Bluebirds

by Margaret Mayhew

  ‘Spam,’ said Virgil. ‘Soap, coffee, tomato juice, peas, bacon, sugar, gum, Life-Savers, Hershey bars.’ He produced them with a flourish from his canvas bag and set them on the kitchen table. ‘Luckies for you, ma’am.’ He gave them to Gran who was waiting expectantly. ‘Couldn’t get scotch this time so I’ve brought bourbon. Think your Dad’ll mind?’

  Winnie shook her head. She didn’t think Dad would care as long as it could be drunk. She had watched Virgil with the same embarrassment that she always felt when he brought things for them. He was reaching into the bag again and held aloft a fistful of something filmy. ‘Nylon stockings! Three pairs. One for you ma’am.’ He presented them to Gran who examined them with deep suspicion. Winter and summer alike she wore thick black wool stockings that wrinkled round her ankles.

  ‘Doan’t look decent tew me.’

  ‘And for you, ma’am.’ Virgil gave the second pair to Winnie’s mother who drew one on over her hand and exclaimed at its sheerness. The third pair he gave to Winnie.

  ‘For next time you come dancin’ with me.’

  He winked at her and she went pink and looked at the stockings. They were so thin she couldn’t imagine how they’d be strong enough to wear at all. But the girl in mauve at the dance had been wearing ones like this. Perhaps he’d given them to her as well.

  When he’d found out that she was home on leave, Virgil had biked over from the base with the canvas bag slung across the handlebars. Ruth and Laura had scampered down to the gate to meet him and he’d swung them both up high in turn and then carried Laura on his shoulders up the path, while holding Ruth by the hand. At tea they sat on each side of him, clamouring for his attention. They love him, Winnie thought, watching. How sad they’ll be when he has to go home. Or if anything should happen to him . . . But she wouldn’t let herself think about that at all.

  After tea she and Virgil went out to the barn to look at the ewes waiting to lamb. There were still some bruises on his face and a strip of sticking plaster at the corner of his temple.

  ‘I’m very sorry about what happened at the Fox an’ Grapes,’ she said. ‘It was all my fault. I hope you didn’t get into a lot of trouble over it.’

  ‘Shucks, no . . . weren’t nothin’. Long as you ain’t mad at me.’

  ‘Mad at you?’ She didn’t quite understand his meaning.

  ‘Angry. I figured maybe I’d got it all wrong an’ you was really with that guy –’

  ‘I wasn’t with him at all,’ she said vehemently. ‘He’s just someone who was at the same station as me a long time ago. He’s always botherin’ me.’

  ‘He that pesky Welsh guy your grandma was talkin’ about once?’

  She nodded.

  He gave her a sideways grin. ‘Well, I guess he won’t be botherin’ you again no more. An’ if he does, you just let me know.’

  She wanted to thank him for what he’d done – for the way he’d stood firm and rescued her from Taffy. He’d acted just like one of those cowboys in films who were on the good side, and he’d fought for her just like they did. It gave her a funny sort of feeling to think about it: grateful and glad and shy. But she didn’t know how to begin to say any of this.

  She opened the small door in the end of the barn. ‘Maisie’s due to lamb,’ she told him. ‘An’ it’s her first time, so things might not go so well. I’ve been worryin’ a bit for her.’

  There were some ewes standing about in the straw, munching hay. They swung their heads round to stare, but without any pause in the rhythmical working of their jaws. Their bodies bulged with unborn lambs.

  ‘Hi girls!’ Virgil said breezily. ‘Howya all doin’?’

  Maisie, lying in the far corner didn’t look as though she was doing at all well. Her sides were heaving and she lifted her head and bleated piteously as they approached. Winnie knelt in the straw and Virgil crouched on his haunches beside her.

  ‘Everythin’ OK?’

  She shook her head. ‘I should’ve come sooner and not left her so long . . .’

  ‘What’s wrong?’

  ‘I think the lamb’s stuck. Look, you can see. Its head’s out an’ so’s one foot, but the other one’s still inside.’

  He looked and saw the dark head of the lamb protruding wetly from the ewe’s body. Its eyes were closed and beneath the chin he could make out the pointed black tip of one little cloven hoof. He whistled softly.

  ‘Gee, my folks don’t have sheep back home. I ain’t never had nothin’ to do with ’em. What the heck do we do now?’

  Winnie was rinsing her hands in a bucket of water. ‘I’ll have to push the head back in and try to get hold of the other leg an’ bring it forward. When a lamb’s born it ought to come out with both feet forward together, like it was divin’. That way there’s enough room. An’ bein’ Maisie’s first makes it harder. Could you hold her still and talk to her a bit while I try?’

  ‘Sure.’ He gripped hold of the ewe’s shoulders, his fingers sinking deep into the oily wool. She bleated loudly again and threshed her stick-like legs about. He was amazed at their thinness. They seemed much too frail to support the weight of her body.

  ‘OK, Maisie, girl, take it easy now. You’re doin’ great. Easy . . . easy.’

  The ewe looked up at him trustingly. She had strange pale eyes, he noticed, with pupils in a black horizontal bar.

  ‘Makin’ sheeps’ eyes at me, huh, Maisie? Don’t be fooled, sister. My flyin’ jacket’s made of someone like you.’

  She gave another pathetic, pain-filled bleat. Winnie, he saw, had her hand deep inside her. The lamb’s head had disappeared; he wondered how the hell it could breathe.

  ‘How’s it comin’?’

  Her brow was furrowed in concentration, her bottom lip caught between her teeth. ‘I think I’ve got it . . . the other leg. If I can just get it forward . . .’

  ‘Maisie’s doin’ OK this end, ain’t you, Beautiful? Atta girl!’

  The ewe groaned and bleated helplessly. Jeez, he thought, what happens if Winnie can’t shift it? This one’s gonna be in big trouble, an’ junior too. He stroked one of Maisie’s ears, not knowing how else to comfort her. She groaned again and struggled hard and he had to use all his strength to pin her down. The other ewes were munching away, watching indifferently. Callous broads, he thought. Wait ’til it’s your turn.

  Winnie said suddenly: ‘I’ve got it, Virgil! I’ve got it! It’s goin’ to be all right. Look, it’s comin’ . . .’

  He turned his head in time to see the lamb slither out into the world. It slid down onto the straw and lay there, bloody and glistening with membrane. He thought at first that it was dead and then, to his huge relief, he saw its flank flutter. Steam rose from the small, wet body and Winnie wiped it gently with a wisp of straw.

  ‘It’s a ewe lamb.’

  He swallowed. ‘Congratulations.’

  He looked across the lamb at Winnie, kneeling there. Her hands and arms were bloodstained and there was more blood on the bib of her dungarees and a long smear of it across her cheek. She smiled at him happily and he thought that he had never seen her look so lovely.

  ‘We’ve got to get Maisie up,’ she said. ‘She’s got to look after her. Can you help me?’

  ‘Sure.’

  They hauled the ewe to her feet. Maisie nosed at her newborn lamb and began licking it. She seemed to be recovering fast from her ordeal and Virgil saw that the lamb was already starting to make feeble, jerky little efforts to struggle up.

  ‘How come it’s black when Mom’s white?’

  ‘All Suffolks are born that colour. She’ll turn white later, ’cept her face. She’ll look just like Maisie.’

  Winnie started rinsing her hands in the bucket and then dried them with some straw. The lamb was on its feet now, wobbling unsteadily. The ewe butted gently with her nose, guiding it. It staggered and lurched against her and then, with another butt in the right direction, found the teat and began sucking.

  Winnie watched them. ‘I think they’
re goin’ to be all right now. We don’t need to worry.’

  ‘You did great,’ he said. ‘Just great.’

  She turned her head to smile at him again and saw the way he was looking at her. Her smile faded. He took a couple of steps forward and stopped. He waited, arms hanging loose at his sides, his eyes fixed on her face. The ewes watched them both, chomping.

  It was up to her, and she knew it. She took a small step towards him. Virgil stayed quite still where he was. She took another step. And then another. And then several more all at once, in a rush. He caught her tightly in his arms.

  Twenty-Six

  A GUST OF wind snatched at Madge’s cap and whisked it from her head. It bowled away up the grassy incline towards the cliff top with Madge lumbering in pursuit and making frantic grabs at it with her hands. She caught up with it only a few yards from the edge, pinning it down at last with one foot. Virginia, watching from below, saw her look out over the Channel and then turn and shout something, but the wind carried her words away. She began to make frantic beckoning signals to Virginia, pointing and then jumping up and down.

  They often walked along the cliffs above Walmer in the light evenings; it helped the sore eyes and aching heads from the hours spent in the darkened room and there was a wonderful view of the sea. It was more than the view, though, that was making Madge so excited. Virginia ran up the rest of the slope to join her, hanging on to her own cap.

  The sea below heaved cold and grey and flecked with white, the horizon lost in murky mist and cloud. There was nothing remarkable about rough weather in the Channel, even in summer, but Madge was not pointing at the big waves, or the white horses, but at the huge fleet of small ships that were gathered there. She had a huge grin on her face and was shouting against the wind.

  ‘They’re going to invade! They’re going to land in France! It’s happening at last!’ She jumped about again, waving her cap in the air. ‘Hip-hip hooray!”

  But Virginia didn’t cheer too, or jump about with excitement like Madge. Instead she stood and stared at the great armada. It stretched away into the sea mist as far as she could see, probably all the way down the coast for miles. Thousands of men in small ships would have to cross that treacherous expanse of water and fight their way ashore on mined and fiercely defended beaches. Thousands of them would probably die. Neil had done what they were trying to do and it had failed tragically.

  Please God, she prayed, let them succeed this time.

  They’ve gone and posted me back to Colston, Anne wrote to Kit, though heaven only knew when he’d get the letter. I’m going back where I started. Except that last time I was Aircraftwoman Cunningham, the lowest form of life, and this time I’ll be Flight Officer Cunningham (I bet that’s a surprise). I’ll be inspecting instead of being inspected, dishing out jankers instead of doing it. You’ll probably be quite right and I’ll hate it, but you know what they say about poachers making the best gamekeepers. She finished the letter: Take care of yourself. That was a laugh! What hope was there of him doing any such thing in France? At D-Day plus fifteen the allies were still struggling to get a solid foothold there. Nobody had ever said it would be easy, but nobody seemed to have thought that it would be quite so difficult either. Nobody had expected the Germans to have had so much fight left in them.

  And nobody had expected the Germans to start attacking London with a new and horrible weapon. There had been rumours, but there were rumours about all sorts of things, and most of them were untrue. Now, out of the blue, the Jerries had begun launching flying bombs that came over all on their own, without any pilot. Unsporting people called it, as though war were a game of cricket. The buzz bombs came at all hours, by day or by night, and when their engines stopped they simply crashed to the ground and blew up. It was hard to shoot them down, or deflect them – though fighters tried with their wingtips and sometimes succeeded – and as nobody could stay in a shelter all the time, survival in London had become a game of chance. People carried on with their daily lives hoping that if a flying bomb appeared overhead it would keep on going and fall on somebody else.

  She was on her way to Victoria Station by taxi, crossing London to catch the train to Colston, when the air raid siren sounded. As she got out of the taxi at the railway station to pay the driver she saw a flying bomb approaching. It looked like a toy ’plane buzzing along about three hundred feet in the air, spurting a little tail of flame and making a spluttering growl. Everyone around had frozen like statues where they stood. Nobody moved. Everybody watched and listened. And when the spluttering stopped suddenly they all flung themselves to the ground with their arms over their heads, or crouched in doorways. The taxi driver leaped from his cab and pulled Anne down with him underneath it. ‘Better safe than sorry, miss.’ A moment later there was a violent explosion that shook the ground and dust and debris and shattered glass fell like rain. She crawled out from under the taxi, brushing herself down, and retrieved her scattered coins. The dust still in the air had made the day as dark as dusk. Only a few streets away ambulance sirens were wailing. Around her, people were picking themselves up off the ground and emerging from their doorways and then carrying on almost as though nothing had happened.

  The taxi driver grinned at her. ‘We’ve got used to ’em, miss. ’itler can stuff ’is doodlebugs.’

  It was very strange to be back at RAF Colston. It was a bigger and busier place than she remembered – swarming with RAF and WAAF. Very young-looking airwomen saluted her smartly in immaculate uniforms. How different it had all been in the beginning. She thought of Gloria teetering along in her high-heeled sandals, of Pearl with the flask of whisky in her handbag, Sandra carrying her travelling rug, Enid weeping constantly, Winnie curtseying to an apoplectic CO, the airmen whistling and laughing from barrack room windows . . . The new Station Commander, a young Group Captain, leaned over backwards to accommodate WAAF needs, and there was a brand new Waafery with well-equipped recreation rooms and a large, sunny Mess that had curtains at the windows and flowers on the tables.

  The WAAF sergeant who entered her office looked as efficient as all the rest. Anne looked, and looked again – closer.

  ‘Pearl! I’d no idea you were back here. How wonderful! When were you posted here?’

  ‘Six months ago, ma’am.’

  She was ma’am now, not love or ducks or duckie any more. There was a gulf between them. An uncrossable chasm in RAF Regulations and it was sad.

  ‘How are you, Pearl?’

  ‘Very well, thank you, ma’am.’

  She was still plump but instead of the riot of red curls tumbling over her forehead, there was one dark and restrained wave.

  ‘Whatever happened to Autumn Glory, Pearl?’

  ‘It’s Rich Mahogany now, ma’am.’

  ‘And that engagement ring on your finger? Is that Mr Right at last?’

  There was a faint smile – a glimmer from the past. ‘Mr He’ll Do, like I always said. He’s a RAF sergeant.’

  ‘Congratulations.’

  ‘Thank you, ma’am.’

  Anne leaned her arms across the desk. ‘Remember the old days, Pearl? I was just thinking about them now . . . Corporal Fowler in the kitchens, Sergeant Baker trying to teach us drill, how hopeless we were at everything? Remember that Sergeants’ Mess dance when Enid got drunk and we carried her back? And that time you and I tried on all the fur coats at that Officers’ Mess do? And the teacups, Pearl . . . remember how you read them for us and most of it came true?’

  ‘Oh, yes, ma’am. I remember it all.’

  ‘So do I,’ Anne said. ‘So do I.’

  They smiled a conspiratorial smile at each other. There was a small silence and then Anne straightened up in her chair.

  ‘Well, sergeant,’ she said briskly. ‘What did you want to see me about?’

  Further along the South Coast, another WAAF flight officer, seated behind another desk, was looking at the sergeant on the other side sympathetically.

  ‘I’m sorry, my dea
r, to have had to give you such bad news. So very sorry.’

  She was a much older woman: one of those who had been in the Women’s Royal Air Force in the First World War and rejoined for the Second. She did her best to act as surrogate mother to the young WAAFS away from home, seeing it as her special role by reason of her age. This made the job of telling one of them that her real mother was dead all the more unpleasant. It was by no means the first time she had had to do so. She had known a number of airwomen who had lost their mothers in the Blitz, but that had been near the beginning of the war. This was supposed to be near the end. Paris had been liberated. The Allies were pressing eastwards. And yet here she was telling this girl that her mother had just been killed by a flying bomb that had fallen directly on her home.

  ‘If it’s any comfort to you, she wouldn’t have known anything about it. It was a direct hit. It would all have been over in a second.’

  She watched Sergeant Stratton carefully as she spoke. She seemed totally stunned. Devastated. She had not yet said a word but sat staring down at her lap, her shoulders and head bowed. It was a great pity all ways round. The girl had been doing so well. When she had first come across her she had been a shy and very diffident sort of person – rather clumsy in her manner, though never in her job. But lately she had blossomed and acquired so much more confidence. She had made a sound corporal and was proving an excellent sergeant – responsible, efficient and unusually dedicated. She could easily become a good officer, given time, and make a real career in the WAAF. It would be a great shame if this tragedy were to set her back – knock the prop from under her, as it were.

  The flight officer went on. ‘Of course, we’ll arrange compassionate leave for you at once. You should be able to catch the early afternoon train to London . . .’ She looked down at the file on her desk. ‘Your mother was a widow, I see.’

  Virginia nodded. The face-saving lie had been perpetuated even in WAAF records.