by Anne Douglas
Whatever would the staff say? And her mother? And Rusty? She smiled a little. And Ben? He was the one who’d told her she was going places, climbing ladders. And here she was, in a new place, all right: George Hawthorne’s.
After a few moments, she rose and returned to her old office, where Edie was tidying up for the end of the day.
‘Edie,’ she said, ‘Can I interrupt you for a moment? I’ve something to tell you.’
Thirty-Two
Of course, as soon as he heard what had happened in Leith, Rusty managed to get himself a weekend pass to come back to Jess.
‘I never thought you’d do it,’ she gasped, when they’d released themselves from the first long embrace in George’s office that she’d finally come to think of as hers. ‘I mean, you’ve so much on – your course and the tests coming up and everything – I didn’t even dare to hope you might come.’
‘After what you’ve been through?’ Rusty shuddered. ‘I asked for compassionate leave and the CO agreed without a word – and why not? I mean, when I think of you in Leith and how close you were to those bombs, I’m not joking about needing compassionate leave. And then there’s poor old George to think about, as well. How is he, by the way?’
‘Recovering, but slowly. He’s allowed visitors now, so shall we go to the Royal together?’
‘Sure. I’d like to. First, though, we’re going home, aren’t we?’
‘Oh, yes, we’re going home!’ She laughed. ‘I’m giving myself a bit of time off. You realize that I can?’
Rusty looked round the office that he’d always known as Mr Hawthorne’s and nodded.
‘Sorry, hadn’t thought about it – I was just too mad keen to see you. But you’ve done very well, Jess, you certainly have.’
‘I’m only acting manager until George comes back, of course. Probably because I just happened to have experience of the Princes.’
‘And with so many guys in the forces, there wouldn’t be much choice, I suppose.’
‘Guys?’ Jess’s eyes were suddenly glittering. ‘You’re saying, that if there’d been a man around, I wouldn’t have got the job?’
‘No, no, of course not.’ Rusty’s expression was already penitent. ‘It’s just that . . . well . . . fellows like John Syme and his board – they’d probably think of finding a man first. That’s all I meant, honest! You know I think you could do any job you fancied.’
He drew her again into his arms, but it was only when he’d pleaded with her not to be ‘mad at him’, he really hadn’t meant to upset her, that she finally relaxed enough to return his kisses.
‘Think how lucky we’ve been,’ he whispered. ‘Think what might have happened.’
And remembering the seven who’d died in the tenement, she shed a few tears, before telling Edie that she’d be leaving early, Rusty was with her.
‘And I’m sure you’re right to give yourself some time off, Jess!’ Edie cried. ‘You should be at home resting anyway – not working yourself to a frazzle!’ Turning her gaze on Rusty, she told him how pleased she was to see him and how well he was looking in his uniform.
‘And aren’t you proud of Jess here, then? We are, you know. We’re all as pleased as Punch that Mr Syme appointed her.’
‘Only temporary,’ Jess said hurriedly. ‘I’m hoping George will soon be back with us. Be sure to tell Fred to be careful about locking up, Edie, won’t you? And to check the blackout before he goes?’
‘Jess, he always does, so stop worrying. Enjoy your time off for once!’
But, in the tram going home, Rusty, looking at Jess with her brows bent and an abstracted look in her eyes, knew that she was never going to stop worrying about the Princes if she had to leave it for a while. Unless, of course, he could persuade her to put it out of her mind – while they made love.
The love-making was so deeply satisfying, it was a terrible wrench to get up, get dressed, find something to eat and make their way to the Royal. But Rusty had meant it when he’d said he wanted to see George, and Jess was always keen to see how he was.
‘To be honest, he doesn’t look so well to me,’ she told Rusty before they entered George’s ward. ‘They say he’s made a good recovery, but he seems so down, you know. As though he’s too far down to come up.’
‘He’s bound to be in low spirits for a while, Jess. Think about it. One minute he’s fine, the next facing death, and even when he’s better, he’s still in hospital and someone else is doing his job.’
‘He’s glad I’m doing it. He’s said so.’
‘Of course he’s glad. He’d rather you than anybody else. But it doesn’t mean he wouldn’t rather be back at the Princes himself.’
‘He will be, very soon. I’m sure of it.’
But when they saw him, sitting in a dressing gown by his bed, George didn’t look as though he’d be returning to work any time soon. Everything about him seemed to have narrowed. His face, his shoulders, his once broad chest. Even his hands had changed; become the hands of a sick man, pale and delicate, showing every bone.
But it was the bombs that were causing the trouble, he told Jess, when she and Rusty had taken chairs near him and he’d made a gallant attempt to greet them. ‘I’d be all right, if it wasn’t for them.’
‘The bombs?’ Jess repeated. ‘How do you mean, George?’
‘I still hear them. I hear them sounding. And the noise is terrible. Well, you remember it, don’t you?’
‘It was terrible,’ she agreed. ‘But I don’t hear it now.’
‘You don’t?’ George shook his head. ‘Wish I didn’t. But it’s the same with the pavement. I mean, the floor. They make me get up, you know, I have to exercise. Walk up and down the ward, and oh, my God, soon as I set off, I feel the whole thing rocking underfoot, just like it did in Leith. I have to stop and lean on somebody’s bed, but people are very kind, they don’t complain. Then the nurse usually comes and takes me back.’
Jess and Rusty looked at each other.
‘What does the doctor think?’ Jess asked, putting the magazines she’d brought on George’s locker. ‘Have you told him about all this?’
‘Oh, yes. He says not to worry, it’ll all go. It’s just the result of . . . now what was it? German word.’ George’s brow furrowed. ‘Trauma. That was it. Would be a Jerry word, wouldn’t it?’
‘It’s good, though, that there’s nothing to worry about,’ Rusty said, trying to sound cheerful. ‘Maybe they’ll let you go home soon.’
‘And Daisy will be looking forward to that,’ Jess added, but George’s expression did not lighten.
‘She is, but I’ve told her, I’m not going home until I stop hearing the bombs. It wouldn’t be fair on her. Too much of a worry.’
‘But George, you will stop hearing them. The doctor says so.’
He shrugged. ‘We’ll have to see if he’s right.’
‘He is right, George. He knows what he’s talking about. And when it happens, you’ll be better and able to come back to work!’
He gave her a long sad look.
‘I don’t know about that, Jess. I don’t know about that at all.’
‘Looks to me as though you might have George’s job for longer than you think,’ Rusty said, breaking a silence as they made their way home. ‘He isn’t going to be coming back for quite some time, is he?’
‘You’re thinking of how he is now,’ Jess replied. ‘But the doctor says there’s nothing to worry about. When he gets over his . . . what they call it . . . trauma, he’ll be back to his old self.’
‘Hope so.’ At the turning into their street, Rusty paused. ‘Think I can find any cigarettes round here? I’m dying for a smoke.’
‘I thought folk in the services had plenty of cigarettes?’
‘I’ve still run out. How about that corner shop? They might take pity on me.’
‘Might have some Woodbines,’ Jess said doubtfully. ‘I only buy the paper there, I don’t know about the cigarettes.’
‘I’ll try, a
nyway. You go on, then. Put the kettle on!’
Back at the flat, Jess, with heavy heart, thought about George, then put on the kettle and moved to the bedroom to fling herself for a moment on the bed. How warm it had become! Warm and humid. She could scarcely breathe.
From her pleasant rest, head against the pillows, her eyes fell on Rusty’s canvas bag on the chair where he’d left it. Better unpack it, she supposed. And there was the kettle singing, too. She’d have to get up.
Considering how little he must have brought for such a brief visit, Rusty’s bag seemed strangely heavy. What on earth had he put in it? Feeling guilty for no reason at all, as she was going to unpack it anyway, she undid the buckles and looked inside. Wrapped in Rusty’s clean shirt and underpants was a bottle of whisky.
Thirty-Three
‘Got some!’ Rusty called, coming into the flat smiling, a packet of Players cigarettes in his hand. ‘Soon as he saw my uniform, the guy produced these for me. Saved my life.’
‘Saved your life?’ Jess, facing him in their small living room, held out the bottle of whisky. ‘And what would this do, Rusty?’
His smile faded. ‘Just got that before I left, Jess.’
‘Got it from where? Whisky’s hard to find.’
‘Exactly. Someone I know tipped me off about a source. Had to bring it with me, but you needn’t worry, I’m not intending to drink it all at once.’
He flung himself into a chair and, tearing open the packet of cigarettes, took out his lighter and lit one, his eyes on Jess defiant.
‘Wish you’d stop looking at me as though I were some sort of criminal.’
Jess put the bottle down and took a chair herself.
‘Why do you need it?’ she asked in a low voice. ‘Why drink it at all?’
‘Why not? It’s a . . . help, that’s all.’
‘A help? You need help, Rusty?’
‘Look, I don’t want to talk about this. Can we leave it.’
‘How much does a bottle of whisky cost these days? At black market prices?’ Jess, fighting tears, sprang up and began to walk about the room. ‘Oh, Rusty, you must be spending all your pay!’ But as she turned to look at him again, she caught her breath. ‘Or are you using the savings? The money from the house your folks left you?’
‘No, I am not using the money they left me!’ he cried. ‘I’ve never touched it, never would, without you. Because that bottle’s just a one-off! You think I drink whisky when I go out with my mates? I drink beer and the cheapest they’ve got. And when have I not sent money home to you? I know it’s a pittance, but I’ve never missed, have I?’
‘I know you send me money and you know I add it to the savings. For our future, Rusty. For when the war’s over and we can think of a house and a family, maybe. That’s what matters, isn’t it? Our future?’
‘I’ve said I haven’t touched our savings. Why don’t you trust me?’
‘Because I don’t believe you only drink beer. You’ve just said, the whisky’s a help. How do you know that, if this bottle’s a one-off? You must have drunk it before. And I saw you drinking whisky at the pub, if you remember.’
‘All right, I like whisky, I admit it.’ Rusty drew on his cigarette and stubbed it out. ‘I save up for it and buy it when I can, which is not that often. So, can we leave this now? I don’t want to talk about it any more.’
‘All right.’ She studied him. The handsome face averted from her, the long thin hands turning his cigarette case, over and over, the unusual eyes cast down. It was plain that he was not going to talk to her at that time; she would do better to wait.
‘I’ll make the tea, then. Like anything else to eat? Haven’t got much, but there’s cheese, and Ma gave me a few tomatoes. Derry let her have some.’
‘Thanks, I’m not hungry. How’s Derry’s wife, then?’
‘Still in hospital. The outlook’s not good.’
‘I’m sorry.’
After they’d had their tea, they went to bed, but not to make love, or to sleep. The summer night was sultry, their bodies lying close, sticky and hot, and there were times when Jess longed to get up, stand at the window and search for cool air. But, of course, the window was shrouded in black out curtains, there was no cool air, and she didn’t actually want to move. This was her chance to make Rusty talk to her. To tell her why he needed help – and from that bottle, still on the table in the living room.
When he groaned with the heat and rolled away from her, she put her arms around him and brought him back, leaning close and pressing her lips to his chest.
‘Rusty,’ she whispered. ‘Talk to me. Tell me what’s wrong. I know there’s something. Don’t try to hide it.’
For a long time, he only held her, sighing against her, sometimes kissing her, then letting her go.
‘Oh, Jess,’ he murmured. ‘Jess – I feel so bad. Hollow. Like the straw man.’
‘Tell me,’ she urged. ‘Just tell me. Because, what happens to you, happens to me. So, I have to know – what’s wrong.’
‘Oh, God, Jess . . .’ He again held her tight against him, then let her go. ‘It’s the flying.’
‘The flying?’ She was mystified. ‘But you’re no’ a pilot, Rusty. Is it the navigating, then? Is it too difficult, or something?’
‘I can do the navigating. That’s fine. No trouble at all. It’s just being what I wanted to be. Aircrew. One of the glory boys. I was selected. Accepted. I couldn’t believe it. I mean, there was poor Ben, feeling the same as me, and turned down, and I was selected. I passed all the aptitude tests. I seemed a natural. I was so proud.’
‘You were right to be. You did well.’
‘Yes, but it’s all changed, Jess. And I daren’t let anybody know. I couldn’t face it – admitting . . .’
He was silent for a moment, then turned aside to lie staring into the darkness.
‘Admitting . . . ?’ she prompted gently.
‘That I’m afraid.’
After a while, they clung together again, still without speaking, until Jess asked quietly, ‘Afraid of flying, Rusty? I don’t understand. Why should you be afraid when you weren’t before?’
‘It sounds strange, I know, because in the early days it’s true I was OK. We had a lot of training flights, as you can imagine, and I was just like everyone else, enjoyed them all. Couldn’t wait to qualify and get posted to real ops.’ Rusty laughed shortly. ‘Imagine that?’ He laughed again.
‘Go on,’ Jess urged him. ‘Rusty, go on.’
‘Well, what happened was that one day we were on one of our routine training flights and something went wrong. We began to lose altitude, and the pilot couldn’t seem to correct, to get us up again. All happened in seconds, though seemed like years, and I could see the ground coming nearer and nearer, the fields and hedges growing bigger, and I thought, This is it, we’re not going to pull out, we’re not going to survive. I thought of you, Jess, and my folks, I kept thinking, I’m going to meet my folks . . . and then I just . . . closed my eyes. Next thing I knew, we were up again, zooming up into the heavens, and the pilot was laughing. So was I, laughing.’
Still staring unseeingly into the darkness, Rusty seemed not to notice when Jess held on to his hands, trying to live through what he was telling her, as he was living through it yet again.
‘We were fine, you see,’ he was murmuring, ‘we were safe. Came down without trouble, shook the pilot’s hand. It was all over. Just one of those things. Everyone walked away.’
Thank God she hadn’t known about this at the time, Jess was thinking. Thank God they’d all survived. But Rusty was no longer thinking of giving thanks.
‘From that day onwards, I’ve never wanted to fly again,’ he told her, his voice so low she could hardly catch it. ‘Every time I get in the plane, I see the earth coming to meet me, I see the fields and hedges, just like before, I feel the plane falling. At the same time, I’m doing my job. Plotting the course, concentrating with all I’ve got. But all I’m feeling, Jess, is fear. A
nd that’s the way it will always be. I know that now.’
‘No, no, it needn’t be like that, Rusty! You could get help!’
‘I’ve got help, remember? Didn’t you find it in my bag?’
‘Whisky’s no help. No help at all. What happens when they find out? What happens if you can’t do your work?’
‘My work? I don’t drink on duty, Jess! I’m not completely mad. No, I drink when I’m free, in my own room in my billet, and I get by. Don’t go on about it, there’s no point.’
‘I thought you said once that the pleasure of drinking was being sociable – convivial was the word, wasn’t it? But now you drink on your own.’
‘That’s the way it’s got to be. I wish to God it could be different, but it’s not possible.’
‘Well, you know what I think, then?’ She had left the bed and was tying on her cotton wrapper. ‘I think you must go to the CO and tell him you can’t fly any more. You must ask for ground duties. It’s the only thing to do!’
‘It’s the last thing I’ll do!’ he cried, flinging back the sheet that had been their only covering. ‘You have no idea how I’d be thought of if I asked for ground duties, if I told the CO I was scared of going up. Can you not see how that would make me seem?’
‘It must often have happened before. People get stressed . . .’
‘Before they’ve even been in combat? I’d never tell the CO how I feel. Don’t ask me. Just don’t ask me.’
‘Let’s go in the kitchen,’ she said, after a long pause. ‘Make some tea. And you could have another cigarette.’
‘Thank God for that.’
It was better in the kitchen in the artificial light, the two of them sitting at the table, wearing their old dressing gowns, both drinking tea and Rusty smoking. Marginally better, anyway.
‘I’ve been thinking,’ Jess said, shaking the teapot and pouring herself more tea. ‘What happened to you on that flight, Rusty, was a bit like what happened to George. Trauma, the doctor called it, and George hasn’t got over it yet. But he will, that’s the point. And so will you.’