platters of meat stood proud; such a feast they had not seen since the rationing began. Stella stared, open-mouthed. On the opposite side of the hangar, a B-17 Flying Fortress stood to attention, and in front of its mighty wings, on a raised platform, the band played.
‘Come on. I’m famished.’ Stella made a beeline for the food. ‘Did you ever see such a spread?’
Vera handed her a plate. ‘Go on then, get stuck in. See, I said you’d enjoy yourself.’
‘Yes, well, anything’s better than beetroot sandwiches and carrot pie.’ Stella wrinkled her nose, then looked on as the other young women they had arrived with made a beeline for the GIs. Stockings, chocolate, and plenty of money to take you out.
Vera popped the last piece of cake in her mouth and put her plate to one side. ‘I’m going in search of a real drink. Not be a tick, love.’
‘Looks as if there might be a bar on the other side.’ Stella looked on as her friend ploughed through a group of American servicemen, parting them like the Red Sea.
‘Oh, I love this tune,’ Vera said, snapping her fingers in rhythm to the music, pouting at the GIs as she sashayed by. Men always noticed Vera. She was a slender brunette of medium height with blue eyes and plump lips. She really stood out.
Stella stayed where she was, nursing her plate as she devoured the most delicious, sweet donut. The sweet, gritty sugar coated her tongue and tantalised her taste buds and for a moment, she forgot all about mundane life as the vibrant atmosphere bustled and fizzed throughout the hangar. The local girls gazed starry-eyed at their American partners, giggling at their smooth banter. They certainly had a way with words. No wonder girls swooned when they were so handsome – and they knew it. Overpaid, oversexed and over here.
As she glanced around, a tall American pilot caught her eye. He stood out among the crowd, a smouldering cigarette dangling from his lips. As he looked around, he met her gaze and paused, a warm smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. Stella was captivated by his striking blue eyes, and his dimpled chin. There was something familiar about him, but she couldn’t think why. Shrieks of laughter erupted behind her, and she spun around to look, but when she turned back, the pilot had vanished, eclipsed by the crowd.
Her mother’s warning rang shrill and sharp in her ears. Whatever happens, stay away from those Americans. It’s not decent all this carrying on you hear about nowadays. You’ll end up getting into trouble, my girl. One of them called the vicar’s wife “honey” the other day. Oh, the nerve.
But Stella recalled the girls and their excitement that zipped through the town like an electric current. She sighed and turned to watch the band. Resplendent in their Army Air Force uniforms, the trumpeters stood to play their piece, swaying to ‘Sing, Sing, Sing.’ Brass instruments sparkled beneath the lights, and her skin tingled.<
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The floor bustled with dancers, with people packed in as tight as sardines. A GI dancing with a blonde threw her up over his shoulders and her ruby dress billowed up, flashing pink cami-knickers. Stella gazed in awe. She’d never danced like that, and it looked like such fun. As she stared into the crowd looking for Vera, someone lunged at her, and she staggered forward, dropping her bag on the floor.
A man’s voice slurred close to her ear. ‘Hey, baby, wanna have a drink?’
Stella came face-to-face with two GIs wielding bottles of beer. The shorter man lit a cigarette, took a drag, and blew smoke in her face, leering at her with bloodshot eyes.
She coughed. ‘No, thank you.’ She turned to walk away, but the tall one grabbed her by the arm and the breath hitched in her throat.
‘Just one drink, that’s all, baby,’ he said, draping his thick arm around her, pinning her to his side. He stank of beer, cigarettes, and sweat, and wore a menacing two-inch scar on his left cheek.
His grimy hand gripped her hard; her throat tightened, and she told herself to stay calm. ‘No thank you,’ she said in a quavering voice. The man increased his grip and her shoulder throbbed. ‘Please, let go, you’re hurting me.’ Stella struggled and broke free, and as she spun around, she slammed into another man whose muscular arms engulfed her. Out of instinct she reached out and touched silver wings on his left olive-green breast pocket. It’s him.
‘You heard the lady, now beat it!’ The officer glared at them, his eyes narrow and piercing. He released Stella from his arms and stepped between her and the drunken, disorderly men.
‘Sorry, lieutenant, we were just . . . ’
‘I saw what you were doing, private. Now beat it, unless you want to be on KP duty for the next two weeks.’
His olive skin was flawless, and as he turned his gaze on Stella, she was drawn into deep sapphire depths. The eyes are the window to the soul. He cut a dashing figure in his dress uniform and at that moment, a kaleidoscope of butterflies took flight within her.
‘Thank you.’
He dragged a hand through wavy ebony hair which bore a note of defiance as it refused to lie flat, navigating its own direction.
‘Sorry about that, ma’am. I believe this belongs to you.’ He picked up her bag. ‘First Lieutenant John Mackenzie.’ He held out his hand.
‘Thank you, lieutenant.’ She said it in the American way. ‘Stella Charlton.’ His hand was firm and warm in hers, his touch electric, and the heat bloomed beneath her skin.
‘My friends call me Mac.’ With a hint of mischief in his smouldering eyes, he smirked, studying her for a moment. ‘Well, now, if I didn’t know any better I’d say you’ve fallen for me, throwing yourself into my arms like that.’ His face creased into a wide smile, flashing straight, white teeth while his velvet voice was a southern drawl as she’d heard in Western films and newsreels.
Stella blushed. He was tall and broad-shouldered with a crooked half-smile that made his eyes crinkle at the corners. She chided herself for not knowing what to say, and a silence stretched out between them, a river of opportunity and uncertainty. She bit her lower lip as she gazed around for signs of Vera.
‘Looking for someone?’
‘Yes, my friend, Vera. Here she is now.’
A determined Vera, with a drink in each hand, pushed through the throng of people. Triumphant, she shimmied her way across to Stella, through accompanying wolf whistles, admiring stares, and propositions, with a confident smile and no hint of a blush.
‘Here you go,’ Vera said in a sing-song voice, passing Stella a glass of fruit punch as she studied her with narrowed eyes. ‘Someone’s been a busy bee.’ She glanced at Mac. ‘Nice to meet you.’ She flashed him a warm smile.
‘This is Lieutenant John Mackenzie.’ Stella sipped her drink, savouring the fruity tang on her tongue, but the silken scarlet liquid had fiery depths which seared her throat.
‘Go steady with that stuff.’ Mac pointed to the fruit punch. ‘I saw a corporal tip a gallon of bourbon in there earlier.’
Vera laughed. ‘Stella, you’re a dark horse.’ She raised her eyebrows, lips pursed, and scanned the room, eyes like radar, honing in on a young airman taking to the dance floor with a land girl. ‘Didn’t I say we’d have a great night? That one over there’s mine.’ Vera winked, and Stella laughed when she saw the steely look in her eye.
‘Stella, would you like to dance?’ Mac held out his hand.
Her heart lifted with an unexpected buoyancy, only to fall like a bomb when she remembered Alex. ‘I can’t.’ Mac looked crestfallen for a moment, and her chest tightened. She sighed. Not a single letter for weeks, no whisperings of love, no promises made. Her heart squeezed as she recalled Alex’s last words: ‘I’d be lost without you.’ It was almost two months since he’d been posted to Lincoln.
‘Can’t or won’t?’ Mac’s gentle voice broke her reverie, and he gazed at her with one eyebrow raised.
‘Is there a difference?’
‘Sure. The former implies that something or someone is stopping you, whereas the latter means you don’t want to dance with me.’ His eyes flickered.
Stella’s heartbeat pounded in her ears. Lord help her, he was so handsome – the epitome of sophistication – and there was something about him that drew her close. As his intense eyes searched hers, the blood pulsed through her veins.
‘Go on.’ Vera laughed and gave her a gentle shove.
He held his hand out again. ‘Stella, I promise to take good care of you.’
It was now or never. ‘Okay.’ Her name on his lips was a sweet melody, and the notes ricocheted down her spine. ‘I’m afraid I’m a little out of practice.’ She took his hand, and a spark ran through her.
‘Well, the trick is to pretend you know what you’re doing.’ Mac’s gaze held hers, and he grinned as he led her to the dance floor.
The band struck up the next tune, ‘Moonlight Serenade’, and a female singer in a flowing white evening gown approached the microphone. Then, in a single fluid movement, Mac slipped his arm around Stella’s waist and she tingled, catching her breath as his hand settled on the small of her back, his fingers outstretched as he guided her across the floor. The clarinet and saxophones resonated in harmony.
‘You don’t remember me, do you?’
She raised her chin and gazed into his eyes.
‘It was at the dance in Meldreth last month.’
The penny dropped. He’d asked her to dance, but she was there with Alex, so she’d turned him down. ‘I remember now.’ The singer’s voice, soft as silk, flowed throughout the hangar. Mac’s firm body pressed close to hers as they danced, and she welcomed his warmth as the throng of people around them faded into the distance. She glided like silk in his arms and for the first time in a while, she felt alive and joyous, and the war faded into the background. The clarinettist rose to play a solo, and soft, velvety notes punctuated the air.
Stella raised her chin, and her eyes met Mac’s, and as the band played the final bars, musical notes soared to dizzy heights then melted away as she lost herself in his gaze. Mac lifted her hand and pressed it to his lips before leading her from the floor. No one had ever done that before, or looked at her in that way, and all her nerve endings fizzed.
Stella sank onto a chair and took a small sip of fruit punch, aware that Mac was watching her. She took a deep breath as she fought to steady her racing heart.
‘So, Stella, where are you based?’ He dragged his chair closer.
‘RAF Bourn, it’s about seven miles north of here.’
‘Oh, yeah. I know it. So what do you do when you’re not on duty?’ He leaned forward, and his eyes twinkled as they caught the light.
‘Nothing much, apart from shopping or walking, Lieutenant.’
‘Call me Mac,’ he said with a smile to soften his southern drawl, before draining his glass. ‘Sometimes I go walking or take a trip to the village here, but I still manage to get lost. It doesn’t help that there aren’t any
signs.’ He laughed. ‘Maybe you could show me around sometime?’
Stella, caught unaware, paused. She longed to say yes, but then Alex’s grieving face flashed in her mind. The last time they met had filled her with dread, and she hoped he hadn’t done anything stupid. She swallowed as a hollowness opened up within her. The rumours. Vera was always right and had told her all about Alex’s little indiscretions months ago, but Stella couldn’t leave him. Not yet. He needed her.
‘I’m afraid there’s not much to see.’ As she spoke, Mac’s eyes never left hers, and she felt the heat rise in her cheeks. She swirled the drink in her glass and sipped the last of the punch, aware of him hanging on her every word.
His face lit up, and a wicked smile played on his lips. ‘I wouldn’t mind being lost with you.’
The air whooshed from her lungs as she desperately thought of what to say. To her relief, Mac took a silver cigarette case from his breast pocket and offered it to her. ‘Thanks.’ She leant in close for a light, their hands brushing against each other. His skin was soft and warm, and a spark soared through her veins.
‘Now, I’ve just realised – you talk differently.’ He shot her an amused glance.
His gentle voice jolted her from her reverie. ‘So do you.’ She blew a cloud of smoke into the air.
‘What I mean is, you don’t sound like the locals.’
‘No, I live in the north of England.’ Stella was proud of her accent. Even when her parents had insisted on sending her to Durham High School for Girls, she had excelled in education but failed in elocution, much to her mother’s dismay. Her accent, perhaps subtle now, retained a gentle north-east lilt. ‘Whereabouts in America do you live?’
‘Montana. My folks have a cattle ranch, but I guess you’d call it a farm.’
‘It makes me think of cowboy films and John Wayne.’ It all sounded so far away, and yet so exciting. She turned to face him more and crossed her legs in his direction.
THE BEAUTY SHOP Page 3