The Bluebirds Trilogy Box Set

by Melvyn Fickling

  Ben pointed across to the dusty terrain that rose away from the barbed wire entanglements on the other side of the runway. ‘Where’s that?’ he asked.

  Bryan sniffed. ‘Spain.’

  ‘Are they at war with us?’

  ‘Not officially. But I suspect they wouldn’t be happy if we win.’

  Ben scratched his head. ‘Surely they could simply walk across and take over if they wanted to.’

  ‘They could,’ Bryan mused, ‘but then we’d take their Moroccan possessions, and they don’t want that to happen.’ He smiled at Ben. ‘Diplomacy,’ he announced, ‘is the delicate balance of back-scratching and arse-kicking. Come on, let’s go for a drink.’

  They turned their backs on the border, the barbed wire, the gun emplacements and the Spanish, and walked through the North District towards the town of Gibraltar. Military vehicles plied the narrow thoroughfare to and from the docks, so they diverted up a side road in search of their refreshment.

  A small group of laughing sailors bundled out of a door and weaved their back-slapping way up the road. Bryan and Ben watched them go, then stepped into the dim interior the party had just vacated. Tables filled the room and a bar lined one wall. People at the tables had plates of food before them that swathed their faces with sweet steam as they chewed and chatted with contentment.

  Ben nudged Bryan and nodded at the diners. ‘They’ve got food,’ he whispered. ‘It looks like real food, too.’

  Bryan nodded, the saliva prickling at the base of his gums. ‘Follow me,’ he said and walked to the bar.

  The barman paused in his glass polishing. ‘Yes, sir?’

  Bryan raised his eyebrows. ‘Beer?’ he asked.

  The barman mirrored his questioning expression. ‘Pints?’ he countered.

  ‘Yes.’ Bryan nodded, pursing his lips in appreciation. ‘Pints.’

  The barman vanished into the tap room and returned with two large, straight glasses filled with amber liquid. Bryan picked one up and took an exploratory swig.

  ‘Good grief,’ he muttered. ‘English beer.’

  ****

  An hour later, the two pilots sat picking over the sea bass skeletons on their plates, searching for any remaining shreds of the smoky flesh and mopping up the buttery juices with crisp white bread.

  ‘I’d forgotten,’ Ben murmured as he laid his knife and fork on the table and leaned back in his chair. ‘I had truly forgotten.’

  ‘We won’t be here long; we need to make hay while the sun shines.’ Bryan swilled the last of his ale and caught the eye of a waitress. The girl came over and began clearing the table.

  ‘Where’s the best hotel in town?’ he asked her. ‘One where they serve cocktails.’

  ‘That will be ‘The Rock’, sir,’ she said. ‘It’s not far, but it is mostly uphill.’

  ****

  They paused for a moment in the sun’s strengthening warmth. Above them, the long, whitewashed frontage of The Rock Hotel nestled against its backdrop of weathered limestone. The pale expanse of stone was shot through with scrubby bushes that softened its rough visage.

  ‘Now I’m thirsty,’ Bryan muttered as they stepped off the road and resumed their slog up the hotel’s parallel and precipitous driveway. Breathing heavily, they pushed through the hotel doors into the lobby, revelling in the wash of cooler air across their foreheads.

  Hand-painted wooden signs pointed their way through the building to the bar. The barman took their order for Manhattans and mixed them in a gleaming chrome cocktail shaker. Bryan paid, they stepped out onto a covered balcony and found an empty table in the shade. A copper-coloured cat roused itself from a doze in the corner, stretched first its front and then its rear limbs, and padded across to sit by Bryan’s foot, turning its green eyes to watch his face in hopeful speculation.

  Set out below the high-perched balcony, hugging the waters nearest the isthmus, dozens of naval vessels, transport and combat ships, lay on their moorings. A wide expanse of empty water separated the furthermost boat from the Spanish coast nearly five miles away.

  ‘That’s why the Krauts know about every bloody thing we send to Malta.’ Bryan nodded at the hazy strip of land on the horizon. ‘The bloody Spaniards with their German binoculars-’

  ‘Hello, Bryan.’

  The female voice derailed his monologue and he felt a cable of tension tighten across his shoulders.

  ‘I thought it looked like you,’ the voice concluded.

  Bryan glanced at Ben’s startled visage and turned to find a petite blonde figure standing behind him.

  ‘Hello, Katie,’ he breathed. ‘Well, this is certainly a surprise.’

  The cat wrapped itself around the newcomer’s calf, rubbing its chin backwards and forwards while its throat rattled with a rough, bronchial purr.

  Ben stood up and stepped away from his seat. ‘Would you like to sit down?’ He held the chair for Katie, then picked up his drink. He winked at Bryan and wandered off inside to explore the bar.

  ‘May I get you a drink?’ Bryan asked.

  ‘No, thank you.’ She reached out and picked the cocktail stick from Bryan’s glass, sliding it between her teeth to liberate its cherry. ‘Glad to see you got off Malta alive. Where are you heading?’

  Bryan lit two cigarettes and handed one to Katie. ‘We’re going back in a few days. There’s still a lot of work that needs doing.’

  A mischievous smile creased her face. ‘How’s the love life?’

  Bryan’s eyes narrowed. ‘Less frantic, it has to be said.’

  ‘What about your mystery woman?’ Katie picked up his drink and took a sip. ‘Is she still holding out?’

  ‘That’s different,’ he said, noticing with self-conscious surprise the hardening of his tone, ‘it’s not like we met at a dance.’ A pang of regret at the implicit slur crossed his face and he softened his voice. ‘It’s far more complicated than that.’

  Katie took another sip of his drink, pursed her lips and appraised his face. ‘I think of you sometimes,’ she confessed. ‘We were damn good at being lovers.’ She smiled at a private flash of recollection. ‘More so because I didn’t need you to actually love me – and you were never in any danger of doing so.’ She caught the look that flashed in his eyes. ‘Oh, there’s a lot about me you liked, but there was something missing, something I simply didn’t have.’ She took another sip of the ruddy-hued cocktail. ‘You’re a charming man, Bryan. I’m tempted to say that you’re a beautiful man. But I’ve only seen you from the position of a plaything. I imagine you’re a very different proposition when you’re trawling for real love.’

  ‘Have you heard from you husband?’ Another pang. He looked away from her and stubbed his cigarette into the ashtray.

  ‘Yes.’ Her voice was level, unperturbed by the goad. ‘He’s been wounded and shipped home.’

  ‘Well, you can be proud that he’s done his bit.’

  ‘Not really.’ She crushed her cigarette onto the smouldering remains of his. ‘It was an accident during transit. Someone dropped their rifle and it went off. Blew his kneecap across the room.’ She sighed. ‘At least I know he’ll be there when I get home.’

  Bryan looked back into her face and her eyes sparkled with affection.

  ‘Listen to some advice,’ she said. ‘It’s not possible to change the way somebody else feels; you simply cannot move the mountain to Mohammed. If this woman doesn’t love you now, she probably never will. That’s a shame… for both of you.’

  ‘Katie!’ A British naval officer stood at the doorway leading to the bar.

  Katie held up her hand to acknowledge him and Bryan noticed her ring was missing. She pushed his drink back across the table.

  ‘I think I could’ve fallen in love with you. At another time… in another place,’ she whispered. ‘But I’m fairly certain I would never have moved your mountain.’ She stood and smiled down at him. ‘Good luck, Bryan. I hope you make it through.’

  Saturday, 2 May 1942

  At
the top of the rock the breeze scudded in from the Mediterranean and looped over the hard ridge of limestone to run down the slope into the town. Ben stood with his eyes closed, facing out to sea, the cooling current caressing his forehead.

  ‘Maybe we should slow down on the drinking,’ he said. ‘We’ll be asked to fly a plane sooner or later.’

  Bryan stood off the path with his back to the wind. His urine splashed onto the stone sending a whirl of acrid steam rolling up over the rough surface. He gripped a cigarette between his teeth and his gaze was locked on a macaque that perched on a ledge, scratching its sandy-grey fur and watching him with intense curiosity.

  ‘No need to worry just yet.’ He buttoned up his fly and joined Ben on the path. ‘Look.’

  He pointed downwind to the bay far below them. Floating breakwaters with invisible skirts of chain-linked metal netting corralled the mass of vessels moored along the floating pontoons that pushed outwards from the shore. ‘They haven’t made space for an aircraft carrier yet. We’re safe for a day or two.’

  The two pilots started down the steep path, stepping gingerly over its treacherous, jagged surface.

  ‘Are you going to see Katie again?’ Ben asked over his shoulder.

  ‘She didn’t ask,’ Bryan said. ‘Anyway, it looks like she’s found another dancing partner.’

  ‘Shame,’ Ben intoned. ‘She’s sweet.’

  They lurched on down the slope.

  ‘You never speak about a girlfriend,’ Bryan said.

  ‘That’s because I haven’t had one.’

  ‘What, not ever?’

  ‘There was a girl at school. We held hands a few times, nothing more than that.’

  ‘Ha!’ Bryan’s shout of triumph echoed off the rock face. ‘I think we’ve just decided on the target for tonight.’

  ****

  They descended to street level, arriving sober and thirsty. Bryan led the way, peering down side streets and alleys strewn with litter. From one alley, a laughing woman emerged flanked by two matelots. Bryan stopped at the alley’s entrance and scanned the buildings; one had a rough sign suspended over a door that swung open as another couple emerged.

  ‘Down here,’ he urged, ‘there’s a bar down here.’

  They walked to the door through the gathering dusk and pushed through into the bar beyond. Scattered tables filled two connecting rooms with a bar set against the back wall of the furthest. Tobacco smoke roiled in thick coils around the exposed beams, condensing onto the beaded amber stain of nicotine that streaked the painted ceiling between.

  Bryan and Ben body-swerved between the tables, zig-zagging towards the bar where they ordered two beers, lit cigarettes and surveyed the room. Most tables were filled, their occupants’ chatter churning in competition with the general clamour in the room. In the far corner, two girls sat alone. One was engrossed in cleaning under her nails with a cocktail stick, the other was looking directly at Bryan.

  ‘Come on,’ Bryan said, ‘let’s socialise.’

  As they crossed the room, the woman held the eye-contact, pushing her red ringlets behind her ear. Her companion continued her manicure and didn’t look up until they arrived at the table.

  ‘Good evening, ladies. My name’s Bryan, this is Ben. May we join you?’

  The redhead flashed a broad smile. ‘Of course. Monique’ – she touched her breastbone with her fingertips – ‘and Charlotte.’

  Bryan reached for the bottle on the table, twisting it so the label faced him. He raised his eyebrows to Monique, she smiled and shrugged. Bryan flagged down a passing waitress and ordered another bottle of the same.

  ****

  Two hours later the group emerged from the bar into the darkened alley, Ben leaning on Charlotte’s shoulder, the girl holding another bottle of wine.

  ‘It’s not far from here,’ Monique said, ‘just a couple of streets across.’

  The pavements were busier now the evening was older and the sounds of music and shouted altercations drifted through the air. Bryan walked side-by-side with Monique behind the other couple.

  ‘Are you here for long?’ Monique asked.

  ‘No,’ Bryan said.

  ‘No-one ever is.’ She sighed.

  ‘Isn’t that good for business?’

  ‘Yes, but it would be nice to make some friends.’

  They reached a terrace of whitewashed houses and Monique unlocked a front door that opened directly into a small room. The space held a wooden table with four chairs, a leather sofa, creased and stained with age and a chipped oak dresser. In the far corner, behind the sofa, was a gas hob and a steel sink. In the opposite corner, an opening led to a short corridor lined with three doors.

  Bryan and Ben sat down at the table, Monique retrieved four wine glasses and a corkscrew from a cupboard under the sink and Charlotte vanished down the corridor. Bryan took the corkscrew and squeaked it into the cork.

  ‘Cosy little place you have,’ he said, pulling the cork and pouring wine into the glasses.

  Monique sat down opposite him. ‘It’s not the best part of town,’ she said, ‘but it’s… convenient.’

  The sound of a toilet flush drifted from the corridor and moments later Charlotte sauntered, shoeless into the room. She picked up a glass of wine and started back towards the corridor, plucking at Ben’s jacket sleeve as she passed.

  Bryan pretended not to notice his friend’s wide-eyed surprise, instead he studied the wine in his glass as Ben stood up with exaggerated carefulness and slipped from the room.

  Bryan looked up into a face that might’ve been quite beautiful only a few short years ago. ‘Monique isn’t your real name, is it?’ He lit two cigarettes and passed one to her.

  She took a delicate draw on the smoke. ‘Why would I use my real name?’

  A metallic thump and a creak of springs sounded from down the corridor.

  ‘Would you mind me asking what it is?’

  She smiled and her eyelids fluttered down for a moment. ‘Giselle,’ she said. ‘My real name is Giselle.’

  Bryan leaned forward on the table. ‘That’s far prettier,’ he said.

  She mirrored his movement, bringing their faces close together. ‘My mother hoped I might one day be a dancer.’

  The creak of the springs returned, slight and slowly rhythmic.

  ‘Perhaps, one day, you will be.’

  She smiled again, studying his face. Her hand moved over his and she rubbed the soft pad of her thumb into the junction between his ring and middle finger. ‘So,’ she murmured, ‘what would you like?’

  ‘Coffee.’

  She frowned and drew her face back. ‘Coffee?’

  ‘Yes. Do you have any?’

  She stood, pulled a percolator and a battered tin from the dresser and crossed to the hob. The squeaking springs increased in tempo.

  ‘It’s not often a man involved in this war displays such restraint in my company,’ she said. The burner coughed into flame at the touch of her lighted match.

  ‘The war’s an all-round beastly business,’ he said. ‘Sometimes it’s just nice to make friends.’

  The smell of coffee spread through the room and the creaks grew marginally in volume.

  ‘How many men have you killed?’ The question’s simplicity belied its layers of sorrowful resignation.

  Bryan swivelled in his chair to watch her setting two cups and saucers on a tray. ‘I’ve actually never worked it out… two dozen maybe.’ He scratched his cheek absently. ‘I’ve only ever seen one body close up.’

  She returned to the table with the tray and sat down. ‘How did that make you feel?’

  He swivelled back and hunched on his elbows. ‘Well, there was a dog eating his face at the time, so I think that might’ve spoiled the moment.’

  The squeaking redoubled in volume and tempo, ran away with itself then shuddered into silence.

  ‘How much?’ Bryan nodded towards the corridor.

  Giselle poured the coffee and handed him a cup. ‘I’m
afraid I’ll have to charge for me as well, even though you haven’t used it.’

  Bryan nodded, pulling out his wallet. ‘Don’t let on that we’ve had to pay,’ he said. ‘He thinks we’re having fun. It would spoil it for him if he knew we’re in a knocking shop.’

  ****

  The two pilots walked back towards the RAF barracks through streets dotted with groups of servicemen moving from bar to bar under the jaded surveillance of patrolling MPs. Ben wobbled slightly and Bryan handicapped his pace to compensate.

  ‘Beautiful night,’ Ben announced as they walked. ‘Stars.’

  ‘That’s the one good thing about a blackout,’ Bryan said.

  ‘Yes, but… romance,’ Ben continued earnestly, ‘romance is a very beautiful thing as well.’

  Bryan gave his companion a sideways glance. ‘I’m sure it is.’

  They walked in silence for a few moments, Ben’s face creased into a grin.

  ‘Is this what it feels like to be in love?’ Ben clutched his right hand to his heart like a bad thespian.

  ‘Almost certainly not.’

  Ben regarded his companion, eyes narrowed with scepticism. ‘How does it feel, then?’

  ‘It hurts, Ben,’ Bryan said. ‘It bloody well hurts.’

  Chapter 20

  Thursday, 7 May 1942

  Bryan stood next to his kit-bag, Ben and the other lead pilots gathered around him. The pontoon beneath them undulated in resonance to the restrained swell diffracting past the breakwaters. Beyond those barriers, backlit by the westering sun, the ponderous bulk of a monstrous ship slid into the bay with the sluggish momentum of a grounding iceberg. Offset at the vessel’s centre, a tall superstructure bristled with aerials. From a short, angled mast the Stars and Stripes swayed in the breeze. Below the flag, figures moved to and fro along elevated walkways. The carrier’s long flight deck held ranks of sand-coloured Spitfires, gathered like roosting gulls on its the rear half.