by Peggy Savage
In December Mrs Parks gave in her notice. ‘I’ll be going to my daughter’s at Christmas,’ she said, ‘and I’m afraid I won’t be coming back. I’m sorry, Doctor.’
‘It’s all right, Edith,’ Amy said. ‘I understand. Keep in touch with us, won’t you?’
Charlie got his posting to an advanced training school. Amy drove him to the station.
‘Don’t come to the platform, Mum,’ he said, ‘and don’t worry. I’ll be all right. I’m looking forward to it. I’ll be flying again.’ She watched him go, knowing that he was going into his own world, where she couldn’t follow, that desperate world that she could never forget.
It grew colder and colder; the coldest winter anyone could remember ‘Thank God we’re not getting raids,’ Amy said. ‘We’d freeze to death in the cellar.’ The Thames froze over for the first time for fifty years. Upstream people were skating on the river, enjoying themselves.
Still there were no air raids, but the war at sea went on, the U-boats attacking shipping, and the German captain of the Graf Spee scuttled his boat and blew his brains out in Montevideo.
It’s happening again, Amy thought, the very weather reflecting the anguish that was rising from the world. It was as if the earth was retreating into itself, withdrawing its warmth and beauty, as it had among the cold and the teeming torrential rains of the war in France. She had an extraordinary sense that the earth itself was a living thing, and was turning away its face in horror and shame at what was to come.
Chapter Ten
1940
Almost the first person Charlie saw was Tim.
Tim grinned at him under his sleepy eyelids. ‘Where have you been? I got here yesterday. Come on, I’ll help you with your kit. Then we can have a respectable cup of tea.’
Charlie found his room. ‘What are we flying?’ he asked. ‘Do you know?’
Tim put his thumbs up. ‘Harvards. We are creeping closer to fighters at a snail’s pace. You wouldn’t think there was a war on, would you?’
‘We’ve got four squadrons in France,’ Charlie said, ‘and that seems to be about it. God knows when we’ll get a shot at them.’
‘Charlie,’ Tim said, with exaggerated care, ‘young Charlie. Your hour will come soon enough. Don’t be impatient.’
‘We need to get going,’ Charlie said. ‘I was in Berlin the summer before last. They’re armed to the teeth and trained up to the eyeballs.’
‘It doesn’t matter,’ Tim said. ‘It won’t do them any good. I’d love to have seen their faces when that half-baked Oxford crew sauntered in and beat their muscle-men in Herr Goering’s pet boat race. What a laugh. We all thought it was hilarious.’
Charlie smiled. ‘I don’t think it’s going to be that easy.’
Tim’s grin faded. He looked out of the window at the airfield, at the parked machines, at the snow-dusted fields and woods beyond. ‘Winning that boat race wasn’t easy, Charlie,’ he said. ‘I knew some of the crew. They just wouldn’t be beaten, that’s all.’
‘We’ll be beaten if they don’t get on with training,’ Charlie said. ‘This is just the calm before the storm.’
‘The calm of too much snow at the moment,’ Tim said. ‘We’re starting with lectures. They’ll talk us to death. The Germans won’t have to bother.’
They started the next morning with lectures on the Harvard, fully aerobatic, retractable undercarriage, Pratt & Whitney engine, speed 156 knots, range 740 miles. ‘I’m blinded with science,’ Tim said. Lectures continued, on radar and operating with ground control, lectures on formation flying, lectures on aerobatic manoeuvres. And then one day the skies cleared.
Tim was among the first to fly. Charlie watched him take off with his instructor and disappear into the distance. Eventually he reappeared, doing a very reasonable landing.
They met in the mess. ‘How was it?’ Charlie asked. ‘Any tips?’
‘Brilliant,’ Tim said. ‘Spins like a bastard, especially to the right, so watch it. I expect your instructor will drop you into that one.’
Later, Charlie took off on his first flight, eager and intense. They climbed to 4,000 feet.
‘Do a spin to the right,’ his instructor said.
Spins like a bastard, Charlie thought. It did indeed. Stick forward, he said to himself, full opposite rudder. He came out of the spin with some relief. He was sweating slightly, but his instructor seemed unperturbed. ‘Now spin to the left,’ he said. Good job I don’t get airsick, Charlie thought.
They flew every day, spins, rolls, stall turns, loops. In battle, whenever that might be, they must not fly straight and level for more than a few seconds. Otherwise they would easily be picked off by a hungry 109. All I want now, Charlie thought, is a Hurricane or a Spitfire. A real fighter.
They spent two weeks at a practice camp, air firing at a drogue pulled by a Wellington bomber, learning to allow for the bomber’s deflection. Tim seemed to be rather better at it than most. ‘It’s just like clay-pigeon shooting,’ he said. ‘You have to allow for the target’s speed.’
Charlie sighed. ‘I never did any shooting. I expect I’ll get the hang of it in the end.’
‘It’s daft,’ Tim said. ‘As if the German bombers are just going to trundle along and wait for us to come and shoot them down. And what if they’ve got fighter escorts? They’re not just going to let us wipe them out, are they?’
‘Their fighters can’t come all the way from Germany and get back,’ Charlie said. ‘They wouldn’t have any time to play with us as well. They’d run out of fuel.’
Tim gave a short laugh. ‘Who says they’ll be coming from Germany?’
‘You’re a bit pessimistic, aren’t you?’
‘Realistic,’ Tim said. ‘Things aren’t going too well in France, are they? We’re not exactly forcing them to stay in Germany, and the French aren’t doing much.’
Charlie didn’t think too much about it. He was happy, throwing his Harvard around the sky and bringing it safely home again. He’d like to get a crack at the Luftwaffe, though. Sometimes he thought about Kurt. Was he doing the same thing? Flying? He hoped not. Better if he was in the army or the navy. It wasn’t a pleasant thought, fighting Kurt.
They took, and passed, their Wings Exam. They spent half an hour sewing the wings on to their uniforms, and then went to the pub to celebrate.
‘Well, we got there,’ Tim said. ‘I wonder when we’re going to do our stuff?’
‘We’ll be off to an operational squadron soon,’ Charlie said. ‘Perhaps we’ll get to France.’
Tim shrugged. ‘If it’s still there.’
‘Ever the optimist.’ Charlie took a mouthful of beer. ‘What makes you think it won’t be?’
‘We haven’t got enough men there,’ Tim said, ‘and we’ve got to transport everything by sea and there are a few U-boats about.’ He drained his beer. ‘I’ll get another round.’
Charlie looked about him at the crowded bar, RAF personnel mostly. It was weird, he thought, this waiting. What were they doing in Germany? Planning to invade Britain? Planning to take over the world?
Tim came back with two pints. ‘I was in Paris last summer,’ he said. ‘There was a funny atmosphere. It was as if they didn’t even want to talk about what was going on – a kind of paralysis of mind. I expect they were so peed off about what happened to France in the last lot that they just couldn’t face even thinking about it. They lost fourteen hundred thousand men – dead. Poor blighters. I’m glad I’m not French. If you ask me we should get all our fighters out of there. We’re going to need them here.’
‘We can’t just abandon them,’ Charlie said.
‘No?’ Tim said. ‘Who knows? But they might have to abandon us.’
‘Well, let’s not worry about it,’ Charlie said. ‘We’ve got our wings. We’ll be flying fighters soon.’
The next day was fine – a beautiful spring day. Charlie walked out on to the airfield. Good flying weather, he thought, for us and for them. No sign of them, though.
One of the fitters was standing by the hangars. ‘Sir,’ he said. ‘Sir. Look at this.’
Charlie followed his pointing finger. An aircraft was coming in, flying very fast and very low.
‘What is it?’ Charlie said.
‘I think it’s one of ours – British – not this squadron, though. I think it’s a Hawker Hart.’
Charlie shaded his eyes with his hand. ‘What the hell’s he doing?’
‘Beating up the airfield,’ Jenkins said, ‘by the look of it.’
‘Strictly not allowed,’ Charlie said. ‘He’ll get hell from the station commander. That’s if he lands here.’
‘He’s coming on, sir. He’s cutting it a bit fine, isn’t he?’
The plane roared towards them. ‘Pull up,’ Charlie said out loud. ‘Pull up man. Climb!’
Half the station personnel seemed to be out now, watching. The plane crossed the perimeter. The pilot seemed to be making an effort to pull up and climb away. The nose rose a little and seemed to shudder, and then the plane stalled. It plunged down. One wing ploughed into the ground, the plane flipped over, and cartwheeled, hurtling over the grass, tearing and screeching. The fire engines and the ambulance roared and streaked across the airfield. It was too late – all too late. The plane exploded, fragments hurled into the air. Charlie and Jenkins both ducked, though the plane was too far away now for them to be hit. Then it burst into flames.
‘Oh God,’ Charlie said. He watched the fitter, his hands trembling, take a roll-up out of his top pocket and put it in his mouth, without lighting it, his face as white as paper. He felt his stomach clench and churn. He tried to blank out his mind, tried not to think about how the man must have died. His stomach churned again and he felt sweat breaking out on his face. He made it to the latrines before he threw up. He rinsed his face in cold water, leaning over the washbasin. That’s the first time, he thought, the very first time he had seen someone die. It wasn’t the war, it was an accident. It could have happened at any time, but it was terrible to watch. Whatever had happened, the poor blighter had bought it. But they won’t get me, he thought. They won’t get me.
That night in the mess they conducted a strange little ceremony. Charlie played the can-can music on the piano and the pilots linked arms and danced, la-la-ing to the music, kicking up their legs. Then they drank a great deal of beer, making a solemn toast to the dead pilot.
‘What’ll we do this weekend?’ Tim said. ‘We’ve got forty-eight hours. We could go up to town and do a show or go to the pictures. Greta Garbo’s on in Ninotchka, we could go to the Windmill and see the girls. Or we could just get drunk.’
Charlie laughed. ‘No thanks. I thought I’d go to Cambridge and see my sister. She’s a student there.’
‘Oh,’ Tim said. ‘You didn’t tell me she was a bluestocking.’
‘She’s hardly that,’ Charlie said. ‘She’s a medical student.’
‘My God,’ Tim said. ‘A brain! She sounds terrifying.’
‘She’s all right,’ Charlie said. ‘Takes after my mother. She’s a doctor too.’
‘I’m frightened of her as well then.’ Tim put on a pathetic face. ‘Can I come too? I don’t want to kick my heels here on my own.’
‘Yes, of course,’ Charlie said, ‘but don’t you want to go home?’
Tim shook his head. ‘My parents are divorced. My father’s in Ireland with his new wife and my mother’s in Scotland with her new husband. I don’t fancy either of them much.’
‘OK,’ Charlie said, ‘I’ll look up the trains.’
‘No need.’ Tim took a car key out of his pocket and dangled it in the air. ‘I managed to get some petrol. We’ll go in the Morgan. I’ve never actually been to Cambridge, would you believe? My family all went to the Other Place.’
They set off on Saturday morning. The countryside seemed to be struggling to recover from the bitter winter, the trees still stark in the pale sunshine.
‘March already,’ Tim said, ‘and we haven’t had a crack at the bastards yet.’
‘Don’t say too much to my sister,’ Charlie said. ‘Don’t say anything about the accident. She doesn’t need to know about that.’ The aircraft flew into his mind – too fast, too low, too late. He was doing his best to forget it. He didn’t want his family to know. Tessa was acquainted with death, he thought. She had held someone’s dead heart in her hand. But she had not seen what he had seen. Death she had seen, but she had not seen dying.
‘All right,’ Tim said. ‘I wouldn’t have, anyway.’
Cambridge, Charlie thought, with a pang of affection, was unchanged, apart from the scattering of uniforms. He had heard that they were taking out the fine old stained-glass windows from King’s College chapel, for storage in a safe place – safe from bombs. Surely not. Not here? History stood in bricks and stone, lining the narrow streets. He felt his old feelings of the deep and serene contentment that seemed to reach down through the soles of his feet into the very earth – a feeling of belonging. There was only one other place that gave him this feeling. It came to him when he stood on the perimeter of an airfield in the bright early morning, or when the sun was going down, and watched the aircraft taking off, or coming into land. It was contentment. It was home.
‘It’s a lovely town,’ Tim said. ‘The colleges are in front of your face, not mixed up with everything like they are in Oxford. I hope the bloody Germans leave it alone.’
They booked rooms at the Blue Boar, and Charlie went to find Tessa and ask her to lunch.
He brought her back to the Blue Boar. Tim was waiting in the lounge and stood up as they came in. Charlie introduced them. Tim looked his normal inscrutable self, but he was surprised to see that Tessa had produced a very faint blush. Odd, he thought. He had never seen her do that before.
They went in to lunch. ‘Rather a restricted menu,’ Charlie said. ‘They can’t get much exotic food in restaurants now, even in London.’
‘Well, it’s fairer,’ Tessa said, ‘with the rationing and everything. Otherwise the well-off could just eat in restaurants all the time and wouldn’t feel the difference. Hardly democratic.’
‘She’s a socialist,’ Charlie said.
‘We all are now, aren’t we?’ Tim said. ‘All for one and one for all.’
Charlie watched them with amusement and surprise. For once Tim seemed to have been struck dumb – or as dumb as he ever got. He seemed to spend his time looking at Tessa, and hurriedly looking away when he caught her eye. And Tessa seemed completely out of character. She was almost flirting.
What’s going on here, he thought? It hadn’t occurred to him that Tim might be attracted to Tessa, though that wasn’t really surprising. She was fairly nice-looking. But he’d never seen Tessa show any interest before. She had always shrugged it off, so set on her career.
After lunch they walked Tessa back to her college – she said she had some work to do – but they arranged to take her to dinner.
Charlie showed Tim around the town, his own college and King’s chapel. Then they walked by the river along the Backs in the pale sunshine.
Tim was still unusually quiet. ‘Charlie?’ he said eventually, ‘has Tessa got anyone? I mean a boyfriend?’
‘Not that I know of,’ Charlie said. ‘Fancy yourself?’
Tim smiled. ‘I don’t know. She’s very nice. Would you mind?’
‘No,’ Charlie said, ‘as long as you’re decent with her. Not do anything to hurt her, I mean.’ He grinned. ‘Otherwise I’ll shoot you down.’
Tim laughed. ‘If I did that, I’d let you. Would you mind if I came back to see her on my own sometime?’
‘Not at all,’ Charlie said. ‘If she doesn’t want you to she’ll tell you. She’s very direct. She doesn’t mess about.’
‘God, it’s cold.’ Dan downed his tea and put on his overcoat. ‘I’ve been thinking, Amy, maybe we should put an Anderson shelter in the garden. Mr Hodge and I could dig the pit. They’re supposed to resist a lot of blast. If the h
ouse was flattened we might be trapped in the basement. That wouldn’t be very nice.’
‘We’d freeze to death out there,’ Amy said. ‘We could get paraffin heaters, I suppose.’ She smiled. ‘Then we’d die of paraffin fumes. Not much of a choice, is there?’
‘Well nothing’s happened yet,’ Dan said. ‘Perhaps they won’t bomb civilian areas.’
‘They did in the last war,’ Amy said, ‘so I can’t see them holding back in this one.’
‘Perhaps Lord Haw Haw will tell us,’ Dan said, smiling. ‘We’d better listen in on Sunday.’
‘That traitor,’ Amy said. ‘He may be amusing but he’s British, and he’s making broadcasts for the enemy. How can he do that?’ She paused. ‘I’ll see about an Anderson shelter.’
‘He’ll get his come-uppance,’ Dan said. ‘I wouldn’t like to be in his shoes when the war is over.’ He wound a scarf around his neck and put on a trilby and woollen gloves. ‘What are you doing today?’
‘The free clinic at Hammersmith,’ Amy said. ‘Then I thought I’d go and see Mrs Lewis and offer her the job. We can’t go on like this with no help.’
‘Good idea. See you tonight.’ Dan kissed her cheek and left, into the dark, icy morning.
The Hammersmith clinic was busy. It seemed that some of the children in the slum areas were still at home. Amy treated coughs and colds, and a little girl with a nasty discharging ear. She cleaned out the ear as best she could, and then packed it with ribbon gauze soaked in antiseptic. The little girl was eleven, scrawny and shabbily dressed. She let Amy deal with her ear without complaining, though it must have been sore.
‘You didn’t send her to be evacuated, then?’ Amy asked.
‘No,’ her mother said. ‘I can’t do without her. I’ve got three more little ones and I have to go out cleaning.’
‘Bring her back in two days,’ Amy said, ‘and I’ll do the dressing again.’ They left. The mother didn’t take the child’s hand, Amy noticed. She spoke to her as if she were an adult. This child, Amy thought, was eleven years old and practically bringing up her little brothers and sisters, missing school half the time, no doubt. What future did she have? Things must change. When this war is over, things must change.
