Bluebirds

by Margaret Mayhew

  Gran had finished her plateful and she smacked her lips together. The bib of her long black dress was liberally spotted with food stains.

  ‘Leave the mawther alone, Rhoda. Stop yar fussin’. Yew’ve no sense at all. She’s tired, comin’ all that way. Needs her tay. Leave her be.’

  Winnie drank the hot tea and ate hungrily. Now that Gran had spoken, she was left in peace. There were floury scones with thick yellow butter, plum jam and seed cake . . . she had forgotten how good home-made food tasted.

  Afterwards she did the washing-up out in the scullery. The pipe that brought the water from the pond to the pump beside the sink was frozen solid and so she had to use water from a pail, mixing it with hot water from the kettle off the fire in the enamel bowl. She worked quickly, the old routine resumed as though there had been no break at all and as soon as she had finished she went to change into her dungarees, jumper and woollen socks. She took her old coat off the peg by the back door, pulled on her boots and went out to the stackyard to give her father a hand. He behaved as though she had never been away, leaving all those chores to her which had always been hers, without a word said between them. She drew water up from the deep well, carried the straw and the hay and the feed, and swept clean with the besom. The animals had not forgotten her. Tulip and Buttercup, Cherry and Daisy in the cow byre looked round at her with their soft eyes. Susie grunted in her sty and edged close to have her back scratched with a stick. The ewes in the shed bleated, and butted her with their heads, Prince and Smiler stamped their great hooves in their stalls and swished their tails, and Rusty leaped and barked excitedly at the end of his chain. Even the hens, roosting for the night up in the granary loft, gave soft cluckings and flutterings at the sound of her voice.

  Her father, stumping to and fro in his nail boots, grumbled some more. Old Jack was getting worse than useless these days, what with his rheumatism and his slowness, and he couldn’t be trusted with the milking any more. As for Barham’s lad, the one he’d taken on when Winnie’d gone off and left them in the lurch, he was just a drawlatch, always looking all ways for Sundays.

  ‘Fordson won’t budge, neither. Not spark. Been tryin’ to get her goin’ all week. Blessed if I know what in tarnation’s the matter.’

  ‘I’ll try her tomorrow, Dad. See if I can.’

  ‘You won’t. Dead as a doornail. Just as well we’ve got the hosses. New fangled machinery . . . don’t know why I ever bothered with that dratted thing. Near two hundred pounds she cost me an’ all . . .’

  By the time she got to bed she ached with tiredness, and yet for a long time she could not sleep. She lay watching the moonlight shining across the foot of her bed – so bright she could see the quilt pattern clearly. Gran was driving her pigs to market in her room below, noisy as anything. They were all asleep. Except for Ruth and Laura who’d taken a while to get used to her again, they’d all behaved just as though she’d never been away. Nothing had changed . . . except for herself. That was what was different. She didn’t feel like the same person she’d been before. She was glad to be back – to be home again with the family, and to be working on the farm again, and with the animals – but she felt different somehow. As though she no longer properly belonged here any more. Like she was only visiting.

  She turned her face towards the attic window. She could see the moon through the gap in the curtains – a full moon, round and soapy white as a cheese, up there in the sky. An owl screeched close by the house and Rusty barked once or twice in the stackyard below – sharp, warning woofs. A fox, most probably, prowling round outside the granary, after the hens. Tomorrow she’d have a good look to make sure it was all secure.

  She tried not to think about what had happened with Taffy but it kept coming into her mind. What a fool she’d been, going off with him like that. Such an innocent, just like he’d called her. ASO Newman had been very kind about it, not angry at all, but she’d talked about being careful not to lead the airmen on, about keeping your distance with them, about the fact that she was engaged . . . and that had made her feel a whole lot worse. Made her feel like Dot Bedwell at the Pig and Whistle, or something.

  She’d heard that Taffy had got into a lot of trouble and she’d felt bad about that, too, because it had really been her own silly fault – the way she’d gone on about the ’planes, telling him things, acting so eager . . . She ought to have known better. Had more sense. Everyone had got to hear about them getting caught together, about her running out of that stores hut with her shirt torn where Taffy had grabbed hold of her to try and stop her. In the Orderly Room they’d put on false Welsh accents and made jokes about leeks. People had sniggered behind her back and whispered all sorts of untrue things about her and Taffy until, in the end, they’d got tired of it, or forgotten about it. But she couldn’t forget, no matter how hard she tried. The very worst thing of all was that she’d let Ken down. That’s how she saw it.

  She wished she never had to see Taffy again, that his squadron would be posted away. He still kept coming to the Orderly Room, trying to talk to her, but she kept her back turned, pretending he wasn’t there. Then, he had cornered her by the entrance to the NAAFI.

  ‘Winnie, give me the chance to tell you how sorry I am. I never meant you any harm . . .’

  He had tried to go on, pleading with her, but she’d walked away quickly and taken refuge with Anne and Pearl. Pearl had put an arm round her shoulders.

  ‘Bothering you again, is he, ducky? Some men never learn. Must be barmy about you.’

  Winnie closed her eyes. If she didn’t stop thinking about it she’d never get to sleep, and she was dog-tired. She had to be up early in the morning. There was a lot to do.

  She was up long before dawn. There had been no more snow overnight but carrying the lamp across the yard, she could see the glittering rime of a hard frost. Buttercup’s flank was warm against her cheek as she squirted the stream of milk from the cow’s udder rhythmically into the pail. She was a good milker and fast and her father grunted a kind of approval when she finished early and went to help him feed and water the other animals.

  After breakfast, when it was light, she worked on the Fordson in its lean-to shed. The bucket of radiator water standing beside the tractor had frozen too hard to be broken with a hammer so she fetched some more from the well. Then she pulled the old sacking off the engine and took a look. Dad sometimes switched the tap the wrong way and tried to start on TVO instead of petrol, so maybe that had been the trouble. She unscrewed the little tap on the carburettor to make sure it was properly drained and turned the tap to petrol. Then she went round to the front and swung the starting handle hard. Dead as a doornail, like Dad had said.

  She checked the magneto next, taking off the cap and wiping it out with a piece of cloth, and then she rubbed carefully between the points with a bit of sandpaper. When that was done she unscrewed the front spark plug and dripped some petrol down the hole like Mr Stannard at the next door farm had once shown her. She screwed the plug back and cranked the starting handle again. Still nothing. This time she took out all four plugs and put them in an old tin with a splash of petrol and set a lighted match to them. There was a little woomph as the petrol ignited and then died. Another of Mr Stannard’s tricks to make them warm and dry. She screwed them back again and tried the starting handle once more. At the third go the tractor’s engine sparked and burst into life.

  She was pouring the water into the radiator when her father appeared in the lean-to entrance, his face ruddy beneath his brown trilby, his boots and leggings caked with snow. He shouted above the noisy throb of the engine.

  ‘Got her goin’, then? Must’ve bin somethin’ cured hisself.’

  As she went about the house later, doing more chores, Gran watched her from her chair, puffing on her cigarette. Her upper lip, bristly as Susie’s back, was yellow-brown from all the tobacco she’d smoked and her face grimy with soot from sitting close and so long by the range. Her pattens still hung on the big iron nail by the
back door but it was years since she’d walked further outdoors than down the path to the privy. When she was a girl, though, she’d told Winnie once, she always wore her pattens out into the yard and everywhere. All the countrywomen had worn them in those days, clopping along the lanes like they’d been shod.

  ‘What’s up wi’ yew, then, Winifred Briggs?’

  ‘Nothing, Gran.’

  ‘Fiddlesticks! Yew met some feller?’

  ‘No, Gran.’

  ‘Huh! Pity! Hoped yew’d find someone other’n that tibby o’ yours. Still, there’s plenty o’ time. Keep lookin’.’

  ‘I don’t want to find anyone else, Gran.’

  The old woman snorted.

  Ken came to tea. He shuffled into the house in his awkward way and stood twisting his cap round and round in his hands and giving her his shy smile. Gran was at her worst, making her sharp remarks and sucking at her tea loudly. After the meal he helped her take the dishes through to the sink in the scullery and carried the kettle of hot water for her. She tipped some cold water from the pail into the basin and began rinsing the crockery.

  ‘Weather’s been bad,’ Ken said, drying a plate slowly.

  ‘It’s been bad in the south, too, ever since the New Year. Bad everywhere, so they say. Dad says there’s six inches of ice on the pond, at least. He has to keep breakin’ it for the animals.’

  ‘Must be a bother.’

  ‘Well, you know how he grumbles . . . I don’t know what he’d do without somethin’ to moan about. That’s a nasty cough you’ve got there, Ken.’

  He looked paler and thinner than she remembered, and he kept on with that coughing every so often.

  ‘I’ve had a bit of a cold, that’s all. Don’t seem to go away, though.’ He picked up another plate. ‘I didn’t tell you, Winn, but I tried to join the RAF. I didn’t tell Mother, either. I just went to the place in Ipswich one day when it was early-closin’, quiet like.’

  ‘What did they say?’

  ‘Same as Mother’s always said. They won’t have me with my asthma. And somethin’s wrong with my feet, too. I tried the Army as well, and the Navy, but it’s no good – none of them will. I feel such a useless, good-for-nothin’.’

  She touched his arm. ‘Oh, Ken, what a shame! But there’ll be somethin’ you can do. I know there will. Somethin’ will turn up for you.’

  ‘I hope you’re right.’ He put down the plate and picked up a cup and began to dry it carefully. ‘You said in your letters Winn, that you’re still workin’ in that Orderly Room place . . .’

  ‘That’s right.’

  ‘So, they’re not goin’ to let you do any work with the aeroplanes, like you hoped?’

  ‘Well, not yet, anyhow.’

  ‘So, what you’re doin’ – with the forms and all that – it’s not so important?’

  She saw the way his thoughts were moving. ‘Well, it is really, Ken. It has to be done so’s the station can run properly. All the right forms have to be filled in for all sorts of things, like I told you.’

  ‘Yes, but anyone could do that. It doesn’t have to be you. And it’s not what you wanted to go and do, is it? Not what you went and joined the Air Force for?’

  ‘No, but our officer says they’ll be lettin’ us train for all sorts of trades before long. There’s lots more WAAFS now.’

  ‘But I don’t think they’ll ever let you work with the ’planes, Winnie, really I don’t.’ He coughed again. ‘I’ve been talkin’ to Mother. She says she’s quite willin’ to have you come and live over the shop, if that’s what we want. She won’t stand in our way. She says another pair of hands might be useful, now she’s gettin’ on a bit. We could get married soon as the banns are read. If you’re not doin’ anythin’ all that important in the Air Force – well, not what you wanted, anyway – there’s not much sense you stayin’ on, is there?’

  ‘But I couldn’t just leave like that, Ken. For no reason.’

  ‘Gettin’ married’d be a reason. Joe Girling was home on leave and he told me the army girls can leave easy if they get married.’

  ‘I wouldn’t want to, though, Ken. Don’t you see? I want to do more than just help in a shop.’

  ‘That’s all I’m doin’,’ he said quietly. ‘Isn’t it?’

  She turned to him unhappily, aware how she was hurting him. ‘I’m sorry, I didn’t mean it like that. Really I didn’t. You do much more than just help. Your mother couldn’t manage without you, the way you do all the post office counter and everythin’.’

  ‘You could do all that too. Learn to.’

  She said stubbornly: ‘It wouldn’t work, Ken. Even if your mother’d let me, and I’m not sure she would, I wouldn’t want to leave the Air Force just for that. Please don’t ask me to give it up – not just yet. As soon as the war’s over I’ll come back and we’ll spend the rest of our lives here together.’

  ‘The war could go on for years, Winnie,’ he said sadly.

  Later, when he left, she put on her coat and walked outside a little way with him. The moon had risen over the farmhouse and the snow sparkled frostily and crunched beneath their feet. It was very cold and very clear. They could hear a dog fox barking a long way off in Dersham Wood and the distant, rumbling drone of an aircraft.

  ‘Bomber,’ Ken said. ‘They’ve built a new RAF aerodrome up at Riddlesden. Great big place with concrete runways. There’s lots of bombers there.’

  ‘I know. Dad told me. There was one came over low this morning. I don’t know what kind it was. We only have fighters at Colston. The bombers couldn’t land on the grass there.’

  She had watched the big aeroplane lumber over the farm, its two engines roaring louder than any fighter. There had been a gun turret at the nose and one at the tail, and she’d seen the guns poking out. She had thought it looked rather a clumsy thing with its blunt nose and high tail fins at the back, but the RAF roundels painted on it had given her a glow of pride – a warm little rush of excitement inside her as though in some way it belonged to her, or she to it. She had waved as it swept over her head. The chickens had scattered about the stackyard, the Suffolks had plunged up and down in the stables and the ewes had barged about, terrified. Her father, far from waving, had shaken his fist angrily at the bomber and sworn he’d be losing all the lambs.

  ‘They say they’re bombin’ the German battleships,’ Ken said. ‘I heard it in the shop.’

  They listened to the throbbing of the engines fading away into the night. After a moment Winnie spoke again.

  ‘I couldn’t leave the Air Force, Ken. I want to be a part of it all.’

  ‘I know, Winn,’ he said heavily. ‘I understand.’

  He coughed again and she tucked his muffler more closely round his throat.

  ‘We’d better not stand out here any longer, Ken. It’s too cold and it’ll be bad for your cough. You’d better go.’

  ‘I s’pose I had. Well, good night, Winnie.’

  He bent to kiss her cheek quickly, as he always did. Taffy’s scornful remark came, unbidden, into her mind. What does that precious Ken of yours do then? Hold your hand at the pictures and then give you a good night peck on the cheek?

  ‘Winn, there isn’t anyone else, is there? Somebody else you’ve met?’

  ‘No, Ken, there’s no-one else. No-one at all.’

  He gave a sigh of relief. ‘That’s all right, then. I just wondered . . .’

  ‘There’s no need to worry.’

  ‘You’ll still marry me, then?’

  ‘Of course I will. I promise.’

  He trudged away through the snow, his cap pulled down and his head bent against the wind. He was coughing again as he went down the lane.

  Felicity reached home just before dark. She had driven her Ford from Sussex to Norfolk and the roads had been treacherous all the way. The car had skidded and slid about on the ice and snow and it had been a frightening experience. The only thing to be said for the appalling weather, she thought, as she negotiated yet another ic
y patch, was that it was apparently even worse on the Continent, in which case the Germans would be equally inconvenienced.

  George sat patiently in the passenger seat beside her, seeming to enjoy the ride. Speedy had spoken the truth when he had promised her that the bull terrier would be no trouble to look after. George had assumed the part of her protector and spent his days beside her desk, on guard. If he was suspicious of any visitor he took up his bandy-legged stance in front of the door, blocking the exit, until she called him off. He had never bitten anyone, or even tried to, but his fierce expression was enough. It amused her that he invariably did this whenever Sergeant Beaty entered her office, whereas Robbie Robinson could come and go with impunity.

  It seemed a long time since Speedy had handed George over into her reluctant keeping. He had appeared in her office, tugging George by his lead, and had flung one arm wide dramatically.

  ‘Fair stood the wind for France when we our sails advance, nor now to prove our chance longer will tarry . . .’ He let his arm drop. ‘I think that’s right. They were off to bash the Frogs at Agincourt, if I remember correctly.’

  ‘Speedy, you’re not going?’

  ‘This very day. God for Harry, and all the rest of it. So, I’ve brought old George for you. You promised to look after him, remember?’

  ‘Did I?’

  ‘Unquestionably. You wouldn’t want him to have to go into kennels, would you . . . be put behind bars? You’d hate that, wouldn’t you, George? Look how his tail’s drooping at the very thought! You can’t let him down. I told you, he’ll be no trouble. He’ll be good as gold.’

  The bull terrier had wagged his tail uncertainly and given a little whine.

  Felicity had sighed. ‘Oh, all right. I’ll take care of him for you.’

  ‘Good show! I knew we could count on you. I told you so, George, old chap, didn’t I? Said it would be all right. You stand guard while I’m away. Bite anyone’s ankles who’s a nuisance to the kind lady.’