Enduring Passions

by David Wiltshire

  ‘That’s right. You either get your employers to agree to a two-month absence and then return to them, or you could be accepted by the RAF – continue to train as pilot at one of their Advanced Flying Training Schools.’

  Perplexed, Tom asked, ‘You mean – join the RAF permanently?’

  Dickinson nodded. ‘The way things are going you might not have much choice in a year or two – unless you are in a reserved occupation – are you?’

  Bewildered, still trying to come to terms with what Dickinson was proposing, he lamely shook his head.

  ‘I have no idea and what do you mean – no choice?’

  Dickinson rolled his eyes in disbelief. ‘Dear God, Roxham, I don’t have you down as a dunce. I’m talking abouth the gathering storm – Hitler, Germany, all that rot.’

  Tom shrugged. ‘Don’t read the papers much except for the cricket and rugby. Besides, I’m getting married next weekend.’

  That did make Dickinson’s jaw drop.

  He took a large draught of beer, setting the glass down on the bar and wiping his lips with the back of his hands before saying, ‘Ye Gods, you’re a close bastard, I’ll give you that.’

  Tom wasn’t shocked by the language – he’d heard far worse aloft. He smiled, added by way of explanation, ‘We’re running away – nobody is to know so I’d appreciate….’

  ‘Of course, of course.’

  There was a pause until Dickinson said, ‘What does your fiancé think about all this – your flying, I mean?’

  ‘She was the one who actually got me into it. Without meeting her I probably would never have done it. Funny that, isn’t it? I’m in the railway police because I wanted to be near my boyhood passion – railway engines. Aeroplanes were for toffs, really. I’ve never heard of a working-class boy as an aviation hero in the Great War.’

  Dickinson inclined his head. ‘True. Well, you’re a trainee pilot now and, I don’t usually say these things, but with great potential. What I want to know is, have you really thought through what you are going to do? I’ve told you what I think, go away and talk it over with the boss’ – he gave a cynical chuckle – ‘I mean the wife. See what she thinks. There is no guarantee, of course – you’d have to go for an interview and so on, but I still have a few strings I can pull and the time is right. In the end it comes down to, do you want to stay in the police, or have a career in the air force?’

  Numbly, Tom looked into his drink. ‘Strings?’

  Dickinson grinned ruefully. ‘I don’t use them much, except to get a good table in a restaurant, but I could call myself “Squadron Leader” – I had twenty years in the service.’

  Tom was amazed. ‘You don’t look old enough.’

  Dickinson laughed and clapped him on the back.

  ‘Thank you. When I joined up in 1917 I lied about my age.’ He stubbed his cigarette out. ‘Let me know as soon as you can what your decision is. Then I’ll set the wheels in motion if you decide Yes. How long are you on honeymoon for?’

  The very word made Tom Roxham dizzy. ‘Only a couple of days. It’s all we could manage.’

  Dickinson patted his shoulder as he left.

  ‘Let me know by the end of next week, would you? Time is running out.’

  Tom promised he would.

  Left alone, he wondered what she would say. He thought of this Saturday. They were going to meet at the register office at twelve o’clock. She didn’t want him to see her before then – bad luck apparently. She was going to stay overnight in a hotel and then, as a surprise, had booked them three nights at a hotel, she wouldn’t tell him where. It was her treat because she knew he had had to fork out for the wedding ring.

  Tom had had no trouble getting the time off. It was as if they really didn’t care for his presence there at all. It was only three nights because Fay was having trouble concealing the real reason for her absence.

  So, his life would change irrevocably from Saturday onwards, whatever else happened. But Dickinson’s proposal had left him troubled. It was as if he had no control over events anymore, he was like a child’s paper boat in a bubbling stream.

  Fay went out for a ride on the Wednesday morning and was hacking along one of the lanes when she was suddenly conscious of another horse and rider on the other side of the hedge, making for the same gateway as she was. They arrived at the same time. It was Jeremy. He reigned in, looked stonily at her for a second, before raising his whip to touch his cap.

  ‘Morning to you.’

  ‘Hello, Jeremy.’

  There was an awkward silence for a moment or two as they walked on, then Fay said, ‘I didn’t mean to hurt you Jeremy – this has all just happened – I can’t explain it, I know my parents think I’m mad. I suppose in a way it is a madness. But what about you – what have you been doing?’

  He sniffed. ‘Been busy.’

  He told her about some parties he’d been to and a theatre trip arranged by Lord and Lady Forster that had been great fun. All the usual crowd had gone – hadn’t she been invited?

  As it was she hadn’t, but she shook off the implied slight. It was a relief hearing about her old friends again.

  Fay had been aware of the isolation from her usual crowd of friends and to be talking to Jeremy meant that things might slowly be getting back to normal.

  He asked, ‘What are you doing before you go?’

  ‘Doing? Nothing really.’

  ‘You ought to have a party, celebrate your success.’

  ‘Success? But I haven’t done anything yet.’

  ‘Oh come on, Fay, you know what I mean and in any case just to wish you bon voyage.’

  She pulled Jenny to a halt. ‘Jeremy, any party would have to include Tom. You do realize that?’

  He stopped slightly ahead of her, so she couldn’t look him directly in the face, but saw that he had stiffened. ‘So, you are still seeing him?’

  She frowned. ‘What do you mean – still?’

  His horse was restless and in order to line up beside her again he had to turn in a circle to do so. ‘I thought perhaps you might have had second thoughts by now.’

  Stung, she was hardly able to resist saying that she was getting married that Saturday. ‘No, Jeremy, I haven’t.’

  His face darkened. ‘But your parents said you’d been busy and that he wasn’t around any more.’

  The penny dropped then. It hadn’t been a coincidence; Jeremy had bumped into her because his parents had set this up.

  ‘I have been busy, but we’ve written a lot to each other.’ She was not going to reveal the extent of their meetings.

  His face remained bleak. ‘I see. In that case forget it. I don’t think I could face seeing him.’

  Gently she said, ‘I’m sorry you think that way, Jeremy – I think you’d like him a lot if you got to know each other better.’

  Jeremy snorted. ‘Be serious, woman. Why would I want to do that? I could have taken your rejection better if the chap was – well, you know – he’s not even trade, is he?’

  At that moment any sympathy Fay might have had for him was utterly destroyed. She didn’t trust herself to say anything civilized, just flashed him a look that said it all and dug her heels into her mount.

  Jenny whinnied as she leapt forward, but Fay goaded her into a gallop. She was furious with her parents, but out of sight of Jeremy she slowed Jenny back to a walk.

  Her first inclination had been to steam into the house, pack and leave earlier to the hotel in Peterborough. But in the peace of the countryside, common sense prevailed. She paused and looked down on the valley below, conscious of being in the last few days of her girlhood. Come Saturday she would become a married woman.

  She could not suppress a little tremble. Would it hurt? Would she be all right for him? One thing was for sure. Nothing would ever be the same again, not her mind – nor her body.

  Saturday dawned bright but cloudy, with a promise of clear skies later. Tom packed his case and sat down to a hearty breakfast. Mrs Chick
fussed around him, then went off to change. She and her husband had been thrilled to be asked to be the witnesses.

  For the next couple of hours Tom thought he would go mad. He went for a walk, into the city, found himself standing in the cathedral, looking at the stained glass windows. He walked back again, went into the North Station and sat down as the distinctive klaxon of an A4 streamliner gave only a second’s warning before it roared through, going so fast he couldn’t catch the name. Not for the first time he wondered where he would be that night. She had made all the arrangements and had taken great delight in keeping it a secret. He only knew they were going by train.

  On his platform a big locomotive drew in with a down express for York. He stood up and went to take a closer look at ‘Flying Fox’ in its apple green livery.

  The large pacific locomotives of the London North Eastern certainly had a glamour about them, and a look of brute force.

  Checking his watch he made back to his digs. Mrs Chick was in a dark blue linen suit, with big buttons and a hat with feathers everywhere. Mr Chick was in a pin-stripe suit with a shiny bottom to his trousers and elbows. Looking anxiously at her watch she said, ‘Tom, where have you been? I was beginning to get worried.’

  He smiled. ‘Sorry Mrs C – I’m just so pent up – I was trying to walk it off.’

  She produced a carnation for a buttonhole and began to fix it to the lapel of his suit. In her sing-song voice she continued, ‘We don’t want you late – that’s Fay’s prerogative. I’m thrilled to bits to be going to meet her in the flesh.’

  She’d only seen the photograph Tom had shown her when in a desperate and inspired moment he’d asked her and her husband to be their witnesses. He’d had to explain that it was because they wanted to keep it a secret because of family problems and, thus reassured, Mrs Chick had been overwhelmed at the thought.

  She began brushing his suit shoulders as Mr Chick dragged the net curtain aside and called out, ‘Taxi’s here.’

  It was only a short ride to the register office. He’d just finished paying the cabbie when another pulled in.

  She was sitting alone in the back seat. He opened the door and held out his hand.

  Fay was dressed in an ivory-coloured two-piece suit with mother-of-pearl buttons. On her head a small feathered hat with a matching net, behind which her eyes gleamed with anticipation.

  He drew her out gently. ‘Darling, you look wonderful.’

  It just didn’t seem enough. She was so mouth-wateringly, achingly desirable.

  ‘Thank you. And you’re looking very handsome too.’

  When she was standing beside him, he said, ‘I’ll pay the taxi.’

  She held his arm. ‘No – he’s going to wait for us. I’ve booked him for the rest of the day.’

  The Chicks were waiting in the foyer as he steered her proudly towards them.

  ‘This is Fay.’

  ‘Oh, Tom, she is more beautiful than in your photograph. I’m pleased to meet you, my dear – and at such a wonderful time for you both.’

  Fay nodded. ‘And I’m delighted at last to meet you, Mrs Chick – and your husband. I’ve heard so much about you from Tom here.’

  They shook hands. Mr Chick was clearly impressed with the vision of the young bride before him, but Mrs Chick butted in before he could get a word in edgeways.

  ‘Are you sure you want us at this most momentous occasion and not your parents?’

  Fay put her gloved hand through her arm. ‘Quite sure. I can’t thank you enough for doing this for us. Come on, let’s get it over with.’

  She winked at Mrs Chick as the latter looked askance. ‘Need to make an honest man of him, poor lamb, he’s lost without a woman.’

  Mrs Chick roared with laughter. ‘Aren’t they all, my dear, aren’t they all?’

  It was a simple ceremony, but the very simplicity seemed to add a greater meaning, a greater solemnity to the vow-taking than all the ceremonies Fay had seen in grand churches.

  As she faced Tom and said, ‘I do’, she felt as if they were at the centre of the universe. It was a moment so quiet, so devoid of any other sensation that it was as if a spiritual force was reading the marriage lines, not the man in the dark coat and pin stripe trousers. And as Tom faced her and took her to be his wedded wife, he experienced a strange sense of timelessness, as if the moment when he slipped the ring on her finger had happened before, would happen again, that he was eternally bound to her in a way that had no meaning in wealth, sickness, health – or even death.

  Afterwards, out on the steps, the Chicks threw rice. The men shook hands, as the women kissed cheeks, then everyone piled into the Rover 14. It only took five minutes to take them to a restaurant where they had a reserved table overlooking a garden. It was a jolly afternoon, with champagne, lamb chops and spotted dick.

  Whilst they ate, Fay and Tom could hardly take their eyes off each other. Mrs Chick elbowed her husband and grinned broadly. ‘Remember when we were like that, Fred?’

  Her husband rolled his eyes.

  They dropped the Chicks back at their home and said goodbye.

  ‘I’ll be back on the Thursday morning then,’ Tom shouted from the car as they drove away.

  At the station he cocked his head at her and enquired, ‘Right, are you going to tell me where we are going?’

  She chuckled. ‘The seaside. I’ve always loved the sea. A little place called Sheringham, on the North Norfolk coast.’

  His eyebrows shot up. He’d thought it was going to be London or York perhaps.

  ‘Why there?’

  ‘I have very happy childhood memories of being taken there with cousins when we stayed in Norwich – you’ll like it.’

  He put his arm around her tiny waist. ‘If you’re there, I’ll like it all right.’

  She gave him an admonishing look. ‘Come on then, or we’ll miss our train.’

  In their compartment they sat opposite, just smiling at each other. Whether it was the rice that had somehow found its way on to the seats and floor, or their demeanour, but several people paused at the sliding door, then carried on down the corridor. When they finally got under way, he stood up and with his fountain pen wrote, ‘Just Married’ on a piece of paper and stuck it on to one of the blinds, pulling all three down.

  ‘Tom!’

  But she was half-hearted.

  He pulled her to her feet, held her face firmly with both hands and kissed her with all the pent-up excitement he’d had since he’d first seen her in the car that morning.

  When he finally let go, she gulped for air. ‘My God Tom….’ It had been so hard and fierce and bruising, but she had been aroused and wanted him to do it again.

  He did so, only more gently this time. Eyes closed, her hands played with the back of his head and then she gave his hair a tug.

  She said, ‘Stop – someone might come in.’

  Breathless himself, he let her go. Frightened of what he wanted to do; the taste of her powder and her scent was driving him mad.

  He slumped down in the seat opposite. ‘Sorry, I’m behaving rather badly.’

  ‘No, you’re not, but patience, darling. Only a couple of hours and we’ll be alone.’

  She looked away, out at the smoke and steam drifting gently away across the fields. If truth be told, now that it was imminent, she was more anxious than ever about the coming night. Surely it couldn’t hurt that much – after all women seemed to survive it all right?

  More worrying still – would she be any good? Maybe she was frigid?

  By the time their train trundled through the Norfolk countryside, it was early evening, and the sun was beginning to lower in the sky.

  They steamed into a little station called Weyboume. Fay stretched her arms.

  ‘Next stop us.’

  Tom stood up. ‘I’ll get the cases.’

  She watched him reach up, broad back flexing as he swung his down, followed by her rather smarter one and a hat box.

  Lifting the arm rests h
e put them on to the seats.

  With a whistle, the unseen locomotive drew them out under the latticed iron footbridge, and began to draw the four coach train the short run to Sheringham.

  ‘There – there’s the sea.’

  Fay was bouncing up and down on her seat like a little girl, but Tom was more taken by the rolling hills and pine woods.

  ‘I thought Norfolk was supposed to be flat.’

  Passing a golf course with the coastline beyond they started to brake for Sheringham. Out in the corridor he marshalled the luggage near the end door. When they drew in and squealed to a halt, he leapt out on to the platform and heaved them down on to the flagstones. A porter and his barrow came up. ‘Let me, sir.’

  Fay stepped down beside him and pushing her arm through his, reprimanded, ‘Come on, darling, let the man do his job.’

  Confused, he looked at her, then realized she was a little embarrassed by his handling the luggage. He grinned, muttered in her ear, ‘Why, you little snob, I can see that I will need to bring you down a step or two.’

  Out of the corner of her mouth, she breathed out, ‘I’ll have to take you in hand.’

  She hadn’t meant it to be saucy – had she?

  She coloured up and hung on to his strong, muscled arm.

  Outside were two taxis. The driver of the first one held open the forward facing rear door. Fay got in, sweeping her legs and skirt out of the way as the driver slammed the door shut. Tom got into the leather smelling interior from the other side and sat beside her.

  He was surprised by the shortness of the journey – just a matter of two streets. Suddenly they turned on to an esplanade with the sea on their right as they stopped in front of a very large, red brick hotel with a central dome and side turrets. Coming out down the steps was a small laughing crowd, the men, some in white tie and tails, others in black tie and dinner jackets, the women in evening dresses. They set off across the gardens to the sea front.

  A commissionaire came to the car and opened Fay’s door as the taxi driver got out and went to the rear to help a young lad with a hotel luggage trolley.