A Kestrel Rising

by S. A. Laybourn

  Chapter Two

  “Are you going for a walk, dear?”

  Ilona buttoned her coat. “It’s a nice morning, after all that rain. I thought I might take a walk down to the river.”

  “Would you do me a favor first?” Her mother handed her a trifle bowl. “Mrs. Reardon wanted to borrow this. Would you mind dropping it off?”

  “As long as I’m not expected to entertain her grandson, I’ll drop it off. I’m not stopping for a cup of tea, mind.” Ilona dreaded the prospect of yet another labored conversation. “He’s hard work, Mama.”

  Her mother laughed. “Oh, Ilke, the poor lad, I think he only wanted a quiet Christmas. He wasn’t expecting to be hauled to one of Violet’s parties. I felt so sorry for him when I saw him sitting on his own in the conservatory.”

  “He didn’t want to come with us. I did try.”

  “Really, Ilke?” She raised an eyebrow.

  “Yes, Mama, really.” She still felt a twinge of guilt and didn’t need her mother to rub it in.

  “Don’t forget. We’re going there for dinner tonight, so you had better practice being nice to the poor boy.”

  “We are?”

  “It’s Boxing Day, in case you’d forgotten. We always go to the Reardon’s for dinner on Boxing Day.”

  Ilona tucked the bowl under her arm and sighed. “All right, I’ll try. I promise.” She stepped out into the cold morning air. The rain had moved on, leaving the pale sky dotted with thin wisps of cloud. The icy wind rattled the branches in the dark and silent oak wood. Ilona shivered. The late morning light had a sweet clarity as it slanted through the trees and cast shadows across the drive. Starlings squabbled high up in the trees before taking flight, wheeling toward the open fields. Ilona walked up the Reardons’ drive, past the empty gatehouse. At the top, she paused when she heard the slow, sweet notes of an old ragtime tune being played on the piano. She stood for a while, straining to hear.

  “Come in, dear,” Mrs. Reardon said. “We’re just about to have a cup of tea. Why don’t you join us?”

  “Thank you. I’d like that.” Ilona set the bowl down, feeling it would be impolite to refuse, despite having previously decided otherwise. “Who’s playing the piano?”

  Mrs. Reardon smiled. “It’s Francis. Go on in to the sitting room and have a listen. We’ll join you in a minute.”

  Ilona crept into the room and sat in the window seat, hoping she wouldn’t be noticed. Francis was bent over the keyboard, absorbed by the music. The wintry light spilled across the piano, making the wood gleam. She couldn’t reconcile this Francis with the distant, arrogant Francis of Christmas Eve. His hands moved across the keys, playing a slow, sweet tango rhythm with the left hand and the melody with the right. She closed her eyes and listened. The music gave her a glimpse of somewhere else, somewhere unfamiliar. She thought of a warm and sunny place where dusty sunlight fell across a faded wooden floor and brilliant flowers nodded in a languid breeze scented with spice. She had never heard the piano played so well and was sorry when he finally finished. She wondered whether to say anything.

  “Did you like it?” he asked, taking her by surprise when he closed the lid. “I heard you sneak in.”

  Her cheeks flamed. “I did,” she replied. “It was lovely. I didn’t know you could play.”

  “You never asked.”

  She ignored the barb. “What was it, anyway?”

  “Solace, it’s an old Scott Joplin rag. Mom plays it a lot. It’s one of her favorites and Dad’s, too. I remember hearing it from when I was very small and I guess that’s one of the reasons I wanted to learn to play the piano.” He smiled. “What brings you here? Dinner isn’t until tonight.”

  “I had to drop something off for your Grandmother. She invited me in for a cup of tea.”

  “It’s nice to see you again.”

  Liar. “Same here.”

  The arrival of the tea tray and his grandparents saved her. The room was soon full of chatter and the clatter of china and spoons. The conversation turned to Christmas and a recap of the Woodplumptons’ party. Ilona itched to be out of there.

  She set her cup down. “I should really go. I don’t want to outstay my welcome. I was just going for a walk when Mum asked me to drop the bowl off.”

  “I’ll come with you, if you don’t mind.” Francis rose. “I could use the exercise.”

  She could hardly refuse him in front of a room full of relatives. “Sure,” she replied, retrieving her coat and gloves from the hall.

  Back out in the light, the breeze had quickened, hurrying clouds across a watery stretch of sky. Ilona wondered how to start the conversation. She supposed she had better take her mother’s advice. “Do you think you’ll get to fly a fighter soon?”

  “If I don’t crash one of the trainers, I should hope so.”

  They turned onto the lane. The wind whirled noisily through the trees, sounding like a roaring waterfall.

  “When do you go back?”

  “Tomorrow.” He paused at the foot of the drive and shivered. “It’s too damn cold for a walk. Shall we go for a drink?”

  Ilona considered the invitation. She had promised her mother she would be nice. The high street was quiet, apart from the Wheatsheaf where the sound of laughter and the reek of stale beer spilled onto the lane. She paused at the door, feeling slightly awkward. “I’ve never been in a pub before.”

  “It’s all right. They’re not dens of iniquity. This one isn’t bad, as pubs go. It’s a bit rough and ready, but it’s safe.”

  The landlord didn’t bat an eye when they walked in. The regulars at the bar carried on with their conversation, much to Ilona’s relief. As her eyes adjusted to the dimness, she looked around at the smoke-yellowed walls between heavy, dark timbers. A few chairs were scattered around a large brick fireplace and she sat there while Francis ordered the drinks. He returned, moments later, with sherry for her and a pint of beer for himself.

  Ilona perched on the edge of the seat and sipped her drink. “It’s not too bad here.”

  Francis leaned back. “I’ve seen worse and it’s nice to get out of the house.”

  “Yes,” she agreed. “It is.”

  “The beer isn’t bad, either.”

  Ilona sipped her drink and watched the flames dancing in the fire. She hoped that Francis would break the silence, but he seemed to be enjoying his beer.

  “Where are you based?” she asked, finally.

  “Duxford. It’s quite a big field.”

  “Where’s Duxford?”

  “Cambridgeshire. It’s flat as anything out there, sky as far as the eye can see, but it’s great for flying. We’re not far from the village and there are one or two good pubs there.”

  “Do you get much in the way of leave?”

  “At the moment, yes, but I guess that will change.” He sighed. “It’s the waiting for something to happen that’s the worst.

  “It’s like waiting for a storm to break and, I suppose, that’s what it will be.”

  “That’s a good way of describing it. It’s good that you’re with the WAAF, you know. At least you can be doing something and not enduring the wait and the worry. Who knows? We may end up running into each other. If you come to Duxford, I’ll take you to the John Barleycorn. It would be nice to know someone other than the guys in my squadron.”

  Ilona thought it highly unlikely that their paths would cross again but offered him a polite smile. “That would be nice.”

  He took a long draw of his beer and studied the lace of foam that clung to the glass. “You don’t say much, do you?”

  “No, I don’t.”

  “Most girls would giggle and blush if I said that to them.”

  She regarded him coldly. “I’m not most girls.”

  “No,” he chuckled. “You’re not.” He drained his glass and took her empty one. “It’s getting a bit chilly in here. I suppose we’d better leave.”

  They strolled back in silence. Ilona pretended to study the hedg
erows while Francis moodily kicked a stone along the lane, hands in pockets. She guessed he was used to having girls making a fuss of him. He wasn’t bad looking with his carelessly tousled dark hair and almond eyes the color of tea. She supposed she should have been flattered that he considered her worthy of flirtation, but it just made disliking him easier, because he assumed that she would fall for his charms.

  He paused at the foot of the Reardons’ drive and muttered a farewell, not mentioning anything about dinner later. Ilona continued her walk home with a smile on her face, feeling as if she had won an important battle.

  * * * *

  Ilona was glad to get out of the rain. Everyone had left their umbrellas in the foyer while Ellie, the Reardons’ housekeeper, had taken their wet coats before ushering them to the sitting room. A blazing fire in the hearth warded off the chill of the evening and the Christmas tree in the corner glittered under its garlands of tinsel. Ilona sought refuge on the window seat, paying more attention to the sound of the rain whispering against the window than to the conversation. She glanced across the room to where Francis stood talking quietly to her father and was annoyed that they appeared to be getting along well.

  Ilona was even more annoyed to find herself facing Francis across the table.

  He even moved the candelabra out of the way. “It’s easier to talk without flickering candles in the way.”

  She managed a thin smile as she picked at her trout pâté. “Yes, I suppose it is.” Beside her, Aislinn was telling Mrs. Reardon one of the stories she’d heard at the party. She wanted to join in but politeness compelled her to struggle for something to talk about with Francis, yet again.

  “I should think you’ll be glad to get back to work.”

  “It’s been a nice break.”

  Ilona wondered why he’d made such a deal about moving the candelabra when he was making the conversation such hard work. “Yes, it has.”

  “Where’s your driving course?”

  “North Wales.” A piece of melba toast snapped in her fingers. She abandoned the pâté.

  His dark eyes glittered in the candlelight. “Quite a journey then.”

  “Yes.” Ilona pushed the plate away and took a long sip of wine. It was tempting to return the candelabra to its original position.

  “Have you driven before?”

  “I’ve driven my father’s car a few times.”

  “Driving a truck will be different, you know.”

  She took another drink of wine. “So will flying a Spitfire after flying a trainer.”

  He raised an eyebrow. “Touché.”

  Ilona had never been so pleased to see the arrival of a main course in her life.

  * * * *

  The rain hadn’t relented. It seemed even heavier and Ilona opened her umbrella, suddenly tired and wanting the warmth and peace of her bed. In the hubbub of farewells, Francis caught her hand. He held it for a moment then kissed her cold cheek and whispered, “I think you might learn to like me one day, Ilona.”

  He turned and walked back into the house, leaving her staring, slack-jawed, at the light spilling though the open door. Aislinn tugged, gently, at her arm as final goodbyes from the others echoed into the night.

  Chapter Three

  “ACW Lowe, the two-one-nine crews need taking out to their planes. I take it you can drive a bus?”

  “Yes, Corporal Harris, sir.” Ilona saluted the depot corporal, hoping that the bus would be easy to drive, although she believed her driving instructor at RAF Penrhos when he’d told her that she would be able to drive anything.

  “Excellent, Lowe. Off you go, then. The men will be waiting outside the briefing room.”

  “Yes, sir,” she gathered up her gloves and fastened her jacket. One of the advantages of being a driver, she’d learned, was that it was acceptable for girls to wear flight overalls and the warm, sheepskin lined jackets that the aircrew wore. Catterick in January was not a hospitable place when the east wind roared off the North Sea and over the moors.

  Ilona hurried toward the garage, found the bus—an elderly Bedford—and managed to start the engine at the first attempt. She backed it out of the shed and headed for the briefing room. It had taken her a few days to find her way around the huge airfield. She still could not get used to the bustle and scarcely contained chaos of the place.

  After one wrong turn, Ilona pulled up in front of the briefing room. A small crowd of aircrew waited at the front of the building. She opened the door and stared straight ahead while they piled on, chattering among themselves. A few breathy wolf whistles broke through the murmured conversations and a distinctly Scottish person observed, “This wee driver is far bonnier than old hatchet face.”

  Ilona’s cheeks burned and she dared a glance in the rear view mirror, wondering who the culprit was. She put the bus in gear and headed toward the runway. Conversation behind her was quiet and if they were still commenting on their new driver, Ilona did not hear them. She stopped by the first plane and opened the door to let the three-man crew file out. They thanked her cheerfully and headed toward their plane. She worked her way along the row, swarming with ground crew, until only two crews remained. The final two aircraft were quite close to each other and she halted between them and waited for her last passengers to file off. They gathered their gear and walked along the narrow gangway. One by one, they clambered down the steps saying thank you and goodbye as they went.

  “Bye now, lassie.” The last man departed, turning back to smile at her. The cold wind lifted his fair hair. “See you later, God willing.”

  Blushing, she smiled back. “Goodbye, sir.” She had found her culprit.

  * * * *

  Ilona retrieved the bus and parked a safe distance as the bombers returned. The setting sun glinted off their glass canopies and touched their wings with fire as they’d touched down and taxied along the runway. She’d waited until the propellers had stilled and the crews had climbed down before starting the bus.

  The passengers were quieter, the cockiness of morning washed away by exhaustion. Ilona smiled as she collected each crew and they, in turn, smiled back.

  “It’s nice to be greeted with a smile for a change,” someone muttered from behind her. She reached the last two planes and the fair-haired Scot was waiting with his crew. She felt something inside her lift a little at the sight of him when she opened the door.

  “Afternoon.” He winked as he walked past.

  Ilona felt her cheeks color once more. She stole a glance in the mirror and watched him take the last seat. One of his colleagues whispered something and, to her surprise, he blushed. A few low chuckles spread along the back rows. Blushing herself, she turned her attention to getting the bus off the runway and her passengers back to the briefing room.

  * * * *

  “It seems,” the corporal told her the next morning, “that the lads like a friendly smile when they head off for and return from their mission. Flight Lieutenant Carstairs was in here last night with several of the flight officers, demanding that you are kept on as their regular bus driver.”

  “They did?” Ilona stared at him. A warm flush returned to her cheeks.

  “Our lads need all the morale boosts they can get,” the corporal replied. “I’d be flattered if I were you, ACW Lowe. You must have made a very good impression.”

  “I am honored, Corporal Harris, sir. It’s very unexpected and welcomed news.”

  “Well done, Lowe. Now go and fetch your lads and take them to work.”

  She wondered if Flight Lieutenant Carstairs was her Scottish friend who, once more, winked at her when he stepped onto the bus. Today, he sat slightly farther toward the front of the bus. He wasn’t bad looking, Ilona decided. His hair was a deep, silky gold and looked like it would be soft to the touch and his wide-set eyes were the clear, brilliant blue of an autumn sky, framed by a web of laughter lines below sandy eyebrows and pale lashes. He had a fine jaw and a vague dent in his chin. His slightly crooked nose just added to the
charm and she guessed that his cheeks would be scattered with freckles. As before, he was the last off the bus. He paused on the bottom step and turned around. “What’s your name, ACW?”

  “Ilona Lowe, Sir.

  He gave her a sudden, brilliant grin and saluted. “It's nice to meet you, Ilona Lowe. Flight Lieutenant Ian Carstairs at your service, I’ll see you later.” He shouldered his gear and walked off to join his waiting crew.

  * * * *

  “I hear you have an admirer,” Faith said.

  Ilona glanced up from polishing her boots. Faith was in the bunk next to hers and they had become friends in the three weeks she had been at Catterick. “I have?” She knew what was coming, because Faith had been going out with one of the other Blenheim pilots.

  “Flight Lieutenant Carstairs,” Faith said. “My Sandy says he’s quite keen on you.”

  Ilona grinned. “He is?” She hoped she sounded nonchalant.

  “He’s trying to pluck up the courage to ask you out on Saturday. It’s funny, isn’t it? These men think nothing of climbing in a plane, flying for miles in hostile skies, yet they’re all wobbly when it comes to women.” Faith examined a loose button on her tunic and threaded a needle. “But, according to Sandy, Ian is terribly shy when it comes to these things.”

  “So am I. Shall I accept, if he asks? Is he nice?”

  “He’s adorable,” her bunkmate replied. “You’d be a fool not to.” She glanced up. “Do you like him?”

  “He seems very nice.”

  “He is. So, when he asks you, say yes. We always have a great time and you’ll enjoy yourself. I promise.”

  “All right then. I’ll say yes, but don’t tell Sandy.”

  “Don’t worry, I won’t ruin the surprise, but I’d give a good deal to see Ian’s face when you accept.”