Izzy's War

by Isla Dewar

  That night, Izzy went to bed early. Outside she could hear American soldiers walking by the river whistling at local girls who were also walking by the river.

  She lay in the dark, and, as Mrs Brent would say, made friends with her sadness. She’d found Wanda again, and now she’d lost him. Her father had always told her she wasn’t alone, whatever happened to her happened to others. So probably, right now, in homes all over the world people were grieving for friends, lovers, husbands, sons and daughters they’d never see again. Her father told her thinking of others sharing her grief or loneliness would be a comfort. But, lying there, staring into the gloom, she discovered it wasn’t.

  She heard Claire slip out of the front door, going wherever it was she went these nights. Izzy didn’t know, but she suspected to a lover. Later Julia and Walter came in. They’d gone for dinner at the Golden Mallard. She listened to their voices bubble up from the kitchen where they were making tea, but couldn’t make out what they were saying. But when they moved from the kitchen to the living room, Izzy heard Julia say, ‘I don’t want a big do, darling. Just us at the registry office, then a few days together somewhere quiet. Long walks, lovely dinners a lot of time in bed. Then back to work for us both.’

  Walter said, ‘Suits me.’

  Then they went into the living room, shut the door and Izzy couldn’t hear anything more. But she thought, Gosh. Julia’s getting married. She sighed, and acknowledged a pang of jealousy. She didn’t want to get married, but it would be nice to be asked.

  Her love affair was made up of snatched moments. She and Jimmy walked together by the river, they had meals at the Golden Mallard, they drank warm beer at the pub. But most of their time together was spent in bed. He told her he loved her body, her hair, her voice. But he never told her he loved her. She sat up and punched her pillow, and cursed. ‘Bloody life,’ she said. She considered saying ‘fuck’, but couldn’t. It was too rude. Besides, that was the word Jimmy had encouraged her to say. Not saying it pleased her. She wasn’t sure that she and Jimmy were speaking right now.

  He’d phoned earlier in the evening. ‘How are you?’ he’d asked.

  She’d told him she was fine. ‘Well, not so fine. I found out that my friend died.’

  She’d told him about Wanda. He was sorry to hear that, told her to take care of herself.

  ‘Are you free tomorrow night?’ Izzy had asked. ‘Only one of the pilots got married and she’s having a party. She’s American. It’s in this big house.’ Thinking these two things would swing it.

  ‘Izzy,’ he’d said. ‘I’ve had three hours’ sleep and I’m going on duty. All I want to do tomorrow is sleep some more. I’m not in a party mood. Actually –’ But, they were cut off.

  Izzy had stared at the receiver, tried to phone him back but the operator told her there were no lines available. In bed now, after listening to the world outside, feeling jealous of Julia and punching her pillow, she settled down to worry about that ‘actually’. What had it meant? What was about to come after it? Actually, I don’t want to see you again? Actually, I’ve met someone else? Actually, I’ve been posted abroad? ‘Damn,’ said Izzy. ‘Damn blast and bugger the phones. Bugger the war. Bugger everything. And bugger saying fuck, I’m not going to do it.’

  Next day was warm. The air was soft, the sky cloudless. This was perfection, cycling to work, shirtsleeves rolled up, jacket draped over the handlebars of her bike. Izzy sped in front of Julia and Claire. Today was a flying day for sure. She forgot her worries, because nothing mattered more than joining the sky.

  She and Diane were given a plum job, flying back and forth, taking four Spitfires to a unit down the coast where they’d be packed for sending abroad. Izzy took the Spitfires, Diane followed in a Fairfax, a small plane used for ferrying one or two passengers. ‘Lovely work,’ she said.

  On the way back from the first delivery, Diane said they might get off early. ‘Give us plenty of time to get tiddled up for the party. Is your young man coming?’

  ‘No,’ said Izzy. ‘He’s awfully tired. He’s hardly getting any sleep.’

  ‘Pour soul,’ said Diane. ‘You’re going, though?’

  Izzy said she was. ‘I want to meet Alfie.’

  Diane told her she’d love him. ‘He’s a sweetie.’ Then, she added, ‘I hope you’ve got your dirty secrets ready. You promised me you’d divulge them.’

  ‘I don’t have any dirty secrets,’ said Izzy. ‘Do you?’

  Diane said of course she did. ‘Very juicy they are, too.’

  By now they were circling Skimpton airfield, Diane was too busy landing the plane to say more.

  It wasn’t till the second trip back to base, over an hour and a half later, after the second plane had been delivered and signed for, that Izzy got the chance to ask Diane about her secret.

  ‘I’ll tell you one, if you tell me one. It has to be good, though.’

  Izzy said, ‘OK. You first.’

  ‘My daughter is not my husband’s child.’ She turned to Izzy, smiled and raised her eyebrows. ‘Beat that.’

  Izzy said, ‘Really. Did your husband know?’

  ‘Of course he did. I was very young, very alone and very afraid. Henry was my only friend and when I told him, he offered to marry me.’

  Izzy asked, ‘What about the real father?’

  ‘Oh, he was in the army and buggered off to India as soon as he found out I was in the pudding club. Henry stepped forwards, saved me from scandal. Didn’t even flinch when my father called him a scoundrel.’

  ‘You must miss him,’ said Izzy.

  ‘Every minute of every day. Except for when I’m flying, and when I’m being naughty with my lover.’

  ‘You have a lover!’ said Izzy. ‘Who?’

  ‘That’s a whole new dirty secret. And one I am never going to divulge.’

  ‘Do I know him?’

  ‘Not telling,’ said Diane.

  By now they were back at Skimpton, Diane was waiting for a green landing light and was preoccupied. ‘It’s your turn, Izzy. Next trip, you confess.’

  The next trip, the third of the day, was in the afternoon. The sun was high. Izzy leaned against the window of the plane, watching its shadow skim over the fields below. This always fascinated her.

  ‘So,’ said Diane. ‘What’s your dirty secret? I won’t tell.’

  ‘My boyfriend thinks I’m too withdrawn. I should embrace life more. Laugh and swear and let go.’

  ‘Yes,’ said Diane. ‘He’s right. You should. But that’s not a secret, that’s more of a moan. You’re looking for sympathy and you’re not going to get it from me. I agree with him. Secrets, please, Izzy. That’s the game we’re playing.’

  Izzy didn’t take her eyes off the speeding shadow below. ‘My father doesn’t know what I’m doing. I let him think I’m an ops officer. An assistant ops officer, actually.’

  ‘Why on earth did you do that?’

  ‘He thinks a woman’s place is in the home, in the kitchen. Preferably making puddings.’

  ‘You can’t beat a pudding-making woman,’ said Diane. ‘I do like my puddings.’

  ‘So do I,’ said Izzy. ‘Maybe one day I’ll take up pudding-making. But right now I’d rather be a pilot. Only my father thinks it’s a man’s job. He’s sure no man would want me because of that. And he hates to see women in trousers. It really upsets him.’

  ‘That’s his problem, not yours. You have to tell him what you do. You should be proud to be a pilot.’

  ‘I am.’

  ‘So tell him.’

  ‘It isn’t that easy,’ said Izzy. ‘You don’t know what he’s like. He’s right about everything. He has a loud voice that drowns you out. He’s a man. He’s full of manness.’

  ‘Oh, I know what he’s like. I had to tell my own father when I was but a slip of an unmarried girl that I was pregnant. I know about that rightness and the utter, controlling manness.’

  Izzy said, ‘Well, you’ll understand why I haven’t told him.’
>
  ‘I understand. But I don’t condone it. You can’t be one Izzy – the Izzy we all know and love here at the base – and another Izzy back at home. You can’t live by another person’s rules. You have to be you, the complete Izzy, wherever you are.’ She looked over at Izzy to see what her reaction was. But Izzy wasn’t looking at her; she was staring down at the shadow. ‘Look,’ said Diane. ‘I’ll come with you and we’ll confront your father together. Or, even better, invite him down here to visit us. Me, Julia, Claire and Dolores will win him over with our womanly wiles; he won’t be able to resist. He’ll be so proud that you’re one of us, a lady pilot.’

  ‘I don’t think I am one of you,’ said Izzy. ‘I’m just me.’

  Diane asked what the hell she meant by that.

  Izzy said that the other pilots were all rich. ‘You’re all poised and confident and you’ve all got posh accents. I’m just ordinary.’

  ‘Oh, Izzy, that’s nonsense. You’re not ordinary. Nobody’s ordinary. Ordinary’s a myth dreamed up by people with no self-confidence. You think Julia and Claire and the others don’t doubt themselves? Of course they do. You went to proper school, learned about poetry and grammar and multiplication. We got taught by governesses. We learned what fork to use at dinner parties, how to walk with our heads up, how to keep silent when men were talking, how to shoot and ride. We were groomed for marriage. This working for a living is a revelation to us. We all think that you know so much more than we do about life, proper life. God, I envy you working for Betty Stokes Flying Show. Izzy? Are you listening to me? Can I ask what the hell you’re looking at?’

  ‘I’m watching our shadow,’ said Izzy. ‘We’re being followed by a cloud.’

  Diane looked down. ‘That’s not a cloud. That’s smoke.’

  Izzy looked harder. ‘It is smoke. Bloody hell.’

  They were coming into Skimpton and could see the base.

  ‘Damn fuel tank’s leaking,’ said Diane. She was calm, composed. ‘We’ll just shoot over the base. Let them see what’s up. Perhaps you should jump out.’

  ‘At this height,’ said Izzy. ‘I’ll hit the ground before my parachute opens. Besides, I don’t want to jump out. I’ve always dreaded doing that. And I won’t leave you.’

  ‘Oh, for God’s sake, Izzy, it’s only a little fire. We’re just about home. I’ll be fine.’

  ‘So, I’ll be fine, too.’

  By the time they were skimming over the base, flames were sparking out, caught in the slipstream, flashing behind them. People on the ground saw them and started running. Hooters sounded. The ambulance and fire engines, bells clanging, raced up the runway.

  Diane brought the plane low. ‘Bloody hell, Izzy. I’m not liking this at all.’

  Flames licked up the side of the cockpit. Shot past Izzy’s face. ‘Fuck!’ she shouted.

  ‘That’s the ticket,’ said Diane. ‘Bit of cursing helps.’

  They bumped down, rushed along the runway. Flames curled round the plane. Smoke curdled round them, thick billows. Izzy wrestled with Diane’s harness. She couldn’t see what she was doing.

  The fire engine was clanging alongside them. Izzy was aware of people outside. The plane slowed, stopped. The roar of the blaze drowned her shouts. ‘I can’t see anything!’

  There were people on the wing outside, yanking at the door. Hands were reaching for her, grabbing her, hauling at her. She was pulled out. Dragged clear.

  The noise was awful. Hooters – the airfield alarm – an ambulance and fire engine bells rattling, people shouting. There was a woman screaming.

  Several men were holding Izzy. One had her in a headlock. She struggled, bit and kicked. The heat was searing and she was being heaved back from it. She realised that she was the woman screaming. She was flailing her arms, shouting, ‘Diane’s still in there! Diane’s still in there!’

  Chapter Twenty-eight

  There’s no Such Thing as Fair

  NOTHING STOPPED WORK in the forest, not even death. The morning after Freddie Tait died, Elspeth rose at her usual time, dressed and went to the stables. She shovelled out the dung, swept the floor, rubbed down, fed and watered her horse in silence. Nobody spoke, nobody sang. Frazer said he didn’t like this gloom. ‘It does nobody no good.’

  Elspeth said she supposed this was true, but she couldn’t help it.

  Work done, she walked back to camp, thinking she’d have to persuade Lorna to get up. But no, she was sitting at the table in the dining hut, sipping tea but ignoring her porridge. ‘They don’t give you a day off for having a broken heart,’ she said.

  ‘No,’ Elspeth agreed, ‘they don’t.’

  ‘They should, though. They should let you just lie and stare for a few days. Let you get used to your grief.’

  Elspeth said she should eat. ‘It’s hard work out there loading trucks. You need to keep your strength up.’

  ‘Tell that to my stomach,’ said Lorna. ‘It’s working hard dealing with the tea. It’d just send the porridge back up the way it came.’

  They walked together up the track to where they were working in the forest. Elspeth led the horse. Not that it was necessary. It would have followed her, anyway.

  It was a good day, warm, cloudless. A couple of buzzards cruised the thermals high above them, birds hopped about in the branches of trees nearby and the ground beneath Lorna and Elspeth’s feet was dry. It didn’t get much better than this.

  ‘I woke up this morning, saw the sun and felt happy,’ said Lorna. ‘Then I remembered I was miserable and I wondered for a moment why that was. Then it came to me. Freddie’s dead.’

  Elspeth took Lorna’s hand and squeezed it.

  At first, when dealing with her sixty-logs-a-day quota, Elspeth had tried to divide it into thirty logs in the morning and thirty in the afternoon. But that left her struggling at the end of the day when her legs ached. Now, she did forty in the morning, fifteen after lunch and five after the afternoon break. But still she felt breathless and her joints were sore by the time the workday ended. She was getting too old for this.

  Today the only sounds were of people working, saws and axes. The atmosphere was raw. It was a relief when two of the girls, unable to stand the silence, started singing ‘Mairzy Doats and Dozy Doats’. Everyone joined in, the chorus bellowing through the trees, getting louder and louder till everyone, even Lorna, heaving logs onto the back of a truck, was singing till her throat hurt.

  Lunch was a treat – cheese sandwiches and strong tea. Elspeth sat with Lorna and asked how she was coping.

  ‘I’m bloody tired out and hoarse,’ said Lorna. ‘But now I know what to do when something bad happens. I’ll chop down a tree and drag it about. Being bloody tired out really helps.’

  Elspeth looked up, saw Duncan approaching, ‘Uh-oh, here comes the boss.’

  ‘Moon,’ he said. ‘You’re to give a recital at the big house next Thursday night.’

  ‘Am I?’ said Elspeth.

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘May I point out that evenings are my own free time and nobody can just tell me what to do.’

  ‘Lady McKenzie is offering a five-pound fee to entertain her friends.’

  Elspeth didn’t hesitate. ‘OK, then.’

  ‘I’ll drive you in the truck. Don’t want you falling off your bike on the way there.’

  When he’d gone, Elspeth nudged Lorna. ‘Five whole pounds. The fish and chips and a drink in the pub are on me.’

  Lorna said, ‘You’ll be alone with him in the truck. He’ll make a grab for you. I think he’s in love with you.’

  Elspeth told her not to be daft. The whistle went. They drained their mugs, got up and went back to work.

  The week passed slowly. On Sunday afternoon the local minister came to the camp and held a service for Freddie in the dining hut. They sang the twenty-third psalm, listened as Tyler spoke of his friend, but it was only when everyone stood up and sang ‘You’d Be so Nice to Come Home to’, Freddie’s favourite song, that Lorna cried.

/>   When it was over, she went with Elspeth and Tyler to their spot by the river, filled their mugs with whisky, and talked till stars came out. They shared memories, dreams, plans and ambitions. When Tyler spoke of returning to Newfoundland, and, once again, asked Elspeth to marry him and come home with him, Elspeth kicked him on the shins.

  ‘You bloody tactless fool,’ she hissed, as they walked back to the camp. ‘Lorna was planning to go back with Freddie. You didn’t have to remind her that she can’t do that now.’

  He shrugged and shuffled down the track to his hut. ‘Offer’s still open,’ he said. ‘Always will be.’

  On Thursday evening she put on her uniform and went with Duncan to the recital. He was wearing a tweed suit, shiny with wear at the elbows and cuffs, a white shirt, blue tie and shoes polished to a mirrored gleam. His hair was sculpted into a skull-clinging gloss, thick with Brylcreem. The smell of it lingered in Elspeth’s nostrils all evening. He hardly spoke on the drive to the big house.

  The recital was held in a huge drawing room, lit by a giant crystal chandelier. At the far end was a baby grand, complete with gold candlesticks, a candle aglow in each one. There were chairs – gold-leaf arms and red velvet cushions – lined up in neat rows. Elspeth felt sick with nerves.

  There was a large buffet set out on a table, and several waiters, all wearing white gloves, wandered about with trays bearing glasses of champagne. Elspeth wasn’t offered one, but Duncan took a glass, sipped and coughed. It wasn’t to his liking.

  Elspeth took off her jacket and beret, sat at the piano and ran through some scales to warm up since she hadn’t played in some time. But, eventually, at half past seven, the evening got underway. Elspeth discovered that being rusty didn’t matter at all. Hardly anybody noticed her mistakes. At the end of each piece, they clapped enthusiastically.

  Halfway through the proceedings, there was an interval. Champagne for me, thought Elspeth. But no, she was dispatched to the kitchen, where the cook might have prepared a little something for her.