A grin burst across his face. “I hope the farmer isn’t the attraction.”
“He’s almost fifty,” she said with mock indignation.
The song halted abruptly on the radio, a masculine voice breaking in. “We interrupt this program to bring breaking news. German planes are dropping bombs on London. The air raid sirens are wailing. I can hear the drone of the enemy aircraft overhead—” The sound broke off abruptly, leaving an ear-piercing crackle.
Fear and concern for her mother shot through Pamela. Even though they rubbed each other the wrong way, they were still family. Belatedly, she noticed Michael stood at attention. Of course. He held a professional interest in this sort of news. “Do you need to go back to the airbase?”
“Yes, I’d better leave. They might need our squadron to fly an extra sortie.”
“Take care.” Pamela didn’t try to hide her worry for him. In a short time she’d come to care for him a lot. She escorted him to the door. Anxiety tangled up inside her like a ball of her aunt’s yarn, but she let none of it cross her lips. She would pray for his safety, for the well-being of all the pilots and soldiers fighting for their freedom.
“I’ll be careful,” he promised, taking her in his arms. She sank against his hard chest, thrilling at the sense of security he gave her. “But I have my lucky charm.” He pulled the charm from beneath his uniform shirt and flashed the coin at her with a grin. “And you’re my extra lucky charm.” He leaned in to kiss her.
Pamela met his lips with enthusiasm, fighting to keep the kiss within the limits of decency. The more time she spent with him, the more she wanted to give him her body. She was coming around to Christine’s way of thinking. If something happened to Michael, she didn’t want regrets to fill her. The pain of his loss would destroy her enough without the added sorrow. Good grief. She couldn’t think like this. Nothing would happen to Michael. He was good at his job, and if he believed in his lucky charm then she believed in the blessing the coin provided too.
“Pamela.”
His soft voice made her realize she was clutching his shoulders in a death grip. Pulling a face, she released him with a rueful chuckle. “Sorry.”
“Don’t be. I’ll think of you.” He gave her one last swift kiss and left.
* * * *
The next morning, Pamela rang her mother before leaving for work. She’d turned on the radio on waking, the reports of the bombing horrifying her. As London burned, the firemen struggled to control the blazes across the city.
“Mother, are you all right?”
“Yes, no thanks to you. You should have been here to help me.”
The news made a difficult decision easier. She’d planned to bow to her mother’s wishes and return home, but her mother’s complaints stilled the offer trembling at the tip of her tongue. “Did you go to a shelter?”
“Yes.” Her mother sniffed. “I spent the entire night sitting in an Anderson shelter with Jim and Beatrice Williams and their baby. Jim snored and their baby had colic. It cried most of the evening.”
“It was nice of them to share their refuge with you.”
Her mother snorted, and Pamela lost her edge of sympathy. An evening with her mother couldn’t have been pleasant for the Williamses either.
“The shelter is cold and damp. Water dripped down the sides, a constant drip-drip-drip all night.”
Pamela tuned out her mother’s litany of complaints, thankful she hadn’t voiced the offer to return to London. She didn’t know what had come over her even thinking it. A group of planes flew overhead and she peered out of the phone box, attempting to see them. She caught a flash of silver before they disappeared.
“Pamela, are you listening to me?”
No, she wasn’t. “Of course I am, but I need to go to work. I wanted to check to make sure you were all right.”
“No thanks to you.”
“I’m sorry. I can’t talk much longer. Take care.” Pamela hung up in the midst of another diatribe from her mother, a guilty conscience nipping at her heels.
She should offer to return, but no matter how contrite her mother made her feel, she couldn’t rearrange her entire life to suit her suffocating parent. Any return to London would only be short-term. They’d kill each other within weeks if they spent too much time together. Besides, she liked living and working in the village, and now it seemed she’d found a man to appease some of her loneliness.
“Did you hear about the bombing in London?” She found Mrs. Greg waiting at the front door for her to arrive.
“Yes, I heard. I’m sorry I’m late. I wanted to ring my mother and check on her. I’ll be ready to help you in a few minutes.”
“Of course. Your mother lives in London.” Mrs. Greg peered at her with nosy interest. “I’m surprised you managed to get a telephone call through.”
“Yes, I was lucky to get my call through. My mother is fine, although she said she didn’t sleep much.” Pamela forced a smile. “Do you have your list and your ration coupons?”
Mrs. Greg made a faint harrumphing sound, as if Pamela’s change of subject affronted her. Each day she watched the ladies and listened to the gossip they passed to one another while they visited the store. The village ladies needed to pay more attention to official strictures about loose lips sinking ships. Once she’d checked off the items on Mrs. Greg’s list and packed them in her basket, she waited for the woman to leave and switched on the radio.
“…worst hit was the East End. Several bombs struck the docks. Every available fire appliance fought the blazes that burned for most of the night. Rum ran into the street and drums of paint exploded causing fresh fires to break out. Clouds of smoke still hang over the city and the fire crews are busy damping down hot spots.
“Bomb blasts have killed and wounded almost two thousand people…”
Those poor people. Her mother was lucky her neighbors had offered her shelter. Pamela made a mental note to write them a letter of thanks because she was sure her mother wouldn’t have shown appropriate appreciation. She acted the snob at times. The snooty attitude made Pamela shake her head. Her grandmother carried the same attitude around with her, like a chip on her shoulder. A person’s station in life held significance and money talked. A derisive snort escaped before she could contain the sound. Money hadn’t helped make her marriage with Thomas happy. Her new life and working to support herself brought her far more happiness.
The bell went, indicating another customer. The milkman arrived at the same time, offering her a shy smile.
She waved at him and indicated he should unload as usual. “Jimmy, I’ll be with you in a few minutes.”
“I’m not in a hurry, dear,” the elderly customer said. “Why don’t you check your delivery and come back to me?”
“Thank you.”
The day passed rapidly with her customers agog about the recent bombings and telling her their boys would see the enemy off right smart. Pamela couldn’t help but think the enemy vastly outnumbered their boys, and they couldn’t keep going for long without breaking.
* * * *
The bombings continued night after night. Pamela didn’t have any contact with Michael. Each time a plane flew overhead, she thought about him and hoped his lucky coin kept him safe. She worried about him but Christine arrived to spend the evening with her and allayed some of her fears. They sat down to dinner together, each awash in her own thoughts. Suddenly the silence became too much for Pamela.
“How are they holding up? Flying under these situations must take its toll on the pilots.”
Christine looked up from her partially eaten rissoles. She sighed and set her knife and fork down. “They’re tired. The pilots are flying more sorties than they should, trying to intercept the bombers. Owen isn’t sleeping well. The other pilots look exhausted too. It’s hard for them, when their friends and colleagues don’t return. Lack of sleep makes everyone grouchy.”
“I know. My mother is complaining about lack of sleep. With the bombs landing every night, sleep is
at a premium. Her neighbors are wonderful, giving her shelter with them every time the air sirens go off.”
“Why don’t you tell her to come and stay with you?”
Pamela sighed. She had asked. Several times. “I’ve suggested she leave London, but it’s a point of pride for her to remain in the city. She says she refuses to let them drive her from her home. I don’t think I’ll ever understand my mother. She’s so contrary. She wants me to return to London and stay with her.”
“I don’t suppose it’s exactly safe here either. The airfield is full of craters and pockmarks from bombs. Did you hear about the bombs dropped on the Girven farm? They say the enemy pilots drop any leftover bombs wherever they feel like so it’s safer for them to fly back over the channel.”
“A plane fired on the Brook farmworkers while they were planting the winter wheat. Mrs. Greg told me. Lucky they’re alive to tell the tale.” Pamela laughed suddenly. “Mrs. Greg came in the other day gossiping, and I kept thinking about loose lips sinking ships. Yet here I am, repeating her gossip.”
Christine flashed her a brief smile. “You’d better watch out. I’ll have to report you to the authorities.”
They both remained silent for a time; then the blare of the village air siren interrupted the peace without warning. They jumped to their feet and hurried from the kitchen to grab their prepacked bags from the hall cupboard.
“Do you have your identity papers?”
Christine tapped her pocket. “In here.” She ran outside to the garden with Pamela on her heels, turning out lights. Outside, she paused a second to let her eyes adjust to the dark. It wasn’t too bad since a full moon lit the sky. A bomber’s moon. She shivered and hurried after her cousin.
Outside, Christine pulled open the shelter entrance and crawled inside. Pamela clambered in after her, pulling the door shut once she’d crawled inside.
Dark and cold, the Anderson smelled of dirt, sand, and dampness with a trace of cabbage from the plants growing around it. Pamela couldn’t see her hand in front of her face, but at least her shelter didn’t flood, and they’d be safe enough unless a bomb fell in a direct hit.
“Do you have a torch?”
“Just a sec.” Christine’s voice echoed a little in the confined space. The shelter wasn’t too cramped with the two of them, but she’d hate to cram the six people inside that officials insisted would fit. Although the full complement of people would probably make it much warmer. Cozy.
The torch beam swept the sparse contents of her shelter. She didn’t use it often, mostly because in the past she’d spent more time at her aunt and uncle’s house. Now she’d met Michael, she liked to spend her nights at the cottage. A chair and a makeshift bed, along with a woolen blanket, sat ready for their use. An upturned flowerpot with a candle beneath it provided the only heating. Pamela fumbled in her bag and pulled out matches to light the candle.
“Do you see much of Owen?”
Christine made a small choking sound and Pamela swiftly moved to sit beside her on the bed. She put her arm around her cousin and gave her a hug.
“I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have asked.”
“No, it’s a natural question. It’s … I’m worried. They’re all exhausted and running on sheer grit. I don’t know how they can keep going out day after day, night after night. No matter how good a pilot they are—I can’t help but worry.” A sob shook her shoulders, and tears crowded Pamela’s eyes in sympathy. She worried about Michael, even though she tried to show a brave face. Keeping positive must be even harder for Christine working at the airbase, hearing the planes go out and seeing them return. She’d know the pilots who didn’t return.
“Why don’t you take the bed?”
“Stop fussing.” Christine’s reply stopped short of snappish. “You take it. I won’t sleep.”
“All right. Let’s play cards.” Pamela hoped she could concentrate enough to play. She’d looked forward to seeing Christine. Having Michael in her life gave them something more in common, but she hadn’t counted on the downside—the fear and dread she lived with daily. What if Michael didn’t come back one day?
“If we must.”
Pamela ignored Christine’s tone. She wasn’t exactly brimming with sociable cheer herself. After two games, they gave up the pretense of playing, laying the cards aside and turning off the torch to sit in silence.
The time passed and planes kept flying intermittently over the village. Fatigue pulled at her, and she nodded off only to jerk awake again at each foreign sound.
Finally, hours later, the all clear siren blasted through the village. Pamela shook Christine awake. Her cousin would sleep much better in a bed. “Christine.” She shook her again, and stumbled through the dark to extinguish the candle under the flowerpot.
Christine switched on the torch. She folded the blanket, preparing the shelter for the next time they’d use it. After collecting belongings and shoving them into their bags, they crawled outside into the early dawn light.
Pamela blinked and watched several planes circle, ready to come in for landing. She hoped both Michael and Owen returned safely.
“I might as well head back to the base.”
“You don’t need to go back right now. Why don’t you try to sleep for a couple of hours? Or at least have a cup of tea?”
“No. I have to go back to the airbase. I have a bad feeling.” Christine turned away abruptly, disappearing down the hall and into the bedroom she used during visits.
Pamela attempted to push aside her hurt. Christine’s worry was understandable and tiredness didn’t make for happy behavior. The lack of sleep made things worse. Sighing, she went to the kitchen to put on the kettle. Her cousin was right about one thing. There was no point going to bed.
Footsteps sounded in the hall and she half turned to say good-bye. Instead, her cousin hurried past, the front door opening and closing before she could form a farewell.
“Well!” Pamela shut her gaping mouth and sank onto a chair. The stress might have affected Christine, but there was no need to forget good manners.
Chapter Five
Everyone seemed grumpy and out of sorts during the next two days. Some of her customers tested Pamela sorely. It wasn’t her fault the government had decided they needed to ration food and other necessities. Deep down, the locals recognized her innocence too, but the knowledge didn’t stop them from taking their frustration out on her. She couldn’t blame them. Queuing to purchase something like a toothbrush wasn’t high on her list of favorite things to fill a day either.
At five sharp, Pamela locked the door and turned the Open sign to Closed. “I know I shouldn’t say this, but I wanted to punch old Mr. Jones,” she said to her aunt.
“If you’d given me a nod, I would have held him down for you.”
They stared at each other and burst out laughing. Pamela clutched the counter and laughed until tears ran down her face. Her aunt looked no better by the time their chuckles subsided, bearing a pink face and damp eyes.
“Would you like to come for dinner tonight?”
“Thanks, but I’ll go back to the cottage. I haven’t slept much recently. I swear if the siren goes off during the night, I might ignore the warning and stay in my bed. I’m getting to the stage where I don’t care. I’m craving a nap.”
Her aunt gave her an affectionate squeeze. “You won’t really do that.”
Pamela sighed. “No.” It was a lie. She could go to sleep standing up and it wouldn’t surprise her if she snoozed right through the wail of the siren.
Pamela collected her small bag of shopping. They departed via the rear entrance and said their good-byes. She walked toward her cottage, arriving fifteen minutes later with no recollection of how she’d managed the feat. She hoped she hadn’t ignored anyone. No doubt she’d hear of her snobbish nature on the grapevine tomorrow.
In the kitchen, she unpacked the small piece of meat and collected two potatoes from the larder. With the cabbage and some carrots and herbs f
rom the garden she’d make a satisfying stew. After retrieving her apron from behind the door, she tied the tapes around her waist.
The sudden banging on her front door made her freeze. Bad news. Her mother? Her aunt? No, she’d just seen her aunt. Michael? A tremor shook her entire body as fear seized her. Unease plummeted through her and she set the knife down with a thump. No point dilly-dallying here in the kitchen. Prevarication wouldn’t make the bad news retreat.
“Open up. Pamela, please open up.” Another bang accompanied Christine’s shout.
“Is anything wrong, dear?” Pamela heard her neighbor, Mrs. Pearson, ask Christine as she opened the door.
Christine tumbled inside, her face shiny with tears, her hair in wild disarray. Pamela took one look at her face and knew the news was terrible.
“Should I call her mother?”
“No, I’ll call her later,” Pamela said firmly, pinching her own forearm viciously to keep her terror under control.
“But you don’t have a telephone,” Mrs. Pearson protested.
“Thank you, but we’ll manage. Christine hasn’t been feeling well and needs a good night of rest.” Pamela guided her cousin farther inside and shut the door in her neighbor’s face. Normally she would have taken satisfaction in besting the old busybody who’d gone around the village telling everyone it was shameful for a young woman to live alone and no good would come of the situation.
“What is it? What’s wrong?”
“O-Owen. His plane went down. The-they said he didn’t make it.” Bloodshot, swollen eyes stared at her with the bleakness of pure misery. Another fat tear trickled from her eye and flowed down her cheek. It plopped onto her sleeve. More followed, and she wept aloud, rocking back and forth.
“Aw, Christine. I’m sorry.” Pamela hugged her tight, aware nothing she could say would lessen Christine’s loss. She held her, moisture welling in her own eyes. If ever there was a time to pull out her bottle of precious whisky it was now. She led Christine into the kitchen and pushed her down on one of the chairs.
Christine sniffed and dabbed her eyes with a scrap of wet fabric. “Do you have another handkerchief?”
A Discreet Affair Page 6
