The Bluebirds Trilogy Box Set

by Melvyn Fickling

  Outside, a terrible whoosh, like the breath of an enraged dragon, ended in a deafening explosion followed by another and then another, as a second stick of bombs marched their circus of annihilation down the street.

  Both women slid from their chairs, instinctively hunting for cover, pressing their soft flesh close to the hard, cold tiles on the floor. As they dropped, shrapnel buzzed across the space above their heads, searing calescent paths through the dust-laden darkness.

  Then it was over. The shock of the new silence suppressed all movement; everything lay transfixed under its hushed weight.

  Jenny felt her hair growing heavy and stiff with congealing blood. Next to her head, a ragged rasp of breathing reassured her that Alice was alive. Fighting against muscles cramped with shock, she lifted her face off the cold tiles. A thin trail of blood trickled from her nose onto her lips.

  ‘Alice?’ she whispered.

  Alice began sobbing soundlessly into the floor.

  The clanging of ambulance bells broke the spell and a resurgent wave of voices swelled through the room. Someone, badly injured, returned to consciousness and wailed against their agony. Another called out for a friend, repeating the name in frantic cadence.

  More bells jangled into stillness outside and torch beams probed through the gloom. Men with satchels and white helmets followed the wands of light, kneeling beside prone bodies, bending heads to examine their faces.

  ‘Alice’ – Jenny persisted – ‘can you get up? We need to get out of here.’

  Alice coughed and spat, the dust grimed spittle dribbling down her chin. She nodded.

  Jenny bunched herself onto her knees and forced her legs to lift her upright. She bent to help Alice to her feet and they fell into each other’s embrace.

  ‘I’m sorry, Jenny. We never should have come.’

  Jenny hugged her friend, mute with the relief of survival.

  A beam of light played over their faces and a medic loomed behind the torch. ‘Are you ladies hurt?’

  Jenny squinted into the painful brightness: ‘Cuts and scratches, I think.’

  The light dazzled her for a second longer as the man evaluated the pair. ‘If you’re alright to walk, make your way outside, someone will look you over out there.’

  The torch moved on. Jenny saw it linger over the airman’s prone body. A large slick of blood pooled under the man’s head. Too large. The girl knelt next to his body, stifling her sobs with one hand, resting the other on his chest and gazing into his glazing eyes.

  ‘Let’s go.’ Jenny turned away from the scene and grabbed Alice’s hand. ‘Follow me.’

  The two women stepped gingerly into the darkness, skirting the pools of torchlight illuminating medics at work on motionless bodies, slipping and skidding on shards of glass and pools of beer. A warden spotted their progress and came to help, lighting their way to the exit, now standing door-less.

  The fresh air washed over them and Jenny blinked against the dry mask of dust coating her face. Another warden met them on the pavement.

  ‘If you don’t need an ambulance, you ought to go to a shelter. Nearest one is that way.’ He pointed along the road. ‘Hurry, ladies. They haven’t finished with us yet tonight.’

  Jenny looked into Alice’s dazed face: ‘Come on, Alice. Stay close.’

  The two women picked their way through the wreckage on the pavement, dodging stretcher-bearers labouring with their loads. Jenny glanced back into the ragged pub frontage. Through the tattered blackouts, silhouettes shuffled in the gloom, some crying, some staring in blank confusion and others moving with the careful stiffness of the calamitously wounded.

  Emerging through the semi-circle of attending ambulances, she took in the wider view. Twenty yards from the pub, in the middle of the road, a crater breathed a black line of cloying, tar-scented smoke that corkscrewed into the night. Thirty yards further down the road another bomb had gouged a similar hole, gripping a passing double-decker bus and rearing it onto its end in the blast. With the driver’s cab pointing skywards, the vehicle sagged, bent and broken, against the buildings. Panels on its side had peeled away like the jagged petals of a death-rose, and from the centre of this awful bloom lolled a naked corpse, unclad by explosive force, incongruously soft and pallid in the chaos.

  Jenny held on tight to Alice and dragged her along, hugging the wall as they moved away from the destruction. The low growl of engines reverberated menace between the buildings and the heavy crashing rhythm of another bombload stitched its way through the city a few hundred yards away. Jenny gasped back a surge of panic and squeezed tighter onto Alice’s hand, quickening their pace to escape a danger that couldn’t be outrun.

  The blue uniform of a caped policeman resolved from the blankness of the night. ‘Straight down here, Miss. There’s still some room in this one.’

  He gestured them through a doorway and down a flight of concrete steps. At the bottom, the steps dog-legged into the cellar of an office block, lit by the flickering of a dozen candles. In between the racks full of boxes, huddled a hundred or more people, each head swivelling to regard the new arrivals. Jenny looked from face to face and tears welled into her eyes, tracing lines through the grime on her cheeks.

  A middle-aged lady holding a candle emerged from between the racking and took Jenny’s hand. ‘Come this way, love.’

  She guided Jenny across the room and Jenny dragged Alice behind her. They moved towards a bench set against the back wall. A man, stretched out to sleep on the bench, stood up as they approached, smiled reassurance at Jenny, caught up his blankets in a bundle and moved elsewhere in the shelter.

  ‘Sit down, girls,’ the lady purred. ‘I’ll be back in a minute.’

  The light from the woman’s candle receded as she moved away. The shadows closed around Jenny, and with them a creeping wave of fear crawled over her. Her skin shivered in spasms and her legs cramped with the need to run.

  ‘Here we are.’ The woman’s voice startled Jenny back to lucidity. ‘Take this for me.’ The woman thrust the candle holder into Jenny’s hand and placed a basin of water on the bench next to her. ‘This is Doctor Allen’ – she gestured at the old man by her side – ‘he’s going to check the cut on your friend’s face.’

  The doctor leaned forward and gently prised Jenny’s fingers away from Alice’s hand. He spoke to Alice in low tones and she replied, cracked emotion underpinning her monosyllabic answers.

  ‘I’m going to clean you up’ – the woman said, lifting Jenny’s chin with her finger – ‘you look a bit of a fright.’

  The woman soaked a handkerchief in the water and dabbed at the blood on Jenny’s top lip. Jenny concentrated on the woman’s gentle movements and the sanctuary implicit in her soft brown voice. The tension in her muscles ebbed and she anchored her gaze into the woman’s eyes.

  ‘Whatever happened to the pair of you?’

  ‘We went for a drink after work.’ Jenny voice wavered, unnaturally high. ‘We should be able to do that, shouldn’t we?’

  The turgid rumble of a nearby bomb strike vibrated the walls and a pulse of air stirred the dust at the bottom of the stairwell.

  ‘The bomb hit outside the pub.’ Hot tears pushed their way out of Jenny’s eyes. ‘It was full of people. There was a bus…’ She stammered at the memory. ‘The warning was late.’

  ‘Shush’ – the woman’s hands worked to wipe away the tears and filth from Jenny’s cheeks – ‘you’re safe now.’

  Thursday, 9 January 1941

  Jenny woke with a start and winced at the stab of pain that clamped her neck muscles. She sat on numb buttocks at the end of the bench, leaning awkwardly against its hard, wooden back. Alice lay outstretched with her head resting in Jenny’s lap, soft snoring vibrated her lips.

  ‘Good morning, my dear.’ It was the woman who’d helped them. ‘The all-clear went a couple of hours ago, but I didn’t have the heart to wake you.’

  Jenny rubbed her eyes and blinked against the grit she dislodged f
rom her eyebrows.

  ‘What time is it?’ She fumbled for her watch. ‘We have to be at work.’

  ‘I think they’ll understand if you don’t make it today.’ The woman’s cheeks crinkled above a weary smile. ‘Where is it you live?’

  ‘Balham.’ Jenny’s voice wobbled, like that of a child pretending to be brave.

  The woman chewed her lower lip: ‘I hear they hit Bank station quite badly, so I bet the tube line is closed.’

  ‘I’m sure we can find a bus stop.’ Jenny shook Alice’s shoulder, but her friend snored on.

  ‘Wait a minute.’ The woman reached out to restrain her hand. ‘That poor girl’s in no state to catch a bus. Let me see if I can find you a taxi.’

  ***

  The hot water sloshed into the bathtub, sending whorls of steam to condense against the cold, white ceiling. Jenny sat on the toilet lid, surveying her ruined clothes in disconsolation. The blood on the back of her head had solidly congealed, matting her long hair into a misshapen lump. She dared not touch it until it was her turn to bathe.

  Alice peeled off her clothes and pulled the dressing from her cheek. A grimace of pain creased her face and brought glistening tears to her eyes. She turned off the taps and stepped into the water, sinking down and submerging her head for a long moment. She emerged slowly, like a hydra, her face still gaunt but her expression now steely, the cut in her cheek like a livid stripe of determination.

  ‘I can’t do this anymore, Jenny,’ she murmured. ‘I love this city, but I’m not prepared to get blown to pieces to fulfil Churchill’s noble bloody prophesies. I’m going back to live with my parents. At least when the Germans arrive in the countryside, they’ll arrive on foot and we’ll have a chance to surrender.’

  ‘When?’

  ‘Today. I’m getting out of this rat trap today.’

  ‘What about your job?’

  ‘I’ll send them a resignation letter.’

  ‘What about me?’

  ‘I don’t know, Jenny. I really don’t know.’

  ***

  Jenny sat and watched the soap bubbles dry into a grimy tidemark around the edge of the bath while the sounds of packing drifted down the hallway from Alice’s room. Tears prickled the backs of her eyes, but did not fall. Her face, still dry with dust, set itself into a grim mask. Her gaze, gradually unfocusing, sought to penetrate the dull shine of white enamel until the edges of her vision darkened with the effort.

  ‘I’ll come back on Sunday with my dad to pick up the rest of my things.’

  Jenny let her eyelids close and felt her straining pupils relax into the crimson darkness.

  ‘Jenny?’

  Jenny opened her eyes.

  ‘Yes, I heard’ – she didn’t look at her friend standing in the doorway – ‘keep your key until it’s all sorted.’

  ‘You should clean yourself up, Jen. You know what I always say: If you look like shit…’

  Jenny smiled in spite of herself and finished the sentence: ‘…you’ll feel like shit.’

  ‘I have to dash. The train connections are terrible and I want to be out of town before the warnings sound.’

  Jenny finally looked into her friend’s face and the teardrops fledged: ‘I’ll miss you.’

  ‘Don’t be silly. I’ll see you on Sunday.’

  Alice blew a kiss and ducked into the hallway to grab her coat and valise. The flat door clicked shut behind her.

  Jenny stood, wiped the grime from the bathtub with a flannel and set the taps running. She undressed, examining each piece of clothing for damage. All could be salvaged, except her blouse and jacket, both heavily stained with blood. She stood naked, shivering while the bath filled, studiously avoiding her own reflection in the bathroom mirror.

  Sinking into the bath, she gasped as the hot water tingled its way up her legs and torso. She shut off the taps with her toes and slid her buttocks down the slippery enamel until her hair submerged. The heat stung her wounded scalp, but she clenched her teeth against the pain and allowed the water to soften the dried blood.

  Staring at the ceiling, she pictured the airman’s girlfriend.

  ***

  Jenny awoke with a jolt and stared in confusion at the jangling telephone. She blinked the sleep from her eyes and squinted around the unlit room. It was dark outside. ‘What time is it?’

  She dragged herself off the sofa and picked up the handset, carefully exploring the back of her head with the other hand.

  ‘Hello? Miss Freeman? It’s the hall porter. I have a gentleman here to see you.’

  ‘Oh, alright. Send him up.’

  Jenny straightened her dressing gown and retied the sash. She pulled the blackouts closed and flicked the light switches on.

  A knock sounded at the flat door and she hurried down the hallway to answer it.

  ‘Hello, Br-’

  Jenny blinked in surprise: ‘Mr Bartlett.’

  ‘I’m so sorry, Jenny, but we were worried about you. Someone said they’d seen you and your friend heading towards Liverpool Street. And then the big raid happened, and you didn’t turn up for work…’ He smiled in apology. ‘The personnel department let me have your address and I thought I’d drop by to make sure you were alright.’

  ‘No, don’t apologise, please. That’s very kind of you. Would you like a cup of tea?’

  Chapter 20

  Saturday, 11 January 1941

  ‘Night-warden to all Blackbird aircraft, our tables are clear. Time to come home. Thank you, gentlemen.’

  The Beaufighter’s engines throttled back like a sigh of relief. Bryan dropped the port wing to scribe a wide circle over the channel waters and pull the nose into a northerly course.

  Tommy glanced at the unfired cannons and turned to survey the sky. The darkness was complete in its confounding opacity. Thick, high clouds insulated the globe from the penetration of moonlight, and Blackbird C-Charlie had groped blindly for two hours like an aerial miner in the sense-sapping tunnel between the caliginous channel waters and the implacable dome of the night. As the English coastline slipped by beneath them, he called a bearing for home and wound down the brightness on the instrument.

  Bryan pulled the nose into an upwards incline to buy enough altitude to approach the aerodrome well above any other aircraft in its landing circuit. Ahead, in the middle distance, the flare path’s dull glow flicked into life, drawing scratchy lines of parallel light across the murk.

  ‘Blackbird C-Charlie to Tower’ – Bryan’s voice had the weariness induced from a long uneventful night-flight – ‘what is my approach, please?’

  Tommy caught a flash in the corner of his eye, extremely low on the starboard quarter. ‘Tracers!’ The word blurted out as a feral cry laced with fear.

  Tomato-coloured lights whipped a viciously short distance across the darkness before crashing to an explosive halt. Where they hit, their dull ruddy hue was suddenly swamped with a swathe of burning petrol that scored a coruscating arc to its catastrophic end in a plume of angry orange flame splashing across the ground.

  ‘Shit!’ Bryan’s voice stretched taut with shock. ‘Who’s shooting at who?’

  Instinctively he pushed the throttles forward, cursing under his breath as the exhausts belched a fleeting flash of flame.

  ‘I’m going higher. Hold on, Scott.’

  Bryan pulled into a climbing bank, keeping the airfield on the inside of his turn. Tommy scanned the space beneath the dipped wing.

  ‘Somebody’s on their approach with landing lights on,’ he said. ‘Surely the tower should call him off.’

  The distant wingtip lights continued their descent like a pair of fireflies in close formation. Tommy held his breath in denial of the inevitable.

  A second deadly cavalcade of tracer erupted, sweeping explosive splashes into the space bracketed between the landing lights. The lights dropped with a sickening lurch, birthing a second angry flower of burning fuel that bloomed into an unfurling spiral across the field.

  ‘D
amn it,’ Bryan spat, ‘that has to be a German fighter. Can you pick him up, Scott?’

  Scott glanced at the garbled mess on the screens. ‘Not possible, Flight. He’s too low. If he’s got any sense, he’ll probably stay low.’

  The Beaufighter lurched into a turn. Scott’s compass ticked round and steadied as the aircraft levelled out. Bryan was heading south, weaving slightly as he searched the void below him. Scott waited, gritting his teeth against the tickle of fear that ran from the small of his back to the nape of his neck.

  ‘Flight?’ Tommy could no longer bite his tongue. ‘There’s nothing to say he’s on his way home. He could be anywhere, and he’s almost certainly got some ammunition left.’

  ‘Shit!’

  Tommy’s stomach fluttered as Bryan instinctively pulled the Beaufighter into a shallow climb.

  ‘Alright, Scott’ – an undercurrent of fear chipped at Bryan’s voice – ‘keep an eye on the screens.’

  Bryan banked into a shallow, climbing spiral that drifted back in a northerly direction, gaining height to extend the range of Tommy’s detection.

  ‘Blackbird C-Charlie to Night-warden Control. I am in a high orbit awaiting instruction.’

  The open radio channel crackled in embarrassed silence for long moments.

  ‘Hello C-Charlie. We have debris on the runway here, unsafe for landing. Please divert to Boscombe Down.’

  Bryan levelled out onto a westerly course.

  ‘Unsafe for bloody landing…’ he muttered to himself.

  Sunday, 12 January 1941

  With muscles still aching from a night of restless sleep on a makeshift cot, Bryan hedge-hopped the dozen miles cross-country back to Middle Wallop as soon as daylight allowed. Scanning the sky above the aerodrome for errant air traffic, he buzzed the field to check the state of the landing strip.