Читать книгу All the Sweet Promises - Elizabeth Elgin - Страница 5

Vi looked again at the letter half-hidden behind the sepia vase on the kitchen mantel and wondered bitterly whose fault it had been. Some seaman pissed out of his mind in a dock-road pub, like as not. Ale talk for listening ears. Careless talk, that cost lives.

‘Taking ammo to the Middle East. Danger money this trip, so fill yer boots, lads. Sup up.’ Somewhere, someone had opened his mouth and Gerry had paid; him, and fifty others.

The letter was addressed to Mrs Violet Theresa McKeown and she took it down, holding it between finger and thumb. She didn’t take out the folded sheet. There was no need. Since it arrived four days ago, every last word was beaten into her brain.

‘… and it is with regret we must inform you that your husband Gerald Patrick McKeown has been reported missing, believed lost at sea as a result of enemy action on the night of 23rd/24th April, 1941 …’

There was more, of course, about sympathy and sorrow and about writing again when they had anything more to tell her. She hadn’t been able to read the signature at the bottom of the page, and that seemed wrong, somehow. A man from the shipping line tells you your husband has been lost at sea and you don’t even know his name. There were the initials GWE/BW typed at the top of the letter but they hadn’t helped. Dead is dead, no matter who signs the warrant, though it might have been nice to think that BW had felt compassion when she typed that letter and a bit of respect, maybe, for Stoker Gerry McKeown of the Mercantile Marine.

Vi slipped the envelope into the attaché case packed ready for the shelter. All her important things were in that case: her marriage certificate and wedding snaps; her Post Office bank book, rent book and ration book. And Gerry’s last letter.

‘… Thanks for a fine leave. You are the best there is and I love you, Vi. Take care of yourself …’

She closed her eyes tightly. Gerry didn’t often use her name. Girl, he called her, but this last time he’d called her Vi and written that he loved her, and he’d never done that before. Not ever. But he’d known, hadn’t he, that this trip was his last.

‘Come home to me,’ she’d whispered when he left. ‘Promise you’ll take care. Promise, Gerry.’

But it hadn’t been up to him. The SS Emma Bates’s name was on that torpedo, so he hadn’t had much of a choice.

She reached for her mother’s photograph and laid it in the case with the rest of the things. She was glad Mam hadn’t lived to see another war. The last one had brought her trouble enough. Four kids to rear and a husband coughing away his lungs from mustard gas. Da had died a year after the armistice, so they hadn’t needed to give Mam a pension.

Vi looked around the kitchen and wondered why she had scrubbed the floor and cleaned the window. Tonight there would be another raid, sure as hell there would, and everything would be covered with muck and dust again. Tonight, if the bombers came, it would be for the seventh night in a row; a whole week without sleep. London was almost at a standstill, said the man in the cigarette queue, and now it was Liverpool’s turn. The Germans, he reckoned, were trying to wipe out the docks, yet somehow the city centre seemed to be getting the worst of it – and all the shops and offices and streets of little houses.

Vi closed her eyes. Mother of God, don’t let them get my house. They’ve taken my man and my job; let me keep my home.

The gate handle clicked sharply and she drew aside the lace curtain. A man crossed the yard and rattled the door knob.

‘Are y’there, Vi?’

‘Richie. Come in.’

Richie Daly had sailed down the Mersey in the same convoy as Gerry and now he was home. Vi’s heart contracted painfully then settled into a dull ache.

‘All right, then? Bearing up, are you?’

‘Just about.’ She didn’t like Richie Daly. A shifty-eyed little devil, and his wife always expecting.

‘I see they got Lewis’s, Vi.’

‘Yes. Two nights back.’ No need to remind her. She’d worked there, hadn’t she?

‘So how are you making out?’

‘I’ll manage. There’ll be other jobs. But what brought you, Richie?’

She knew why he had come and what he would tell her, and she didn’t want to hear it. Yet still she asked for news of the Emma Bates.

‘Well, bein’ as how I was there, like.’ He drew out a chair and settled his elbows on the table. ‘Bein’ as how I saw what happened that night …’

‘Yes?’ She sucked in her breath, angrily, noisily.

‘Well, old Gerry didn’t suffer, Vi. Be sure of that. The Emma was just astern of us in the convoy and keepin’ station fine, even though she was a coal-burner.’

‘She’d keep station all right, with Gerry shovellin’.’

‘Yes.’ He stared fixedly down. ‘Well, one minute the old tub was there and the next –’ He slammed a fist into the palm of his hand. ‘They was carryin’ ammunition, see. They wouldn’t know a thing, any of them. Commodore didn’t even stop to look for survivors, so don’t worry yourself none.’

But she did worry and she needed to know every last detail.

‘Where did it happen?’

‘Two days out from Halifax. Canadian destroyer escort had just left us.’

‘But I thought he was going to Alexandria.’

‘Naw. The Emma left Liverpool without cargo; took RAF bods to Canada then loaded up with cordite and shells for the return trip. It was a clear night. We was all sittin’ targets. Always at night those bastards do it. It’s a dirty way of fightin’, but it was quick for old Gerry.’

‘Yes,’ she said dully. ‘Quick.’

‘Ah, well.’ He got to his feet, pushing the chair legs against the floor tiles with a grating that set her teeth on edge. ‘I’ll be goin’.’

‘It was good of you to come, Richie.’

Liar. You hate him for coming because he’s told you that Gerry isn’t just missing, but dead.

‘’s all right. Just thought you’d rest a bit easier if you knew he didn’t suffer none. Well – I suppose I’d better get goin’…’

That’s right. Shove off. I don’t want you here. It’s Gerry I want. It’s him should’ve been coming home tonight.

‘Hey, listen.’ He turned, foot in door. ‘What about a drink, eh?’ He reached out, placing a hand on either shoulder, pulling her nearer. ‘I’ll be in the Tarleton about nine; will I see you, Vi?’

‘No, you’ll not.’ She shrugged away his hands with an exaggerated gesture. ‘At nine o’clock we’ll all be in the shelter, like as not. And won’t your wife be needing a hand when the sirens go? Getting near her time again, isn’t she?’

‘Aw, don’t worry about Lil. It’s you I’m thinking about, Vi. A well-set-up woman like yourself must be – you know …’ He was grinning. A dirty little grin.

‘No, I don’t know. Must be what?’

He was too stupid to catch the contempt in her voice or heed the warning that narrowed her eyes.

‘Well, missin’ it, like. Y’know. A bit of the other.’

‘Oh, I see. And you’re offerin’…?’

‘That’s right.’ His eyes brightened and he reached for her again, a hand trailing her breasts. ‘I’ve been at sea a long time. Come on upstairs, Vi.’

He pressed nearer and she felt the hardening in his loins. There were small ginger hairs on his chin and his groping mouth stank of beer. Disgust shivered through her, and stepping out of the reach of his hands she hissed, ‘Get out of my house, you mucky little sod! Bloody get out, or I’ll swing for yer!’

The sepia vase hurtled across the room and she heard the crash as it shattered against the tiles, heard the slamming of the door and running footsteps. Then the red mists cleared and she sank to her knees, picking up the pieces, moaning softly. Gerry’s mam, God rest her, had given her that vase. ‘Maybe you can find a use for it, girl.’

The tears came then; great gasping sobs she had been unwilling and unable to cry since the day of the letter. They came from the deeps of her heart and rose to a wail of anguish.

‘Gerry lad, why, why? You said you’d come home. You promised.’

She knelt there long after the sobs were spent, hugging herself tightly, eyes closed. The floor was hard and cold and her knees throbbed with pain, but still she crouched there. Gerry was dead and she was alive. Sore knees were a small part of her penance.

Stiffly, reluctantly, she rose to her feet and began to sweep up the litter of broken china. She had never liked that vase. Probably Ma McKeown hadn’t liked it either.

‘Thanks, Ma.’ A small, sad smile lifted the corners of Vi’s mouth. ‘I found a use for it.’

The smile flickered and faded. Since the arrival of the letter a coldness had grown inside her, and a pain in her throat that wasn’t really a pain but a hard, tight ball of anger. It got in the way when she had tried to cry yet it allowed no room for self-pity. All her feelings had been for Gerry, with the coal-pitted hands, who had never harmed a soul. Gerry, with the bitty hair, whose right foot turned in when he walked. Gerry, who had loved her.

Sighing, she lifted the dustbin lid and watched the brown china pieces slip from the shovel, then raised her eyes to the May sky. It was hard to believe that very soon that innocent sky could throb with the sounds of death. Liverpool was taking a beating, and rumours were free for the asking on every street corner and in every food queue. There had been rioting down by the docks, some said, but no one knew exactly where; and Mrs Norris swore they were throwing the dead into mass graves, and half of them good Catholics without the last rites.

Vi wished she could fire a gun and shoot down those bombers if only for what they had done to Gerry, but it was easy to be brave in this small, precious house when the sun still shone in the evening sky and a west wind blew away the stench of bombing and burning and broken bodies. It was a different matter when the sirens wailed and she hurried, dry-mouthed, into the clammy cold of St Joseph’s crypt. Fear came easily then, even though it was the deepest and safest shelter for streets around. And when the all clear sounded, even though the realization that she had survived yet another night sent relief singing through her, there was the agony of wondering what she would find when she returned to Lyra Street. Mary had told her not to be a fool, to come to her house and get a decent night’s sleep. Mary lived in Ormskirk, and so far they had been lucky there. But Vi needed to be in her own little home. It was all she had left now, so she had thanked her sister and left it at that.

Breathing deeply, fighting sudden fresh tears, she stared at the whitewashed walls of the tiny, tidy yard. Gerry was gone, but his rose still grew there. Last autumn he had planted it.

‘A red rose for Lancashire, girl.’

‘But Gerry, it’ll never grow.’ Not here, she had thought. Not in this airless back yard with its cat-fouled alley, yet now it bore shining green leaves and four fat flower buds – and Gerry would never see them.

The fingers on the clock of St Joseph’s church pointed to eight, though it had long since ceased to chime the hours. Chiming clocks and the ringing of church bells were forbidden for the duration of hostilities, or until the invasion came. They’d ring out loud and clear then.

But maybe there wouldn’t be an invasion. It was nearly a year since Dunkirk, and if they’d been going to come, surely they’d not have waited this long.

The potman at the Tarleton had it all worked out, though. The Germans would invade, he said. The air raids on London and Liverpool and Birmingham and Clydeside were to knock out communications and close roads and railways and make everybody so pig-sick that they’d welcome Hitler with open arms. He’d gone on saying it until people complained and the landlord was forced to tell him that such talk amounted to the spreading of gloom and despondency; it was almost as bad as careless talk and would land him in the Bridewell if the police got to hear about it.

Eight o’clock. Soon it would begin to grow dark, and she hadn’t seen to the house yet.

Since the bombing had started, the ritual checking of number seven Lyra Street had given Vi comfort. It was all she had left of Gerry, now. The ugly little terrace house was her husband, her lover and the child she had never conceived. It was, she supposed, her last link with sanity.

Almost without thinking she reached down to turn off the gas and water taps, then climbed the narrow stairs and pushed open the door to her right, smiling at the riot of roses that covered the walls. Her bedroom wallpaper never failed to give her pleasure. It was like awakening each morning in a garden in the country, though Gerry had cursed something awful, matching up the roses and rosebuds on the uneven walls. They had ignored the seriousness of the news bulletins that night and taken a trip down the Mersey on the Royal Iris to celebrate the finishing of their bedroom, though Mr Chamberlain had told them next day that they were at war with Germany. So Vi called them her last-day-of-peace roses and vowed they would remain there until the war was over, even if it lasted four years, like the last one had done. Now those roses reminded her of Gerry, who had pasted them there, and she wondered if she would ever find the courage to scrape them off.

Sighing, she began to fill a carrier bag with essentials; an insurance, she supposed, in case the worst happened. Shoes first, then a towel, soap and toothbrush; and stockings and knickers, of course, and room enough left for her handbag, gas mask and a warm woolly scarf.

There was nothing to check in the front parlour; hardly anything to say goodbye to, for the room was empty of furniture and must remain that way until the shops would once again have chairs and sofas and rugs and curtains to sell.

Vi walked across the echoing emptiness to gaze at the mantel shelf and the reminders it held of Gerry. A vase from Shanghai; a pair of plates, hand-painted with gold dragons, from Hong Kong and, on his last trip but one, the two goblets. They were heavy and sparkled when she held them to the light, and she thought they were the most beautiful things she would ever own.

‘But whatever’ll we do with crystal glasses, Gerry?’

‘We’ll drink out of ’em, thick ’ead,’ he assured her solemnly. ‘When this old war’s over we’ll have wine every Christmas, and that’s a promise, girl.’

So she had placed them on the mantel with the vase and the dragon plates, and Gerry had promised her two more, next time he docked in Cape Town. Now, not knowing why, she lifted them down. Usually she never took anything but essentials to the shelter, but tonight, after Richie Daly had blundered into her kitchen, she needed the comfort of those glasses. Gently she placed them in the carrier bag.

‘That’s it, then.’ She drew the thick blackout curtains and the nightly ritual was finished. Carrier bag and coat lay on the kitchen table beside the attaché case. Everything was ready and she returned to the yard to sit on the bench beside the rose tree, to sit and wait, eyes closed, and will her clenched fingers one by one into relaxation.

The bombers were late tonight, but there was still time, she supposed. Double British Summer Time added two hours of daylight and the Luftwaffe needed the cover of darkness. But soon the light would begin to fade; then fire watchers would take up positions on rooftops and each air-raid warden and ambulance driver would feel a churning in his stomach. At fire stations and first-aid posts and rest centres, men and women would look up at the sky just as she, Vi McKeown, was doing now.

She closed her eyes, concentrating once again on her tightening fingers, trying not to think of Richie Daly and the Emma Bates; trying not to weep when she thought about the waste of a good life, of fifty good lives.

She was still sitting there when the silence began, those few moments of suspended time that came before the sounding of the air-raid sirens. She had come to recognize that silence, to smell it, almost. It was a void so strange and complete that there was no mistaking it. They were coming again; coming to kill and maim and blast and burn.

Reluctantly she rose to her feet, her breathing loud and harsh, the weariness she had been fighting since the air raids started overpowering her senses. God, but she was so afraid. Afraid of tonight and tomorrow and all the empty tomorrows. It was as if the bombing was draining her of all feeling, leaving her so spent that all she wanted to do was to close her eyes and not open them again until it was all over.

The first of the sirens sounded distantly and she ran to the kitchen, gathering up her belongings with hands that shook. Her mouth had gone dry again, fear writhed through her. Turning the back-door key, she looked longingly at the lavatory door. Why did that awful wailing always make her want to pee?

Now another siren had taken up the warning. Nearer, this one, its strident undulation beating inside her head. For just a few seconds she stood petrified; then, taking a deep, shuddering breath, she ran down the entry and into Lyra Street.

The ARP warden, out of work since 1930 and now a man of standing with his steel helmet, army-style respirator and dangling whistle, banged on the door of number five pleading through the letterbox with its occupant.

‘You’ll be safer in the shelter, Mrs Norris.’ Grumbling, he turned to Vi. ‘She does this every blasted night, the stubborn old biddy.’

‘Best leave her,’ Vi offered. ‘She says it’s more comfortable under the kitchen table. Reckons that if her name is on a bomb it’ll find her, wherever she is.’

‘And who are you, then?’ The warden had no time for niceties.

‘Mrs McKeown from number seven, and you’ll not get Mrs Norris out of there, not if you rattle that letterbox all night.’

Poor, silly Ma Norris, who had never been quite right since her three sons were killed on the Somme in the last war. Three telegrams, all in the same week. Enough to drive a saint round the bend.

‘And what about number nine?’

‘Gone to Preston, to relations,’ Vi called over her shoulder, hurrying to the gate of St Joseph’s, where Father O’Flaherty would be checking in his flock. Then, against all her better instincts, she stopped and slowly turned to look back down Lyra Street. Amazed, she shook her head. Never look back, Gerry always said. Just four weeks ago, as they stood at the dockyard gate he had said, ‘Tara well, girl.’ Then he’d kissed her and walked away; and though she waited until he was out of sight, he had never once looked back to where she stood.

All right, so sailors considered it unlucky, she thought defiantly, but women were different. Women did silly things all the time; that’s why they were women. Gently, sadly, she smiled at her house; her house and Gerry’s.

‘I’ll not be long,’ she whispered, then turning abruptly, walked quickly towards the church.

‘And when,’ demanded the Countess of Donnington of her daughter, ‘are you going to give me a date? I mean, I feel so foolish, don’t I?’

The Countess was annoyed. Only that morning she had suffered humiliation at the hands of a shop assistant in Harrods, and anger still raged through her. ‘And please take that towel off your head and have the goodness to look at me when I’m speaking to you!’

‘Sorry.’ Lucinda Bainbridge ran her fingers through her half-dry hair. ‘I was listening, truly I was, and I’m sorry you feel foolish.’

‘Don’t be pert. Just give me one good reason why you and Charles cannot be married at once.’

‘Well, I – I’d like to wait a little while, I suppose.’

‘I see. And had you forgotten you will be twenty in November? Has it ever occurred to you that I was wedded and bedded and well pregnant by the time I was your age? Most of the girls who came out with you are married, so why must you be different?’

‘Perhaps because I’ve always thought it might be nice to have a honeymoon in Venice.’

‘Well, you can’t. No one can go to Venice – or anywhere else, for that matter – until this dreary war is over, so please stop prevaricating.’

‘Yes, Mama.’ Once more Lucinda took refuge beneath the towel and began to rub furiously. Mama was on her pet hobbyhorse again and it was too foolish, really it was, to have a hurried wedding in London, where she hardly knew a soul, when it could all be so lovely at Lady Mead. When the government let them live there again, of course.

‘I mean, Charles won’t always be at the War Office. They could post him to a regiment and send him abroad just like that!’ Elegantly, dramatically, the Countess snapped her fingers. ‘And where would you be if he got killed? You should get married now and get that baby started. That’s all I ask, Lucinda. At least try to see my point of view.’

‘I do. Oh, I do.’ Lucinda accepted her mother’s need for a Bainbridge heir and she understood her feelings of guilt, too, even though no one ever blamed her for the accident. But there had been no more children, and now Cousin Charlie would inherit. But please, Mama, Lucinda pleaded silently, don’t treat me like a complete idiot. I realized a long time ago why you were so set on Charlie and me marrying, and I’m very fond of him, and I’d like to go on living at Lady Mead for the rest of my life. But let me do it in my own time, and don’t make me feel like a brood mare.

‘I mean, don’t you think I’ve got worries enough, Lucinda, what with this terrible war and the bombing? And if those Germans ever get here, we’ll lose everything. They don’t like the aristocracy.’

‘I rather think that’s the Communists.’

‘And what about all the shortages? It’s enough to turn one grey.’

Only that morning she had stood, she, Kitty Bainbridge, had actually stood in a queue for nail polish, and when it came to her turn there was no more left. ‘I’m sorry, modom, don’t blame me for the shortages. There is a war on, you know,’ the common little bitch had said with relish. And soon there would be a shortage of clothing and wouldn’t those shop girls have a field day, then!

‘Worries enough, I said. And when did you last see Charles? You spend too much time with those wounded soldiers.’

‘Airmen, Mama.’

‘You’re running after them morning, noon and night. I suppose you’ll be off with them to the theatre again, when you ought to be with Charles.’

‘Charlie’s fire watching tonight, and I saw him a couple of days ago.’

Two days ago, in this very room, Mama. Charlie got annoyed with me because I wouldn’t let him. Called me frigid and said all the other chaps’ girls were willing enough, and would it matter all that much if he put a bun in the oven for me? So I let him, Mama, right there on the sofa, and it wasn’t a bit nice, and in the end Charlie went off in a huff …

‘A couple of days ago? And what did he say? That boy will go off with someone else, mark my words.’

‘No he won’t. We’ll be married, I promise we will.’

And she hoped she would feel better about getting the baby everyone seemed to want so much. She wanted it too, and maybe when she and Charlie were married and in bed and they’d had a few drinks and she was wearing a black nightie, then maybe it wouldn’t be so bad.

‘Married! I wish I could be sure of that.’ Lady Kitty looked obliquely at her daughter. Lucinda was tall and beautiful, and most times obedient and biddable. It was a pity she was an only child; the fault of the riding accident, of course. Secretly, she had been grateful to the farmer who had strung barbed wire across that particular gate.

Kitty Bainbridge had not enjoyed her pregnancy, though she accepted that her family record had been taken into account when Donnington proposed. The Cravens were a prolific lot, wretchedly poor but very fertile. There had been eight of them, four girls and four boys, and only ten years between first and last. So Kitty Craven had been welcomed to Lady Mead, and the Dowager died happy in the knowledge that her daughter-in-law of six months was five months pregnant.

But the getting of that child was not the pleasurable romp she had been led to believe, and her pregnancy was a sick one. As for Lucinda’s birth – she still shuddered just to think of it, and she had prayed that the next one would produce the son she so desperately needed to enable her to call a halt to the whole disagreeable business. But fate intervened and the young Countess of Donnington was thrown from her horse and, badly cut and bruised, lay concussed for two days and nights.

Poor Kitty, everyone said, when she did not conceive again; thank goodness there’s a lesser Bainbridge to carry on the line.

Thank goodness indeed, poor Kitty agreed, and from then on Lady Lucinda, smiling in her pram, and her three-year-old cousin Charles, featured hugely in her future plans. And when they married, thought the Countess happily, the Bainbridge comforts would still be hers to manipulate, provided the Earl popped off first and, as he was fifteen years older, it was almost certain that he would.

‘Well,’ said the Countess, ‘are you to be out on the town again with your wounded soldiers?’

‘Well, they do rather want to take in a show, but we’ll have to see what’s open. Don’t worry, though. If there’s another raid and it gets bad, we’ll go to the nearest tube station. It’s safe enough down there.’

Kitty Bainbridge closed her eyes and shuddered. She had had enough of the blackout and the bombing and the shortages, and if she let herself think too much about the invasion she would become quite ill. It was all too much, waiting for that upstart Hitler to make up his mind; to envisage the Germans strutting down the Mall as they’d strutted down the Champs Élysées. And all because of Poland!

‘Oh, and could I please have the hot-water ration today, Mama? You did have it yesterday and Thursday too, and I must have a bath.’

‘Then you’ll have to take it standing up in cook’s enamel bowl.’ If they’d had a cook! If the wretched woman hadn’t taken herself off to war work in a factory canteen for three times the money, or so she had said. ‘They hit the mains last night with a land mine. No electricity for two days, the gas turned off too, and now no water. It’s beyond belief, it really is. I wonder sometimes what the world is coming to.’

Our world, Mama, Lucinda brooded. Yours and mine. It’s changing, but you won’t accept it. There are no servants now, no seasons in London or Monte, and our lovely, stubborn, precious little island might be invaded any day. France has gone, and Belgium and Holland, and the German army is only a few miles away across the Channel. I know why you are so jumpy, Mama, but you mustn’t think you are the only one who is being put out. This is everybody’s war; we are all suffering and we are all afraid …

‘Look, don’t get upset. It doesn’t matter about the bath.’ It was selfish even to think of one when the fire service needed every drop of water to douse the bombed, blazing buildings. She laid an arm around her mother’s shoulders. ‘You’re tired – everyone is. Why don’t you pack a bag and go to Cromlech? You’d be able to get some sleep up there and –’

‘Scotland? How can I go there? McNair’s living in Cromlech, or had you forgotten?’

McNair, the elderly gillie who had agreed to live as caretaker in the Earl’s shooting lodge. Lady Kitty had been furious, declaring that the man was arrogant enough without giving him licence to sleep in his employer’s bed and sit upon his lavatory.

‘It’s either the McNairs or a dozen bombed-outs from Clydeside, m’dear. Take your pick,’ came the bland retort. The Countess had settled for McNair.

‘Then how about Lady Mead? We’ve still got the Dower House, and Lincolnshire is lovely in May.’ So very lovely, Lucinda remembered.

‘My dear good girl, the Dower House is bursting at the seams with furniture, not to mention Nanny. Besides, there’s no petrol left till the next coupons are due, and I won’t go by train.’

‘Then mightn’t it help keep your mind off things if you took up war work? The WVS ladies are in the tube every night making tea when the sirens go. Or you could drive an ambulance.’

The Countess could not drive an ambulance. For one thing, she couldn’t see a thing in the blackout without her glasses; and for another, the uniform wasn’t half attractive enough. War work? Oh dear, no. It was enough with Donnington’s preoccupation with his Home Guarding and a daughter who thought more of wounded soldiers than she did of family duty.

‘No thank you! No need for us all to go in at the deep end.’

‘Oh, Mama, don’t make it more difficult than it already is. Do please try.’

But Mama would never budge. She had been completely against the war, right from the start. She was, dare her daughter think it, extremely selfish.

‘Look, darling, I got a hunting-pink lipstick yesterday and some rose-geranium soap. I’d hidden them away for your birthday.’ Not strictly true. She had intended using them herself. ‘But if you like you can have them now.’

‘Can I? Oh, Lucinda, what a poppet you are!’

Lucinda sighed. Poppet? Oh, no. She was a fool, that’s what. But at least for a little while Mama would be happy, and keeping Mama happy had become a way of life, almost.

‘I’ll run upstairs and get them,’ she smiled.

Last night too she had waited. She had waited at the beech tree until the sky began to darken and the sudden, distant roar of aircraft engines told her that soon the bombers would be flying again.

She had hugged herself tightly then against the nausea she always felt when Rob was flying and begun her desperate bargaining with God.

It’s Jane, God – Jane Kendal. Rob’s on ops again, so please take care of him and S-Sugar. Don’t let anything happen. Let him come back, oh, please let him come back!

Cold with fear, she had waited for take-off, willing it not to happen, knowing it would.

Take off. To leave the ground. Birds did it all the time with ease and grace, but for the crews of the bombers that flew from Fenton Bishop aerodrome she knew that to take off meant dry-mouthed apprehension and an ice-cold hand that twisted your guts and made you want to throw up the supper you had neither tasted nor enjoyed. In those fearful few moments hands clutched good-luck charms and lips moved in unashamed prayer, until the clunk of the undercarriage as it folded into the belly of the aircraft told them they had made it. Then to each of the heavily loaded bombers that roared over her head Jane had whispered, ‘Good luck. Come back safely,’ and when they were all specks in the distant twilight and the savage pandemonium of their leaving no more than a muted throbbing, she had sent her love high and wide so it would find her lover in that vast, uncaring sky.

‘Take care, Rob. Please take care …’

Eleven bombers had taken off from Fenton Bishop last night, and in the early hours of the morning eleven had come home. Rob was safe. Tonight he would be with her.

The trees were green now with the tender leaves of May, yet when first she knew Rob those trees had been silvered by February frosts. They had met just three months ago, yet now it seemed that the whole of her life had been crammed into those few fleeting weeks; as if her living had had no meaning before they met and her future would have no substance if ever he left her.

Now she stood at the gate of Ten-acre Pasture, staring across the hedgetops to the control tower that jutted into the gentle landscape with angular obscenity, begging silently that when she turned the corner he would be there.

The early evening sun was warm on her face and the sky so clear and calm that it seemed impossible so beautiful a world could be at war; that small, beautiful world that was Yeoman’s Lane, and Tingle’s Wood, through which it ran. The beech tree was a part of it too, and the stile beneath it where they always met, at seven.

She sucked in a steadying gulp of air, letting it go with little huffing sounds before she walked on and turned into the lane.

Rob wasn’t there. It was seven o’clock, and he hadn’t come. Her suddenly cold hands clenched tightly as she walked on, past the stile and the beech tree, into the green cool of the wood. The path was narrow and rough with tussocky grass and she trod carefully, eyes straining ahead to where the path ended abruptly at the outer limits of the aerodrome, blocked by a high steel-mesh fence – a cruel fence to keep lovers apart – and no one else had discovered the break in it through which Rob always came.

She saw him then, running swiftly towards her, and she pulled aside the fence, squeezing through the gap. He had come! For another night at least, he was safe.

She didn’t run to meet him but stood there loving him, stretching out the seconds. Then he held out his arms and she went into them, laughing, wiping out the days they had been apart in that one eager meeting.

‘Rob, oh Rob.’ She spoke his name softly, her lips gentling his cheek. Then, pulling a little way from him, she closed her eyes, lifting her lips to his.

But he did not kiss her. Instead he took her face in his hands, forcing her eyes to his.

‘Jenny, I can’t stay.’

‘Darling, no! Why not?’

‘They’ve just told us we’re on standby.’

‘Which means you’ll be flying,’ she whispered dully.

She traced the outline of his face with her eyes, loving the dear, untidy hair, the mouth that smiled widely and often, the eyes that were old in a young man’s face.

She reached out for him again, and his arms felt lean and hard through the sleeves of his tunic. He was too thin. Flying was feeding off him, draining him, leaving him taut as an overwound spring.

‘You’ll be flying,’ she whispered again. ‘That’ll be three nights out of five. It’s madness.’

She disliked herself for what she was saying, for she knew the risk he had taken to be with her. When the bombers at Fenton Bishop were under orders, a blanket of security covered the aerodrome and to breach that security was the most serious thing. If there should be a call to briefing and Rob wasn’t there …

‘Have you been briefed yet?’

‘No, but there’s a call out for pilots and navigators in –’ He glanced at his watch. ‘In fifteen minutes.’

‘That makes it pretty certain then, doesn’t it? And if anyone finds you here, you’ll be in terrible trouble. I love you for coming, darling,’ she whispered, ‘but you mustn’t stay.’

‘I’m all right for a couple of minutes.’ He shook two cigarettes from a paper packet, lit them, and placed one gently between her lips.

She pressed closer. Last night, perhaps, the bombs that fell from Rob’s plane had killed women and children and old, helpless men, but for all that he was a tender lover. She wished the dead ones could have known that.

‘Any news, Jenny?’

‘No.’ She smiled up at him, knowing what he meant. ‘I had a fright this morning, though. There was a long buff envelope in the post with OHMS on it and I thought, “Oh, my God.” But it was only something for Dad.’

‘They’ve forgotten you. How long is it now since your medical?’

‘Oh, ages.’ She didn’t want to talk about it or even think about it. Before they met she had accepted her call-up into the armed forces because it was one of the things that happened in wartime; accepted it because it was a moral necessity. There was a war on, so you didn’t question anything; and if she was completely honest, there had even been times when she had looked forward to leaving home with a kind of guilty relief. But not any longer. Now there was Rob, and even to think of being parted from him left her sick inside.

She turned to him and closed her eyes, reaching for the back of his head, pulling his face closer.

‘Forget it.’ She shivered, without knowing why, and he took off his tunic and wrapped it around her shoulders. Longing flamed in her again at the smell and feel of it.

She was not ashamed of the need that screamed inside her. Sometimes she wanted to shout, ‘Listen, world, Rob and I are lovers!’ But their loving was a secret thing and their meetings furtive because of her parents.

‘How was it, last night?’

‘Like it always is,’ he said quietly.

She felt the shrugging of his shoulders as if he were trying to forget for a little while the fear that never seemed quite to leave him. Fear of a bad take-off, of night fighters, of flak and searchlights. Fear of cracking up; fear of fear itself. Rob did not subscribe to the popular image of a bomber pilot, didn’t talk about wizard prangs or pieces of cake, or sport a handlebar moustache. Rob flew with calculated care, mindful of the lives of his crew and the need to get them back to the safety of the debriefing room and steaming mugs of rum-laced tea.

‘Rob, let’s go to York on Saturday and stay the night.’

The words came out in a rush and she felt her face flame. But she had no pride now where Rob was concerned, and what had pride to do with loving?

‘The night?’ He asked it quietly but she felt a tensing of his body. ‘Could you make it?’

‘I know I could.’ She nodded confidently. ‘My cousin will say I was with her. You want us to, don’t you?’

‘I love you, Jenny.’ His voice was rough and his arms tightened around her. ‘Remember that, always.’

Always. She recalled the time of their first coupling. It had been gentle, a sweet, surprised discovering, and they had looked at each other shyly afterwards, unable to speak. But now her need of him was desperate and unashamed, and their clandestine meetings were not enough. She wanted something to keep secret inside her; something to balance the loneliness of life without him if one night he shouldn’t come back.

‘If I start a baby, will you marry me?’

‘You won’t.’ He kissed her harshly, as if to add strength to his denial.

‘But I might. I could easily –’

‘You won’t, Jenny.’ He drew deeply on his cigarette then sent it spinning away with a flick of his fingers. ‘And we’ll talk about York tomorrow, sweetheart.’

‘All right, then.’ She shivered again. ‘If you’re flying tonight, Rob, what time will take-off be?’

‘I don’t know. They haven’t told us anything, but if something doesn’t happen by nine, I reckon they’ll stand us down.’ He was looking at his watch, again. ‘Sorry, Jenny. You’ll be all right?’

‘I’ll be fine. Just fine.’

She wasn’t fine. She was angry they had wasted the precious minutes on stupid small talk. Then she took off his tunic and gave it back, helping him into it, fastening the buttons possessively. ‘Take care, Rob. Promise to be careful.’

‘I will.’

‘And promise never to stop loving me.’

‘Never. I promise.’

The same dear words, each time they parted. The same sweet promises, part of the ritual of their loving.

‘Goodnight, Rob MacDonald,’ she whispered, and he reached for her and kissed her gently, the sadness in his eyes making her suddenly afraid.

‘Goodnight, Jenny.’

He went abruptly and she stood there, eyes on his back, willing him to turn, knowing he would not.

She watched as he broke into a run along the perimeter track; the same track his bomber would lumber round tonight if standby became reality.

Despair shook her, her body screaming silently at the pain of leaving him, choosing not to think of the risk he had taken to be with her.

Damn this war, she thought. Damn it, damn it!

She turned then, tugging at the wire-mesh fence, squeezing through. Head down, she ran through the wood, past the beech tree and the stile, not stopping until she came to Dormer Cottage.

‘Hi!’ she called to no one in particular. ‘I’m home.’

She took the stairs at a run, up and up to the attic she slept in. Breathlessly she flung herself down on the window seat.

She liked this large, low room at the top of the house. From its windows she could see for miles, across fields and trees to the aerodrome beyond. From here she could watch and wait for take-off, count the bombers out, bless them on their way.

There was nothing to see, yet. Toy trucks moved between hangars; a minute tractor drove slowly down the main runway. Maybe they wouldn’t go tonight. Maybe it would be all right.

She pulled her knees up to her chin, hugging them for comfort, thinking about Saturday and York, and Julia, who had reluctantly agreed to alibi her.

She closed her eyes. On Saturday night she would be Jenny MacDonald. No one else called her Jenny. She was Jane, except to Rob; and now no one else would ever be allowed to use that diminutive. Jenny and Rob. Mrs Robert MacDonald, of Glasgow, though where in Glasgow she wasn’t at all sure. What she did know was that he lived with his mother and two brothers, and that after the war he would go back to work in an insurance office.

Frowning, she made a mental note to ask his address, though where a man lived was not important. What really mattered was that he loved you and that tomorrow he would be waiting by the beech tree, at seven. Everything else was a triviality.

She rested her chin on her knees, preparing herself for the long wait. Her parents were down there in the garden, Missy, her labrador bitch, at their heels.

She was sorry about the tension between them. It had started when they discovered she was meeting Rob, and they had asked for her promise that she would never see him again. It was the start of the lies and deceit, but she didn’t care. Only Rob mattered now.

She closed her eyes, easing into her favourite fantasy. She did it all the time when Rob was not with her, recalling words they had spoken, hearing music and shared laughter.

Tonight the air was gentle and the earth green with tender things growing, but when first she met Rob a bitter wind blew from the north-east and the bombers were grounded, standing shrouded against the frost and snow like great wounded birds. Candlemas, and there was a dance in the sergeants’ mess. Often, now, she thought with wonder that she almost hadn’t gone …

Her mother was against it. Aerodromes were dangerous places, she fretted, the recent air raid and the death of two young Waafs still fresh in her mind. Her parents didn’t want her to become involved with Fenton Bishop’s aircrews. They were a wild lot, her mother said. They had rowdy parties at the Black Bull and sang dubious songs. She only gave in when she learned that the vicar’s niece would be going to the dance and that the Air Force would be providing transport.

Jane had never been to the aerodrome before – not actually past the guardroom and through the gates – and she hadn’t known what to expect that night. All she was able to see from the back of the truck was the rounded outlines of scattered Nissen huts and, on the dark horizon, tall, wedge-shaped buildings hung with dim blue lights.

A corporal wearing an SP’s armband helped her down, and from the distance she sensed the clunk and slap of a double bass and drums that tapped out a rumba beat.

On either side, white-painted kerb stones glowed faintly through the blackness as she walked with the rest towards the sound of the dancing, for ears were of more use than eyes in the blackout.

The aircrew mess was a drab building, erected in the haste of war, with a brown polished floor and girders that criss-crossed to support a low tin roof. Thick blackout curtains covered the too-small windows and cigarette smoke hung in a blue haze, drifting lazily, trapped in the roof space above.

The room was noisy and hot. She laid her coat across a table then stood, not knowing what to do, wondering irritably why she had made such a fuss about coming …

But thank heaven she had, she thought now. Oh, Rob, imagine. We might never have met.

Her foot began to tingle and she shifted her position. Her father was still in the garden. He was wearing his blue police shirt and the strap of his truncheon hung from his left trouser pocket. The war had brought extra responsibilities to the village constable and now they were beginning to show in the tired lines on his face.

She wished her father and mother were like other parents and not so narrow-minded. But they were old. Her mother must be nearly sixty.

‘We waited so long for you, Jane. We had given up hope, then suddenly there you were, a little stranger …’

A little stranger. God, how awful. And how awful to imagine people of their age doing that. It made her glad she was disobeying them; gladder still that she and Rob were lovers.

All seemed normal and quiet at the aerodrome and the sun was beginning to set. She lifted her left hand. Almost nine o’clock.

‘… if something doesn’t happen by nine …’

The cough and splutter of an aircraft engine came to her clearly on the still evening air. Fear sliced through her and she tried to close her ears to the sound, but as if to mock her it was joined by another and another until the air was filled with a shaking roar. The pilots were revving up the aircraft engines; there would be no stand-down. Soon, Rob would take S-Sugar on to the runway and wait for clearance from the control tower. Then a green light would stab through the gloom and he’d be roaring down the narrow concrete strip, faster and faster, holding Sugar back until it seemed the boundary fence was hurtling to meet them. Then slowly, reluctantly almost, they would rise into the air and Rob would let go his breath, and his flight engineer would say, ‘Bloody lovely,’ as he always did.

That was when she’d wish them luck, as they roared over the village, and she would watch them all until they were silhouetted against the dying sun, small and graceful in an apricot sky.

She counted twelve green lights, blessed twelve Halifax bombers on their way. In less than half an hour they were all airborne and Rob was flying on his seventeenth raid over occupied Europe.

Take care, my love. Come home safely.

God, but she was so afraid.