Vee is too shocked to reply. When she thinks of all that she has done these past three years – the days spent freezing in open cockpits unable to see the ground for rain, the nights stuck out on hard camp beds, the friends lost to cloud cover…
‘I wondered if you might prefer the Anson anyway, and get straight back in the saddle, so to speak. After a fall, it’s always best to take the next fence at the gallop.’
Sonia beams as if this is a joke, but her dig about Vee’s pancake landing feels like salt on a cut.
Vee can’t quite manage a smile. ‘Of course.’
‘And it’s a straightforward run down to Pilsen and back, I believe.’
If she had more energy, Vee would walk back to the Ops office and tell them to stuff their chit. But another way to repay their small-minded suspicions could be simply to alter the direction on the Anson’s compass.
Sonia flashes her brightest smile and picks up her overnight bag. ‘Jolly good.’
‘So where are you going in the Spit?’
‘Bari.’
‘Where’s that?’
‘Heel of Italy.’
‘My word.’ Vee turns to her, blinking. ‘How long will you be gone?’
‘Couple of days I should think. Depends when I can hitch a lift back.’ Sonia’s dark eyes sparkle. ‘I can’t wait to get into a Spit again. It seems like an age. And they said this one was the perfect aeroplane for a lady.’
‘What did they mean?’
Vee slides a sideways look at Sonia who has opened her silver compact and is drawing a scarlet O around her lips. No one would guess she is the same girl who two years ago was scraped off the locker room floor half-dead from grief and booze.
Sonia snaps the compact shut. ‘I’ll soon find out!’ She waves as she strides off. ‘Good luck with the Anson.’
Inside the Anson, yesterday’s cargo has been unloaded and the hold restocked with exhaust pipes and lorry tyres. Vee stows her bag and goes to the pilot’s seat. The choice is Stefan’s now. She made no promises, but told him that if she had a flight and he could get on board unseen, she would do her best to get him closer to where he wants to go. She knows that this was just another way to put off the final goodbye.
If Stefan is still on the aerodrome, he will have seen this flight clearly marked on the movements board: Avro Anson N5334 – RAF Gatow to Pilsen (ATA 2nd Off. V Katchatourian). Earlier, a harassed sergeant briefed Vee sketchily about route, signals and weather: minimal risk of precipitation, hazy cloud at 8000 feet and she has a map of three countries in her bag. The choice is now Stefan’s.
And now that Vee is scanning the gauges and setting the altimeter to a hundred above sea level, the thought of flying wildly off course into the Soviet sector to help a not-quite boyfriend with some far-fetched quest seems increasingly absurd. In fact, the very thought of him, and of what they did on Vee’s sagging farmhouse bed, is beginning to seem fantastical. Perhaps Stefan has again evaporated from her life. Perhaps he never really returned.
Luminous movement at the edge of the cockpit window makes Vee look up at a Mark Nine Spit that is being pushed across the strip. Black and white invasion stripes are painted around the wings but every other surface of the aeroplane is a delicate ice-cream pink. The Spit’s airscrew turns hesitantly before spluttering into a blur. Then the engine roars, flames caressing the cowlings, and in the cockpit Sonia turns, beaming, to the ground crew who are balancing on the tail. The men bounce off and the Spit gathers speed before sliding into effortless flight. Wheels flip outwards into the wings, and the pink silhouette merges into the white distance. For a moment, Vee wishes more than anything in the world that she could be Sonia.
She folds the map on to the clipboard and with a sigh turns the compass dial to S. Stefan, it seems, is not coming. So she will fly the Anson alone today and she will make damned sure that her take-offs and landings are textbook perfect. This may be the last chance she gets.
Outside, a fitter is pulling a petrol bowser around the plane and shouting to his mate so Vee does not take any notice of the creak in the fuselage. Only when creaks become footsteps does her head turn.
Stefan smiles thinly and presses a forefinger to his moustache. Vee catches her breath. He is wearing a brown suit – well cut and sharp-shouldered with a white shirt open at the neck. She realises that she has never before seen him in anything but flying overalls or RAF blue. He is a different man in a suit – better looking, more relaxed, less trustworthy.
‘I thought you must have changed your mind.’
She keeps her face blank and his smile drops.
‘If you can’t do this, Vee, I understand.’
But she shakes her head. ‘In for a penny, in for a pound, I suppose.’
‘What?’
‘I mean, I have already brought you this far, and it’s not much of a detour, is it?’
‘No. Not much.’
But they both know that it is not the distance that matters but the direction.
Vee opens out the map. ‘So show me exactly where we are going.’
Stefan stands behind the pilot’s seat and looks down at the map with the air of a diver about to take a convoluted plunge off the top board.
‘Here.’
His finger taps a town about a hundred and fifty miles east of Berlin.
Vee squints. ‘I thought you said Poznań.’
‘Yes.’
‘It says Posen.’
‘They are the same.’
She frowns but he must know. She must trust him.
‘And where do we land?’
He points to green emptiness outside the city and a long thin lake, almost rectangular. ‘Here.’
‘All right.’
She puts out a hand to adjust the compass. The needle swings from S to E.
‘Thank you, Vee.’
He puts a hand on her shoulder but unease twitches through her. The risks are considerable – not just from flying into the forbidden Soviet zone, but also the danger, greater probably, of landing a heavy-laden transport plane on a field. But she has made her choice, and her choice is Stefan. Vee flicks the magneto switches and the thunder of engines stifles the questions in her brain.
Once in the air, the haze around the aeroplane magnifies the morning glare and obscures the distant horizon. But soon the pulverised city is behind them and the air clarifies. For once, Vee is glad that the Anson has no radio. She need not lie to anyone about where she is going.
Stefan stares at the map and then out of the window. Soon, he points down for Vee to look too. A snaking brown river cuts between yellow fields. On both banks, roads fan towards the mangle of metal that was once a bridge. On the western side, a wide highway ribbons with traffic. Trucks, carts and people all moving at the same slow pace away from the river. On the eastern bank, the flow hardens to a stop at the crossing point. The only movement is a maggoty churn of people around stationary vehicles.
Stefan leans over and smiles. ‘See? Much better to fly.’
Vee frowns. ‘But how will you get back?’
He shrugs. Maybe he has no intention to return.
Vee grips harder to the steering yoke and a spot of pain pushes against her forehead. The engines have an odd whine to them. Perhaps Gatow fuel is too rich. She reaches out to adjust the mixture lever but is distracted by a mirror flash from the ground, and then another. A signal? The black and white stripes on the Anson’s wings are as good as a target.
She glances at Stefan. ‘Shall we go higher?’
But the sky above the roof is thickening. Whiteness has oozed over the last gaps of blue. Vee glances at the altimeter. Twelve hundred. Safe enough, at least where there are no hills.
Then Stefan points to a distant glint of water. As Vee looks, the lake takes on a distinctive narrow shape and that mirrors a clear strip of pale grass near
by. Thank goodness. They are almost there.
She glances at Stefan. ‘Is that field long enough?’
‘It was long enough for a Dakota.’
‘Really?’ There is nothing anywhere around except the empty farmland and a few sparse buildings. No sign of any aerodrome. ‘A Dakota landed here?’
He does not answer and his face is unreadable. Perhaps he did not hear.
Vee checks the gauges and dips the nose. This will not be easy, especially with the Anson carrying so much weight. But she will prove that she can do it, to him and to herself. And the concentration required will put thoughts of their parting out of her mind.
She reaches for the undercarriage lever. Red light to green, flaps down, throttle forward, then, at the last minute, nose slightly up. The ground looms. Toy trees become real. Dark greens are flashing past and then yellow grass. She holds her breath. A bump. And another. But then they are on the ground and bouncing fast over the mown field with a slight sway to the left. Vee makes herself take a breath. But the Anson’s speed drops obediently and with a forward lurch they slow to a stop.
Stefan squeezes her arm and raises his voice over the idling engines. ‘Perfect!’
But Vee is already looking around, assessing the best line for a turn and a take-off. ‘Where shall I turn?’
He points to a cut into a stand of trees where the field widens. There looks to be just enough space to spin the Anson on its tail-wheel. But as they move off, Stefan peers up at the sky. Cloud has rolled out into a thick darkening layer across the whole sky. At the far end of the landing field there is no clear divide between grass and air.
‘So, you will be all right? To go over the top?’
‘What? No.’ He must remember that she can only fly using ground-contact navigation. ‘I’ll have to stay below the cloud.’
He shakes his head. ‘It is getting lower.’
‘What is the base at, do you think? Eleven hundred?’
‘Nine.’
‘Damn.’
Vee slumps back into the seat and runs a hand through the knots in her hair. She glances at Stefan. It would be convenient for him perhaps if she is stuck here. Then he can do what he needs to do and get a lift back on the Anson. She will not allow herself to consider whether this is what she wants too.
‘Let’s just wait here for a short time.’ Stefan points to a pocket cut between the trees. ‘Put the plane over there.’
The propellers slacken as Vee swerves the Anson across rough grass. As soon as walls of dark trees surround the plane on three sides, she cuts the engines.
Stefan’s voice booms in the silence. ‘Come, let’s get some air and check the vis.’
Vee cranks open the door on to a rush of grassy air. Her legs jar against solid ground.
Stefan jumps out after her. He holds out a yellow packet. ‘Cigarette?’
‘All right.’
A suck of nicotine dulls the throb in Vee’s head. The regulations are clear: Forced landing due to bad weather: remain with aircraft at all times. She hadn’t always done that, of course. Aeroplanes had been left in fields before now, but those were fields in England.
Vee folds her arms across her stomach while keeping the end of the cigarette close to her mouth. Cloud quilts the sky.
‘I’ll have to stay with the Anson.’
‘Then I will stay with you.’
‘No. You have things to do. That’s why we came here. I’ll be all right.’
He sighs and puts his hand inside his jacket. ‘Then take this.’
She stiffens at the heft of the revolver in his hand. ‘Why? What do you think is going to happen?’
He shrugs. ‘Nothing, I hope. But if someone comes and wants something, how else will you stop them?’
‘I wouldn’t be able to use it.’ And as she says the words she realises that she no longer has any control over this journey. When she turned the compass dial, her fate was tied to Stefan. ‘Perhaps I should come with you.’
He puts the gun back into his waistband but keeps his eyes fixed on Vee. Then steps forward on the dead grass. His hands are on her shoulders.
‘Vee, believe me, I’m sorry. I did not mean for you to have a problem like this. But listen, it is not yet midday. There is time for the cloud to lift so that you can fly to Pilsen, unload and be back at Gatow before dark. What I have to do might take only a few hours.’
‘And then we could fly back together?’
‘I hope, yes.’
‘What if you can’t find what you are looking for?’
‘Then we will come back here anyway. I promise. And you are right, you should come with me, Vee. It will be safer.’ He comes closer and lightly kisses her cheek. She puts her arms around his waist but then senses a distance in his embrace that tightens the unease in her stomach.
Then, not far away, there is a bang of wood and a shout. Stefan looks round. Tucking the revolver under his jacket, he signals for Vee to stay still and goes to the edge of the clearing. The voice shouts again. Stefan replies with words Vee cannot make out, not even the language. She goes after him to the edge of the beech wood. Hazy air fills tree-trunk arches above a floor of dry leaves. The voice is coming from the other side of holly bushes in a dense circle. It is a man speaking Polish. Stefan’s hand goes to his waistband.
Then in a swishing of feet, the man appears. He is youngish, wearing a grimy checked shirt and heavy workman’s trousers. A rifle is slung over his shoulder. Stefan’s expression is blank. The man stops then starts to run, straight towards them. Stefan shouts something but the man keeps running.
Vee’s thoughts freeze. ‘Stefan…’
‘Get behind me.’
His arm goes out, shielding her. But the man is already there, in front of them. He grabs Stefan’s shoulders, starts talking in low, hurried words. And then, the man buries his face in Stefan’s neck, the shotgun swinging on his shoulder. Stefan circles his arms around the man, whispering fast sentences and then, still talking, he takes hold of the man’s arms and pushes a gap between them. The man’s eyes shine.
Stefan turns to Vee. ‘This is Tomasz.’
The young man’s smile droops at one side of his mouth and the new beard on his chin is a shade redder than his hair. Vee says hello and he replies. Gin something?
Again he gives a lop-sided smile. Vee feels stupid that she does not know a single word of Stefan’s language.
Stefan touches her arm. ‘We will go with him, for now.’
They walk out of the trees and on to a sandy track. On either side, grassland rolls to the wide horizon broken only by dark stands of trees. Greens of all shades seem unnaturally luminous in the milky light. The men’s voices bounce with hard consonants and sliding vowels. Nie, tak, nie wiem. And then from Tomasz’s mouth, comes a jolt of words Vee knows: Avro Anson and then Dakota. But Stefan’s low canter of words does not change its tone. He could be saying anything. And it seems rude to interrupt.
The open field ends in a clump of spindly birch trees and a long barn. Vee keeps to the edge of the track, away from the dark slime in the core of each rut. The cart tracks deepen. Then with a crack through the still air something hard snaps. Vee jerks round. At the ridge of the barn roof, a big pile of sticks and loose straw is moving. The straw parts and a curved head bends back to show the black bead of an eye and a conical red beak. White wings spread wide; the red beak clatters. Vee has never seen a stork except in story books. Stefan and Tomasz do not give it a glance.
The track widens into a deserted village street of ragged thatch roofs and crumbling outbuildings. They go towards the only solid-looking house that has a row of tall windows and a tiled orange roof. Tomasz pulls a heavy key from his pocket.
‘Prosze, prosze.’
He waves them inside a dusty hallway filled with a smell of paraffin. The rooms to each side are empty except for
dirty linoleum and torn net curtains. Floorboards echo under their boots. In a kitchen at the back of the house, a ceramic stove radiates heat although the room is already sweltering. Tomasz takes the rifle from his shoulder and leans it against the wall then throws a log into the stove from the woodpile in the middle of the floor.
‘Prosze.’
He is smiling and gesturing Vee towards an upturned wooden box. She sits on it warily. Sweat runs down her spine. Stefan is leaning against the wall, arms folded and his face blank. But clearly he knows this man and Vee suddenly has no doubt that Stefan has been expecting to meet him all along.
Tomasz pulls a small pan on to the cooking plate and throws Vee a crooked smile.
‘Kawa?’
Stefan laughs and Vee looks round.
‘What’s he saying?’
‘A joke. He asks if you want coffee.’
‘Why is it funny?’
‘You will see when you drink it.’
Tomasz clatters the pan then hands her a scratched enamel cup. The brown liquid tastes of school toilets and mud. Vee looks over the rim of the cup at Stefan who has moved to the window, hands in pockets. He fires short unintelligible questions at Tomasz and listens intently to the long replies. Their sentences have a new rhythm but the same word crops up again and again. Ewa, Ewa, Ewa. Vee looks away.
The walls of the bare kitchen are scuffed and spattered but at the top, near the ceiling, pink tulips with light green leaves have been stencilled around the room in a perfectly continuous line. Someone, a woman, must once have been proud of this place.
Abruptly, Stefan pulls back the ragged net from the window and peers through mud-speckled glass into a wide paved farmyard. Grass grows through the broken cobbles. White sky merges into rust-stained roofs.
Then Tomasz comes over to Vee so close that she smells his unwashed armpits. He is gesturing for her to stay where she is and briefly he presses his hands down on her shoulders to make his point. His grip is strong. Her scalp tightens.
When We Fall Page 26
