by Garry Ryan
“I wonder what he wants this time?” Sharon looked at the chit and its very specific directions. How come I’m so nervous?
“You know, if it’s possible, I will get you a Spitfire delivery on the 18th.”
Sharon smiled. “I know you will. It’s just. . .”
“There’s a bloody war on,” Mother said.
“Exactly. Mother? Do you know what an eleven-year-old boy would want for his birthday?”
“Now you’ve asked a difficult question. Give me a day or two to think. Best be on your way. More and more talk of Hitler’s invasion fleet and Goering’s Luftwaffe gathering itself for a big push.”
Sharon picked up her gear and her chit and made her way to the Anson waiting at the edge of the airfield. A handful of pilots stood leaning on the wings or smoking cigarettes a polite distance from the aircraft.
Thank God, the pilot isn’t Jolly Roger the drunken sod. Christ! I’m beginning to sound like I was born here.
The pilot was fiftyish and looked more like a farmer in his baggy grey flight suit. “Alright, you lot. Grab your kit. Lots of deliveries this morning. Can’t let Herr bloody Hitler and his boys march right in and take over, now can we?”
“Being a bit optimistic again, Douglas?” One of the pilots was busy crushing a cigarette under his boot.
Douglas smiled and studied the passengers from under two thickets that passed for eyebrows. “Have we been invaded yet?”
The pilot heaved his parachute onto his shoulder. “Not so far.”
“Then we’ve got work to do.” Douglas squeezed himself inside the aircraft and the rest followed. He settled himself into the pilot’s seat and looked at his clipboard. “Which one of you lot is Lacey?”
“Me.” Sharon raised her hand, then dropped it. The other pilots smirked at her unintentional impression of a schoolgirl.
“We’re not in bloody school,” someone said.
“Asshole,” Sharon said.
“Another Yank who doesn’t know her place,” someone else said.
“I’m not a Yank!” Sharon hated the way they’d managed to put her on the defensive.
“Save your fight for the Germans.” Douglas looked at Sharon. “Sit near the door — we’re dropping you off first.”
She did as she was told. After they were in the air, she thought, Douglas looks like a labourer, but he’s a brilliant pilot.
Thirty minutes later, she was watching the Anson take off. She walked over to a hangar where a Lysander stood waiting.
A mechanic held his hand out, and she gave him the chit. He stuffed one hand in his pocket. The other held the chit at arm’s length. He was shorter than Sharon, and she could see flakes of dandruff along the part of his black hair.
“Give us a hand,” he said as he turned toward the Lysander. These were the only words he spoke.
Twenty minutes later, she was flying through a grey sky with a heading that would take her to Tempsford.
More than once, she thought, I wonder if Michael will be there.
There was no sign of him or his black automobile as she touched down, then taxied over to the framed skeleton of a hangar that hadn’t been there the last time she’d flown in.
The engine was ticking as it cooled when she climbed out of the Lysander.
“Welcome to Gibraltar Farm. A pleasant flight, I hope.” Michael stood under a tree, holding a flask. “I brought coffee this time, but no lunch, I’m afraid. Could I give you a lift to Bedford?”
Sharon hefted her parachute and found herself smiling. “A ride would be nice. I thought this was called Tempsford.”
“Only to those in the know. Gibraltar Farm is the cover name. Come on. The car is over here.”
She followed him to a barn. “Let me guess. Gibraltar Barn?”
Michael turned and smiled. “Of course.”
Around the back of the barn was a red two-seat MG TB Roadster.
He opened the passenger door for her after she stowed her parachute behind the seat.
He climbed in the other side and poured her a coffee from the Thermos. “I hope it’s still warm.”
Sharon took the cup. “What’s happened?”
Michael smacked the stopper into the neck of the Thermos. “I should have expected you to get right to the point.”
Sharon sipped her coffee.
He started the engine. “More than one thing, actually.”
“Who sent you this time?” Sharon watched his reaction.
She hung on with one hand, balancing her coffee out over her knees with the other. The MG bumped over the grass until they reached a gravel road rutted by the passage of heavy trucks.
“My mother wanted you to know that Linda’s legs are beginning to heal quite nicely.” He turned onto a tarmac road.
“I’m sorry I haven’t been back to see her.” Sharon took a careful sip of coffee.
Michael shook his head. “I haven’t, either. It appears that the war is entering a crucial stage. We know that the Luftwaffe is preparing for air raids aimed at destroying the RAF and its airfields. The same tactics were used in Europe: destroy the air forces of countries like Poland and France, then send in the tanks and troops. The tactics have been very successful up until now.”
“What do you mean ‘until now’?”
Michael eased into a turn.
Sharon leaned into him. He smells so good, but he’s Linda’s brother!
“The Channel. The Navy. The RAF. I think the Nazis are over-confident, and we have nothing to lose. It’s a very unpredictable combination.” Michael shifted into top gear as the road opened up in front of them.
“You think the Nazis won’t invade?” Sharon asked.
“I think an invasion will depend on first destroying the RAF, and then the Royal Navy. And I think for the next month or so, you will be very busy, as the Luftwaffe begins its attacks in earnest. I wanted to warn you to be careful.” He glanced at her.
“You said there was more than one thing.”
“Your uncle has decided that Cornelia needs a new will.”
Sharon shrugged. “So?”
“Marmaduke has been embarrassed. He made improper advances toward his sister’s daughter. In his mind, you’re responsible for that embarrassment, and now he wants to make sure that you’ll be unable to inherit any of the estate left by Cornelia. In fact, he’s put the wheels in motion by visiting the family lawyer.” Michael downshifted behind a truck that was moving slowly and taking up more than half the road.
Sharon shook her head. “How have I become the villain in this? And how do you know so much?”
“My mother knows the lawyer’s secretary. You must understand that the entire district lived under the tyranny of your grandfather. An information-gathering network exists so that local people have an early warning system. It was excellent training for my present occupation. As far as you being the villain, it’s an old tactic used by your uncle and grandfather. They bully, and then play the victim when they’re caught. After that, they usually resort to character assassination aimed at destroying confidence in the people who confront them.” Michael eased right to see around the truck, then ducked back when he saw a motorcar approaching.
“What if I’m planning to return to Canada and want nothing more to do with Uncle Marmaduke?”
Michael smiled at her. “We expected you might feel that way. The problem is that my mother sees the situation in another light entirely. She’s decided that it’s her duty to defend you. She really is tenacious, you know.”
“The Germans really don’t have a chance against people like you.”
“And your uncle has no chance against my mother.”
“How is that?”
“She knows who killed your grandfather.” Michael downshifted, accelerated, and passed the truck.
“I thought he died of natural causes.”
“That’s what everyone was intended to think.” Michael eased back onto the left side of the road.
CHAPTER 11
“There’s a gentleman waiting for you in the dispersal hut.” Mother passed her on the way to the hangar.
“Is he wearing a suit and carrying a briefcase?” Sharon asked.
“As a matter of fact, he is,” Mother said over his shoulder.
Michael was right. Uncle Marmaduke has sent someone. Sharon carried her goggles and flight helmet with one hand and unzipped her flight suit with the other. The sun dropped its ample belly over the western horizon. She opened the door to the dispersal hut.
The man was wearing a tweedy brown three-piece suit and had unruly salt-and-pepper hair, and a pair of equally unkempt eyebrows.
He held a briefcase in his lap as he sat on a wooden chair and appraised her arrival. “Miss Sharon Lacey.”
“That’s correct.” Sharon took a chair across the table from him and leaned her back up against the wall. She watched him warily.
“My name is Walter McGregor. I represent Marmaduke Lacey, your mother’s brother.”
“In what capacity?” Sharon rubbed her face. God, I need some sleep.
“The family solicitor. My father and I have represented your family for more than fifty years.” Walter reached inside his briefcase and removed a manila file.
“My family? Somehow I don’t think dear Uncle Marmaduke would include me as a family member.” She looked out the window at the setting sun and wondered at the richness of the greens.
“Quite perceptive of you. And may I say, you bear a very close resemblance to your mother. A lovely person. We were very sad to see her leave the country. Her personality was nothing at all like that of her father or brother.”
“So I’ve heard.” How come I’m not nervous? Just a few weeks ago, my stomach would have been in knots.
Walter put several pieces of official-looking paper on the table. “Marmaduke Lacey has asked me to have you sign these documents.”
“What kinds of documents are they?” Go ahead. I’ll play dumb for the moment.
“Your uncle wants you to give up any and all claims to property held in the Lacey family name.”
Sharon heard the change in tone when Walter said the words “your uncle.” She waited.
“May I ask what you do?” Walter asked.
“I’m a pilot in the ATA.”
“The Air Transport Auxiliary?”
“That’s correct.” Where’s he headed with this?
“My sons have signed up. One in the Royal Air Force. The other is in the Navy.” Walter tapped his fingers on the documents.
“I hope your sons are safe.”
Walter stared at her. “That’s exactly the kind of thing your mother would have said. And it’s precisely what your uncle didn’t ask me the last time we talked.”
“You knew my mother well?”
Walter nodded. “Yes, and I liked her very much. We spent some years together in school.”
Sharon leaned forward to look at the documents. So, Mom, how many beaux did you have?
“As I’ve said, we’ve represented the Lacey family for some time, and since you’re a member of said family, I feel I must advise you not to sign away your rights. I did tell your uncle that I would present these documents to you.” Walter reached for the papers and put them back inside the folder. “I would feel comfortable reporting to him that you respectfully declined to sign.”
Sharon frowned. “Why come all this way, then?”
“To find out if it was true that Leslie’s daughter had returned. And now I find that you’ve come halfway around the world at considerable risk. And I’m assuming that flying for the ATA must involve some risk?”
You have no idea. “You heard what happened to Linda Townsend?”
“Yes, and I’ve heard that thanks to you, she is recovering.” Walter stood and put the folder in his briefcase. “You’re putting yourself in harm’s way. My sons are doing the same. All while Marmaduke Lacey sits warm and safe in a country home and has the temerity to think that I would quietly allow you to sign away your inheritance. He really doesn’t know me very well at all. I was a friend of your mother’s.”
Sharon stood.
Walter offered his hand, and she shook it.
He said, “If you require any legal advice, I would be proud to represent you.” He handed her his business card and left.
CHAPTER 12
“The next set of skin grafts is tomorrow.” Linda sat propped up in her bed. Her red hair had grown and she had it tied at the back. She’d taken the time to apply lipstick. She glanced at the ceiling.
Sharon thought, What do I say to her? “How many grafts will it take?”
“I don’t know. This could go on for months. Years, perhaps.” She took a long breath. “The nurse said I could go outside. I have to keep my legs covered. What do you think? Do you want to wheel me around East Grinstead for an hour or two?”
Five minutes later, after the nurse helped them find a wheelchair, Sharon was pushing Linda down the hall.
“Oi! You cheeky bastard!”
Sharon looked left through a doorway. She caught a glimpse of two young men sitting across from one another. One held cards fanned by a hand with stumps rather than fingers. A column of flesh joined his nose to his shoulder. The other had a nose, no ears, and a relief-map face of scar tissue.
She continued down the hall.
“Left,” Linda said.
They passed a keg propped on a table in the corner.
“Is that beer?” Sharon asked.
“That’s right. The rules around here are simple. You can do what you like, as long as it doesn’t harm anyone else. That way!” Linda pointed.
Sharon backed out through the doorway and into the sunlight.
Linda closed her eyes. “That feels wonderful.”
“Where are we going?”
Linda pointed to the left. “The Guinea Pig Pub, of course.”
The pub was on a corner in amongst rows of houses and businesses.
Sharon stopped in front of a narrow doorway. “How will I get you through there?”
“Wait a minute.”
“For what?”
There was a tapping from inside the window.
The door opened.
One man was in RAF blue. He had neither eyebrows nor ears and was in the process of having his face rebuilt. The other wore an apron and had arms the size of hams. He leaned over. Linda wrapped her arms around his neck, and he lifted her. “Park the chair against the wall,” he said to Sharon.
Sharon did as she was told. The scarred man held the door open to allow her to follow them into the pub. Her eyes smarted at the smoke.
Linda was sitting at a table with a group of young men dressed in a variety of styles, including white hospital gowns and an unofficial mismatch of blue RAF uniforms.
“What’s your poison?” asked the barman with the massive arms. “Call me Robert.”
“She’ll have what I’m having.” Linda raised a pint and winked at Sharon. “Come on, there’s a spot right here.” She pulled out the empty chair next to her.
Linda went around the table. “Willy, Ginger, Pat, and Richard.” Each of the men nodded or smiled as he was introduced.
Willy wore a patch over his eye. He was the only one of them who had a full head of hair. It hung to the right, leaving a bald patch over his left ear. He pointed at his eyepatch. “Lost my glass one. If you find it, please hand it over.”
“Of course.” The wig looks ridiculous, yet no one seems to notice, Sharon thought.
Robert put a pint in front of her. “One of Linda’s ATA friends, are you?”
“That’s right.” Sharon nodded.
“We hear you’ve got three Jerries to your credit,” Ginger said.
Sharon looked at Linda, who was smiling behind her pint. “We do some chatting in the pub. I was telling the truth, so don’t get all upset with me. It’s just pilot talk.”
Sharon shook her head and reached for her drink. As she lifted the glass, she thought, It got awfully qui
et in here.
She looked over her glass and saw four and a half pairs of eyes on her. She tipped the glass and heard something clink at the bottom.
Willy smiled.
Sharon began to drink.
“Bottoms up!” Willy said.
“Cheers!” Ginger said.
Intuition provided Sharon with the most likely answer to their odd behaviour. She continued to drink deeply, slowing as she reached the bottom of the glass and hesitating for effect. She put her glass down, then reached inside her mouth.
“Find something?” Willy asked.
Sharon pulled out a glass orb, reached across the table, and dropped it into Willy’s glass. “Ever have a prairie oyster?”
Willy asked, “Prairie what?”
She reached over, lifted his eyepatch, and stared into his other good eye. She pulled the patch back and then let it snap back against Willy’s forehead.
“Ouch!” Willy rubbed his head.
Laughter erupted in the pub.
Sharon leaned back in her chair. The laughter ebbed. “When calves are branded in the spring, the young bulls are castrated. The testicles are kept and cooked with butter and onions in a frying pan. Quite tasty, actually. They’re called prairie oysters.”
Robert thumped Sharon on the back and put another pint in front of her. “Finally! Someone’s got the best of Willy!”
Linda winked at Sharon.
Ginger pounded the table with a fingerless hand.
Pat threw his head back and laughed some more.
Richard reached over and pulled Willy’s wig off. “Now you’re entirely exposed!”
An hour later, after Linda had been poured into the wheelchair, Sharon pushed from behind, using the chair for support.
“What are your intentions as far as Michael’s concerned?” Linda asked.
“What?” Where did that come from? He’s your brother, he’s handsome, and I don’t know how I feel when I’m around him. Although I do look forward to seeing him again.
“I’m the last person you should play coy with. I owe you my life — well, at least my legs. And you owe me the truth.”