Tanner Trilogy 03 - Backstreet Child

by Harry Bowling

  The days at Lincoln were heady ones. Each night squadrons of Lancasters left the base for targets in Germany, and as they returned American squadrons of Flying Fortresses left on daylight bombing missions. Germany was suffering raids round the clock and there was a clamour to invade Europe now. Amid all the excitement and activity Rachel managed to find only a few quiet moments, and when she did she would think about Tony. They had pledged their love before he left for the Middle East, and there had been regular letters. She carried his photograph in her handbag, and she had his token of love which he had given her the night before he left. It was a small gold heart on a tiny chain which she wore round her neck. On the back of the locket he had had the words ‘I Love You’ inscribed, and every night Rachel put the locket to her lips and prayed for his safety before she went to sleep.

  It had been three years now since Tony had left and Rachel had followed the news from the Middle East anxiously. At first there were victories, but setbacks had continued throughout the first year. It was not until early in ’43 that news came over the wireless of the British Eighth Army’s drive to Tripoli. Rachel had been filled with excitement just after her move to Lincoln in May ’43, when it was announced on the news that all Axis resistance in the Middle East had ceased. Surely now Tony would come home, she thought.

  It was not to be, for a few weeks later the Eighth Army invaded Sicily. The war was moving into a decisive phase and she despaired of seeing him again until the final victory. It was wrong and so unfair, she thought. He had been at Dunkirk, and had served for three years in the Western Desert, and now he was fighting in Sicily.

  Rachel had little time to dwell on her sad thoughts. The bombing raids were stepped up and every night the locally based squadron went out to join the gathering air armada for the thousand-bomber raids on the heart of Germany’s industrial region. Everyone seemed to be living on a knife-edge with the tension, and when bad weather grounded the planes the anticlimax was tangible.

  On one foggy and damp Saturday night, a camp dance was held. Many of the aircrews were present and the atmosphere became electric. Young men, many in their early twenties, took the opportunity of a rest from flying to have a good time. They drank heavily, sought out the women, and one or two skirmishes started.

  Rachel had not intended to go to the dance but her best friend, a young girl from Liverpool, persuaded her. Connie Ransome was keen on one of the young fliers and she wanted Rachel to make up a foursome.

  ‘Look, I know you’re spoken for, love, but it’s not like you’re being unfaithful,’ she said encouragingly. ‘You need the break, we all do. It’s been like this for weeks now and if you don’t let your hair down once in a while you’re not going to be any good to that young man of yours. You’ll be a mental and physical wreck by the time he does get home.’

  Rachel felt that Connie had a point and she reluctantly agreed to accompany her to the dance.

  At first it seemed quite a normal camp affair. Young men asked Rachel to dance and she obliged. There was the usual close contact and the groping hands, which she dealt with confidently, but then she was approached by an older man whom she recognised as one of the civilians working on resurfacing the emergency runway. He could hardly stand, and when she declined his invitation to dance he became abusive. The young airman who had made up the foursome was getting the drinks and when he came back he remonstrated with him.

  ‘Why, you young pup,’ the man slurred. ‘I’ll knock your block off.’

  His punch was slow and clumsily thrown, giving the young airman plenty of time to dodge it. The drunk kept coming forward and tumbled over the airman’s outstretched foot. He crashed down face first but he was still not finished, rolling over onto his back and glaring up at his opponent. With a growl he scrambled to his feet and squared up with his fists, only to be quickly bundled away by his civilian friends.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ the young man said smiling. ‘I shouldn’t have left you.’

  ‘I need this,’ Rachel answered, taking the proffered gin and lime.

  The young airman watched her down the drink with some amusement. He sipped his, pulling a face.

  ‘What is it?’ Rachel asked him.

  ‘It’s Irish whiskey. That’s all they had,’ he said with a serious expression on his smooth face.

  He had been introduced to her as Matt Williams but as yet Rachel had not used his first name. He, too, seemed to be reluctant to call her by name, and it remained awkward until Matt took another sip of the whiskey and coughed violently.

  ‘I bet yer never drunk that stuff before, Matt,’ Rachel remarked.

  For an instant the young man looked peeved, then he relaxed into a wide grin and nodded. ‘How did you guess, Rachel?’ he spluttered.

  ‘I bet you don’t dance neivver, do yer?’ Rachel pressed him.

  He shook his head. ‘I know I’m a sorry sort of date, but I didn’t want to disappoint my pal Charlie,’ he replied. ‘He and Connie seem to be enjoying themselves, at any rate.’

  Rachel gave him a smile, warming to his honesty. ‘Well, if we’re not goin’ ter dance, we’d better chat,’ she grinned. ‘Tell me about yerself.’

  Matt scratched his head. ‘Well now, my parents were in the foreign service and I was born in India. I went to boarding school and then my parents were killed in a flying accident out in Africa. I was taken under my aunt’s wing and I lived in Norfolk until I volunteered. I was at a grammar school and they accepted me for flying training. I went to gunnery school and here I am, rear gunner of O for Oliver, the best Lancaster and best crew on the base.’

  Rachel had been gazing at the young crewman while he spoke. He was fair-haired, with the most intense grey eyes. His face was smooth as if it hardly needed a razor. He was slight of build, but athletic-looking. His most endearing feature, she felt, was his mouth. It was full of expression, and his crooked smile gave promise of a cavalier attitude to life.

  ‘’Ow old are yer, Matt?’ she asked bluntly.

  ‘I’m nearly twenty,’ he told her.

  ‘’Ow many ops ’ave yer done?’

  ‘Nearly twenty.’

  ‘One fer each yer of yer life.’

  ‘You could say that.’

  ‘Are yer scared?’

  ‘As you breathe,’ he said smiling.

  ‘What made yer volunteer fer aircrew, ’specially after yer parents were killed in an air crash?’ Rachel asked, intrigued.

  The young man shrugged his shoulders. ‘It just seemed the thing to do. Call it bravado, idiocy, anything you like. I like to think it was a worthwhile thing to do.’

  ‘At nineteen?’ Rachel asked, feeling suddenly tearful.

  ‘I was eighteen at the time,’ he corrected her.

  ‘Tell me. Was—’

  ‘Woah. That’s enough about me,’ he cut in. ‘Let’s hear a bit about you. But first another drink.’

  ‘Yer not gettin’ yerself anuvver whiskey, are yer?’ Rachel said quickly.

  He grinned lopsidedly. ‘Now I’ve been found out I’ll get myself a lemonade. Same for you?’

  She nodded and watched him walk to the bar. He had the swagger of a young man, and the innocence, but there was something about him that fascinated her. His mind seemed much older, much more mature than other young men of his age she had met. He was so young to be flying on bombing missions. So young and so lonely, no doubt. Just that one aunt to return to and no regular girl friend. Perhaps there was someone, but she doubted it.

  Matt returned and put the drinks down on the table. The band was playing a quickstep and the dancers moved across the floor beneath the spotlights. The air was warm and smelt of smoke, blue wreaths hanging in the air.

  ‘Would yer mind tellin’ me one fing?’ Rachel asked him.

  ‘Fire away,’ he said lightly.

  ‘Is there somebody special?’

  ‘My aunt’s special,’ he grinned.

  ‘Yer know what I mean,’ Rachel said quickly.

  Matt’s face b
ecame serious and he shook his head. ‘No, there’s no one special. There was once, but she went off with someone else.’

  ‘All I can say is, yer well rid of ’er,’ Rachel told him with feeling.

  ‘Well, thank you, kind lady,’ he replied. ‘Now what about your life story?’

  Rachel told him of her early days, her parents and her first love who had died early in the war, and the man in her life now. All the while Matt sat staring at her and when she finished he sighed. ‘I wish I’d met you before the others. I would have made you love me,’ he said without any embarrassment.

  Rachel smiled at him. ‘I bet yer would ’ave,’ she said.

  The band struck up with a waltz and Rachel suddenly took him by the arm. ‘C’mon. I’m gonna show yer ’ow ter waltz,’ she said quickly.

  ‘I can’t,’ he protested, pulling away from her grasp.

  ‘Look, it’s quite easy,’ she persisted. ‘Jus’ foller me an’ you’ll be fine.’

  Matt stepped onto the dance floor and allowed himself to be guided into the swaying, slow-stepping dancers. He could feel her body against his, her hips and thighs pressing against him, urging him round, and he began to relax.

  He was a natural mover and not once did he step on her toes. She could smell the cologne that he wore, and she let her face nestle onto his shoulder as they began to move more confidently. He held her tight, yet not too tight, his hands clasping hers comfortably, and Rachel was suddenly shocked by her secret thoughts. He could be a very good lover, she decided, he had that gentle but firm touch. She breathed deeply in an effort to control her dangerous feelings. She had been parted from Tony for too long. She needed him, the feel of him caressing her, the warmth of his body next to hers, the closeness and fulfilment of union. But Matt was the man who was with her, a young desirable man whom she could enjoy, who would sate her appetite. No, it was wrong, she told herself. It was so wrong to lead him on and encourage him, betraying the trust of her one love, so far away and in so much mortal danger.

  The dance ended and Matt led her from the floor. He smiled as he looked at her and his eyes widened. ‘That wasn’t as bad as I thought it would be,’ he said.

  They finished their drinks and at the other side of the hall another skirmish started. Matt glanced shyly at Rachel. ‘Do you fancy taking a breath of air?’ he asked.

  Rachel nodded, suddenly feeling excited. Outside, the night was damp and the darkness was all around them. No lights shone and the stars were covered by a lingering fog. Matt turned to Rachel and as he took her by the hand he reached into his tunic pocket and took out a flat torch. Rachel found herself being led along a narrow path; Matt obviously knew where he was making for. It did not matter. Nothing mattered at that moment, except that she was with him, holding his hand and allowing herself to be led along by the dim light of his pocket torch.

  They reached a stiled gate and Matt helped her over. No words were spoken until they reached a large corrugated shed, then Matt gave a grunt of satisfaction. ‘It’s not locked,’ he whispered.

  Rachel heard the lowing of cattle and smelt the fresh, sweet hay as she followed him inside. She remembered seeing the shed in the daylight, and as she tried to focus her eyes on the black interior, the young airman pulled her down into the hay. It felt soft and warm, and she did not resist when he slipped his arm round her and leaned over her. She felt his breath coming fast as his lips found hers and she did not resist his kiss. It was soft and gentle at first, then his passion grew. He became ever more urgent, his hands groping her, his body pressed against her. Rachel moved her head sideways and felt his open mouth on her slim neck.

  ‘Steady, Matt,’ she whispered.

  ‘I want you, Rachel,’ he gasped.

  She eased herself down and let her skirt ride up round her slim thighs. His hands were rubbing upwards over her stockings until he reached the soft flesh of her haunches.

  She was suddenly afraid of her own desires and she stiffened. ‘No, Matt, no,’ she told him firmly.

  The young airman did not heed her and with difficulty Rachel slid from under him, turning to face him in the sweet-smelling hay as he rolled onto his side.

  ‘I can’t. It’s wrong,’ she said quietly, her fingers clutching the locket around her neck.

  Matt smiled in resignation and as he attempted to reassure her by touching her upper arm she brushed his hand away fiercely.

  ‘I shouldn’t ’ave come ’ere wiv yer. I was wrong,’ Rachel said quickly, her voice choked with emotion.

  The young man sat up and leaned forward, his arms resting on his drawn-up legs. ‘I know, you’re spoken for,’ he replied. ‘It’s all right, I understand.’

  Rachel stood up and brushed the hay from her uniform. ‘I really am sorry, Matt,’ she told him kindly. ‘I shouldn’t ’ave led yer on.’

  He stood up and faced her, his face still flushed. ‘It doesn’t matter. We’ll just put it down to the war, shall we?’

  They left the barn and walked back through the night towards the sound of music, Rachel holding onto his arm. At the entrance to the hall Rachel turned to him. ‘If I could ’ave loved yer I would ’ave done, Matt,’ she said softly.

  He merely nodded and as they walked into the bright light he turned and smiled as the band struck up with ‘We’ll Meet Again’.

  ‘Let’s drink to that,’ he said.

  Chapter Thirty-Seven

  Bella Galloway walked unsteadily into the untidy room and slumped down in an armchair. The screwed-up cushion pressed awkwardly into the small of her back. She grunted as she moved forward and straightened it, leaning over to pick up an old copy of the Illustrated News which she flicked through quickly. The room was stale and the curtains were still drawn, although the sun was shining brightly outside. Bella was recovering from her most recent bout with the bottle and she could feel her raw throat and the tightness in her chest from the packet of Chesterfield she had smoked. Her head was pounding and her mouth was dry. She desperately needed a drink, but she dare not, not this early. She had only just got up.

  For a while she sat staring down at the cluttered coffee table as the events of the previous night slowly came back to her. The argument had been over the usual thing, but on this particular occasion it had become nasty. Frank had threatened her with violence, grabbing her and throwing her roughy down onto the bed before storming out of the house. He had been drinking too, she recalled. His breath smelt of whisky and he was in a violent temper. He had accused her of being a slut, a money-grabbing whore who was not even a pathetic excuse for a wife, and unless she mended her ways and started to keep the house clean, he would beat her.

  It all came back now, and Bella sat in the darkened room brooding on her change of fortune. Once she had been the toast of the theatre world, a young star with a good singing voice and acting ability. They had all told her so. Even the top impresarios had come to see her perform. The damn war had been the start of her decline, she groaned to herself, that and marrying Frank Galloway. He had never been any good to her. In fact he had speeded her downfall by his bad manners and his uncultured behaviour in front of her influential friends. He had a lot to answer for. If he had been a more strict father perhaps Caroline would have turned out to be a more loving, loyal daughter. Perhaps then she wouldn’t have sold herself to that double-crossing, no-good Graham Cunningham. All his plans for her had been just empty promises, and then he had set out to use Caroline in the same way. Once he had had his way with her, he had ditched her for some other star-struck young thing.

  Bella kicked at the coffee table in her anger and slumped back in the armchair. Caroline had not been in touch since she left the house in a huff, and that was three weeks ago. Or was it four? No matter. She would see the error of her ways pretty soon.

  A strong coffee, that’s what’s needed, Bella told herself. She would take a shower, do her hair, then clean the house up. Better rest for a while though, there was plenty of time. Frank would not be home for hours, if he bothered
to come home at all.

  The day wore on slowly for Bella and gradually she began to recover. The fresh bottle of gin remained unopened, although she had a fight not to take her first drink of the day. She showered and tried to do something with her hair, then she made up her face and changed into a different dress. The housework was a chore that she did not relish, and after hiding the magazines and papers behind a cushion and emptying the ashtrays she had had enough. The remains of last night’s meal were still caked to the plates and she almost heaved as she scraped them clean and dropped them in the hot suds. The curtains looked ready for a clean and the carpet was stained in places but they would have to wait. She couldn’t be expected to do it all in one go, whatever Frank thought.

  In the bedroom both their clothes were scattered messily around, and as Bella set to work putting Frank’s suit on a hanger, a small diary slipped from a pocket onto the bed. She picked it up and went into the lounge. She’d earned a drink now, she decided, and as soon as she had made herself comfortable in the armchair with a large gin and tonic at her elbow, she opened the diary and looked through it. There were a lot of entries which made little sense to her, but the initials P.H. kept appearing among the pages. It could mean public house, she thought. No, it must mean something else. Bella sat trying to think of anyone Frank had mentioned who had those initials but no one came to mind. She sipped her drink and then went to the telephone diary on the sideboard and scanned the list. Suddenly she saw the name Theo Harrison. That was the one-time friend of Frank’s who had gone insane and accused him of seeing his wife, Bella recalled. Frank had told her about it and she remembered him laughing it off. She had believed him and paid little attention to it, since she was heavily involved with her agent, Myer, at the time. Theo’s wife was named Peggy.