Putting her foot down, she drove the tractor along the track that separated Swallow’s Field from Larks Meadow to where Polly had joined Laura and was opening the gate. Bess drove through and stopped. ‘What’s that noise?’
‘Sounds like thunder. We’d better make a move or we’ll be caught in one hell of a storm by the sound of it,’ Polly said.
‘That isn’t thunder,’ Bess said, jumping down from the tractor. ‘It’s a plane. It must be on its way to Bitteswell or Bruntingthorpe.
Laura nodded. ‘It sounds as if it’s flying a bit low, doesn’t it?’
The three women looked to the south where the noise was coming from and saw the plane.
‘Sounds like a light bomber,’ Bess shouted. ‘And it is flying low, dangerously low.’ Then, as quickly as the plane appeared, it disappeared.
‘It’s heading for the Hall!’ Polly screamed. ‘It’s going to crash into it! What if it’s carrying bombs?’
‘It won’t be. It’s coming home. It’ll have offloaded.’ Seconds later Bess spotted a Blenheim flying through a break in the clouds. ‘It’s missed the Hall.’
But before Laura had time to reply the plane made a loud cranking noise, as if someone was trying to start a heavy artillery truck with a starting handle. Then the engine began to splutter. ‘Oh my God!’ The colour drained from Laura’s face. ‘It’s coming down! And it’s heading this way!’
The Blenheim vanished behind a small copse on the far side of Larks Meadow and for what seemed like an age the women braced themselves for the crash. Instead they heard a succession of heavy bumps, followed by a loud scraping sound, and finally a dull thud. For a moment there was an eerie silence.
‘Polly, go to the Hall. Telephone the aerodrome. Tell them a Blenheim’s come down on the Estate. And tell them we don’t know how many it’s carrying. Then phone the fire brigade. Laura, you come with me,’ Bess said.
Polly set off at such speed that the front wheel of her cycle skidded and she nearly came off. She put her foot down and regained her balance. ‘Be careful!’ Bess shouted, before running across the field to the aircraft.
Landing on its belly, the Blenheim had churned up everything in its path, but because the meadow was flat and it had been raining heavily for several days the plane had remained upright and in one piece. By the time Bess and Laura reached the plane’s cockpit the hatch was sliding back.
Bess’s father and the ARP wardens were first on the scene. They’d seen the plane come down from their watch point on the Rugby Road, and arrived within minutes of it crashing.
‘Get these boys out of here, Bess,’ her father shouted. ‘Keep the civilians as far away from the plane as you can,’ he called to one of the other ARP men.
‘Out!’ Bess shouted, beckoning the plane’s passengers. ‘Come on! Get out!’
Half a dozen dazed and disorientated servicemen scrambled out of the plane. The pilot and first officer were wearing RAF uniforms. The other men were dressed in belted overcoats with the silver wings of the Polish Air Force on their shoulders.
Bess and Laura pulled, pushed, mimed and shouted until they had dragged every man out of the ditched plane and handed them over to Bess’s father. Military vehicles and RAF personnel arrived by the dozen, along with the emergency services, the police, the fire brigade and ambulance. Sirens wailed and bells clanged. But they were too late. Suddenly the plane’s fuel tanks exploded.
The power of the blast knocked Bess and Laura off their feet. Fragments of burning metal flew into the air, showering them with red hot splinters. People who had been knocked down stayed down, and those that had been left standing threw themselves to the ground and covered their heads with their arms for protection.
Bess’s father appeared at her side. ‘Don’t move!’ he ordered. ‘Your coat’s on fire.
An ARP warden threw a wet blanket on top of her. ‘Stay down and roll over!’ he urged. Fear drove her to roll over and over in the grass and mud. When he was satisfied that she wasn’t going to burst into flames, her father hauled her to her feet to inspect her coat.
‘Everyone on your feet,’ he bellowed, ‘we’ve got to extinguish the burning plane.’
‘What happened to the airmen?’ Bess asked.
‘Garth Davis has taken them up to the hall--’
‘Buckets!’ an ARP man shouted above the kerfuffle.
‘Spades!’ called another.
‘Form a line!’ shouted a third.
News of the crash spread quickly. Within half an hour most the residents of Woodcote village arrived carrying buckets, bowls, large pots and pans, spades, and even watering cans.
The ARP organised two human chains, one to pass buckets filled with water from the River Swift up the hill to the plane, the other to pass the empty buckets down again. Local youths stood knee-deep in the freezing river, filling whatever receptacle came their way.
‘The barn! Look! The wind’s blowing the flames in the direction of the barn!’ Bess shouted. Seconds later her voice was drowned out by the noise of shattering glass as the cockpit exploded, showering the countryside once more with razor-sharp shards of burning glass. ‘We’ve got to douse the barn before the flames reach it!’
Her father shook his head. ‘It’s too late. It’s already caught.’
Bess turned towards the barn, but her father caught hold of the sleeve of her coat. ‘It’s too dangerous, Bess!’
Swirls of smoke had started to drift into the night sky from a small chimney on the barn’s roof. ‘We’ve got to try to save it, Dad,’ Bess pleaded. ‘The winter feed for Charity Farm’s sheep and High Fields’ cattle is in there. We can’t afford to lose it.’
Her father nodded and let her go. ‘All right. Form two groups,’ he hollered. ‘Get some spades over here as quick as you can. And someone get a fireman. Tell him to bring a ladder.’
Bess split the people at the top of the chain into two groups. One group stayed in the water chain and doused the walls and door of the barn, while the other group – half a dozen people – dug a trench to stop the flames from travelling along the ground to the hedge, which was next to the barn and as dry as tinder. Mr Porter arrived with a fireman who climbed onto the roof of the barn and poured buckets of water down the chimney until the smoke abated.
‘It’ll be all right now,’ her father said, ‘it’s stopped smoking.’
‘Thank God for that!’ Bess left the barn and ran to Laura, who had been on the hot end of the plane chain. ‘Laura,’ she called. ‘The fire’s out. The plane’s--’ but before she could finish the sentence someone shouted, ‘Stop!’
‘It’s raining!’ someone else shouted. ‘It’s raining,’ they called again, and everyone cheered. The fine drizzle that had been in the air for most of the day had turned into rain and was heavy enough to douse the surrounding foliage and stop any rogue fires from igniting.
People at the beginning of the chain who had been standing for hours in freezing water or mud staggered about as if they were drunk, exhausted from hours of bending down and lifting heavy buckets of water. The firemen, military personnel and ARP who had worked alongside the villagers stood in silence, too numb with cold to speak. Some people fell to the ground, others wandered round in a daze and some marched on the spot blowing hot breath into their cupped hands in an attempt to stimulate circulation.
When the RAF crash unit arrived Bess and Laura left the field. At the gate both women turned and looked back. Smoke drifted eerily across the Foxden Acres like a legion of ghosts. The once powerful aeroplane was a burnt-out shell, silhouetted against the night sky.
Covered from head to toe in soot and ash, their faces striped with tears from the dense smoke, Bess and Laura were the last of the women to arrive back at the Hall. There was no sign of the RAF officers, Polish airmen or any land girls, which was not surprising considering how late it was. The girls would be asleep by now and the airmen would be at one or other of the nearby aerodromes.
Bess and Laura entered the warm, wel
coming kitchen in silence. On the table a fat church candle illuminated a plate of spam and mustard, and cheese and pickle sandwiches under a thin muslin cloth. On the far side of the room there were two tin baths in front of the fire, separated by a clothes-horse with two large towels draped across it, and in the brick alcove next to the fire Mrs Hartley’s linen copper was letting off steam.
Laughing from exhaustion more than anything else, the girls took off their smoke-stained clothes, filled the baths with boiling water, and while the water cooled, sat in their underwear and devoured their supper as if they hadn’t eaten for a week.
After a much needed bath Laura, sitting by the fire in just her towel, started to laugh.
‘What?’ Bess asked. She was so tired that Laura’s laughter became contagious and she began to laugh too.
‘I was wondering,’ Laura said, hardly able to get the words out, ‘whether to go back to the dormitory in my towel, or my underwear? Which do you think?’
‘Definitely the towel – it’s too cold to go out in your underwear,’ Bess said. ‘And it’s raining, so when you get there you can dry yourself if you go in the towel.’
Laura laughed. ‘Dry myself off with a wet towel?’
‘I know,’ Bess said, ‘I’ll fetch Mr Porter’s old umbrella and you can sing “Stormy Weather” as you cross the yard.’
‘If that’s your only suggestion, I’m staying here by the fire. Good night,’ Laura said sleepily, pretending to fall asleep.
Still laughing, Bess ran upstairs to her room. She and Laura were about the same size so she took a pair of slacks and a jumper from her wardrobe. She hadn’t been upstairs long but when she returned to the kitchen Laura really was asleep. Bess thought about leaving her. If she’d fallen asleep in a comfortable chair, she might have done, but not in a wooden rocker. ‘Laura,’ Bess whispered. ‘Wake up, time to go to bed.’
Laura opened her eyes and yawned.
‘I’m sorry, I’d have left you in front of the fire, but I think you’d have a very stiff neck in the morning if you spent the night in that old chair.’
‘I think you’re right,’ Laura said. ‘So what is it to be, towel or knickers?’
Both women laughed again before Laura put on Bess’s clothes.
Bess watched her friend cross the courtyard and enter the dormitory. Then she locked the door, blew out the candle and went to bed.
Bess opened her eyes. Her body ached, but she forced herself to sit up. She looked out of the bedroom window and watched a magpie hop from one branch of an old beech tree to another. Every time the bird landed on a different branch a russet-coloured leaf floated to the ground.
It had rained continuously throughout October. The River Swift had burst its banks. The lowlands had turned into a bog, and the marshes had edged their way, day by very wet day, as far as the bridle path that linked Foxden with Lowarth, making it impossible for anyone to walk or ride the route. In contrast, November was turning into one of the coldest months. If the cold snap kept up the earth would soon be too hard to farm. Bess smiled. A fraction of her beloved Foxden Acres would remain uncultivated for a while longer.
She watched the magpie fly off and considered staying in her warm bed. Instead she forced herself to get up and dress. It was a bright morning, so after breakfast she saddled Sable and took her for a gentle trot along Buffton to Woodcote. Sable needed the exercise but Bess, painfully aware of every cobble along Chapel Street, wasn’t sure she did.
Woodcote’s shop and post office was the heart of the village, the place where people met for a chat or to gossip while they bought a pint of milk, loaf of bread, or quarter of tea. It was mandatory that, as food coupons were handed over the counter, local news was passed back. If Mrs Moore had had the foresight to put tables and chairs in the shop and serve pots of tea while the ladies waited for their pensions, she would have made a fortune.
Bess walked Sable through the village and dismounted outside the post office. Almost immediately, like a gaggle of excited geese, a posse of elderly ladies surrounded her demanding to know who was in the aeroplane. And, if they were foreigners, would the ladies of Woodcote be safe in their beds at night?
‘Ladies, ladies, if you’ll let me speak!’ Bess waited until they had quietened. ‘Firstly, let me assure you that you are quite safe. Apart from the pilot and co-pilot – both RAF officers – the other servicemen were Polish airmen who had escaped the German occupation.’
‘They didn’t look like Poles,’ one old lady said.
‘No,’ said another, ‘they looked like Germans.’
Bess couldn’t help but smile. How the old ducks had come to that conclusion, not having seen the men in the aeroplane, or anyone from Germany or Poland for that matter, she didn’t ask. ‘You can take my word for it. The passengers in the plane were Polish!’ she said, and left them to it.
By the end of the week Bitteswell Aerodrome’s engineers had dismantled the burnt-out plane, a structural and forensic examination had been carried out and the plane’s passengers had been discharged from the Walsgrave hospital in Coventry, where they had been taken the day after the crash with a variety of broken bones, cuts and bruises.
RAF Bitteswell and Bruntingthorpe were Commonwealth aerodromes and when construction finished they would be home to air force personnel from every country in the Commonwealth while they trained with the Royal Air Force. The Polish flyers would be based at Bitteswell eventually, but as the living quarters were not yet ready the Squadron Leader asked Bess’s father, as a member of the local ARP, if he could find each of them a room with a family in Woodcote. And, so the families didn’t suffer any shortages, the RAF would provide the airmen’s food along with extra rations of cigarettes, coffee and chocolate. The residents of Woodcote were queuing up to take a paying guest – whatever their nationality.
It was a young pilot named Franciszek, shortened to Franek because no one in the family could pronounce his name, who stayed with Bess’s parents.
Franek spent his days with Claire, who had joined the WAAF and was waiting for her papers. Franek wanted to learn English, so Claire agreed to teach him if he taught her Polish. Claire described photographs in magazines and books in English, and Franek repeated what she said. Then Franek described them in Polish and Claire repeated what he’d said. Claire had an ear for languages and learned the rudiments of the Polish language as quickly as Franek learned English.
A couple of weeks after he’d left his temporary billet with the Dudley family and was living permanently on the aerodrome at Bitteswell, Franek returned for his English lesson.
‘Hello, lad. Come in,’ Bess heard her father say. ‘If it’s Claire you’ve come to see, you’ve missed her. Her papers came yesterday; she left for Lancashire first thing this morning, but Bess is here. Bess, it’s Franek. Look after him, will you?’ her father shouted. ‘Sorry I can’t stop, I’m on ARP duty tonight,’ he said, and left.
Bess called Franek into the living room. ‘I’ve just made a pot of tea, would you like a cup?’
‘Yes. Thank you. I would like a cup of tea.’
Bess smiled. ‘Your English is very good, Franek.’
‘Thank you. Claire is - was - very good teacher.’
While they were drinking their tea, Franek took an envelope from his pocket. ‘My mother and father,’ he said proudly, handing her a selection of small grainy photographs. ‘In our garden, next to linden tree. It is a very special tree in my country. A symbol of faith and a good life.’
Franek’s mother was fortyish, pretty and slim with fair hair. His father, not much taller than his wife, was some years older and had dark greying hair. ‘I can see where you get your good looks, Franek. Your parents are a handsome couple.’
‘Thank you, but I think you make fun, like my sister, Vanda,’ he said, laughing. He pointed to the next photograph. A slender blonde girl was standing under the same tree, blowing a kiss. ‘She is funny and clever. She is only twenty years, but she has very good English. Before war
she studied at University of Cracow. Now I do not know where she is. I pray she is safe,’ he sighed.
Franek being a long way from home and not knowing where his sister was reminded Bess that her brother was a long way from home too. She had no idea where Tom was, if he was safe, or even if he was alive. While she sipped her tea her thoughts turned to James. She didn’t know where he was either. She hadn’t seen him for months and wondered when he would come up to the Hall next.
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
‘Penny for them?’
Bess jumped. She was miles away, thinking about the letter she’d received that morning from Mrs McAllister in London. ‘James?’ she gasped, turning to see the man she loved. Correction: the man she had once loved. The man she had hoped one day would love her. But that was in another life.
Standing in the doorway of the stables, Flying Officer Foxden looked as handsome and smart in his Royal Air Force uniform as Bess looked plain and untidy in her work overalls and pullover. She had tied an old scarf around her head to keep her hair from falling into her eyes while she worked, but the scarf had worn loose and strands of hair bounced before her eyes and tickled her nose. She pushed the unruly curls away, poking them under the scarf with her finger, and then worried that because she was recovering from a cold the freezing air had made her nose run. Putting her hand up and pretending to clear her throat, she touched her nose. It was dry.
‘What are you doing mucking out on Christmas Eve?’
Bess didn’t reply. She could hardly tell James she was working to exorcise the demons that plagued her, or because it made her feel closer to him, the man she loved but couldn’t have. Ignoring the pounding in her heart, she said as casually as she was able, ‘I’ve finished now.’
Foxden Acres (The Dudley Sisters Quartet Book 1) Page 15
