The Bluebirds Trilogy Box Set

by Melvyn Fickling

  Bryan’s eyes came to rest on a table directly across the room. Four people sat there. Two sailors in uniform accompanied two young women. One woman chatted with some animation to the sailor at her shoulder who leaned forward, watching her lips as she talked and laughed. The other woman stared straight back at Bryan.

  ‘One pint of bitter, sir.’

  The barman set the dimpled mug down and Bryan turned to pay him. He waited for the barman to retrieve his change from the till, thanked him again and took a long draft of the ale. He could still feel the woman’s eyes penetrating his back. Taking another long draw on his cigarette he surveyed the room again, avoiding a direct glance at the group’s table. From the corner of his eye he caught the smile spreading across the woman’s face as she continued to stare at him. He abandoned his ruse of nonchalance and returned her gaze.

  The woman sat with her legs crossed. Her skirt and blouse looked smart, but not flashy, and her shoes had moderate heels. Her long dark hair was pinned high and a slight thrill fluttered in Bryan’s stomach as he imagined it falling free. Her eyes shone deep chestnut, their shape emphasised with black liner. Her nose was straight and thin, and her lips celebrated in vibrant red lipstick. These features were infused with beguiling magic by the widening smile that beamed from her face.

  Bryan glanced at the woman’s female companion, a blonde with a slightly blocky figure. She continued to talk and gesture, her sailor raptly entangled in her words. The other matelot glanced from one woman to the other, laughing half-heartedly at the blonde girl’s stories, sipping nervously at his beer.

  Bryan’s attention returned to the dark-haired woman. Her gaze remained unbowed for long moments, then she dropped her eyelids and came to a resolve. Standing, she walked across the bar towards Bryan, leaving her handbag and coat draped on her chair. The blonde stopped her flow of words and frowned. The nervous matelot’s face dropped in confusion.

  Bryan maintained eye contact as the woman stopped before him. She chewed her lower lip for a moment and squinted into his face.

  ‘You have no idea who I am, do you?’ she said.

  ‘I’m afraid you have me at a disadvantage,’ Bryan answered.

  ‘Jenny Freeman.’ She raised her chin to look him square in the face. ‘I was in your year at school, Bryan.’

  ‘Good Lord, yes.’ Bryan’s shoulders relaxed. ‘The name does ring a bell.’

  ‘I was quite skinny and very shy’ – she smiled – ‘and you were rather tall and quite loud. Anyway, now you’re here, I have a use for you.’

  ‘A use?’

  ‘I need saving from the Navy.’ She grimaced, inclining her head towards the sailors. ‘My flatmate Alice got herself a date. He had a friend. I got talked into it, but…’

  ‘Oh, I see, yes.’ Bryan gulped down the rest of his beer and slung his duffel bag across his shoulder. ‘I’ll follow your lead.’

  Bryan walked with Jenny back to the table, picked up her coat and held it for her to put on.

  ‘I have to be away, everybody.’ She held up a hand. ‘This is Bryan, an old friend. He’s offered to walk me to the tube station.’

  ‘Gentleman.’ Bryan nodded to each sailor in turn. ‘Miss.’ He raised his cap to Alice. Placing his hand on the small of Jenny’s back, he guided her between the tables to the door.

  Once outside they lurched to a halt, their sight momentarily disabled by the dazzle of the bright lights they’d just left.

  Jenny tutted. ‘I will never get used to groping about in the dark.’ She gripped Bryan’s arm. ‘Can you see anything yet?’

  People-sized shapes loomed around them as their eyes adjusted.

  ‘It’s starting to come together.’ Bryan placed his hand over hers. ‘Where are we heading?’

  ‘Northern Line. Bank station is probably the easiest. This way.’

  They set off along the pavement.

  ‘Thank you for getting me out of that, it really wasn’t any fun at all.’

  ‘Your friend… Alice? Will she be alright?’

  ‘I wouldn’t worry about Alice.’ She smiled up at Bryan. ‘So, you’re wearing RAF uniform. Which branch are you in?’

  ‘Fighter Command,’ Bryan said. ‘Bluebird Squadron. Spitfires.’

  ‘You’re a fighter pilot?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Crikey, what’s it like?’

  ‘Very fast and not a little dangerous.’

  Jenny laughed. ‘Sounds a bit like Alice.’

  Bryan joined her laughter. ‘And what do you do?’

  ‘Ministry work. Archiving and records mostly. Can’t say too much about it. They made me sign a bit of paper.’

  They came to a crossroads and Jenny squinted into the darkness.

  ‘Straight across here.’ They hurried across the road and stepped up onto the curb. ‘So, what brings you to London with your duffel bag?’

  ‘I’m on the way back to my squadron at Kenley.’

  ‘Have you been on leave?’ Jenny asked. ‘Visiting your girlfriend?’

  ‘I was attending a funeral,’ Bryan said. ‘A friend from the squadron.’

  Jenny stopped and looked into his face. ‘I’m sorry, Bryan. I didn’t mean to be so clumsy.’

  ‘Think nothing of it,’ Bryan said. ‘And I don’t have one.’

  ‘Excuse me?’

  ‘A girlfriend’ – Bryan started walking again – ‘I don’t have a girlfriend.’

  They continued together for a short distance before Bryan broke the awkward silence. ‘Which means I can buy you a drink sometime if you’d like.’

  Jenny said nothing for a few steps, her eyes fixed on the ground. Then she nodded. ‘I think that might be nice.’

  The pavement became more crowded and many of those that thronged about them carried suitcases and rolled blankets. Caught up in this implacable human flow they swept around a corner to the sandbagged Tube station, a dull glow emanated from its depths.

  Jenny pulled Bryan to one side. ‘Here.’ She took a small notebook from her handbag and wrote down a number. She tore off the page and pressed it into his hand. ‘This is my home number. I do a fair bit of overtime these days, so you’ll have to trust to luck to find me there. Thanks again.’

  She stood on tiptoes, planting a kiss on his cheek. As she turned to leave, a low wailing penetrated the middle distance, rising to peak at a flat, mournful moan. The shelterers quickened their rush for the stairs and Bryan gazed upwards as searchlights pricked and probed at the clouds. A policeman stood nearby, ushering the crowd off the pavement. Bryan tapped his shoulder.

  ‘What’s the best way to get to Victoria?’

  ‘Down the steps, sir. Look for the Circle Line eastbound.’

  Bryan smiled his thanks and started down the steps. Some way ahead he spotted Jenny amongst the crowd streaming through the open barriers, his eyes drawn to the sway in her walk. In a moment she vanished, swallowed into the throng flowing down the tunnel towards the Northern Line. Bryan slowed to read the signs overhead, jostled by the river of people moving around him. He found the eastbound tunnel and squeezed down the steps to the platform. He picked his way through the groups of shelterers, each marking their territory for the night with blankets.

  Bryan found a clear spot midway down the platform and lit a cigarette. Minutes later the next train arrived and he stepped onto the near-empty carriage. Already flushed from exertion and his chance meeting with Jenny, the stuffy warmth in the tube carriage pricked sweat onto his eyebrows. He removed his overcoat, folded it carefully and sat down, tucking his duffel bag between his calves. A man opposite studied Bryan’s uniform with a mixture of interest and disdain.

  ‘You a pilot?’ A slur dulled the man’s voice.

  Bryan nodded. ‘Yes.’

  ‘So why don’t you get up there and fight the bastards?’

  Murmurs of approval drifted down the carriage from a group of women. An elderly man made no noise, but peered over his glasses at Bryan, waiting for his answer.

&n
bsp; Bryan looked around the group and back to his questioner.

  ‘That’s what I have been doing. Almost every bloody day.’

  The man barked a laugh. ‘What good is that if they’re coming back every bloody night?’

  The tunnel’s darkness flashed to the bright lights of the next station, Aldgate. The man’s eyes remained steady and hostile. Bryan stood up and stepped from the carriage. Better to wait a few minutes for the next train than to continue in an argument he had no interest in winning.

  Prostrate Londoners filled most of the space around him, bedding down on the smooth, hard platform, trading comfort for safety. Bryan kept his back to the carriage while the train drew away. Directly in front of him a small girl in grimy clothes slept with only a thin woollen blanket between her and the warmth-sapping concrete. Three inches from her face a large gob of snot and spittle glistened in the lights.

  Swallowing hard, Bryan fixed his attention on the white tiles that covered the curved tunnel wall and waited until a train whined in behind him. He boarded, avoiding eye contact as he sat down. The tube train whisked him away through the tunnel, alternating darkness and harsh illumination. The lights at each station revealed a different human tableau; people hunkered on the indurated platforms, grasping to them the things they treasured the most. Mothers clasped their children; the children clasped their dolls. Above ground, their homes, temporarily abandoned for the sake of subterranean safety, stood at ransom to the random interplay of gravity and high explosives, of switches thrown and buttons pressed thousands of feet above them in the cold, dark sky.

  Victoria station rolled around. Bryan bundled off the train and up the stairs. The chill night air dried the sweat on his face. Shivering, he pulled on his overcoat while booming explosions reverberated from the station walls in a demonic rhythm set by a nearby anti-aircraft emplacement. In the distance, the soft crump of bomb-blasts drifted on the air. Bryan hefted his duffel bag and walked out to the lines of buses. A ticket collector strolled past.

  ‘Excuse me’ – Bryan caught him by the arm – ‘I need to get to Kenley Airfield.’

  The man pointed at a double-decker parked in the row.

  ‘That one there.’ He smiled at Bryan. ‘You’re a lucky man. It looks like you’ve caught the last bus.’

  Chapter 2

  Monday, 7 October 1940

  ‘Flight Lieutenant Hale.’ The man shook Bryan’s shoulder. ‘It’s 6 o’clock, sir. Time to get up.’

  Bryan parted his dry lips with a drier tongue. ‘I pray that God may one day bless you, Hopkins.’ He rolled over and reached for the mug of tea steaming on his bedside table. ‘What’s the weather like?’

  ‘Good enough to expect a visit, I’m afraid, sir.’ Hopkins pulled Bryan’s uniform from the wardrobe and brushed the lint and stray hairs from the jacket. ‘Bluebird are on readiness from 11 o’clock. Your bath’s ready.’

  Bryan bathed and dressed in silence. In front of the mirror he combed his hair. He noted new lines scoring his forehead and his eye sockets harboured shadows. Maybe he needed more sleep?

  Bryan walked to the mess, nodding acknowledgement to saluting airmen along the way. Sitting alone, he quickly despatched a breakfast of fried eggs and toast with another mug of hot, sweet tea. He signed the mess chit and stepped outside, sniffing the air with predatory interest. The milky autumnal sun struggled to get above the treetops, but he could already tell that Hopkins was right. The Germans would be over today.

  He took a detour out onto the field past the dispersal pens. It was the longer route to his office, but he felt mildly disconnected, still unsettled by the previous day’s events and drawn by his viscera to be close to the aircraft.

  Bryan quickened his pace against the morning’s chill and headed out towards his own Spitfire. The pungent ghost of aviation fuel laced the air, and on the other side of the field a ground crew fired up a Spitfire for engine tests: the rough cough of the starter battery giving way to the full roar of its Merlin engine. The sound helped Bryan settle back into his own skin.

  He arrived at his plane to find his rigger working on the guns, checking and greasing the mechanisms from beneath the wing.

  ‘Morning, Mortice’ – Bryan stooped to peer under the wing – ‘is she ready?’

  ‘She won’t be long’ – the rigger smiled – ‘I’m just making sure everything’s in order. Y’see someone else took her up yesterday, sir. While you were away at the…’ The rigger looked down, a frown crumpling his brow.

  ‘The funeral?’ Bryan finished the sentence. ‘It all went well, Mortice. Andrew had a wonderful send off.’

  ‘I’m glad, sir’ – the rigger’s face brightened – ‘Mr Francis was a good ‘un.’

  Mortice went back to his work and Bryan sauntered away, lighting a cigarette. Thoughts of Andrew, sirens and Jenny tumbled around his head. He took a hard pull on his cigarette and fished in his trouser pocket. His fingertips found the slip of paper. He unfolded it and gazed at the number for long moments.

  ***

  Bryan sat at his desk watching the smoke curling up from the cigarette balanced on the ashtray’s edge. The door rattled to someone’s knock.

  ‘Come in,’ Bryan said without raising his head. The door opened to admit Harold Stiles, Bluebird Squadron’s adjutant. He carried an armful of paper files. Bryan looked up as the other man sat down.

  ‘Ah, Madge,’ he drawled, ‘you’ve brought paperwork. How nice.’ He wrinkled his brow. ‘I’ll be flying in an hour or so. Can’t it wait? I’ll do it if I come back, I promise.’

  Stiles ignored the banter.

  ‘Good morning, Bryan’ – he laid the files on the desk – ‘I trust all went smoothly.’

  ‘Yes, it did. Until I got back to London.’ Bryan grimaced across the desk. ‘Some people think we’re not working hard enough.’

  ‘Which people?’

  ‘People on a bloody tube train, Harry.’ Bryan picked up his cigarette and stubbed it out with some force. ‘I believe they’re called the general public. They suggested I should be flying about in the bloody dark shooting down the bombers.’

  ‘Well’ – the adjutant leaned forward – ‘that’s not possible in Spits; the exhaust flames mess up your night vision. But…’ He paused.

  ‘But what, Madge?’

  ‘There’s some hush-hush developments concerning a specialised night-fighter force. Onboard RDF, that sort of thing.’

  ‘So?’

  ‘So… they’re asking for top-notch pilots to volunteer.’

  Bryan’s eyes narrowed as he regarded the older man. ‘This RDF… it’s going onboard what, exactly?’

  ‘Mostly Blenheims.’

  ‘Mostly…’

  ‘They’re planning to use Hampdens in the western sectors.’ The adjutant chewed his lip as the silence settled like foreboding.

  Bryan lit another cigarette.

  ‘I am not’ – he stabbed a finger at the other man – ‘repeat not, going back to flying those decrepit old crates.’ He pushed his chair away from the desk and stalked to the window. ‘I have a Spitfire, and that’s what I intend on keeping. Your boffins can get their cab drivers from somewhere else.’

  The adjutant sighed. ‘I just thought I’d mention it.’ He flipped open the file of papers. ‘We do have some serious paperwork to get through.’

  Bryan ambled back to his desk.

  ‘Why? What’s the flap?

  Stiles cleared his throat. ‘I’m afraid they’re taking Bluebird out of the front-line.’

  ‘What?’ Bryan exploded. ‘Why? Where to?’

  ‘They’re rotating us to a quieter section. It’s intended to give the lads a rest.’

  ‘A rest?’ Bryan slumped into his chair. ‘The ones that did all the bloody hard work are dead’ – Bryan’s eyes bulged with outrage – ‘they’re getting plenty of rest.’

  ‘I’m sorry, but it’s come straight down from the top. There’s nothing I can do. We move out in two weeks’ time.’


  Bryan dropped his head into his hands.

  ‘Where to?’

  ‘Scotland.’

  ***

  Jenny stuck out her jaw at the mirror as she applied her lipstick. It was getting low and make-up had already become scarce in the shops. Hopefully all the women in London would run out on the same morning and they’d all be forced to go to work that day au naturelle. She smiled at the idea as she combed her fringe into place. She paused at the sound of a key in the flat door and her smiled broadened.

  ‘Good morning, Alice,’ she called. ‘Will you be joining us at work today?’

  Alice’s disembodied voice carried down the hallway: ‘Yes. But I need a bit of a swill first. Will you wait for me?’

  The gush from the bath taps clattered onto the enamelled tub. Jenny walked down the hall and leaned on the door frame watching her friend undress.

  ‘And if that porter looks at me funny one more time, I shall swing for him.’ Alice squirmed in her underwear. ‘Unhook me, Jen, there’s a love.’

  Jenny reached forward to spring the brassiere. ‘Will you be seeing your sailor again?’

  ‘No. They sail at lunchtime today.’

  ‘They?’ Jenny sat down on the toilet seat as Alice climbed into the steaming bath water. ‘You didn’t?’

  ‘You and the porter can think what you like, I’m saying nothing.’ Alice splashed some water onto her face and lathered the soap. ‘Who was that you left with? Some sort of Brylcreem Boy?’

  Jenny nodded. ‘He’s a Spitfire pilot.’

  Alice’s jaw dropped and she blinked through the soap bubbles. ‘Nooooo,’ she cooed. ‘You lucky cat.’

  ‘I knew him from school. It was pure chance he came into the pub. He’d just come back from leave.’

  ‘And you’re seeing him again, aren’t you?’ Alice’s eyes bored across at Jenny.

  ‘You know what I think about wartime relationships. How can anything last if it’s built on shifting sands?’

  Alice cocked her head. ‘You are seeing him again.’

  Jenny smiled. ‘I gave him our telephone number.’

  ‘Ha-hargh’ – Alice splashed the water with her hands – ‘the Ice Queen thaws at last.’