by Lizzie Lane
She returned with two more wrapped in a linen napkin.
‘Glad I’m wearing a suit. Couldn’t come here wearing my khaki when I knew all the boys in blue would be here. Do you know how many DFCs and DSOs are among that lot? And from all over too. They might be Royal Air Force, but besides Mike there’s a few with a flash on their shoulders; some Canadian, some Australian. An elite lot, them. Not the sort the army mixes with.’
‘You met Mike.’
He nodded. ‘Yeah. I like him.’
The noise from inside the hall drifted out on to where they were finishing off their food and drink. A few people emerged, fanning their faces and complaining about the heat.
John ran his fingers around his shirt collar. His face, like hers, was beginning to glisten with sweat. The sky glowed with the shining blueness of summer. The fields reflected the heat. Over to the east a speck in the sky swooped and dived leaving a trail of smoke behind it.
‘I want to go back in there.’ He jerked his head at the hall behind them.
‘You could get us two more drinks and then we could go for a walk. There are some nice paths at the sides of the fields, and nice lanes brimming with wild flowers – and shade!’
‘Sounds good to me.’
They’d only got to the bottom of the steps when she looked down at her blue dress and the pretty white shoes with chunky heel and lots of straps. ‘On second thoughts I’m not really dressed for hiking.’
‘Neither am I. But I’m game if you are.’ Giving into the heat, John took off his jacket, folding it neatly over his arm. He loosened his tie and thrust his trilby on to the back of his head. ‘All right. We’ll keep to the lanes.’
The lane running behind the village hall was shaded by ancient elm trees. Pimpernel, speedwell, primroses and anemones peeped from between ground-covering ivy. Foxgloves, their purple flowers heavy with pollen and bees, nodded from among clutches of ragged fern growing against the fence bordering the railway line.
The sound of the bees got louder as they approached a field of hay. Because of the wonderful weather, the hay was already being harvested, an army of land girls and older men using pitchforks to get the hay into bales. A tractor bumped its way around the edge of the field, scraping the hay into handy stacks with some contraption it was dragging behind it.
Ruby frowned. The bees were getting even louder, much too loud to be ordinary bees. On turning to remark about it to John, she saw that he had stopped, his hands resting on the top rail of a five-bar gate and was staring skywards. An aircraft was approaching the field of hay, a plume of smoke trailing out behind it.
‘It’s a plane!’ he said. ‘A fighter plane! And it’s coming down.’
Ruby saw that he was right. The plane was coming down, its nose pointing downwards, the rest of the craft smothered in thick, black smoke. Everyone in the field began to scatter to the edges watching as the aircraft, its insignia hidden in smoke, grazed the treetops on the other side of the main road to Bath and headed straight for the trees at the far end of the field. There was a loud bang. Everyone gasped as a plume of flames and smoke erupted from the other side of the trees.
‘Poor bastard,’ she heard somebody murmur.
One of the land girls burst into tears.
‘Look!’ Johnnie pointed skywards to where a parachute was floating gently downwards. It was coming straight for them. There was a shared gasp of surprise before everyone in the field began running towards it.
In a billowing surge of white silk, the parachute spread over the close-cropped stalks of wheat.
John leaped over the gate. Clutching her skirt around her thighs, Ruby followed him. ‘Stay away,’ he shouted, waving his arms as he ran. ‘Stay away in case it’s an enemy pilot. He might shoot.’
The people with the pitchforks got there just as the pilot hit the ground.
Parachute silk billowed in big fluffy lumps until finally falling in upon itself to lie in a massive white sheet like washing left out to dry.
The pilot emerged from the midst of it beaming from ear to ear as he unbuckled his harness. ‘Good afternoon,’ he said in heavily accented English. He gave a stiff bow from the waist and clicked his heels. ‘I am very pleased to meet you.’
‘Good afternoon? Good afternoon? You bloody Nazi bastard. I’ll give you good afternoon!’ The speaker brandished a pitchfork at the unfortunate pilot. ‘Somebody go for the police,’ he shouted. ‘You!’ He indicated one of the more athletic-looking land girls.
‘No need.’ John was standing between the pilot and the man with the pitchfork. ‘He’s not a German. See the uniform? He’s Polish. There are two Polish squadrons in the RAF, or so I’ve heard. Air Field Marshal Dowding won’t easily forgive you if you put holes into one of his fighter pilots.’
The rotund man with the pitchfork eyed Johnnie sceptic-ally. ‘Are you sure about that?’
‘Positive. If you don’t believe me, there’s a whole team of Brylcreem boys up at the village hall. Ask them.’
They decided to take Johnnie’s word for it. The pitchforks were lowered.
‘I’m sorry,’ Ruby said to the pilot. ‘It was your accent, you see. We don’t get to hear many foreign accents round here.’
‘I am sorry too. My name is Ivan Bronowski. I need to learn better English,’ he said to her. He had golden eyelashes and the bluest eyes she had ever seen – either that or it was just the way they lit up when he looked at her.
‘That might be a good idea,’ she said, feeling her face turning red.
He beamed at her. ‘Will you teach me? If I am to be taught, I would very much prefer to be taught by a pretty lady like you. With a beauty spot.’
The question was unexpected and took her by surprise. So did the flattery. So did the mention of her mole – the beauty spot, as he put it.
She touched her mole nervously and gushed, ‘I would, if you happened to be close by.’
‘Whitchurch,’ he said. ‘I am at Whitchurch airfield. That is not too far, yes? I am very hungry. Do you have more food?’ He rubbed at his stomach.
‘Have one of these. Both if you like.’
She ignored Johnnie’s scowl as she handed the Polish pilot the napkin holding the two pasties. She snatched the bottle of lemonade from Johnnie Smith. ‘I expect you’re thirsty too.’
She would have preferred offering him the beer, but Johnnie was hanging on to it for grim death. And he was still scowling. Not that she cared. She was mesmerised by the pilot’s eyes, his smile and the charm he exuded like falling rain.
‘I’m Ruby Sweet and these are from our family bakery. This here is Corporal Smith. I give cookery demonstrations to aid the war effort. Corporal Smith is my official driver.’
Johnnie nodded a welcome to the Polish airman and scowled once Ivan had turned his attention back to Ruby. Ruby threw him a warning look.
‘Ruby, I think we should be getting back to the wedding. They’ll be looking for us.’
‘You are getting married?’ asked the Polish airman.
The spell he’d cast over her broke long enough for her to explain that Johnnie was referring to her sister’s wedding.
‘If you’re that hungry you can come with us,’ she suggested, a comment that brought a scowl to Johnnie’s face. ‘There’s plenty of food.’
‘Do they have a telephone? I need to contact my base and let them know where I am.’
‘There’s one at the police station just along from the village hall. You can telephone from there.’
She knew Corporal Smith was still scowling probably because she was gushing with enthusiasm. It was those blue eyes, or perhaps the accent, the uniform – all manner of things.
Once the golden man standing in front of her had finished the pasty – she couldn’t help thinking him golden – he brushed the crumbs from his uniform, clicked his heels and saluted her. ‘Flight Officer Ivan Bronowski. At your service, lady. That was very delicious. Now I must get back to my base. I have some explaining to do. And I need a
new Hurricane. Could you please direct me to the police station?’
John got in a response before she could.
‘Yeah. We can arrange that pronto.’ He sounded hyper-efficient, or merely just in a hurry to get rid of him.
Ivan walked beside her on the way back, Johnnie lagging behind somewhat.
Ruby chose to ignore him, instead paying rapt attention as the Polish pilot told her where he came from and how he’d come to England.
‘I was studying in Holland. The moment I heard that the Germans had marched into my country, I came to England.’
They parted at the police station, Ruby telling Pilot Officer Ivan Bronowski that if he had the time he would be more than welcome to come along to the village hall and fill up on food. ‘It’s not as sumptuous as a peacetime spread, but it’ll fill you up until you get back to Whitchurch.’
Once Ivan had gone into the police station, Johnnie suggested she’d been a bit too forward.
Ruby was having none of it. ‘I was just being friendly. He’s an allied airman. I can hardly refuse to speak to him.’
‘It was more than that. The things women stoop to when there’s an RAF uniform around!’
Wedding guests trooped down the stairs of the village hall, throwing home-made confetti over Mike and Mary. Ruby ran forward. ‘Almost missed you,’ she said, kissing her sister on the cheek. ‘You looked lovely,’ she whispered.
‘Thanks to you,’ Mary whispered back.
Ruby whispered into Mike’s ear as she kissed him on the cheek. ‘Take care of my sister or you’ll answer to me.’
He grinned. ‘I can’t always tell you apart – until you talk like that.’
Mary threw her bouquet and although she aimed it in Ruby’s direction it was Lilly Martin who caught it.
Ruby lowered her voice and whispered to the bride. ‘She’s got longer arms than me, plus I wouldn’t dare push in front of her. She’s built like a tractor.’
‘Are you coming to help me change?’ Mary asked her. ‘I don’t think I’ve got the strength left to do it by myself.’
Her voice was shaky, but then, thought Ruby, all brides are nervous.
She smiled reassuringly. ‘Of course I will. Someone has to make sure you look good enough to eat. Tonight’s the night and that silky nightdress … Well … once he sees you in that there’ll be no stopping him.’
Ruby thought it might have been her imagination, but just for a moment she thought she saw Mary’s features tighten as she forced a smile.
‘Oh dear!’ Ruby said chirpily. ‘You are nervous. Well, it’s too late now, dear sister of mine. You’ve made your bed, so to speak, and you’ll definitely be lying in it. In Clevedon!’
She laughed. Mary’s laugh was more restrained.
Ruby helped her get out of the wedding dress and into a powder blue costume, an A-line skirt, a jacket with a peplum over the top of a silk blouse with tiny pearl buttons. Her handbag and shoes were a soft shade of beige.
‘There,’ Ruby said, eyeing her approvingly. ‘You’re all set, Mrs Dangerfield.’
The twins stood looking at each other in the room they’d shared for so many years. Now Ruby would only have Frances for company.
‘It’s going to seem strange,’ said Ruby.
Mary nodded, the nervous smile returning to her mouth. ‘I’m looking forward to getting back … what I mean is, I’m looking forward to my honeymoon too – being with Mike – but I also mean …’
‘I know.’ Ruby interrupted. ‘You’re looking forward to meeting little Charlie. It’s going to be quite amazing.’
Mike’s voice calling for Mary was the signal for the sisters to hug each other before the sound of his tread on the stairs preceded the opening of the bedroom door. His body half leaning into the room, hand clasped around the edge of the door, he smiled. His glance went from one to the other before settling on Mary.
‘Luggage pick up for Mrs Mary Dangerfield,’ he exclaimed.
There was no mistaking the pride and happiness in his face. If an expression could be termed hungry, he would have eaten her up there and then.
‘I’ll be right behind you,’ said Ruby as Mary followed Mike out on to the stairs. ‘I just need to freshen up a bit.’
Mary paused in the doorway. ‘Ruby. I must say your hair looks better like that, brushed back from your face. You look stunning.’
Then she was gone.
Mike and Mary were ahead of Ruby, a crowd of wedding guests behind all insisting they would accompany them to the railway station. The train would take them to Temple Meads Station in Bristol. At Bristol they would change for the train to Nailsea then the branch line train to Clevedon where they were having their honeymoon.
Ruby hung back from the crowd of well-wishers, glancing intermittently at the police station as they passed by. There was no sign of her handsome pilot. There was only Miss Hunt, a sweet old lady of no more than five feet tall. The moment Miss Hunt spotted her, she explained that one of her cats was missing but there was nobody in the station at present.
‘Has the Polish airman left yet?’ Ruby asked her.
‘That’s just it, my dear,’ she said in her high squeaky voice. ‘Apparently they’ve got nobody at the airbase to collect the airman, so the constable has to drive him there himself. It’s very inconvenient,’ she said shaking her head. ‘I so wanted to give him a description of my missing tabby. I would hate to think that something’s happened to her.’
Ruby wasn’t really listening. She was feeling disappointed not to have caught the airman before he left.
Before joining her sister and brother-in-law and the rest of the merry throng on their way to the railway station, she glanced across the road. Johnnie Smith was leaning against the driver’s door of the car provided by the Ministry of Food. He was smoking a cigarette, a self-satisfied grin on his face.
She walked over the road and stood beside him. ‘You look very pleased with yourself.’
‘I am.’
‘What’s happened?’
He nodded. ‘I’m afraid you’ve got me again. Though not for long. Only until my foreign posting comes through.’
‘Oh well,’ she said chirpily. ‘There’s always Ivan Bronowski to fill the time.’
Johnnie scowled. Ruby refrained from laughing. She didn’t really mean it, but Johnnie could be so insufferable at times. On the other hand, she’d seen the way Ivan Bronowski had looked at her and had felt a fluttering response inside.
CHAPTER TWELVE
BECAUSE MIKE ONLY had a two-day pass, their honeymoon was to be spent in a guesthouse in Clevedon not far from the pier and overlooking the sea.
The landlady, a Mrs Rees, welcomed them cordially. She had a round face, plump hands and smelled of lavender. Her dress was flowery and shapeless, trimmed with lace and almost reached her ankles.
‘Right. Mr and Mrs Dangerfield isn’t it?’
She didn’t mention them being there on honeymoon and Mary wasn’t going to enlighten her. The woman need only to look at her flushed face to see she was a newlywed and nervous as hell.
As she led them up a wide staircase to their room, Mrs Rees told them all about the house. ‘It was built around 1803 in the French style, which is why you’ve got French doors that open out on to a lovely veranda with all that wrought-iron work. And you’ve a fine view of the sea of course.’
A smell of seaweed and salt came in from outside when she opened the doors leading out on to the veranda. Mrs Rees placed her portly body to one side of the window.
‘You can just about see the islands of Steepholm and Flatholm if you look carefully,’ she said waving her hand vaguely to where salmon pink clouds were sinking with the sun into the sea. A pale moon was already throwing silvery light over the water.
Mike and Mary nodded respectfully when she told them that breakfast was from eight until nine and that she only cooked an evening meal on request and they were a bit late for that now.
Mike’s smile was warm. ‘That’s fi
ne, Mrs Rees. We ate earlier,’ he said courteously.
‘I see you’re in the RAF, Mr Dangerfield.’
‘That’s right, ma’am.’
‘A fighter pilot?’
‘No. Bomber Command.’
The smiling eyes turned hard. ‘Pray God you stay safe and that your bombs kill as many of the enemy as possible, wicked people as they are.’
Mike flinched at her comment. There were times when he and his colleagues did feel the enemy should be blasted to hell. But there were other times when they fell silent as they contemplated the civilians caught up in the mayhem. Nobody liked war.
Once the flowery dress had disappeared and the door was firmly closed, Mike placed both hands on Mary’s shoulders and turned her to face him. His hands dropped from her shoulders to clasp her hands.
‘Well, Mrs Dangerfield.’
‘Well, Mr Dangerfield.’ Her voice wobbled. She couldn’t help it.
A soft breeze blew in through the window, disturbing the lace curtains lying inside the heavier drapes, and blowing wisps of hair across her face. Mike stroked them away, bent his head and kissed her. She shivered. His lips felt cold and he tasted of beer. He hadn’t drunk that much, but the taste had lingered.
‘Happy?’ he said to her once the kiss had broken, his hand cupping her face.
Even though she wasn’t sure, she said yes because that was what was expected of her. Every bride was happy on their wedding day and she’d pretended all day that’s all she was. No one had had any idea of how she was feeling inside, that she’d had second thoughts about marrying Mike.
Was it right to marry somebody just because you thought time was running short? Ruby had asked her if she loved him. She said she thought so, but did she really? They’d known each other for only a very short while before he’d proposed.
Marry in haste, repent at leisure; that’s what Mrs Powell had said to her. She reminded herself that Gertrude Powell was a dried-up old woman, lines of bitterness sketched all over her face. She pushed the comment to the back of her mind. Mike was her husband now and this was their wedding night. She would be happy because he was happy – and he needed her. He needed her very much.