Under a Wartime Sky

by Liz Trenow

  All along the walls on the opposite side were tumbledown greenhouses, and in the centre stood a tall, ornate wooden structure that had clearly once been painted white, but was now looking sadly in need of attention. Not of scrap of glass remained in its sides or roof.

  ‘That was the lemonry,’ Vic said.

  ‘Do they really grow lemons?’

  ‘Not any more, they don’t.’

  ‘Do you remember telling me about it when we met on the Cliff Path that day?’

  ‘Did I really? I was in such a state.’

  ‘You were, a bit.’

  ‘Talking to you helped, you know.’

  ‘I’m glad.’

  ‘It’s just that . . .’

  ‘Just that . . .?’

  ‘You remind me of him a bit. You’re so positive, like him.’

  ‘Him?’

  ‘The friend I’d lost that day. My best friend.’

  She struggled for something to say that wouldn’t make him feel worse, and then remembered Ma talking about visiting a newly widowed friend: ‘We spent an hour talking about him and at the end she thanked me, because the worst thing is when people never even mention his name, as though he’s been completely forgotten.’

  ‘How do I remind you of him?’ she asked now.

  He sighed. ‘It’s just . . . Oh, I don’t know. He was always so optimistic. He loved life and he had such a loving family. Two charming children. I miss him so much.’

  ‘Clever too, I assume?’ she coaxed.

  ‘Not only clever, but thoughtful, you know . . .?’ He tailed off, and she waited. ‘He’d think around a problem rather than just charging in. We made a good team.’ Vic looked up at the sky, as though he could see his friend there.

  ‘I’m so sorry. You must miss him horribly,’ she said, moved by his obvious distress.

  A long pause, and then, ‘Don’t think me crazy, but sometimes I think he’s still here. He talks to me.’

  Kath was momentarily silenced. Was this man some kind of ghost-believing nutter? She tried to formulate a sensible response and came out with the first thing that came into her head. ‘Do you believe in souls?’

  He laughed, although she couldn’t see what was funny. ‘Oh yes, Hindus are very keen on the afterlife,’ he said. ‘It’s a kind of bargain. Behave well in this life and you will rise through the ranks in the next one.’

  ‘And if you’re bad?’

  ‘You come back to earth as a dog, or a worm.’

  Her turn to laugh, now. ‘Or a frog? Fancy having to fight with so many others and then getting eaten just as soon as you managed to clamber out of the water.’

  ‘Do you?’

  ‘Do I what?’

  ‘Believe in souls?’

  ‘D’you know, I don’t think anyone has ever asked me that. I don’t believe in ghosts, if that’s what you mean. But souls? I suppose in the vague way that we all believe in some kind of God, mostly because it’s just too horrible to imagine there isn’t some kind of afterlife, that we just go pop like a lightbulb when we die. So yes, I think I do believe in souls, although exactly what it feels like being just a soul without a body is pretty hard to imagine.’ It was the longest speech she remembered ever making, and very probably the most curious and fascinating conversation she’d had for a very long time. The clock on the stable block chimed seven. Two hours seemed to have passed in minutes.

  ‘Heavens, is that the time already? I’ve got to get back for supper. Thank you for showing me the gardens. I’ve enjoyed it.’

  ‘Me too. Makes such a change from talking shop.’ A pause. ‘Would you . . . erm . . .’ He tried again. ‘Would you, perhaps . . . another day . . .?’

  ‘That’d be lovely,’ she said.

  Over the coming days they exchanged smiles at mealtimes but he said nothing more, and she began to wonder whether he’d had second thoughts. She wasn’t even sure herself. He’d shown no sign of wanting anything other than to walk and talk. Perhaps it was, as he’d said, that he’d enjoyed her company, nothing more. She’d certainly enjoyed the conversation, once they got going. He was so interesting, so well informed and so clever. So different from anyone else she knew. Despite his shyness, she felt relaxed in his company; and that smile, when it came, was enough to melt anyone’s heart.

  So when, two weeks later, he’d passed her a note at the serving table – This evening, same time? – her heart seemed to lift. This time they went to the Cliff Path. The wind was from the west, he said, so it would be sheltered there. He was right. They sat in one of the concrete niches and she produced the carrot cake that she’d wrapped carefully in her shoulder bag.

  ‘My favourite. What a treat,’ he said.

  ‘I made it.’

  ‘It’s the best carrot cake I’ve ever tasted. You’re a genius.’

  ‘You’re the genius, Vic.’ Then she remembered. ‘And where did you learn to play the piano like that?’

  ‘You heard me?’

  ‘A while ago, yes. I hid behind a door to listen.’

  ‘You sneaky thing.’

  She laughed. ‘You were playing some jazzy number and I just had to hear it to the end. Then you played something classical, really sad.’

  ‘Chopin, probably. It makes me sad too, but it’s cathartic, you know?’

  She hadn’t a clue what that meant, so said nothing.

  ‘It’s so peaceful. I love it here,’ he said after a moment.

  ‘I wish it could always be like this.’

  ‘Me too.’

  ‘I envy you, you know, doing something positive to defend our country, having a real purpose,’ she said. ‘My brother is doing his bit, out there flying his fighter planes. I wish there was more I could do.’

  ‘What you do is important, too.’

  She laughed. ‘That’s what you said before. The human race wouldn’t exist without food.’

  ‘I said that?’

  ‘You did.’

  ‘How profound.’ It wasn’t always easy to tell whether he was joking or not, but he was smiling. They watched the clouds tinged with pink from the sunset behind them, just as before.

  ‘Seriously, though, I wish I could do something more . . .’ She struggled for the word. ‘Purposeful, important. I don’t know. That would make a real difference.’

  ‘You could join the WAAFs,’ he said, quite suddenly.

  ‘The waffs? What on earth’s that?’

  ‘The Women’s Auxiliary Air Force. It’s just been announced.’

  ‘You really think they’d have me?’

  ‘As a WAAF, yes. You’re clever and have a strong personality. But it’d more likely be support work. Driving trucks, that sort of thing.’

  ‘I can’t drive.’

  ‘Doesn’t matter, they’d train you.’

  ‘Doesn’t really appeal,’ she said.

  ‘I suppose you might even get involved in the kind of work I’m doing. The boss, Watson-Watt, says women are better operators than men.’

  He had her full attention now. ‘Better at what?’

  ‘I can’t tell you much, but if it comes to war what we’ve been developing will help our pilots find their targets more efficiently and save us from air attacks.’

  She thought of Mark. ‘Will it make it safer for them, too?’

  ‘Almost certainly,’ he said.

  ‘Then I’d definitely be up for that. But wouldn’t I need qualifications?’

  ‘Did you study physics and geometry at school?’

  ‘Up to Leaving Cert.’

  ‘Then sign up, and if they give you the chance to apply for RDF operator, or “special duties”, then go for it.’

  ‘I could work here?’

  ‘Not necessarily. You could be posted anywhere all over the country.’ This was a blow. She couldn’t imagine Ma being very happy about her leaving home, too.

  ‘How old do you have to be?’ she asked.

  ‘I expect they’ll issue some kind of information soon enough. If I find out, I
’ll let you know.’

  Later, she would wonder what had come over her. Gratitude, perhaps, for believing she was clever enough to get involved in his kind of work; for the notion that she could really do something useful? For loving her carrot cake, and calling her a genius? For his quiet, thoughtful presence? His sweet, shy smile? Whatever it was, she felt a sudden wave of affection, and leaned in to plant a kiss on his cheek.

  16

  That night Vic relived the moment over and over, feeling the touch of her lips on his cheek, the flush that had spread hotly up his neck and over his face.

  If only he’d had the courage to put his arm around her, perhaps even to kiss her on the lips, but he’d been so confused, consumed with his own discomfiture, that he hadn’t had a clue what to do next. How were you supposed to sense whether a girl was interested? It was all such a mystery.

  News got round, of course. You can’t go walking in the gardens with a girl, twice, without expecting someone to notice. Work secrets might be watertight, but everything else was fair game.

  ‘Got a new girlfriend, have we?’ Frank whispered in the lunch queue the following day.

  ‘She’s not a . . .’

  ‘Pretty little thing, nice curls. Bit young for you, perhaps?’

  Vic said nothing, moving forward to collect his plate. Best not to fuel the fire.

  Work was busier than ever. Now, dotted all around the south and east coasts of England, more than twenty stations operated a twenty-four-hour, seven-day-a-week watch, with their results communicated to a central base at Stanmore. Planes could now be tracked from a hundred and fifty miles, and new wavelengths were being trialled so that even the low-flying craft that had previously proved so elusive could now be detected. Flocks of birds sometimes triggered alarm, but the operators became skilled at recognising the difference between true and false echoes.

  Vic’s special pride and joy, the IFF Mark II, was already installed in hundreds of planes, allowing them to be distinguished from enemy craft. An improved version, the Mark III, was being tested. There was much more to be done, of course, and Dr Rowe was still driving the boffins to come up with better solutions, but at least they had the satisfaction of knowing that Britain’s air defences were no longer dependent on primitive concrete ‘dishes’ angled at the sky in vain hopes of picking up the sound of an aircraft before you saw it.

  At Bawdsey, the transmitter block was in operation and four soaring masts, each nearly half the height of the Eiffel Tower, were in the final stages of testing. The IFF Mark III transmitters had been installed at the top of one of the masts, but still needed fine calibration. The engineers had been up the mast several times, but still the glitches continued.

  Dr Rowe was becoming impatient. ‘What seems to be the problem?’ he asked, at the team meeting.

  ‘The calibration of the transmitting kit, sir,’ Frank volunteered. ‘On the mast.’

  ‘Then get someone to fix it,’ was the terse reply.

  ‘The engineers . . .’

  ‘I don’t want excuses, Wilkinson,’ Dr Rowe interrupted. ‘I’ve seen them up there every day, and whatever they’re doing isn’t working. One of you lot will have to go and have a look. Report back to me once you’ve done it.’

  ‘Bloody hell,’ someone muttered, after he’d gone.

  The team shared shocked glances. ‘So who’s it going to be, then?’ another asked.

  ‘Frank? It’s your baby.’ He was the obvious choice, with his particular sphere of expertise.

  ‘Sorry, folks,’ he said, quickly. ‘But that stew they served last night has given me a dicky tummy. You wouldn’t want to be anywhere below me for the next twenty-four hours,’ he added, to much laughter.

  Vic’s own stomach clenched into painful knots. ‘I’m really not good at heights,’ he muttered, looking at Scott.

  ‘Me neither,’ Scott said.

  There was a momentary impasse, until someone suggested: ‘Why don’t we toss for it?’

  For the first time in weeks he heard Johnnie’s voice. Go for it, Vic. Prove yourself to Frank and the rest, once and for all.

  Get lost, old mate, he replied in his head. Unless you want me joining you sooner than I’d planned. Then he took a deep breath and said out loud, ‘No, don’t bother tossing a coin. I’ll do it.’

  Everyone clapped. ‘Good for you, Mac,’ Frank whispered, with a new tone of respect.

  Told you so, Johnnie said.

  There was no time to change his mind; they had to go at once, before the onshore breeze built up. The engineer, who everyone referred to as Sparky, was a gruff, weather-beaten fellow with a rolled-up cigarette permanently attached to his lower lip. When the jeep stopped at the base of one of the masts, Vic looked up in utter terror. The metal structure appeared flimsier than he’d imagined, not much more robust than the Meccano he used to play with, and so tall it seemed to scrape the clouds. Rising through the centre was a spindly metal ladder protected only by widely spaced hoops.

  ‘Blimey,’ he breathed. ‘Are you sure you really need me up there?’

  ‘Don’t worry, laddie. You’re young and fit,’ Sparky said. ‘It’s only three hundred and sixty feet.’ The numbers meant nothing until they began to climb, reaching the first stage, where two great platforms the size of tennis courts reached out like wings on either side of the mast.

  ‘Sixty feet,’ Sparky announced, as Vic struggled for breath. Only sixty feet? They were still just one sixth of the way there. At the next stop, two hundred feet, he began to feel seriously wobbly. His lungs were hurting and his fingers cramped from gripping the narrow metal rungs of the ladder. The wind that had been barely detectable down on the ground now buffeted them like a gale. He clasped an upright spar with both hands as though his life depended on it.

  ‘Don’t look down, mate. Just enjoy the view.’

  It was certainly a magnificent sight, enough to distract him for a few moments. To the south, the River Deben glittered before them; the town of Felixstowe was bounded in the distance by the silver band of the River Orwell, and the docks of Harwich on its further side. It was the sight a German bomber might see, if it managed to penetrate their air defences.

  They reached the top at last. Vic’s lungs were hurting as he gasped for air – was it thinner up here? – and his heart thumped so fast he feared he might collapse.

  ‘It’s just your mind playing tricks, laddie. The fear. But it’s no more dangerous up here than at sixty feet. If you fell, the result’d be the same.’

  ‘Thanks for the encouragement.’

  Battling against the wind, they inspected the transmission kit together. At first they could find nothing wrong, until Vic noticed that the calibration of the meter was slightly out, which then required a slight adjustment to the direction of the aerial.

  ‘Hope that works,’ he shouted.

  ‘If it don’t, we’ll be up here again tomorrow,’ Sparky retorted with a wry smile.

  The downward climb was, if anything, even more terrifying, because he had to look at his feet to make sure they were securely on the next rung of the ladder, which made his head spin with vertigo. When at last they reached the ground, his legs were so wobbly that Sparky had to support him to the jeep.

  ‘Get that down you, and you’ll soon feel better,’ he said, pouring from a flask of sugary tea. He swigged his own, then lit a cigarette. ‘Didn’t think you had it in you, laddie. Some first-timers don’t make it with clean underpants, if you get my gist. You done well.’

  Their hard work was rewarded with a visit from none other than Winston Churchill, the MP and former chancellor who, according to Watson-Watt, was a staunch supporter of their work. Even from the back benches he’d been warning of German rearmament, and he was a fierce critic of the Prime Minister’s policy of appeasement.

  ‘Best foot forward, chaps,’ Dr Rowe said. ‘He’s on our side, this fellow, so we need to make a damned good impression.’

  Vic was aware that Churchill had been vociferousl
y opposed to the idea of Indian independence, claiming it would bring disaster for the British economy, and had called for Gandhi to be allowed to die if he went on his threatened hunger strike. How would he react to meeting an Indian man at the heart of one of the government’s top secret defence establishments?

  The reaction was the very opposite of what he’d feared. After the RAF top brass had taken him on a tour of the masts, transmitter and receiver blocks, Churchill returned with Dr Rowe to the Manor to meet the non-military staff, the scientists and engineers.

  As they waited in the Green Room, Vic found himself watching Kath as she laid out the table, marvelling at her quiet efficiency and economy of movement, the twist of her body as she leaned across the great oval table to place the cups and saucers, plates, knives and napkins in perfect order. She caught his glance and he gave a discreet thumbs-up, rewarded with that sweet gap-toothed smile that made his heart leap like a fish on a line. She returned several times with platters of sandwiches, scones with pots of jam and thick cream and six cakes of different varieties, including – he was pleased to see – carrot cake.

  The great man arrived and began to work the room like any seasoned politician, bestowing smiles of appreciation during the introductions and then listening, apparently rapt, to each individual he spoke to, exuding the energy of a much younger man. Close up, he was shorter than Vic had imagined: about the same height as himself, but powerfully built, with a strong chin and skewer-sharp eyes of the palest blue.

  Vic was just taking a bite of cake when the heads of his companions swivelled. Churchill was approaching, holding out his hand. ‘Just had to come and say hello to this fellow.’ That voice, so sonorous and commanding, seemed to penetrate the general hubbub, and Vic felt his ears burning as everyone turned to watch.

  He swallowed fast, nearly choking himself. ‘Vikram Mackensie, sir.’ The handshake was strong and firm. He hoped Mr Churchill wouldn’t notice his sticky fingers.