by Jenny Holmes
‘I believe he did.’ Angela grasped Bobbie’s shaking hands and looked into her eyes. ‘You’ll come through this, you know. You’ve done it before.’
Bobbie fought back tears. ‘Don’t be kind to me,’ she pleaded. ‘It’ll make me cry.’
Angela dug into her pocket for a handkerchief. ‘Feel free. And remember what an enormous help you were to me at Fenton Royal and how much lighter I felt after we’d had our talk. Now it’s my turn; why not let me be the shoulder for you to cry on?’
‘It’s not the dogfight,’ Bobbie confessed as she took the handkerchief and twisted it between her fingers. ‘I’m not bothered about that.’
‘What then?’
‘It’s Teddy.’ Saying his name created a hole in the dam that Bobbie had built up during the past week. Her feelings flooded through in a murky, foaming wave. Guilt, shame and self-loathing broke over her head.
‘Oh dear, what’s he done now? Woe betide him if he’s upset you.’
‘He gave me the stockings.’ Bobbie dropped the handkerchief and covered her face with her hands.
‘Bobbie, I don’t understand. Why should a gift make you cry?’
‘He came into my room without being invited.’
Angela tutted. ‘That’s not on for a start. Would you like me to have a stern word on your behalf?’
‘No!’ Panic clutched at Bobbie’s throat as she struggled to her feet. Her hands began to tingle as her chest tightened and her heart beat at an alarming speed. ‘Don’t say anything – please!’
‘Dear girl, what is it?’ This didn’t add up. Why should such a small thing send Bobbie into a tail spin? ‘There’s more, isn’t there?’
‘I can’t tell you – I’m trying my best but I can’t.’ Struggling to breathe and to stand upright, Bobbie collapsed again into the chair.
Angela knelt beside her. ‘What did Teddy do to you?’ she asked calmly. This was something grave that needed careful handling.
‘I don’t know.’ Bobbie’s wail floated up into the carved cornices, into every frayed and faded corner of the room. Her heart carried on racing. ‘That’s just it; I can’t remember.’
‘Dear, dear girl.’ Placing her hands over Bobbie’s, Angela waited.
‘It’s a blur.’ Sobs shook Bobbie’s slight frame. ‘I went to Northgate with him.’
‘That must have been last Saturday,’ Angela guessed. ‘Take a few deep breaths. There’s no need to hurry.’
‘We danced. I wore my green dress. I was happy he’d asked me.’
‘Hush; I know that you liked him because you told me so.’ Angela patted Bobbie’s hands and felt anxiety form a tight knot in her stomach. ‘But, dearest girl, I did warn you that Teddy Simpson wasn’t for you; don’t you remember?’
‘He kissed me.’ Bobbie went on as if she hadn’t heard. ‘One night when our trains were delayed; where was it?’
‘Harkness,’ Angela remembered.
‘Yes. I thought he cared for me. He made me think so.’ Hunching her shoulders, Bobbie snatched her hands away then folded her arms around her stomach.
‘On Saturday, you danced with Teddy and then what happened?’ Angela was still set on a steady course to find out exactly what had happened.
‘Douglas brought us home.’ Home, James, and don’t spare the horses. A starless sky, thick night, head swimming as the car eased round bends in the road, Teddy’s arm around her shoulder. A dark gap of lost time. Can I trust you? More blackness. The flare of a lighter flame, the burn of strong drink in her throat. Blackness again. Bobbie wept as she tried to explain.
‘Where?’ Angela asked tenderly. ‘Where were you when something bad happened?’
Bobbie shook her head helplessly. ‘I came round when it was light. Harry found me at the edge of Burton Wood without my clothes. Mary brought me home. I washed and scrubbed my skin until it was red raw. What must they think?’ she wailed again.
A dreadful picture formed in Angela’s mind. ‘Listen to me; this is important. Did Teddy give you a lot to drink?’
Bobbie nodded mutely.
‘Did you pass out?’
‘Perhaps; I don’t know.’
‘Listen again; did Teddy force you into doing something that you didn’t want to do?’
Bobbie glanced up at Angela with a look of dark despair. ‘I think he did,’ she whispered in a broken voice before the wave of guilt and shame struck again.
With mounting fury Angela went back over what she’d heard. ‘Bobbie, think hard. Do you know what became of your clothes?’
A shake of the head was all the answer Bobbie gave. Then she clutched Angela’s arm. ‘Don’t tell anyone,’ she pleaded. ‘You won’t, will you? I couldn’t bear it if people knew what I’d done.’
‘You didn’t do anything,’ Angela insisted in a bid to lift the guilt from Bobbie’s shoulders. ‘Teddy did.’
‘But he’ll deny it.’ He’d knocked on her door and come swaggering into her room as if nothing bad had happened. ‘And people will believe him.’
‘Who?’ Angela demanded. She stood up and paced the room in exasperation. ‘Who would believe Teddy Simpson over you?’
‘There would be gossip.’ Bobbie sighed. ‘They’d say there was no smoke without fire. And for all I know they’d be right.’ The gaps in Bobbie’s memory were dark holes down which she repeatedly tumbled. ‘And what proof do I have? It’s simply his version against mine.’
‘That’s the reason I asked you about your clothes.’ Angela came to a halt by the dressing table. ‘They might provide us with the proof – if your dress were torn or …’ Bobbie’s shudder prevented Angela from finishing her sentence. ‘What exactly were you wearing?’ she asked instead.
‘My black cape and my green chiffon dress.’
‘I know the one. Which shoes?’ Angela went to Bobbie’s wardrobe to find out for herself. ‘Was it your black patent pair?’
Drying her tears, Bobbie pulled herself back from the brink. ‘What difference does it make?’
Angela turned to her with a frown. ‘Your clothes can’t have vanished into thin air,’ she insisted. ‘If we can track them down it might be a first step towards proving what Teddy did to you that night.’
‘No.’ For the first time Bobbie’s head was up and her voice was stronger. ‘I’d rather we didn’t. I don’t want you to rummage around looking for so-called proof or say a word to anyone. You must promise.’
‘But if we don’t do something, Teddy will get off scot-free.’ Angela spoke through gritted teeth.
‘I know but you have to promise,’ Bobbie said again. She’d worn her most revealing dress for Teddy and danced with him cheek to cheek.
No. Lie still, don’t put up a fight. No. You’ll like it. Lie still.
She’d led him on.
‘All right.’ Angela muttered her agreement.
She sat with Bobbie until midnight, talking not of Teddy or of the dogfight in the air or of her own split from Lionel. They spoke of Jean’s progress up the ranks and clever Mary’s skill in the air. Angela told Bobbie about Stan’s soft spot for Jean (don’t say a word) and Cameron’s for Mary (who would have seen that coming?) until fear slowly dissolved from the room.
As the clock on Bobbie’s dressing table ticked on towards half past the hour, Angela at last felt it was safe to leave. ‘You’ll come down to breakfast tomorrow?’ she asked gently as she stood by the open door.
‘I’ll try.’
‘And on Sunday, perhaps we’ll take that walk by the reservoir?’
‘Perhaps.’ The door closed. Bobbie spotted the untouched packet of nylons. ‘Angela, you forgot the …’ Her voice faded and she stayed where she was, in the chair by the window.
Angela strode on into her room then flung herself down on her bed. She stared up at the ceiling, feeling anger boil inside her. How dare Teddy take advantage – of Bobbie of all people? Angela longed to slap the smug smile off his face and make him pay. But her hands were tied because a promise was a
promise.
She lay awake and fully dressed, finding patterns in the cracks in the ceiling – the shape of a bear’s head, a fork of lightning. There must be another way to bring Bobbie’s persecutor to account. What about playing Teddy at his own game – how would that work? Angela thought for a long time until the glimmer of an idea appeared.
‘It’s decent of you to drop by.’ Gordon lay flat on his back in his hospital bed. He smiled wanly at Douglas and Jean as they drew chairs up to his bedside. ‘The doc won’t let me out until Monday, then he says I’ll have to take it easy for a week or two.’
Jean took a small bar of milk chocolate from her handbag and placed it on his locker. ‘Make it last,’ she told him with mock sternness. ‘And don’t go giving it all away.’
The Foxborough hospital ward contained a dozen injured servicemen; six beds to either side, all occupied by patients sporting bandages or plaster casts, some attached to drips, one whose face had been badly burned. As Douglas chatted with Gordon, Jean tried not to stare at the casualty directly opposite: a lad of seventeen or eighteen, barely conscious, whose legs were protected by a wire cage that raised the blankets to form a hutch-shaped hump. She was shocked when she caught a glimpse of the boy’s face: the blood-stained gauze dressing had slipped to reveal two damaged eye sockets and deep gashes across forehead and cheeks.
‘We’re missing you at Rixley,’ Douglas told Gordon.
‘Aye; how’s Stan coping?’ Gordon’s ribs hurt when he moved. The pain made him wince as he shifted position.
‘He’s doing his best. There’s a new lad called Bob Cross to help him.’
‘I don’t envy him; I bet Stan’s giving him a hard time?’
‘He is,’ Douglas acknowledged with a smile. ‘He says he’s not a patch on poor Harry.’
Gordon nodded then pressed his lips together. When he spoke again he made an effort to seem philosophical. ‘Harry was in the wrong place at the wrong time,’ he told them without prompting. ‘It was quick – over in a flash. He never knew what hit him.’
‘That’s a blessing,’ Jean said softly.
‘It is. We were walking through Low Northgate, minding our own business. Harry’s mother lives on Valley Crescent. That’s where we were headed – to visit her. There’s a park at the bottom of the hill – so nowhere to take shelter when Jerry dropped his bombs – in the dark, out of nowhere; boom!’
Douglas listened quietly as Jean tried in vain to control the shiver that ran through her.
‘I stayed rooted to the spot. Harry made a run for it towards the White Deer Hotel. Mine was the right decision as it turns out. Poor kid; he didn’t make it out of the park.’
Douglas shook his head sadly. ‘What a waste.’
‘His mother came to see me yesterday. I told her the truth; Harry wouldn’t have suffered, thank God.’ Gordon leaned his head wearily against his pillow. ‘She was grateful for that. It does make you wonder what it’s all for, though.’
‘But you have to ask yourself: what’s the alternative?’ Douglas’s voice was firm and steady. ‘If we hadn’t made a stand when Hitler went into Poland, where would we all be?’
There was no answer to this and a gloomy silence descended until a nurse bustled into the ward. ‘Time’s up,’ she announced to Douglas and Jean who were the only visitors. The nurse was starched in appearance and professional in manner; pristine white cap and apron, black stockings and shoes, with neat, dark brown hair beneath the cap. ‘I’m sorry; you’ll have to leave,’ she said in her high, prim voice.
So they said their goodbyes in sober mood. ‘Ta very much for coming,’ Gordon murmured as Douglas shook his hand.
Jean glanced again at the blinded boy. She shuddered a second time and was glad when Douglas took her hand to walk down the long corridor, out into a clear, starry night. Then, instead of driving straight back to the Grange, he suggested finding a quiet corner where they could sit and have a drink.
‘Unless you’re too tired?’ he asked hesitantly.
‘No; I’d like that. But not here in Northgate.’ With her nerves already stretched to breaking point by the hospital visit, she knew that seeing the bomb damage in the town centre would prove a final straw.
So Douglas drove her out of town and they soon found themselves surrounded by rolling farmland – a patchwork of small fields visible in the moonlight, rising to high, open moorland broken by outcrops of dark rock. Eventually they came to a village with a stone cross at its centre and rows of cottages facing on to the cobbled marketplace. Douglas drew up under an inn sign showing the silhouette of a black horse against a white background. ‘Will this do?’ he said.
Jean nodded. With Harry still at the forefront of her mind, she waited in the entrance to the pub while Douglas parked the car then joined her. ‘Let me buy the drinks,’ she offered then, without waiting for a reply, she went up to the bar and ordered two whiskys. With a determined expression she took them to the small table by the fire that Douglas had chosen and sat down opposite.
He watched her warily, leaving his drink untouched. ‘What are you up to, Flight Captain Dobson?’
‘What do you mean? Can’t a girl buy the drinks if she feels like it?’
Douglas frowned. ‘I don’t mean that. But why do I get the idea that you’re about to give me a good talking-to?’
‘Well spotted,’ she replied, leaning across to rest her hand on his. It was now or never but she must tread gingerly. ‘Douglas, you must know by now that I care a great deal about you.’
He felt his stomach churn. You must know that I care about you, but you must also see that we make a very odd couple. You’re much too old for me for a start … ‘Stop.’ He withdrew his hand. ‘I can guess what you’re about to say.’
She reached out again. ‘No, you can’t. Just listen for a moment. It struck me the other day that I care about you more than I’ve ever cared for any man.’
‘Honestly?’ How could he believe her? There was the age difference and his hopelessness with women and his damned limp, all conspiring against him.
‘Yes, it’s true.’
‘How can it be?’ The patched-up leg and the loss of face when they’d chucked him out of the RAF, the self-conscious, awkward schoolboy still lurking deep in his psyche, manifesting in everything he said and did. ‘The world’s your oyster, Jean. You’re wonderful. Why ever would you choose me?’
‘Because I did.’ The fire had brought a flush to Jean’s pale cheeks and its light glowed in her fair hair. ‘It crept up on me without me realizing. No, that’s not quite right. I looked up to you from the start.’
The hammering of Douglas’s heart made him short of breath. Admiration wasn’t love. There was still room for her to backtrack. We can’t be lovers but I hope we can be friends.
Seeing the uncertainty in his eyes, Jean paused. Then she thought again of Harry and the fickleness of Fate. ‘“Care” isn’t a big enough word,’ she went on slowly. ‘I knew that when we first kissed – in the lounge at the Grange. Since then you’ve always been in my mind. Even when I’m flying or when I’m sitting quietly trying to read, it turns out that it’s you I’m thinking of.’
Douglas shook his head in disbelief. ‘My dear girl.’
‘Don’t shake your head,’ she pleaded. ‘You don’t even have to tell me that you feel the same way; just let me get through this and say what I have to say.’
‘I love you.’ Suddenly he grasped her hand. ‘I do.’
‘And I love you,’ she whispered slowly, against the crackle and spit of logs burning in the grate and the hum of conversation in the background.
Douglas saw the movement of her lips, only half-hearing what she said. Jean was to be his after all. Her hair glowed gold, one half of her face was in shadow.
‘To us,’ she said, lifting her glass with the warmest of smiles. They chinked glasses then drank their whisky. ‘And now you must make me a promise,’ Jean went on.
‘Anything.’ He would climb a mountain,
give up everything he owned, cross an ocean, defend her to his last breath – now that he was certain that she loved him.
‘Before you take up another plane, please go and see a doctor about your hearing.’ She saw his eyes narrow and his head jerk backwards. ‘I know that’s the last thing you expected. But I’m serious. I want an expert to examine you.’
‘There’s no need,’ he began. Then he stopped. ‘What makes you say that?’
‘Because it’s not safe for you to fly if you can’t hear the plane’s engines.’
‘And why do you think I’m having trouble hearing?’
‘I’ve watched you. It’s obvious; to me and to other people as well. Oh, Douglas – please don’t be angry.’
‘I’m not.’ Settling back in his chair, he sat with a furrowed brow. ‘I just don’t acknowledge that it should be a problem. These old Ansons and Maggies; I’ve flown them for years. I can practically do it in my sleep.’
Jean waited. She’d said enough and now it was up to him.
‘I keep a careful eye on the rev counter and if the engines do stall and I begin to lose height, my reactions are still quick enough to get me out of trouble.’ Picking up his drink, Douglas swirled the dregs around the bottom of the glass. ‘Anyway, it’s only once in a blue moon.’
Jean looked steadily at him and said nothing.
‘I do get a ringing and a clicking in my ears,’ he admitted at last. ‘Tinnitus; a lot of RAF chaps I know get it. The docs tell them it’s something you have to try to ignore. And you soon learn to lip-read – that helps.’
‘Douglas,’ she breathed, ‘see a doctor. Do it for me.’
He thought hard then nodded slowly. ‘I will; when I can find the time.’
‘Soon.’ Jean sighed with relief. She loved this man for trusting her and for not being angry. Her heart swelled with tenderness as she gazed at his face, vulnerable in the firelight. ‘And please keep both feet firmly on the ground until you do.’