Bluebirds

by Margaret Mayhew

  She had dragged a green wool costume out and was wrenching it off its hanger.

  ‘What about your WAAFS? Don’t they count as women?’

  ‘They’re service women, not civilians. Part of the Air Force. They have work to do here.’

  She had looked at him over her shoulder as she bundled the costume, anyhow, into the suitcase.

  ‘You’ve changed your tune a bit, haven’t you, darling? A few months ago you couldn’t wait to get rid of the lot of them. Now, you’re talking as though they were indispensable. You always said they’d have hysterics if someone dropped a bomb anywhere near them.’

  ‘They probably will. But there’s nothing I can do about it now. They’ve taken over a lot of the men’s jobs and, with them, the risks as well.’

  She had taken a pair of black suede evening shoes from the wardrobe and thrown them on top of the green costume.

  ‘What about your little WAAF, then? Will she be staying too, to keep you company?’

  ‘Who are you talking about?’

  Another pair of expensive shoes had followed the black ones – grey glacé kid this time, with bows on the front. ‘Don’t look so innocent, darling. The WAAF officer who came to dinner here at Christmas . . . the one you lust after.’

  He had said coldly: ‘If you’re referring to Section Officer Newman, yes, she’ll be staying.’

  ‘That’ll be fun for you, then, David, won’t it? With me safely away in London.’

  He had controlled his temper. It was pointless to argue. She loved an argument and was much better at it than he. He might well, he reflected now, have pointed out that she would undoubtedly have a great deal of fun without him in London, but he hadn’t. He had learned over the years that it was far easier to say nothing.

  She had snapped the clasps of the suitcase shut and come to stand close to him. The costly French scent that she always wore had filled his nostrils; he hated the smell of it. At thirty-two her skin was flawless, her ash blond hair like silk, her aquamarine eyes brilliant. She was an exceedingly beautiful woman but he had looked at her without desire, or love, or interest.

  He had said matter-of-factly: ‘I’ll come up as soon as I can get away.’

  She had given him a tight, dry smile. ‘Don’t bother yourself, darling. I’m not one of those dreary, clinging service wives. So far as I’m concerned it will be a pleasant change to be away from here. I won’t have to be nice to all those RAF bores the whole time. I’ll find much more interesting things to do in London.’

  ‘I’m sure you will.’

  She had moved forward suddenly and kissed him, her mouth open against his. He had stood stiffly, without moving, and she had stepped back after a moment and looked at him.

  ‘You’re a bloody attractive man, you know, David, but now you’ve been promoted, I suppose you’ll be stuffier than ever.’

  ‘I expect so.’

  She had laughed. ‘Your little Section Officer is probably madly in love with you, poor thing. Some women like a strong, stern father-figure. They love being ordered about and subjugated. It gives them a thrill.’

  He had picked the heavy suitcase off the bed. ‘You’ll miss your train, Caroline,’ he had said.

  Palmer put down his empty glass and sighed. Robbie Robinson looked at him.

  ‘You feeling all right, sir? You look a bit under the weather.’

  ‘Just tired.’ He signalled the waiter. ‘I could do with the other half.’

  Lime Avenue was just as Anne had imagined it – a quiet, respectable suburban street, lined with knobbly lime trees. The houses were identical Victorian semi-detacheds with neat little front gardens and brightly-coloured stained-glass panels in the doors. As she walked along the pavement, net curtains twitched and a woman cleaning her windows stopped work to turn and stare. Maybe it was the uniform?

  She took Jimmy’s envelope from her breast pocket and re-checked the number – thirty-seven. It was further along the road and had one of the neatest gardens. The red tiled path up to the front door looked as though it had been polished and the flanking rows of marigolds had been precisely spaced. She rang the door bell.

  The woman who opened the door was also very much as she had imagined. She was small and thin, with tightly permed hair, and was dressed in a plain blouse and skirt. She looked at Anne with dull eyes.

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘Mrs Shaw?’

  The woman nodded. The dull eyes seemed to register the Air Force uniform and there was a flicker of some emotion in their depths.

  ‘What do you want?’

  The doorstep was not the place to hand her a letter from her dead son; it was not what Jimmy would have had in mind.

  ‘May I come in for a moment? I have something to give you.’

  ‘I suppose so.’

  Her voice was as dull as her eyes – flat and uncaring. She led the way into the front room, which felt cold even on the warm summer’s day. There had been highly polished linoleum in the narrow hallway and here were the spotless net curtains that Anne had pictured, the starched antimacassars on the armchair backs and, prominently displayed on the sideboard, several framed photographs of Jimmy – ranging from a solemn-faced little boy to one of him in his RAF uniform – without the wings. He was looking straight at her with that earnest expression that she remembered so well. She felt her throat tighten and turned her head away.

  Mrs Shaw was standing with her back to the tiled fireplace, her hands clenched together at waist level. She said tonelessly:

  ‘They have already sent me everything that belonged to James.’

  James, not Jimmy. His mother was staring at her with her dull eyes and the flicker of emotion, Anne realized now, had been hostility. There was no invitation to sit down. No welcome. No appreciation of the fact that she had come all this way and taken time out of her precious leave. This was going to be much more ghastly than she had expected.

  ‘My name is Anne Cunningham, Mrs Shaw. I’m from RAF Colston where Jimmy – James – was stationed once. I met him there.’

  Mrs Shaw’s eyes never left her face. ‘May I ask, Miss Cunningham, if you were James’s girlfriend. He never mentioned you in any of his letters.’

  ‘We were just friends, Mrs Shaw. We used to go to the cinema together sometimes, or to the pub. That’s all.’

  ‘James never drank. His father was very strict about that.’

  The memory of Jimmy cradling his beer awkwardly in the Saracen’s Head and fumbling with cigarettes and matches passed through her mind. There was a pair of men’s carpet slippers lined up beside the fireplace with perfect symmetry – the only evidence of Mr Shaw. The room managed to be cold and yet stuffy at the same time, and the silence of the house was oppressive. It was the most depressing place she had ever been in. No wonder Jimmy had escaped as soon as he possibly could. She tried to think of something suitable to say next; something that might comfort this sad woman.

  ‘He always talked a lot about you both, Mrs Shaw, and about his home. It meant a lot to him.’

  ‘I’d sooner not speak of it, if you don’t mind. It’s a very painful subject.’

  ‘Of course. I’m sorry.’

  ‘You said you had something to give me, Miss Cunningham.’

  Anne groped in her tunic pocket for the letter. She held it out. ‘James gave me this before he was posted away to France – when he left Colston. He asked me to give it to you personally if – if anything happened to him. I promised him I would.’

  There was a moment’s silence. At last Mrs Shaw put out her hand and took the envelope. She looked down at it and then up again. Her face was white and set.

  ‘He was very shy with girls. Very reserved. He wouldn’t have given you this unless he thought a lot of you.’

  It was like an accusation. In some way she was badly at fault in Mrs Shaw’s eyes – perhaps because she had not been in love with her son. Or maybe because he might have been in love with her.

  ‘I don’t know about that . . .
We were good friends, that’s all.’

  ‘You must have known all about him being a pilot.’

  It was another accusation – full of bitterness.

  Anne said apologetically: ‘Well, I couldn’t really help knowing.’

  ‘Everybody knew, it seems, except us. His own parents.’

  ‘He said he kept it from you because he wanted to spare you the worry. He was thinking of you –’

  ‘He discussed that with you?’

  ‘Just a bit.’

  ‘I see. Well, he might as well not have bothered, mightn’t he? It was all the same in the end. Worse, because of the shock. I always knew we’d lose him. I knew it all along. It’s worse to know he kept things from us, and talked to other people about it.’

  Nothing she had said seemed right and yet she had to say something. Keep trying. Jimmy would have wanted her to say consoling things, to comfort his mother.

  ‘I’m terribly sorry about Jimmy, Mrs Shaw –’

  ‘His name was James.’

  ‘James, I mean. He was one of the nicest and kindest people I’ve ever known. He would never have wanted to hurt you in any way. He asked me to give you that letter because he didn’t want you to get it through the post. He wanted to try and explain things, he said . . . about the flying, and not telling you, I think. His wings are inside that envelope too. He told me he took them off his best blue. He wanted you to have them –’

  To Anne’s horror, Mrs Shaw gave a loud, wild sob – a dreadful animal-like moan that seemed to come from deep inside her. She flung her hands up to her face and collapsed sideways into one of the armchairs.

  ‘Please go! Just go away now and leave me alone. Don’t say another word . . . I can’t bear it! Go!’

  Anne looked at her helplessly. She would have liked to have put an arm round her shoulders, but she dared not. She had done far more harm than good in coming here and had somehow made a mess of the whole thing. She tiptoed out of the room and looked back as she closed the door. Jimmy’s mother was sitting with her head bowed. She had torn open the envelope, taken out the silk-embroidered RAF wings, and was pressing them against her lips.

  ‘I made a complete hash of it, Kit. Said all the wrong things . . . It was awful!’

  ‘Don’t eat your heart out, old girl. It was a pretty tricky assignment, by the sound of it. You did your best.’

  Kit was sitting on the window-seat in the nursery, where she had found him when she arrived home. She had flung open the door to see him there, reading a book, one leg crooked up on the cushion, his back leaning against the embrasure, in exactly the way he always used to sit there as a child. It had given her quite a start to see him like that – as though she had suddenly gone back in time. Then he had turned his head towards her and stood up – tall and man-sized – and the illusion had been broken. They had hugged each other, rather clumsily because his wounded arm was still in a sling.

  ‘Wotcha!’ he had said, just like he used to do, too, when he had come home for the holidays. ‘I nearly didn’t recognize you in that uniform. You look frightfully smart and grown-up.’

  He was smiling, but she had looked at him with a sinking heart. He was so pale and drawn. And the light seemed to have gone from his eyes: they were as dead as Mrs Shaw’s. And yet Ma had said that he had made a good recovery. The arm had been in a pretty bad mess but it had mended well. They had just sent him home for the final part of his convalescence . . .

  She had looked at the book open on the window-seat. ‘Winnie the Pooh?’

  He had smiled again. ‘I’m reverting to childhood. A jolly good book, don’t you remember?’

  ‘Almost every word.’ She had turned the pages. ‘Isn’t it funny how a bear likes honey . . .’

  ‘Buzz! Buzz! Buzz! I wonder why he does.’ Kit had picked up the book and sat down again, stretching his legs out this time and looking what he was – a grown man in a children’s nursery. ‘Have you got a cigarette on you, by any chance? I’ve run out.’

  She had found a half empty packet of Players in her tunic pocket and some matches. He had lit her cigarette for her and she had wandered round the nursery while he sat smoking and watching her.

  ‘When I was last here this was a shambles – those bloody little evacuees had just about wrecked it. Thank God they’ve gone!’

  ‘I gather they were something of a trial.’

  She had opened the toy cupboard and shut it and moved on to inspect her dolls’ house. ‘Mummy seems to have done her best, but it’ll never be the same again.’

  He had shrugged. ‘Does it really matter? We’ll never play with any of the things any more.’

  She had known he would probably say that, and that it was the only sensible way to look at it, but it still upset her to see the damaged toys and the weals across Poppy’s dappled hindquarters from Fred’s stick. She had hitched up her WAAF skirt and got onto the horse, her legs dangling to the ground each side, reins in one hand, cigarette in the other. The wooden stand had creaked under her weight as she rocked gently to and fro. She had watched Kit narrowly. In the car, on the way home from the station, her mother had said: ‘He seems rather tired, darling. The arm’s much better but he’s still not quite himself. He’s been through a lot, I think, but he won’t talk much about it. He doesn’t seem to want to . . . just clams up. I shouldn’t probe, if I were you.’

  ‘How are you then, Kit?’

  ‘Alive and kicking, as you can see.’

  ‘The arm’s OK?’

  ‘Getting better every day.’

  ‘That’s good.’

  He had flicked ash out of the open window. ‘How’s the WAAF?’

  She had made a face. ‘Bloody awful, really. But at least I’m not stuck in the kitchens any longer.’

  ‘Ma said you were on the R/T, blabbing away to pilots. Sounds interesting.’

  ‘It’s all right. A lot better than peeling spuds. It makes you feel quite important, even if you’re not. Actually, it’s been fairly grim lately. We’ve all been warned that the Germans could attack the station at any moment. Masses of mock air raids and gas attacks and hours spent sitting around in shelters, wearing our respirators. All that sort of thing. Bloody boring! Do you know, the WAAFS have been told not to put up any resistance if the Germans invade. We’re supposed to just do as we’re told by them. The general idea is that although we’ll probably all get raped we might not get killed if we don’t put up any fight. I think that’s pretty feeble, don’t you? I’m jolly well going to have a bash at shooting a few of them myself, if it comes to it. I got one of the erks to show me how to aim and fire a rifle.’

  ‘Don’t try anything of the kind, twin. The RAF are right. Keep out of it. The Huns are complete swine and they wouldn’t hesitate to shoot you if they felt like it. Believe me, I know. You might think they’ve got normal, decent, human feelings, but they haven’t. They’re vicious, rotten scum and I’m going to kill as many of the bastards as I can when I get back.’

  His voice had risen and it shook with emotion. She had slowed Poppy down and looked at him in alarm. What had happened to him? In the old days he would have been laughing and joking, making light of everything . . . His face would have been alive, animated, amused . . . not the pale mask it was now. He had turned away from her towards the window, shoulders hunched. To change the subject she had told him about her visit to Mrs Shaw and he had listened sympathetically enough but without any real interest.

  She got off the rocking-horse and wandered about the nursery again, touching things here and there. Kit watched her in silence, smoking his cigarette. She tapped the ash from hers into the ‘Present from Swanage’ mug on the mantelpiece that they had brought back from a seaside holiday long ago.

  ‘I don’t suppose Nanny would approve of us smoking in here, would she?’

  ‘Or anywhere.’

  ‘Do you remember all those funny sayings of hers, Kit? I want, never gets. Leave some for Mr Manners. There’ll be tears before bedtime . . .’ />
  ‘There usually were.’

  ‘Yes . . .’ Anne lifted the lid of the old musical box – broken, naturally. It used to play Annie Laurie and Here’s a Health Unto His Majesty, before Fred and Betty had got their sticky little hands on it. ‘By the way, did you ever come across someone called Johnnie Somerville at school? A good bit older than you.’

  ‘There was a Johnnie Somerville who left just before I arrived. He won quite a few cups, as I remember. Wet Bob and a terrific all-rounder. Held the long-jump record. I know that because I tried to beat it. I think he got a scholarship to Oxford, or something. Why?’

  ‘Oh, I came across him at Colston. He’s a pilot with one of the auxiliary squadrons.’

  ‘Have you fallen for him? That would please Ma. The family’s probably stinking rich.’

  She pulled another face. ‘God, no! He’s appalling! Disgustingly conceited. The worst sort of Etonian. Nothing like as nice as your friends. How’s old Villiers?’

  ‘Villiers is dead.’

  She swung round, shocked. ‘Dead! Oh, Kit, I can’t believe it . . .’

  He said tonelessly: ‘It’s true, I’m afraid. He was killed in France when we were retreating.’

  ‘I’m terribly sorry.’

  She looked at Kit, feeling as helpless as she had felt with Mrs Shaw. Villiers had been his best friend since prep school days. Ten years of friendship.

  ‘So am I.’ Kit chucked the butt of his cigarette out of the window and stood up. ‘Let’s go and find a drink before dinner. I could do with one.’

  During dinner he was something like his old self. Their mother had turned the meal into an occasion, with candles and silver on the table, and favourite food. She had put on a long gown and her pearls and diamond brooch. From time to time she would lean forward and touch Kit, as though to make sure that he was really there. Their father, back late from his hush-hush job in London, was in a very good mood. The meal passed with a good deal of laughter and reminiscence. It was a long while since they had all been together.

  Anne watched Kit. He was smiling too, and making occasional jokes, but she could tell that it was a great effort for him. It was a little show put on to please the parents.