by Lizzie Lane
Bettina shook her head. ‘And the Devil finds a home in an empty heart, Gertrude. And your heart has been empty for years!’
Just for once, Gertrude Powell didn’t have an answer. Bristling with indignation, her face like thunder, she stormed through the church gate and pushed rudely past Bettina. She was almost knocked over, but thanks to her walking stick regained her balance. Not without sympathy, she watched Gertrude march off. The woman Gertrude had grown into bore no relation to the girl she had once been. Bettina wondered at the happenings in the woman’s life that had changed her into what she was today.
No matter, she thought to herself. You can’t give solace or friendship to somebody resigned to being hostile.
Carefully picking her way over flagstones slippery with moss and heavy dew, she resumed her path.
Stan was exactly where she’d guessed he might be.
She paused at the sound of his voice, leaning on her stick and feeling something of an interloper. Her heart ached at the words and the sight of Stan Sweet, the man saying them.
‘It’s my fault, Sarah. It’s my fault. I should have had him vaccinated. If anything happens, I don’t think I can ever forgive myself.’ Stan Sweet’s voice trembled with emotion and he was clearly angry at his own stupidity. ‘I hope to God he pulls through and I promise you, I really do, that I’ll be going to church this Sunday. In fact, I’ll go to church every Sunday for the rest of my life if he pulls through.’
On becoming aware that a shadow had suddenly fallen over the headstone, Stan looked up to see Bettina gazing down at him with sorrow-filled eyes.
‘You know what’s happened,’ he stated in a flat tone.
Bettina took a deep breath and adopted the most confident of expressions. ‘Ruby told me. She’s looking for you. She was worried.’
‘No need to be.’ Stan shook his head. The words on his wife’s tombstone glared at him. Sarah, beloved wife …
‘I couldn’t bear to see another stone saying “Charlie, beloved grandson”,’ he said to her.
‘Oh, Stan,’ said Bettina, her voice heavy with feeling. ‘Don’t talk that way. You won’t have to bear it because it won’t happen. Charlie will get better. He will come home. You have to believe that.’
‘I should have been more sensible and less squeamish. I remember those bloody great needles they used to stick into us in the Great War. I saw more than one bloke faint right away. The medical officers had so many to do, they carried on regardless, stepping over the lads that had fainted.’
‘Stan. That was a long time ago. They can work wonders nowadays.’
He nodded. ‘I’m hoping they can. But what if it’s too late? What if the stuff they can inject beforehand doesn’t work after, once somebody’s got diphtheria? What then?’
Bettina’s heart ached for him. She had to do something to help, no matter how small an effort it might be.
‘How about you take a walk up to the doctor’s and ask him what his chances are? He’d know better than I would. I take it you haven’t asked him directly.’
Stan shook his head.
‘Has he dropped by to convey his fears?’
Stan shook his head again. ‘No. Not since last night.’
‘If the writing’s on the wall, old Dr Foster comes calling beforehand – or didn’t you know that?’
Of course he knew it. Everyone in the village knew it. Everyone knew it was bad news if one person had a visit from the doctor when they knew somebody living in that house was in hospital. Nobody went willingly into hospital, especially the old folk, who took the view that once inside they were unlikely to come out. But this was a small boy they were talking about.
It seemed her reassurance might have had some effect. Stan Sweet had broad, square shoulders. Bettina was familiar with them enough to know that some, though not all, of the tension had left them.
‘I suppose I could,’ he said.
‘I’ll walk up with you, if you like. Anyway, what have you got to lose? There’s everything to gain.’
Bettina knew she’d got through to him when he patted his wife’s headstone then gripped it so he could more easily get to his feet. ‘See you again,’ he said softly.
Although she loved him dearly, Bettina didn’t feel jealous at Stan’s show of affection for his dead wife. Too long in the tooth to feel that, she counselled herself. Besides, she felt for both of them. They’d been so happy together, a handsome pair who had deserved better luck than for Sarah to die so young, leaving her twin girls and her son in Stan’s care.
She frowned as a thought suddenly occurred to her. ‘Has anyone told Mary?’
Stan shook his head. ‘Not yet. I suppose I’d better.’
‘Though she mustn’t come down, of course,’ Bettina warned. ‘Diphtheria is very contagious. We don’t want Beatrice catching it,’ Bettina reminded him. ‘Now come on. I’m going with you to see the doctor.’
Bettina waited with Stan until Dr Foster was ready to see them. That morning’s surgery wasn’t too crowded, so they didn’t have to wait long.
To her great relief, Stan didn’t look quite so worried when he reappeared from his long talk with the doctor. Fortunately, there was nobody else in the surgery, nobody to ask about the doctor’s late-night visit to the bakery.
Nobody to ask stupid questions, thought Bettina. What a relief!
‘So what did he say?’
Stan heaved a big sigh. ‘He said that Charlie’s condition can be treated. He thinks they use the same substance to treat those with the disease as they use for the vaccination.’
‘Well, that’s a relief. I’m sure he’ll be all right, Stan. We have to hope that is the case, and I’m sure it will be,’ Bettina reassured, her blue eyes beaming at this lovely man who she might have married when she was younger. Water under the bridge now, of course.
Stan nodded but said nothing. He was clearly still anxious, but less than he had been. Bettina felt for him. He had the right to feel worried. I would if I were in the same boat, she thought. Still, we have to think positive, she told herself and stiffened her spine.
‘Right,’ she said, sounding as though she’d just made a momentous decision. ‘We might as well part here, I suppose, unless you’re coming round for a cup of tea.’
He shook his head. ‘I’d better get back to the bakery. Ruby and Frances will be wondering where I’ve got to.’
‘Do you want me to telephone Mary, or will you?’
‘Thank you, but I think it’s for me to call her, though I appreciate your offer. And I appreciate you suggesting I visit the doctor. He talked sense.’
His smile was full of tenderness and Bettina was touched, even more moved when he patted her shoulder, his hand lingering there, his face creased with emotion.
‘My,’ said Bettina, feeling herself blush. ‘Go steady or you’ll be kissing me before long!’
For a second, it seemed that he might kiss her, but both were too wrapped up in the problems of the moment. Everything stopped when family concerns were involved, and that included shows of affection.
Stan had always been the same. One thing at a time, and although he was very fond of Bettina, he would deny himself the pleasure of kissing her until he was sure Charlie was out of danger.
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
Mary threw herself into a bout of early morning baking. As the smell of cooking and the warmth of the old range filled the house, her spirits were lifted. If they hadn’t been she would have shunned company, but as it was she felt in need of eating cake and drinking tea with a worthwhile companion. In that regard her satisfaction was complete when Barbara Kelly, wife of one of Michael’s fellow air force officers, came to call. Once their babies were fed and sound asleep, they had time for girl talk.
Her pale blonde hair caught behind a girlish Alice band, Barbara was the most smartly groomed woman on the base, though she did like her food. She watched as Mary took a freshly baked loaf from the oven, the warm air rolling out with it and warming her feet
.
‘It smells lovely!’
‘I’ve also made crumb cake.’
Barbara called at Woodbridge Cottage at least once a week, a sixth sense seeming to always pick the day when Mary was baking. Once whatever came out of the oven had cooled, Barbara would be offered a piece with a cup of tea.
Barbara leaned to one side so she could better see the crumb cake. She already knew that it was made from stale bread, currants or any other dried food Mary had to hand, as well as honey, a very small amount of sugar and whatever fats were available.
‘I’m low on cinnamon so I added a little vanilla essence. I think it’s worked,’ said Mary. ‘Let me know what you think.’
Once Barbara had taken the first bite, she confirmed that indeed the vanilla had worked.
‘It’s lovely. You really know how to make the best of things. For my part, I’ll be glad when we can eat properly again. What I wouldn’t give for some delicious preserves and a small jar of caviar from Fortnum and Mason. How simply divine that would be.’
Mary hid her smile. Barbara was a delightful friend but very much from a different world to the one Mary knew. Coming from a well-to-do family with an estate in Surrey and a villa in the South of France, she was used to good things. Even her clothes, bought before the war, still looked good simply because they were of superior quality. She’d paid a lot for them and they’d lasted well. However, when it came to cooking in general and baking in particular, Barbara didn’t have a clue. Her family had had a live-in cook and a maid. She’d never even had to do her own ironing.
‘I do have a woman coming in at present,’ she’d previously told Mary, ‘but she only does the most basic things. I’ve given up pressing my stockings just in case I get the iron too hot; stockings are such a luxury nowadays!’
Mary could hardly believe her ears that she really ironed her stockings but had made no comment.
Now Barbara accepted a second piece of cake. Mary suspected she wouldn’t bother to cook when she got home that evening.
No matter the differences in their backgrounds, they were linked by the events of the present. Like Michael, Barbara’s husband was involved in this very secret operation.
‘You’ll have to give us a talk sometime, seeing as you used to be a professional,’ said Barbara, her mouth full of cake.
‘It might be possible.’
It surprised Mary to be referred to as a professional, but on reflection she could see that she was. How odd that she’d never really thought of it before. No matter that she now had a husband and baby, she missed being a baking instructor. The thought of standing up in front of the air force wives was an attractive one.
‘Oh. But I’d have to find someone to look after Beatrice.’
‘I see no reason at all why you can’t bring her along,’ Barbara pointed out. ‘In fact, we could all bring our children with us. It would be such fun! Something we’ve never done before.’
Barbara had two boys, Richard and William. She also had a nanny who looked after them when she wanted to arrange social events for air force wives.
‘Have you any plans for this evening?’ Mary asked her. She knew Barbara always had plans. She wasn’t the sort who could happily stay at home.
Barbara sighed. ‘Not really. I was invited to a bridge game but it’s been called off. Gwen Younger had hoped to entice her husband home with a game, but he refused point blank. She said he was almost rude, reminding her he’d been in training for weeks and couldn’t spare the time. She was in tears, of course. You know what she’s like.’
Mary agreed that she knew what Gwen was like, and felt great sympathy for the girl. She was sensitive and desperately missing her husband.
Barbara, by comparison, was more happy go lucky; she was rarely depressed by anything, seemingly possessing the firm belief that nothing bad could happen to her husband. She also seemed to know everything that was going on at the base. Mary wondered whether Barbara’s husband was a little bit indiscreet, easily persuaded by Barbara’s enticing laughter-filled voice.
‘Of course, all us wives are aware that something important is in the offing, though we don’t know all the details. If Hitler’s spies were clever, they would be asking the wives what’s going on. They wouldn’t need any fifth columnists!’
Keeping her reservations about Barbara and Douglas Kelly’s discretion to herself, Mary laughed. ‘Spying on wives indeed. Whatever next!’
Barbara sipped her tea slowly between talking. Mary smiled into her own cup. Barbara was endeavouring to make the cake, the tea and the conversation last as long as possible so she wouldn’t have to return to the house her parents had rented her in a pretty Lincolnshire village.
Mary wondered whether Barbara was merely lonely or wanted more cake. Eventually, she decided that Barbara was simply a social butterfly. She loved socialising and wasn’t keen on being indoors all day. She even had a car, thanks to the wealth and generosity of her husband and her parents.
Barbara turned her handsome profile to look out of the cottage window across the flat farmland, the neat hedges and sprawling trees towards the hangars and stout brick buildings of RAF Scampton. Her features were incredibly refined and without blemish.
‘I wonder what they’re doing now,’ Barbara whispered excitedly. ‘They’ve been doing low-level flying in the Lake District. Did you know that?’
Mary saw the intriguing look on her face, heard the low whisper; all the trappings of telling a secret although pretending not to.
At mention of the Lake District, Mary thought of the book Michael had been reading over the past weeks and months. It seemed that Douglas Kelly had told his wife far more than Michael had told her.
Mary had misgivings as she too regarded the wide fields of the Lincolnshire countryside. In the distance on the edge of the airstrip that was Scampton, a cluster of buildings crouched beyond the budding trees of early May.
She shuddered at the thought of what might be going on. After their early conversation, she had not pressed Michael on what he was up to or what might soon be happening. Yet, if she was honest, she had felt him distance himself from her. They were fine in bed, sex always bridging any awkward silences that Michael, at least, did not wish to be broken.
‘I shouldn’t have pressured Douglas into telling me,’ said Barbara. ‘I know it’s wrong, but what’s a girl to do? I need to be prepared just in case … well. You know …’
‘I prefer not to think about it,’ said Mary. A shiver of fear ran down her spine. The war would end one day and Michael would survive. She had to believe that.
By way of indicating that their afternoon tea was coming to an end, Mary began stacking the crockery.
‘But what if something should happen?’ Barbara’s voice had not the hint of a waver in it. It was more as though she feared making plans for the future without her husband’s stalwart presence, rather than fearing for his safety.
‘Something has already happened to Michael,’ Mary snapped. ‘I don’t want anything else happening to him.’
‘Oh, I’m sorry, Mary. I didn’t mean—’
‘I know you didn’t,’ Mary cut across. At first she’d considered Barbara merely naive. Now she wasn’t sure whether it was pure selfishness. A squawk sounded from the cot upstairs. The two women exchanged knowing smiles. Their female chat was at an end. The kids were awake.
Michael Dangerfield threw his flying gear into the small Ford he had traded in for the dark green sports car he’d used to love. But the Ford had plenty of room for a family. He already had one child and reckoned it was only a matter of time before he had a few more.
The thought of it made him smile. Fancy that, me a father! He stared at the aircraft hangers as he thought about how many children he and Mary might have in the course of time – as long as he survived, that was.
The station’s ground crew controller held up a hand in acknowledgement.
‘On your way home, Dangerfield?’
‘Just to catch my breath
.’
‘Give your lovely wife my regards.’
Michael said that he would and turned back to his car, wishing it was bigger or that he was smaller. English cars were compact. He was not.
In the past, it had been a simple thing to reach for the door handle of the driver’s door, drag it open. There had never been any need to consider how his hand might respond, or whether his legs might not bend to fit between the seat and the steering wheel. Everything happened automatically when you were young and fit. He was still young, but following the accident, not so fit.
He caught sight of himself in the chrome door handle. By virtue of the shape of it, the reflection of his face was distorted – totally distorted. Fear tempered with surprise suddenly gripped his heart.
Beads of sweat erupted on his forehead. A nervous tic – a recent development – flickered beneath his right eye.
It was broad daylight, yet his night-time dreams were suddenly with him.
In his dreams he was there again, the flames from the engine reaching towards him, causing him to wake up in a sweat.
The other men he spent time with back in the barracks really didn’t notice – or chose not to notice. They’d all had nightmares. It was par for the course. At home he downed a few whiskies before going to bed, hoping he would drop into a dreamless sleep, though dream was hardly the right word for it. Anyway, he didn’t want to disturb Mary. He didn’t want her to know.
‘Anything wrong?’
The station controller again.
Michael stared at his fingers. Why couldn’t he open the car door? Why weren’t his fingers responding to what he wanted to do?
Not having received a response, Rod Hadfield came over to check that he was all right.
‘Having problems?’
Michael felt the other man’s eyes studying his face before falling to his hands. He looked too and what he saw dismayed him.
The skin of his right hand had been taut since the accident. His fingers stiff – more like claws than fingers.
This was not the first time they’d let him down. Sometimes they seized into a tight clench without him being able to do a thing about it. So far his problem had not been noticed, and in time it might improve. The doctors had said so. It was just a case of hiding it until it did improve. But Rod Hadfield had seen. Rod Hadfield would tell.