Bluebirds

by Margaret Mayhew

  ‘He might stay on here. Live in England.’

  ‘He hasn’t said that. All he has spoken of is returning to Poland one day. And who knows to what conditions? His country will have been devastated by war. His family may all be dead, his home destroyed . . . he may have nothing material whatever to offer you . . . and yet he may still want you to live there with him. You will need to be very, very sure, if you do that. I can see that you are very much in love with him, and he with you, but it must be able to stand the test of time, and everything else as well.’

  She screwed the handkerchief into a ball in her fist. ‘Michal may not even survive six months, Daddy. Have you thought of that? I don’t want to wait. I can’t bear to wait! I want to be with him as much as I can.’ She was sobbing.

  He put his hand over hers. ‘Calm down, poppet. You must think of Michal too.’

  ‘I am thinking of him.’

  ‘No, you’re not. Not clearly. The Battle of Britain is over but the RAF still has a vital part to play in this war. And a dangerous one, as you know only too well. If Michal is worrying about you when he’s flying, as his wife and his responsibility, then it will make it even more dangerous for him. Don’t you see? A fighter pilot should have nothing on his mind but the job in hand. Now, in another six months things may be a lot easier. We’re not doing too badly in North Africa . . . Who knows, the Americans may even come into the war to help us. That’s another good reason for waiting a while.’

  She gulped and sniffed. ‘I suppose so . . .’

  He patted her hand. ‘I’m talking sense, poppet, believe me. Now, come downstairs and we’ll open a bottle of champagne to celebrate.’

  ‘I don’t think Mummy’s going to want to celebrate much. I just had an awful row with her. She’s dead against it.’

  ‘She just needs to get used to the idea, that’s all. I’ve spoken to her and she’s in the drawing-room right now, talking to Michal.’ He kissed the top of her head. ‘We do have your happiness at heart, Anne, even though you may not believe it.’

  Her mother had pinned on a false smile. Anne watched her being very gracious to Michal. She is smiling at him, she thought, but all the while, inside, she is saying to herself that, with any luck, he may be killed before Anne can marry him. Then she thinks I’ll end up marrying the sort of stuffed-shirt drip she’s always hoped I will, and she’ll be able to plan the sort of wedding she’s always wanted. Not a mixed, hole-in-the-corner affair with a Catholic foreigner, but a full-blown one in the village church. Me in clouds of white, bridesmaids, flowers everywhere, ‘Praise my Soul the King of Heaven,’ a huge marquee on the lawn, all the smart friends . . . She moved to Michal’s side and put her arm defiantly through his.

  That night she tiptoed barefoot down the passage to the spare bedroom and slid, shivering, beneath the bedclothes into Michal’s arms. She snuggled close against his warmth. They talked in whispers.

  ‘Kochana, your feet are like ice.’

  ‘Sorry. I didn’t bother with slippers. I just couldn’t sleep at all, knowing you were here in this house – so near to me. I wish we hadn’t agreed to wait six months.’

  ‘It is right to do as your father asks. He has good reasons and it is not for very long.’

  ‘It’s too long for me. I hate the thought of it.’

  He stroked her hair. ‘We must be patient. I do not wish you to quarrel with your parents because of me. That would be sad. And now, I can buy you a ring. Tomorrow we go to the next town and look in shops. I have saved money. It is not so much, but we find something you like and one day I buy you one much better.’

  ‘I won’t want anything better. I’ll want to keep that one and wear it always.’

  ‘So many women would not say that. Are you more warm now?’

  ‘Yes, thanks to you.’

  His hand moved down her body. ‘More pyjamas, Anne?’

  ‘Old school ones, this time.’

  ‘So many buttons . . .’

  She crept back to her own room in the small hours, skirting the floorboards that always creaked. Her bed was cold and lonely without him.

  Fourteen

  THE WINTER DAYS lengthened gradually into spring. Winnie, doing her turn as Orderly Room Duty Clerk one evening, looked out of the window at the sun still shining, and listened to the birds singing. It made her feel better.

  RAF Mantleham was nothing like as nice as RAF Colston. The fighter station was just a collection of huts hurriedly erected in flat and muddy Suffolk fields that took the full force of the prevailing wind. The hut where she slept with other WAAFS was even worse than the first one they had lived in at Colston. It was never warm, condensation streamed down the walls and the concrete floor was always wet. She missed the WAAFS she had known at Colston badly – Vera, Anne, Sandra, Pearl, Gloria . . . even Maureen and Susan. The ones at Mantleham were not very friendly and she felt like an outsider. She had arrived alone and in the hut she was a new girl among airwomen who all knew each other well. And the only one who was married. They looked at her curiously and treated her as though she were somehow different from the rest of them. She would have liked to tell them that she wasn’t – that she wasn’t really like a properly married woman at all, that she didn’t know anything more about what that was like than they did. But she couldn’t. That wouldn’t have been fair to Ken.

  She went on looking out of the Orderly Room window, thinking about poor Ken. She had a bike now because the Waafery was sited so far away from the rest of the station, and she used it to ride over to Elmbury to see Ken whenever she could. Lately she thought he had seemed better. Now that the weather was beginning to warm up, perhaps he might be able to go outdoors a little. They might be able to go for a walk, or even do some bird-watching. Anything would be better for him than just being at home, either upstairs in bed or sitting in that dark dreary room behind the shop. Next time, if it was fine she’d suggest that, though Mrs Jervis would probably try to stop it.

  So long as Ken’s mother had anything to do with it, there was no chance of any sort of normal married life. She never let Ken forget for one minute that he was an invalid, or Winnie how much she was resented.

  ‘I’ve given Ken his tea, Mrs Jervis. You don’t have to bother.’

  ‘I’d sooner you didn’t, if you don’t mind. I know just how he likes it. If you make it too strong it’s very bad for him.’

  ‘He said it was all right. I was very careful.’

  ‘Just the same, I’d sooner you didn’t.’

  At night her presence in Ken’s old room, just across the narrow passageway from theirs inhibited them hopelessly. Every sound could be heard and she thought that even if Ken had not been so weak and ill, nothing could have happened between them. Lying wakeful in Mrs Jervis’s uncomfortable marriage bed, she could not imagine her here with Ken’s father, as they must have been. Her cold disapproval seemed to seep through the very walls.

  The sound of a fighter taking off made Winnie crane her neck to catch a glimpse of it. She could just see the Spitfire rising into the air and watched its wheels go up as it climbed rapidly into the evening sky. Now she understood exactly how and why it flew. The air flowing under the wings and the reduced pressure over the camber on the top of them would be combining together to lift the aircraft upwards . . . that was how it worked. The pilot would be pulling back on the control column, forcing the tail down to make the machine climb upwards, like it was doing now . . .

  ‘Day-dreaming again, aircraftwoman? This won’t do.’ The WAAF corporal was glaring at her from the doorway. ‘I’ve told you before to keep your mind on your work. You’re not supposed to stand gazing out of windows when you’re on duty.’

  Winnie went red. ‘Sorry, Corporal.’ She hurried back to her desk.

  At Colston the trees on the station were coming into leaf and there were daffodils in bloom outside the Officers’ Mess. Felicity, returning to her office after lunch, found four airwomen waiting outside her door. They stood at attention and salu
ted. The first in line, an aircrafthand, followed her inside and shut the door. Felicity sat down at her desk.

  ‘Well, what can I do for you, Jones?’

  ‘I want to re-muster, please, ma’am.’

  ‘To what trade?’

  ‘I’d like to train to be a telephone operator, please, ma’am.’

  ‘Why is that, Jones?’

  The girl hesitated. ‘I’ve been scrubbing floors and cleaning things for nearly a year, ma’am, and I’d like the chance to do something else now. I always fancied working on a switchboard but there weren’t any vacancies when I joined. I’d like to try, and I think I can do it.’

  ‘I see.’ Felicity turned it over in her mind. Jones had a clean slate. She seemed sensible and hard-working and she had a clear speaking voice. Other aircrafthands would be arriving soon who could take her place. She deserved to be given her chance. ‘Very well, Jones. Write a formal letter in the proper way, giving your reasons and let me have it. You must start it: Ma’am, I have the honour to request . . . and so on. Then let me have it. It will all depend on vacancies still, of course, and it might mean you being posted to another station. Would you mind that?’

  Jones shook her head. ‘I’d miss it here, ma’am, but I think it’d be worth it.’ She beamed her thanks and saluted smartly before she went out.

  ACW Hollis who came in next was far from smiling. Felicity who knew the reason, told her to sit down and the airwoman, who was a cook, started immediately to cry. Her mother and two sisters had been killed when their home in London had been bombed. Only her father and her small brother had survived. She was leaving the WAAF to go and look after them, and doing so with a heavy heart.

  ‘Your discharge has come through, Hollis, and you’ll be cleared to leave early tomorrow.’

  ‘I don’t want to go, ma’am.’

  ‘I know, Hollis, and we’ll miss you. But your father and brother need you.’

  The cook nodded. She blew her nose hard and wiped her eyes. ‘Thank you, ma’am. I’ll do my best for them, of course, but I’m ever so sorry to be leaving the WAAF. I’ve been happy here. It’s a good life – better than I’ve ever known.’

  She was not the first WAAF who had had to leave for a similar sort of reason. Many of them had lost homes and relatives in the bombing of London and other big cities – Southampton, Bristol, Plymouth, Coventry, Portsmouth, Birmingham, Liverpool . . . the Luftwaffe had pounded them all. Some, like Hollis, had been needed by their families to help cope with disaster. And some, like Hollis, had been reluctant to go. Felicity had come to realize that joining the WAAF had provided a heaven-sent escape route for girls trapped in joyless, dreary, dead-end circumstances. They had seized the chance and flourished in their new life. Then, sometimes, they had to go back.

  ACW Stratton was the next to enter. She tripped on her way in, fumbled a salute and stood blushing. Felicity smiled at her.

  ‘There’s nothing to worry about, Stratton. Quite the contrary. There have been excellent reports on you, which is why you are here. I’ve been asked to put forward the names of two WAAF SD clerks suitable for special training on top secret work, and I’m proposing that one of them should be you.’

  The airwoman looked completely astonished and taken aback; she obviously had a low opinion of herself. Felicity mentally reviewed what she knew about Stratton: Christian name, Virginia, nineteen years old, good education record, worked as an insurance clerk before volunteering, no charges or misdemeanours of any kind while serving and, apparently, completely reliable. The self-confidence would probably come in time.

  ‘I’m afraid I can’t tell you very much about the work because I don’t know a lot about it myself and it’s very hush-hush indeed. All I can say is that it would be related to the kind of work you are doing at present – concerning tracking aircraft and establishing their position. That sort of thing. It’s very responsible and demanding work, I’m told, and absolutely vital. I already have one suitable candidate and I think you should be the other. Would you like to be put forward?’

  The girl’s brow furrowed anxiously. ‘If you really think so, ma’am . . .’

  ‘I most certainly do, Stratton,’ Felicity said, encouraging her firmly. ‘I think you will do extremely well.’

  The last airwoman waiting outside had plenty of self-confidence but, unfortunately, lacked self-discipline. As ACW Cunningham marched in and saluted, Felicity wondered if she was about to make a bad mistake. There was still trouble of some sort with her every so often – still complaints of lateness, lost kit, insubordination, dumb insolence, larking about . . . the night when she had been caught swimming naked in the static tank was still talked about all over the station. On the last occasion she had been caught climbing through the window of Eastleigh House at two in the morning and had refused to say where she had been. Presumably with the Polish pilot to whom she was now engaged, which meant that her mind would probably be even less on the WAAF than before. And yet she had always believed that Anne Cunningham had all the qualities necessary to become a really good officer, if only she would use them. And the WAAF badly needed all the good officers it could find. The girl standing before her, meeting her gaze very directly, had it within her and it was an old maxim that poachers made the best gamekeepers. The question was, would she have the sense to do it?

  She drew a breath. ‘Well, Cunningham, I have a proposition for you. I’m not quite sure why I’m doing this, but I’m thinking of recommending you for the WAAF Officers’ Training School. I want you to tell me what you think about the idea.’

  She couldn’t wait to tell Pearl. Bicycling across to Eastleigh House, she went through the interview with Section Officer Newman again, and laughed aloud. It was the last thing she had expected when she had been sent for. Waiting outside the office she had been racking her brains over what she might have been reported for now. Perhaps that twerp of a Flying Officer with the falsetto voice she’d imitated had gone and complained, or Beaty had seen her stick her tongue out at her . . . When she had finally gone inside, prepared for the worst, she had hardly been able to believe what had been said. My Gawd! Pearl would shriek. You a bloody officer! God save us all!

  She pedalled on merrily in the evening sunshine. Michal would be so pleased for her. She couldn’t wait to tell him either, and to see his smile. That is wonderful, Anne. I am very happy for you. Very proud. She could hear him saying it. For once there’d be something good to tell him about herself. And her parents would be pretty amazed. She’d never even been made a prefect at school.

  Well, she’d been pretty amazed herself. For a moment she hadn’t known what to say; just stood there like an idiot with her mouth open. The choice was hers, Newman had told her. She could either try for it, or she could just not bother and stay in the ranks as ACW Cunningham, 1st Class. She’d been inclined to do just that. It was much more fun in the ranks. She’d miss all the laughs, the fooling around, the lack of any boring responsibility . . . On the other hand, it would be a great deal more comfortable being an officer and, as well as better conditions, the pay would be better too: five shillings a day better, to be exact. And it would probably be more interesting. She was rather tired of twiddling R/T knobs and writing things down and enunciating like an elocution teacher. Besides, the officer’s uniform was far nicer – finer material, flat pockets not those flappy pouches, and, blissful thought, decent shoes not blister-making, corn-rubbing beetlecrushers. And the cap was tons nicer. A stitched cloth peak, not a horrible black shiny one, and a smart gold and red woven badge with the laurel wreath, eagle and King’s crown, instead of a plain gilt one.

  She slowed down a little, sobering. The only snag was that she would be sent miles away for several weeks training, which meant being separated from Michal. Still, it was already April and after June, when she was twenty, they would be getting married. She took her left hand off the handlebars and admired the little cluster of stones twinkling on her fourth finger. Not long now before a gold ring was there t
oo. They’d have to be at different stations anyway after that, because of the silly RAF rules, but at least they would be married at last. She’d stay in the WAAF for a bit until she had a baby. Then perhaps they’d be able to find a cottage near here, or wherever Michal was then – one like the cottage in the New Forest where they’d been so happy. She’d turn it into a proper home for him, find pretty things to furnish it with, grow vegetables in the garden. She could picture Michal coming back to a place all polished and shining, flowers in vases, the fire lit and burning brightly, a cat sitting on the hearth, perhaps even a dog too, like Barley, and the smell of something good cooking in the kitchen – if only she could manage to learn to cook better. And their child sleeping peacefully in its cot upstairs. She could see Michal leaning over to watch it, talking to it softly in Polish, turning to smile at her, taking her in his arms . . .

  All these thoughts went through her mind as she bicycled along the lane. A Bedford tooted as it went past and she waved at the airmen in the back. She began to hum, and then to sing.

  Look for the silver lining

  When e’er a cloud appears in the blue.

  Remember somewhere the sun is shining

  And so the right thing to do is make it shine for you . . .

  She swept into the driveway of Eastleigh House, sending gravel spurting out from under the wheels, and swerved to avoid the cook’s cat who was strolling across. As she skidded to a halt near the front door, a new WAAF whom she hardly knew leaned out of a downstairs window and called to her.

  ‘There’s a man in the garden to see you.’

  The silly clot had pulled her head in and gone before she could ask who it was. Michal? But he wouldn’t come in here. The Waafery was out of bounds to RAF except for special reasons. Kit? He was miles away in Yorkshire. She left the bike and walked round the side of the house to the gardens. Someone in RAF uniform was sitting on the seat in the rose arbour at the end of the pathway. At first she couldn’t see him clearly, but as he stood up she recognized the tall figure of Stefan. She thought, puzzled: what on earth’s he doing here? Then, as he began to walk slowly towards her, without his usual beaming smile, and she saw the look on his face, she knew.