I had begun to be great friends with the girl who ran along the cinder track beside the railway, bent on catching the same train to town as me. This fast sprint together every morning, often through fog or rain, the pair of us panting rueful jokes about seven league boots being a necessity in Moreton, or better still, a skiff to take us over the floods, formed the basis of a lifelong friendship. She had a great zest for life and I enjoyed listening to her eager chatter. She was engaged, so she did not often accompany me to dances—despite all the stories to the contrary, most women stayed faithful to husband or fiance to a touching degree. Her daily company was, however, something to which I looked forward.
27
ONE early June evening, in 1942, I was alone in the bungalow. I washed up the dishes left from the evening meal, and then stood in the middle of the shabby little kitchen, wondering what to do. I was restless, and though there was always cleaning or mending to be attended to, I revolted at getting out either buckets or brooms or sewing needles and cotton. For once, I did not have a dress on hand to be finished.
I put on a cardigan and went out for a walk with the dog, who bounded along ahead of me, sniffing hopefully at every pig bin we passed. I thought ruefully, as I went by, that the sickly smell of the area's collection of potato peelings and other kitchen waste in these bins would have put off even the pigs it was intended for!
I took the main road to the next village, Meols. Though it was a fine summer evening, there was little traffic, except for a few army lorries. Petrol rationing madepeople nervous of taking their cars out in the evening, when they might be accused of using petrol for unnecessary journeys. If stopped by the police, they would be asked the source of their petrol, and if they had bought it on the black market they could be in serious trouble.
On either side of the road lay fields of young vegetables or pastureland, and the air smelled salty and fresh. Hedge birds chirruped sleepily, while gulls shrieked in a pearly sky.
At Meols, I turned down a deserted side road, lined by ancient stone walls. It led to the sand dunes on which I had, as a child, often played hide-and-seek with a patient maiden aunt, who later took care of Tony and Edward when they were first evacuated.
Beyond the grass-spiked dunes, the tide was out and wet sand stretched to the horizon. I took off my sandals and splashed through the water left by the tide, going towards Hoylake. In the distance the coast of North Wales was a purple line on the horizon.
At Hoylake, I passed the tall red brick house where I had been born. All itswindows reflected the great whirls of colour from the setting sun; no wonder Turner sometimes came here to paint sunsets. I trod lightly and cautiously through slippery seaweed at the foot of the gardens of the prestigious houses of Meols Drive. Many of the houses had recently been requisitioned, and were now used as convalescent homes for the services or as government offices. I had often played in those houses when, as a child, I had come to visit Grandma in Hoy lake, and I wondered if their fine furnishings had been removed before the onslaught of careless servicemen and civil servants spoiled them.
As the dog and I splashed along, the sound of our squelching feet was the only noise; even the gulls were quiet. I wondered idly if the beach was really mined. I had not noticed any sign warning of it, though, with a fine carelessness, I had walked over the flattened barbed wire protecting the sand dunes from invasion by sea.
I was getting tired. "I'll go through to the Red Rocks, and then I'll be extrava-gant and take the bus back to Moreton," I promised myself.
As I clambered up the familiar sandstone rocks, the sun was slipping below the horizon, but despite the lateness of the hour, I sat down contentedly on the topmost rock. The afterglow made the damp sand shine like a dance floor and cast deep shadows in the hollows between the great humps of stone. A shadowy Nickie lay panting at my feet, his pink tongue lolling out, his bright eyes glittering up at me.
The peace was so great that I was suddenly truly thankful that Mother had moved us out of Liverpool. My dressmaking had solved the problem of how to pay the fares to work, though the long evenings of sewing were very confining. This huge beach was home to me. On this high chunk of sandstone I had sat so often as a child. It was a refuge, when I had been naughty, on which I could sit and cry. Here, I had sat and wept out many small disappointments, had come and cried again when I knew my beloved Grandma was coming to the end of herlife. It had always been, to me, my crying rock.
Despite my name for the lonely rock, I was not prepared for the sound of muffled sobbing which rose suddenly from the darkness below me. Nickie bristled and gave a warning bark.
I had believed myself alone and the sound was uncanny.
The sobs came again.
I stood up. "Hello," I called nervously. "Hello."
Had someone slipped down between the treacherous seaweed covered rocks? Too hurt, perhaps, to get up?
I peered downwards, trying to see into the shadowy corners below me. Yes, someone was there. I could see what looked like a humped back. Was it blue? I squinted behind my new spectacles. It was.
Air Force blue. How odd.
I moved lightly and carefully downwards from rock to rock. Below me, a nose was blown very forcibly.
I paused uncertainly. "Are you all right down there?"A very weepy male voice replied that he was all right, thank you.
A male voice? Men did not cry easily, I thought, as I picked my way more slowly towards the blue back. Something must be badly wrong.
As I stood poised on a patch of sand accumulated between the rocks, my shoes swinging from my fingertips, and looked down at a crouched figure, a tear-sodden face was turned towards me. It would have been a handsome face if it had not carried such a desolate expression. A very long handlebar moustache, such as the Royal Air Force pilots often cultivated, drooped sadly. Wavy, golden hair caught the light of the after rays of the sunset. A handkerchief was being hastily stuffed into a breast pocket.
The man began to rise, winced, and then straightened himself. He was very tall with wide shoulders and slender waist. In his finely cut uniform, he was good-looking enough to be a film star.
He looked up at me, as I inquired, "You're hurt? Did you fall? These rocks are awfully treacherous."
"No. I'm all right, thank you."The voice had the poUsh of a good public school, the dignified dismissal was that of a trained officer. The lips had clamped tightly. The breath came in short, small gasps, like someone trying to stifie pain. Nickie whined and then scrambled down to him, to snuffle round his feet. The airman ignored him, and the dog trotted off to sniff at some interesting bits of seaweed.
I hesitated. The airman did not attempt to move. He stood rigidly, politely, staring seaward, like a bored guest waiting for a lady to say her goodbyes from a tea-party.
Then I remembered the convalescent home for airmen, on Meols Drive; it was full of flight crews with leg injuries. One often saw shoals of them gravely cycling along the drive, to exercise damaged legs and get them to work again. Some of the men could cycle before they could walk. They would laugh and joke with each other as they glided along, but none of them seemed to whistle after the local girls, like the men from the transit camp did. They seemed like a secret brotherhood, bound together by their shared experiences and their pain."You are hurt," I said impetuously. "You're from the Convalescent Home, aren't you?"
Wells of pity for him rose in me. But go carefully, I warned myself; many of these men are close to nervous breakdowns, too. Don't show too much pity. He'll resent it.
He had turned his face upwards, to look at me. But it was as if he did not actually see me, rather that he had turned inward mentally and cut himself off from his surroundings.
"I'm coming down," I told him very softly. "Do sit down again on the rock, for a minute; and then we'll help each other climb the whole pile. I have rheumatism in my knees; I can get down these rocks quite well, but it's awfully difficult for me to get up them again. I shall need to rest myself for a little while. I'll be
glad of help."
My knees, which had pained me greatly after a series of throat infections had caused rheumatism in them, were now nearly well, but, to save his pride, perhaps he could be persuaded to help me.
The blank face came slowly back to life. "Really? Let me help you down." He heldup a hand to me, and I grasped it, and jumped the couple of feet on to the patch of sand between the rocks, where he had been sitting. The jump hurt me unexpectedly, and I groaned.
"I say!" he exclaimed in a surprisingly concerned voice.
I took in a quick breath. "I'll be all right in a minute," I assured him.
I sat down on a rock. He picked up a walking stick propped up by him, and with its aid, eased himself down beside me.
We sat soberly looking at each other, and then he smiled slightly under the drooping moustache. I grinned back, trying not to give any further hint of the throbbing in my outraged knees.
He was easily the most handsome man I had ever met. Yet, as we sat quietly sizing each other up, it was like looking at some beautiful gift of nature, a perfect Arab pony, for example. No jump of desire suggested a sexual attraction.
I wanted to break the silence.
"Convalescent Home?" I inquired again.
He nodded. "Yes."I could clearly see his insignia on his tunic, but to open up communication, I asked, "Air crew?"
"Bomber pilot." He was young enough to be unable to conceal his pride, as he touched the wings on his uniform with one finger.
"What kind of aeroplane?"
"Lancaster."
"Really? I've never heard of them. Are they something new?"
"Yes. They are." A hint of enthusiasm entered his voice, as he added, "They're great."
"Did you get shot up during a raid?"
"Not exactly. The old lady was beginning to look like a colander; and Alf, the rear gunner, had bought it. I managed to nurse her back home—but the landing gear was jammed. Had to crash land— pancaked her. And I broke my thigh."
"How about the rest of your crew?"
"Well ... Alf was killed, as I mentioned." He paused, and then said, "We'd been together a long time . . ."He rubbed his hand over his face, and I feared he would begin to weep again."You must be feeling dreadful about it . . ."I began.
"He was dead before I landed. One of the others was badly wounded, and he got pretty shaken up, but he'll be all right. The others were bruised. I think I made the best landing I could." Though his lips were trembling, there was a defiant pride in his voice as he spoke of his good landing.
"I'm sure you did. It must be absolutely terrifying to have to land like that, particularly after a raid. No wonder you were cry . . ."I stopped.
"Crying? Sorry about that. They say my nerves are shot, but it's nothing a good holiday wouldn't put right." He stared moodily out to sea, a view that was practically invisible now, except for the faint glint of the afterglow on stray puddles left by the tide. "I get fed up at times, and it's been a bad day. The everlasting orders— the quacks are worse than the regular COs —and the everlasting company milling round you—never any peace." The quiet, cultivated voice trailed off.
"It must be very difficult," I sympathised.
I'm fine when I'm with the Squadron, but when you're stuck in a place like this . . ."
I bristled immediately. What was wrong with my favourite rocks?
He was close enough to me to have felt me stiffen, because he added quickly, "It is a nice district, but it seems miles away from the war I'm supposed to be doing something about."
"About eight miles," I said. "Have you seen Liverpool and Birkenhead?"
"No."
"I'll take you one day, if you like. Believe me, you are very close to the war."
I saw his teeth flash in the darkness, as he smiled. "Really?" He sounded irritat-ingly supercilious.
"Yes, you are. You should see what is happening to civilians. It's no joke."
Though he had regained his self-control, he did not answer me. Instead, he again pulled out his handkerchief and wiped his face.
The handkerchief brought with it a folded piece of paper, which fell on to my sandy feet. I bent and picked it up. It wasobviously a letter. "You've dropped this," I said, and handed it to him.
"Oh! Thanks."
He took it from me and looked down at the well-thumbed, folded sheets, and suddenly I sensed by his expression that the missive was the basic cause of his grief.
"Bad news?" I asked impertinently.
"Just a last straw," he admitted, after a moment's silence. He sighed, as he returned the letter to his pocket. "My best friend has been posted to Egypt. We've been together ever since our first day in the RAF—always managed to manoeuvre our postings—somehow or other. We went to the same school, actually."
The news from Egypt was daily getting worse. I said gently, "The Allies may have managed to turn the tide by the time he
arrives."
He said without hope, "Humph. He has to get there first."
The news regarding sinkings and downed aircraft in the Mediterranean was even worse than the news from North Africa, so I did not try to counter his pessimism.
We sat for a little while longer andtalked about the convalescent home and what a long time it took to mend a bone. I inquired where he came from and discovered he was a Yorkshireman, something not apparent from his accent. "I'm hoping for a spot of leave soon," he remarked wistfully.
Finally, I said I had to catch a bus back to Moreton, and pointed out that the same bus would pass his convalescent home. He immediately got to his feet. His face contorted with pain. Then he said, when his face had acquired again its curious blankness, "I am sorry to have taken your time like this."
"It's been my pleasure," I assured him. "Now, I'm going to guide you up the easiest path to the road, because it seems to me that we have both walked too far this evening. Just give me your arm."
He took my proffered arm without demur, which surprised me. The walk to the main road and the bus stop seemed very long. I was tired and he was in obvious pain.
"When your leg is better," I said, as we crawled along, "you must let me show youLiverpool and especially Bootle. People forget that London isn't the only target."
My continued indignation at his not appreciating that the war was on his doorstep, amused him, and he smiled faintly. He did not reply immediately, and then he said, "I am not sure that it is a good idea for me to know precisely what bombs do to civilians."
This remark stopped the conversation in its tracks. It had not occurred to me that our bomber pilots might not get much satisfaction from wreaking havoc in German cities. I did not care if German cities were reduced to ashes. Yet here was a modern knight, popularly regarded as nearly as much a hero as a Spitfire pilot, who questioned it—or did he?
I was hooked. I was interested. One could have a lively debate with a man like this.
He broke into my thoughts by asking suddenly what my name was.
We solemnly exchanged names. His was Derek Hampson.
As we waited for the bus, he asked me diffidently if I would like to go to thecinema with him the next evening. "That is, if you're not engaged?" he added.
I misunderstood. "My fiance died at sea," I repUed stiffly.
"I am so sorry. I did not mean that. I only meant if you had nothing else arranged for tomorrow evening." He looked at me carefully, much more search-ingly than he had done up till then. "Tough luck," he said.
"Yes."
"Do you feel all right about going to the cinema?"
I smiled. "Yes," I said. "I do."
And so began what proved to be a most unusual friendship, which lasted a good many months, while doctors and physiotherapists argued about how to treat his poorly healed thigh.
28
AS Derek Hampson's leg began, at last, to respond to the efforts of the doctors and physiotherapists, he was encouraged to try to dance. We had been to the local cinema together a couple of times and to a concert in Liverpool. It wa
s, therefore, natural that we should begin to go to the local Red Cross dances together.
He proved to be great fun, as his spirits improved and his pain became less.
One day I refused to go to a dance because I had promised to finish a dress for a girl.
"Really?" he queried in a sudden interest. "Do you often make clothes?"
I told him about my dressmaking efforts, and it was obvious from his responses that he knew a great deal about women's clothes, particularly dresses.
"Some of the patterns the girls bring me are awful," I confided. "They can't get the right size—and I have to adapt them."Don t you know how to make a pattern?*'
"No."
We had been for a walk and were sitting in a shelter on Hoylake Promenade, watching the tide come in, while he rested his leg. He continued to watch the whitecaps breaking over the sandbar. Then he said, "I could show you."
"Could you?" I queried in surprise.
His face went pink, and he turned towards me, as he said, "You see, I'm in the rag trade."
"What's that?" I immediately thought of rag-and-bone men. But an educated man like Derek could not really deal in rags and bones, could he?
"I sell clothes—ladies' dresses, mostly."
"Oh!" I laughed.
He went even pinker. "Look, you absolutely must not tell anybody, particularly the RAF types. I would be ribbed to death, if they knew."
"Of course, I won't, if you don't want me to," I promised. "I had thought, when you told me that you were a shop manager, that perhaps you were a factory shop manager—working for your father, orsomething. I didn't like to inquire exactly what you did."
"No. You never ask personal questions, do you? That's why I like you—you're not in the least nosey. You never seem to pry." He grinned at me.
"Thanks, friend. I try not to invade people's privacy."
He looked back at the foaming tide, and sighed. "Well, I'll teach you how to make a pattern," he promised. "I own eight dress shops scattered around Yorkshire under different names. Normally I do my own buying. And I was beginning to do a bit of designing. I've an elderly woman who can cut and sew very well.
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