Fagan finished scratching on his paper, looked up and smiled: ‘Don’t let it trouble you, Bryan. Between them it hardly makes up a Heinkel bomb load, and there’ll probably be a hundred of those over the city tonight.’
‘Do you know anyone in London?’ Bryan’s monotone rang hard and flat.
Fagan laid down his pen. ‘I understand what you’re driving at, Bryan. But these tip-and-run raiders are little more than a nuisance, however absurd that sounds. The Germans are bombing London at will practically every night and the only thing we can hope for is bad weather. It’s not the best defence plan in the world.’
Bryan chewed his lower lip in silence.
‘And next spring,’ Fagan continued, ‘we can look forward to round two of Winston’s Battle of Britain.’ His face softened. ‘You’ll be away to Scotland very soon, Bryan. Enjoy the rest. Get your head straightened out.’
Bryan stood up. ‘Come on, Agutter. Next patrol is in fifteen minutes.’
The two men clumped to the door and out onto the grass.
Fagan also stood, walked to the blackboard on the wall and retrieved a cloth from the shelf. He paused for a moment in reflection, then wiped the name ‘Simmonds’ away with one firm stroke.
Wednesday, 16 October 1940
Tommy Scott opened his eyes and blinked against the low-slanting sunlight that scythed through the windows and flared off the crisp, white material of his pillowslip. The last wisps of an already-forgotten dream fled out of his grasp and the real world solidified around him. He clamped his eyes shut and pressed his face into the pillow.
The sound of bristles on leather teased at his ears and he raised his head to trace the noise. A few beds down, on the opposite side of the Nissen hut, an airman sat on the edge of his mattress, a boot perched on his left hand while he polished the toe with his right.
‘Is it getting any better?’ the young man asked without looking up from his work.
Tommy swung into a sitting position and scrubbed his face with the palms of his hands, chasing away the last of his slumber.
‘I became a father, and lost my crew on the same night. It gets no better, and it gets no worse.’
The other nodded in silence.
Tommy regarded the polishing airman for a long moment. ‘You’re the first person to start a conversation with me since it happened. I don’t really understand why I deserve the big cold shoulder.’
The other man put his gleaming boot on the bed and shuffled the other onto his hand. Dabbing his brush in the polish tin, he pursed his lips and looked across at Tommy.
‘I reckon you’ve scared everybody.’ He nodded as he thought it through: ‘We all know the law of averages; there’s hardly a mission flown where everyone comes back. But we all believe it won’t happen to us. We all think we’ll be the golden boy who avoids the chop.
‘And then you pull the longest straw. You get to go home to your warm, soft wife while your crew goes to the bottom of the sea. Somehow you made it a lot more unlikely that anyone else in this barrack is going to be anywhere near as lucky as you.’
‘That’s not fair,’ Tommy said. ‘I booked that leave months ago.’
‘It doesn’t need to be fair. It’s what the lads believe that counts. Some of them think what happened makes you a jinx. No-one wants to associate with a jinx. A jinx steals away whatever luck you’ve got left.’
Tommy grabbed his towel and toilet bag from his locker and walked out of the hut to the shower block.
***
The airman’s words still rankled in Tommy’s mind as he shuffled along with the queue towards the serving hatches in the mess. The conversation ahead of him drifted back in snatches;
‘…could be an easy posting…’
‘…it’s a gimmick. You’ll end up on heavies when it fails…’
The man directly in front of him piped up: ‘Never volunteer for anything, that’s my rule.’
Tommy leaned forward and tapped the man on the shoulder. ‘Volunteer for what?’
‘They’re putting together crews for a couple of special squadrons,’ the man said over his shoulder. ‘They’re looking for gunners willing to retrain as radio operators. They’ve been asking around. No takers so far.’
Tommy collected his meal and sat down at a trestle bench. He chewed on his food and weighed the option. The episode that morning had bruised his emotional ties to the squadron. As a reserve gunner that no-one wanted to fly with, he might end up trusting his life to a bunch of green airmen fresh out of training camp, or a rag-tag scratch crew that needed a last-minute stand-in. Retraining would put a few weeks between him and the next operation over enemy territory. That meant more time for his son to have a father. Under the circumstances, it might be worth a bash.
Chapter 7
Friday, 18 October 1940
The telephone jangled on the sparse wooden desk, eager fingers snatched the handset from the cradle halfway through the second ring. The pilots outside the hut stopped what they were doing. Conversations lulled to silence. Newspapers and books lowered into laps as heads cocked to catch the news.
The orderly stepped out onto the grass. ‘That’s it, gentlemen. Bluebird is ordered to stand down. The next time you take off, you’ll be bound for Scotland.’
Bryan stood up from his deckchair and quelled the mounting chatter with his upturned hand. ‘Well done, Bluebird Squadron.’ Bryan smiled from face to face. ‘Enjoy your weekend leave. I’ll see you all back here on Monday.’
A ragged cheer burst from the pilots and they trailed off to get showered and changed. Bryan lit a cigarette and watched them go. Then he cast his gaze around the aerodrome. A Hurricane squadron started their engines across the field, off to play cat-and-mouse games with the piecemeal intruders. Over in dispersal, the news of the stand-down reached Bluebird’s ground crews and men slapped each other on the back, or stood looking at their aircraft, hands on hips, like they were beholding them for the first time.
‘We’ll never see such days again, I’ll warrant.’ The adjutant’s voice disturbed his reverie.
‘Hello, Harry.’ Bryan blew out a trail of smoke. ‘At least not until next spring. Do you fancy a beer?’
The older man nodded and the pair strolled towards the mess.
‘What are your plans for the weekend pass?’ the adjutant asked.
‘I may well go for a look around London while most of it is still there.’
‘And that young lady you mentioned? Jenny? Is she part of the plan?’
Bryan stayed silent.
The adjutant back-pedalled: ‘You can be proud of yourself, Bryan’ – his gesture took in the whole airfield – ‘it’s been one hell of a summer.’
The pair strode through the mess door, straight to the bar.
‘Two pints of bitter, please.’ Bryan turned to the adjutant. ‘We lost too many and killed too few, Madge. That’s the brutal mathematical truth of it. Now we’re moving our best guns out of the front line. It makes no sense.’
The older man took off his cap and reached for the pint set before him. ‘To be honest, Bryan, if you look at the maths, you’ve been pushing your luck for several weeks now. Living under the stresses of running a fighter squadron… you can’t fathom what it’s done to your nerves. This move will probably save your life.’
A wry smile creased Bryan’s face. ‘Last week I nearly got the chop from a bloody Italian biplane. A day later I was making love…’ his voice trailed off.
The adjutant placed a hand on Bryan’s shoulder. ‘Hopefully this girl will give you pause for thought. Having someone to love makes a man put a greater value on his own skin.’
Bryan picked up his pint and took a long draught. ‘In all probability I have nothing to offer a woman except the prospect of bad news delivered in a telegram. Jenny knows that. I don’t think she sees me as any more than a fling.’
‘Why don’t you try changing her mind? You might both be pleasantly surprised with the results.’ The adjutant drained his
pint. ‘Right I’ve got a bucket-load of paperwork to get tied up. Think on it, Bryan. God knows, you deserve it.’
Bryan watched the other man leave and finished his own pint. The steward approached to clear away the empty glasses.
‘Whisky, please. A large one.’
Bryan signed the chit for the drinks and walked, whisky in hand, back to his office. Seated behind the desk he sipped the amber liquid and glanced at his watch. Nearly 6 o’clock. Jenny would have left work and she’d be on a bus heading for Victoria. There she’d jostle in the crowds to find a space on a southbound train and stand crushed into the backs of strangers all the way to Clapham Junction, where most travelers disembarked to catch other trains on other lines. She may even get a seat for the last five minutes until the train clattered across the bridge into Balham station. He wondered if they’d begun fixing the hole in the road as he stared at the chipped bakelite telephone on his desk.
***
Jenny sighed with relief as the doors swung open at Clapham Junction and the carriage disgorged its human load onto the twilit platforms. A man standing next to her stepped aside and indicated a vacant seat. She smiled her thanks and sat down. The man’s hungry eyes lingered on her. She gave him a moment to stop, but his gaze remained insatiable. She stood and walked to the other end of the carriage, found another seat by the window and sat with her back to the man. Outside, the shapes of buildings loomed past in the gathering gloom. The train slowed on its approach to Balham station and the dark, brooding silhouettes yielded a gap as the track crossed the bridge over the road. Below, dimly lit with red lamps, the crater in the street yawned like the maw of a sleeping behemoth. Men in dark blue overalls worked around its edges.
Jenny stood, and a shiver of sensuous memory prickled down her spine. Moving to the door she chanced a glance at the man with the avaricious eyes. He was engrossed in reading his newspaper, squinting in the dimness, and did not register her look. The train shuddered to a halt and Jenny alighted, the strange tingle persisted.
Trotting down the steps she averted her gaze from the blocked-off entrance to the tube station as she passed. Out onto the pavement she slowed her step and breathed deeply of the chill evening air. It had been a hectic week and she had lost herself in the reams of reports flooding across her desk. Now the man on the train and the desire in his eyes had snagged a hook into her mind and her thoughts wandered to Bryan and the memory of strong hands on her skin.
She crossed the road with exaggerated care and her heels skittered along the opposite pavement to scrunch into the shingle as she walked into the courtyard bounding Du Cane Court. Pushing through the doors she hurried across the lobby. Keeping her head down as she passed the porter, she stepped into an open lift. The doors closed behind her and she caught her reflection in the mirrored wall. Her cheeks glowed red with a wanton flush and her pupils dilated at the sight of it. She turned and faced the blank doors, feeling the teasing whirr of the lift cables through the soles of her shoes. The bell dinged and the lights clicked up until the lift slowed and stopped at the sixth floor. Trotting down the corridor she opened the door to her flat.
‘Alice, are you here?’
There was no answer, so Jenny walked to the living room, pulled the blackout curtains closed and groped along the wall for the light switch. The bulbs flickered to life. She checked the curtains were properly closed and slipped into the bathroom to turn on the bath taps.
The telephone jangled, tearing through the silence. She picked it up at the third ring.
‘Hello…
‘Oh. Hello, Bryan. It’s nice to hear from you…
‘Yes. As it happens, I’m at a loose end…
‘That’s fine. I’ll see you tomorrow afternoon…
‘Yes…
‘Goodbye.’
Jenny replaced the handset as if it were fragile, and took a deep, steadying breath. She walked to the bathroom, lit a few candles and shut off the taps. The flames softened and blurred through the steam rising from the tub. A small and tender ache started in the base of her stomach and worked down as she peeled the clothes from her body, delighting in the faint chill of the cold bathroom that tickled over her skin. Naked, she eased into the hot water and flipped her long hair over the edge of the bathtub. Settling down into the warmth, she pressed and stroked her belly where the ember of desire glowed and strengthened.
Saturday, 19 October 1940
Alice sat on the edge of Jenny’s bed watching her friend apply red lipstick. The stick was worn down to a stub and Jenny dibbed it with a small paintbrush and dabbed the dwindling remnants carefully onto her lips.
‘What’re you going to do when you run out?’
Jenny paused in her work. ‘Look slightly less gorgeous I suppose’ – she resumed her dabbing – ‘or borrow yours.’
‘Why should I help you keep a Spitfire pilot?’
Jenny frowned: ‘I am not keeping him. I’m just seeing him.’
A wicked grin creased Alice’s face: ‘Are you planning on seeing as much of him as you did last time?’
Jenny glanced sideways at her friend. ‘You’re not exactly Florence Nightingale, yourself.’ She paused and wrinkled her brow. ‘I don’t know. I feel like I want to. I know that I shouldn’t and it sort of makes me want to even more. I suppose I’ll see how I feel when he’s here.’
‘How would you feel about a cup of tea?’
‘Oh. I’d love one.’
***
Bryan parked up in the courtyard and climbed out of the Humber. He straightened his overcoat, checked his tie in the wing mirror and walked towards the entrance. Jenny’s final words to him on Monday echoed in his mind.
‘Yet here I am,’ he breathed to himself and pushed through the doors. He stood by the desk while the porter called Jenny, then sat and waited for her to arrive.
The lift door pinged and Jenny emerged.
‘You should’ve come up,’ she called as she walked towards him. ‘Alice was most keen to meet you again.’
Bryan stood. ‘I didn’t want to presume anything.’ He bent to kiss her cheek. ‘You look lovely.’
Jenny smiled. ‘Good. That’s exactly what I was aiming for.’ She linked her arm in his. ‘Come on, I thought we’d take the train into town, have a drink in Covent Garden and take stroll.’
Bryan held the door open for her. ‘Sounds like fun.’
‘And tonight,’ she continued, ‘a special treat.’
Bryan relinked their arms as they walked across the courtyard. ‘Should I guess?’
Jenny giggled: ‘No. There’s a club on the seventh floor of the building. They have a restaurant and a piano player. I’ve booked us a table.’
They walked towards the station. Beyond it the workman toiled around the crater. As they drew nearer a warden held up his hand.
‘Could I ask you to wait a moment, please?’
Two soldiers emerged from the entrance to the shattered tube station. Between them they carried a stretcher on which lay a body wrapped entirely in tarpaulin. They lifted their load into the back of an army ambulance and closed the doors. The warden waved the pedestrians to continue on their way.
Bryan glanced down at Jenny. ‘Are you alright?’
Jenny nodded: ‘I walk past this mess every day.’ She glanced up with a wan smile. ‘Let’s go and live a little.’
They climbed the stairs to the mainline platforms, boarded a train to Victoria and sat down.
‘They’re still not sure how many people got trapped down there,’ Jenny said. ‘I’ve heard it might take a month or more to dig them all out.’ She sighed. ‘Try imagining, your husband’ – she paused – ‘or your lover… simply not arriving when you were expecting them, and no-one could tell you where they might be. It’s too much to contemplate.’
Bryan placed his hand on hers. ‘I’m afraid I’m developing what you might call a ‘surgeon’s view’ of suffering’ – he grimaced – ‘I have to sleep at night, after all.’
Jenny squee
zed his hand. ‘Enough. Let’s talk about something else.’ She smiled with mischief: ‘Do you remember Beaky Jones at school?’
Bryan snorted a laugh. ‘The music teacher? He told me I was tone deaf, which obviously stymied my plans for a career in opera…’
Their laughter punctuated the rest of the journey into town. From Victoria they took a taxi to Covent Garden. Bryan paid the driver and they spilled out onto the Piazza.
The columns and arches of the main building were stuffed with sandbags and an old man sat on an upturned bucket playing an accordion. Passers-by occasionally dropped coins into a tin mug between his feet.
‘Come on,’ Jenny urged, ‘I know a pub you’ll like.’
She grabbed his hand and led him away from the Piazza and around a corner. A small stone-paved alleyway cleaved a gap between the buildings and at the end stood The Lamb and Flag.
They pushed through the doors and ordered a drink at the dim, wood-panelled bar. Then, finding a table, they sat down.
Bryan sipped his pint. ‘You’re very at home in the city.’
Jenny nodded: ‘I love it. There’s something about being anonymous in the crowd that makes me feel… I don’t know, sort of powerful. When I was younger, I used to travel down from Hampstead with my friends almost every weekend. We became proper little city rats.’
Bryan shook his head: ‘My parents didn’t allow me that kind of freedom. I’ve always felt like a bit of a sore thumb in London. And now the place is being torn apart piece by piece.’
‘They say you never know what you’ve got…’ Jenny smiled. ‘Finish your drink. Let’s take a walk down The Strand and visit Nelson.’
***
Twilight nibbled the edges of the sky as they walked away from Balham station. Sentries stood easy at the steps to the tube line, but recovery work had ceased for the day. They strolled the short distance to Du Cane Court and entered the lobby where the porters busied themselves blacking out the windows.
‘You said you’d booked a table?’
‘Yes’ – Jenny glanced at her watch – ‘not for half an hour or so, yet. But that doesn’t matter’ – she smiled broadly – ‘there’s a cocktail bar up there too.’
The Bluebirds Trilogy Box Set Page 34
