Under a Wartime Sky

by Liz Trenow

  ‘Language, dear,’ his aunt tutted mildly.

  ‘Huh. That’ll be the least of our worries,’ his father retorted. ‘We’ll all be talking German if they have their way.’

  15

  ‘Look at you,’ she shouted, throwing her arms around him. ‘Ma, Pa, it’s Mark!’

  ‘You don’t have to tell the whole ruddy street, sis,’ he said, shrugging her off. ‘Are you going to let me in?’

  Where was the sallow-faced brother who’d left for RAF training just a few months ago? Here, home for Christmas, was a broad-shouldered man, tanned and handsome in his blue-grey uniform, who seemed to have grown at least six inches since she’d last seen him. On his upper lip, as though in compensation for the brutal haircut, grew a moustache, immaculately shaved and shaped just as Ray’s used to be.

  ‘Heavens, lad. RAF life seems to be suiting you,’ Pa said, slapping his son on the back. ‘Come in, come in. Shall we open a beer?’

  He was shy at first and curiously formal, shifting in his seat and then padding about like a lion in a cage. Ma sent him upstairs to change out of his uniform. ‘You look like someone else in that jacket,’ she said, laughing, ‘I want my scruffy son back.’ Later, after a few beers, he kicked off his shoes and leaned back, putting his feet on the coffee table – no one told him off – and began to talk.

  ‘They never tell you how hard it is at first,’ he said. ‘All those rules, all that discipline, having to be perfect. Those corporals are mean bastards, too, pulling you up for everything, right from the start, when you haven’t even worked out what’s up and what is down. I was on the point of quitting several times, as were some of the others. But I suppose it’s your pride that keeps you going, and the fear of failing. Anyhow, I stuck it out and passed with good marks.’ He sat up, bracing his shoulders, chin high. ‘You see before you Aircraftman Motts Number Two Class.’

  ‘Cheers to that,’ Pa said. ‘Well done, son. We’re proud of you.’

  ‘When do you start flying?’ Kath asked.

  ‘Cripes, not for ages,’ he replied quickly, with a glance at his mother. ‘You have to do all sorts of physical tests and written exams, and only the best make it through. But my eyesight is good enough, they say, so that’s a start.’

  ‘You’re enjoying it, that’s the main thing, isn’t it?’ Maggie said.

  ‘Now I’ve got used to the discipline, and I’m finding my place,’ he said. ‘Still hard work, but we play hard too.’

  ‘I hope you are behaving yourself, Mark?’

  ‘We have a good time, Ma. That’s all you need to know.’ Kath returned his glance with a smile. He seemed to be well on the way to recovery.

  They sat up late together, just as they had the night before he left.

  ‘It sounds like hell, the way you talk about it. Freezing barracks, long runs in the rain, horrible food and beastly bosses. Where’s the fun in that?’

  He laughed, levering the top off another beer bottle. ‘It’s not fun, exactly. It’s bloody hard work, most of the time.’

  ‘But from the way you’ve been talking, you seem to be enjoying it. I’d be running for cover and the comforts of home.’

  He took a long swig and gave a deep sigh. ‘It’s hard to explain, really. You wouldn’t understand.’

  ‘Try me.’

  ‘First, it’s been good to get away from here and all the sadness, you know, about Ray?’

  ‘That I do understand. You look so much better than when you left.’

  ‘Also, it’s very satisfying getting fitter and stronger. I never knew I had all these muscles in my body.’ He took another swig. ‘Go on, Kath. Have another. Keep me company.’

  She opened a bottle to please him, to keep the conversation going.

  ‘But there’s another thing, and it’s harder to put a finger on . . . now I feel as though I have a proper purpose.’

  ‘But you had a purpose before. You’ve always worked hard, Mark.’

  ‘This is real, Kath. It’s serious. They won’t be needing those trenches they’ve dug in the Crescent, ’cos we’re not going to be invaded from the sea, not any time soon. The next war – and there will be a war, despite what our mealy-mouthed politicians are saying – will be in the air. The Germans have hundreds of bombers and fighters, thousands even, and at the moment we wouldn’t stand a gnat’s chance. They could bomb us into oblivion. But we’re getting ready. We’re building planes like there’s no tomorrow, and training hundreds of pilots . . .’

  She’d never heard him talk like this before. ‘You said it’d be ages before you start flying.’

  ‘That was just to reassure Ma. I start training after Christmas.’

  ‘That’s exciting. And terrifying.’ Now she wished he hadn’t told her.

  ‘I can’t wait, Kath. I just can’t bloody wait. We’re going to show those ruddy Germans.’

  ‘You will be careful, Mark?’

  He shook his head. ‘It’s not a matter of being careful, Kath. You can be the most skilled pilot ever, but much of it is down to luck. Look at what happened to Ray.’

  ‘Did they ever find out what caused that crash?’

  ‘Airframe failure.’

  ‘I don’t understand.’

  ‘Nor do I. All they’re saying is that for some reason the structure of the plane failed, which is why it broke up and fell into the sea. There was nothing Ray could have done.’

  ‘Whose fault would that have been? Surely the engineers should have picked up the problem?’

  ‘I’m not sure it was anyone’s fault. These things aren’t always obvious on inspection. Like I said, it was just bad luck.’

  From the fact that Vic had reappeared for meals and seemed to be back at work as normal, Kath assumed he had probably been exonerated from any blame. The few times she’d served him at lunch he’d been friendly, although more subdued than normal, quite thin and pale. She’d concocted some extra-special meat-free meals to try to encourage him to eat, and felt satisfied to see that his appetite was slowly returning.

  But nothing could alter the fact that both Johnnie and Ray were gone, forever. ‘I’m so sorry, Mark,’ she said.

  ‘It’s fine, honestly, sis. Getting away has been good for me. I’ll always love him, but . . .’ He upended the bottle. ‘I’ve made new friends. There are plenty of men like me in the forces and no one questions our choices, so long as we’re discreet. Life is good.’

  As they clinked glasses he smiled, happier than she’d seen him for ages. She was beginning to understand. Her brother was still the same person she’d always known, now grown into a remarkable, brave and wonderful young man.

  As winter drew on and turned into spring, the news became ever more depressing and Kath felt increasingly frustrated. Mark was out there doing something really important, and she was working in a kitchen. She’d been promoted to pastry chef, but catering for so many hungry mouths was a daily slog and everyone had to muck in. The scientists, engineers, RAF officers and administrative teams based at the Manor consumed twenty loaves of bread, six Victoria sponges, five trays of carrot cake – and more than a hundred biscuits every day. She was good at her job and well respected by the other kitchen staff, but every day was much the same as the last.

  Yet each day as she stood on the beach waiting for the ferry, she felt grateful to work in such beautiful surroundings. To her left, upriver, yachts and fishing boats rested peacefully on their moorings, switching direction with each turn of the tide. To her right, the calm waters of the river met the sea in a tumble of white horses. And straight ahead were the dark pines through which it was just possible to see, on the bluff rising behind them, the fairy-tale towers of the Manor. However grumpy she might have felt about the thought of another day’s slog in the kitchens, the sight nearly always lifted her spirits.

  Charlie the ferryman was never short of a cheerful quip, even in the worst of weather: ‘Cheer up, girl, it might never happen,’ or ‘How’s the boyfriend?’ Or he might whistle the tu
ne of a popular song, ‘Red Sails in the Sunset’, or ‘The Biggest Aspidistra in the World’.

  But on this bright, windy April day she struggled to find a smile even for Charlie. She was miserable and confused. Billy Bishop was back in town, his training course completed, waiting for his first posting as an RAF mechanic. They’d met in the pub one evening, and he’d invited her to the cinema. She had nothing better to do, so she agreed. When the lights went down he’d started kissing her and after resisting at first, she thought, what the hell, and kissed him back. It was lovely, just like old times. But then it had all gone horribly wrong: he’d wanted more, and kept running his hand up her leg.

  ‘Stop it, Billy. You’re not even my boyfriend,’ she whispered, pushing him away. But each time they’d gone back to kissing, she’d feel his hand creeping back. ‘I said no, Billy,’ she said again, to which he’d grumpily retorted, ‘Stop leading me on, then, you little minx.’ He ignored her for the rest of the film, and then left the cinema without a word.

  She felt furious with herself for agreeing to go with him in the first place. Why was she drawn back, each time, when she knew it would never lead to anything? He was a snappy dresser, sophisticated, and a show-off. He was a fund of good jokes. But beyond that they had absolutely nothing in common.

  She wasn’t short of other offers for dates, but they were usually pimply boys of her own age, chain-smoking and desperately trying to look older by attempting to grow ridiculous moustaches. Somehow none of them matched up to Billy Bishop for glamour. Joan was no fun any more; she seemed to spend every evening and weekend with Sam, and many of their other friends had left the town, either for college or for work. Some had even got married and were already producing children.

  There must be more to life than this?

  The ferry had just cast off from the Felixstowe side when she caught sight of a slight figure running down the shingle, clasping a shopping bag.

  ‘Look out, Charlie,’ she said. ‘You’ve got another customer.’

  ‘Ruddy hell,’ he muttered, crashing the engine into reverse and swinging the boat around against a fierce tide.

  As they crunched back onto the shingle she recognised the figure at once: it was Vic Mackensie.

  ‘Thanks for waiting,’ he panted, clambering into the boat. He missed his footing, dropped the bag and almost crashed into Kath before steadying himself with a hand on the gunwale. As he sat down, flustered and apologetic, she saw that he’d misjudged the waves.

  ‘Hello again,’ she said. ‘Been enjoying the delights of the Felixstowe shops?’

  ‘Oh, just a few little things,’ he said, with an embarrassed shrug. ‘Sorry to hold you up.’ He peered down at his soaking shoes. ‘Not sure how I manage it, but I do it every time.’

  ‘Takes great skill,’ she said, and was rewarded with a smile.

  When they arrived on the other side he climbed off first and offered a hand as she jumped down onto the beach.

  ‘Thanks,’ she said, leaping well away from the water’s edge. ‘Watch your feet,’ she called, dragging him away from the tideline.

  ‘I’m already so wet it doesn’t matter,’ he said, laughing. ‘I’ve just bought myself some more socks anyway.’

  They began to walk together, past the guardhouse and through the whispering pines. ‘It’s got a sort of magic, this place, don’t you think?’ she said. ‘As though it’s hiding secrets?’ Secrets. What an idiot. ‘Oh, I didn’t mean . . .’

  ‘No, I know . . .’

  ‘I’m sorry . . .’

  ‘It’s nothing.’

  They reached the front of the Manor. ‘I have to go this way.’ She pointed to the gate leading to the rear entrance.

  He paused. ‘I wondered . . .’

  She waited.

  ‘Ermm . . . you know . . . when we met before?’

  She shuffled her feet, conscious that she was already late.

  ‘I mentioned the gardens?’

  ‘Yes, you told me they were rather beautiful.’

  ‘They’re not in full flower yet, of course.’

  ‘I’m sure, but look . . . I’ve got to get to work.’

  ‘Of course, of course,’ he said, face down, shuffling his feet. And then, ‘I could show you later, perhaps?’

  ‘I don’t get off till five.’

  ‘Oh well, okay then . . . silly idea. Sorry.’

  ‘Don’t be sorry,’ she said. ‘It’s a nice idea.’

  He looked up at her then, his face brightening. ‘Really?’

  ‘Meet me at the back door by the dining room?’

  ‘Ah yes, good. Perfect, in fact. Ermm . . .’ He cleared his throat. ‘I’ll see you there, then.’

  Whatever was she doing, agreeing to meet this strange, awkward fellow? Why on earth would a brainy boffin be the slightest bit interested in a kitchen girl? Although it was hard to tell, he must be at least five years older than her, but so diffident that he often struggled to string a sentence together. Besides, she had no interest in flowers: she could barely tell a dandelion from a daisy. How on earth would they be able to hold a conversation about gardens?

  She had already decided to make some excuse about having to get home after all when, at five minutes to five, she caught a glimpse of him pacing the lawn outside the dining-room windows, and didn’t have the heart to turn him down.

  Two hours later, as she clambered on to the ferry once more and turned to wave goodbye, she smiled to herself. What a curious couple of hours it had turned out to be; so much more interesting than she’d ever imagined.

  It was uncomfortable at first, rather as she’d expected. He was even more tongue-tied than before, and she couldn’t think of anything to fill the silences. For a while they’d just walked together without saying anything. He led her through a dark tunnel that emerged into an extraordinary space, a deep, perfectly round dip in the landscape, its sloping sides brilliant with bright yellow daffodils (she knew that much) dazzling in the evening sunshine.

  ‘Wow,’ she said. ‘That’s quite a sight.’

  ‘You know the Martello towers?’

  She nodded. She’d always known, somehow, that those strange, windowless round towers dotted along the coastline had been built a century before as defences against Napoleon but had never been put to the test. Now they were neglected and slowly disintegrating, shrubs and grass growing out of roofs and walls.

  ‘There used to be one here too, but they demolished it and built this garden in the foundations.’

  The space where the great tower used to stand made a perfect sunken garden, protected from the wind. The paths and flowerbeds were weed-ridden and untidy now, but somehow all the more interesting for that. She remembered, in her childhood, reading a book about children who went through a door and discovered a long-neglected garden which they helped back to life. This place had something of that magic, she felt, as they walked the circular path around the base. She could almost feel her fingers itching to get to work: it would take so little to clear the grass strangling that rose bush, or to pull the weeds out of the gravel beneath her feet.

  ‘It’s beautiful,’ she said.

  ‘I’m glad you like it.’ His smile this time was open and true, not defensive or self-deprecating. ‘Hardly anyone else seems to come here.’

  ‘Did you ever read a book called The Secret Garden? A children’s book?’

  He frowned and shook his head. ‘I don’t recall it.’

  As they walked onwards she told him the story and he said he was sure he’d have remembered it had he read it. She offered to get it out of the library next time she was there, and he laughed, saying all the lads would tease him for reading a children’s book, and she said he would just have to read it under the covers with a torch like she used to. All their initial awkwardness seemed to disappear.

  Another tunnel led into a long rectangular garden, bounded on one side by a tall wall along which had been trained fruit trees. The branches, just coming into blossom, looked as thou
gh they were decorated with lace. ‘The trees like the warmth of the wall, so they come out early,’ he said. ‘Those old gardeners knew what they were doing.’

  In the centre, either side of a pond, were ranged stone columns supporting a rustic wooden frame covered with a tangle of rose bushes, just coming into leaf. The pond itself was choked with weeds, but even from a distance they could see the surface of the water was disturbed.

  ‘Look,’ he cried, peering into the water. ‘Tadpoles. And some of them are nearly frogs.’

  She approached cautiously, recalling the slimy spawn her brother and his friends used to delight in throwing at each other, and sometimes at her. She remembered, too, trying to memorise a diagram describing the life cycle of the frog for her science exam. As she kneeled beside Vic watching the tiny creatures nibbling at the sides of the pond and struggling to climb onto the lily pads, she began to marvel at these strange and rather wonderful little scraps of life.

  At the far end of the pond strutted a seagull, one of those large grey ones that always seemed to gather on the fields after ploughing. Every now and again it would stop and tilt its head, peering greedily at the tiny animals struggling at the edges of the pond. No doubt he would make a feast of any that eventually dared to climb out.

  He followed her gaze and seemed to read her thoughts: ‘Plucky little blighters, aren’t they? Only a very few will make it to adulthood. Which is why they have so many in the first place.’ He stood and offered his hand to help her up. It was surprisingly warm and soft. ‘Come on. There’s one last wonder to show you before it gets dark.’

  The hinges of the ornate cast-iron gate set in the side of the wall groaned reluctantly as he pushed it wide and they entered a vast walled area with long narrow beds, some filled with weeds but others newly raked and sowed, with labels at each end of the lines. This was more familiar; Kath had helped Pa at his allotment for many years, until she’d grown old enough to refuse. But this space was the size of all the allotments put together, perhaps even more. It was the biggest kitchen garden she’d ever seen.