In January British and American troops landed at Anzio and the bombing of Berlin and Germany by the Allies continued. They were cold in the village but reserved their fuel for the kitchen only, as the rest of the British were doing as shortages increased. In January the Russians broke through the siege line at Leningrad, and in February the Americans launched the Pacific assault and Claus sent through a parcel of warm clothing for Chris and tins of ham and so they shared their meals with Mrs Williams and Mr Reynolds. In March British troops entered Burma by glider power and the British began to dare to hope that soon it would be over.
But then Germany entered Hungary and Helen knew that Hitler would never give up until the Allies were at Berlin’s door, nor the Japanese until Tokyo was reached and the slaughter would continue. In that early spring Mr Reynolds’s son died in the Chin Hills and Mrs Williams’s nephew was missing in Italy and prayers were said in the church for those in pain.
In April, as the sun broke through and warmed the budding trees, all coastal areas in Britain were banned to visitors, and large military exercises were mounted throughout southern England. Planes flew more often from the Greater Mannenham base and from all those around and Helen rode to work beneath the thunder of their passage and the shadow of their wings.
She worked in fields which had been ploughed, planting cabbages, sowing beetroots, smelling the rich soil, seeing the seagulls whirling in the air, counting the rows she worked, listening to the men, but nothing helped because each minute of each day she ached for the feel of his lips, the strength of his body, the heat of her own response, the words of love, the knowledge of his safety. But he never came.
After Easter they set the potatoes, stooping, pressing in the sprouting tubers, stepping forward, stooping, pressing. Stepping forward, stooping, pressing, and hair straggled beneath her scarf into her eyes, her mouth. The sun was out and it was warm today, warm and clear. Good bombers’ weather. Was he flying? Was he safe? She straightened up, pushing back her shoulders, easing her back.
‘Nearly time for lunch then, me old girl,’ called Ernest and Helen nodded. They finished the rows they were working on, then squatted, eating their sandwiches, drinking their tea, saying little. She looked out across the fields, sprouting and green. Ed had said that England had so many different greens in just one square mile and he was right. Montana would have been beautiful in its way, but it was too late for that.
They worked on throughout the day and in the evening she pitched the ball to Chris, twisting her wrist as he had shown her but it was not the same as Ed. Mary took over and Helen walked into the kitchen. Laura sat by the stove, knitting.
‘Sit down, Helen. You should rest while you can. You’re getting too thin again. Much too thin.’
But Helen couldn’t rest. The evenings were too long, the nights longer still, because then she lay and thought of him stroking someone else’s body, moving in rhythm, his mouth on other lips, words of love, words of comfort which had been hers, and she was always glad when the dawn came again.
She walked back into the garden, pruning back the roses, remembering their scent from last year. She touched the tulips, the cool waxy leaves. She pulled couch grass from the soil, picking the earth from its roots, carrying it to the compost, and as dusk fell they heard the noise, the stuttering engines, the tearing, grinding sound and knew that a plane had come down, over to the west, quite close. They heard too the jeeps and the ambulances from the base and looked into the sky, but there was no thick black smoke as there sometimes was and so they knew there was no fire.
Helen took up the ball again and threw hard and fast until the garden sank beneath the night because she had no right to know whether it was Ed.
The next morning the sun was bright but cool as she rode to the farm, the wind flicking at her hair which was too long but what did it matter? Her gloves had holes and she felt the cold of the handlebars through them. The lane was rougher after the frosts of winter and she jolted and weaved then cycled into the yard, but was stopped by John.
‘Let’s be getting across to Top Field. Those damn spuds you sowed yesterday is in all sorts of a mess.’ His face was red as he strode past her. ‘Bring Rocket. Elsie’s already there.’
Helen leaned her bike against the wall, watching him as he walked, calling to him. ‘Why?’
Her breath caught in her throat and she coughed.
‘And I hope you’re not getting that damn flu. It’s enough that one of them damn Yanks puts his plane down in me spuds. Just when they’ve been sown. It’s a bloody liberty.’
He stopped and said, ‘For God’s sake go and get that damn horse hitched to the cart. I wants them bits out of my old spuds.’
Helen watched as he hurried down the lane, calling, ‘Was anybody hurt?’.
‘Only the pilot and he’s not dead.’ John stopped and turned. ‘Don’t you worry, me old girl. It wasn’t your Ed.’
Helen looked again at his bowed back as he continued down the lane, his stick swinging out before him, kicking sideways at stones, at young thistles. John had never said anything to her about Ed before, he had just been kind, talking of the years she had in front of her and how many fish there were in the sea and now she wanted to follow him, take his hand in hers and thank him. Instead she walked back to the yard and harnessed Rocket, pulling herself up on to the seat and taking him out of the yard, down the lane and up into the top field, tying his reins round the brake, leaping down and standing with John and the men as they looked.
The Fortress had crashed through the elm trees and there was freshly splintered wood and bark across the field, bright against the dull metal. There were great furrows gouged into the ground.
‘Damn old boys baled out safe, but the pilot was taken away last night. Broke his poor old back,’ John said, leaning with both hands on his stick, nodding towards West Field. ‘The engines and wings are over there, on the other side of the hedge.’
Helen walked forwards, towards the broken wreck. It was so big and helpless, all its power had fled. She stood looking up at the spines which showed through the jagged fuselage, at the picture of a blonde with the words ‘Sarah Jane’ written beneath. It made it seem too painful. She turned to John.
‘We can’t move this,’ she said. ‘It’s too big and they don’t like us touching the ones that come down.’
‘I know that, but we can move some of these bits.’ He waved his stick at the jagged metal scattered all over the field. ‘They’ve never brought one down on me spuds before and I’m not having it.’
Alf was already moving Elsie across nearer the elms. Rooks were cawing in the sky, raven black. Helen moved away, out of the shadow of the plane, picking up twisted metal as she walked back to Rocket, throwing it into the cart, coaxing him closer. He shook his head up and down and backed but she calmed him, crooning softly until he stood steady again. She and John scooped up more, sharing the weight of one bit which looked like part of a door, there was a scarf beneath it, stiff with blood. They tipped the door into the cart and then Helen returned for the scarf, putting it near the front, not in with the wreckage because it had once belonged to one of Sarah Jane’s crew; somebody’s son.
They worked for thirty minutes before the jeep from the base came roaring up the field, lights flashing and horns blazing. Helen ran for Rocket who jerked backwards, snorting. She grabbed for his bridle, gripping it by the bit, talking to him, soothing him but the Americans had leaped from the jeep and were shouting at John.
She shouted to John, ‘Tell them to be quiet, Rocket will bolt.’
She hung on to the horse, talking, soothing, hearing John shouting at the men climbing from the jeep who took no notice.
‘Leave that plane alone, bud.’
‘That’s US property. It’s not to be moved by anyone but us,’ the Colonel shouted.
Helen was using both hands now, pulling Rocket’s head down. Another jeep came up the field but she was straining to hold him as he tossed and shook. He was too startled
, though, too heavy for her and he knocked her back with his head, smashing into her face. She groaned with pain but the horse was slipping now, his legs kicking and struggling, and she reached out for him again but he went right down in the shafts and she moved forwards as he thrashed, hearing the clink of harness and chains. She caught his mane, and then his head. Her nose was bleeding down on to her dungarees and she cried with the pain but the big horse was snorting with terror and he could break his leg. She threw herself on top of his head, crying out to John, to the men who were running over to her now, knowing that she must press his head down to try and keep him still.
She could hear the shouts, the boots running through the ploughed soil and then she felt hands round her waist, lifting her, but she shouted as blood ran into her mouth, ‘No, let me go. He’s got to be kept still.’
‘Helen, it’s OK. Let go.’ It was Ed, his voice, his hands and so she let him lift her clear but those hands now stroked another woman and so she pushed herself from him, wiping her face, mixing the tears with the blood.
‘Someone must keep him still,’ she said looking only at Rocket, but John was there now, pressing himself across the horse’s head and Ed moved back to the horse, kneeling in the damp soil, his trousers soaking up the wetness and as he spoke and stroked the horse’s muzzle, neck and chest, the thrashing slowed and gradually stopped but his legs were tangled in the straps.
She heard him say, ‘Get those cutters from the jeep.’
The Colonel turned, signalling to the driver, who jumped out, ran to the tool box and brought them across and she watched Ed’s hands as he cut through the leather harness and unclipped the chains. Her nose was still bleeding and she undid her scarf which had slipped to her neck and held it against her face, waiting as John shouted at the others to back the cart away from the horse. Now Ed stood back, telling everyone to stand still. They all watched as Rocket scrambled to his feet, waiting as Ed came up, rubbing his hand gently under his chin, holding the bridle, leading the horse from the field.
The Colonel spoke. ‘Hey, Ed. What about this mess with the plane?’
Ed didn’t turn, he just called ‘You can sort that out, sir. This horse needs a bit of peace.’ He continued walking and the Colonel shook his head. ‘Damn Air Execs, they’re all the same. This one reckons he’s back in Montana soft-talking his stock, not fighting a goddamn war.’ But he was smiling. ‘He sure is some kind of guy with a horse, isn’t he?’
Helen’s scarf was soaked through with blood and her face hurt. Her lip was swelling and she touched it with her tongue. She didn’t look at Ed as he left the field with his rolling gait, his strong shoulders, but at John and the Colonel, but now her boss said, ‘You get on back to the farm too, lass. Get that nose sorted out. Don’t want you frightening any more horses, do we?’
Helen shook her head. ‘I’m fine,’ she said.
‘Do as you’re told, me old girl. Get on back.’ John’s voice was firm now and so she turned and followed on behind Ed, walking slowly so that she did not catch up, so that she would not have to talk to him, see those lips which were kissing someone else.
‘And get a move on,’ John shouted and so she was forced to quicken her stride, but only until she was out of the field and then she turned towards the farm but Ed was just to the left of the gate, holding Rocket still, waiting for her, leaning into his shoulder as she had so often done.
‘You handled him pretty good,’ he said, not smiling. His face was even more deeply lined, his eyes sunken with tiredness. ‘I guess you’d do pretty good in Montana.’
Helen didn’t stop. She bunched her scarf to her face and hurried on, but he just brought the horse along quicker, rolling his feet, stretching out his legs.
‘How’re you doing, Helen? You look pretty good.’
She didn’t turn.
‘Plenty of colour on your cheeks today.’
She stopped, waiting for him to pass, but he didn’t, he just leaned back into Rocket’s shoulder, pulling on his bit, saying softly, ‘Whoa.’
‘Leave me alone,’ Helen said, hating him for looking so beautiful, tearing apart inside because she loved him so much. She wanted to laugh because he was funny, wanted to cry because, though his words were light, his hands were trembling and so were hers.
Ed narrowed his eyes. ‘I dropped in to the cottage this morning because I reckoned maybe you got hurt yesterday when the Sarah Jane came down.’
‘Well, I didn’t. I just got hurt when a crowd of Yanks rushed my horse.’
She walked on, wanting to lean into him, to feel him against her, to hear him say that he loved her, but he never would again.
‘I love you, Helen,’ Ed said, walking Rocket on again. She heard the stones clicking against the horse’s hoofs, heard them slip beneath him, heard the soft snorting of his breath. A finch darted out from the hedge, and Rocket twitched.
She still did not stop; dared not stop.
‘I said I love you.’ His voice was louder now and he caught at her arm but she shrugged him off.
‘No you don’t. You love someone else. I’ve heard. Madge talks about you all the time.’ And she did. About the way his moustache tickled when he kissed, about his eagerness in bed, the scar on his left shoulder.
Ed caught her again, his fingers digging into her arm.
‘That was over a long time ago. I was hurt and frightened. I love you, you love me. I know you do. Marry me.’
Helen looked into his face now, searching for the truth and saw it in his eyes that were so brown, the face that was thinner, the lines that were etched as though with a chisel, but wondered if it was only there because she wanted it so much. She turned away, and then saw again the scarf as it had lain on the ground. She looked at him.
‘Do you love me?’ she said, her voice muffled by her scarf.
‘Enough to stay over here if you won’t come back with me,’ he said.
She knew then that his love was as great as hers. She looked at the fields either side of the lane and the finch which was back in the hedge. She drank in the Englishness which surrounded her, the freshness, the smallness, and loved it but loved him more.
‘I love you. I love you,’ she murmured. He kissed her hand and then her neck, and walked back with his arm around her, knowing that he could not bear life without her again, thinking how glad he was that Mary and Chris had phoned him at the base to see if he was safe and then to tell him that Helen loved him more than ever.
The Colonel had to call at Laura’s cottage to go through the formalities of ensuring that Helen was of a good enough character to qualify as an American Serviceman’s wife. They drank elderberry wine and laughed to cover their embarrassment and he told them that Ed was the best Air Exec, that he had ever had and that the Major was giving him an easier ride now that they had long-range fighter cover. They laughed again but when he left Helen leaned against the door because Ed would be flying again in five weeks’ time unless the war ended; but it wouldn’t, it was endless.
They called the banns at the church where the vicar had said that he would be pleased to marry them. Madge looked the other way when Helen passed and Mrs Vane was too angry to be able to speak with civility. Ed completed affidavits confirming that he was in a position to support her financially but Helen had no intention of being dependent. She had her job and her agency in America. They were to be married on 1 May and Helen thought of one day at a time, because tomorrow and the day after were the future.
Helen stood with Ed inside the Parish Church, in a suit made of damaged parachute silk. Chris watched with Laura and Marian on the bride’s side which was filled with villagers – but not Madge – whilst the Americans filled the right. Mary was the bridesmaid, also in parachute silk, and Chris found her lovely. She was not so fat and her hair was curled again with pipe cleaners and now she was looking round and smiling at him. He wondered how he could leave England without her because she was his friend, but also somehow more than that.
He listened to h
is mother as she spoke her words in a voice which was clear and true. He listened to Ed as he promised to love and to cherish, till death do us part, and hoped that his new father would never have to fly the Purple Heart Corner as Earl had done. That bottom rear corner was the most vulnerable position and won too many wounded-in-action medals for the crews that flew in it. Later they walked from the church to the lounge bar of the Royal Oak and talked to the guests, who ate and drank refreshments provided by the base and as the knife sank into the cake which the Master-Sergeant cook had sent, he whispered to Mary, ‘Will you come to America too?’
She didn’t answer, just looked at him, and then turned back to Helen and Ed as they kissed, then threw homemade confetti as they left, laughing as Mrs Vane caught the bouquet.
Helen and Ed took a taxi to Norwich. They sat close and he felt warm against her. His hands clasped hers and they did not speak. They climbed the stairs of the inn past peeling paper and beneath dimmed lights, but did not notice. The bedroom was warm, a fire burned and Ed said that this was his CO’s present to them. His voice was low and he didn’t smile as he took her coat from her shoulders and dropped it to the floor. He didn’t smile as he slipped her clothes from her body and then his own. Helen didn’t speak, just stood as he held her, kissed her, ran his hands down her body and now she trembled and lifted her arms to him, pulling his head down to hers, kissing his mouth, saying his name again and again because he was so beautiful and she was so full of love.
They did not sleep that night but lay together on the bed, feeling the heat from the fire, seeing the flickering shadows which licked at the ceiling. They clung together and then away, loose and easy and full. Tonight there was no war, no world outside this room. They talked of their love, their passion, their fears, and then they kissed again and felt the weight of one another and breathed in the scent. They talked of the blossom on the trees, the skies which were starlit tonight and then they merged again, lying together as the dawn rose, pink and clear and fine. They did not speak of the future because there might not be one for them both.
Somewhere Over England Page 28
