That Burning Summer

by Lydia Syson

  REMEMBER THAT IF PARACHUTISTS COME DOWN NEAR YOUR HOME, THEY WILL NOT BE FEELING AT ALL BRAVE, she recalled. Something about this man made Peggy feel he was very much on his own.

  “Hello,” she said quietly.

  No response.

  “Are you hurt?” she tried.

  The body in front of her began to shake. Squeezed up too tightly to balance, it suddenly rolled helplessly onto its side.

  He was crying. Awful. Impossible to be frightened at all now. Peggy felt sick instead, sick with embarrassment and awkwardness. What man wants a girl to see them cry? She stretched out a tentative hand to within a few inches of his shoulder, and then pulled it back.

  “You can’t stay here all night, you know.”

  What could he understand? She had no idea.

  “And I’m really sorry about this, but I’m going to have to turn you in. We’ve all got to do our bit, you see.” She sighed, and wondered what her dad would say if he heard her now. “But would you mind taking those goggles off your head? I really, really don’t like them.”

  Very slowly, a hand emerged from the folded limbs and slid off the goggles, and the body slowly began to uncurl.

  “Please.”

  Just one word. But it was English. That was a good sign. When he had spoken before, the words had sounded to Peggy like something learned by heart for a play, or for homework. He hardly seemed to understand what he said.

  “Please,” he said again. “I cannot go back.”

  “To Germany? Don’t be silly. Of course you can’t. They won’t let you.”

  “Germany?” He finally looked at her, frowning, eyes flickering, and then looked away quickly, as if she were a light that hurt his eyes. “Nie, nie. No. To the airbase. The RAF. To fly.”

  Peggy stared at him.

  “RAF? The Royal Air Force?”

  He nodded, and began to scrabble at his flying suit. Peggy got ready to run. What was he doing? He pulled it off his shoulder, and stabbed a finger at his upper arm.

  “Poland,” he said, very slowly and carefully, as if addressing a small child. She didn’t want to lean forward, to get too close. “Poland,” he said again, in a voice of despair, and for a moment she thought he wanted to rip something from his sleeve—a badge, she supposed.

  Poland? And then Peggy remembered what June had told her when she came back from a dance at Folkestone a few weeks ago. How all the girls there had been simply mad for the Poles. Those crazy Poles. Charming, brave, utterly dashing, they laughed at danger, and spoke of nothing but revenge. Folkestone girls couldn’t get enough of them, June said. They were all throwing themselves at the new arrivals. Quite shameless. So he was Polish. But June must have got it all wrong …

  “You don’t want to fly?” Peggy asked. “I thought …”

  And the shaking began again.

  “Oh.” Peggy felt utterly helpless. “But I can’t … you can’t …”

  She stood up, and looked down at the wretched creature at her feet. His toes were grinding into the chicken-scratched bare earth.

  “You’ll have to …” But she couldn’t finish the sentence. It felt too cruel. Overwhelmed with misery, Peggy thought about her father. She hadn’t been kind to him when he said goodbye. It had been too difficult just then, with her mother in pieces. It made Peggy want to be kind now, very much indeed. She let out a deep sigh.

  “Well, I suppose I could find you somewhere to hide, just for tonight. Till we think what to do.”

  The pilot lurched to his feet. Peggy’s confidence faltered when she saw how he towered over her. She hoped he wasn’t going to start all that heel-clicking and hand-kissing again. But there was no need to worry. He couldn’t even force his face back into a smile.

  “Thank you. My name is Henryk. How do you do?”

  10

  “I’m Peggy.” The girl’s voice was clear and calm, and her hands hung awkwardly by her side. He resisted the urge to take them in his own, to cover them with grateful kisses. Peggy.

  They both looked down at his feet. Henryk’s ankle was twice the size it had been.

  “Boots,” she said. “You need boots. And dry clothes. And a stick. Wait there.”

  She flapped down the path.

  It’s not too late to run, thought Henryk, propping himself up against the chicken shed. Listening. She might not come back alone. He did have one other option if that happened, but it was a very last resort.

  He waited, feeling the weight of his weapon inside his jacket.

  When the flapping approached again, he saw the girl’s outline had changed. She had a bundle in her arms. Her hands were full of boots and she was using her chin to keep the clothes from falling.

  “I can?” he offered politely, reaching towards her.

  “You’re lucky. My mum put the trunk with Dad’s stuff in one of the outhouses, so it wouldn’t be in Aunt Myra’s way. I’ve got some of his work clothes for you—I just had to grab what was on top—but no stick, I’m afraid. I’ll see what I can do tomorrow if you still need one.”

  He wondered if she expected him to get changed there and then. He carefully placed the pile of clothes on the floor and made to pick up the first garment.

  “Oh not now. Not here.” Setting a pair of heavy leather boots down on the ground in front of him, she began to gather up the clothes again, wrapping them into a more secure bundle. “You’re bound to get wetter before you get dryer, I’m afraid. But you’d better put these boots on first, or we’ll never get anywhere. Do you think they’ll fit?”

  Her torrent of words slowed down at her final question. Henryk grabbed its meaning with relief. He nodded.

  “I try.”

  A little big, but too small would have been worse. He couldn’t tie up the left one at all, so he tucked the laces inside out of the way, and tried to stand up without wincing.

  “Dzi kuj. I thank you very much.”

  Her mouth stretched into something like a smile, and she nodded.

  “This way. Don’t worry about the dogs. They won’t mind you if you’re with me. You were lucky before, weren’t you?”

  “Lucky?” he said, checking. He thought about it. “Yes, lucky.”

  One step and it was obvious he wouldn’t make it far without her help. She ducked around to his other side and offered her arm. He couldn’t refuse. Cool and downy, it felt, and slender and strong, but not actually strong enough to take his weight. Very business-like, she realized the problem after just a few steps, and simply took his own arm and put it across her shoulder, so that she was supporting him with all her body.

  Again he could smell her hair. It made him want to gulp down great lungfuls of its scent. The only girls he’d met in England up till now moved in clouds of perfume and hairspray, and laughed too loudly, and looked at each other all the time. His fingertips brushed accidentally against the trimming on Peggy’s nightgown sleeve and met with skin. He quickly withdrew his hand, and made sure there was a layer of cloth between them before he gripped her arm again, with the strength he needed to make it useful.

  They moved painfully through the dark countryside. Henryk could sense the movement but not the direction of her thoughts beside him. She seemed sure of the way, despite the darkness. The stars were very bright. They edged round a potato field, stumbling on the ridges, and she got him over a stile and then a low, unfenced footbridge. A tricky maneuver, as his squadron leader would say.

  “Thank you,” Henryk said. It was all he could say right now.

  “It’s all right,” she said politely.

  Henryk kept wanting to say something more. He wasn’t sure if she realized the enormity of what she was doing. He wasn’t just AWOL now. He really was a deserter. He should tell her. Explain somehow. This would put her in danger. Didn’t she realize?

  “You are very kind,” he said, and she laughed, quite loudly, so he looked around nervously.

  “Don’t worry. Nobody can hear us here.”

  He nodded. He wished he knew how
far they still had to go. Or what to say. You are my only hope, Peggy, he said to himself, over and over again. Peggy.

  Then he realized she was asking him a question.

  “Sorry?”

  “I just wondered what happened. You know, how you…”

  She must be able to feel him trembling, remembering. But when he tried to bring back the details, the awful rushing and thudding started up again, and he felt he might black out. He may have stuttered a few words. In this state, he could hardly tell what was in his head and what came out of his mouth.

  “Hit.”

  “You were hit, yes. You’re not burned, are you? Look, don’t you think a hospital would—”

  “No. No. Please. No hospital.”

  “And what about your plane … oh, I see … and you must have a parachute, somewhere?”

  The sudden roar of planes overhead saved Henryk from answering. He pulled her down with him, flattening her against the hard path. When they stood up again, she brushed herself down and seemed to shake off her nerves as easily as the clinging goosegrass. But the further they went, the more often she looked behind her. All the while, the distant searchlights raked the sky.

  Finally they came to the last ditch. A low building stood beyond it. Henryk was ready to turn and flee. What if she had led him into a trap? All that turning back … were they being followed? Perhaps she had secretly alerted someone when she went to get the boots and the clothes.

  Then he recognized the church he had seen from the sky. A church the shape of an ark, and surrounded by water too, as though the flood had only just receded and it was time for the world to begin afresh. A building all alone, with flat fields all around it. Through the reeds, Henryk saw the light catching the water surface and realized the sky was no longer as dark as it had been. Dawn was on its way. The night noises were changing their pitch and tempo. New birdcalls were beginning. Peggy stopped. She looked around as she spoke, glancing here and there, but not at him.

  “The vicar used to come from Brookfield once a month, but not any more. Not since the war started. Not enough people, you see. It’s not worth it. So you’ll be quite safe here. I’m sure you will. I thought we could get as far as the Looker’s Hut—that’s no good for anything now, not with the sheep gone—but it’s just that bit further, and I’m awfully sorry, I really am, but if I don’t leave you now, I’ll never get back before they wake up at the farmhouse.”

  She saw his face and slowed herself down.

  “Can you get across the water by yourself, do you think?”

  Henryk nodded again.

  “Jolly good. You’ll find the key in the door. I’ll come back with food as soon as I can.”

  She stayed long enough to help him into the water. A shock at first, its coldness soon soothed his ankle. He took a tentative step with his good foot, which squelched into mud, and felt glad of the boots, and when he looked back to say goodbye, and thank you, a thousand more times, the ghostly white figure was already retreating across the field. He had yet to think about hunger—the pills they gave him to stay awake helped with that too. But seeing her go made him feel a different kind of emptiness.

  At its deepest, the water came up to his thigh. He had to cross very slowly, holding the bundle of clothes high in front of him to keep it dry. By the time he reached a shallower part of the bank opposite, a muddy place all pitted with hoofmarks, the sky was lighter still. At his back, a faint glow of pink was beginning to appear.

  The church was too small to have more than one entrance: a plain wooden door in a plain brick porch. Its iron key felt weighty in his grip, its handle elaborate. He had to put the clothes down to turn it with both hands. There was a porch, and then another door inside, half-open. He moved the clothes, looked back in the direction Peggy had taken, and scanned the lightening sky one last time. Withdrawing the key, he carefully shut the door behind him and locked himself inside.

  He listened, stiffening, ready for a fresh surprise as he pushed open the inner door.

  Stillness. And boxes. The church was full of wooden boxes, like animal pens, with benches inside each, and wooden doors too. He felt his way into the first one, jumping at the metallic clunk of the latch as it fell back into place. Soaking wet as he was, he laid himself down on the floor. Tiles gave way to wood, barely less hard. He didn’t deserve a bed. And he hadn’t the energy to change his clothes anyway, or make himself more comfortable. He kicked off his soaking boots. A trickle of water emerged and traced the gradient of the floor. The smell of dust and cobwebs reassured him that the girl—Peggy, he whispered again—had not lied.

  Like a clockwork toy winding down, his mind began to slow at last. He forced his jaw to stop its grinding. Before Henryk fell asleep, a ray of sunlight crept in. The only decoration in this plain, plain church was a series of wooden oval plaques, stuck high in the rafters. In the roof above Henryk, one golden inscription was suddenly illuminated long enough to read the words:

  We wait for thy loving kindness, O God, in the midst of thy temple.

  11

  Aunt Myra counted out the tasks on her fingers, and Ernest felt his panic rising. He was bound to forget something. He stared at her moving lips. Uncooked sausages. And then he thought how like sausages her fingers were too. But the fat kind, not the thin ones, like her lips. Sausages, or pale blood puddings.

  “… and when you’ve fed the chickens, fetch in the washing from the line, and put the diapers in June’s room and don’t forget to check on the baby while you’re in the orchard. And you might get a bowl of cherries for our tea since you’re there.”

  “All right.” Chickens. Washing. Diapers. Baby. Plums. No, cherries. Chickens. Washing … Yes, I can do all that. But I need the basket, thought Ernest. Where’s the basket? He put down the pig slop bucket and went to look. It wasn’t in the outhouse. Maybe Aunt Myra had left it by the line when she hung up the washing. Best check first.

  Past the vegetable patch and the chicken run and he could hear the baby had woken up. The big black baby carriage was twanging on its springs and trembling with angry crying. Ernest ran over and peered in. He began to rock the pram.

  “Hello there. You’re meant to be asleep, you know.”

  The baby stopped with a hiccup. She stared at him, tears pooling in her eyes, lower lip quivering. She seemed to be holding her breath.

  “Give me a minute,” Ernest said.

  He turned to pick up the basket and the baby let out a new howl.

  “Oh, baby … Claudette …”

  Like everyone else in the family, Ernest couldn’t get his head round the baby’s name. His cousin June had named her daughter after Claudette Colbert. It felt like the next best thing to being a Hollywood star herself, which was June’s real dream. Claudette’s dad was in uniform and well away by the time she was born, so he hadn’t had much say in the matter, though Ernest sometimes wondered what he thought.

  Ernest went back to rocking the handle of the baby carriage, and tried to stretch across the grass to reach the basket with his other hand. Then he had the idea of moving Claudette. So he pulled the baby carriage behind him, dragging it over to the washing line. The baby’s head jolted from side to side as it lurched over the tussocks. Strangely, she seemed to like these violent movements. Didn’t she? Laughter or tears? The harder he looked, the less sure he felt. Claudette’s little face lit up a bit more every time she saw his.

  Ernest decided the best thing would be to put the washing basket on the front bit of the baby carriage—the apron, June called it, for some reason. But when he fastened it up, it blocked the baby’s sight, and she didn’t like that. A few games of peekaboo later, Claudette calmed down and Ernest could get on with his tasks.

  It was a white wash. Diapers, diapers, diapers, some tea towels, and a tablecloth and some of his own vests and Peggy’s plain underwear and June’s rather fancier ones and—about three times the size—his Aunt Myra’s hanged. Ernest unpegged these with his eyes shut.

  Basket p
iled high, baby calmer—as long as he kept peeking round the washing—Ernest started to wheel the baby carriage back to the farmhouse. Then he remembered the cherries. Drat. He’d forgotten to bring out a bowl for them. Well, he couldn’t leave the baby now. She’d scream the place down.

  Under the dappled shade of the tree, inspiration struck. He explained his idea to Claudette.

  “Look. We can make a nest in the washing for the cherries, can’t we? Simple! We don’t need that silly old bowl, do we?”

  Popping one cherry into his mouth, he began to fill his nest with fruit. When he found a perfect pair of cherries, he hung them over his left ear. The baby reached out for them as they dangled, and she laughed.

  “Do you want some earrings too? Here you are then. Two for me and two for you.”

  Soon Ernest had a great pile of cherries sitting on the diapers. Back past the henhouse. The white leghorns all came rushing up to the fence at his approach. They were jolly noisy today. What was the matter with them? Through the vegetable patch. The beans were coming along. He’d be able to hide in their wigwam soon. Except he was a bit too big for that now. At the back door, Ernest realized he’d have to turn the baby carriage around to get it up the step.

  Ernest walked backwards through the door, grinning at the baby.

  He heard voices in the kitchen. An argument was brewing. Aunt Myra sounded outraged. Then Ernest heard June pleading.

  “Mum, you mustn’t. You can’t ask her that. You can’t possibly. What if it’s not true?”

  “Not true? Only too likely, I’d say. It’s just what I’d suspected myself.”

  “He went very suddenly, I suppose,” said June.

  “It’s no wonder she’s not let on. Oh, the shame of it!”

  “I can think of worse. Much worse,” said June.

  “Don’t imagine they can’t too. In fact, I did hear …”

  “Stop, Mum. You mustn’t. Just don’t say anything, please. You can see she’s already upset. And what about Peggy and Ernest?”

  “Hmmph.”

  Ernest stepped backwards, straight into the slop bucket he’d put down earlier. He skidded, and fell, making a grab for the baby carriage handle to right himself, which knocked the washing off. The cherries went flying; the baby started crying. Ernest’s head crashed hard against the scullery doorframe. When he opened his eyes again, the scrunched-up face of Aunt Myra was right against his own. Her screeching made his ears hum. He could drown in her fury.