Bluebirds

by Margaret Mayhew

  ‘You must think what you like, Caroline, but that’s not so.’

  She began to laugh, but it was a laugh without mirth and with a note of triumph. ‘You randy old goat! She’s young enough to be your daughter. You ought to be ashamed of yourself.’

  With a sinking heart he realized that she was enjoying the situation. He had foolishly imagined that she would probably welcome a divorce. Now he saw that it had been naïve of him in the extreme to think so. She was enjoying not only the situation, but the power he had now given her over him.

  He said evenly: ‘Our marriage is a sham, Caroline, and you know it. I’ll give you all the evidence you need to divorce me. It can be arranged –’

  ‘Oh, I know all about that, darling. You pay someone to be in a hotel room with you and the maid comes in and sees you – it’s done all the time. But I’m not letting you get away with that.’

  He watched her lighting a cigarette in her casual way – holding the table lighter in both hands and blowing a thin stream of smoke upwards.

  ‘I’m asking you to be reasonable, Caroline. You’ve had lovers for years and I’ve turned a blind eye. It wouldn’t be difficult for me to find the evidence to bring a case for divorce against you.’

  She was still holding the heavy silver lighter, weighing it in one hand. ‘If you try that, David, I’ll defend it. And I’ll cross-petition and make damned sure that your little WAAF’s name is dragged all across the newspapers. I can see the headlines, can’t you? RAF Station Commander cross-petitioned over affair with WAAF . . . Married Group Captain accused by wife of adultery with WAAF officer under his command . . .’ She put down the lighter on the table beside her. ‘It’d ruin your career, and you know it. That’s what really surprises me about this. You always minded about your career more than anything else. The bloody RAF always came first with you. I didn’t think you had it in you to risk losing that. A divorce – especially a messy one – will mean you’ll never make it to the top. Still waters run deep, I suppose. You must love her a lot.’

  He moved away from the window and stood looking down at her. ‘I don’t love you, and you don’t love me. What’s the point of all this, Caroline? Why can’t we call it a day?’

  She smiled up at him sweetly again. ‘Why? Because I’m your wife, David. And you’re my husband. For better, for worse, remember? And I happen to want it to stay that way.’

  In the early summer of 1943 Virginia and Madge were sent on another special and secret training course. The RAF instructor was young and very keen. He kept bouncing on his heels and rubbing his hands together.

  ‘This is a top secret new device that could turn the tide of the war in our favour. And its name is Oboe.’ He paused for effect and then bounced on his heels again and rubbed his hands again. ‘Basically,’ he went on, radiating his enthusiasm round the room like an RDF beam, ‘this is a blind bombing aid. The idea is to help our bomber chaps get to the target accurately without actually having to see it themselves. Up ’til now it’s not been unknown, I regret to say, for them to miss the target altogether, or bomb the wrong jolly one. All a bit hit and miss, really. But we’re going to change all that. You all understand about Radio Direction Finding . . . well, this is the same principle, different application. A wonderful new box of tricks to use against the enemy.’

  He picked up a piece of chalk and drew a long line with a flourish across the blackboard behind him. ‘Here we have a beam laid by a ground station.’ He marked a cross at the start of the line. ‘And here we have an aircraft flying along precisely at the end of the beam.’ He drew a misshapen ’plane at the end of the line. ‘Bit like a conker on a piece of string being whirled about a child’s head. Now . . . here we have another beam laid by a second ground station . . .’ He flourished the chalk again. ‘We call these two stations cat and mouse and where their beams cross, at the exact point of intersection, our aircraft must release its bombs. Smack on target! No chance of visual error, you see. Offensive radar, that’s the difference. We’re not just using it to defend ourselves by spotting the enemy popping over here, but taking it into their territory as an offensive weapon.’

  He had turned round from the blackboard and was doing some more heel-bouncing and hand-rubbing.

  ‘On recent tests over France it has proved extremely accurate. And we have the perfect aircraft to carry Oboe for us – the Mosquito! The Mosquito can fly at three hundred and fifty miles per hour – too fast for the Germans fighters to catch easily – and it can mark from twenty-eight thousand feet, to get the utmost range. And it’s capable of carrying a four-thousand-pound bomb. A wonderful tool in our hands. The Mosquito will be spearheading the Pathfinder force who are going to mark these targets accurately for the bombers following along behind.’ He rubbed his hands together and beamed another smile round. ‘In other words, the hit-and-miss days of bombing are over on any target within Oboe’s range. And you are going to make sure it’s always a hit.’

  ‘East Kent!’ moaned Madge at the end of the course. ‘Stuck out on the cliffs, miles from anywhere again. No transport. Nothing to do. No fun at all.’

  They were given leave before reporting for duty. But Virginia did not go home. Instead she went to stay with Madge and her family in the small house in Brighton where the sitting-room had been turned into her dentist father’s waiting-room and the dining-room was the surgery. The remaining space was cramped, but Madge’s parents and her smaller brother made her feel welcome and nobody seemed to care very much about how the table was laid or whether they kept their elbows off it. She and Madge went to the cinema twice and they walked along the seafront behind the barbed wire and sat in the sun eating ice-cream cornets. Once, they went past the ice rink where she had watched Neil playing in the hockey match.

  In her diary she wrote: I shall never forget him. There will never be anybody else for me, I know there won’t. I still can’t forgive Mother for the way she treated him. I don’t know if I ever shall. Why, oh why did Neil have to die?

  While Madge lay sleeping peacefully, Virginia lay wide awake, remembering.

  Twenty-One

  THE PHONE IN the rectory hall was ringing. Felicity went from the kitchen to answer it, but as she lifted the earphone off the hook, the roar of a bomber passing overhead drowned the caller’s voice. She waited until the noise had died away.

  ‘Hallo? I’m sorry, I couldn’t hear you.’

  ‘Is that you, Titania?’

  Her heart leaped. ‘Speedy! Is that really you?’

  ‘I just asked you the same thing, Titania.’

  She started to laugh. ‘Well, it is me. But, Speedy, oh Speedy . . . I don’t believe it! Where have you been all this time? What happened to you? Where are you now? Are you all right?’

  ‘Which one shall I answer first?’

  ‘Are you all right?’

  ‘Never better. Lost a spot of weight, that’s all. I’ve been wandering about France for months on end. Managed to pop back via Spain eventually. I’ll tell you all about that later.’

  ‘But where are you now? You haven’t told me that.’

  ‘Norwich. Not a million miles from you. Fifteen, to be exact. I looked you up on the map. They’ve given me a nice bit of leave, so I came up here in search of you. Took me a while to track you down . . . when did they shunt you off to the bomber boys in Yorks?’

  ‘A while ago. I’m on a forty-eight.’

  ‘I know. They told me. So, I thought I had a chance of seeing you. Thought I might nip over today – if that’s all right.’

  ‘Of course it is. You must stay the night. I don’t have to go back ’til tomorrow.’

  ‘Never thought I’d hear you ask me to do that, Titania.’

  ‘And meet my father,’ she added firmly.

  There was a sigh at the other end of the line. ‘Best behaviour and all that . . . I’m on my way.’

  He arrived in the red MG, string trailing, and swept up the driveway in a flurry of gravel with George sitting beside him in
the passenger seat. Seeing him, back from the dead and as jaunty as ever, made her feel like bursting into tears. He sprang out of the car, George at his heels, and swept her, without hesitation, into his arms, holding her tightly against him. George was barking excitedly. She managed to free herself eventually and held him at arm’s length. He was thinner, certainly, but otherwise looked fit and well. The same old Speedy with the same bright and laughing eyes.

  ‘I still can’t quite believe it,’ she said at last. ‘I’d almost given you up.’

  ‘Given me up?’ He looked at her in mock horror. ‘While there is life there’s hope.’

  ‘I knew you’d say that, but I didn’t even know you were still alive.’

  ‘Would have dropped you a line, Titania, but there’s not much of a postal service between Frogland and England at the moment.’

  George was snuffling at her ankles and wagging his tail. She bent to pat him. He had lost weight, too, probably from pining. She looked up and smiled at Speedy.

  ‘Come in and meet Father.’

  She led him towards the study and opened the door. ‘Father, this is Flight Lieutenant Ian Dutton.’

  Before supper the two of them walked in the tangled wilderness that had once been the rectory garden. They wandered along the overgrown herbaceous border where delphiniums, lupins, canterbury bells and poppies had struggled through to bloom among the weeds. George followed them, exploring with his nose in the undergrowth.

  ‘Tell me what happened, Speedy . . . in all these months.’

  ‘Long story, Titania. I’ll give you the bare bones. We were doing a sweep over France – we’ve got Spits now, you know, instead of Hurries. Jolly good little bus. Climbs like a rocket. Very nippy. Though I was rather fond of the old Hurry . . . Anyway, I was tootling along, minding my own business, as usual, when all of a sudden someone started shooting at me. Jerry ack-ack where I didn’t expect it. Pretty unsporting of them. Either they were good shots or they were lucky because they scored a bullseye. The kite went up in flames and I had to hop out smartly. Touched down right in the middle of a field of cabbages . . . never knew the French were that keen on them, but still. There was this old Frenchman digging away in a corner as I floated down but he didn’t even look up.’

  Felicity laughed. ‘Last time it was a girl.’

  ‘Wasn’t so lucky second time around. I undid the parachute and sort of bundled it up in my arms and carried it over to the Frenchman. I thought I’d ask to borrow his spade, see, so I could bury it. I did the old je suis aviateur anglais bit and bowed very politely, then I couldn’t remember the French for spade. So, I did a sort of mime – digging and so on.’

  ‘Did he understand you?’

  ‘Well, he may have done, but he started to spout a whole gabble of French at me that didn’t sound very friendly and he made some rather insulting gestures. So, no help there. I pushed off sharpish and went and hid in a wood for a while. Got out my little escape kit, but that wasn’t much help either.’

  ‘What do they give you?’

  ‘Bit rum, I thought . . . There was a booklet entitled Instruction and Hints for Fishing and a fishing hook. I suppose that would have come in handy if I’d landed near a river or pond but I couldn’t spot one in the immediate vicinity. And then there was a safety pin, which I’m glad to say I didn’t need – not a tear in the old blue.’

  ‘What about a map?’

  Speedy sighed. ‘Turned out to be of Norway. Not much use in France. So, I lay low ’til it got dark and then set off in what my compass button had vouchsafed was a northerly direction, to see if I could find a friendly farmhouse for some grub. I was feeling a bit peckish by that time. Not a morsel since breakfast the day before, you see. The first two or three wouldn’t let me in or even give me a crust. Kept flapping their arms and aprons at me, telling me to go away. I was rather hurt, I can tell you. Anyway, I pressed on regardless in true RAF spirit and came to a village. Knocked on the first door and did the aviateur anglais routine yet again and, hey presto, this old crone beckons me in. Could’ve knocked me down with a feather. No beauty, she, I have to say. All in black, not a tooth in her head and a moustache like my Uncle Arthur, but she was all smiles and nods and made me sit down at the kitchen table while she got out a jolly decent bottle of vin rouge . . . I felt considerably better after a few glasses.’

  Felicity imagined the scene with amusement: the old peasant woman nodding and smiling as she kept pouring out wine for Speedy, undoubtedly at his most charming.

  ‘What happened then, Speedy?’

  He picked a stick up off the grass and lobbed it ahead for George who scampered rheumatically in pursuit.

  ‘Well, after a while the son came home. No oil painting either, but he spoke passable English. He soon sorted the whole thing out. Off with the old RAF togs and on with some very smelly blue overalls and a pair of boots I think he’d been wearing to clean out the pigs. I was a bit choked about having to give mine up, I must say.’ He kicked mournfully at the long grass.

  ‘Needs must when the devil drives.’

  ‘My thoughts precisely, Titania. In fact I muttered those very words to myself as I handed them over to Pierre. Hung on to my gong and wings, though, so all was not lost.’

  They had reached the end of the border and strolled on in the golden sunlight, past the dilapidated summer house and towards a bench set against the kitchen garden wall where Albertine had rampaged unchecked and smothered the brickwork with its pink flowers. They sat down and George collapsed at their feet, tongue lolling, flanks heaving. It was warm in the sun. Speedy leaned forward, arms resting on his knees, hands clasped, and looked about him.

  ‘Wonderful place this . . . peaceful, unspoiled . . .’

  ‘Rather a jungle, I’m afraid. It was lovely once.’

  ‘I like it this way: the long grass, the flowers all jumbled up, roses all over the shop. Perfect on a summer evening like this. Listen to that bird singing.’

  ‘It’s a blackbird. He’s on the top of the apple tree.’

  Speedy craned his neck. ‘Can’t see the little blighter. He’s warbling away like fury . . . Sure it’s not a bluebird? One of those ones that are supposed to be going to zoom around over the White Cliffs of Dover one of these fine days? Never seen one yet, I must say, and I’ve flown over there enough times myself. Don’t think we even have them, do we? Jolly good song, though. Some Yank wrote it, apparently. Hence the bluebirds, I suppose. Never seen the place. Chap didn’t have a clue we didn’t even have them in this country.’

  ‘It’s symbolic, isn’t it? The bluebird of happiness.’

  He smiled at her sideways. ‘Matter of fact, Titania, I’ve heard some of the RAF call you WAAFS bluebirds . . . for that very reason. You bring happiness.’

  ‘Not always,’ she said.

  ‘Tomorrow, just you wait and see . . .’

  ‘I want to hear what happened next,’ she told him quickly. ‘What did you do, dressed in your French disguise?’

  ‘They moved me onto another house in some other village. Rather an attractive widow, as a matter of fact – teeth all present and correct and not a whisker. I stayed there for a few days. Quite pleasant, I have to admit.’

  ‘I’m sure it was.’

  ‘Don’t look at me like that, Titania. I behaved at all times like a perfect English gentleman.’

  ‘Hum. That can mean anything. And after the French widow?’

  ‘Not so much fun. They parked me with the curé in the next village. Well, you know me and God bods . . . not really my line at all – excepting your father, of course. Still, the old boy turned out to be rather good at poker and he had some quite special brandy stashed away out of sight of the marauding Huns. I positively warmed to him by the time I had to leave. Almost converted me.’

  ‘Never.’

  ‘I said, almost. And you won’t believe this either, but they dressed me up as a nun to move me on to the next place. A bonne soeur they called it.’

  She put
her hand over her mouth. ‘Oh, Speedy!’

  ‘All very well for you to laugh. He jests at scars that never felt a wound . . . Our old friend Romeo, I believe. I can tell you, Titania, that I’ve spent a jolly rum sort of time over there. Real cloak and dagger stuff – hiding from the Huns. All kinds of disguises. Wigs. False beards. Forged papers. The whole caboodle. I’ve biked miles. Walked miles. Gone on train journeys sitting bang next to Jerry soldiers . . .’ He paused and glanced at her again. ‘Not sure I should tell you about the oddest hiding place of all. Not really fit for your ears.’

  ‘You may as well.’

  He grinned. ‘Well, one of my last ports of call was what I shall politely call a house of ill repute. By this time I’d been joined by another RAF type – pilot officer by the name of Butterworth. He tagged along for the last couple of months. Nice chap, really, but hadn’t been around much, if you get my meaning. Only nineteen and still wet behind the ears. Anyway, the two of us were hidden in this particular house –’

  ‘How convenient.’

  ‘Jolly good place for a chap to hide, actually. The thing is that the Huns somehow got wind of something and raided the place. Butterworth and I were called upon to do a pretty fair imitation of paying guests, as you might say, only poor old Butters was such an innocent the Frogs were frightened he’d give himself and them away, so they dressed him up in women’s clothes and stuck him in one of the rooms.’

  She laughed. ‘You’re not making all this up, are you Speedy? I never know whether to believe you or not.’

  ‘Absolute gospel, I swear it. Made rather a good-looking popsie, as a matter of fact. He was damned lucky none of the Huns took a fancy to him. They got us to the Spanish border after that and then it was a long slog over the Pyrenees. Butterworth and I finally showed up at the British Consulate at Figueras, a trifle the worse for wear. They put us up at the Embassy for a while, so we went to the odd cocktail party and did a fair bit of line-shooting before we managed to cadge a lift back by air. Home sweet home.’ He sighed deeply and leaned back against the bench. ‘Still can’t quite believe I’m here. Back in jolly old England. And with you. Can’t tell you how much I thought about you in France – but then, as you know, I always do . . .’