The Bluebirds Trilogy Box Set

by Melvyn Fickling

  A baby’s chuckle blurted into the room. Bryan dipped his head to one side and peered under the table. A pink, round face regarded him from a bed of knitted blankets in a rough wooden cot.

  ‘We don’t have a bomb shelter,’ Tommy explained, ‘so I reinforced the table.’ He tapped at a scaffold pole with his foot. ‘There’s room for Lizzy under there too.’

  Lizzy set the tea cups and pot on the table. ‘I can do corned beef hash and fried potatoes if anyone is hungry.’

  ***

  After their meal, Tommy and Bryan moved through to the living room, leaving Lizzy to breastfeed the baby in the kitchen. The cooking smells from their dinner hung through the little house like pleasant memories.

  Bryan sat down on the small sofa. The persistent grumble of distant explosions underlaid the punctuating tick of the clock on the mantle, beneath it the coals in the fireplace glowed like a mimesis of the city ablaze.

  ‘I have some of this left.’ Tommy held up a whisky bottle from the sideboard. ‘I’m not sure how old it is. I’m not much of a drinker. It’s probably from last Christmas.’

  ‘I don’t think it goes off.’ Bryan smiled. ‘It’s a nice home you have here. Very cosy.’

  Tommy poured two glasses and handed one to Bryan.

  ‘Wives and girlfriends,’ he toasted.

  A single large explosion, away by the river, jolted the windows into a desultory genuflection.

  ‘Isn’t there a proper shelter your wife could use?’ Bryan asked.

  ‘Our backyard is too small’ – Tommy sat down on an armchair – ‘an Andersen has to be a decent distance away from the building to be any use.’

  ‘Isn’t there a public shelter?’

  ‘There is, but it gets full really quickly. Then you have to spend the night squashed up with seventy-five people and only half-a-dozen buckets for everyone to piss in, if you’ll excuse my French. It’s rather unpleasant, especially for the ladies.’

  ‘So, you risk it at home, instead?’

  Tommy sipped his whisky and his eyes drifted out of focus for a moment. ‘Nothing but the biggest parachute mine can destroy a whole street. And they don’t drop many of those.’

  Bryan looked into the golden spirit at the bottom of his glass and said a silent prayer for the all clear to sound.

  Saturday, 16 November 1940

  ‘Mister Hale?’

  Bryan’s eyes fluttered open and his face crunched into a wince as the pain from his kinked neck lanced across shoulders. He pulled himself out of his cramped foetal hunch, swung his legs to the floor and pushed his torso upright. Lizzy stood next to the sofa holding a mug of tea and a flapjack on a napkin.

  ‘Ah, Mrs Scott.’ Bryan reached out for the tea and swilled the thick whisky slick from his tongue. ‘Thank you.’

  Lizzy placed the flapjack on the sofa’s arm. ‘The all clear went at 4 o’clock this morning. I thought it was best to leave you be.’

  ‘What time is it now?’

  ‘It’s coming on for half-past-seven.’

  ‘Christ, I really need to leave.’

  ‘Finish your breakfast, Mr Hale’ – Lizzy smiled – ‘it’s not yet light. I’ll make some fresh tea.’

  Bryan arched his back and immediately regretted it; cramps clenched his flanks, clamping him into agonised immobility. He reached carefully for the flapjack and munched methodically as he waited for his body to come back under his control. As he chewed, Tommy came into the room cradling the baby.

  ‘He sleeps like a log, even with the bombing.’ He bobbed the baby up and down in his arms. ‘He was born during a raid.’ Tommy sat down on the armchair opposite. ‘That night they demolished several streets a little way west of here. It’s the closest they’ve been.’

  ‘I’m surprised the stork got through.’ Bryan’s smile wrinkled into another wince as he stood up. ‘I’d like to use your WC, if I may.’

  ‘Of course, Flight. It’s in the back yard.’

  Bryan walked on stiff legs through to the kitchen, put his mug and napkin on the table and went out the back door. The wintry chill of the dawn air re-stiffened his muscles and his gasp of shock hung before his face in a cloud of vapour.

  Built onto the back of the house was a brick and tile lean-to. The blue-painted door reached neither the top nor bottom of the doorframe, leaving a two-inch gap at both ends. For some unfathomable reason a diamond-shaped hole adorned the centre of the door at eye level. Bryan unhitched his belt and opened the door.

  The toilet pan and overhead cistern stood against one wall. Against the other leaned a variety of long-handled tools and offcuts of timber. Bryan lifted the lid and lowered himself onto the wooden seat. The shock of cold on his buttocks was short-lived and Bryan relaxed in the gloom, gazing across at the rusting tools draped in the tangled tracery of last season’s cobwebs. The inexorable scent of damp brickwork crept over him as the death-cold concrete floor sucked his warmth out through the soles of his shoes.

  ‘Home, sweet home,’ he muttered to himself, pulling a square of newspaper from the looped string nailed into the wall and leaning sideways to wipe.

  ***

  Tommy grasped the hubcap containing the wheel nuts in one hand and a mug of tea in the other while Bryan wrestled the spare wheel onto the Humber.

  ‘Are you nervous about starting ops, Flight?’ Tommy took a swig from his tea, squatted down and proffered the hubcap.

  Bryan looked into the face that appeared suddenly at the same level as his and picked out one of the wheel nuts.

  ‘I’m always more worried on the ground than in the air’ – he sniffed in the brittle scent of far-off burning – ‘and I’m always more worried on the ground in London than anywhere else.’

  A shadow of strain flicked across Tommy’s face and Bryan immediately regretted his connotation. ‘Still, there’ll be no-one chasing us around the sky, so we can get on with our job without looking over our shoulder all the time.’ He winked at the other man. ‘We’ll be the wolves in their sheep-pen.’

  Bryan finished attaching the wheel, clicked on the hubcap and gave the tyre a sturdy kick.

  ‘Shit. It’s as flabby as a nun’s arse.’

  Bryan retrieved a foot pump from the boot and pumped vigorously, leaning heavily against the car and grimacing against his still-complaining muscles. Once satisfied the tyre was solid, Bryan unhooked the pump.

  ‘Right’ – he pulled a flat smile across his unshaven face – ‘please thank Mrs Scott for me, she’s been more than kind.’

  ‘I will do, Flight. See you back at base on Monday.’

  Tommy extended his right hand. Bryan stared at it for a moment, cocking his head in surprise as if it were a small woodland creature that had jumped between them. Then he leaned forward and grasped the hand for a single shake, taken aback by the firmness of the other’s grip.

  ‘Yes, Monday,’ he said and climbed into the car.

  Pulling away, Bryan glanced into the mirror. Lizzy had joined her husband outside and the couple watched him leave, like he was a favourite uncle or family benefactor. Bryan shook his head and pulled onto the main road, heading west.

  Loops of greasy smoke still spewed from the chip shop. Its ravenous burning had devoured the properties next to it and heavily damaged the ones next to those. Now the fat had been consumed, fire engines damped down the blackened devastation with desultory plumes of water. Bryan drove slowly over the debris littering the road, conscious he couldn’t afford another puncture.

  Once past the area affected by the raid, Bryan’s progress quickened and he soon turned on to Balham High Road, heading south. He pulled into a small garage, dropped off his wheel for repair, then finished his journey to Du Cane Court, arriving more than twelve hours late.

  His passage across the lobby no longer attracted the interest of the porter who stared with sedate, unfocussed boredom into space.

  The lift climbed to the sixth floor and he found himself knocking gently on the door of Number 21.

&nb
sp; The door opened a crack and Alice peered out.

  ‘You!’ her eyes narrowed.

  ‘Yes,’ Bryan said. ‘Is she in?’

  Alice opened the door and stepped back. She gestured down the hallway.

  ‘She’s in the living room.’

  Bryan stepped into the flat and waited as Alice pulled on her coat and wrapped a scarf around her neck. She treated Bryan to another withering look and left, swinging the door shut behind her.

  Bryan pulled off his coat and walked through to the living room.

  Jenny sat staring out of the window with her back to him. Bryan looked at her hair pooling across her shoulders and the arch of her petite back as she sat erect on the hard, wooden chair. He felt a familiar stirring.

  ‘I’m sorry. I got delayed,’ he said into the gulf between them.

  ‘Delayed,’ she echoed, her voice was small and soft.

  ‘In Peckham,’ Bryan continued. ‘I gave my operator a lift home and got a puncture. I had to stay there until the all clear. I’m told that was at 4 o’clock.’

  ‘I know,’ Jenny sighed. ‘I was sitting here when it sounded.’

  Bryan laid his coat across the arm of the sofa. ‘They don’t have a telephone in their house, and it really wasn’t safe to go searching for a public box. I’m sorry.’

  Jenny’s shoulders sagged a degree and she rubbed her forehead with the fingers of one hand.

  ‘This is exactly what I wanted to avoid. I’ve spent the whole night imagining all the ghastly things that could’ve happened to you’ – she turned to face him, her eyes pushing fresh tears over her reddened eyelids – ‘and now I’m too exhausted to be happy that you’re safe.’

  Bryan started towards her, but she held up a palm and he stumbled to a halt.

  ‘I was content’ – she sniffed hard to control her crying – ‘living and working and carrying on as normal, and then you telephoned to say you were coming.’

  ‘I’m sorry-’

  ‘Don’t you see, Bryan?’ A frown creased her brow. ‘You forced me to expect you’ – she hugged her arms across her breast as if in response to a deep pain – ‘and you didn’t come.’ She wiped the wet streaks from her cheeks with the heel of her hand and turned her face back to the window.

  ‘Would you rather I left?’ Bryan’s voice came out harsher than he’d intended.

  ‘I don’t know what I’d rather.’ Her gaze remained pinned to the cityscape stretching out beyond the glass. ‘Sometimes I think it would be easier if you got killed. Once you’re dead, I can stop feeling. And if I stop feeling I can hope to survive, to grow old, alone if need be, but to grow old in peace.’

  She turned her head halfway towards him, her eyes unfocussed: ‘You have to promise me you’ll live… or get on and die. I need to be sure, or I need to be free.’

  Bryan crossed the room and laid his hands on her shoulders.

  ‘Are you asking me to give up flying?’

  ‘No, I’m asking you to give up fighting. Stop putting yourself in harm’s way. Transfer to a training unit, be a flying instructor’ – she twisted her head to look up at him – ‘anything that gets you through the war alive.’

  ‘I couldn’t train young men to do a job I’ve walked away from.’ He gestured towards the window. ‘I can’t sit back and let the Nazis bomb people simply because it’s dangerous to get in their way.’

  ‘You’ve done enough, Bryan.’ Her voice carried an undercurrent of tremolo as she struggled to master her tears. ‘No-one will know or care why you’ve stepped back from it.’

  ‘That’s not strictly true, Sweetheart.’ Bryan bent to kiss her neck. ‘I’ll always know.’

  Chapter 12

  Wednesday, 20 November 1940

  Bryan sniffed the air as he strolled along the perimeter track. It was only mid-morning, but the importance of this day had levered him from his bed early. A full month away from combat flying had chiselled at his previously calloused outlook and something akin to stage fright bubbled around in his vitals. He paused to light a cigarette and pulled his greatcoat closer about his neck to ward off the chilled northerly breeze.

  Another figure moved through the morning. Bryan recognised the adjutant, ploughing a determined course through the damp grass from the stores back to his office. The other man noticed the smoker on the perimeter and deviated his track.

  ‘Morning,’ Campbell called as he approached. ‘Did you hear the good news?’

  ‘Not that I’m aware,’ Bryan called back and waited for the adjutant to close the gap.

  He arrived, slightly breathless and beamed Bryan a wide smile. ‘Moss bagged a raider last night.’ Campbell’s gloved hand bunched into a fist that he shook in his excitement. ‘A Junkers 88,’ Campbell continued. ‘The cheeky bugger came in with his navigation lights on. Moss tracked him in and put a burst into his belly. Crashed in flames somewhere near Chichester. That’ll teach him.’

  Both men set off walking in the direction of the office block.

  ‘Moss picked him up on a visual?’ Bryan frowned. ‘What about the AI set?’

  Campbell gave Bryan a sidelong glance: ‘Well, obviously the AI helped him stay with his target and close in to killing range.’

  ‘So, what’s our score so far?’ Bryan asked.

  ‘That’s our first.’

  ‘And the other night-fighter squadrons?’

  ‘They’ve had no joy so far; young Moss has broken our duck.’

  ‘How big was the raid?’

  ‘Between Birmingham and Leicester, they estimate several hundred.’

  Bryan grunted: ‘And we got one.’

  The two men walked in silence for several yards.

  ‘It seems the Germans might be catching on to the same game,’ the older man offered, almost apologetically. ‘On Saturday night, one of our Wellington bombers reported coming under attack from a fighter over Germany. They made no more transmissions. They’re posted as missing.’ The adjutant brightened: ‘Still, it’s your first crack at them tonight, isn’t it?’

  Bryan nodded and lit a fresh cigarette.

  ‘I’ve heard good things about your crew, Hale.’ The man’s fist waggled again. ‘I’m sure this is the beginning of great things.’

  ***

  Bryan’s eyes reflected the faint glow of the dimmed instrument lights as he ran through the pre-flight checks one final time.

  He flicked on the intercom: ‘Comms check, operator?’

  ‘Loud and clear, Flight’ – Tommy’s voice crackled back – ‘strapped in and ready to go.’

  Bryan switched to transmit: ‘Blackbird C-Charlie, awaiting clearance. Listening out.’

  Static hummed against a backdrop of silence for long moments, then the controller’s smooth voice filled his earphones.

  ‘Good evening, Blackbird C-Charlie. You are clear to take-off. Patrol Channel, angels fifteen.’

  Bryan scanned the darkening sky above and ahead of the Beaufighter’s stubby nose in a last check for descending aircraft, then pushed the throttles forward. Power surged through the airframe, dragging the fighter across the field and up into the void. Bryan waited for the jolt of the retracting undercarriage settling into their bays, then he banked onto a south-easterly course and eased into a shallow climb. He flicked off the navigation lights and pressed the intercom: ‘Pilot to operator, switch guns to fire.’

  Thirty seconds later, a reply: ‘Safety catches off, Flight.’

  The warm drone of the two engines bracketed Bryan’s senses as they crossed the coast and swung onto their patrol line. Blackbird C-Charlie was on the prowl for the first time.

  Tommy switched on the AI apparatus to warm up the cathode ray tubes and his harness buckles glowed with the reflection of their sickly green light.

  ‘Night-warden Control to Blackbird C-Charlie.’ The controller’s voice was calm, but the words racked up Tommy’s tension: ‘We have a bandit approaching your patrol line. Turn onto heading two-six-zero, maintain angels, prepare to flash.’


  ‘Two-six-zero’ – Bryan’s confirmation rung flat and emotionless – ‘turning now.’

  The Beaufighter’s fuselage tipped, yawed and levelled out, groping into the darkness ahead where its quarry lay cloaked in black.

  ‘Night-warden Control to Blackbird C-Charlie. Flash, repeat, flash. Handing over.’

  Tommy swallowed a knot of nerves and flicked on the transceiver. He ducked his head to the visor and peered at the screens. A tangled web of lines leapt across their surface.

  ‘Flashing now, Flight.’ Tommy held his voice as steady as he could. ‘No joy yet.’

  The aircraft sped into the unknown towards the unseen. Despite the chill in the fuselage, beads of sweat pricked into Tommy’s eyebrows as he strained to untangle the ground returns. Then the scratchy lines bundled themselves together and a blip coalesced from the chaos, moving at speed down the trace.

  ‘I have contact, Flight.’ Tommy’s voice rose with his triumph. ‘We’re approaching very fast. Throttle back.’

  Tommy felt the aircraft’s vibration change its timbre as Bryan eased back smoothly. Still the blip closed at pace.

  ‘Too fast!’ Tension compressed Tommy’s words. ‘Throttle right back. We’re on top of him!’

  The Beaufighter dipped with a sudden, sickening lurch. The negative gravity threw Tommy up against his straps and rapped the bridge of his nose against the visor’s leather edge. The Perspex dome over Tommy’s head banged with the percussive impact of somebody else’s slipstream and a huge object flashed horribly close overhead, travelling fast in the opposite direction.

  ‘Fuck!’ Bryan hauled the Beaufighter onto one wing in a tight turn to follow the raider out into the Channel. ‘Bloody great Heinkel,’ he gasped. ‘We nearly ended up in the cockpit with the bloody pilot.’

  Tommy held onto the superstructure with one gloved hand as the fuselage tipped into the turn, and rubbed the stinging skin on his nose with other.

  ‘Sorry, Flight,’ he said. ‘My fault.’

  Bryan levelled out and the engines’ whine mounted a notch as he pushed the throttles flat out.