by Peter Hey
‘Between you and me, he’s rather good looking. And rich and successful. Oh, and separated from his wife. Who, his mother intimated, is a total bitch. So, what do you reckon, Tommy? Do you think I stand a chance? Independence is good, but a girl doesn’t want to be single forever. I think I could cope with a move over to the States.’
She twinkled and Tommy wasn’t sure how much she was teasing him. He stared into her eyes very briefly and then shrugged his shoulders.
Jane looked guilty. ‘I’m sorry, Tommy. You don’t want to hear all this girl talk. I thought I was with Sarah for a minute. I guess I ought to shut up again and definitely make this my last drink. Or I’m going to be anybody’s.’
Not long after, they said goodnight and retired, relatively early, to their respective rooms. Tommy lay on his bed staring into the darkness and saw who he always saw in the sleepless nights that plagued him. It wasn’t Gabi1701. It was someone he’d fallen for the day he met her. It had been at a group therapy session, but even then, at her lowest ebb, the vibrant, happy Jane was only partially obscured, just below the surface, waiting to bubble back into the daylight. Her husband, Dave, had collected her that day. He was a big man, with the powerful and confident air of a military officer or a rugby player. He chatted easily with the therapists and staff. He charmed the other patients. He was everything Tommy knew he wasn’t. Dave knew it too. When he came over and introduced himself, Tommy recognised the condescension in his smile. Both men had instinctively sized each other up. Each had pigeonholed the other. Both were largely right.
And yet it didn’t matter. It didn’t matter to Dave because Tommy could never be any kind of threat. It didn’t matter to Tommy because he knew the Daves of this world left you alone if you stayed out of their way. It didn’t matter that Tommy was in love with Dave’s wife because Tommy accepted she was forever out of his league, with or without Dave.
Dave and Jane were now divorced. Tommy was well aware of the maxim about faint hearts and fair ladies, but that was guidance for men like Dave. Tommy had Jane’s friendship and it was a relationship he dare not risk by speaking out, voicing something that could never be reciprocated. He wasn’t proud of it, but he knew he needed his unrequited feelings as a distraction from his anxieties, to sustain him through his dark nights and as a block to the obsessive negativity that might otherwise consume him. But he also knew he’d set a time bomb whose fuse was ticking. He’d let himself get in too deep. Somehow, it had been easy to accept the status quo of Jane and Dave being together. Though Tommy had ruled himself out of the competition, he foresaw heartbreak when she found someone new. When she’d moved away to Nottingham, he thought that distance might enable him to rein in on his emotions, but she’d pulled him into her world again. Being with her now made him as happy as he had ever been. He accepted that he would soon be sad. Life would go on. He would get over it.
Jane would normally pass on a full English breakfast, but her hangover demanded something more substantial than muesli and yoghurt. By contrast, the two pints of cider had eventually helped Tommy sleep and he was feeling fresher than usual. They were both in good spirits by the time Jane steered her car back out through the archway and onto the main road. Their journey was a short one. Tommy had been researching Woody Jensen’s World War II airbase on the Internet and Jane wanted to see what remained, 70 years after the last American bomber had lifted off into the sky.
Google’s satellite image showed three overlapping lines of concrete forming the elongated bars of what looked like a huge letter A stamped on the countryside. Two of the runways appeared well preserved, but the third and longest became little more than a suggestion as it continued off under ploughed fields. Some sections of the perimeter road were intact, including a few of the frying-pan shaped dispersal areas where individual planes would be parked, their separation minimising the impact of a bomb or strafing attack. An industrial estate to the immediate north contained several structures that could have dated back to the war. On a website of old Ordnance Survey maps, a sheet from the late 1940s had a disappointing white space where the airfield should be, but by a decade later, its disused status had rendered censorship unnecessary and the details were clearly drawn. Three of the largest buildings on the industrial estate had indeed been hangars and the control tower stood close by.
There was a security gate at the entrance to the estate, but Jane sweet talked the guard and he let them through. From ground level, the hangars were unmistakable, and despite having been reroofed, the peeling paint and rust on their walls and huge doors confirmed their age. The control tower was reduced to a sad windowless shell, though it looked like some work had been done to prevent it collapsing entirely to rubble. Tommy protested but Jane insisted they climb its open-sided concrete staircase to stare across the airfield from its upper levels. Once more she conjured up images of the past and imaged Mary Mine and her drab sisters lumbering into the air, lifting their cargoes of death and young men out towards the east with no guarantee of return. Mary Mine had always brought Woody Jensen home, but after his murder she would have flown on without him. Jane wondered whether the plane’s luck had eventually run out and what became of the crewmates whose faces smiled eternally in the picture on her phone.
From their high vantage point, Jane and Tommy could see a cluster of light aircraft and gliders around a small building on the far side of the airfield. Tommy found it marked as a museum on the present-day map and was relieved when Jane agreed they should descend and make their way across to it. Other than walking straight down a runway, the only route now available involved leaving the site. They got back into the Mazda and drove out onto the meandering country lanes until they found signs pointing to a flying club.
There was a single vehicle parked in front of the clubhouse, which lay on part of the original perimeter road. Jane could tell the car was old and well loved, but Tommy explained it was a Bristol and very exclusive and expensive in its day. He suggested it probably still was.
They were looking around for signs of life when a red-faced man in his sixties appeared at the door of the building.
‘Can I help you?’ he said. It was more accusation than offer of aid.
Jane smiled. ‘Good morning. We understand there’s a museum. We were very much hoping to look round.’
The reply was terse. ‘By appointment only, I’m afraid. You need to email the club secretary. It’s all on the website.’
Jane was about to try the charm that had won over the security guard at the industrial estate when she noticed a small wooden cutout of an aeroplane, fixed above the door. It was painted in a faded olive green with US markings. She recognised the shape of the cockpit and the nosewheel below it. ‘That looks like Mary Mine,’ she said almost involuntarily.
The red-faced man looked impressed. ‘She’s just a generic Liberator, but we’ve got some pictures of Mary Mine inside. May I ask what your interest is?’
‘We’re doing some research on behalf of, well, the grandson and the brother of one of the men who flew in her. Forgive me, what’s a ‘liberator’ in this context?’
Tommy chipped in. ‘It’s a type of American heavy bomber. Four engined, long range, lots of machine guns. Most people have heard of Flying Fortresses. You know, the plane in that film, the Memphis Belle? The Liberator was designed to do a similar job.’
‘Not as popular with its crews as the Fortress. Sometimes called the “Flying Coffin” because she was an absolute bastard to get out of in a hurry. Forgive my French.’ The red-faced man had become avuncular and animated. ‘I’m Roger by the way. Club secretary. I can let you in the museum as you’re here. I’m not the most knowledgeable on what’s in there, but I can point you at the stuff we’ve got on Mary Mine. I warn you, it’s a sad story. But you probably know that already.’
The museum was housed in one main room, with framed pictures and artefacts round the walls. One prominent set of charts showed the layout of the runways and buildings as it had been at the height o
f operations in 1944. In the centre of the room were freestanding green-baize display boards onto which a large number of smaller photographs had been mounted. These were all annotated and included several views of the base during the war, including the hangars, huts of various sizes and the control tower when it still had windows, railings and a greenhouse-like structure on its roof. There were a few aerial shots taken during air raids, but the bulk of the display was devoted to images of the men and machines of the bombardment group which had been based at the airfield.
There were ground crew maintaining engines, loading bombs and bullets, and inspecting damaged planes. There were men marching in smart uniforms and smaller groups looking anxious or tired in thick, fur-lined flying jackets, helmets and goggles. Most of all, there were pictures of big Liberator bombers, predominantly in drab camouflage but some in naked shiny aluminium, all with their names proudly painted beneath their cockpit windows, many with lewd cartoon artwork in accompaniment.
Roger led them to one particular panel and introduced it gravely. ‘There she is, Mary Mine. Before and after.’
The before picture was familiar: it was on Jane’s phone. There was Woody Jensen and his smiling comrades lined up in front of their plane. Their names and ranks were listed below and Woody’s position, second from left on the back row, was confirmed. Mary Mine’s squat, dark bulk in the background made her look solid and impregnable. But the adjacent photograph, Mary Mine’s last, showed the truth. She was nothing but a fragile, flammable shell.
As Jane and Tommy silently digested the brief text below the image of the burnt-out wreck, Roger decided to elaborate. ‘She was on her way back from a daylight raid over Germany and got caught by fighters. She was badly shot up. Several of her crew were wounded. The pilot somehow managed to get her home. They should have bailed out rather than trying to land her in the state she was, but they decided to bring her down. Undercarriage gave way and she burst into flames. No survivors. Plus, one the firefighters on the ground was killed trying to pull the burning men out of the wreckage. All pretty hideous really.’
Jane turned to Tommy. ‘Have you seen the date? It was only a month after Woody died.’
Tommy just nodded, but Roger looked confused. ‘So, the person you’re interested wasn’t part of Mary Mine’s crew?’
Jane’s answer was half question. ‘He was the ball turret gunner. It was underneath somewhere?’
Roger pointed at the later picture. ‘Yes. Tiny Plexiglas sphere in which they squeezed a man and two big machine guns. Wouldn’t get me in one. They were supposed to winch it up and down on the Liberator, but it looks like it wasn’t fully retracted when Mary Mine came down. I hope to God they’d got the poor chap out. Not that it made any difference in the end. Still, doesn’t bear thinking about.’
‘His name was Woody Jensen.’ said Jane. ‘There he is, in the first photograph. He should have been on the plane when it crashed, but he’d just been killed in Dereham by another American airman.’
Roger clicked his fingers to indicate recognition. ‘We’ve got something on that. We don’t have it on display for obvious reasons, but it’s in one of the cabinets in the office.’
He left them for several minutes and then returned with a cardboard folder. In it was a newspaper cutting and two photographs. The cutting was the article Tommy had found online, and which reported the story of Woody Jensen’s death at the hands of Corporal Henry Abrams. The first picture was just a duplicate of the one on display showing Mary Mine’s crew including Woody. The other was one that Jane and Tommy had not seen before. It was taken in a bar, a bar that they knew, the bar in their hotel. Standing there were several men clustered around a central figure who was holding aloft a pint glass and grinning broadly. On the back was a handwritten explanation: ‘This round’s on me! Corporal Henry Abrams Jr, son of oilman Henry Abrams Sr, stands everyone a drink on the occasion of his 21st birthday.’
Jane and Tommy looked at each other. It wasn’t just the setting they recognised. Immediately to Henry Abrams’ left was a strikingly handsome man with jet-black Brylcreemed hair and a dapper moustache, a look that most would assume was modelled on Clark Gable. But Jane and Tommy knew the inspiration lay elsewhere. They also knew the man’s name. It was the ardent supporter of disgraced British fascist Oswald Mosley, and the man who would marry Woody Jensen’s widow, Mary. It was Dean Smith’s grandfather. It was James Smith.
The twisted spire
Jane had put Tommy on a train back to London and then phoned Mary Smith’s nursing home. She was told that the old lady had gone to hospital for ‘tests’, but was not being kept in and would be available the following day. Jane explained that Mary’s grandson had suggested she visit and the youthful voice on the other end of the line seemed happy.
‘Mary doesn’t get many visitors, but she loves to talk. It might cheer her up.’
It was a large Victorian villa with a modern flat-roofed extension pinned to its side and back. Over a tall fence, a cul-de-sac of box-like townhouses occupied what had once been extensive grounds. Only a small plot remained at the front of the original house, but the garden was immaculately kept with beautiful flowers and pretty shrubs around a paved patio area. From there you could just make out the feature which dominated Chesterfield’s skyline and reputation. Above the rooftops, the tall mediaeval spire of St Mary and All Saints appeared to be toppling sideways, its twisted frame and herringbone of lead tiles being only anecdotal at this distance.
Jane rang the bell and was greeted by a lady wearing a lilac polyester smock who tersely quizzed her in a South African accent on the purpose of her visit. Jane was immediately struck by the smell of boiled vegetables, which took her back to her own grandmother’s last few weeks in a similar home in Nottingham. Having signed the visitor’s book, Jane was shown down a corridor whose elegant mouldings and cornices abruptly gave way to the plainness of the modern annex.
As they approached the door to room number 12, the care assistant in the lilac smock became more loquacious.
‘Mary’s a lovely old dear, though her health’s not… Let’s just say it’s not good. And you must remember her age. She’s sharper than many of our ladies, some of whom are much, much younger, but she inevitably gets confused from time to time.’
‘That’s what her grandson said,’ replied Jane.
‘Are you a friend of his?’
‘Not as such,’ said Jane, noncommittally.
‘Well, let’s just say I don’t how that one would know what Mary’s like these days. He only comes to visit her when he’s after money, and that must have run out because I can’t remember when we last saw him. Not that we miss having him around. Trouble is, she’s got no-one else.’
Jane saw her opportunity to be reassuring. ‘I’m working on behalf of a lady who I believe to be Mary’s long-lost niece. She only lives in Matlock Bath. She’s got a son and daughter. I’m sure they’d want to meet Mary, assuming Mary wants to see them. Something happened years ago that caused a split in the family.’
‘Family arguments, eh? Mary’s not the sort to hold a grudge. I can’t believe she started it.’
With that, the assistant turned away from Jane and opened the door after a token knock. The room was small, but freshly decorated in a bright floral wallpaper and light was flooding in from a large picture window. A thin and frail looking woman with wispy white hair was sat in a winged armchair, seemingly staring into space.
The assistant’s voice became gentler. ‘Mary, my love, here’s that visitor we told you about. A nice young lady called Jane. She knows your family. Shall I bring you both a nice cup of tea, so you can have a nice little chat together?’
The old lady smiled and nodded.
The assistant turned to Jane and affected a conspiratorial stage whisper. ‘I warn you dear, you won’t get a word in edgeways when our Mary gets going. Now, plonk yourself down next to her.’ She winked and left the room.
There was an old wooden dining chair close to Ma
ry’s and Jane sat whilst simultaneously introducing herself. ‘Mrs Smith, my name’s Jane Madden. I met your grandson and he suggested I talk to you. About your family. Is that alright?’
‘I haven’t seen Ernie for a long time.’ Mary’s voice was surprisingly strong.
‘Your grandson is called Dean, Mrs Smith. I think Ernie was your son. I’m afraid he passed away some time ago.’
‘Sorry dear, you’re right. It’s always the names I have trouble with. What’s was yours again, my dear?’
‘Jane, Mrs Smith.’
‘It very sweet of you calling me Mrs Smith, dear. No-one in here ever does. I find it a bit, what’s the word? Patronising, I think that’s it. I’m not a little girl. And those doctors at the hospital. They’re young enough to be my grandchildren and they immediately assume we’re on first name terms. The world’s so informal these days, isn’t it? When I was a girl, only a husband and wife used each other’s Christian name. Between adults, I mean. Oh, and brothers and sisters. For everyone else, it was Mr So-and-so and Mrs So-and-so. You’d go into the grocer’s and it would be, “Good morning, Mrs Smith. How are you today? And how’s Mr Smith? Is he keeping well?” These days, it would be “Hello, darling” or something like that. I miss the old courtesy sometimes. Everyone’s got so much these days. We had nothing during the war, but I can’t help but feel we treated each other better.’
Mary’s eyes seemed to drift away and a questioning frown crossed her brow.
‘Mrs Smith, it’s those days I wanted to talk to you about. About your family and your sisters. Is that okay?’ said Jane.
‘My sisters? I haven’t told anyone about them for a long time. I was the pretty one, you know. And maybe the silly one. The oldest is supposed to be most sensible, to set a good example. But I had my head in the clouds. He was a film star, you see, Britain’s answer to Clark Gable and Errol Flynn. I used to watch him up on the silver screen.’
