Mill Town Girl

by Audrey Reimann

  ‘Don’t! Don’t start again,’ Rose said quietly. ‘I know it’s all true. But I can’t think of you that way – not yet.’ She started to cry, desperate tears that were not to do with what they were saying. Carrie pulled a handkerchief from her dress pocket and held it out to her. ‘Here. Use this.’

  Rose put out her hand for it and Carrie saw the ring. It had gone that far then. She struggled again to keep down her tears. She had better try to be tactful. ‘I see he’s put a ring on your finger,’ she said. ‘When did he do that?’

  Rose snatched the handkerchief and stood up. ‘Today,’ she cried. ‘He’s been called back. God knows where he’ll be sent to.’

  ‘You’re not hoping to marry him, are you?’

  ‘Why would I wear the ring if I didn’t want to marry him?’ Rose sobbed.

  ‘You must wait. I don’t want you rushing into anything.’ There was still a great gulf between them and Carrie did not know how to breach it. Rose wanted nothing from her: not advice, not comfort, nothing. ‘Pull yourself together,’ she said finally.

  Alan swung the Riley through the camp gates at ten-thirty, reported to Ops five minutes later and went to the mess where he found everyone in high spirits.

  ‘Good leave?’ George joked, as the steward brought their drinks. ‘Was she waiting for you? Your English Rita Hayworth?’

  ‘Yes,’ Alan said as he drained the glass and signalled to the steward for more. ‘What’s the flap about? Have you been told?’

  ‘We’ve been on readiness all weekend. All leave’s cancelled. Everyone recalled,’ Martin said. He gave Alan a knowing look. ‘That’s knocked your romance through the window, hasn’t it?’

  ‘Oh. I don’t know . . .’ Alan wanted to keep it to himself a little longer but now George had that wolfish look in his eyes and had nudged him knowingly.

  ‘I think we’ll be sent up at dawn.’ Martin raised his voice against the noise of a group of pilots whose raucous laughter filled the room. ‘I want to get up there and at ’em. Bloody Jerries. We’ve not even seen a Messerschmitt so far. Did you ask her?’

  ‘She said yes,’ Alan said, grinning at his friend.

  ‘Congratulations. Did the car run all right?’

  ‘Super. She’s behind the mess.’

  ‘Rose is?’

  ‘The Riley, you clown!’ Alan laughed. ‘Order another, then I’m going to get my head down.’

  The tension was getting to him again; the nervous energy they all displayed was like an infectious disease. He could only take so much of it before he had to get away from the crowd. He finished his drink and went to the hut, to write to Rose. Tomorrow they could be tangling with the enemy and he’d have no chance to write.

  But the following day they were sent on patrol when other squadrons were in action. What had the training been for if they were never to be tested? The war would be over soon. There was little enough happening and there were times when he wished he’d joined the navy. His father would be seeing action before he would if Dad’s orders had come through.

  It was more than a week before the call came.

  ‘Wake up, sir.’ The light was on and Alan’s shoulder was being shaken.

  ‘What time is it?’ he snapped at the airman.

  ‘Four-thirty, sir. Take-off’s in half an hour.’

  He was wide awake now, heart thumping, struggling into his flying gear, drinking steaming hot tea. They were going into action at last and his heart was pounding with fear and excitement.

  He ran outside and on to the tarmac where flight mechanics were warming up the Spitfires. He ran towards the group who stood around the squadron leader in the pale grey light. ‘Where are we going?’ he shouted to Martin above the noise of the revving engines.

  ‘Dunkirk.’

  ‘What the hell’s going on?’

  ‘They’re evacuating or something,’ Martin said. ‘Squadron leader’s about to give us the details.’

  They crowded round the senior officer. ‘They’re on the beach,’ he was telling them. ‘Thousands of our men being strafed and bombed. We’ve to protect the boats. Knock their bombers out of the sky. It’s a huge rescue operation.’

  ‘There’s the phone!’

  The orderly poked his head round the door. ‘Scramble!’ he yelled.

  Alan raced across the grass and leaped into the narrow cockpit. He clipped his harness straps and pressed the starter, the procedures fixed in his mind. Last-minute checks. Flaps and ailerons adjusted. Test rpm. Push forward the throttle lever and he was moving forward to take off behind the leader.

  At eighty-five miles an hour the Spitfire was airborne and climbing. Then they were in formation in the still air, flying eastwards towards the dawn and the coast; voices on the RT headphones; instructions; Control; the leader’s asides.

  They flew over Dover, the steady note of the Merlin settling into cruising, the even tones of their unperturbable leader inspiring. Alan felt calm now; cool-headed and ready.

  He looked down. From bays and little coves and harbours along the coast boats were moving out to sea; destroyers, paddle steamers and yachts, pleasure boats and tugs, lifeboats and fishing vessels all heading out to the Channel, merging, joining a straggling line that appeared to reach all the way to France.

  Minutes later they neared the French coast. Beneath them, like ants, black moving dots on the sand were, unbelievably, men – thousands of them. From the water’s edge to the boats in the shallows, lines of men were wading out to their rescuers while behind the beaches battle smoke obscured the town. Flashing gunfire could be seen and further on a plume of black smoke from blazing fuel tanks was being thrust skywards. The smell of burning oil was filling his nostrils even from that distance.

  The RT crackled. ‘Enemy aircraft ahead. Enemy aircraft ahead. Take action!’

  The metallic taste of adrenalin was in his mouth. Ahead he saw, coming towards them, barely three miles ahead and high above, a slanting line of bombers; about fifty in number and, above the bombers, fighters.

  Messerschmitt 110s were overhead seconds later. He saw their twin fins glinting in the sun; saw the black crosses of the enemy and their load of bombs. They were climbing to avoid a fight; ready to bomb our men below. He felt a surge of hatred for them; a hot thrill of hatred such as he had never felt before.

  He veered sharply to the right, nose up, closing on the 110 he’d selected as his own. The squadron was hurling around the sky; he could hear them, a fury of voices in his ear but he was above and behind his Messerschmitt as it dipped and wheeled to avoid him.

  The voice in his ear. ‘Red Leader calling. Watch your tail, McGregor. Bandits at four o’clock.’

  He saw the grey shape of the German fighter as he glanced back. Two Spitfires were streaking towards it, engines screaming as they dived. The bomber was in his sights.

  The sun glanced off Perspex. His thumb jabbed at the button and the Spitfire’s guns tore out in an angry roar over the huge wings that were filling his windscreen. His blood was running hot. He fired again, aiming at the cockpit and the pilot’s leather helmet. Power seemed to be running through him.

  He heard the rattle of his guns tearing into the 110, felt the recoil; saw pieces of metal flying; saw a burst of flame that glowed red and spread along the wing. Then the wing folded, dropped and was gone.

  He glanced in the little mirror above his head as he opened the throttle and lifted the mullet head of the fighter. The 110 was spinning crazily, aflame in front of a fast-lengthening ribbon of smoke as it went down into the sea.

  Blood pounded through him. He was exultant. He’d got one. He had not let anyone down. He’d done it. In his first action, he’d got one.

  Ahead the sky was empty. He glanced in the mirror and saw, just above his rudder, the nose of a Messerschmitt 109. He turned steeply, the cold chill of the hunted replacing the heat of the hunter.

  White tracer streamed from the 109. He dived. It was still behind him, and firing. He steep-turned at the
same moment that he was hit.

  The impact was terrific. His shoulders were thrown forward against the harness straps that seemed to be taking his full weight. Something must have gone.

  He was momentarily calm as the aeroplane lurched and there was no response from the stick that fell loosely against him. The nose was pointing down and the engine roaring. He was falling; the altimeter unwinding rapidly. His eyes went to the mirror. The tail had gone.

  There was no sign of the 109 but smoke was coming from his engine, filling the cockpit. He must get out. He pulled at the rubber ball overhead and felt the hood tear away; heard the screaming wind and the protesting engine. The wind dragged his breath away. The noise was deafening. Tearing at his helmet to dislodge it he pulled himself upwards. There was no time. Flames were leaping out behind the cockpit. He kicked against the bucket seat. He felt a blow, as if he had been struck by a wall. Then his body slewed into the air and the burning aircraft dropped beneath him, plunging downwards like a flaming, disintegrating cross.

  Coldness whipped his legs. He pulled the D-ring and heard the crack of air against the opening parachute as his body jerked from its fall. He was being held, floating beneath a white silk mushroom above. A thousand thoughts and prayers crowded into his mind. He was alive. Amazingly, he was alive.

  ‘Please God, let me land safely. Let Rose know I am alive.’ The prayers ran repeatedly through his mind. There was searing pain in his legs. He looked down. His trousers were ragged shorts with tattered strings of charred material flapping like a crazy fringe round his thighs. The skin was blackened but his legs were there. He must have freed himself with only a fraction of a second to spare. And below him, only yards below, trees.

  The 110 had gone down in the sea. He could not be far inland. He was coming down fast. He missed the trees by inches and saw grass rise up to meet him.

  He landed badly, heavily, jolting every joint in his body as he pitched forward, rolled and was dragged, cutting shins and knees, ripping elbows on the tussocky ground that was dotted with sharp-edged little boulders.

  The parachute dropped to earth, billowing slowly and rising until the air was out, falling again in a tangle of cord and cloth where it caught on the stones. He prayed. ‘Thank God I’m alive. Thank God. I am alive, Rose. Rose I’m alive.’

  His reflexes were normal. Alan unfastened the harness with desperate fingers. Ignoring a sharp pain that was shooting through his right foot he slid along the ground to free himself. At any moment he expected to hear shots, or at least the raised voices and barking dogs of a search party.

  There was nothing. Not a sound. Only the shallow river behind him, gurgling carelessly.

  Had he been seen? Had the Spitfire gone down in the sea? He’d got out just in time. Another minute and he’d have burned with the aeroplane. Had nobody seen the ’chute open? There was a farmhouse nearby. He’d seen it just before he dropped in front of the trees. Surely someone had been watching the fighting above their land?

  There was silence. In the distance a cow lowed. But no human noises.

  He struggled to his feet and tried to walk. His big toe was swollen to twice its size. It was probably broken but there was nothing to be done. And now another pain – a sharp, scorching pain that stretched from his ankle to the top of his thigh. He winced and, taking all his weight on his left leg, barely able to put the right to the ground, he ran to gather the parachute.

  He folded it into an unwieldy bundle and, hopping and falling, made for the water. The river was about twenty feet across; the water waist-high. He plunged into the chill depths, feeling smooth, weed-slippery stones under his feet and the water a blessing, numbing the burns on his legs. Then he was over and stuffing the parachute bundle deep into a clump of brambles at the edge of a copse.

  He found a hiding-place in the thicket and at last dropped to his knees, feeling in the creasing of his burnt legs an agony that made him grip his hands together to prevent himself from making a noise.

  When it was dark he’d move. He’d make for the farmhouse, scout around for clothes and food and try to talk himself into the favour of the French farmer who might be prepared to assist him. He would try to get to the coast. It was not far. Not Dunkirk. He was not going to walk into enemy lines. Perhaps further south where he could find a boat?

  First, he would have to get down to the water again as soon as he was sure the coast was clear. He must bathe his legs; he must examine and cool these burns.

  Chapter Twenty

  Rose was in the glass-fronted cubicle, counting the ten-shilling notes when Mr Wilson tapped on the door. She looked up. Mr Wilson, normally cheerful, looked grim. His face was pale and set. He beckoned to her. Alan’s father, looking ashen, was behind him.

  ‘Mr McGregor wants to talk to you, Miss Kennedy,’ Mr Wilson said. ‘You can go to the accountant’s room.’

  Rose’s knees went weak. Her legs did not seem to be strong enough to carry her towards the office. Before anything was said she knew what she would hear. Something had happened to Alan.

  Mr Wilson closed the door for them and Alan’s father, having difficulty holding himself in check, turned to her. ‘Alan’s plane was lost over France yesterday,’ he said in a tight voice. He pulled from his jacket pocket a yellow telegram envelope and handed it to her.

  Rose put out her hand slowly. She knew that she too was as white as death, but from somewhere strength came to her. She withdrew the paper with its pasted-on message strip and read.

  ‘ . . . regret to inform you that Pilot Officer Alan McGregor, is missing . . . believed killed . . . 28 May.’

  She looked up after reading it and saw Douglas McGregor’s face, lips pressed hard together, jaw clenched. ‘A senior officer came to the house – shortly after,’ he said. ‘He told me not to give up hope. He said it’s possible that Alan bailed out. Nobody saw a parachute – they saw the Spitfire go down in flames . . .’

  A wave of horror washed over her but it was swiftly followed by another feeling, which she knew she would never be able to explain rationally. Alan could not be – was not dead. She would have known it. ‘He’s alive,’ she said with quiet assurance. ‘I know. Don’t ask me how, but I know he’s alive. I feel it. He is injured. But he’s not dead.’

  Douglas reached out a hand to her and she took it in both of hers. She had to pass on to him this conviction that Alan would return. She held his large hand in her little warm hands and very gently she repeated. ‘I know. I just know he’ll come back.’

  ‘I wish I shared your certainty, Rose,’ was all he said. He let go of her hands and straightened his shoulders, then turned from her, going towards the window to look out over the market square. ‘I’m leaving Macclesfield.’

  ‘Leaving?’

  ‘Yes. It’s only a matter of time before all the men under fifty will be called up. I volunteered for Coastal Command. My orders came through this morning.’

  ‘Where will you go?’ she asked.

  ‘North. To Leith or Aberdeen,’ he said, still without looking at her. ‘I report in Edinburgh on Tuesday.’

  ‘And the Swan? Is it to be closed?’

  ‘Commandeered,’ he said. He glanced at her. ‘The bar will stay. I’ve got a manager. The accommodation will be used for officers from the barracks.’

  ‘And the house?’ she said.

  ‘Mrs Tansley will live there.’

  ‘Mr McGregor?’

  He turned now, quickly, to look at her. ‘You would soon have been calling me “Dad” wouldn’t you?’ he said, smiling a sad, rueful smile.

  ‘I will. One day,’ Rose answered softly. ‘Will you write to me? When you hear from Alan?’

  Douglas looked into her eyes for a moment, then sat at the big leather-topped table that nearly filled the room. He took a sheet of paper out of the wooden stationery stand, dipped a pen into the inkwell and began to write as she watched.

  ‘Mrs I. R. Forsyth, Ramsay Gardens, Edinburgh.’

  Then
he added a telephone number and the address of Coastal Command. ‘The mother of a friend of Alan’s,’ he explained.

  ‘I know,’ Rose said. ‘I’ve met her.’ He didn’t ask for explanations. He was a kind, understanding man. Rose wanted him to go to his own service as sure of Alan’s safety as she was. She hoped she was giving to him her faith that Alan would come home to them.

  ‘If you need to get in touch with me,’ he said, handing the paper to her. Then he stood and placed his hand on her shoulder. It was not a hug, not even a pat, just a message of affection. ‘I shall be back when the war is over.’

  ‘Thank you.’ Rose had a great lump in her throat. She wanted, all at once, to hold him, to comfort him. But this was the wrong time, the wrong place.

  How long would it be before she saw him again? It felt as if another part, another good part, of her life was leaving with him. ‘Don’t despair, Mr McGregor,’ she managed to say. ‘We’ll have Alan back.’

  He shook her hand, very formal now. ‘Goodbye,’ he said.

  When he had gone, Rose went back to the cubicle, a great heaviness upon her. She could not have explained it but she felt detached; felt she was spectating on all that was going on around her. The news had spread like wildfire amongst the staff and it seemed that they all wanted her to know that they felt for her.

  Pamela and Sylvia were the first to come to where, head bowed, she went on counting the money, trying not to consider the possibility that her faith in her instincts had deserted her. He lived.

  ‘Rose?’ Pamela whispered as she opened the door.

  ‘It’s all right, Pam,’ she answered. ‘He’s not dead.’

  Pamela – bold, confident Pamela – had tears streaming down her cheeks. ‘Sure?’ she asked in a choking voice.

  ‘I’d know it. If it were true.’

  Pamela ran from the cubicle before the frightened face of Sylvia appeared in Pam’s place. ‘Keep your pecker up!’ she said. ‘A lot are coming back.’

  ‘I know.’