Bluebirds

by Margaret Mayhew

  Her voice had risen and an army major sitting near turned his head to stare. Kit touched her arm. ‘Steady on, old thing. Don’t work yourself up into a lather. I never met Michal, but I wish I had. He must have been a pretty good sort of bloke.’

  She blew her nose. ‘He was. He was wonderful. The Poles gave him a medal after he was killed, you know – their Cross of Valour. I just wish he could have had it when he was alive.’

  ‘I know. That seems to happen rather a lot these days.’

  ‘There’ll never be anyone else like him for me, Kit.’

  ‘Not like him – no. But someone else who’s different, perhaps. One day.’ He looked at her gravely. ‘We both have something we bitterly regret. The only difference between us is that what happened to you wasn’t your fault.’

  ‘Oh, Kit, you’re not still blaming yourself over Villiers?’

  ‘I shall blame myself to the end of my days. But I’ve come to terms with the fact that, at heart, I’m a coward. I’ve faced it. I just live in hope that one day I shall get the chance to make amends in some way. To atone for my cowardice.’

  ‘But you mustn’t think like that. It’s all wrong. You couldn’t help what happened. The Germans killed him. They were to blame, not you.’

  He gave her a brief smile. ‘Let me be the judge of that, twin. And drink up your champagne.’

  She watched him anxiously as they talked of other things; he made no further reference to Villiers and she dared not bring up the subject again. He seemed to chat on easily.

  ‘I was hoping they’d send us to Crete but now we’ve been kicked out of there, it’ll probably be North Africa. We don’t seem to be doing exactly brilliantly there either. Rommel’s having it all his own sweet way. Anything to get away from another English winter . . .’ He looked across Anne’s shoulder. ‘Good lord, there’s Isobel Bingham. She used to be Atkinson’s girlfriend, you know, but it looks like she’s with some RAF type now.’

  Anne turned her head. ‘That’s Johnnie Somerville.’

  ‘You know him?’

  ‘I suppose you could say that. I met him at Colston. He’s with one of the auxiliary squadrons – fearfully rich, snobby lot. At least they all used to be but a lot of the original ones have got killed. He’s a bit of a pain. Frightfully pleased with himself.’

  ‘The name’s vaguely familiar.’

  ‘He was at Eton, about five years ahead of you. Remember I asked you about him once? He won all those cups . . . Wet Bob and held the long jump record, or something.’

  ‘Of course! That Somerville. Hallo, he seems to have spotted you. They’re coming over.’

  Isobel Bingham was dressed in pale blue taffeta and her hair was carefully curled. She had a sweet, eager smile.

  There was no avoiding the introductions and the hand-shakes, and Anne was further dismayed to hear Kit suggesting that they all join forces. It was too late to kick him; Johnnie was already holding a chair for Isobel who sat down, arranging her taffeta skirts carefully and smiling sweetly round.

  ‘We’re celebrating Anne’s commission,’ Kit said, oblivious of her glowering lack of enthusiasm.

  Johnnie smiled at her. ‘I’d noticed. Congratulations. I always said you were wasted.’

  ‘I’m thinking of joining the WAAF myself,’ Isobel said brightly. ‘It all sounds rather fun.’

  It was bad enough that they had intruded on her drink with Kit, but even worse when Johnnie later proposed that they all had dinner together.

  Isobel clasped her hands eagerly. ‘Oh, yes, do let’s go round to Quags. Hutch is singing there and he’s absolutely super!’

  Anne wondered sourly what Sergeant Beaty would have made of her as a recruit. She tried to catch Kit’s eye, but he seemed perfectly happy with the idea and there was nothing to do but go along with it. She would have much preferred to spend the evening alone with him. Tomorrow he was going home for the rest of his leave and after that he might be posted overseas. It could be months and months before they saw each other again.

  It was still broad daylight when they walked down St James’s to Jermyn Street and along Bury Street to Quaglinos. The warm summer’s evening should have lifted her spirits but she felt depressed and out-of-sorts now – reminded of Michal and worried for Kit.

  Kit, on the other hand, seemed to be enjoying himself. She watched him later dancing with Isobel as though he hadn’t a care in the world. Would he really blame himself for Villiers’ death to the end of his days? What had he meant exactly by making amends? By atoning for his cowardice? What sort of nightmare of guilt and suffering was still tormenting him beneath the surface?

  ‘Dance?’ Johnnie said, stubbing out his cigarette.

  ‘If you insist.’

  ‘I always have to, where you’re concerned.’

  She went reluctantly onto the small dance floor, and put her hand in his. He looked down at her.

  ‘This isn’t the place to say it, Anne, but I heard about Racyñski and I’m extremely sorry.’

  ‘Thanks, but I’d sooner not talk about it.’

  ‘Then we won’t.’ He was silent for a moment. ‘What do you think of Isobel?’

  ‘Much too sweet for you. Not your usual type, is she?’

  ‘Well, I got a bit tired of actresses and mannequins. They’re only really interested in themselves.’

  ‘That must be a bore if there are two of you like that.’

  He smiled. ‘Isobel makes a pleasant change. She never argues or sulks, and she thinks I’m absolutely terrific.’

  ‘I can see why you like her then. Does she always smile like that?’

  ‘Always at me, and invariably at everybody else too. She’s a very nice girl. Our mothers are old friends and I’ve known her since she was in nappies.’

  ‘I shouldn’t make that a public announcement or she might stop smiling. She’s probably perfect for you. You ought to please both your mothers and marry her.’

  ‘I’ll bear it in mind.’

  ‘I think it’s in hers.’

  He laughed. ‘I like your twin. I can see a strong resemblance. You’re very close, aren’t you?’

  ‘Yes, but we don’t get a chance to see much of each other at the moment. We just happened to have some leave at the same time and arranged to meet up in London. It was lucky.’

  ‘How long are you staying in London?’

  ‘I’ve got another six days.’

  ‘Good. I’m here for two more, so you’ll be able to have dinner with me.’

  ‘Why on earth should I want to do that?’

  ‘Because I’ll take you somewhere very nice and you’ll have a very good dinner. You can still get one in London, if you know where to go. You could even have steak tartare, if you like.’

  She grinned. ‘No, thanks. A cooked steak wouldn’t be bad, though. Thick and juicy, with lots of fried potatoes.’

  ‘I guarantee it.’

  ‘Hmm. What would Isobel say?’

  ‘Isobel won’t know.’

  ‘It would only be for the sake of the food. That’s all I ever seem to think about these days.’

  ‘I didn’t imagine it would be for any other reason. Where are you staying?’

  ‘In Chester Square. With an old schoolfriend, Lucy Strickland.’

  ‘I know the Stricklands well. I’ll pick you up around seven tomorrow evening.’

  Later on, Hutch sang at the piano. As she listened to him, Anne was glad of the dimmed cabaret lighting. The words, half-spoken, half-sung in his intimate, confiding way, went straight to her heart. The tears that were never very far away since Michal had been killed, welled up again and spilled over. She gulped and fumbled for her handkerchief, but couldn’t find it in either tunic pocket. Then, through the blur, she saw a man’s white silk one held out under her nose. Johnnie had quietly passed her his own.

  Anne and Kit left the restaurant before the other two, who were still dancing. There was no moon or stars to help light the city for either the Germans or the inhabi
tants and it was pitch black outside.

  Kit took hold of her arm. ‘I’ll try and get you a taxi. I’m kipping down at Atkinson’s and it’s easy walking distance from here. If the worst comes to the worst you can come there with me.’

  He shouted into the impenetrable darkness of Bury Street. Further along, they could hear others yelling for taxis too. It was like some kind of party game – a variation on blind man’s buff.

  Miraculously, the twin pinpoints of a taxi’s headlights slid to a stop beside the whitened kerb. Kit felt for the door.

  ‘In you get. I’ll go home and see the parents in the morning. I’ll give them your love and say you’re fine.’

  She groped for him and hugged him tightly.

  ‘Take care of yourself, Kit. Please don’t go on blaming yourself. Promise you’ll try to forget all about it.’

  ‘I can’t promise that.’

  ‘Then promise you’ll write, at least, and let me know how you are?’

  ‘I swear. Whenever I can. You too. Happy landings, twin. It’ll all come all right in the end.’

  She fumbled her way in and gave the address to the driver. Kit closed the door after her and as the taxi carried her away, she twisted round to try and see him through the tiny back window, but it was much too dark.

  ‘Johnnie Somerville! You lucky thing! He’s super!’

  ‘Don’t you start, Lucy. He’s nothing of the kind. He’s actually a conceited bastard.’

  ‘Oh, I’ve always drooled over him, but he’s never looked my way.’

  ‘I’m only going out with him to get a decent dinner.’

  ‘Well, you’ll certainly have that. He must know all the best restaurants. Ah me! Pots of money, a flat in Belgravia, that divine car, and those dreamy looks! The father’s a baronet, you know, so he’ll be Sir John one of these fine days. Quite a catch.’

  ‘Well, you can stop sighing like that, Lucy. I’m not going fishing. I’m eating.’

  He arrived to collect her in the green Lagonda and wearing mufti. He was one of the few men, she thought grudgingly, who looked equally good out of uniform; the suit had probably cost a small fortune, not to mention the shirt, tie and shoes. They certainly hadn’t come from anywhere near The Fifty Shilling Tailors. It was rather sickening to watch Lucy and her mother fawning over him.

  ‘Are all women like that with you?’ she asked as they drove off.

  ‘Most of them. Except you, of course.’

  ‘My God . . .’

  He took her to a small French restaurant hidden away down in a Mayfair basement and, as he had promised, there was thick, juicy steak – the best she had ever tasted.

  ‘I like the dress,’ he said. ‘Blue always suits you.’

  ‘I got it in Harrods this morning. I spent far too much on it and it’ll have to last me the rest of the war, I should think. Specially now they’re rationing clothes.’

  ‘You look lovely in it. It was worth every penny.’

  ‘Don’t go on about it . . . How much longer do you think the war’s going to drag on for, anyway?’

  He shrugged. ‘Who knows? Years, probably. If the Americans come in, then it’ll be much shorter. We’re going to have a hell of a job finishing it on our own.’

  ‘Do you think they will?’

  ‘Only if they have a good enough reason. Otherwise, why should they want to get involved?’

  ‘I think they jolly well ought to help us. Don’t they want Hitler beaten?’

  ‘Europe’s a long way away to most of them, you know. And at least they’re lending us arms now.’

  ‘Pity the Germans don’t drop a few bombs on them to wake them up a bit more. It’s funny how the Jerries have left us alone lately. Lucy’s father thinks it’s the calm before the storm and that they’re planning to try a massive invasion again soon.’

  ‘I don’t believe they’ll ever manage to invade England. Not now. It’s too late. And it’s too difficult, thanks to the Channel. By the way, where are you being posted?’

  ‘East Thorpe in Norfolk. It’s a bomber station. They’re putting me in Ops Intelligence. I haven’t the least idea yet what exactly I’m supposed to be doing there. Typical RAF.’

  ‘You’ll find the bomber chaps a bit different from us.’

  ‘In what way?’

  ‘Saner. Quieter. More sober.’

  ‘Not so show-off and swanking around, you mean. Perhaps they’ll even be able to stand upright on their own two feet, without having to lean against their ’plane, or something.’

  He smiled. ‘You can’t lean against a bomber so easily. I wouldn’t change places with them for anything. Trundling along at a snail’s pace for hours on end . . . an absolute sitting duck for the Huns.’

  ‘There’s a whole crew of them together,’ she pointed out. ‘It must make it less frightening than being all on your own.’

  Johnnie shook his head. ‘I don’t agree. I’d far sooner have some control over my own destiny.’

  How did Michal feel? I can’t remember him ever talking about that. Was there any time for fear when he was plummeting down alone in the Hurricane towards the sea? Was he trapped in the cockpit, or too badly wounded to get out? Was he conscious, or mercifully unconscious like I’ve always prayed hard he was whenever I think about it and picture it happening in my mind. Like now.

  She put down her knife and fork, her appetite gone. ‘Aren’t you ever frightened, then?’

  ‘Only if I let myself think about what might happen – and mostly there isn’t time, except on the ground. We’ve converted to Spitfires now and they’re pretty nimble which gives one a fair bit of confidence. I suppose the thing one is most afraid of is being badly burned or disabled. I’d far sooner be dead if that happens.’

  ‘Don’t say that,’ she said bitterly. ‘Anything’s better than someone being dead.’

  ‘I’m sorry, Anne. That was extremely crass of me.’

  She fiddled with her knife. ‘Anyway, you seem to live a charmed life, so I wouldn’t worry.’

  ‘I’m not counting on it, I assure you. If I end up in some grim hospital ward, will you promise to come and visit me and cheer me up?’

  ‘That will be Isobel’s job.’

  ‘I have a strange feeling that she might not be very good at it. Promise you will?’

  ‘If I can. But it won’t happen. I told you, you’re much too lucky.’

  ‘Spoiled rotten, I believe you once said, if I remember rightly. Now, which of these delectable desserts are you going to choose?’

  ‘None of them, thanks. I couldn’t manage it.’

  ‘You disappoint me, Anne. I thought better of you and your stomach.’

  He drove her back to Chester Square and saw her to the Strickland’s front door, finding the right house number in the darkness with his torch.

  ‘I hope I see you again, Anne. Somewhere. Some day. Somehow.’

  She was feeling for the doorbell. ‘I doubt if our paths will cross. Not very likely. Oh, I nearly forgot . . . here’s your handkerchief back. I had it washed. Thanks for the loan.’

  Their hands touched briefly as he took it from her. Although he was standing very close, it was so black that she could scarcely see him at all.

  ‘It won’t be the end of everything, Anne. You’ll find that out eventually. It will get better, as time goes by.’

  The sympathy in his voice made her feel like crying again. If he said another word, she’d start. To her relief she heard the front door opening and the Strickland’s elderly manservant quavering a greeting.

  ‘Well . . . thanks for the dinner, anyway. Good night.’

  She went inside quickly and the door closed behind her.

  ‘But, soft! What light through yonder window breaks? Itis the east and Juliet is the sun!’

  Felicity, standing near her office window, turned round in amazement.

  ‘Speedy! How on earth did you get here?’

  He flourished a hand. ‘With love’s light wings did I o’er per
ch these walls. Actually, I cadged a lift in a Lizzie that just happened to be coming this way.’

  ‘I thought you were still miles away, up north.’

  ‘So I was ’til recently. We’ve been playing nanny to the navy for months. Very cold and very boring. Now we’re down south again, lending a hand on the land in the Garden of England, so to speak. Making little jaunts across the moat to see what we can do to annoy the Jerries in France.’

  It was a year since she had last seen him but he hardly seemed to have changed at all. The only difference was that he looked less tired, she thought, and that his cap was even more battered than usual. Fit for the dustbin. The red, white and blue check scarf was still in place, and he was wearing a heavy sheepskin flying jacket. He rubbed his hands together, beaming at her with all his heart-lifting sunniness.

  ‘Well, is Juliet going to invite Romeo to the Mess for a warming tot or two? To celebrate our reunion.’

  She held out the file of papers that she had been busy looking at. ‘I’m supposed to be dealing with all these . . .’

  He came forward, took the file from her and tossed it onto her desk. ‘No time for all that bumph now. I’ve only got a couple of hours here. Gather ye rosebuds while ye may. Make use of time, let no advantage slip . . . and all the rest of it.’

  He held her arm and steered her firmly out of the office.

  The late November day was grey and cold and the strong winds had blown most of the dead leaves from the trees round the station. A young WAAF hurried past them, saluting with her head bent. Speedy smiled at her, and she looked back over her shoulder.

  As it was close to lunchtime the Officers’ Mess ante-room was crowded. People came up to Speedy and slapped him on the back. As they sat down he looked round happily.

  ‘Rather like coming home. Always was my favourite station . . . always will be. Even the Old Man had a kind word for me when I passed him in the corridor at HQ. He seems to have sprouted a few more grey hairs since I last saw him.’

  ‘He has a hard job.’

  Speedy cocked his head at her. ‘Do I detect a slight change of heart in that direction? A thawing of the ice between you?’