The Bluebirds Trilogy Box Set

by Melvyn Fickling

  Andrew smiled: ‘So when did you become a pongo?’

  ‘I joined early last year when it looked like there might be quite a stink with the Italians,’ Peter explained.

  ‘There was a stink for an awful lot of people,’ Andrew said, ‘but they didn’t consider it a big enough stink for us to join in. My squadron just got back from three months of doing nothing in Egypt.’

  ‘Cor! Egypt? We’ve just finished training for overseas service in bloody Wales.’

  The two men laughed.

  Peter pulled himself together for a moment and put on a Welsh accent: ‘Now I reckon we’re ready to invade Italy, all right?’

  Their laughter died away and Andrew framed a serious question: ‘How does your father feel about this?’

  ‘He wasn’t happy. But, after a little bit of shouting, he sat me down and told me things he’d never talked about before; he told me everything he could remember about the War. Most of it wasn’t very pretty. But at the end he admitted he’d enjoyed it all.’

  ‘Even the killing?’

  ‘Especially the killing. When he’d finished, he stood up and said if I still wanted to join after what I’d just found out, then I had his full blessing. Then he went out and got drunk.’

  ‘And you joined up.’

  ‘The very next week.’

  The train slowed as it pulled into the outskirts of Wells-on-Sea. The tracks took it through a series of cuttings, swinging around the back of the town into the small station.

  Peter returned to his carriage to retrieve his bag. Andrew stayed in his seat until the train jolted to a halt. The chance meeting with Peter had dissolved his earlier melancholy. Outside his father would be waiting, and now that wasn’t such a bad prospect.

  Andrew stood, straightened his uniform, picked up his bag and stepped from the carriage. Peter was engaged in earnest conversation with the engine driver at the front of the train. Steam billowed around the pair, partially obscuring them from view. Andrew walked through the station building and onto the pavement beyond.

  Anthony Francis stood bolt upright in his Sunday best suit. His shoes, although worn, were polished and his tie held a starched collar in place. He stepped forward, extending his hand.

  ‘Hello, son. Welcome home, it’s good to see you back in one piece. You’re looking well.’

  Andrew smiled and shook his father’s hand. ‘It’s the suntan I think, Dad.’

  Anthony took his son’s bag and they started up the hill towards the town. At the top of the hill they turned down the main street.

  Despite the chill wind blowing in from the sea, most shop doors stood open and in them gathered the shop owners and their staff. The engine’s whistle had alerted the whole town and the curious had turned out to watch. Andrew’s father chose a line directly down the centre of the narrow road and Andrew fell in behind him.

  As Anthony neared the first shop he dipped his head and said: ‘Good day.’

  ‘Good day, Mr Francis’ – followed by – ‘Good show, Andrew.’

  The procession continued from shop to shop. Eventually they reached the end of the street where The International Stores stood with its commanding view over the harbour. Here the buildings funnelled the sea gales south through the town. The approaching weather front hung less than a mile north of the bay and the stiffening wind flapped and pulled at Andrew’s uniform.

  Mr Frost stood outside The International Stores, the remnants of his grey hair whipped around his head like candy-floss in the high wind.

  ‘Hello, Andrew my boy,’ he said, placing a hand on Andrew’s shoulder and surveying the airman’s uniform. ‘Well done. Good job. I always said my loss would be the King’s gain. Come inside.’

  The three men pushed through the plate-glass door that swung shut behind them. Occasionally the heavy door lost its battle with the rising gale and opened a crack, allowing fingers of wind to derange the green tops of the carrots displayed near the entrance. They moved deeper into the shop and Mr Frost bustled behind his counter.

  ‘I’ve just brewed,’ he said. ‘You’ll have one?’ He poured the tea without waiting for an answer.

  Andrew browsed around the shop. In the four years since he’d left nothing had changed. He walked up and down the aisles. Everything was in the same place, in the same order. He stopped and gazed at the ginger beer for a moment.

  Andrew became aware of someone looking at him. He turned to meet the gaze of a young man standing behind the meat counter. His greasy hair was badly cut, framing a sallow and spotty complexion.

  ‘Hello, sir.’

  The young man’s voice alerted Mr Frost to his omission. ‘I’m sorry, everybody,’ the shopkeeper said, ‘this is Jennings. He took over after you left, Andrew. He’s a good lad, keeps the meat counter spotless.’

  The young man blushed with pride at the accolade.

  ‘Four years…’ Andrew mused as he walked over. ‘Hello, Jennings. Could I have a pound of your best sausages, please?’

  Jennings leapt into action: ‘Pork or beef, sir?’

  ‘I think, Pork.’

  While the sausages were weighed and wrapped, Andrew tried to catch his father’s eye, but the old man avoided his gaze and chatted with Mr Frost about the price of coal.

  Andrew and his father finished their tea and pushed out through the door into the teeth of the wind. Mr Frost thanked them for their custom and manhandled the door closed behind them.

  They turned west towards the bakery and crossed to the road’s northern side to gain the shelter of the terraced houses. Andrew pulled his collar up against the first drops of rain. ‘It’s good to see Mr Frost looking so well.’

  ‘He’s a successful man, Andrew,’ his father replied. ‘We don’t all have to travel the world to make that claim.’

  Andrew let it pass and they covered the last few hundred yards in silence, hurrying against the strengthening storm.

  The two men bustled into the back porch of the cottage just as the front arrived over the town to unload its rain. Big drops of water lashed themselves onto the paving stones in the back yard, lifting a low, hazy mist from the debris of their destruction. Andrew grimaced at his father and both men smiled at their narrow escape.

  From the porch they went through the small kitchen to the living room. The cottage was dark with low ceilings, and a faint smell of stale sherry hung in the air. The living space was crowded and untidy. Two large armchairs sat under the window with a double-leaf dining table and six chairs cluttering the rest of the space.

  ‘Your mother’s in the front room, waiting.’ Anthony motioned his son through.

  Andrew knocked and entered. A sweeter scent of fresh sherry mingled with the warm smell of the oil lamp lit against the afternoon’s deepening gloom. Margaret Francis sat in an armchair like a small, dishevelled heap of second-hand clothes. Her wan complexion emphasised her gaunt frame.

  ‘Hello, mother,’ Andrew said and sat down in the armchair opposite. ‘How have you been?’

  His mother made no attempt to answer, she just looked at him with a thin smile.

  ‘Anyone for a drink?’ Anthony’s entrance distracted Margaret.

  ‘Sherry for Mother,’ he murmured and handed Margaret the glass.

  She accepted it carefully and took a demure sip, returning her smiling gaze to Andrew.

  ‘Whisky for Father… and…?’

  ‘Er… what do you have?’

  His father’s lips pursed at the question. ‘It’s not a bloody RAF mess bar, you know – we’ve got sherry and we’ve got whisky.’

  ‘Whisky then, please, thank you.’

  His father handed Andrew a large whisky, sat down on the sofa and talked about the goings-on in the town. Over the course of two further whiskies, Andrew was brought up to date on who had married whom and how many children they’d had; which businesses had opened, closed or changed hands; on the number of deaths, the manner of dying and the size of the funeral. Throughout his mother nodded and chuckled b
ut said nothing.

  Anthony looked at his watch. ‘Fish and chips for tea, Andrew. Let’s go and fetch them.’

  Andrew stood to follow his father out the door. He paused by his mother’s chair.

  She drained the last of her sherry. ‘Thank you for coming, Andrew,’ she said and nodded.

  Anthony and Andrew walked back to the harbour through the darkening evening. The wind had subsided and with it the rain. The town’s lights threw garish reflections on the wet road. There was no one else in sight.

  ‘Is she all right?’ Andrew asked.

  ‘She’s ill and she thinks she’s dying. She relies on the sherry to dull the pain. She doesn’t get about much and not a lot gets done unless I do it. Come on.’ He strode on.

  ‘What does the doctor say?’

  His father ignored the question. Andrew reached out a hand and touched his father’s shoulder.

  ‘The doctor, Dad. What does the doctor say?’

  His father stopped. ‘She doesn’t want to bother the doctor. She’s scared of what the doctor might do; she doesn’t want an operation.’

  Andrew persisted: ‘And you, Dad? What do you think?’

  ‘I think she has cancer.’

  13th February, 1936

  Andrew put on his tweed suit and wrapped one of his father’s long scarves around his neck. Lighting a cigarette to clear the smell of sherry from his head, he left the cottage to go in search of Peter.

  Andrew warmed up with the brisk walk to the Ellis household. He found Peter tidying up fallen leaves in the front garden. Peter’s face beamed with pleasure at his friend’s arrival and he set Andrew to work pruning the overgrown shrub roses that lined the path.

  ‘It’s not something my Dad is very hot on, gardening,’ Peter said in an apologetic tone. ‘I’m glad you volunteered for the pruning because I have absolutely no idea what that’s about.’

  ‘My father does little else these days,’ Andrew explained. ‘I’ve never pruned anything in my life before; he’d never let me near his precious roses. But I’ve watched him and listened to him often enough to know the principle.’

  ‘I suppose the important thing is to make enough weaving room for my Dad on his landing approach.’

  Both men laughed.

  ‘How is he?’

  Peter sighed: ‘Asleep, probably still drunk. Finally got him to bed at three this morning. His nightmares are really bad at the moment. I’m wondering if it’s not my fault for joining the army and forcing him to dredge it all up again.’

  Andrew paused in his pruning. ‘Look, Peter. You can’t be responsible for the last war, largely because I suspect they will make us responsible for the next one.’ Andrew lit a fresh cigarette.

  ‘Do you think it will really happen?’ Peter paused in his work, leaning on his rake. ‘Even with the League of Nations and all the politicians and everything?’

  ‘Hitler’s a politician. Mussolini’s a politician. Stalin’s a politician.’ Andrew sighed a lung full of smoke out into the crisp air.

  ‘Yes, but they’re soldiers as well,’ said Peter.

  ‘So, my dear boy, are you.’ Andrew arched his eyebrows. ‘What time does the pub open?’

  ‘Round about now, I suppose.’

  The previous evening’s storm had dragged behind it clear skies and still air. The watery, late morning sun dried the puddles from the road as the two men strolled down to the quayside and on to Bakery Road.

  They arrived at The Anchor just as the doors opened. Andrew ordered two pints of mild ale and they sat in a window seat facing across the road into the crush of buildings and narrow alleys opposite. Sipping his ale, Andrew spotted a small boy run down an alley onto the pavement. The boy carried a crude toy pistol carved from a tree root.

  Andrew nudged Peter: ‘Watch this.’

  The boy moved along the pavement and slipped into the shadows of a doorway. After a few moments another boy carrying a broom-handle rifle advanced gingerly down the alley onto the pavement. The second boy glanced one way and then the other. He moved cautiously in the opposite direction to his hiding enemy. The first boy peeped out from his hiding place and in an ecstasy of triumph leapt out, pumping three imaginary bullets into the back of his foe. ‘Bang! bang! bang!’

  Andrew barked a laugh into the pub’s quiet, fuggy atmosphere. ‘That boy would make an excellent fighter pilot. Here, fancy a game of darts?’

  18th February, 1936

  Andrew sat on the wooden bench outside the station, the morning newspaper folded on his lap. Peter sat next to him and they both stared across the road at the small, wet meadow where half a dozen horses grazed. The paper brimmed with stories about the Socialist election victory in Spain two days before and the shockwaves caused by the unexpected result. Already the Spanish politicians moved to deny the victory and prevent the formation of the Socialist government. The front page bore a photograph of Franco, the figurehead of right-wing opposition. Cold determination ran through the man’s strong face.

  ‘I’m scared.’ Peter’s voice sounded small.

  ‘What’s there to be scared of?’ Andrew spoke around his cigarette.

  ‘I’m scared sick of people like him having the power to affect my life.’ Peter stabbed at Franco’s photograph with his finger. ‘I mean, if we don’t like a new government we just bloody well wait for the next election. We don’t go starting a bloody war.’

  ‘Come on now, Peter. No one’s started a war.’

  ‘Yet!’ Peter erupted with emotion. ‘No one’s started a war yet.’ He turned wild eyes to stare at Andrew. Abruptly the wildness softened with welling tears and his voice dropped to little more than a whisper: ‘We talk about it all the time. Europe with its bloody dictators. But no one ever really thought it would happen.’ For a moment he fell silent and tears dropped from the end of his nose, splashing on the toes of his polished boots. He drew a great shuddering breath: ‘And now the bloody stupid Spaniards have made it all more likely.’

  Andrew remained silent.

  ‘I’m signed up for five bloody years, Andrew. Five bloody, stinking years and there’s no way out. The French will soon be surrounded by fascists. And those bastards can’t fight their way out of a wet paper bag on their own. I’m first in the bloody queue for the trenches and thanks to my bloody father I know exactly what’s going to happen to me.’

  Peter dropped his face into his hands and melted into the sobs that wracked his chest.

  Andrew put his arm around Peter’s shoulders: ‘Come on, my friend. It’s still a long way from that.’

  ‘Fuck it!’ Peter’s hands muffled his voice. ‘Oh, fuck it!’

  The steam whistle cut through the air and Andrew checked his watch.

  ‘I’ve got to go, Peter. Listen to me.’ Andrew pulled Peter’s head up, cradling the other’s cheeks in his hands. ‘If and when we get dragged into whatever happens, you and I will be old hands. We’ll be bloody professionals. What you know – what you’ve been taught, will protect you. Do you understand me, Peter?’

  Peter nodded through his misery.

  Andrew stood up, grabbed his bag and spun on his heel in one fluid motion. Striding towards the train, he called back over his shoulder: ‘Goodbye, Peter. I’ll see you again soon.’ He didn’t look back and he heard no reply.

  Andrew climbed into the carriage and hoisted his bag onto the overhead rack. He stood transfixed for a moment, a hard knot of emotion tightening at the base of his throat. The prospect of war and the raw emotion of his friend’s fears excited him, made him aware of the pulse of his blood and the tingling surface of his skin.

  Breathing deeply, he sat down near the window. Through the billowing steam he spotted his friend walking away up the hill towards the town. He walked back to his father and his father’s nightmares.

  ‘God bless you, Peter my friend,’ Andrew whispered under his breath.

  Chapter 7

  Initium

  28th February, 1936

  Gerry scanned the b
lackboard for his next pupil, groaning when he found the name. Mr Beamish had taken dozens of lessons and was still a way off flying solo. Gerry wanted to dump Beamish, but Max viewed him as regular income so the lessons continued.

  Gerry zipped up his overalls and walked out towards the old Brougham cabin plane. Mr Beamish stood by the wing waiting, fidgeting with excitement.

  ‘Gerry, my good man. Hello, wonderful day for flying,’ he called.

  ‘Good morning, Mr Beamish. Yes, wonderful.’

  As Gerry walked across the grass, Max drove between him and the Brougham in the airfield truck. Max waved, the pipe jammed in his face spewed a dancing plume of smoke behind him. Gerry paused as the truck careered out through the main gate towards town. Max would be away for at least half an hour. Gerry looked back at Mr Beamish and made a decision.

  Gerry strapped himself into the seat of the plane next to Mr Beamish. He waggled the joystick on his side of the cabin and made certain his pupil’s dual control duplicated the motion. He did the same with the rudder bar.

  ‘Okay, Mr Beamish, let’s do the pre-flight checks.’ Gerry watched the big man go through the routines he’d learnt by heart.

  ‘Switches off.’

  ‘Petrol on.’

  ‘Throttle closed.’

  ‘Brakes on.’

  The mechanic forced the propeller round three turns to prime the engine. Standing back, he gave Beamish the thumbs-up. Beamish cooed with delight and shouted ‘Contact!’ as he pulled the starter ring. The starter cartridge fired with a sharp bang, kicking the engine into life. Beamish, chuckling and murmuring, let the engine run at quarter throttle until the oil temperature rose sufficiently. He glanced at Gerry.

  Gerry nodded.

  The big man melted with pleasure. ‘Chocks away,’ he shouted.

  The mechanic ran clear, pulling the chocks behind him on long ropes. Beamish released the brakes and taxied to the end of the runway. He swung the plane into the wind and turned to Gerry.

  ‘You know what to do, Mr Beamish.’

  Beamish sagged in his seat and his smile paled. A tremor crept into his hands. He licked his lips and cast a fevered look over the dials. Finally he centralised the control column and threw the throttle forward.