Bluebirds

by Margaret Mayhew

  Winnie pulled at the wool, unravelling the scarf back to near the beginning, then she picked up the stitches and counted them carefully again. This time there were thirty, so that was all right. She started again doggedly with a row of plain. Gloria had put Ramona on another time and was dancing round the room, ignoring Maureen who was complaining from her corner. Anne and Vera had begun a game of ping pong and some of the others were laughing at a cartoon in a magazine . . . You’d never guess, to look at them all, that things were so bad.

  Eight

  AS JULY FOLLOWED June it seemed to Virginia that the whole of England was holding its breath, and waiting. Invasion was expected at any time. Rumours spread and multiplied. The bodies of hundreds of dead German soldiers were said to have been found floating in the Channel; Hitler had a new secret weapon that could annihilate the whole population; the King and Queen were fleeing to Canada; German spies were everywhere, and enemy parachutists had already landed in Cornwall.

  In the Ops Room the plotters’ knitting had long since been put away and the atmosphere was electrically tense. The enemy attacks on Channel shipping and convoys were increasing and hostile plots swarmed across the map, advancing from northern France where the Luftwaffe had now taken over the French aerodromes. As Colston fighters scrambled to attack, the voices of their pilots could be heard in the Ops Room over the R/T loudspeaker.

  ‘Hallo Beehive, this is Nutmeg leader calling . . .’

  The controller’s response was always calm. ‘Hallo, Nutmeg leader. Vector one-five-zero. Twenty plus bandits are approaching you from the east, angels one-eight. Over.’

  Staccato exchanges between the pilots crackled over the loudspeaker as they searched for the enemy aircraft, until the jubilant cry of Tally ho! The confused sounds of the ensuing battle were relayed into the Ops Room with harrowing clarity – the stutter of guns, the shouts of triumph, the swearing and cursing, the cries of warning . . .

  ‘Look out behind you, Red Two! On your tail!’

  ‘Break right, Mike! OK, I’ve got him . . . break quick! He’s right behind you . . .’

  ‘Well done, Red Four. Climb. I’m up here.’

  ‘He’s going down . . . I can see smoke . . .’

  ‘Red Two to Red Leader. I’ve been hit . . . on fire . . .’

  ‘Red Leader to Red Two. Bail out! Bail out, you clot!’

  Faces round the plotting table, beneath the bright lights, remained expressionless. Rakes pushed markers coolly across the map.

  Red Two parachuted into the Channel and was picked up by lifeboat. But two of the other pilots on that sortie did not return.

  Virginia had noticed that the WAAF who had waved across to her in the mess hut was now working in the R/T cabins. Once or twice they bumped into each other and exchanged a few words. She wished she had been sharing a room with someone like her and not like Pamela with her casual condescension. As well as the house in London, Pamela’s family owned a huge one in Yorkshire. She had shown Virginia a photograph of a mansion set in parkland that had belonged to them for more than two hundred years. The most disconcerting thing to Virginia was that Pamela did not seem to see anything remarkable in her background. All her friends, apparently, lived in similar houses all over England, and their families had owned them for just as long. She talked of them in her offhand way. By some strange process they all appeared to know each other. Pamela had known most of the pilots in Croesus Squadron because they had been her kind and she had been quite put out when they had been posted away to France so soon after her arrival. She had gone out several times with one of them called Johnnie who had been the most handsome man Virginia had ever seen. He had a very expensive-looking green sports car that Pamela had scarcely seemed to notice, perhaps because she was used to travelling in such cars all her life.

  Instead of going into town in her off-watch hours, as many of the WAAFS did, Virginia sometimes borrowed a bike from one of the airmen and rode round the countryside alone. It cost nothing and she liked the freedom and solitude. On a hot July day she set off southwards in the direction of the coast, following a narrow lane that ran between fields of ripening corn. After a few miles she stopped to take off her cap and tunic. It was against regulations but she was too hot to care and there was nobody about. She had leaned the bike against a field gate and stayed there for a while, leaning over it and listening to the larks and watching small puffs of cloud drift across the sky. A squadron of Spitfires swept in suddenly from the direction of the sea. She had seen them take off earlier and counted them out; now she counted them back to make sure that they had all returned safely. The fighters passed directly over her head, drowning the birdsong, and circled above the aerodrome before going in to land. She heard the distant putter of their engines as they taxied on the ground.

  She stayed there for a while longer in peaceful contemplation of the scene and then wheeled the bike out onto the road again. She was about to remount when another bicycle came speeding round the corner very fast and on the wrong side. It was ridden by a young man in army uniform. He wore a forage cap tilted on the side of his head and carried his khaki battledress tunic slung over one shoulder, with his shirtsleeves rolled above the elbow. He swerved violently to avoid her and skidded to a halt.

  ‘Gee, I’m sorry! I didn’t figure anybody else was around. Guess I forgot to keep left. I’m real sorry.’

  Virginia went red and lowered her head. ‘That’s all right.’

  ‘It sure is a beautiful day,’ he went on. ‘And I always thought it rained all the time in England.’

  He sounded American, or something like that, which was odd because he was in uniform. Virginia hesitated. She did not want to seem rude to a foreigner.

  ‘It’s been a very nice summer so far. Are you from America?’

  He smiled at her. ‘I’m from Canada. You folks always mix us up. There’s a whole bunch of us camped about five miles over there. We came over here a couple of weeks back. My first visit to the Old Country, and this is the first chance I’ve had to take a look round. The name’s Neil. Neil Mackenzie.’

  He stood astride the bike, holding out his hand. He was quite tall, with sandy hair and freckles. His name was Scottish and he looked like a Scot. It seemed all wrong to her that he spoke with that twangy accent.

  She took his hand and shook it stiffly. ‘How do you do.’

  He looked away from her across the cornfields towards the aerodrome where another aircraft had just taken off and was climbing into the sky. ‘Is that RAF Colston over there?’

  He was in uniform – more or less – but you couldn’t be too careful these days. All those rumours . . .

  ‘It’s OK,’ he said easily, noticing her wary expression. ‘I’m no spy. You don’t need to worry about that.’

  She began to put on her cap and tunic, fumbling hurriedly with the belt. ‘Excuse me, but I really ought to be going . . .’

  ‘Gee, that’s too bad.’

  ‘Well, I hope you enjoy yourself.’

  He laughed. ‘I guess we’re not over here to enjoy ourselves.’

  ‘I meant your bike ride . . .’

  ‘Well, I’d enjoy that a lot more if I had some company. Do you mind if I come along with you? For one thing I don’t know where the heck I’m going. There’re no signs.’

  ‘I’m sorry . . .’

  She was wheeling her bike down the lane now, hopping along with one foot on the pedal, gathering momentum to swing her leg over the cross-bar. It was an awkward manoeuvre in a skirt and embarrassing that he would be watching. She glanced back quickly and he was looking so crestfallen that she slowed and stopped. He was a stranger in a strange land, after all, a long way from home, and he had come all this way to help fight the war. It would be ungracious and unkind just to leave him there.

  ‘Well, I’m going this way – towards the coast – if you want to come . . .’

  His face lit up and he kicked the pedal forward. ‘Any place’ll do. Just lead on.’

  He
kept pace beside her, zig-zagging from one side of the lane to the other as she pedalled along sedately. She regretted weakening almost at once. His presence was an intrusion and flustered her. She did not want him there, steering his bike nonchalantly with one hand, his tunic hooked over his shoulder from the other, whistling snatches from some song. Her skirt kept riding up high above her knees and she had to keep tugging it down.

  He zig-zagged widely again and swooped alongside her. ‘You didn’t tell me your name.’

  ‘It’s Virginia Stratton,’ she said reluctantly.

  ‘That’s a nice name. It’s got a good sound to it. And you’re in the Women’s Air Force – right? That uniform’s like the RAF.’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘And you come from Colston?’

  She nodded.

  ‘What do you do there? What sort of work?’

  ‘I’m afraid we’re not allowed to talk about it.’

  ‘Sorry. I shouldn’t have asked. I was just curious, that’s all. I’ve never met any girls in the services. You been in the Air Force long?’

  ‘About seven months.’

  ‘Like it?’

  ‘It’s very interesting.’

  ‘Wish I could say the same for us. As soon as we get over here everythin’ stops and we’re sittin’ around doin’ nothin’ much. Some of the guys at the camp were in France . . . I’m real sorry I missed that. But I guess our chance’ll come . . .’

  The lane wound on through the fields until it reached the main road. Virginia stopped.

  ‘This is the road to Bognor.’

  He nodded. ‘Yeah, we’ve been through there a coupla times. I remember. Let’s go take a look at the ocean. Maybe we’d cool off a bit.’

  ‘You won’t be able to go on the beach. There’s barbed wire . . .’

  ‘I know. Never mind. We can peek through it and imagine ourselves paddlin’.’

  He grinned at her but she looked away.

  They went into Bognor Regis and rode along the sea front. Although it was high summer and the Channel glittered enticingly blue beneath the hot sun there were no holidaymakers to be seen. Barbed wire stretched in fat coils for the length of the deserted beach and the promenade was empty except for a woman walking her dog and an old man leaning on his stick and gazing intently out to sea, one hand shading his eyes, as though he expected to sight Germans on the horizon at any moment. They found a bench to sit on.

  He stood over her, blocking the sun. ‘There’s some kinda little store over there – like somethin’ to drink?’

  ‘No, thank you . . . really.’

  ‘Aw, come on, now . . .’

  He went away and returned with two bottles, straws stuck in their necks. ‘Here you are. Root beers. Ginger beer you call it. ‘Fraid they’re not cold, though.’

  ‘It’s awfully kind of you. You shouldn’t have bothered.’

  He sat down beside her. ‘Why not? I had a real thirst and I figured you must have one too – even though you wouldn’t say so.’

  He drank straight from the bottle, without the straw, and then leaned back, resting it on his knee and shutting his eyes against the glare. She sucked the warm ginger beer through her straw and looked at him covertly. He had put on his battledress tunic and now she could see the Canada flash on his shoulder and a corporal’s tape on his arm. She did not know quite how to place him; he wasn’t like any of the RAF corporals she’d come across at Colston. He kept his eyes closed for so long that she wondered if he had fallen asleep and was debating whether it would be very rude to slip away and leave him there, when he suddenly opened them again and sat up.

  ‘What part of England do you come from, Virginia? Where’s your home town?’

  ‘I live in south London,’ she said guardedly. ‘In a suburb called Wimbledon. I don’t suppose you’ve heard of it.’

  ‘Sure I have. They play those tennis championships there, don’t they? I’ve heard about those. Never played it myself, though. Hockey’s my game. Ice in winter, field in summer. Great game . . . Played some lacrosse too, and some rugby. Done a bit of boxin’ as well.’

  ‘Really?’ she said politely. ‘Where do you live in Canada?’

  ‘Place called Hamilton. You ever heard of it?’

  She shook her head. ‘I’m afraid not.’

  ‘It’s not too far from Toronto. I guess maybe fifty miles or so. Kinda like a suburb too. I was born and bred there. Born with skates on my feet, like all the kids.’

  She looked puzzled.

  ‘Ice skates,’ he explained. ‘All of us kids used to live on the ice ponds. Spent all our time there. You ever skated?’

  ‘Only a few times. There are some ponds on Wimbledon Common and sometimes they freeze over in winter if it gets cold enough, and you can skate on them then. It doesn’t happen all that often though.’

  ‘Gee, your winters can’t be anythin’ like as cold as ours. Our ponds’re frozen hard pretty much all through ’til spring. We get a whole lot’ve snow too. Then we make rinks in our backyards.’

  ‘Do you really?’ She had no idea what he was talking about.

  ‘Sure. See, we build the snow up into a kinda small wall all round the yard.’ He moved his hands in a circle. ‘Then we run the hose over it and let the water inside freeze. You do that maybe a coupla times or more and you’ve got yourself a great place to play shinny.’

  ‘Shinny?’

  ‘Yeah. Foolin’ around on skates . . . practisin’ hockey . . . stick handlin’ the puck . . .’ He crooked one elbow high and twisted his arms to and fro. ‘Like that. See?’

  ‘I think so.’ She understood vaguely what he meant.

  ‘We used to build igloos, too, when we were kids. Like the eskimos. We’d cut blocks out of the snow and make houses with ’em.’

  She stared at him. ‘It must be awfully cold where you live.’

  ‘Sure is. I guess it’s partly ’cos of the lake.’

  She thought for a moment. ‘Would that be Ontario?’

  ‘Right!’ He looked pleased. ‘Course it gets good and hot in the summer for a month or so. Then we go sailin’. Swimmin’ too. And we play field hockey instead.’ He sighed. ‘I guess I’m goin’ to miss it all a bit . . . Still, it’s great to see the Old Country at last.’

  ‘I expect you came from Scotland originally. Your family, I mean.’

  ‘Right again.’ He smiled at her. ‘Where else with a name like mine? My Dad’s folks emigrated from Dundee way back in the last century. Mum’s were English, though. They came from a place called Swineshead in Lincolnshire. Great name, that. I’d sure like to get to see both places if I get the chance while I’m here. You know them?’

  ‘I’m afraid not. I haven’t seen very much of England myself. And I’ve never been to Scotland.’

  The only travelling she had done with Mother had been to visit a great-aunt in Bexhill-on-Sea who lived alone in a gloomy house that smelled of mothballs.

  ‘Well, I guess I haven’t seen a whole lot of Canada either. Maybe when I get back . . .’

  ‘Do you have brothers and sisters?’

  ‘Sure thing. There’s five of us kids. Four boys and a girl. I’m the oldest. If the war goes on another coupla years Andy’ll be joinin’ me. He’s next in line. Like to see a photo of them?’

  He unbuttoned the breast pocket of his tunic and passed a crumpled snapshot to her. Virginia looked at the row of smiling children, tallest down to shortest. There was a man and woman standing behind them, smiling too. They were dressed in casual summer clothes and they looked happy and healthy. The Canadian leaned across and pointed them out.

  ‘That’s my folks at the back. And that’s Sally, the littlest, then Ian, Hugh, Andy and me. It was taken a while back, last summer, so the kids’ve grown a bit since.’

  He was easily recognizable at the end of the line, wearing a plaid shirt open at the neck, with the sleeves rolled up. Though his hair was longer and he looked younger. She handed the snapshot back.

  ‘It’s
very nice . . . you must miss them.’

  ‘You bet. But they write all the time – even Sal. You should see her letters . . . well, they’re mostly drawin’s. She draws pretty good for her age. How about you? Any brothers or sisters?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Gee, that’s too bad. Though maybe you like it better that way.’

  She had always longed for a brother or sister – someone to talk to, and to share the burden of Mother – but it was not something she could discuss with a perfect stranger. She said nothing. The woman with the dog had disappeared and the old man had given up his vigil and was moving slowly away. She looked at her watch and stood up.

  ‘I’m awfully sorry, but I have to be getting back now.’

  He got to his feet as well. ‘You haven’t finished your root beer.’

  ‘I don’t want any more – really. You have it.’ She thrust the bottle into his hand.

  ‘I’ll ride along with you – if that’s OK.’

  ‘I’d sooner you didn’t, if you don’t mind.’

  He shrugged. ‘OK, if that’s what you want. Sure you’ll be all right?’

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘Say, we’re havin’ a party at the camp Saturday. Will you come? Maybe some of the other Air Force girls, too? We’d pick you up and take you back.’

  ‘I’m afraid I wouldn’t be able to. I’ll be on watch.’

  ‘Oh. Well maybe another time?’

  She backed away towards her bike. ‘I don’t think so.’

  ‘Maybe we could go out for another bike ride? See some more places round here?’

  ‘I’m rather busy. I don’t often get time off.’ She tripped over the edge of the kerb and grabbed hold of the handlebars. ‘I really must go now, or I’ll be late. Thank you for the ginger beer. Goodbye.’

  She left him standing there, a bottle in each hand, looking baffled and disappointed.

  The language reaching Anne’s ears over the R/T was incomprehensible – a garbled collection of sounds that it was impossible to unravel. Lofty snorted in disgust.