Bluebirds

by Margaret Mayhew

  ‘Good exercise for your fingers,’ she told him cheerfully. ‘Picking up and putting down.’

  ‘Sadist.’

  He had propped his hand of cards up against his knee and, as he fumbled clumsily with them, they all toppled onto the carpet. He swore violently.

  ‘I might as well have a bunch of bananas. Those damned exercises don’t seem to make any difference.’

  ‘That’s because you’re not giving them a chance. They will – if you do them properly.’

  ‘All very well for you to talk, Anne . . . and, by the way, I think you must be cheating. I usually win.’

  But he smiled as he said it.

  One afternoon, when the wind had dropped, they went for a walk across the parkland with Samson and Delilah bounding along in attendance. He kept his hands carefully in his pockets.

  ‘I like your mother,’ she told him, striding along.

  ‘And she likes you. I’m sorry my father isn’t here. He’d have enjoyed meeting you. But he spends a lot of time in London at the moment, doing some sort of liaison work. In his element, so far as I can tell. He flew in the Flying Corps in the Great War, you know. Camels and Gladiators. Chestful of medals. Loved every moment of it. He still flies my Moth – or did until this war started.’

  ‘I’d forgotten you’d got a ’plane as well as everything else. Where do you keep it?’

  ‘In one of the barns. I’ll bring it out when the war’s over and take you up.’

  They had reached the top of a steep incline and turned to look at the view of the house and surrounding countryside.

  ‘Has your father ever come up here with you and said all this will be yours one day, my son?’

  He smiled. ‘Something of the kind. It’s been dinned into me from a fairly early age that I have a responsibility. There’s a fair number of people to consider – tenant farms, tied cottages, and all that kind of thing. It must be a bit of a nightmare for my father having just one son – especially these days. I sometimes think it must be much worse for our parents than for us, in the thick of things – or at least as I used to be.’

  ‘And will be again. If you do your exercises.’

  ‘You were supposed to entertain me, not bully me. You remind me of my dear old nanny. You haven’t met her, of course, have you? I’ll take you to see her. She lives in a cottage on the estate.’

  She was sitting by the fireside in a room that was crowded with pictures from the past – photographs of other people’s children that she undoubtedly thought of as her own. Her hair was snowy white and she had the sort of sloping, comforting bosom that must have pillowed many a small, weary head. When Johnnie bent to kiss her cheek she reached up to touch his burned face with her fingers and took his bandaged hands in her own, clucking over them like a mother hen. Anne noticed how bright and sharp her eyes were behind her spectacles and, with them turned upon her, found herself hoping that her fingernails were clean and her hair properly brushed.

  She insisted that they stay for tea and went off to the small kitchen, waving away offers of help. Anne looked at a large photo of Johnnie as a small boy, dressed in a sailor suit and with angelically fair hair. It was prominently displayed.

  ‘I bet you were her favourite,’ she whispered. ‘How sickening.’

  There were other photos of him, at different ages – from the baby in a lace christening robe to the young Etonian in tails. And there was one taken with his three sisters – he at about ten years old, the girls already grown-up.

  ‘Rosemary, Henrietta and Sarah.’ He pointed them out for her.

  ‘They’re all beautiful, like your mother. Aren’t they all married now?’

  ‘Lord, yes. Married with sprogs. I’m an uncle eight times over already. Rosemary lives up in Scotland – married to a landowner there. Henrietta lives in London and Sarah in Hampshire. Their husbands are army, navy and air force respectively. Thank God, they’ve all survived, so far. You must meet them one day.’

  They drank their tea and ate up the fish paste sandwiches under an eagle eye.

  ‘A clean plate is a healthy plate, isn’t that right, Nanny?’

  ‘I’m glad to see you haven’t forgotten, Master John. And we must think of all the starving children in Europe.’

  ‘I thought she was going to ask you if you had a clean handkerchief as we were leaving,’ Anne said later.

  ‘I wouldn’t put it past her. She’d have called that after me as I was scrambling if she could, and told me to sit up straight in the cockpit and keep my elbows in. By the way, did you notice the way she was looking you over to see if you had good child-bearing hips? She’s waiting to be brought out of retirement.’

  ‘Don’t be ridiculous!’

  ‘I’ve never seen you blush before, Anne. This is something quite new.’

  ‘Well, it was a jolly stupid sort of joke.’

  ‘I wasn’t joking,’ he said.

  ‘Does anyone play that very grand grand piano?’ she asked him after dinner on her last evening, when they were alone in the drawing-room by the fire, drinking brandy.

  ‘My mother. She plays extremely well, as a matter of fact, though she’d never admit it.’

  ‘I wish I’d asked before she went to bed. How about you?’

  ‘I used to strum.’

  ‘Used to?’

  He raised his hands mutely.

  ‘Why don’t you try,’ she said. ‘It would –’

  ‘Be good exercise for them. I know. How I’ve suffered at your hands this week, Anne.’ He went over to the piano, sat down and lifted the lid. Then, very slowly, he picked out the scale of C major with one finger – up and then down again. ‘There.’

  She got up to join him and leaned her elbows on the top. ‘You can do better than that.’

  ‘How are you so sure?’

  ‘Because you’re not even trying.’

  He picked out a few more notes that became a tune.

  ‘I know that one.’ She smiled.

  ‘I know you know it. You were singing it when I first saw you.’

  ‘When you second saw me, actually.’

  ‘I don’t count the other time. I really don’t remember it very well. According to you, I was behaving badly.’

  ‘You behaved pretty badly the second time – barging in to that dressing-room and acting as though I was supposed to swoon at your feet. And the next time, after that, you abducted me.’

  ‘The only course of action with someone like you, Anne.’ He played some more notes idly with his right hand and then added chords with his left. She half-spoke, half-sang a soft accompaniment.

  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 . . .

  He stopped. ‘Sorry. I can’t play any more.’

  ‘Are your hands hurting?’

  ‘Yes, as a matter of fact. Like hell, this evening.’

  She said contritely: ‘I didn’t realize.’

  ‘How could you?’

  ‘But they are getting better, aren’t they? You’ll be able to play properly again one day. I can tell you’re very good, but you won’t admit it – like your mother.’

  He banged the lid shut. ‘Blow the bloody piano! It’s flying I care about. When am I going to be able to do that again?’

  ‘What’s the rush?’

  ‘You’re not a fighter pilot, Anne, or you wouldn’t have asked that.’

  ‘Sorry.’

  ‘It’s me that should be sorry,’ he said. ‘I’m being boorish yet again. I’ve learned bad ways in the hospital. Nanny would have given me a ticking-off and a long lecture about being gracious to guests, especially ones who are trying very hard to be helpful.’ He smiled at her. ‘I love you in that blue dress. You wore it when we went out to dinner in London.’

  ‘How observant of you. It’s not really warm enough for winter though . . .’ She tweaked her
cardigan closer round her shoulders.

  ‘Come and sit by the fire again and I’ll pour us both some more brandy.’

  ‘I’m already rather tiddly or I wouldn’t have started singing.’

  ‘Does it matter? And I’m glad you did. It reminded me of that evening, seeing you up on that stage . . .’

  She went back to the fireside and he recharged their glasses and handed hers to her.

  ‘Cigarette?’

  ‘Thanks.’

  He lit it for her and leaned against the mantelpiece.

  ‘You were still very upset over Racyñski’s death that time we met in London. Have you got over it?’

  ‘It’s not an illness – like measles or chicken pox.’

  ‘I know, but it takes time to recover, in the same way.’

  ‘Well, I haven’t. It still makes me completely miserable, if you want to know. And I still think about him all the time.’

  ‘I doubt if that’s what he would have wanted. Would he?’

  I do not want you to be sad for me . . . remember me sometimes, but only with a smile. She had re-read Michal’s letter countless times and it was stained with many tears.

  ‘I can’t help it.’

  ‘Perhaps you should try harder, Anne. Like I should try harder with my exercises. We could both do better, as they say in school reports.’

  ‘They said a lot more in mine . . . Anyway, it’s really nothing to do with you.’

  ‘I think it is. You see, I’ve been hoping that you were slowly coming round to the idea that I wasn’t quite so appalling as you first thought. That you might even be prepared to give us a chance.’

  ‘Us?’

  ‘Us,’ he repeated. ‘You and me. Hasn’t that possibility ever occurred to you?’

  She looked up at his face, and then quickly down at her glass. ‘No, actually, it hasn’t.’

  ‘I’m not sure I believe you, Anne. You wouldn’t have come here if you weren’t ready to think about it.’

  ‘I wish I hadn’t.’

  ‘Don’t you realize how I feel about you? I thought you must do by now. I’ve been in love with you for a long time, almost ever since I first saw you singing up on that stage – all right, since the second time I saw you. I would have told you before but you’d taken such a dislike to me, and then there was Racyñski . . . I didn’t think you’d listen.’

  ‘And I won’t listen now, so please don’t go on,’ she said in agitation. She put down her drink and threw her cigarette into the fire. ‘This is crazy and I can’t think straight. That wine at dinner and all this brandy . . . I’d better go to bed.’

  She stood up and staggered a little, and as she did so, he caught her against him.

  ‘If you won’t listen, Anne, then maybe this will convince you.’

  After a moment, she said unsteadily: ‘That wasn’t fair.’

  ‘All’s fair in love and war.’

  She retreated out of his arms. ‘I’m going to bed.’

  Her attempt at a dignified exit from the drawing-room was rather spoiled by colliding with one of the chairs, and she realized that she must be a lot more sloshed than she had thought. Far too much of Sir William’s five-star brandy had gone down her throat than was good for her. She put out a hand to steady herself and proceeded carefully. When she had reached the top of the hall staircase, Johnnie called up from its foot.

  ‘You’re going the wrong way.’

  Damn and blast, she thought, I’ll never get the hang of this place.

  ‘It’s down this corridor.’

  He had materialized beside her and put his arm under hers. When they had reached the door of her bedroom, he opened it for her and then followed, shutting it behind him.

  ‘What do you think –’ she began indignantly, but the words were stifled abruptly by his mouth.

  The next thing she knew, she was lying on the bed and Johnnie was still kissing her, and all kinds of things had been happening. Her blue frock seemed to be half off already. She thought muzzily: Why am I letting this happen? Why aren’t I trying to stop him? God, I’m even helping him get the rest of it off . . . And she was actually helping him with his clothes now – fumbling with buttons that he couldn’t manage easily with his burned hands. Her arms had found their own way around him and she was kissing him back as though she loved him. Later on she thought quite clearly: I don’t want him to stop, anyway. I most definitely don’t want him to stop at all.

  In the morning he came to her room as she was packing. She fancied he looked triumphant. Pleased with himself.

  ‘I’m sorry about last night.’ He didn’t look in the least sorry.

  ‘So am I.’ She folded her cardigan, avoiding his eyes. ‘You knew I’d had too much to drink. That was a cad’s trick.’

  ‘Well, you know what a cad I am.’

  She laid the cardigan in her suitcase. ‘Anyway, let’s just forget it. It won’t happen again.’

  ‘I’ve no intention of forgetting it.’ He moved closer. ‘And I want to go on doing the same for many years to come.’

  She looked up. ‘What?’

  He was smiling. ‘I want you to marry me, Anne. I’m asking you if you will?’

  After a moment’s silence, she said: ‘Are you trying to do the decent thing, or something? Because it’s certainly not necessary. I’m not that feeble, and, as you probably realized, it wasn’t the first time for me.’

  ‘My dear Anne, cads don’t do the decent thing. And if I’d asked every girl I’ve ever been to bed with to marry me, I’d have had a string of wives already.’

  ‘I’m sure you would,’ she said coldly. ‘And I’m not your dear Anne. And I never will be. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’ve got to finish this packing before your mother takes me to the station. I’ve got a stinking hangover, which isn’t helping much.’

  ‘Is that your answer, then – no?’

  ‘Looks like it, doesn’t it?’

  He seemed almost angry. ‘Forgive me, Anne, but I had the distinct impression last night that you felt very differently about me . . .’

  She flushed and turned back to the suitcase. ‘Well, you were wrong. You’re still the same conceited Johnnie, aren’t you? You can’t imagine anyone not wanting you – or actually saying “No” to you. You’re not disappointed, you’re amazed and very put out. Well, I’m saying “No”. No, no, NO.’

  Except for the burns on his face, he was very pale. ‘I see. Then there’s nothing more to be said, is there?’

  ‘I can’t think of anything – except goodbye.’

  There was another silence. At last he said: ‘Very well. But if you change your mind, Anne, let me know.’

  ‘I won’t.’

  Her head was splitting now and she felt close to tears. It had all gone sour, somehow, and she hadn’t really meant that to happen. His proposal had stunned her. And then he had enraged her. And now she was utterly confused. When he had left the room she sank slowly down onto the bed and held her aching head in her hands.

  ‘Peaches,’ said Virgil. ‘Pineapples, apricots, pears, cranberries, fruit juice . . .’ The cans appeared one by one from the green canvas bag that he had set on the kitchen table. ‘Chocolate, hard candy, gum.’ A wink in Gran’s direction. ‘Luckies. And scotch.’

  ‘Is that all?’ Ruth asked.

  ‘Mebbe. Let’s see . . .’ He shut his eyes and made a circular motion with his right hand over the bag. ‘Abracadabra . . .’

  ‘What is it?’ she squealed, hands clasped. ‘Is it a rabbit?’

  ‘Presto!’

  Laura shrieked. ‘It’s a great big dead chicken!’

  ‘That ain’t no chicken, honey. It’s a turkey. Don’t tell me you ain’t never seen a turkey?’

  Winnie stared at the big fat bird. It was drawn and plucked but with its head still attached and dangling gruesomely over the edge of the table. ‘Where ever did you get it?’

  ‘Well, they was havin’ them for Thanksgivin’ at the base an’ one of the cooks is a bu
ddy of mine . . . They ain’t never goin’ to miss one.’

  ‘What’s Thanksgivin’?’ Ruth asked.

  ‘Gee, sweetheart, I’d forgotten you folks don’t know ’bout that.’ He sat down and lifted her onto his knee. Laura edged close too. ‘Well, see, once upon a time – way back in the bad old days – these guys called Puritans, ’cos they behaved real good, got into a boat at Plymouth, England, an’ set sail for America . . .’

  While the turkey was cooking, Winnie went out to the yard to see to the animals. Virgil went with her, carrying a bucket of potato peelings for Susie. He tipped it over the sty wall into her trough and watched her gobbling away.

  ‘Reminds me of mealtimes back at the base.’

  ‘Thanks for the turkey, Virgil,’ Winnie said awkwardly. ‘But you shouldn’t’ve done that . . . or brought all those other things. You don’t have to.’

  ‘You always say that, Winnie, an’ I know I don’t have to. I want to. I don’t see it same as you, so let’s just call it quits an’ not argue any more. ’Sides your Ma’s cookin’ it for me to eat too, an’ that’s real nice of her. I’ll have two Thanksgivin’s.’ He leaned on the sty wall, admiring Susie. ‘Atta girl! You sure can shovel it in quick.’

  She noticed suddenly that there was a curve of tape shaped like a rocker under the stripes on his arm. ‘Have you been promoted – is that what that thing means?’

  ‘Yep. Staff sergeant. Told you I would be.’

  She was surprised he hadn’t mentioned it long before. ‘Is that quite high up?’

  ‘Gettin’ on. Should make technical sergeant by the end of my tour – if I live long enough. I guess you’ll be gettin’ promotion soon, too – a girl like you.’

  She looked doubtful. ‘I don’t know about that. I might be made LACW if I do well on the con course I’m goin’ on – that’s leadin’ aircraftwoman.’

  ‘Con course?’ He turned his head towards her. ‘What’s that?’

  ‘Conversion course. To become a fitter.’

  She couldn’t help sounding a bit proud about it. Chiefy had been full of praise. ‘If anyone’s earned it, you have, lassie,’ he’d told her. ‘You’re as good as any of the lads. No reason why you won’t make a fitter.’ It was a big step forward from being just a flight mechanic. She’d learn a whole lot more on the course and, if she passed it all right, she’d be given more responsibility and be allowed to do more difficult things . . . to take charge of engine changes, to dismantle and reassemble, and carry out bigger inspections. There’d be more pay, too. And maybe she’d even be made a corporal one day, though she couldn’t imagine herself telling others what to do all the time.