When Skies Have Fallen

by Debbie McGowan

  Chapter Six: March, 1944

  Arty wheeled his bicycle around the back of the small, deserted hangars, where he carefully lowered it to the ground and stepped back to check it was well concealed. The black grip of one handle stuck up over the long grass, but he doubted anyone would notice unless they were specifically looking for it; certainly they wouldn’t see it from a distance. The entire area was overgrown: the low, barbed wire fence was hidden under the brambles, and stray wheat spilled from the farm fields beyond the perimeter of the base.

  Shielding his eyes with his hand, Arty looked out across the open expanse of green: it was still too early in spring for the wheat to have changed colour, or for there to be many butterflies, but a few keen brimstones flitted along the hawthorn hedge and red admirals were out in force. From Arty’s current viewpoint, the farmhouse stood almost central on the horizon, the only civilian building for miles around. Squinting into the sun, he observed the movement of a dark form as it became isolated from the buildings. Possibly, it was a man, but they were too far off for Arty to even know if they were moving closer or further away. Minutes passed, and their attire changed from a dull brown-black to khaki, their gait and shape came into focus: broad shoulders, bright blonde hair glowing in the afternoon sun. Arty didn’t think he’d been so happy and relieved in his life.

  “Afternoon, sir,” Jim called as he neared the hangars.

  “A good afternoon to you also,” Arty replied. “A lovely day for it.”

  “It sure is,” Jim agreed.

  This first meeting would be a pantomime of politeness, playing out whilst they assessed the safety of their meeting place.

  “As far as anyone is concerned, I’m spotting butterflies,” Arty explained quietly, once Jim was close enough to hear.

  “Butterflies, huh?” Jim halted at Arty’s left side and turned to look back across the field he had just traversed.

  “See over there?” Arty pointed to a pair of brimstones dipping and soaring over the swaying wheat. “Those little fellas are the reason we call them butterflies.”

  Jim followed the movement of the dainty butter-coloured insects across the field. “Fellas?”

  “Those two are males. The females are paler, almost white. Brimstones are one of very few species that hibernate, which is why they’re around so early in the year. They’re the longest lived of British butterflies.”

  Jim nodded his understanding. “Fascinating,” he said.

  Arty chuckled bashfully. “You’re just being kind.”

  “Not at all. I’m eager to know more about your hobbies. And you.”

  The brimstones disappeared through the hedgerow into the next field. Jim indicated to a butterfly with red and black wings. “You have monarchs here?”

  “Occasionally,” Arty said. “They’re not native, but a few brave souls make it across the ocean. That one, though, is a red admiral. Very similar colouring and patterns on the wing tips.”

  “How interesting,” Jim said. It wasn’t the first time someone had made that comment about Arty’s hobby, but it was the first time since his childhood that it had not been issued in mockery.

  “Where did you tell them you were going this afternoon?” Arty asked.

  “Nowhere. If anyone wanted to know, I’d just say I was exploring the area. That’s what we all do in our free time. England is a beautiful country.”

  “You like it here.”

  “Very much. Particularly the fine company.” Jim glanced Arty’s way, and they both smiled.

  “How are you finding the weather? Warm enough for you?”

  Jim raised an eyebrow. “Have you ever been to Miami?”

  “No, can’t say I have,” Arty said with a laugh. “The farthest I’ve been is Cornwall.” At Jim’s frown, he explained, “South-west coast. Are you from Miami?”

  “West Virginia, but they sent us to Miami for training, and then shipped us over to cold Gaskell. It’s thirty degrees cooler than a Miami spring. Quite a shock.”

  “Hence the winter fatigues,” Arty realised.

  “Yep. I guess we’ll get used to it. For now I’ll try to suffer the cold hands in silence.”

  “How can your hands be cold when you’ve just walked five miles?” Arty teased.

  Jim held his hand out in front of him. “You don’t believe me?”

  Arty touched his palm to Jim’s, the contact insufficient to establish whether it was cold or not. He glanced sideways, noting Jim doing the same. He closed his fingers around Jim’s hand.

  “It is a little on the chilly side, yes,” he said.

  Jim laughed quietly in response and vented a long, slow breath. Arty didn’t need to ask why, for he could feel it: the connection between them that neither could hide or deny.

  With hands still joined, they lowered their arms to their sides and remained close, watching the butterflies and talking freely. What a relief it was to share with someone who understood the doubt and confusion, the fear of being alone, of being persecuted, and yet they had each been so fortunate in finding allies in their family and friends.

  “I’ve never told a soul,” Arty admitted. “My sister worked it out for herself,” he shook his head, “just like Jean.”

  “Yeah, she’s a wily one, that sergeant of yours,” Jim agreed.

  “She is. It worried me at first—that she and Sissy knew just from looking at me—but Jean says it’s because she and Sissy both enjoy the company of intelligent men, yet they have no interest in marriage. They can tell apart the men who will accept a woman’s friendship from those who are after a bit of how’s your father.”

  A deep rumble of joyful laughter erupted from Jim. “How’s your father? We’ve heard that a few times since we got here. At first we were wondering why y’all were asking after our pops. But your Jean put us straight real quick.”

  Arty laughed too and nodded. “She’s a wonderful woman. Charlie, my friend, is very fond of her. Funnily enough, she’ll play coy with the other airmen, RAF or American, but not with Charlie.”

  “Sounds like she might be persuaded,” Jim mused.

  “Yes, that may be. Though she’s very much like my Sissy, is Jean.”

  “You mentioned your sister was older?”

  “By ten years. Our mother keeps telling her she’s cooked her goose now. She’s an old maid.”

  “So you’re what? Twenty-three, twenty-four?”

  “Twenty-four.”

  Jim hummed. “Thirty-four’s not so old.”

  “I suppose not, and she’s thick-skinned. Mum and Dad love us, and we never wanted for anything as children. We both went to grammar school, and Sissy could have gone to Oxford to study, but Dad refused to permit it. Sissy tried everything to persuade him. She begged, pleaded, threatened to leave home. He told her he’d lock her in her room if she didn’t let it be.

  “So she stayed quiet and miserable. The day of her eighteenth birthday she found a job in London and she left home. Mum cried for a month, and Dad insisted Sissy would be back once she realised independence wasn’t all it was cracked up to be. He’s not the sort to admit he’s wrong, but Sissy didn’t come home. She was offered the position of housekeeper to a rich Italian—an intellectual and an artist—and she never looked back, until they evacuated during The Blitz, and then he was forced to return to Italy. Sissy went home. Fifteen years, she’d been away, and the first thing Dad says is, ‘I told you, didn’t I?’ The man is so damned stubborn.”

  “Yeah, my pop’s just the same,” Jim said. “The day they came for Joshua and me, Mom cried buckets, but Pop? He just went off to work as usual. The last thing he said to us was, ‘Guess I won’t get to be a grandaddy after all,’ like Joshua and me wouldn’t be coming home.”

  “Oh, Jim,” Arty said, squeezing his hand in sympathy. “I’m sorry.”

  After that, Jim remained quiet and thoughtful, and Arty thanked God for his own parents; however stern and distant they might be, and in spite of sharing Jim’s father’s disappointment for
the lack of grandchildren, they didn’t intentionally hurt him or Sissy. Whether that would be true if they knew their son was, at that very moment, falling for another man, Arty wouldn’t like to say.

  Sissy had advised Arty never to tell their mother and father, and he had no intention of doing so. It was his business, not theirs, and for as much as he loved and missed them, he’d set his sights on moving to London after the war. Those excursions to visit Sissy were his favourite memories, the only times he could truly be himself, and it had given him a love of the place that left him grieving for what Jerry had taken from them. There would be much work to be done to rebuild the city, and Arty’s skills would serve him and his country well. So whether he chose a life of solitude, succumbed to marriage, or followed his heart, it was unlikely his parents would ever discover his secret.

  “My pop doesn’t know about me,” Jim said, as if he had read and was replying to Arty’s thoughts. “My mom…” Jim chuckled. “These two old guys had a ranch right up in the hills, kept to themselves, just came to town on business. Of course, everyone knew, or thought they knew. Mostly it was just talk, but this one time they got chased right out of town. It turned violent and those guys? They couldn’t fight back. And so my mom, she’s in the yard and she sees them coming her way with the townsfolk hot on their tails, and she hollers to ’em, ‘Hide in the barn!’ She takes their horses and releases them into our paddock. The townsfolk go right on by, think they’re chasing the guys all the way home.

  “They stayed with Mom a few hours, told her they’d gone to buy provisions but fled empty-handed, in fear for their lives. When they were leaving, she sent Joshua and me to keep lookout. They were long gone when Pop came home from work. Next day, Mom and I got their groceries and took them up to the house, but they’d cleared out, horses gone, windows boarded.

  “Mom was the angriest I ever saw her. All the way home she kept on saying how the townsfolk didn’t understand and their ignorance had chased off two of their own. I thought she knew them, maybe they were friends of Grandpa, but when I asked she said she’d never talked to them before that day. I wanted to know why she’d helped them. She said she’d explain when I was old enough to understand. I think I was about eight or nine years old at the time.

  “She didn’t need to tell me in the end. She’d seen it in me when I was a youngster and she loved me just the same. Joshua’s got a girl now, so Pop will get to be a grandaddy after all. I’m happy for him, truly, and I told Mom I was sorry I couldn’t give her that. You know what she did? She hugged me tight and told me she prayed every night that I would never come up against the hatred those two old guys did, or be forced to hide away and be someone I’m not. But you know, Arty?” Jim looked him right in the eye and said, “I’d rather be dead.”

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