A Song At Twilight

by Lilian Harry

  ‘Tubby was scared,’ he said at last. ‘He was scared. I knew it, and I let him go on. I could have grounded him, but I didn’t. I let him go on flying, and now he’s dead.’ He sat up a little, his face buried in his hands. ‘It’s nothing new, for God’s sake. Look how many young pilots I’ve seen killed – either shot down, or got caught out by engine failure, running out of fuel or crashing on landing or takeoff, and some poor blighters even killed by our own ack-ack fire. I’ve been upset by every one of them. But you can’t let it affect you. You’ve got to push it aside and concentrate on the job.’ He paused, then added in a voice racked with pain, ‘Only this time, I can’t. With Tubby, it’s different.’

  ‘Andrew,’ she murmured. ‘Darling …’

  He went on as if she were not there, talking more to himself than to her. ‘I keep looking for him. I look for him in the air, in the mess – all the time I’m walking or cycling round the airfield. I look for him in the pubs. And every time, it’s like another shock when I remember I’m not going to find him. He’s at the bottom of the sea, all mixed up in the wreckage of his aeroplane.’

  Alison tightened her fingers around his wrists. She pulled his hands away from his face and stared into his eyes, seeing the grief there, the haunting regrets. She knew now what had been tormenting him during these past few days. It was more than grief for his friend, more than the sense of bereavement at the loss of a man who had been like a brother to him; it was remorse. Remorse and guilt at having let Tubby down, at not having grounded him and kept him safe.

  ‘Andrew,’ she said. ‘You are not to do this. It wasn’t your fault that Tubby died. Yes, you knew he was afraid, and maybe if you’d gone by the book you’d have grounded him. But you didn’t, because you knew that wasn’t what he wanted. It didn’t matter how afraid he was, he still wanted to go on flying. He wanted that more than anything else. And if he’d known that you realised how he felt and still let him fly, he’d have thanked you for it.’

  ‘Maybe you’re right,’ he said sombrely. ‘But we’ll never know, will we? We’ll never know how he really felt, because he never told anyone. He never talked about it.’

  Alison took a deep breath. She told herself that the promise no longer held good, that Tubby would have wanted her to break it now; that he would have wanted this burden lifted from Andrew’s shoulders.

  ‘He did,’ she said. ‘He talked about it to me.’

  Andrew stared at her. ‘To you? But why – when—?’

  ‘It was just before we moved here,’ she said. ‘He came to see me. He didn’t mean to let me know, but somehow it all came out. He was in a dreadful state – shaking all over, almost crying – and he told me everything. How scared he was – how it came over him all of a sudden, when he was on Channel patrol one day. He’d thought it would pass, but it didn’t. It got worse.’

  ‘But why didn’t he say?’ Andrew asked, bewildered. ‘I’d have got him rested.’

  ‘That’s just what he didn’t want. He was terrified of being grounded. He said if that happened, he – he wouldn’t want to go on. He made me promise not to tell you. There was nothing I could do about it.’

  ‘You should have done, all the same.’ He looked at her with accusing eyes. ‘If you had done—’

  ‘I know!’ she cried. ‘He’d still be alive now. Or maybe he wouldn’t. Maybe something worse would have happened. He really meant it when he said he wouldn’t want to go on, Andrew.’

  ‘Oh, that’s just talk! People don’t mean those sort of threats.’

  ‘Sometimes they do,’ she said quietly. ‘I think Tubby did. He couldn’t bear to think of his parents knowing he was a coward, you see.’ Briefly, she recounted the story Tubby had told her, of his young uncle, executed by firing squad during the First World War. ‘He was only fifteen, he shouldn’t even have been in the Army, but he was called a coward just the same. It affected the whole family. And if anything killed Tubby – apart from this war – it was that. He couldn’t bear the thought that they might think he was a coward too. It wasn’t you, Andrew. You must believe that. He was grateful that you let him go on flying. It was what he wanted.’

  ‘Poor devil,’ Andrew said, rubbing his forehead. ‘Poor bloody devil.’ He sat up straighter in his chair and looked back into her eyes. ‘Well, it seems to me there’s only one thing I can do now – and that’s to go on flying myself. Kill some more bloody Huns, and get this whole damned war over and done with.’

  Chapter Seven

  It was probably, Andrew thought, a good thing that the squadron was due to return to night-flying in a week or two. Although the squadron had either had previous experience or been on several training courses, he and Tubby had never done night-flying together, so there would be no memories to distract him. Distractions were perilous; they could be a sign that a pilot was due for a rest, but Andrew didn’t want to rest. He wanted to stay in the air, leading his squadron, fighting the war and helping to win it. He wanted to bring peace to his country and to his family, and now that there was a new baby on the way he wanted it even more.

  He broke the news about the night-flying to Alison the day after the party. They’d talked far into the night, drinking enough tea to wash away the effects of the beer, and then slept as late as Hughie would allow. In the afternoon they went for a long walk into the valley and beside the river, through a wood of huge old oaks, chestnuts and beeches. Hughie ran ahead, kicking up a deep carpet of gold and brown leaves.

  ‘Night-flying?’ she echoed, straightening up with a prickly chestnut case in her hand. Her eyes told him that she knew the dangers but was too controlled to let them show. Instead, she said, ‘Are you pleased?’

  ‘I’m pleased about anything that will help us bring this war to an end.’ He glanced at Hughie, trampling through the leaves and throwing himself into a heap that had blown into a pile against a bank. ‘I don’t want my children growing up with the kind of life we’ve endured for the past four years. I want them to have peace and freedom – all the things we thought the First World War was going to bring us.’ He gave a short laugh. ‘The war to end all wars, that’s what they called it! Well, it didn’t work – but this one must put a stop to it, or it will get worse and worse, and the world will be a more dangerous place than we can even begin to imagine.’

  Alison stared at him, shocked. She had never heard Andrew speak like this before. He had always throbbed with energy and eagerness to get into the air, but at the beginning there had been a kind of elation in him – a vibrant pleasure in the act of flying, in using the skills he had developed and using them to good purpose. Gradually, over the years, that elation had changed to a burning determination to wring the best he could from his machine, his men and, above all, himself. He had seen death and destruction, he had played his own part in bringing it about yet he knew that it was only by continuing with it that the war could be brought to an end.

  Now, there was a new note in his voice – a bitter fury that she had never heard before. It was because of Tubby, she thought. Andrew had grieved over all the men he had seen go to their deaths, but he had thrust his grief aside and used it to go on, stepping on it like the rungs of a ladder. But Tubby’s death was a rung too high. It had shocked him more deeply than he had ever been shocked before.

  It would make him even more dangerous in the air, she thought – more dangerous to the enemy. But would it also make him more dangerous to himself?

  She glanced from him to their son, scooping up the leaves in his arms and tossing them high, laughing with pleasure as they fell about him in a brilliant shower of red and gold.

  ‘Let’s go home and have a cup of tea,’ she said, taking Andrew’s arm gently. ‘We’ll light the fire, and have a quiet evening together.’

  Night-flying was a different world.

  Instead of soaring into clear blue sky above the clouds, using their eyes to search for enemy aircraft, the pilots floated in a huge black hemisphere, peppered with stars. Sometimes the darkness wa
s pierced by the beams of searchlights, like bright swords slicing through the sky; sometimes it was almost absolute, a dense shadow that could conceal the raiders that might lurk within. At dawn or at dusk, you could get into position in order to see the enemy against the glimmer of light on the horizon; or, if there were a moon, you might catch him flying down the glittering pathway it flung on the surface of the sea, or silhouetted against a big sheet of cloud.

  The main task of the fighters was to accompany bombers deep into France or Germany. For many months now, the Allies had been waging a bitter offensive against the core of industrial Germany. But the losses had been heavy until the Americans learned what the British Bomber Command already knew – that even the great Flying Fortress could not survive over Germany without the protection of fighters. More squadrons were to be brought in for the task of escort, and Harrowbeer was to be one of the airfields to provide them.

  Andrew was deeply satisfied. He called his pilots together and gave them a vigorous talk about their new duties. ‘It’s our chance to show what we’re made of,’ he said. ‘We’ve had our rest, we’ve had our fun pootling about the sky having a pop at the occasional reconnaissance plane – now we’ll be back in the thick of it. It’s our chance to get a few of these bastards and show them what’s what.’ His glance settled on Ben and Tony. ‘You’ve both done some night-flying, haven’t you?’

  They nodded. Ben said, ‘I was in the Med for a while. I saw what they did to Malta. I’ll be glad to do a bit more towards getting rid of them.’

  ‘I too,’ Stefan said, and the others joined in with their agreement. The whole atmosphere of the mess was changing already, Andrew noted with approval. They hadn’t been fed up, exactly, and they’d all needed the rest that pilots had to take every now and then, but they’d been growing impatient and were eager to be back in real action. Combat was what they wanted, to test and use the skills they had so finely honed; combat which would help to win the war as it had already won the Battle of Britain.

  ‘You’ll all have a forty-eight-hour leave pass before we start,’ Andrew told them finally. ‘If you can get home, do so. Otherwise, I dare say you’ll find ways to pass the time!’ They laughed and he fixed them with a mock glare before adding, ‘And don’t think you’ll be spending it round at my house. I consider myself on leave too!’

  ‘Will you go home?’ Tony asked Ben as they stood in a corner of the mess later, each with a pint of beer in his hand.

  ‘Oh yes. The parents will want to see me. We all try to get back whenever we can, although it’s not so easy for my brothers. And there’s Jeanie too,’ he added, half to himself.

  Tony gave him a curious glance. ‘That’s the girl with the kiddy, isn’t it? I didn’t realise she was your girlfriend as well.’

  ‘She’s not!’ Ben’s reply came quickly and he felt himself colour a little. ‘It’s just that she’s part of the family now – they both are – and I’m Hope’s godfather …’ His voice trailed away and Tony cocked an eyebrow at him.

  ‘Sounds like it’s a bit more than that. You’d better watch your step, young Benjamin, or you could find yourself drifting into something you might regret. You know what they say about repenting at leisure.’

  ‘For Pete’s sake, Tony! I’m not thinking of marrying her!’

  ‘Then what are you thinking of?’ Tony asked shrewdly. ‘Because you certainly had her on your list of people you need to see.’

  ‘And who’s on yours?’ Ben demanded, deciding that attack was the best form of defence. ‘Half a dozen different girls, I suppose. Will you have time to see them all?’

  ‘Shan’t even try.’ Tony finished his drink and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. ‘It’s too far for me to go home on a forty-eight so I’ll just loll about here. Get the train into Plymouth or Tavistock and see what’s going on. And maybe look in on a couple of popsies.’ He grinned. ‘Safety in numbers, you know – you ought to remember that. Now I’m off to find my address book. See you later.’ He strolled away and Ben, shaking his head, finished his own drink. He glanced at his watch and tried to remember the times of the trains from Yelverton to Plymouth. If he got his skates on, he could be home by teatime.

  He strolled away and Ben, shaking his head, finished his own drink. He glanced at his watch and tried to remember the times of the trains from Yelverton to Plymouth. If he got his skates on, he could be home by teatime.

  Chapter Eight

  ‘What a lovely surprise.’ Olivia Hazelwood stepped back and held her youngest son at arms’ length. ‘You should have let us know – we’d have done something special for supper.’

  ‘A fatted calf?’ he grinned, and she gave him a wry smile.

  ‘Well, a few eggs, at least! They’re the equivalent of a fatted calf these days. Anyway, you’re not a prodigal son.’ She linked her arm through his and led him into the house. He had met her as she strolled home from her WI meeting; humping his kitbag, he had walked from the tiny railway station through the familiar lanes, sniffing woodsmoke from cottage chimneys and listening to the caws of the rooks on their way back from the fields to their roosts in the tall elm trees growing in the churchyard. He had known the footsteps belonged to his mother as soon as he heard them treading softly through the fallen leaves, and he had waited at the gate, whistling quietly so as not to alarm her.

  ‘I knew it was you the moment I heard that tune,’ she said affectionately. ‘How long have you got?’

  ‘Forty-eight hours. That means I’ve got to leave straight after breakfast the day after tomorrow. There’s a good train to Plymouth and then I can get the branch line to Yelverton.’ He hesitated, then decided he might as well tell her straight away. ‘We’re going on to night-flying.’

  ‘Oh.’ She was silent for a moment or two. They stood in the hall, taking off their coats and gloves, then she raised her eyes to his. She knew quite well how dangerous it was, and that there was really nothing to be said about it, and after another minute or so she remarked briskly, ‘Well, we’d better have a look in the kitchen and see what Jeanie’s doing. The hens are laying well at the moment – we had six eggs this morning, so they’re nice and fresh. You can have one for your breakfast tomorrow.’ She was talking at random as she walked past him and through the kitchen door, and he heard her say to Jeanie, ‘Guess who’s come home? Come and see who’s here, Hope. It’s your Uncle Ben.’

  ‘Ben!’ Jeanie came through the door, her eyes bright and her round, pretty face beaming. She came to a stop a foot or two away, holding out her hands, and he took them in his, smiling with pleasure.

  ‘You’ve got flour on your nose,’ he said, and let go of one of her hands to brush it away.

  Jeanie blushed and said, ‘I’m making a rabbit pie for supper. How long are you staying?’

  ‘Everyone asks me that,’ he complained. ‘It’s just another way of saying “When are you going back?” You can’t wait to get rid of me.’

  ‘Yes, we can!’ she protested, and blushed again when he laughed. ‘Oh, you know what I mean. We just want to know how long we can have you here.’

  ‘Don’t tease her, Ben,’ Olivia said, appearing in the doorway with Hope, who immediately squealed and flung herself at him, wrapping her arms around his legs and burying her face in his knees. He laughed and swung her off her feet.

  ‘How’s my favourite girl, then? How’s my little princess?’

  Jeanie moved back towards the kitchen. ‘I’d better get back to my pie. And I expect you’d like a cup of tea.’

  ‘A huge one,’ he nodded, and followed her, still carrying Hope in his arms. Olivia busied herself putting the kettle on and taking cups and saucers from the dresser. She looked in the cupboard.

  ‘We’ve no cake, I’m afraid, but I got some broken biscuits in the village shop.’ She put the tin on the table and Ben fell upon it.

  ‘Broken biscuits! Any chocolate ones? Or custard creams?’

  He pulled off the lid and Jeanie said smartly, ‘Now, you’re
not to go ferreting about in there, looking for all the best ones. As for chocolate biscuits – I haven’t seen such a thing for years. I don’t think they make them any more.’

  ‘Never mind. I’ll make do with Rich Tea. And here’s a bit of custard cream for Hope.’ The little girl climbed on to his knee and he fed her the scrap of biscuit, then leaned back in the chair, letting his eyes roam about the big, warm kitchen. The curtains were drawn, the blackouts in place and the lamps lit, making a cosy cocoon filled with the warm scent of baking. Jeanie had made some rock cakes and a Victoria sponge, which were cooling on a wire rack on the scrubbed wooden table, and she had now returned to rolling out the pastry for the rabbit pie. The meat was in an enamel pie dish beside her.

  ‘I came home on the right night,’ he said, sipping his tea as he watched her. ‘Nothing like a bit of home cooking to feed the starving hordes.’

  ‘Go on,’ she said, curling the pastry round the wooden rolling-pin and draping it over the dish of meat. ‘I bet you get fed like fighting-cocks. I’ve heard all about it – eggs and bacon for breakfast every day, roast beef for dinner. Most people in Pompey have forgotten what a real egg looks like.’

  ‘Well, we have to be properly fed if we’re going to win this war,’ he said. ‘No good letting our tummies rumble while we’re flying – we might mistake it for enemy gunfire.’ He stopped, remembering that he intended to play down the dangers he faced in the sky. ‘Not that we get much of that on daylight patrol.’

  ‘You will when you’re on night-flying, though,’ John Hazelwood said, coming into the kitchen. He had let himself in through the back door and Olivia had gone to meet him as he took off his boots in the outer scullery. He slapped his hand on Ben’s shoulder. ‘Good to see you. How long are you here for?’

  Ben and Jeanie burst out laughing. ‘You see?’ he said to her, and then grinned at his father. ‘Till the day after tomorrow. Then we start the new routine. I’m looking forward to it. Night-flying has something special about it – you’re in another world, a world of your own, up there with the moon and the stars all around you, and nothing but darkness below. Well, except for the neutral countries, of course. It’s odd to see all their lights shining when everywhere else is blacked out. But it’s hard to realise, sometimes, that there’s a war on. If it weren’t for that, I think I could fly for ever at night.’