Bluebirds

by Margaret Mayhew

  He fetched the portable gramophone and wound it up while Anne went through a box of dusty records.

  ‘Old as the hills . . . Heavens, look at this lot! Come into the Garden, Maud, I Hear You Calling Me, Take a Pair of Sparkling Eyes.’

  ‘I do not know these.’

  ‘You haven’t missed much.’ She stopped on her way through the pile. ‘This one’s all right, though. Cole Porter – I love him.’

  He put it on for her and as the song began he took her in his arms. They danced very close for a while.

  When the record had finished he reached out with one hand to lift the needle, still holding her close.

  ‘It is very nice song. I like very much. To dance with you is very nice also . . . but is not enough.’ He searched her face. ‘Anne, I do not think you have ever been with a man . . .’

  She said anxiously: ‘Is it so obvious?’

  ‘Is not difficult to tell this thing. But you are sure you want this with me?’

  She nodded.

  ‘Very sure?’

  ‘Very, very sure.’

  She undressed, shivering, in the scullery and washed and brushed her teeth in cold water at the sink. In the flyblown mirror hanging on the wall, her cheeks looked flushed and her eyes bright, as though she had a fever. She peered at herself and wondered if, after tonight, she would somehow look different; whether there would be some subtle womanly change in her appearance that others would notice. The vodka had made her woozy and she had some trouble getting her feet into her pyjama legs.

  When she sidled hesitantly out into the sitting-room, he was standing by the fire, one arm raised to the chimney breast, staring at the dying flames. He looked lost in sad thoughts and her heart ached for him in his exile. She gave a small cough and he turned and saw her standing there, the lamp she had taken with her in one hand.

  ‘Jezus Maria! What are you wearing, Anne?’

  ‘Pyjamas, WAAF, for the use of. They’re issue.’ She flapped her free hand which was somewhere inside the too-long striped flannel sleeve. The trouser legs finished in concertina folds around her ankles. ‘They’re the same as the RAF ones, actually. And much too big.’

  He began to laugh. ‘Yes, I can see that . . . but I never see a woman wearing these things before.’

  He came towards her, his face full of laughter and tenderness. He took the lamp from her and held out his other hand.

  ‘Come.’

  She stumbled after him up the creaking staircase, her hand clasped tightly in his, her other holding her pyjama bottoms clear of her bare feet. Her heart was thudding furiously.

  The lamplight cast their shadows on the wall – separate and then fused together as he kissed her. He lifted her in his arms. The mattress was lumpy, the sheets damp, but she noticed none of that. All she felt was his mouth on hers, his hands undoing the WAAF pyjama buttons, loosening the cord, the warmth of his skin on her skin, the hardness of his body against hers, the soft touch of his fingers and of his lips . . . She tried not to feel embarrassed or shocked or ashamed, and then, after a while, she didn’t care any more.

  When she awoke the sun was coming through the little window beneath the thatch. She could see it touching the brass at the foot of the bed, making it glint brightly. Birds were fluttering and chirruping somewhere beneath the eaves, sounding so close they might have been in the room. She shut her eyes, confused for a moment and then opened them again.

  He was still asleep, his head turned towards her on the pillow, one arm across her body. She watched him, remembering. Marvelling.

  It’s worth everything, Pearl. Everything.

  Unable to help herself, she touched his hair, smoothing it back from his brow. He opened his eyes and smiled at her drowsily.

  ‘Kochana . . . you are happy?’

  ‘Blissfully.’

  ‘I do not know what this means. Is bad? Is good?’

  ‘Good. Very good.’

  ‘Next time I bring big dictionary so I know how you feel.’

  She giggled. ‘Into bed?’

  ‘Nie.’ He raised himself on one arm and leaned over her. ‘In bed words are not necessary. So, I think we stay here a long time.’

  She swept and dusted the cottage and polished the copper jug on the windowsill, filling it with roses from the garden.

  ‘You make home for me,’ he said. ‘Is wonderful.’

  They coaxed the old kitchen range into life and nurtured its sulky beginnings until it was going well enough to heat some water. He carried the tin bath indoors and set it before the fire for her, filling it with water from the big range kettle and from pots and pans. She undressed quickly, stepped somewhat self-consciously into the bath and sat with her arms folded about her body. He teased her, laughing.

  ‘You are still shy of me, Anne? Even after everything? That is not sense.’

  He soaped her back and then her breasts and began kissing her. She put wet arms around his neck. Afterwards he wrapped her tightly in the towel, like a child, and began to kiss her again. Before long the towel had loosened and fallen to the floor.

  That evening he lay on the sofa with his head resting in her lap, smoking a cigarette. He was wearing a thick cream-coloured sweater, like a fisherman’s, and it was the first time she had seen him in anything not RAF uniform. She had put on her home jumper and skirt. Just for a while she could pretend they were an ordinary couple and that there was no war. She stroked his hair.

  ‘I wish we could stay here for ever.’

  He turned his head to smile up at her. ‘Me, also, I wish this. I am thinking the same. It is better not to, because is not possible.’

  ‘All right. Let’s talk about something else. You haven’t told me where your home is in Poland – unless you’d sooner not . . .’

  ‘No, I tell you about it, if you like. It is near a place called Czersk – in south east of Warsaw. In middle of Poland. Once it was important town, but it has big river that change the way it goes . . . you understand? I don’t know how to say this.’

  ‘The river changed its course. Is that what you mean?’

  ‘Tak. That is it. And after Czersk was no more very important. There is beautiful old castle high up above the town . . . one day, perhaps, I can show you . . . My home is five miles from there. Is very old place, too. Very dear to me. My family is there a long, long time – since nearly two hundred years. We have much land.’

  ‘It sounds frightfully grand. You’re not a count, or anything like that, are you?’

  He smiled. ‘No, I am not a count. But there are many counts in Poland. Stefan, he is one. His family is very old, very proud. His mother is like a queen.’

  ‘I hope your mother isn’t.’

  ‘No, no. Not at all. She is always laughing, always smiling. Very natural, you know. And very beautiful, to me.’

  He was silent for a moment, smoking the cigarette. Presently he went on: ‘I must believe that she is still alive. And my father too. And my sister and brother. I must believe this – you understand? Most of the time I do not let myself think of them at all, but when I do I always say to myself that they are still alive and well, in spite of everything. Is the only way.’

  She tried to comfort him. ‘I’m sure they are. I mean the Germans can’t have any real reason to harm them.’

  ‘You do not understand what is like, Anne. How can you? Already they kill civilians here in England, I know, but in Poland is much, much worse. There they can do more than drop bombs. They can shoot and kill whoever they want, for no reason at all. They torture, they put in prison, in camps . . . whatever they like. In each town they choose some people to shoot against a wall so that the others will be afraid and do as they are told. My father, he is not afraid to speak, to say what he believes . . .’

  He was silent again. She stroked his hair.

  ‘How old are your brother and sister?’

  ‘Helena, she is fifteen. At school – if school is still there. Antek is twenty. He is in cavalry, you know. I am most af
raid for him. The Germans have forced Polish soldiers into the Wehrmacht, so maybe I shall fight against my own brother. Or maybe he is prisoner of Russians in labour camp. Or maybe he is already dead. I try to find out. I ask Red Cross but they know nothing. They will tell me perhaps one day, if they learn.’

  ‘Oh, Michal . . .’

  ‘Please, do not look sad for me. To a Pole, is not so strange. Our country has had many troubles. For so many years others try to invade us and we have learned to defend our freedom and our faith. To love our country is part of our religion, you see. To defend her is sacred duty for us all. In Polish Air Force we have flag that says Love Demands Sacrifice. We accept this. I have lost everything, perhaps, but I still have my life to give.’

  ‘Don’t talk like that, please.’

  ‘I am sorry, Anne. Is stupid of me. Not kind. How can you ever understand?’

  She felt hopelessly inadequate, as though a huge gulf lay between them that she could never cross.

  ‘How old are you, Michal? I’ve never asked you.’

  ‘Twenty-five. An old, old man.’

  ‘How old were you when you first made love?’

  ‘So many questions! I was sixteen.’

  ‘Heavens . . . is that all?’

  ‘She was much older woman . . . married.’ He smiled at the ceiling. ‘Was very good teacher.’

  ‘Was she Polish?’

  ‘Oh, yes. A friend of my mother. Though, of course, my mother knew nothing.’

  ‘Would she have been shocked?’

  ‘Shocked? No, not at all. She is not like this.’

  ‘If my parents could see me now, they’d be terribly shocked. They think I’ve gone to stay with another WAAF.’

  ‘I am sorry we deceive them.’

  ‘I’m not. They’d never understand.’

  ‘Why you are with a Pole?’

  ‘No . . . In England nice girls don’t do this.’

  ‘I know. The war changes many things.’

  ‘I hope you’ll meet them one day. Actually, they’re pretty decent.’

  ‘I should be honoured.’

  ‘I love the way you say things like that. So polite and formal. Do all Poles have lovely manners, like yours?’

  ‘I hope we have good manners. We are taught to be so. In our Air Force Academy we are taught that every woman must be treated with same respect as a general.’

  She giggled. ‘I don’t know about that, but all the WAAFS love the Poles. They love the way you bow and treat us so gallantly. Like princesses, not generals. Much better than the RAF.’

  ‘The WAAFS are very kind to us. Some of them send postcards and pictures and things, you know, because we have no letters. Stefan, he cry. Never have I seen this before with him.’

  She thought of the queenly mother. ‘Does he know what has happened to his family?’

  ‘Nie. None of us knows.’

  The precious days passed too quickly. Time would not wait for them. They went for walks in the forest, shuffling through the dead leaves like children, and for drives round the countryside and over to Beaulieu and Southampton Water. Sometimes they stopped at pubs. But they spent most of the time at the cottage.

  ‘Do you realize, Michal, that we must have spent far more hours in bed than out of it, while we’ve been here?’

  ‘Naturally.’

  ‘And yesterday we hardly got up at all.’

  ‘I remember very well.’

  ‘I’ll never forget these days . . . or this place.’

  ‘Me, also. I never forget. Never.’

  She cried in the car when they drove back to Colston. It was worse than going back to boarding school. Far, far worse. The rain poured down. The windscreen wiper swished relentlessly to and fro. Tears rolled down her cheeks.

  ‘I don’t want to go back, Michal. I can’t bear it.’

  He passed her his handkerchief. ‘We must go back, kochana. There is a war waiting for us. We have to fight. To win.’

  She blew her nose and wiped her cheeks. ‘Bloody war! I hate it! Bloody, bloody war!’

  ‘But we have met because of it. Is one good thing. You must remember this always.’

  She was silent. The war had brought him to her. But the war could also take him away.

  ‘I’ve come to say goodbye.’

  Taffy stared at Winnie. ‘Goodbye? What do you mean?’

  ‘They’re postin’ me. I put in for it.’

  ‘Why? You never said. Why did you have to go and do that?’

  ‘I didn’t tell you but Ken’s very ill. I found out when I was home on leave. The doctor there says he’s got a bad heart and he’ll die, so I’m goin’ to marry him.’

  He drew in a long breath. ‘Look you, we can’t talk here . . .’

  He took hold of her arm and steered her firmly round to the back of the station building, away from curious eyes and ears and out of the raw November wind.

  ‘Winnie, why in God’s name are you doing this?’

  She stared down at her shoes. ‘Ken’s goin’ to die. I told you.’

  ‘But why go and marry him? You were going to wait ’til after the war was over, weren’t you? Marrying him won’t change him being ill. It won’t help.’

  ‘Yes it will. It’ll make him happy. It’s what he always wanted. He never wanted me to join up. He wanted us to get married when the war started.’

  ‘And you had the sense to say “No”, girl. To wait. See a bit of life first. It’s selfish of him to want you to marry him now, just to become a widow.’

  She raised her head. ‘It’s not like that! He doesn’t even know. I was goin’ to ask to leave the WAAF as well as marry him, at first, but he didn’t want me to do that. He wouldn’t hear of it . . . Don’t you ever say he’s selfish!’

  He had never seen her angry before. He saw he had said quite the wrong thing. ‘I’m sorry, Winnie. So, they’re posting you to be near him?’

  She nodded. ‘I went to see Section Officer Newman and told her about it. I’m going to Mantleham. It’s only five miles from home, so I’ll be able to visit him all the time.’

  He said quietly: ‘Don’t go and marry him, Winnie. It’s a daft thing to do. Even for his sake. It might make him miserable if he finds he can’t cope. Might make him worse quicker. Don’t you see? It’s better left as it is. That way you can pretend with him that everything’s all right. And so can he. He’s going to guess, sooner or later, even if he doesn’t know now. It’s better for him, really it is.’

  She flared at him again. ‘It’s nothin’ to do with you. You’ve no right to say anythin’. You don’t know Ken, or care about him. You just don’t want me to marry him.’

  ‘And you don’t want to marry him, either. I know you don’t. You never have really, only you didn’t know it. You found that out when you left home, didn’t you? In your heart of hearts you know that’s so.’

  She gave a small sob and turned away. ‘Don’t say that! You don’t understand anythin’. All you want . . .’

  ‘All I want is you, Winnie,’ he said. He put his hands on her shoulders and turned her to face him. An erk going by them made some grinning remark over his shoulder. Taffy ignored him. ‘I admit that. I’ve wanted you since the first moment I saw you. I’d do anything in the world for you – except stand by and see you go through this, without saying something. You’re marrying Ken just because you feel guilty and because you pity him. That’s all wrong. Believe me, girl, it’s all wrong.’

  She said stubbornly: ‘It isn’t. It’s the right thing to do. I couldn’t live with myself otherwise.’

  He looked at her pale, set face and dropped his hands, recognizing defeat. He said fiercely:

  ‘All right, Winnie. Have it your own way, then. But I’ll wait for you. I won’t let you go, see. And I’ll come after you and find you wherever you are.’

  Thirteen

  WINNIE AND KEN were married at St Mary’s church, Elmbury, in early December. Ken wore his best and only suit and Winnie’s mother ha
d altered her own wedding dress to fit Winnie and made bridesmaids’ frocks for Ruth and Laura. The church was full of villagers and Ken made his vows without coughing once, while Winnie spoke hers in a quiet but sure voice. Afterwards there was tea at the village hall, with sandwiches and bridge rolls and a two-tier wedding cake with a cardboard base because of the shortages. Gran stayed at home by the range.

  When it was all over they were driven in a shiny hired car to Ipswich where Ken had booked a room in a hotel. A waste of money, his mother had kept saying, when they could perfectly well have come straight home, but he had insisted.

  ‘It’s what Winn and I want, and I’ve made all the arrangements.’

  They sat in the big hotel dining-room, uneasy in the unaccustomed surroundings, and were served by a waitress who seemed to sense this. She took their order haughtily.

  Winnie whispered across the table in the hush. ‘Have you noticed how old everyone else is here, Ken? We’re much the youngest.’

  An old lady sitting alone at the next table was staring at them through lorgnettes.

  Ken said: ‘Don’t take any notice of her. You’d think there was something wrong with us.’

  He touched her left hand tentatively. The new gold band gleamed on her fourth finger beside the little blue ring. ‘You look so lovely, Winnie. I can’t believe you’re really my wife. I’m the luckiest man alive.’

  The happiness shone from his eyes and she was never more certain than in that moment that she had done the right thing. They were married and Ken was happy. And now that she had been posted so near she would be able to see him quite often. Never mind that she missed Colston and that RAF Mantleham was a bleak place by comparison, or that she had had to start all over again with a lot of strangers. It was a small price to pay and she paid it willingly for his sake. She would have left the WAAF willingly, too, but he had refused to hear of it.

  ‘I won’t let you do that, Winnie. It wouldn’t be right. There’s a war on and they need you.’

  They were to live over the shop with Ken’s mother, of course. No other arrangement was possible. They couldn’t afford a place of their own and Ken would need to be looked after while she was away. Winnie knew she would just have to make the best of it and try to get on with Mrs Jervis.