When the pilot returned she was helping Ginger put back an obstinate engine cowling, sitting astride it to weigh it down for him. She lifted her head to watch the Hurricane make its approach and then fly low across the ’drome and flick into a showy roll. Ginger looked up from the cowling at the noise.
‘Playing silly buggers. They’ll ’ave his goolies off for that.’
They both watched as the fighter climbed away, stall-turned and came down for another low run over the ’drome. Halfway across it went into a second roll, but more clumsily this time. Something went wrong and the Hurricane seemed to hang motionless in the air for a moment before plunging straight into the ground. Winnie stared in horror as fire engines and the blood wagon tore across the grass towards the wreck.
‘Stupid sod,’ Ginger said. ‘Dead before ’e’s got a chance to get hisself killed.’
One wet, cold and miserable day an RAF sergeant stopped Winnie when she was biking back from dispersal.
‘There’s someone asking for you at the guard’ouse, Jervis.’
‘For me?’
‘That’s wot I said. Better get over there and see ’oo it is.’
She pedalled over and there, waiting for her and soaking wet from the rain, was Taffy.
‘Would you like to tell me what’s wrong, my dear? Or shouldn’t I ask?’
Felicity looked up. Her father was smiling at her gently from his chair on the other side of the fireplace.
‘Wrong?’
‘You’ve been sitting gazing into the fire for a very long time, as though you were somewhere else. And since you’ve been home it’s been very obvious to me that something’s troubling you. I can see that you’re unhappy. That something is very wrong. Perhaps talking about it might help.’
‘I can’t tell you, Father.’
‘Why not? Are you afraid it might shock me? I can assure you it won’t. I’m quite unshockable. But I might be able to give you some advice, perhaps. It’s a man, I imagine. The one who telephoned you yesterday. And today. Are you in love with him?’
She nodded.
‘Then you should be happy. Not unhappy. So long as he’s in love with you, too, and I’m quite sure he is.’
‘He’s married, Father.’
There was a pause. ‘Ah, I see . . . My poor child. What a misfortune for you. We can’t help whom we fall in love with but such a situation can only bring you terrible heartache. Is he in the RAF?’
‘Yes.’
‘At your station?’
‘Yes. He says he’s been in love with me for a long time, but he never showed it. I never knew . . . had no idea. I never dreamed of such a thing. He’s older, you see. And married. I never thought of him that way . . . until recently.’
‘Quite rightly.’
‘His wife –’ She swallowed. ‘His wife has been unfaithful to him for years. They’ve only stayed together for appearances.’
‘Those whom God hath joined together . . .’
‘I know, I know,’ she said in anguish. ‘But it isn’t a proper marriage any longer.’
‘It is still a marriage and they have both made solemn vows to each other. You must not be a party to anything that might encourage them to break those vows, Felicity. You must ask to be moved away – put yourself out of reach of temptation.’ He leaned forward and put his hand on her arm. ‘Believe me, this can only bring you great unhappiness otherwise. You cannot build a good life on such an unsure foundation. And you must not try to take away another woman’s husband, whatever the circumstances. You must see that.’
She did see it. She saw it very clearly and she knew that her father was right. But she could not forget that night in London. And all the time she thought of him.
There had been no hotel. She had stayed with him all night and had woken in his arms and knowing that she loved him in return. It had happened against all logic or reason or wisdom and she could not see how she could undo it. Ever.
Taffy had hitch-hiked all the way from Essex where he was stationed now and had walked the last five miles to the camp in the pouring rain. Water dripped off him onto the guardroom floor, forming puddles, but he did not seem to notice or care. He looked at her with his intense gaze.
‘I’ve got leave,’ he told her. ‘I’ve found myself a room at the Lamb and Flag.’
‘How did you know I was here?’
‘I’m stationed not far from your home, Elmbury. We’re just near the Suffolk border. So, one day I rode over there on my bike to see what it was like and where you lived. I asked about you in the pub and they told me your husband had died. They told me where the farm was too, so I went and knocked on the door and your mother said about you doing the training at Hednesford and being sent up here. I came as soon as I could.’
She wished he hadn’t. ‘It’s a long way to come,’ she said, flustered. ‘You shouldn’t have.’
‘I told you I wouldn’t let you go . . . that I’d find you wherever you were.’
She went out with him to the Lamb and Flag, catching the evening bus down. She hadn’t wanted to at all but seeing as he’d come all that way and got so wet, it was very hard to refuse. In the bus he put his arm round the back of her seat and in the pub he went on gazing at her.
‘You’ve changed a bit, Winnie. Seems like you’ve got a lot more sure of yourself. And you’re lovelier than ever. You’ve got your wish, haven’t you? You’re a flight mech now, like you always wanted. How are you getting on?’
‘Not so bad,’ she said. She told him about Chiefy and about Ginger and all the gang.
‘This Ginger,’ he said. ‘What’s he to you, then?’
‘He’s a friend,’ she answered stiffly, thinking that it was none of his business. ‘He’s helped me a lot.’
Taffy drank his beer with his eyes still on her face. He was thinking of the small back bedroom he had upstairs in the pub, and wondering how it had been with that weak and failing husband of hers . . . thinking of how he would show her what it could be like, if she’d give him the chance.
‘Don’t look at me like that, Taffy.’
‘Sorry.’ He lowered his eyes. ‘Funny seeing you drinking beer. It was always orange juice.’ He took hold of one of her hands, examining the ingrained grease, the grazes and half-healed cuts, the split nails, the reddened, chapped skin. He turned it over. ‘Seems a pity, really, you spoiling your hands like this.’ He lifted it to his lips but she snatched it quickly away. Watch it, he said to himself. Don’t frighten her and you’ll get there in the end.
On her day off they went into Dundee on the bus. She hadn’t wanted to, but, again, she didn’t like to refuse. In an odd way it was a comfort to see someone from the old days at Colston – if only it didn’t have to be Taffy. She tried to remember that he had been a help too, like Ginger, and had taught her a lot. She had reason to be grateful to him. It was raining again and so they spent a long time sitting in a café, eating fish and chips and drinking tea.
‘There’s not much to do here, really,’ Winnie said, feeling she ought to apologize for the bleakness of it all. The cold, the rain, the seedy little café with its smeary oilskin tablecloths pockmarked with cigarette burns. ‘Some evenings there’s a dance, but that’s all. Except for the pictures.’
‘I’ll take you to the flicks,’ he told her.
‘I expect you’ll’ve seen the film.’
‘Doesn’t matter. It’ll be dry and warm.’
And dark, he added inwardly.
He made sure they were in the back row of the stalls. It was an Old Mother Riley film that he’d seen before but he didn’t care. He scarcely looked at the screen. His eyes were on Winnie’s profile – on the curve of her cheek, the soft outline of her mouth. Very carefully he put his arm round her shoulders. He felt her stiffen and as he touched the back of her neck very lightly, she hunched her shoulders.
‘Don’t, Taffy, please.’
‘No harm in that, is there?’
He kept his arm round her and after a while
shifted a little sideways so that his head was nearly touching hers. She leaned sharply away from him.
‘It’s all right, Winnie, there’s nothing to fret about.’
But she sat so rigidly that he dared not make any further move in case she took flight. He burned with frustration in the darkness. He had had such hopes, such dreams about her . . . of how glad she would be to see him and how she would realize at long last what she had been missing. Now that feeble husband of hers was dead there was nothing to stand in his way. Nothing for her to feel guilty about. He was a good lover, he knew that. Women had always told him so – showed him so. He had imagined making love to Winnie many times and he longed to make it reality. Never before had he had any difficulty in getting a woman whom he wanted and he wanted Winnie more than he had ever wanted any of them.
They caught the last bus back to the camp. It was full of other RAF and WAAF and reeked of beer and cigarettes, of cheap perfume and damp greatcoats. Taffy pulled Winnie into a seat near the back where other couples were sitting with their arms round each other. As the bus jerked away from the stop the single dim blackout bulb was switched off and the necking began.
Taffy didn’t say anything; he didn’t speak a word. He simply turned to her as she shrank against the window and started to kiss her.
At the front of the bus the airmen had begun singing loudly.
When this lousy war is over,
Oh! how happy I shall be!
When I get my civvy clothes on,
No more soldiering for me . . .
She was struggling but he was taking no notice at all. It was just like it had been in the stores shed that Christmas at Colston, only this time there was no escape and he was going on and on, and worse and worse.
No more church parades on Sunday,
No more asking for a pass,
I shall tell the old Flight Sergeant
Where to stuff his blinking pass.
She could feel his hand sliding underneath her skirt now and his fingers on the bare skin of her thigh above her stocking top. She pushed his hand away but after a while it came back again. And all the while he went on kissing her, his tongue deep in her mouth. The bus veered round a sharp corner and swayed on through the blackness. The singing had become a roar.
AC2s are common.
AC1s are rare.
LACs are plentiful,
You’ll meet them anywhere . . .
Her head was pressed back so hard against the window blind that she could not turn it away, nor could she get her hands against his chest to push him off; he was holding her too tightly.
Corporals they are stinkers.
Sergeants they are too.
But the Station Warrant Officer
Is a bastard through and through.
At last the bus jolted to a stop and the light came on. A girl’s voice hissed frantically at the very back: ‘Christ, Bert, we’re there! Help do me up, quick!’ Taffy let Winnie go and she rubbed her mouth, trembling. She stumbled after him off the bus past grinning, leering faces.
The rain had turned to sleet, driving into their faces as they walked to the guardhouse. When he tried to take her arm she shook him off. As they reached the gate he said contritely: ‘I’m sorry, Winnie. I didn’t mean to be like that . . . couldn’t help myself, see. I love you. More than I’ve ever loved any girl. I want you more than I’ve ever wanted anyone. I can’t help it . . . You could love me, too, if only you’d let yourself. You know you could –’
‘Stop it!’ She turned on him furiously. ‘I don’t want to hear any more. I don’t love you and I never will. Can’t you understand that?’ The taste of him was still in her mouth and the feel of his hands still crawled on her skin. She shivered with revulsion.
But he went on fiercely, relentlessly. ‘I’ll make you love me, Winnie. I won’t give up. I’ll write to you and I’ll come and see you when you’re home on leave.’ He gripped her arm tightly and forced her round to face him. ‘Promise me you’ll let me know when you’re home next. Promise me you’ll write and tell me. Promise.’
‘No,’ she said. ‘I won’t promise. I don’t want to see you ever again.’
‘You’ll see me again all right, Winnie. I swear it. I told you, I’ll never give up.’
She tugged her arm free of him and ran off through the camp gateway without a backward glance. Taffy stood for a moment, looking after her, then he turned up the collar of his greatcoat against the sleet and trudged off to the Lamb and Flag. And every step of the way he thought of Winnie.
‘Turn on the lamp, please, Virginia. I can’t see to count these stitches.’
Virginia rose to switch on the standard lamp close by her mother’s chair and then returned to her own seat and picked up her knitting. She was turning the heel of a thick woollen sock and her mother was halfway through a balaclava helmet. Sometimes she wondered whether all the knitted garments being produced in almost every home in Britain found wearers in the services or whether there was an enormous storehouse somewhere piled to the roof with sweaters and scarves, socks and gloves and balaclava helmets, all knitted with varying degrees of skill but all with patriotism in every stitch. It was rumoured that the saucepans appealed for by the Government to turn into Spitfires and Hurricanes, Blenheims and Wellingtons lay unused in great metal mountains. Who would wear her socks? Some serviceman fighting in the cold of Northern Europe or on the Atlantic, or on a convoy to Russia? She hoped they would give him some warmth and comfort, whoever he was.
They listened to the nine o’clock news on the wireless, as usual. The Chindits had crossed into Burma, the Russian Army were advancing on Rostov, the American forces were fighting fiercely in the Guadalcanal . . .
Her mother began another row. ‘Those Americans . . . There were two of them outside the newsagents today, chewing gum and slouching about. I thought they were Canadians at first by the way they spoke. If it wasn’t for the uniform it would be impossible to tell the difference. They both appear to be quite uncivilized. I’m glad you never brought that Canadian sergeant here again. A very rough diamond, I thought.’
Virginia’s hands went very still and the sock hung motionless from its heel. ‘I couldn’t bring him here again, Mother, because he was killed last August. He died when they raided Dieppe.’
‘Oh. You didn’t tell me.’
‘Why should I? You wouldn’t have cared. You made it very clear that you didn’t like him.’
‘There’s no need to use that tone of voice, Virginia. I really don’t know what’s got into you these days. It must be the bad influence of the WAAF. I never wanted you to join. You should never have associated with anyone like that. I brought you up to have some standards.’
She put her knitting down on her lap. ‘No, Mother, you brought me up to be stupidly snobbish, like yourself – to have all the wrong standards. You think that just because someone speaks or eats or behaves differently, or comes from a different background then they’re not worth anything. That’s not true and I found it out long ago. Neil was a wonderful person – decent and kind and brave – and I loved him. We were engaged and we were going to be married as soon as we could and live in Canada after the war was over. And I was glad that we’d be far away from you. I’ll never forgive you for the way you treated him when he came here. Never.’
‘Have you gone quite mad, Virginia? You couldn’t possibly have married him. It would have been a ridiculous mistake and you would have lived to regret it. There’s no need to make all this fuss. It wasn’t my fault that he was killed. I hear that raid on Dieppe was completely useless. No point to it at all. I sometimes wonder if Mr Churchill knows what he’s doing.’
Virginia stood up, clutching the sock to her breast. ‘I’m not going to listen to you any more. I’m not going to listen to anything you say again in my whole life. I’m not surprised Father left you. You probably drove him to it.’
‘Virginia! That’s a wicked thing to say, and to your own mother! After all I’ve done for you .
. . You will apologize this instant.’
‘No, I won’t. I’m not a bit sorry. I meant every word of it.’ She picked up her knitting bag and put the sock and needles away. Her mother was gaping at her, white and shocked. ‘I’m going to bed now. I have to leave very early in the morning so I won’t disturb you. And I’m not sure if I shall ever come here again.’
She went out and slammed the sitting-room door behind her.
The snow lay thick and white over the aerodrome and the wind whipped it up into stinging flurries that made Winnie blink as she drew the nozzle of the de-icing equipment along the leading edge of the Hurricane’s wing. The cold fluid trickled back down her arm, finding its way under her sleeve and leaving an uncomfortable sticky trail. It was a horrible job and she hated it. She blinked hard again and wiped the snow away from her face. It clung to her wool mittens in frozen little lumps like burrs that she would have to pick off. Her fingers looked like purple sausages and were too cold to feel any longer; her throat felt as though it were on fire. She had had a bad sore throat for several days that had started after she’d been out helping to clear the runways, and got steadily worse. She’d been to the sickbay and they’d given her something to gargle with, but it hadn’t helped much. Today her limbs ached, too, and the glands in her neck were swollen right up. She swallowed hard.
The sound of an aircraft approaching made her look up and she saw that it was coming in to land – a big, two-engined one that must be visiting. From habit, she tried to identify it and, as it came closer, saw that it was a Hampden. She watched it land and lumber down the runway and then went back to the de-icing job and finished it somehow. After that, she gave Ginger a hand changing a radiator, holding the fairing bath for him while he undid the screws.
He clicked his tongue at her. ‘You look that bad, Winnie. You ought to be in bed.’
Bluebirds Page 51