He shifted one of the kitbags on his shoulder into a more comfortable position, “I’ll take you up to your rooms first, and then I’ll rustle up some grub for you both, Sir. There’s a lady comes and makes up grub and pots of tea, but she’ll have gone back to the village by now.” He led them in through a side door, along a wide corridor, peering midway along through another door into a dimly lit room.
“Nobody at home”, he muttered disapprovingly, and sighed.
They glanced in as they passed. Inside was a large sitting room with overstuffed armchairs, a number of small settees, loungers and a pair of gaily-striped deckchairs. In addition was the detritus that was the usual evidence that a fighter squadron was in attendance.
Liberally scattered about were a large number of empty or partially empty beer bottles, and full ashtrays that were filled to overflowing to form little piles of dark powder and butts on the plush carpet.
Sleeping on one of the armchairs was a glossy black cat, long fur shining in the lamp-lit dimness. He looked up at the unwelcome intrusion, luminous green eyes intent, but decided the two young pilots were unlikely to come into the room to stroke him, and curled up into a neat ball again.
Beside the fireplace was a Messerschmitt nosecone supporting a tray with a cracked teapot and some teacups.
Resting against one wall was a twisted Belisha beacon, draped with a large pair of ‘passion-killer’ WAAF’s drawers, and a female tailor’s dummy clad in an Army Captain’s tunic, colourful tea cosy on its head, and nothing else. One sleeve and a couple of buttons were missing, and a broad, lopsided red grin had been painted on to the featureless head.
Scrawled on the walls were a number of ‘murals’, most of which were air battle scenes, but a few were of women in various stages of undress.
Harry and Billy grinned at each other as they trailed after Fricker up the staircase. It seemed there might be interesting times ahead on the squadron.
On the first floor landing, Fricker pushed open the third door on the right with his foot, and stood aside to allow them in.
“This is your room, Mr Rose, Sir. I’ll just place your kitbag here, an’ I’ll take Mr Brooks up to his room. The CO’s done you proud, here. The officers of the squadron have all got your own rooms. The old boy who owns this house is an old friend of his. I believe he’s a Colonel fighting that bleedin’ Moo-soleeni in the desert. Most of the house staff is out there with him, ‘though.” He pursed his lips in distaste and looked around. It was clear what he was thinking.
Bet the owner doesn’t know what these cheeky scallywags are doing to his lovely house. Fricker heartily disapproved of the cheery vandalism. Billy and Rose exchanged a look, and Billy grinned.
“Mussolini”, corrected Billy.
“Yes, Sir, that’s the one, ol’ Benny-too”, He sniffed, “Must be hot and dusty there I shouldn’t wonder. Lots of flies and foreigners. Glad I’m not there, give me Blighty any day.” He looked back at Rose sadly. “I prefer the rain meself, know where you are with rain. Once you’re wet, can’t get no wetter. If you‘d just like to settle yerself in, Sir, I’ll knock up a sandwich and a nice cuppa for both of you young gentlemen. Run you a nice bath as well, after. Get you settled in proper nice, like. If you’d like to follow me, Mr Brooks?”
Billy slapped him on the back, “See you in a bit, Harry.”
As the door closed behind Fricker and Brooks, Rose went to the open window and closed the blackout curtains before lighting the table lamp. In the soft light, he was able to see the extent of his new home.
The room was rectangular, with a sloping roof and dormer window to one side. Must have been part of the servants quarters, he decided.
There was an ancient dresser and wardrobe pushed together beside the door. There were no doors on the wardrobe, and a few twisted steel hangers stared back at him, the open cavity yawing like a gap-toothed mouth.
On the dresser was an Ovaltine tin, an empty wine bottle, a chipped and cracked porcelain bowl and a matching jug.
There was about an inch of scummy water in the bottom of the bowl, a semi-dissolved scrape of soap and a large dead bluebottle, whilst the jug was bone dry.
The Ovaltine tin contained a broken lead pencil, a brass RAF button, a paperclip and a tattered piece of paper with ‘Helen-Pimlico 264’ written in purple ink with a rounded feminine hand. An apparently-unused French letter containing a few boiled sweets was held in place by the pencil. A book of matches from a club in Soho and another dead bluebottle completed the collection.
The drawer in the dresser yielded a pair of lacy black knickers, a bottle of ink, a severely worn toothbrush and an empty toothpaste tube.
The bed was neatly made up, and seemed strangely out of place amongst the ancient pieces of furniture. Next to the bed were a wooden chair with a cushion, and another overstuffed, dilapidated and faded purplish patterned armchair, complete with tassels, which looked as if it belonged in a Victorian Boudoir.
The table lamp sat on a bedside table on which was a stained beer glass and a few dog-eared paperback books.
Harry picked up one of the books and leafed through it. It was a racy thriller, Scarlet Danger, with a semi-clad blonde on the front, her mouth half covered by one hand and open in a silent scream, eyes turned back to a dark and featureless stylised male shadow outlined in a doorway behind. He tipped it into the wastepaper basket.
I don’t think I’ll need that, he thought.
Deadman’s Gulch joined it in the bin.
Another was a copy of Remarque’s classic, All Quiet On The Western Front, and the last (minus it’s cover) was H G Wells’ War of the Worlds. Well, these two would be joined by his treasured and well-thumbed copy of Ira Jone’s excellent King of the Air Fighters.
The walls were quite bare except for a ripped out magazine page, which bore a large picture of a nude, nothing being left to the imagination.
Strangely, it looked like Vivien Leigh.
Rose peered closely at it in the dim light.
Bloody Hell! It was Vivien Leigh, or rather, her face was. It had been cut out of a magazine, presumably, and had been pasted on to the picture over the nude model’s face, so that it appeared as if the actress was reclining comfortably in a rather risqué pose. He smiled and smoothed back a curling corner.
Good Lord! Her legs were spread wide apart, knees slightly bent and…good grief, he could see her-
There was a knock, Rose jumped guiltily as the door suddenly opened, to admit Fricker. He smiled benevolently at Rose, cocked an eyebrow.
“Ah, I see you’ve noticed the picture, Sir.”
Rose coloured, and stepped back quickly from the wall, pretending nonchalance. He felt very like a naughty little schoolboy caught, ogling wide-eyed at one of those dirty postcards young Dabney used to bring in to school.
Fricker appeared not to notice Rose’s discomfiture. He sniffed again, mournfully, eyed the picture. “She was Mr Dickers favourite actress, was our Viv. He told me once that he’d met her at a party. Great one for parties, he was. Adored her, he did. It’s a shame, what happened.”
Dead men’s shoes, thought Rose gloomily.
He looked around the room. Dead and gone and now it’s mine.
Wonderful.
“What happened? Did he, er, get shot down?” Suddenly the bed did not seem so welcoming.
Fricker laughed, his braying startling Rose because of its unexpected source.
“Oh Gawd love you, no, Sir. He was a bit of a naughty boy; though it’s not me place to say so, begging your pardon. He was a little handy with another pilot’s lady, if you catch my drift, so he got himself posted to 13 Group. Terrible shame. Dickers by name, and dick ‘ers by nature, if you pardon the expression, erm…”
He pulled out a handkerchief, and blew his nose forcefully into it. “Sorry, sir. I’m always like this, I’m not well, got bad feet , but don’t you worry, I’ll wash me hands before I make yer sandwich.” He blew his nose again.
“I just came to say that Mr Brooks i
s upstairs, next floor, second on the left. The bathroom on this floor is right at the other end of this corridor.” He noticed the bowl and jug.
“Oh dear, I see that the batman hasn’t sorted these out,” He tsk-tsked and picked them up, tucking the jug deftly under his left arm.
“I shall have to have a word with him. Nice lad, but a bit young. Used to live on a farm, bless ‘im. No, it really isn’t good enough,” He looked around the room, sniffed again, “Dear, oh dear,” then looked apologetically at Harry. Well, I’ll go and sort out that grub for you. Would you like it here, or downstairs, sir?”
Rose tried not to stare at Fricker’s shining nose. “Downstairs would be fine, thanks.”
“Right-ho, sir, call you when it’s ready. Sort you out some nice cold cuts, bit of fresh bread, and a nice bit of Picalilli.” He nodded at Rose, and left.
What a strange little man, thought Rose bemusedly, but pleasant enough.
He gently unpinned the picture from the wall, peeked at it again, and slid it into the dresser drawer. The dreadful Dickers may be back one of these days for his picture. Interesting, but not really one he wanted to keep in plain sight. Particularly not on the wall.
He stole a last furtive glance.
Good Lord, it was all there, between her open thighs he really could see…um, well, her thingummy-jig.
Crumbs!
His mouth was dry. Could do with nice hot cup of sugary tea, he thought. Hope Corporal Fricker gets a move on. He shrugged off his greatcoat and hung it up in the doorless wardrobe, then began to unpack his kit.
Laying out his clothes on the bed, in the deathly quiet house, Rose felt suddenly all alone.
CHAPTER 3
The sudden knock on the door startled him awake.
He lay there for a moment, heart racing, in that momentary confusion experienced when suddenly awakened from a deep and dreamless sleep, wondering for a moment where he was. The ceiling that greeted him as he opened his eyes was strange and unfamiliar, a dark, sloping expanse above him.
There was another, louder, more persistent knock at the door, so he unglued his tongue from his palate and croaked, “Come in.”
The door opened and a tall, thin officer peered in.
A smile, pale eyes beneath a peaked cap, the frame lean and spare, two stripes of a Flight-Lieutenant on his sleeve, and the diagonally-striped purple and white ribbon of the Distinguished Flying Cross.
“Pilot-Officer Rose, is it?”
“Yes, sir.” But it sounded more like ‘yeththir’, Rose disengaged his sticky tongue from his palate again, licked dry lips, cleared his throat, “Yes, sir,” he tried again, “I’m Harry Rose, Excalibur Squadron.” Oh, how marvellous that sounded!
The tall stranger bounded into the room to pull back the heavy blackout curtains.
Early morning sunlight flooded in as if it could wait no longer to explore the recesses of his room, rushing in a torrent to fill the room with glare.
Rose winced and blinked at the sudden unwelcome and uncomfortable brightness. He was still half-asleep and shocked by this sudden intrusion.
But then he realised he was still in bed, in the presence of a senior officer, so he pushed back the coarse blanket, untangled his legs from the bedclothes, swung them out and stood up, wobbling little unsteadily at the sudden change in posture, swaying slightly in his striped pyjamas in front of this decorated, tough-looking officer.
Oh no! Were his bits tucked in properly? He daren’t look down.
Damn! Should he stand to attention or not? He squared his shoulders manfully feeling faintly ridiculous standing at a semblance of attention.
“Yeah, I know who you are. I’m Flight-Lieutenant Jim Denis, A’ Flight commander for Excalibur. You’ve been placed in my flight. Thought I’d come and say hello.” He had a deep, gravelly voice, with an exotic and warm Australian twang. He noticed that Rose was standing at semi-attention, looking comical with his creased striped pyjamas and mussed hair.
Denis smiled to himself, and then felt a sudden wave of depression. Rose looked so young and helpless. Like so many before him. In his pyjamas he looked about twelve.
He wondered to himself, was I ever that young, so keen and fresh? He waved a hand casually at the young pilot.
“At ease.” He looked around. “Relax, chum, we don’t stand too much on rank most days,” he smiled easily at Rose revealing even tobacco-stained teeth, “especially first thing in the morning.”
Denis was in his mid-twenties, and had a pencil thin moustache above a strong jaw, lines crinkling around a pair of bright blue eyes, on a sun-browned face. It was a strong and dependable face, Rose decided.
He had brought in with him the smell of early morning mixed with tobacco smoke, a strong but reassuringly pleasant aroma.
Had he overslept? Rose turned his wrist slightly and surreptitiously looked down at his watch, and the dial read 6.34am.
Bloody Hell!
Denis noticed his glance. “I’m just back from the airfield. Had to check on my erks, God bless ‘em, see that they’ve sorted out our kites for morning readiness. Thought I’d find you, share a spot of tucker at the Mess, and introduce you to some of the others.”
Then, thoughtfully, to himself “Most of ‘em will probably still be in bed, though, lazy blighters.”
He looked around the sparsely decorated room again, “the Adj told me you‘d arrived. I’m afraid we’d all gone to the big smoke for an Al Bowlly show. You missed a bloody good evening, y’know, shame you got in late, mate. Next time, hm?”
He noticed the bare patch on the wall. “Flaming hell, somebody’s nabbed Viv! I don’t suppose you saw Vivien Leigh run out of here last night without a stitch on? The little sweetie used to live in here, you know.” He looked at the bed, as if he expected to see Vivien Leigh hiding under it. “You under there, Viv, love? Ah well, never mind.” A smile hovered at the corners of his mouth.
Those keen eyes were now fixed shrewdly on Rose as he tried to clear a chair for Denis.
“Tell you what, Harry, why don’t you get yourself dressed and sorted out? I’ll wait for you downstairs. I have to pick up something from my room anyway. Your batman and our lady from the village can arrange the odd cup of tea or a snack, but we normally have our meals in the Officer’s Mess back at the field.” He picked up the Ovaltine tin and rattled it absent-mindedly, “So, when you’re ready, I’ll give you a lift back to the ‘drome for a spot of breakfast. There’s a sweet little WAAF sheila there called Dolly who knows how to serve up a smashing kipper. Hand’s and eyes off, though, she’s mine!”
He put down the tin, and chuckled, “Oh, and I heard about your AFC, you did bloody well. Well deserved.” His eyes crinkled again, “Frank Ruddock and I trained together. Good man. I’ll see you downstairs in ten minutes, OK?” He winked at Rose, and closed the door behind him.
Rose stretched, stifled a yawn, then sauntered barefoot to the window, opening it and inhaling the fresh sweet fragrance of flowers, hedgerows and recently cut grass.
His room looked out over an expanse of beautifully cared for gardens, rich with bright colourful blooms, neat rectangles and squares of green grass glistening with a heavy dew. Icy droplets had pooled on the sill, and Rose doodled a meaningless pattern in it, enjoying the iciness on his fingertips, the sweet freshness in his nostrils.
The birds were twittering their daily morning chorus, and he stood there at the window for a moment savouring the peace, closing his eyes and tilting back his head, enjoying the warm sunlight playing on his face, even though there was still a chill in the air.
Below him, he could hear the boots of the army sentry crunching against the gravel as he marched around the building.
Hm, didn’t see him last night. Lot of bloody good he is. We weren’t challenged when we got in. The house could have been filled with Jerry paratroopers and we’d not have known it.
So much for security. The bugger was probably having a crafty fag around the corner. Hope the Wehrmacht do
esn’t try invading this part of the world any time soon.
How sweet the air, so peaceful here…
However, Denis would be waiting downstairs for him, and sighing regretfully, he carefully closed the window.
Whilst Rose and Billy had been tucking into the cold cuts of chicken, thick-sliced corned beef and piccalilli sandwiches, with large mugs of hot sweet tea the previous evening, Fricker, bless him, had thoughtfully replaced the bowl and jug with a clean basin, fresh water, a thick cake of soap, and a small hand-held mirror.
Now, staring at his reflection in the mirror, Rose worked up a thin lather, and began to scrape tentatively at the sparse growth that had begun to bristle on his chin.
The clear sky had cheered him up.
With a bit of luck, there might be a spot of flying today. He began to whistle.
The Officer’s Mess was a long low brick building, situated close to the group of structures that made up the station headquarters and admin block.
There were already a number of pilots sitting down to breakfast at one of the long tables in the dining room when Rose and Denis arrived.
Billy was already sitting in front of a half-eaten kipper, listening earnestly to another pilot, cup of tea poised.
“So, there I was with the sauciest little redhead in London, a proper piece of popsie, more bosom and bum than a man can handle, all giggly and terribly keen on accommodating one of her aerial heroes, namely yours truly, very accommodating, if you know what I mean?” He smirked suggestively, “And so I thought, polite gentleman that I am, where more romantic on a warm summer night than Hyde Park? How lovely to gaze at the stars with a lady, hm? Of course, it happens to be handy that there’re the trenches there, thought it would be quite cosy. She could lie on her back to ogle the stars, with me on top, to protect her from the Hun bombs, of course.”
The others laughed. Trenches had been dug in Hyde Park after the outbreak of war, to accommodate local residents in the event of a bombing raid. Luckily there had been no need for them. Except that is, by courting couples who found the privacy useful for their amorous activities.
To So Few Page 4