She could tell by his voice that he was smiling a bit. Dad would soon start bellowing for her too.
‘I’d better go in . . .’
‘Reckon you had.’ He moved towards her and put his hands on her shoulders. ‘In a moment.’
Twenty-Four
IT SEEMED TO Felicity, walking down Bond Street after a visit to the tailors for a new uniform fitting, that London no longer carried her battle scars wearily, but flaunted them with pride. The stoic ‘London Can Take It’ had became the ‘London Can Dish It Out’, and it showed on people’s faces and in the way they held themselves. The landings in Italy and the Italian surrender had boosted spirits and she had walked past a bookshop earlier that had filled its windows optimistically with guide books for Rome, Naples and Milan. Somewhat prematurely, as the Germans were now demonstrating, but it had been a small sign that perhaps the tide was turning at long last. There had been rumours all summer of a landing being planned across the Channel in France as well. Everyone had hoped it might happen in August, but the month had come and gone and now it was late October and nobody expected it to happen before the spring. There were other signs too, though, like the bookshop. Crates of oranges had appeared in greengrocers – fruits of the African victory – and were on sale to children, many of whom would never have seen one.
The biggest sign of all was the presence of the Americans. They were everywhere in London – on every corner and every street, gazing into shop windows, cramming into taxis, sauntering along, snapping right and left with their cameras, and arm-in-arm with the English girls. They looked like conquerors already. The fact was, though, that their noses had been badly bloodied lately. There had been huge American losses on the daylight bombing raids over Germany and that nice-looking young airman from the New World who was standing and staring about him at grimy old London would probably never set eyes on his own homeland again.
The newsvendors’ placards were carrying stark warnings in big letters: New German Secret Weapon! Terror Rocket Threat! There had been vague rumours in the papers for months about some kind of rocket that could be lobbed over from France, but nobody seemed very worried about it. ‘So long as they don’t come and drop no more of them bloody bombs, who bloody cares?’ she’d overheard someone say on a bus. ‘Can’t do much damage from that far away.’
A tall American GI, loping along, bumped into her and apologized with a charming smile, touching his cap and addressing her as ma’am. Some of them are real heart-throbs, she thought. No wonder our girls are bowled over like ninepins.
As she reached Piccadilly she turned the corner and nearly collided with another man in uniform, but this time an RAF Air Commodore. She saluted quickly and would have hurried past him if he had not caught at her arm.
‘Felicity!’
‘Hallo, sir.’
David Palmer was staring at her. ‘What on earth are you doing here? I thought you were miles away, up in Yorkshire.’ He was looking as though he could hardly believe his eyes.
‘I’m on leave, on my way home.’
‘I wish I’d known you were going to be in London.’ He was still holding on to her arm. ‘Look, at least we could have a drink together. No harm in that, don’t you agree?’
He steered her firmly along. He was taking charge, just as he had done once before at Liverpool Street Station, and she felt equally helpless. She found herself sitting opposite him in a corner of a cocktail bar, with a sherry set before her. He looked a little greyer and older and he wore his new rank well, as she would have expected.
He was smiling at her wryly. ‘Forgive me for abducting you, Felicity. I’m so glad to see you . . . if only for a moment. It’s incredible to have run into you like this. You’re a flight officer now . . . congratulations. I’m not a bit surprised.’
‘And to you, on your promotion.’
He waved that aside impatiently. ‘How have you been? How are you getting on in Yorkshire?’
She hesitated. ‘Actually, I’ve just been posted down to Bomber Command HQ. They wanted someone and a WAAF officer there remembered me from my training course.’
‘Is that what you wanted?’
‘I wasn’t sorry to leave the Station. So many were being killed. It was tragic.’
He nodded. ‘It’s hard to have to watch it happening to fine young men. I could never get used to it at Colston. But I miss being on an operational station, for all that.’ His eyes were fixed intently on her face. ‘Do you remember that day you first came to Colston and I treated you so appallingly? That haunts me. I’m ashamed of it.’
She remembered it very well. How she had stood in front of him, perspiring, pink in the face, and terrified. Just exactly what are you women supposed to be doing here, Company Assistant Newman? Perhaps you can explain that to me.
‘It was difficult for you.’
‘No, it wasn’t. I was just a dyed-in-the-wool misogynist. A blinkered old fool. I know better now, but I must have made life very hard for you then and I regret that very much.’
‘It was hard for everyone at the beginning.’
‘All the more reason why I should have helped you.’ He smiled at her gently. ‘It’s getting on for a year since we last met, Felicity, and I’ve thought of you every single day. Is there any hope that you’ll change your mind about us?’
She almost weakened – but only for a moment. I mustn’t, she told herself desperately. It would ruin his career and the RAF is his life. He would never have been promoted if he’d been involved in a sordid divorce case over a WAAF. Because I love him, I can’t let that happen. And I can’t steal another woman’s husband, no matter what she’s like.
‘I can’t,’ she said stiffly. ‘I’m sorry, but there’s no hope.’
‘I understand,’ he said quietly. ‘Just tell me, though, is there someone else now? Dutton, for instance? He was always very keen. I used to watch him with you.’
It was better to let him think so. ‘I see Speedy quite a bit, as a matter of fact.’
He looked down at the table between them and fiddled with his glass. ‘Well, I suppose it’s not very surprising. Dutton’s a young man. Your age.’
She stood up, making herself look and sound brisk and indifferent. ‘I really must go, or I’ll miss my train . . .’
‘Yes, of course.’
He helped her on with her coat and they went outside into the street. It had started to rain.
He touched her arm. ‘Take care of yourself, Felicity.’
‘You too, David,’ she said. She turned and walked quickly away.
The young army captain sitting opposite Anne kept on trying to catch her eye. In a moment he’ll go and say something, she thought, and I don’t feel in the least like talking. She stared out of the train window, deliberately avoiding his gaze. I’m sick of the war, she thought. Sick to the stomach with the whole ghastly business. Now Frank’s dead too – just like I knew he would be, and he knew he would be. Killed over Germany on some stupid raid that probably won’t have made any difference to winning the war. The thought of it made her want to cry buckets and yell out loud that it wasn’t bloody fair. He was so nice. Why couldn’t he have gone back home to Chicago and had a life, instead of it being ended horribly like that. Nobody ever died anything but horribly on those raids. And why couldn’t Latimer have lived? Or Digger? Or Jimmy? Or any of them? The hundreds of decent, nice young men who would never have proper lives. Twenty-something wasn’t very long to live. Not much of an innings. And Michal . . . better not to think about him at the moment or she would really start crying and disgrace herself in front of the rest of the carriage – the two tweedy spinsters, the stuffy-looking old colonel, though he had gone to sleep, the three RAF penguins and the young captain, who was still trying to catch her eye – bother him! Why couldn’t he leave her in peace?
London had given way to the suburbs and now they were getting into the country. It all looked grey-brown and wintry. November was halfway through and there were hardly any leav
es left on the trees – just a few dead ones that would blow away with the next strong wind. Soon it would be Christmas again. Another bloody Christmas! Awful camp concerts, tatty decorations, officers dishing round the turkey to other ranks, false bonhomie, false merry-making – for what was there to be merry about, with everyone dying like flies? And then a few days later it would be 1944. Another bloody year of war notched up.
The train slowed to a stop in the middle of nowhere and stayed there, engine hissing away up front. This was the fourth time since they’d left Paddington. It was the usual business. Stop-start. Start-stop. You never knew what was going on. And it was freezing cold in the carriage. Naturally, the heating wasn’t working. Or if it had been it would probably have roasted them alive. One or the other. Her feet felt like blocks of ice and there was probably another two or three hours to go. She wriggled her toes uncomfortably.
Why was she doing this anyway? Giving up precious leave to go and stay with the Somervilles? Dear Anne, Lady Somerville had written in a very nice, flourishing hand. Johnnie is home for a while, in between operations on his hands, and he’s very down in the dumps. He tells me that of all his hospital visitors, you cheered him up the most. Would you come and stay with us when you next get some leave? I think he’ll be here for some time. He doesn’t know that I’m writing to you – for some reason he won’t ask you himself, so I decided to. I would be in your debt if you would come. Yours sincerely, Mary Somerville.
She’d been rather flattered, in a way. And maybe a bit curious to see the Gloucestershire pile. And not that keen to go home and face the parade of suitable young officers who would be dragged round for drinks by her mother. Oddly, she didn’t mind seeing Johnnie again too much, though whether she’d be able to cheer him, as his mother hoped, was another matter. They’d be more likely to end up rowing.
The train jerked forward and crawled a few yards before it stopped again. Just teasing us, she thought. Raising our hopes that we might get there before tomorrow, only to dash them again.
The captain leaned forward. ‘I say, excuse me, but aren’t you Anne Cunningham? Kit’s sister?’
She looked at him reluctantly. ‘Yes, do I know you?’
He flushed. ‘Well, not exactly. We did meet once, but I’m sure you won’t remember. It was at the Fourth one year. I’m Alastair Crawford.’
‘I’m sorry. There were so many of you always . . .’
‘Oh, I didn’t expect you would remember. It was only for a moment. But Kit had a photo of you in his room, and of course you’re so like him. I thought it must be you. Actually, I saw Kit quite recently. In Alex.’
He had her full attention now. ‘How was he?’
‘Fine. Absolutely fine. I ran across him in a bar . . . we just had a few words, that’s all. Of course he didn’t know I was going to run into you too, like this, or he’d have sent some sort of message.’ He laughed. ‘Didn’t know it myself. Extraordinary coincidence.’
And he’s a captain, she thought, God save us. ‘Are you here on leave?’
‘Yes. On my way home to the parents. I get out at the next stop – if we ever get there. Simply frightful these trains, aren’t they?’
She wondered if he knew about Villiers, and Latimer and Parker-Smiley, and heaven knew how many more of those gilded youths who’d swanned about Eton on those sunlit, summer days. How many were now lying in cold, dark graves, or in no graves at all?
‘How did Kit look?’
‘Oh, jolly well, really. We were all pretty chuffed out there at getting our own back –’
‘Did he say anything about getting home soon?’
‘No, didn’t mention anything like that. Careless talk, anyway, I suppose. But I expect he’ll get back before too long. Is it a long time since you saw him?’
‘Yes,’ she said. ‘It’s more than two years.’
‘Gosh, that must be awful. I mean, I should think you were pretty close – being twins.’ He beamed at her. ‘You do look awfully alike.’
The train jerked forward again and this time gathered speed. She leaned back and smiled at him kindly. He’d given her news of Kit, however little. If he was getting out at the next stop, she didn’t mind talking until then.
Lady Somerville met her at the station in a pony and trap. ‘It’ll be a bit chilly, hope you don’t mind. There’s no petrol, of course, for this sort of thing, so we use old Dolly. She used to be Johnnie’s years ago.’
Old Dolly was a fat skewbald who moved at her own pace, ignoring any gentle inducement with the whip. And Johnnie’s mother was a surprise. Anne had pictured some frighteningly elegant woman; instead she was dressed in slacks and an old tweed hacking jacket, with a scarf tied round her head. But she was beautiful in the understated, unfading way of very aristocratic English women. And she had Johnnie’s blue eyes. Or rather, he had hers.
She made more chucking noises at Dolly’s broad back, which were disregarded, and smiled sideways at Anne. ‘Thank you for coming. I told Johnnie what I’d done this morning and, of course, he was furious with me for it. I can’t think why. As soon as I saw you, I knew I had done just the right thing.’
‘How is he?’
‘Better, I think. At least his face is getting better. Really not bad at all. He was very lucky about that. I say that to myself every day when I remember some of those other poor young men in that ward . . . In time I expect we’ll hardly notice it, and it doesn’t seem to worry him, which is the main thing. It’s the hands that are the trouble. They’re still giving him a lot of pain at times and he gets so frustrated that he can’t go back and fly again immediately – thank goodness. They’ve done several operations on them and he’s got more to be done before they’re finished. Our GP and the district nurse are coping meanwhile.’
‘Can he use them?’
‘Oh, yes. Just not very well. And they don’t look very pretty, but what does that matter so long as he still has hands? And they will work. He’s supposed to do exercises with them but he gets bored and discouraged. You know how impatient men can be. I’m hoping that’s where you’ll come in – to make him persevere.’
‘Well, I’ll try.’
‘Oh, I think he might listen to you,’ Mary Somerville said with a small smile. ‘You might make all the difference.’
The Gloucestershire pile was very impressive. When it came into view shortly after they had passed through a large gateway, Anne’s jaw almost dropped. The huge and very beautiful Georgian mansion was built of golden Cotswold stone and stood serenely in a dip in the land. She could see rows of tall windows and a porticoed entrance. The driveway leading to it swept through iron railed parkland and looked about two miles long. Dolly, scenting home, suddenly increased her pace to a smart trot. They clattered into the stableyard round the side of the house and an elderly, gaitered groom appeared, looking like a character out of a nineteenth-century novel. He touched his cap.
‘This is Gribble,’ Lady Somerville said. ‘He’s been with us for years.’ And as two black labradors also appeared: ‘And these are Samson and Delilah. We’ll go in through the back, if you don’t mind. We never use the front these days.’
The passageway was lined with a jumble of Wellington boots, and coats and hats hanging anyhow on hooks. It was glacially cold. They passed warren-like kitchen quarters that reminded Anne a little of the ones at Colston, and went past the green baize door.
Her WAAF shoes rang on the flagstone floor in the hall, as she followed Lady Somerville. She had time to take in some rather amazing pieces of antique furniture and a row of what looked like old masters, and then a magnificent staircase curving upwards. At the top stood Johnnie.
‘Don’t you dare ask me what I’m doing here,’ she said. His mother seemed to have disappeared.
He came down slowly towards her. ‘I know what you’re doing here. You’ve come to cheer me up at my dear Mamma’s request. I apologize that you’ve been dragged all the way here for such a boring task.’
‘It certainly
seems like it’s going to be pretty boring, if you’re being difficult.’ He was within a few steps of her now and the light had fallen on his face. ‘You’re looking rather healthy. And the face is fine.’
In fact, it had given her a bit of a shock to see how it had marred his smooth good looks. The side that had been under the bandages was a patchwork of angry red and dead white skin. His hands, hanging at his sides, were still bandaged, but the fingers were visible – swollen and liver-coloured.
He smiled. ‘It’s good of you to come, Anne. I’ll try to behave and entertain you.’
‘I think I’m supposed to be entertaining you, aren’t I?’
‘How long can you stay?’
‘I’ve got seven days. If I can stand it.’
‘I’m beginning to feel brighter already,’ he said.
He showed her round the house, opening doors onto rooms where the furniture stood shrouded with dust sheets and the window blinds were down.
‘Pity you can’t see it as it was before the war. We’ve shut most of it up for the duration. Nearly all the staff have gone. There’s only a couple of women who come in from the village, and Gribble in the stables, and an even older gardener. My mother’s learned to cook – she rather enjoys it.’
‘It’s a beautiful house,’ she said. ‘Have your family lived here long?’
‘Only four generations. Newcomers, really. I love the place . . . After the war, I imagine we’ll try to open it all up again, but I’m not sure if it will ever be quite the same again. I’ve a feeling those pre-war times are gone for good. Perhaps that’s not such a bad thing, in a way.’
‘The end of privilege and all that?’
‘You’re quite a radical at heart, aren’t you, Anne? Well, I don’t think the Nazi regime is the only one that’s going to find itself replaced. It’s going to be quite a different sort of world, for better or worse.’
‘Better, of course.’
‘I hope you’re right.’
The weather was dry but they stayed indoors on most days because the cold wind pained his hands. They sat by a logfire in the snuggery, playing snakes and ladders and draughts, gin rummy and poker.
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