by Milly Adams
He walked away, and Gerry Heath tapped her hand. ‘You take care now, Bryony Miller, and that young man too.’ He followed Mr Templer down the drive. Bryony ran after them, ‘Stop, what’s your nephew’s name?’
Mr Templer called back. ‘Stan Jones.’ His voice was stronger now.
Bryony said, ‘Tell Stan Jones to get better.’
‘I will.’
Bryony returned to the house. April held her hand, and they moved into the hall. ‘Did it get too wet or can you read it? Is it important, will it matter if you can’t?’
Bryony nodded. ‘Yes, it will matter.’ She unfolded the sheet. It was readable. Now she moved to the telephone, lifted the receiver, and asked the telephonist to connect her. A woman answered, ‘This is the Rowan residence, can I help you.’
Bryony swallowed, gripping the receiver tightly. She said, ‘This is Bryony Miller. I was at Dunkirk. Your son gave me your telephone number. He wanted me to let you know how far he’d got, and for me to tell you he loved you. But I couldn’t remember the telephone number. I’m so sorry, but I just couldn’t remember it but I wanted you to know he was so brave, making sure his men got on the—’
Mrs Rowan interrupted, her voice very quiet. ‘The Sunflower. Yes, we know. I’m sure you’d like to know that our son, Ben, is safe. He returned on a destroyer. He knew you’d call if you could but he will be so relieved to know that you are safe. It has so worried and upset him that you might not have made it home.’
Bryony couldn’t speak, because though no tears were falling, her shoulders were shaking. April took the receiver from her. ‘Yes, they made it home,’ she said. ‘They’re both home and now Bee will get better. She’s very tired.’
Bryony was climbing the stairs. She walked into Adam’s room, her nose running, her heart breaking, the sounds and sights of the days off Dunkirk vivid, noisy and terrifying. He was propped up on pillows and leaned forward, ‘Bee? What is it?’
‘I’d forgotten it, you see, the telephone number but someone came and gave it to me. Stan Jones is safe. Ben Rowan is safe. They made it home.’ She sat on the edge of the bed, and now she was sobbing, almost howling. Adam pulled her to him and held her, rocking her. ‘Slow down, tell me what you mean.’
She told him, and as she did so Dunkirk came back, and the horror, and the sadness, the exhaustion of it all. As the day wore on into evening, and then night, the pair of them talked, and slept, and talked, and shared, as they always had.
April looked in at four in the morning, and smiled. They were asleep, clinging together like the two kids they’d once been. Bee would be all right now and perhaps Adam would realise that he was indeed ‘her young man’. He’d better, or Eddie and she would give him a good whack across the backside.
Chapter Six
21 June 1940
Bryony leaned back against the Combe Lodge kitchen dresser eating her toast, watching April, who had moved from the cottage into the Lodge last week. Bryony and Adam had helped her transport her belongings, to make space for two pregnant women who had been evacuated from Jersey the previous week.
April no longer helped with meals at the hotel, as holidaymakers were practically non-existent, and instead was helping at the school. She grinned at Bryony as she put lettuce into a string bag for the school lunches. ‘You’re a noisy chewer, just like your father. I can hear you crunching from here.’
‘Well, thank you for that, not that you haven’t said it a million times before.’
April laughed, and now it was the potatoes that she and Bryony had dug early this morning that she heaved into a string bag. She said, ‘I suppose, Bee darling, your Uncle Thomas’s phone call last night wasn’t, by some miraculous chance, about Hannah and your mother’s intentions?’
Bryony finished the last of her toast, smelling onion on her hands. Perhaps she shouldn’t have cut up the wretched things for the stew that April was to leave slow-cooking for their evening meal. But who on earth was going to notice while she did her three test circuits at Hatfield for the ATA? Eddie had said it would be in an open Tiger Moth, so the breeze would blow all smells away.
April was saying, ‘For heaven’s sake girl, your nails are dirty from the digging. Make sure you clean them before you head off for the train. Can’t have you turning up showing a lack of respect. Let me see your shoes.’
Bryony sighed as April checked and nodded her approval. ‘They’ll do. Now, you haven’t answered me. Did Thomas say whether Hannah is any nearer to agreeing to come home?’
April shoved more carrots into a rucksack. Bryony flicked a look at the wall clock. Six forty-five a.m. She would have scrubbed her nails anyway, and April knew that of course, but she was agitated, and seemed more nervous than Bryony about the test for the ATA. Perhaps she was frightened Bryony would actually be taken on, and therefore put herself in danger – again. Dunkirk had upset her, and Bryony thought it was this that had really hastened her move into the Lodge. She wanted to be in the midst of them, almost touching Adam and Bryony whenever she passed to prove to herself that they were whole.
Bryony moved to the sink, turned on the tap, and water gushed and splashed on to her pristine white blouse. She reduced the pressure and scrubbed her nails, feeling that it didn’t matter where any of the British were, or what they were doing, because from now on bombs and danger were coming to everyone. So who was to say that Hannah and her mother weren’t the sensible ones if they opted to stay out of harm’s way? If indeed it was. That was the trouble; no one knew what was the right way to jump any more.
Bryony said as she scrubbed, ‘Hannah won’t budge while she and Peter are in love, and Uncle Thomas said that though people are registering for evacuation, and our troops are leaving, there’s no sense of urgency and many think the Germans don’t want to bother with little potato-growing islands.’
She turned off the tap and dried her hands. ‘Let me see,’ April commanded. Bryony grinned and held out her hands. ‘I’m twenty-three, not three.’
‘Well, sometimes I have trouble remembering.’ April began to heave the bags out through the back door, while Bryony took the rucksack. They dropped them into the cart that Adam had made to fit on to the back of his mother’s bicycle.
‘Where is Adam?’ Bryony asked, looking towards the shed where the bikes were kept.
‘Down at the Sunflower. He’s had to re-strip her because she’s still not right. Dunkirk wore out the old girl, I think, but he wants to get her engine running as smooth as a baby’s bum in case your mum and Hannah need to come home in a rush. I do wish he’d take it a bit easy but he’s insisting he’s well enough to be signed ready for action any day now.’ April’s voice was tense.
Bryony followed her back into the kitchen. ‘He shouldn’t work so hard. He must have been down there before it was light. I can always take the Tiger Moth, now I’ve got the Dragonette’s engine in bits.’
‘Rubbish, Bryony Miller.’ She didn’t see Eddie until he spoke. He was standing in the hall doorway in his dressing gown, yawning, his thinning hair dishevelled. ‘Don’t even think of it. It’s too dangerous. I gather the Germans are overflying the Channel Islands.’
‘I’ll avoid them.’ She grabbed her jacket.
Eddie muttered, leaning forward and waving his finger. ‘Do not be flippant, Bee. I forbid you to fly to Jersey, do you hear? Who knows what might come out of the clouds at you.’
Bryony raised an eyebrow. ‘So says the man who delivers aircraft from suppliers to maintenance units, or airbases, in practically all weathers.’
‘That’s necessary. A flight to Jersey is not. Promise me.’
April looked from one to the other, and slipped her arm through Bryony’s. ‘You had better do so, or you won’t get through the door.’
Bryony recognised the set of his jaw, and knew that he was deadly serious. ‘I promise. Really I do, Uncle Eddie, so relax.’
Eddie nodded, and moved aside. April smiled at Bryony. ‘Now, Miss Contentious, you need to run for the bus
or you’ll miss it, and then the train. Fly well, darling girl.’ She kissed Bryony and they walked past Eddie, down the hall to the front door. As she opened it, Bryony looked back as she always did before she left for a flight, loving the wide staircase, lit from the tall window halfway up, the ancient flagstones of the hall, the old runner of a carpet, the paintings Hannah had done, and which she insisted hang here, out of direct light.
There was also the evocative smell of the place: a slight hint of dog, even though Rosie was not here at the moment, the scent of polish, and of something indefinable but which was the essence of Combe Lodge. Perhaps, she thought, it is the sum of all those who have ever lived here, which meant Uncle Eddie, and her dad’s ancestors, the Millers.
Eddie came along the hall, a mug of tea in his hand, the steam rising, to join them at the door. His slippers were shabby and frayed. Well, everything in the house was shabby and frayed. As always, they were just managing to limp from one year to the next, doing what they all loved, and she would fight to the death to protect it. She laughed aloud at her histrionics. Obviously it was in the Miller genes, and it wasn’t just Hannah who had a dose. Eddie said, ‘I might be a laughing stock, my dear girl, but I love you. Fly well today, if it’s what you want. There’s no pressure on you.’
‘I love you too, Uncle Eddie. I think I do want, because we’ve got to stop this madness. But am I good enough?’ Eddie shared a look with April. He groaned, and said, ‘I do despair sometimes, don’t you, April? You’ve a commercial licence so of course you’re good enough, silly sod.’
Bryony smiled, but nervousness was dragging at her. ‘Tell Adam, when you see him, that he mustn’t do too much on the boat today if he wants to go back but must pace himself. I’ll see you all later.’
April hugged her, and hoiked her gas mask off the hook. ‘You simply must stop forgetting it. Have a good journey. Hurry, now.’
Bryony kissed them both, then ran down the drive, turning to wave. It was then, as she saw the two of them standing close together at ease, waving, that it occurred to her that they loved one another. Of course, how on earth could she have missed the familiarity, the caring, the looks that must have passed between them for years? Why on earth hadn’t they done anything about it? Everyone would be so happy for them.
She ran on, the gravel crunching, out on to the narrow road, passing Stubby Baines the milkman who was putting some bottles into the crate April left at the bottom of the drive.
‘Fly well, young Bee.’
‘I will.’ She rushed along the road, following the bend. The bus was waiting at the bus stop. She checked her watch. She was late. She clambered on. ‘Thank you, Dan.’
‘Ah well, couldn’t have you missing the train, but let’s get on, for Gawd’s sake or Eddie won’t buy me that pint he promised if I got you there on time.’
Mr Hampton, sitting on the front seat, hollered, ‘Get the bloody bus in gear, Dan, or you’ll have to drive her to Hatfield. Mark you, I could do with a day out.’ She sat next to him, laughing as the passengers chanted. ‘A day out, a day out.’
Dan got a wriggle on, yelling at embarking passengers to hurry up, or Bryony would miss her train. They reached the station in time and as she joined those waiting on the platform she checked that she had the letter from the ATA. She had. She checked her nails, her shoes, and the time. The train was late. Please, please, not too late.
A voice behind her said, ‘Very smart, even if I do say it myself, and you have your gas mask. What a turn up for the books.’ It was Adam, flushed and panting. She smiled, speechless. He was here. He had bothered to come when she’d be home this evening anyway.
‘I was caught up between a gasket and hard place, so I had to cadge a lift off a delivery van, and I need to get Dan’s bus on its return trip, which is due any minute now. Break a leg, make sure they know you have a commercial licence, make sure you bring the Moth in to land like a butterfly, make sure you’re safe, then maybe we’ll get rid of you at last, and get you obeying orders.’
He was turning on his heel while she shook her head at the speed of it all. She wanted him to say, I love you, I always will. Be careful because I can’t live without you. She lifted her hand.
He turned, ‘Bee . . .’ He stopped, looked down. ‘Oh, never mind. Give ’em hell.’
He was gone as the train drew in but she watched him until he was out of sight. He walked with much more strength, and fluidity. His shoulders were braced instead of slumped. Yes, he had made a rapid recovery, though still wheezed and coughed. He said he was ready to go again, and she didn’t know how she could bear it. But of course she would, just as everyone did.
On the stop–start journey to London and then back out to Hatfield she thought of Eddie and April. Why had they never said anything? Or was she wrong? She checked her letter, the date and time for the hundredth time. She listened to the other passengers. She stared out of the windows. She thought of Hannah, and her mother. Bryony had telephoned Hannah last week and had created a major sulk in her younger sister by asking when Peter was joining up?
Hannah said, ‘You just want to spoil my life because you’re an old maid in love with your stupid planes.’ She did hate it when Hannah hung up on her.
She looked out of the train window as they screeched into the station. She was here. On the platform were young men in RAF uniform. Excitement and a deeper nervousness vied with each other as she stepped down on to the platform.
At Hatfield Aerodrome, Bryony showed her letter to the security guards and the RAF police at the gate. As she followed one who sparkled in his uniform and white blancoed belt towards an administrative block, she breathed in the smell of the place, the aircraft, the noise. The windsock indicated a gentle breeze, the lush grass of the aerodrome stretched before her. It was familiar as all airfields were familiar, a sort of ‘home’. Above, yellow Tiger Moths followed a leader round and round in a circuit, then came in to land, most bouncing then settling. Beginners, she thought.
The policeman left her at the door to an office. She knocked.
‘Enter.’
Sitting at a desk was a smart and sharp female Air Transport Auxiliary senior officer wearing a navy tunic, on the shoulders of which were two broad gold stripes. Well, a First Officer, then. On her left breast were wings embroidered in gold thread with the letters ATA in the centre. She indicated the chair set up on the opposite side of the desk. Bryony forced herself to sit as though relaxed, and answer questions on flying hours, types of aircraft she had flown, and qualifications. When asked, she admitted that she hadn’t flown for at least three weeks. The woman smiled. ‘Yes, Eddie Standing has filled us in quite comprehensively, Miss Miller. I gather you were busy elsewhere. Now, let’s see how all this translates into fact – or not.’
As the two of them left the office, the woman handed her a leather helmet and goggles. They walked silently across to a two-seater yellow Tiger Moth that had seen better days. The woman climbed into the front seat, plugging in the speaking tube and doing up her straps. Then she sat quite still, waiting. For a moment Bryony hesitated. She never flew without checking her aircraft thoroughly, so instead of climbing straight into the dope and canvas warhorse she carried out a preflight inspection, ignoring the mechanic who tapped his foot and whistled in irritation as he waited to swing the propeller.
Only when she was satisfied did she climb into the seat behind, tucking her gas mask on to her lap.
She drew on the helmet and goggles, and waited. ‘Shall we proceed, Miss Miller? Three circuits and three landings, if you please,’ the woman said through the earpiece. It wasn’t a question, but an order.
Bryony took a deep breath and switched on. The mechanic swung the propeller. Nothing. They tried again and the engine burst into life. She eased the throttle to control the flow of petrol, and signalled to the mechanic to remove the chocks. In his place she saw Uncle Thomas in charge of the Dragonette’s chocks and it settled her. Opening the throttle, she taxied to the downwind boundar
y. Again she heard the voice through her earpiece. ‘Three circuits, three landings, and be aware this is an RAF training school, and of course there is also de Havilland’s air traffic, Miss Miller. Let’s all get down in one piece, please, and not be “ill met by beginner”, if I may paraphrase badly.’
Bryony acknowledged this, saying down the speaking tube, ‘Yes, thank you, Miss . . .’ She petered out. Should she say Ma’am? But she wasn’t in the ATA yet, and wouldn’t be, unless she shut up and got a move on.
She stopped at right angles to the take-off path, and now she was calm, now she knew her business. She checked that the petrol was sufficient for the flight, the throttle friction nut adjusted to prevent the throttle slipping back during take-off. The trim-tabs were set, both magneto switches were on, the mixture control fully rich. She looked up and round the sky, the yellow chicks were all down, and the runway was all clear.
Finally she turned into the wind, opened the throttle, easing the control column forward to increase her speed and lift up the tail until at sixty miles per hour they had lift-off. The old dear climbed steadily, and because she was old and had been round the block a few times, she could probably fly herself. Bryony’s heart was singing, as it always did when the earth fell away. She checked all around, and saw nothing but thermals, clouds, and empty sky – all of which amounted to heaven. Were there angels sitting on the few fluffy clouds? She often waggled her wings once she reached cruising height and speed, but today common sense prevailed.
She flew the first circuit, and landed perfectly. There were no comments in her earpiece. She taxied back to the take-off point examining the sky and the landing strips. All clear. She took flight again, climbing to one thousand feet and throttling to cruising power, watching the altimeter, then turning, banking on to the crosswind leg. Slowly she closed the throttle, trimming for the glide, keeping the speed steady as she came in for the landing, checking the sky, and peering at the ground from the cockpit. She saw movement. It was not all clear.
