‘No’ – Molly’s heart raced – ‘no, really. That would be wonderful.’
Molly’s half-finished customer eyed her quizzically in the mirror. Molly turned her back on the woman and lowered her voice.
‘When were you thinking of?’ she asked.
The voice on the telephone relaxed: ‘This weekend. I’ll borrow a car and drive across. Is there an inn or something where I can stay?’
‘Yes. The Crown. They always have space.’
‘All right, Saturday it is.’
‘I work in the morning, but we close at one.’
‘Excellent, I’ll see you then.’
‘Yes. Goodbye…’
Molly put the telephone back into its cradle and leaned against the wall. A single minute had changed everything: a man from a daydream had suddenly become real. Long moments passed as she breathed heavily and enjoyed the buzz of her happiness. A polite cough from behind her brought her back to her senses. She wheeled on her heel and grabbed the hairpins from the tray.
‘Right, where were we?’
4th July, 1936
Andrew set off early in Bryan’s Humber, grinding the gears as he slewed out of the aerodrome gates. It was well over 100 miles from the squadron’s airfield in Suffolk to Biggin Hill in the outer reaches of south London.
Making good time, he skirted the town of Ipswich, crossed the bridge and pointed the car south-west down the A12 to London. The road atlas flapped on the passenger seat as he leaned on the open window and relaxed into the driving.
First Colchester, then Chelmsford rolled by. Half the journey completed and a sudden twinge of panic gripped his stomach. He really knew nothing about Molly, apart from her hairdressing trade, the name of the village where she plied that trade and the fact he’d kissed her soft, warm hand.
It was enough.
The thought of seeing her again transformed the mundane road trip into a flight of fancy, its dangerous excitement equal to the buffeting rush of a low-level barrel-roll taken at full throttle. His elation gripped him and he whooped his joy through the open window into the tree-lined fields beyond.
Heading into the East End sobered Andrew’s mood. The traffic crushed in around the car, forcing him to concentrate on driving. Gradually the buildings became grander and he broke through the City onto the north side of the Thames.
Crossing the river by Tower Bridge he stole a glance over to the Tower of London before heading south to Croydon and searching out signposts for Biggin Hill.
Andrew spent the last eight miles to the aerodrome collecting his thoughts: ‘Just be yourself, old man’.
The RAF signpost came up ahead and he took the dog-leg turn onto the northerly road running parallel to the runway. Over to his right a bright yellow Anson trainer hauled into the sky and banked away.
Andrew pulled onto the verge next to the aerodrome’s main gate and a uniformed airman emerged from the guard hut to peer at him.
‘I’m looking for a village’ – he glanced down at Molly’s card in his hand – ‘Leaves Green?’
‘Carry straight on, sir. Four hundred yards, you can’t miss it.’
The road continued north, lined with densely-leaved trees which hid the hangars and runway from view, then curved left past The King’s Head pub. The trees melted away as the road bisected a sprawling green surrounded by shops and houses. At the northern end of the green Andrew turned off into the Crown Inn’s car park.
****
Molly cut and dried, curled and lacquered as the clock ticked on the wall. At half-past-eleven her last customer came in. While the woman settled herself in the chair, Molly looked out over the green, past the boys playing football, to the road where the traffic cruised by. She wondered where he might be. He must be close.
‘Quiet in here today, love.’ Her customer broke into her musing.
‘Yes, I’m meeting a friend this afternoon. You’re my last booking.’
‘How lovely, dear. What sort of friend?’
‘Um, friend of the family,’ Molly lied.
‘Oh, how nice. What’s her name?’
****
Andrew threw his suitcase and duffel bag onto the bed. There was no wardrobe in the cramped single room. But at least the door sported two coat hooks. He smoothed out his blue pilot’s uniform and hung it with his clean white shirt behind the door. He placed his cap on the small dresser and retrieved a pair of gleaming shoes from the duffel bag, setting them down by the bed.
‘That’s more like it,’ he muttered. ‘Just like home.’
He took his toilet bag into the small connecting bathroom and peered into the mirror. He dashed hair-tonic into his palm and plastered down the damage done by the car’s slipstream. Washing the remnants of tonic from his hands, he splashed cold water onto his face, spluttering at the shock. Drying off on a crisp white towel, he returned to his critical appraisal in the mirror. Refolding the towel, he straightened his tie and looked his reflection in the eye.
‘Tally-ho.’ He smiled to himself.
****
Molly cleared up her pins and combs and took payment from her customer.
‘Have a lovely afternoon, dear,’ the lady said, tying her head-scarf. ‘See you next time.’
The door banged shut. Molly threw the latch and walked back to the mirror. She fell to plumping her hair with a brush, tutting as she worked. A movement caught her attention and she gazed into the mirror, over her reflected shoulder and across the green.
A figure meandered across the grass in a brown tweed suit and mustard waistcoat, puffing a cigarette as he skirted around the footballing boys. Exhaling a long breath to steel her nerves, she grabbed her jacket and handbag from the coat-stand and left the shop. As she locked the door, she heard Andrew call out: ‘Molly? Hello, Molly?’
She turned, smiling: ‘Hello, Andrew.’
Andrew flicked away his cigarette and hurried over, bending to kiss her lightly on the cheek.
‘I hope I’m not late. Is there somewhere we can get tea?’
‘The King’s Head stays open until three, I’m sure we could get something there.’
They walked off along the footpath at the edge of the grass. This far from the traffic the birdsong weaved around them undisturbed. Andrew talked about his journey and Molly informed him he was supposed to be a friend of the family called Alice.
Chuckling together they pushed open the doors and passed into the smoky bar of The King’s Head. The drone of conversation dipped in volume for a moment as the regulars turned to weigh up the newcomers. Andrew led Molly to the bar.
‘Hello, sir,’ the barman greeted him. ‘What’ll it be?’
‘Erm, tea. Do you do—’
Molly interrupted him: ‘Tea for one, please’ – then to Andrew – ‘you must be gasping for a proper drink.’
‘Oh, yes. Thank you.’ He smiled at Molly. ‘Tea for one and a pint of bitter, please.’
Andrew paid and they took their drinks to a table by the window. Molly stirred the pot of tea and poured a cup. Andrew lit a cigarette, taking the chance to study Molly’s face. Sensing his gaze, she looked up from the tea and smiled.
‘It’s nice to have the chance to talk to you without an impatient wingman dragging me off,’ he said. ‘Still, he was good enough to lend me his car. Bryan. That’s his name.’
Molly giggled as Andrew stumbled through the small-talk.
‘You’re a very good pilot.’ She rescued him. ‘You must love it very much.’
‘Oh, yes.’ Andrew hunched forward and took a swig from his beer. ‘There’s nothing quite like it. Even motorbikes don’t come close, Molly. On a motorbike you are still a prisoner of the road. In an aeroplane you are absolutely free.’
‘Isn’t it dangerous, though?’ she asked. ‘They train pilots on the aerodrome up the road and it seems every other week something goes horribly wrong and someone ends up in hospital.’
‘No more dangerous than motorbikes really.’ Andrew exhaled a long stream of ciga
rette smoke through his nostrils. ‘Except we’ve got guns strapped to our planes, which ups the risk level a bit, I suppose.’
‘Are you worried about what’s going on in Spain?’ She sipped at her tea. ‘The Germans. Are they a danger?’
‘Their planes look a lot better than anything we’ve got.’ Andrew pursed his lips. ‘But I expect our boffins are hard at work on their drawing boards as we speak.’
Apprehensive silence hung between them for a moment.
Then Andrew brightened. ‘It could be my chance to become a test pilot,’ he breathed. ‘Imagine.’
‘Just imagine,’ she mimicked with a laugh in her voice.
‘I would be a real hero, Molly.’ Andrew warmed to his subject: ‘I’d leap into the cockpit of someone else’s engineering theory, ride it into the crucible of the sky and put the contraption to the test with a series of dizzying manoeuvres.’
‘Bravo!’ Molly clapped her hands in playful applause.
‘Then I’d wrestle the unruly beast back to the ground, tell the designer how it should be improved and stride off for a magnificent lunch.’
‘Hurrah!’
‘And when I slept, my rest would be like the sweet slumber of innocence, because tomorrow I might be…’
The silence dropped again, this time with more weight.
Andrew cleared his throat. ‘Sorry,’ he mumbled. ‘I got carried away.’
Molly smiled. ‘You’re not wrong, Andrew,’ she said quietly. ‘Maybe we should all eat, drink and be a bit merrier while we’ve still got the time.’
They left the pub and walked back around the green to Molly’s shop.
‘I promised you lunch,’ Andrew said, ‘and all you’ve had is a measly cup of tea.’
‘We could take the bus to Croydon this evening, if you like,’ Molly suggested, ‘have something to eat there. And there’s bound to be a dance we could pop into somewhere. It’s Saturday night, after all.’
‘That would be wonderful.’
‘The bus-stop is right over there.’ Molly pointed. ‘Meet you at six to catch the five-past.’
****
Molly arrived at the bus-stop a few minutes early. The late afternoon sun still held some warmth and she closed her eyes as it bathed her face. Suddenly a shadow blocked the sunlight.
‘Hello.’
She opened her eyes to look into Andrew’s face, solid and handsome beneath his blue RAF cap. Her eyes dropped to his chest where his pilot’s wings glittered with silver threads and the crested buttons gleamed.
‘Ooooh.’ She looked back up to his eyes: ‘You’re here.’
The bus pulled up behind Andrew, he pushed the door open and the couple jumped on.
The evening whirled around Molly’s head like a dream. They bought pie and chips in a high street cafe, washed down with steaming mugs of tea. Then on to a pub where Molly allowed herself a gin and lemonade. They followed a crowd from the pub to the dance hall where they waltzed and two-stepped for a couple of hours – all of it filled with laughter and easy conversation.
The last bus home pulled into Leaves Green at a half-past midnight and the pair stepped down to the pavement, softly calling their goodnights to the driver.
‘Thank you for a wonderful evening, Molly.’ Andrew looked down into her face. ‘Now, I should get you home before your parents call the police.’
‘My parents live on the south coast. They’re retired.’ Molly returned his gaze. ‘They had me late in life,’ she explained. ‘I live alone in the flat above the hairdressers.’
‘Oh.’
‘Shhhsh.’ Molly reached up and drew his face to her kiss.
5th July, 1936
Bryan Hale heard his Humber crunch onto the shingle outside the mess.
‘Hail the conquering hero,’ he murmured under his breath and strode out through the door towards the car.
‘Bryan,’ Andrew called, halfway out of the car-seat, ‘thank you so much, my friend. I’ve had a wonderf—’
‘Andrew,’ Bryan interrupted, ‘your father’s been on the phone. It’s your mother, old boy. I’m afraid she’s passed away.’
Andrew slumped back into the seat. ‘When?’
‘About ten-thirty last night.’
10th July, 1936
Winston washed out the coffee mugs in the canteen sink. ‘What are your plans for the weekend, Gerry? Where are you taking the lovely Devline?’
Gerry didn’t raise his head from his newspaper: ‘Nothing planned.’
‘Oh, big mistake, Mr Donaldson. You’ve gotta’ treat ’em special if you want to keep ’em happy.’ Winston returned to the table with the clean mugs. He sat down opposite Gerry. ‘That bothering you?’ he nodded at the newspaper.
Gerry looked up and frowned: ‘It’s a civil war, Winston. People are being bombed out of their homes, people are getting killed. Of course it bothers me.’
Winston screwed up his face: ‘It’s in Spain, right?’
Gerry nodded.
‘So, if Washington particularly want you to get involved, I’m sure they’ll ask the President to let you know.’ Winston poured two mugs of fresh coffee. ‘So up to, and until, you get a call from the President, you have the perfect right to enjoy your life here and now… and tomorrow.’ Winston smiled and sipped his coffee. ‘So, call Devline and tell her what you’re doing together on Saturday night before she walks out on you for a man who keeps his head at home.’
Gerry flipped the paper around to show Winston the double-page spread.
‘Have you ever seen aircraft like this?’ Gerry pointed to a huge double-engine bomber formation.
‘Or this?’ He pointed to another picture, this one showing a gull-winged dive-bomber.
‘Or this?’ He pointed to a robust monoplane fighter with squared-off wing tips.
Winston looked from one to the other and scratched his chin.
‘They’re German planes, Winston. German planes fighting on the side of fascism in Spain. They’re clawing the Spanish bi-planes out of the sky. And the best thing about it? The French and British have nothing but the same bi-planes to stop the Germans when they’ve finished in Spain and want to play war somewhere else.’
Gerry’s voice had risen. He cleared his throat and continued in a normal tone: ‘I’m sorry if all of that bothers me, but that’s the way it is.’
PART 2
ARDUUM
Chapter 8
Amans
3rd September, 1939
‘…and I have to tell you that no such undertaking has been received. Consequently, this country is at war with Germany. You can imagine…’
Click.
The sound of the switch reverberated into a virgin silence immediately shattered with shouts of outrage from the assembled pilots.
Bryan turned to confront the complaints: ‘What does it matter what else he says? It’s on, lads, that’s all that matters. It’s bloody well on.’
Two airmen pushed Bryan aside and the radio crackled back to life behind him.
Bryan walked over to where Andrew sat fiddling with his box camera. Leaning over his friend, Bryan chewed his lip with relish. ‘It’s on, Andrew. Bloody official this time. It’s bloody well on.’
‘I heard,’ Andrew said without looking up.
‘Come on, take a picture of me in front of my aeroplane. One for the album, what do you say?’
Andrew got up, following Bryan out towards the Blenheims lined up outside the readiness hut. The dun green, double-engine aircraft stood impassive, blunt noses pointing skywards.
Away from the noise of the hut, Andrew stopped. ‘This is a day we need to remember, Bryan. This is the last ever day of its kind.’
Bryan slapped him on the shoulder. ‘Bog-rot,’ he said, and jogged towards his aircraft. ‘Let’s get this photograph taken before the Germans invade.’
Andrew smiled and walked after him.
He stumbled to a halt as a cacophonous roar ripped through the still afternoon air. A Blenheim tore thro
ugh the treetops at the far edge of the airfield. A panel peeled away from the underside, spinning from the craft in a spiral of duck-egg blue. The port undercarriage swung loose and the engines screamed with an urgent ferocity as the pilot fought to drag his plane higher. The stricken machine clattered over Andrew’s head, dragging behind it a swirling vortex of leaves and twigs.
‘Look out!’ Andrew shouted into the maelstrom.
Bryan spun in mid-stride, his momentum carrying him over onto his bottom, and he flopped flat on his back as the plane zoomed overhead.
The pilot gained only enough height to take out the tops of the trees on the opposite side of the field. The impact jolted the nose up and the plane hung in haughty indignation at the top of its stall before swooping into the beet field beyond the copse. They heard a crunch of rending metal and the resounding thunk of engines abruptly halted by heavy soil. Black smoke crept up over the shattered tree-line and a flock of starlings rattled around the sky in the sudden silence.
‘Bloody hell!’ Bryan gasped, still lying on his back. ‘He got that a bit wrong.’
‘Come on Bryan, let’s help the poor bastards!’
Bryan clambered to his feet and chased Andrew through the trees, over the shallow perimeter ditch and into the field beyond. Both men stopped in horror.
The Blenheim had hit a brick farm-building and the wreckage of both intermingled in a chaotic swathe across the field. One wing blazed with the sharp odour of aviation fuel. An engine lay stripped of its cowling, ticking as it cooled and bleeding thick, black oil into the earth.
The two men skirted the wreckage and came across a body.
‘Flying alone, do you think?’ Andrew murmured.
Bryan nodded: ‘Courier type, I suppose. Delivering a new kite. Anyway, there aren’t any bits big enough to hide anyone else.’
The pilot lay at the apex of the wreckage pattern, face down in a furrow, the breeze tugging at his hair. A twisted propeller rested across his legs and behind him one wing lay broken and stripped like a huge sea creature washed up on a beach.
‘Two trees and a brick shithouse,’ Bryan said in mock admiration. ‘And we’ve only been at war for three minutes.’
The Bluebirds Trilogy Box Set Page 8
