by Isla Dewar
Izzy had said she loved the Marx Brothers. Harpo was her favourite. She started on her second plate of chops and sweetcorn. They’d brought out photos of life back home. His were of his parents’ ranch in Montana. Hers were pictures of her mother and father in the garden and one of Elspeth in a straw hat sitting beside her horn gramophone.
She’d told him of her life back in Scotland, her parents, the manse, her best friend Elspeth who had encouraged her to learn to fly, and her time working for Betty Stokes All-Girl Flying Show. And, no, she hadn’t done stunts. ‘Wanda the Wonder did them. Rolls and loops and zooming, twirling from high up to just a few feet from the ground.’ She’d waved her arms, demonstrating twirls and loops and a plane zooming low over the pork chops.
He’d told her of his time working as an intern in New York, where he’d met his wife.
‘Is your wife in Montana, too?’ asked Izzy. She’d started on her second bowl of ice cream by then.
‘She died,’ he’d told her. ‘A car crash, drove her Buick into a truck. Going too fast, she always went too fast. She’d been at a party, whooping along, singing. She just didn’t see that truck coming.’ And, seeing how embarrassed Izzy was at her question, he’d asked how her parents felt about her flying career.
‘We don’t talk about it, really.’
‘And your boyfriend?’
‘I don’t have a boyfriend.’
Now, Izzy finished her fish and chips and leaned back as Ella, the waitress, cleared the table. Claire hadn’t finished, but indicated that she wanted her plate taken away. She felt too guilty about last night’s indiscretions to eat.
‘Is that you done?’ asked Ella.
Claire nodded.
‘Your friend’s a lady,’ Ella told Izzy. ‘Not like you – stuffing yourself. You want to get a man, something to take your mind off food before you get too fat to fit into them planes you fly.’
Remembering how she’d felt after last night’s meal – she’d been Christmas-full – Izzy thought this might be good advice. She and Claire pulled on their coats and headed out into the night.
The air smelled of coal fires and cooking fat, thick aromas that made Izzy homesick. This was how the world smelled when she was making her way home to the manse for tea after visiting Elspeth. She breathed it in. ‘Wonderful.’
They walked through the narrow winding cobbled streets. Dark now, windows blacked out, but there was enough of a moon to light the way back to the cottage. Izzy asked Claire what she’d done last night.
‘If you must know,’ said Claire. ‘I slept with Charles.’ There, she’d told someone. It was a relief to confess. ‘Well, it had been a hellish day.’
She’d arrived back at the base at about one o’clock to have lunch as the taxi Anson was refuelled, and had sat by the window of the mess eating a cheese sandwich, watching the weather close in. Curling silky mists silently and swiftly had enveloped everything. One moment she could see the rose beds and Dolores’ bike parked beyond them, then nothing but grey. She’d waited till four before going to ask Edith if the day had been declared a washout.
Edith had been in the corridor wiping Dick Wills’ name off the board. ‘Flew into a hill. But everyone else is fine.’ They had exchanged a long look. Nobody here spoke about death; they just quietly and privately dreaded it. ‘It would have been quick,’ said Edith. ‘And he wouldn’t have wanted to be permanently injured. Not Dick.’
Claire had said she supposed not, and walked slowly back to the mess. She didn’t like to ask about going home now. But, half an hour later, Edith had put her head round the door and said, ‘It’s a washout. Nothing more to be done today.’
It was always the same when someone died – fixed smiled, voices higher, more sing-song, a forced cheeriness. Claire wondered what was wrong with a bit of gloom. She thought being gloomy, when gloomy things happened, helped.
She had been almost out the door, dreading a grim cycle home, when Fiona, the adjutant, came bustling after her, skimming over the lino, flapping her hands, shouting, ‘Boots! Boots!’
Claire had looked down at her feet. ‘I am indeed wearing boots.’
‘Well, take them off,’ Fiona had said. ‘You people are wearing your boots too much. They’re only for flying not for shopping or general walking about. No boots off base is the new rule.’
Claire had sniffed, a sharp drawing in of breath, shut her eyes and said, ‘Perfect end to a perfect day – I’ll cycle three miles through this teeming rain and mist with nothing on my feet. Excellent idea.’ She’d walked out wishing the door wasn’t on a spring, so she could slam it shut.
‘Boots,’ said Izzy. She was panting, trotting beside Claire, who was reliving her fury and striding ahead. ‘I love my boots. My feet have never been happier.’
‘I know,’ agreed Claire.
‘Oh, Treacle,’ said Izzy.
‘Treacle?’ Claire was baffled.
‘My dad had a dog called Treacle that never did what he was told. He never came when anyone called him. He pretended he hadn’t heard. Eventually, so he wouldn’t lose face, my dad pretended he hadn’t called him in the first place. That’s what will happen with the boots. Everyone will pretend they don’t know the boots rule, so Fiona will pretend she hadn’t made it.’
‘Very wise, Izzy,’ said Claire. ‘We’ll just ignore the rule and it will go away. Anyway, then I had to cycle through all that weather yesterday. Rain streaming down my face – I could hardly see. I was soaked to the skin, frozen to the marrow.’
Charles had been at the cottage when Claire arrived. He’d found the spare key under a stone by the front door and let himself in. He looked disappointed to see her. He’d been hoping for Julia.
‘She’s stuck out,’ Claire had told him. He was in his uniform – the Royal Artillery – and leaning against the wall looking idly at her as she stood shivering, dripping rain in the hall.
It always interested Claire how people looked in uniform. It seemed to make big men bigger and small men smaller. Charles was tall, broad-shouldered, prone to scowling and filled the hallway, leaving little room for her. He was drinking her whisky.
At that moment she had felt upset. It was everything – the diminishing whisky bottle, the look on Charles’ face when he realised she wasn’t Julia, the relaxed way he leaned on the wall when she was cold and soaked through, the wallpaper behind him – pale pink covered with a string of red roses – which she hated and, had the cottage belonged to her, would have changed. But mostly, it was the death of Dick Wills.
She was haunted by the thought of him alone several hundred feet up in the air, knowing death was near. The fear, that she never expressed, that she could be next. For the next few weeks, she would walk into the mess and Dick would not be there, and she would remember why. All that, and she would miss him.
‘You can pour me a glass of that whisky before you bloody finish it,’ she’d said. ‘Then you can bloody light the fire and put whatever Mrs Brent left for supper to heat in the oven while I have a bath.’
Knowing that both Izzy and Julia were stuck out, and hoping that perhaps one of them wouldn’t have access to a bath, Claire had treated herself. She added the six inches of water that mightn’t be used to her regulation six inches.
Downstairs again, dressed in pale trousers, woollen jersey with a silk scarf at her neck, she had refilled her whisky glass. So, by the time they had sat down to eat, dry and warm at last, she was feeling mellow.
She was mellower after they’d finished their meal and were in the sitting room, on the sofa in front of the fire. He’d poured two more glasses of whisky and, by then, she was too mellow to refuse, or even to point out that he was being liberal with her whisky. He’d told her he was off to Burma in a few days and how he wasn’t looking forward to it. ‘I hate the heat. Always get a rash.’ Then he’d asked about Richard. ‘Do you hear from him at all?’
She did. ‘I get the odd letter. He seems to be surviving. Or so he says. There’s always a PS saying
that I should tell his friend Johnny in the marines that life in the camp is quite good.’ She’d sipped her drink. ‘Odd, really, because I didn’t know he knew anybody in the marines. So, I haven’t a clue who to get in touch with.’
Charles had put down his drink and stared at her. ‘You’re joking, surely.’
She shook her head.
‘Tell it to the marines. You know, tell it to the marines – the thing you say when you know someone is shooting you a line.’
She’d looked shocked. ‘Of course. There are no marines. How could I be so stupid?’ She clapped her hand over her mouth, her eyes glazed with tears. ‘Here I am doing a job I love. Eating stew. A comfortable warm bed to sleep in at night. And there’s him probably starving in a rat-infested hut.’ She sobbed. It wasn’t something she was prone to doing, and as she heaved in air, wiped her eyes with her sleeve, she dimly realised it was excess of whisky that was making her so emotional.
He’d moved along the sofa, took her in his arms, said, ‘There, there. I’m sure he’ll be fine,’ and gently stroked her back. She’d buried her face in his neck, wept and wailed. He’d held her closer. It felt wonderful to be touched. How she’d missed physical contact. So, when he’d kissed her, she’d kissed him back.
‘And after that it was easy,’ she told Izzy. ‘A kiss, another kiss, then another, getting closer and closer. A bit of fumbling, then we went upstairs to bed and you know . . .’
‘Did it?’ said Izzy.
‘Yes, did it.’
By now they were at the end of the row of cottages where they lived. They could hear the river, the tumble of icy water, smell the mix of cold and chimney smoke. A heron rasped somewhere nearby.
Last night, for a while, on her ancient squeaky bed, Claire had lost herself in the pursuit of pleasure. It hadn’t been two people, each intent on pleasing the other. They had both been lost in their own moment, escaping their demons. Charles, his dread of going to Burma and Claire; her guilt. Afterwards there had been no shared cigarettes, no soft spoken conversation, definitely no words of love. They’d sunk into deep drunken sleep.
Claire had woken a couple of hours later. Her mouth dry, head aching. She’d had a few seconds of wondering where she was and how she’d got there. The horror when she’d turned and seen Charles in a tumble of sheets and blankets, rumpled head on the pillow, sleeping next to her. Oh, the scolding from her conscience when she remembered what had happened.
The heron cried again. Claire and Izzy heard the whistle of its wings as it passed in the darkness overhead. ‘I’m furious at myself,’ said Claire. ‘I’ve been angry all day. I was angry when I got home last night – upset about Dick Wills, drenched and furious at Charles for drinking my whisky.’
‘Maybe that’s why you had sex. A release from your upset about Richard and a release from your anger.’
Claire said it hadn’t worked because she still felt angry.
‘Well,’ said Izzy, ‘you probably need more sex.’
Claire put her arm round Izzy’s shoulders as they walked the last few yards to their front door. ‘Yes,’ she agreed. ‘I probably do.’
Izzy, too, was getting a talking to from her conscience. Last night, the Captain had walked her to the dormitory where she would spend the night. It had been late, but the film was still showing. Bursts of laughter drowned their chat. At the door, Izzy had thanked him for dinner and for his company. ‘I had a lovely time.’
He had kissed her. Not the full Hollywood smooch she would have liked. He lightly touched her cheek with his lips. ‘You’re not going to fly that crate tomorrow?’
‘I most certainly am,’ she’d said.
‘Well, phone me once you’ve landed. Let me know you’re safe.’ Then he’d said goodnight, and left her.
She touched her cheek, stroked the spot where the kiss had been placed. She had wanted a lot more than that.
Walking up the path, she cursed herself. She was not a good girl. She’d eaten too much, talked too much and lusted after a man. Three sins in a row. She’d suffer for that.
Chapter Fourteen
I Love a Bit of Brahms
CHARLES AND JULIA had finally made to London, they’d arrived the previous day, made love, gone out to a club, come back to Julia’s flat, made love. Now, in the morning, they’d made love again. Afterwards, Charles had rolled over, sighed, said, ‘Ah,’ and drifted into sleep.
Julia got out of bed, went to the bathroom and washed. There was no hot water, but she had no intention of lighting a fire to heat the tank, as she was going back to Skimpton that evening. Shivering, she went to the kitchen to make a pot of tea. Tea and toast were the only things she prepared here.
The flat was sparsely furnished – a bed, a wardrobe and a dresser in the bedroom, a chair and a rug in the living room – and those had been a twenty-first birthday gift from her father. Visitors often asked if she was thinking of getting a sofa for the living room, or perhaps a pot or two for the kitchen – something to sit on the shelves beside her kettle, teapot and four cups. Julia would reply that she’d get round to it soon. ‘I may only have four cups and a teapot. But, it is a lovely teapot.’
She had no intention of doing anything to the flat, however. She was too superstitious. She planned to live here after the war; furnishing and decorating the place before she moved in seemed to be tempting fate. If she bought a sofa, she would probably never sit on it. If she painted the walls, kitted out her kitchen, did anything, in fact, she would probably die and never get the chance to live here. She promised herself she would indulge in some interior decorating when the war was over, if she was still around to do it.
Monkeys had woken them. They always did. Nearby was an RAF training school that did not have the facilities to feed the service men, so they were marched at dawn to the canteen in Regent’s Park Zoo for breakfast. The stomp of feet and loud morning voices disturbed the monkeys who shrieked, howled and jabbered in alarm, waking the neighbourhood. All the other animals had been moved. Julia didn’t know why the monkeys had stayed, only that their morning din annoyed her.
The noise had reminded Charles that he’d soon be in Burma. He’d reached for Julia. He needed a little comfort.
Julia padded across the bare floorboards to the kitchen, made a pot of tea, which she brought to the bedroom and put on the floor while she poured two cups. She woke Charles, and gave him one, then stood beside the bed drinking hers. He asked if she had milk. She shook her head.
‘Sugar?’ He asked.
‘Don’t be silly,’ she said. ‘Of course I don’t have sugar.’
He put his cup on the floor, then sat back, hands clasped behind his head, watching her dress.
‘Do you have to go?’
‘I don’t have to go. I want to go. So, I’m going.’
‘You always do what you want to do.’
She was pulling on her stockings, sitting on the chair across from the bed. ‘Of course. Why shouldn’t I? You know I can’t sit still. I like to be doing.’
‘I’m not asking you to sit still. I’m asking you to lie still while I do things to your body. Ravish you.’
‘You ravished me already this morning, and last night after we got in, and again before we went out. That’s three ravishings. How many more do you want?’ She pulled on her slip, turned to the mirror to comb her hair and put on her lipstick.
‘As many as I can get, I’m off to Burma. I may never have sex again.’
Julia doubted that. Charles would win women over wherever he was.
‘I’m going to see Myra Hess at the National Gallery. I may not have the chance again for ages,’ she said.
‘You haven’t even asked me to go with you.’
‘Why should I? You’d hate it. You’d sigh and wriggle and look at your watch wanting the concert to be over. You’d spoil it for me.’
He knew this to be true, so didn’t argue the point. Instead, he said, ‘I sometimes think you are ruthless. You appear to be this party girl, dancing wi
th everybody last night at the club, but underneath is a heart of steel. You do a man’s job, flying planes because it’s what you love doing and nothing will stop you.’
‘I never thought I’d get the chance to fly Spitfires and get paid for it. And, yes, I love it and nothing will stop me doing it.’ She put on her uniform.
‘There’s something hard and sexless about women like you. You should be doing womanly things – nursing, raising a family.’
Julia laughed. ‘You just don’t know how to handle women like me.’
He snorted. ‘Nobody does.’
She buttoned her jacket, took her coat from the wardrobe. ‘By the way, what did you and Claire get up to last night?’
‘We talked.’
‘What about?’
‘Things. Her husband. Life.’
She didn’t believe him. ‘You didn’t try to get her into bed, then?’
‘I didn’t try anything.’ There had been no need to try. Claire had been perfectly willing. ‘She feels bad that Richard’s in that POW camp. The poor woman is swamped by guilt.’
Julia said she knew that. ‘Still, a swift bout of passion might have taken her mind off things for few seconds.’
‘I think I could do better than a few seconds.’ Charles thumped his pillow, lay down and pulled the blankets over his head.
Putting on her forage cap, Julia said, ‘There’s more tea in the pot if you want it.’
‘Thanks.’
She made for the door, then turned, came over to the bed and kissed his forehead, the only bit of him available beneath the bundle of bedclothes. He seized the moment, pulled her to him, turned the light peck into something more lingering on the lips and ran his hand up inside her skirt. ‘Let’s not argue. Stay with me.’
She pulled back. ‘I’ll be back around two, maybe before. You can ravish me then. But I have to catch the seven o’clock to Blackpool. Back to work tomorrow.’
He asked when the concert started.
‘Twelve o’clock.’
‘It’s only half past ten. You’ve got lots of time before it starts.’