Under a Wartime Sky

by Liz Trenow

  Then he saw it, and his heart did a double beat. The plane, flying parallel to the coast, was approaching and now, at five miles range, the sharp point of the V shape bisected, forming a double V. This was the signal of interference they’d been praying to see, that they had spent so many months working on, created by the deceptively simple design of dipole wires installed onto the aircraft.

  ‘There it is. Two tails instead of one,’ he shouted. ‘A friendly aircraft.’

  Scott was whooping excitedly into the phone, ‘We’ve got it, two tails. Yes, two tails. We’ve got it.’

  ‘Bloody hell, it works,’ Vic said, trying to maintain his focus on the screen. He could hardly wait to share their success with Johnnie. ‘Get someone to give them a thumbs up as they pass,’ he said to Scott.

  ‘Will do, boss.’

  Someone slapped him on the back so powerfully it almost took his breath away. ‘Congratulations, Mr Mackensie,’ Dr Rowe boomed. ‘Your system has proved itself.’

  Vic twisted the distance knob, following the signal moving across the screen as the plane approached and then flew past.

  ‘Good man,’ Dr Rowe said. ‘There’ll be drinks on the bar for your team tonight, lad.’

  Even at the height of this triumph he knew that he must manage expectations, especially as he had the full attention of the most important man right here in the room, hanging on his every word. ‘We still need a reliable way of identifying friendly craft in large groups, or in the midst of enemy planes, sir. That’ll need a bit more work.’ A lot more work, in fact; requiring a compact powered receiver to emit a much stronger pulse.

  ‘Here she comes again,’ Scott announced. ‘First southbound leg approaching.’

  The spike grew in length once more, that precious double tail beaming its vital message right into the fuggy room. In future, when the system was fully operational, the information would be conveyed by telephone to a central operations room at Stanmore being linked up to each new receiving station – two dozen of them, in an arc from Suffolk down to the Kent coast – as they came on line.

  Vic still found himself astonished by the immense scale of Watson-Watt’s vision, its ambition and audacity. Even though the new masts were now reaching into the skies all around the south of England, very few knew what they were for, or how vital they could be if war was ever declared.

  How proud he felt to be part of this great secret project. His eyes swam as he focused on the blip, or tried to, fiddling both knobs, trying to pick up the frequency. The line wriggled across the screen, but he could find no hint of the spike. Where had it gone? He turned the range dial again, one way, and then the bearing dial, then both together, trying to quell the panic rising in his chest. Still no sign. He resisted giving the equipment a kick – it sometimes worked if a wire had come loose.

  ‘Confirm transmission power still on.’ He tried to keep his voice firm and confident.

  ‘Roger, power on.’

  The instant Scott returned the phone to its base, it rang again.

  ‘Treble R.’

  A pause. Squawking down the phone.

  ‘Yes?’

  More squawks.

  An indrawn breath, followed by a loud expletive.

  ‘Roger that.’

  ‘What is it, Mr Scott?’ Dr Rowe asked.

  Another pause, then, ‘They’re saying the plane is down, sir. Into the sea, just off the town. About five miles out.’

  ‘What do you mean, down?’ Vic shouted. ‘What the hell is he playing at? He was supposed to do another pass.’

  The voice at the other end of the phone line chattered for a few more agonising moments.

  ‘She seems to have got into trouble, they’re saying. The rescue boat is on its way.’

  ‘In trouble? Rescue? What on earth . . .?’ The words dried in his mouth. Johnnie. Johnnie was on board. Suddenly Vic felt violently sick. Pushing past Dr Rowe, he rushed outside into the fresh air. As the nausea began to recede, his chest became gripped with a real physical pain. Doubled up against the wall, he began to moan.

  Not Johnnie, please God, keep him safe. If only he’d offered to go up in the plane instead. He had no family to provide for, no responsibilities or children abandoned to grieve their beloved father for the rest of their lives. He thought of that little family in the cottage, of Lizzie, and little Beth and Christopher, the boy with the room of Vic’s own childhood, filled with toy planes and books about practical things. Please, please let him be safe.

  Scott was at his side. ‘Chin up, old boy. They’ve sent two boats out and they’re probably pulling them out of the drink as we speak. Don’t forget those planes are built to float. I’m sure they’ll all be fine. We’ll know in a few minutes, anyway. I’ll stay by the phone for news. Jimmy’s ordered tea – we all need it. Take a couple of sugars.’

  The news could not have been worse. No one had any idea why the plane – a solid workhorse with years of good safety records – should have crash-dived into the sea so suddenly, apparently without warning. Captain Burrows, Johnnie and the other crew members were all pulled from the wreckage within minutes, but none had survived. It was the first fatal seaplane crash in more than a decade.

  That afternoon, a sombre party led by Dr Rowe went to watch the plane being retrieved. The navy men received them with meticulous courtesy, but Vic could sense the shock and anger simmering close to the surface. Five of their number had lost their lives, including one of their most valued and experienced pilots. The only thing different about this flight had been the equipment installed by Vic’s team and the two dipole wires. Although nothing was said, it was clear they strongly suspected this to have been the cause of the crash.

  A sturdy fishing boat had been called into service, using its trawler beam to tow the wreckage to shore. It looked nothing like a plane any more, just a mountain of bent metal and tangled wires. The craft would have hit the water with such force that the men must have died instantly.

  They were looking at Johnnie’s coffin. And it was probably his fault.

  His head ran over and over their debates with Captain Burrows about the best way of attaching the dipole wires. Johnnie had favoured a different alignment but, using his old alibi of sophisticated geometrical calculation, Vic had persuaded him round. The fixings had been agreed by the navy men, but were carried out to Vic’s plan. So if it was found that the wires had caused the crash he, and he alone, would be to blame.

  That evening he walked the Cliff Path in a daze, numbly trying to comprehend what had happened and barely able to contemplate the future, a future in which his friend would not, at any moment, come haring round the corner with his usual cheerful summons, slapping him on the back. ‘C’mon, laddie, we’ve work to do.’

  Why did it have to be Johnnie? he asked again and again. The kindest, wisest man he’d ever met, the only man he’d ever considered a true friend; whose adoring wife and children were, perhaps even at this very moment, being visited by police officers down in Hampshire to be told the terrible news? Unwillingly, he found himself picturing the scene; how she would hold herself steady at first, trying to be strong for her children, but then, as the truth finally sank in, would surely collapse. How could anyone stay strong in the face of such unexpected horror?

  Johnnie was a scientist, working in an environment they all believed to be relatively risk-free. That was their nature, they were not adventurers.

  Now he was gone. Forever.

  Vic could not imagine how life could continue. There were a few immediate practicalities to attend to, of course, and he would do his duty, steeling himself to get through them. As soon as the plane could be lifted from the sea it would be inspected by navy engineers, he knew. As part of the formal inquiry process, Vic and the remaining members of the team would be summoned for interview. There would also be memorial services to attend, he supposed. After that, Dr Rowe had insisted, the team should all take a week’s leave, to recover.

  It would take so much longer than a
week; perhaps forever. But Vic dared not think beyond that. Even if they kept him on here at the research station – unlikely, given everything that had happened today – how could he continue, without Johnnie? He would have to resign. But what then? Could he even bear to go on living?

  Behind him, to the west, the sun was setting, sending spectacular rays of pink, orange and purple into the sky that somehow reflected off the few fluffy clouds overhead, and onto the water in front of him in constantly moving swirls of colour.

  Such heartless beauty, he said to himself, as a groan of despair erupted from his chest. For the first time in his adult life, Vic found himself weeping out loud.

  13

  It was a strange, animal sound, like a dog or a fox in distress, Kath thought, coming from the lawn outside the prep room window.

  She was in the last quarter-hour of her shift, cleaning up after Mary, who failed to understand the need to leave the sinks spick and span for the following day. But she didn’t really mind. The ferry would be running for another two hours at least and it was a perfectly beautiful evening, promising one of those astonishing sunsets that lit up the whole sky and the sea below it. Where else could she work and witness such wonders?

  There, once again, was that noise. She couldn’t bear to leave an animal in such distress. Letting herself out of the kitchen door, she followed the sound until she found herself at the very edge of the lawn. Beyond here was just the cliff and the beach below, and the great expanse of sea. Where could it be? She listened more closely. Perhaps it was not an animal – it sounded more like a human being, in anguish. She feared that someone had fallen down the cliff and hurt themselves.

  But how to reach them? She’d never really explored the gardens before, but instinct took her to the right-hand side of the lawn and down some steps, along a narrow, winding path that cut through the rock across the side of the cliff. Where did all this stone come from, she wondered vaguely as she walked, in sandy Suffolk? The noise became closer until, at last, she found its source.

  It was the man they called Mac, the piano player, sitting on a ledge with his head in his hands, shoulders convulsing with sobs. She was about to retrace her steps for fear of embarrassing him when, just at that moment, he looked up.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ she said. ‘I don’t wish to intrude.’

  As he turned away again, sinking his head into his hands once more, she dithered. Could she really leave him there, on his own, in such distress? Perhaps he was unwell, or hurt? What if they found him there, cold, the following morning? She sat down on another ledge a little distance away, without saying a word, just to wait and see. After a short while he took a deep breath and then another, then wiped his face.

  ‘Oh, it’s you.’ His expression reminded her of a startled faun.

  ‘I hope you don’t mind. I heard something and just wanted to make sure you were all right.’

  He sniffed and managed a weak smile. ‘I’ll probably live.’

  ‘Perhaps you’d prefer me to leave you?’

  A short silence, and then, ‘Actually, it sort of helps to have another human being . . .’ He looked out to sea where the setting sun was starting to show off its miracles, and she followed his gaze.

  ‘Amazing, isn’t it? It’s been a beautiful day.’

  ‘Not for me, it hasn’t. It’s been a terrible day.’

  ‘I’m so sorry.’ She ached to ask more but sensed he might tell her in his own time. They sat in silence, watching the clouds turn from orange to pink to mauve, then to purple and finally, fading into grey.

  ‘It makes you feel very small, doesn’t it?’ he said, at long last.

  ‘I hadn’t thought of it like that, but now you say it . . .’

  ‘We’re just insignificant little specks on a small rock in a universe of millions of other planets, all swirling around among an infinite number of universes.’

  The idea made her brain ache. ‘I might be a speck, but I don’t actually feel insignificant. Not inside.’

  His smile was like a gift, but it vanished almost as soon as it arrived. ‘You’re right, of course. But I do wonder why we’re all here, struggling away on this planet of ours. No one would miss us if we just disappeared.’

  She paused a second, recalling Ma’s advice never to ask questions, but then dismissing it. ‘But you’re one of those important scientists developing clever secret things, aren’t you? That’s pretty significant.’

  ‘There you are wrong, I’m afraid. Yours is by far the most important work. The human race wouldn’t exist without food.’

  ‘Anyone can peel vegetables and cook pies, but what you’re doing is . . .’ she stopped herself. Of course she hadn’t a clue what he actually did.

  ‘We all make our contributions, and none is more or less important than another,’ he said, catching her gaze for a second. What an odd character, she thought; unlike anyone else she’d ever met, obviously brainy but so serious, with all this talk of universes and the rest. His face still reminded her of a shy, vulnerable animal, the eyes so dark that they seemed to be concealing something hidden and mysterious, but his expression was kind.

  She remembered the pathos of the piece he’d played on the piano, and the question fell from her lips before she could stop it. ‘But why are you so fed up?’

  ‘A friend of mine died today.’

  The shock of it caught the breath in her throat. ‘That’s terrible. I’m so sorry.’

  ‘And the worst of it all is . . .’

  She hoped he wouldn’t start crying again; it made her feel so helpless. ‘You can tell me. It might help to share it.’

  ‘It’s probably my fault.’

  ‘How can it possibly be your fault? He was your friend.’

  He shook his head. Of course he couldn’t explain. His work was top secret.

  She sat down again on her ledge, feeling the rough stone beneath her fingers. It was odd, not like any rock she’d seen before; not striped or rough, but smoothed into rounded shapes. Now she looked more carefully, she could see that it was speckled with tiny stones and shells, like the sandcastles they used to decorate on the beach when they were children, and she remembered Poppa telling her about it.

  The man was watching her. ‘It’s called Pulhamite,’ he said. ‘Cement mixed with sand and shells.’

  ‘I thought it was odd for Suffolk.’

  ‘It’s completely artificial. It was built by the lady of the manor, way back. She’d seen it used at some grand house or other and decided she needed a rocky cliff here at Bawdsey.’

  ‘How do you know all this stuff, Mr, er, Mac?’

  ‘Please call me Vic. Mac’s short for my surname, Mackensie, and it reminds me of being back at school.’

  ‘Vic, then. How do you know about this pull-whatsit?’

  ‘Pulhamite. I can’t remember, honestly. Someone told me, or maybe I read it somewhere. Mrs Quilter was a wonderful gardener. Have you seen the rest of the gardens?’

  ‘I don’t think we’re allowed,’ she said.

  ‘It’s all a bit overgrown now, of course, but there’s a wonderful formal Italian garden, with a pond, and the most enormous walled kitchen garden I’ve ever seen, with a beautiful lemonry. I’ll show you some time, if you like.’

  A lemonry? She’d never heard of such a thing. ‘That would be lovely, thank you,’ she said, politely.

  The light had almost completely disappeared from the sky, and a sharp breeze whipped off the sea and up the cliff side. She shivered, pulling her cardigan around her shoulders.

  He stood. ‘Come on, you’re getting cold. We should get back.’

  ‘I’m so sorry about your friend,’ she said.

  As they retraced their steps an awkward silence fell between them.

  ‘I’d better get myself down to the ferry,’ she said at last, starting to walk away.

  ‘Hang on,’ his voice came from behind her. ‘I’m so sorry. Remind me your name.’

  ‘It’s Kath. Kathleen Motts,’ she
said.

  ‘Thank you for being here, Miss Motts. It’s been a comfort.’

  ‘Hello? Where is everyone? What’s for supper?’ Kath called, running through to the kitchen.

  Ma turned from the sink, a finger to her lips. ‘It’s Mark.’

  Kath’s stomach did a flip. Had Nancy been up to her tricks again?

  ‘What’s happened?’

  ‘It’s just too awful,’ she whispered. ‘He won’t say much, but Ray Burrows has been in a crash.’

  ‘A car crash? Is he okay?’

  ‘The plane he was piloting for some test flight or other just fell into the sea. Mark’s been told no one survived.’

  ‘Christ.’

  ‘Don’t swear, sweetheart.’

  ‘Sorry, Ma, but that’s just too awful. Where’s Mark now?’

  ‘In his room.’

  He didn’t reply to her knock. When she turned the handle and opened the door a crack, he told her to go away. She decided to ignore him.

  ‘I’m so sorry, Mark,’ she said, sitting on the bed beside him. He shrugged her hand off.

  ‘Leave me alone, Kath. There’s nothing to be said.’

  ‘It’s not actually confirmed, is it?’

  ‘Ma told you?’

  ‘Yup.’

  ‘There hasn’t been any official announcement, if that’s what you mean. But we all saw what happened. The plane is completely smashed. And they’ve retrieved six bodies. Five navy, and one of those Bawdsey boffins.’

  Her heart seemed to contract. One of those boffins? The coincidence was just too great; it must be Vic’s friend. In her head she ran through the faces of the men he kept company with at mealtimes: Dr Rowe, Mr Watson-Watt, Scott, Johnnie, Frank? There was no point trying to guess. But whatever was a Bawdsey scientist doing on board a seaplane test flight?

  ‘I just can’t believe he’s gone.’ He wiped his cheeks roughly with his knuckles.

  She struggled for words of comfort. ‘He was such a great guy, so full of life and energy. We’ll all miss him, you know.’