Under a Wartime Sky

by Liz Trenow

  Automatically, he reached into his pocket and took out half a crown. ‘What happened to you, old friend?’

  The man was plainly drunk and his speech slurred, but Vic understood him well enough. ‘Family gone, no home, no job. Thanks for the money, mate.’

  ‘Is there anything else I can do to help?’

  ‘Lost me blanket,’ the man muttered.

  It was such a simple item, but where could Vic get such a thing at this time of day? On an impulse, he took off his overcoat. It was a fine navy wool and cashmere his father had bought for him at Joshua Taylor’s when he first went up to Cambridge. ‘You’ll want something to wrap up in on these blasted fens,’ he’d said. It was old now, but still perfectly serviceable.

  ‘Here you go,’ Vic said. ‘This’ll keep you warm.’

  The beggar fingered the fabric approvingly before pulling on the coat in a hurry, as though fearful that Vic might change his mind. Then he resumed his position on a pad of flattened cardboard, reached into a canvas bag and pulled out a bottle.

  ‘Care to join me?’

  ‘Keep it for yourself, my friend.’

  ‘You’re a true gent, sir,’ the man said. ‘Merry Christmas.’

  By the time he got back to his father’s house Vic was soaking wet and shivering with the cold, yet somehow happier. The following day he felt worse, but Diane had been slaving away in the kitchen since early in the morning, so he felt duty bound to appear for Christmas dinner.

  When he explained that he didn’t eat meat, she muttered about ‘strange habits’ and how his father could at least have warned her, adding that she wouldn’t have spent all that money on a chicken if she’d known. The only moment of relief from her constant chatter was when his father turned on his radiogram – one item that had not been banished – for the royal Christmas message.

  The King seemed to be grasping at straws:

  Never did heroism shine more brightly than it does now, nor fortitude, nor sacrifice, nor sympathy, nor neighbourly kindness, and with them – brightest of all stars – is our faith in God. These stars will we follow with His help until the light shall shine and the darkness shall collapse.

  Ha ha, Johnnie whispered. Leaving it all up to God now, are we? Run out of options? But who is God going to choose, when our little pal Hitler also believes that he’s on their side?

  Vic escaped on the first Boxing Day train, claiming that he was expected back at work. This was a lie; he’d been given a full week’s leave, but he couldn’t bear to stay a moment longer in Tunbridge Wells. Although it had never really felt like home, at least he’d once felt as though it was a place of shared memories – but now even that had changed. To make things worse, there were no seats on his train. As he stood in the corridor some Tommies pushed roughly past him, muttering about ‘bloody foreigners’.

  He had never felt so miserable.

  Whatever are we going to do with you, old boy? No coat, no home, no Kath, and not expected back at base for four more days?

  At Charing Cross, Johnnie’s question appeared to answer itself. As the destinations flickered round on the departures board, Vic’s eye settled on a familiar place-name. He blinked and looked again. Surely the last time he’d been there, for Johnnie’s funeral, he’d travelled from Waterloo? But yes, the train was certainly stopping at Petersfield, leaving in just seven minutes. Fired with new energy, he ran for the ticket office and leapt on board just as the guard blew his whistle.

  There were no seats on this train either. It was packed with navy lads returning to Portsmouth after the Christmas leave. By the time the train arrived at Petersfield Vic was feeling distinctly unwell, aching and shivery, regretting his impetuous decision. The walk from the station seemed longer than ever, and by the time he reached the cottage he was light-headed, almost delirious.

  Lizzie stared at him as though she had seen a ghost. ‘Vic? Is it you? Is something wrong? Come in, come in. Quickly, out of the cold.’

  ‘I’m so sorry . . .’ he managed, before collapsing in the doorway.

  ‘Chris, Beth – come and help me!’

  He became vaguely aware of being supported by many hands into a room bright with candles and firelight. He felt the soft comfort of an armchair, heard Lizzie’s murmurs of concern, offers of tea and biscuits. Then, nothing.

  Vic is asleep in his bed in India. The night is dark, but he can hear the chatter of his parents and their visitors on the veranda, the clink of glasses, the creak of the floorboards as the servants go about their tasks, the snuffling of nocturnal animals in the forest and the occasional hoot of a bird. He is comfortable and happy to be home at last, so blissful that he feels almost like crying. He hears a whimper, and realises that it comes from his own mouth. He feels the ayah’s cool hand resting on his forehead. ‘Hush, now,’ she whispers. ‘Everything is all right.’ Then he sinks once more beneath the deep, warm blanket of sleep.

  Next time he woke, it was daytime. As he opened his eyes he saw his familiar toy train on the table, a pile of comics beside it. But something was not quite right. The air was surprisingly cold, the sunlight beaming through the window creating sharp-edged shadows. Wherever could he be? Slowly the memories returned: the train, the walk, being helped up the steep stairs; the blackness and the dreams. He was not in India but at Johnnie’s house, and this was Christopher’s bedroom, not his own.

  There was a knock at the door, and he half-expected Johnnie to walk in until, with that sinking feeling of loss, he remembered.

  ‘Ah, you’re awake at last,’ Lizzie said, pushing aside the comics and putting down a tray. ‘We’ve made some vegetable soup, just in case you’re hungry.’

  ‘How long have I been here?’

  ‘A couple of days,’ she said, sitting on the edge of the bed. ‘We were worried about you. How are you feeling now?’

  He considered for a moment, checking himself out. His head had stopped thumping, his breathing felt easier, his body was calm, no longer shivering. ‘A lot better, thank you,’ he concluded. ‘I’m so sorry to dump myself on you like this.’

  ‘Don’t be silly. We’re always pleased to see you. I’m glad you seem to be on the mend.’ The soup was delicious. She sat smiling beside him as he finished the whole bowl and then lay back on the pillow, exhausted. A few hours later she returned with a tea tray, and passed him a plate with a hot buttered crumpet.

  ‘Johnnie always said you were an angel, and now I know what he meant,’ he said, tucking in. He was so busy trying not to get butter on the sheets that he failed, for a moment, to notice how her smile had disappeared. ‘Oh, I’m so sorry.’

  ‘It’s all right,’ she said, rearranging her features with a slight sigh. ‘And it’s sweet of you to tell me what he said. About being an angel. I’ll cherish that.’

  ‘He was a good man, Lizzie. The best.’

  ‘We do miss him so, but life has to carry on. We don’t really have any choice, do we?’

  The next day was New Year’s Eve. Vic felt strong enough to come downstairs for supper, and after the children had gone out to see friends, Lizzie coaxed the fire into flame with a new log and took out a bottle of port and two glasses.

  ‘How’s about it?’

  ‘Don’t mind if I do.’

  ‘Builds you up, Johnnie always used to say.’

  ‘To Johnnie,’ he said, holding up his glass.

  She clinked her glass to his. ‘To Johnnie – and a happy New Year, Vic.’

  ‘Heaven knows what 1942 will throw at us.’

  ‘Let’s not think about that tonight,’ she said.

  ‘Quite right. Enjoy the moment. But I’ll have to be on my way tomorrow, alas.’

  ‘Are you really well enough for work?’

  ‘I’m afraid so, though honest to God, I’m reluctant to leave. I don’t know how I’ll ever repay you.’

  ‘It’s been a pleasure,’ she said, refilling his glass. ‘But you can grant me one thing in return.’

  ‘And what is that?’
/>
  ‘Satisfying my curiosity. What brought you here in the first place? Are you okay?’

  ‘I don’t want to burden you with my woes.’

  ‘I’m a good listener. It might help,’ she said, her sweet face attentive in the firelight.

  He took a breath and then, tentatively at first, began to describe what had happened over Christmas with his father and Diane; how he felt guilty complaining when that poor tramp had so little, but how he now felt so adrift, not attached to anywhere, no longer knowing who he was. There were no footholds, no places of safety, comfort or solace. He didn’t even have anywhere he could call home any more. ‘I’ve even given away my coat.’

  She jumped up. ‘I can solve that.’ A moment later, she returned with a fine camel coat. ‘It was Johnnie’s. It’ll be too big for you, but you’re welcome to it if you would like it.’

  ‘No, I couldn’t.’

  ‘I’ll only give it away otherwise.’

  Vic tried it on. It swamped his shoulders and hung down to his calves, but it was warm and smelled of Johnnie’s shaving soap. It felt like a hug from his old friend.

  ‘Are you certain?’ he said, placing it over the back of a chair with more care than he’d ever accorded his own coat.

  ‘I’ve never been more certain. And, look, you are always welcome here any time, you know that, Vic?’

  ‘Actually, I feel more at home here than anywhere else. Perhaps that’s why I jumped on the train. I’m not usually that impulsive.’

  ‘But there’s something else, isn’t there? I know you can’t tell me any details; but it is work? Or a girl, perhaps?’ She looked him in the eye, challenging him to be honest.

  He lowered his gaze.

  ‘Sorry, that’s a bit nosey of me. If you’d rather not . . .?’

  He looked up now. ‘No, you are right. There is a girl, someone I met at Bawdsey. She’s a few years younger, and we’re really very different sorts of people, but I’ve grown very fond of her.’ He paused, trying to find the words. ‘The thing is, you see, I am so inexperienced at this sort of thing, I don’t even know if she’s interested in me. We’ve been writing to each other, but because of this bloody war it could be years till our paths ever cross again. I’m afraid it’ll all come to nothing in the end.’

  She placed a hand on his. ‘It’ll only come to nothing if you let it, Vic.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘Sometimes you have to fight for what you want in affairs of the heart, just like in the rest of life.’ She sat back, taking another sip of port. ‘I had to fight for Johnnie.’

  He could hardly believe what he was hearing. ‘You mean he didn’t jump at the chance?’

  ‘We were so young. He was ambitious, and felt he couldn’t get on with his career with a wife and family to worry about.’

  ‘What a dolt. He came round, obviously?’

  ‘I just persevered,’ she said. ‘Taking every opportunity. I wrote often, made long journeys to wherever he was and generally made myself indispensable. He caved in eventually.’

  ‘So that’s what you’d advise me to do?’

  ‘Exactly.’

  Talking seemed to crystallise his feelings. At a time of deep despair, Kath had helped him rediscover his sense of purpose – even a level of optimism that, although his best friend was dead, it was possible to laugh and enjoy life once more.

  ‘I don’t want to pester. What if she doesn’t want to see me?’ he said.

  ‘My guess is she will. You just have to keep in touch, however you can. Write, visit, send Christmas cards, small birthday gifts.’

  ‘Heavens, I don’t even know when her birthday is.’

  ‘Then it’s time you found out, my boy.’ Lizzie leaned over and planted a kiss on his cheek. ‘You’re so handsome and clever, Vic. She’d be mad to turn you down. But keep me posted on your progress, won’t you?’

  Kath’s letter was waiting for him at his lodgings.

  Dear Vic,

  The next time you write, please address me as Aircraft Woman Level Two Motts!

  Yes, I’ve made it and, better still, you’ll be proud to hear that I passed the interviews. Do you remember what you told me, one day on the Cliff Walk? Of course I still haven’t a clue what the work really entails, but if it turns out to be rubbish I will hold you fully accountable.

  We’re currently completing our initial training in a seaside resort and it feels distinctly strange. We are billeted in holiday boarding houses and even though it rains most of the time we feel we should be gathering our towels, deckchairs and windbreaks and heading for the beach each morning, but alas instead it’s ‘spit and polish’, drill and PE, lectures, gas drills, more lectures and endless marching.

  At least it’s better than the dreadful camp where we spent our induction. Our landlady is an excellent cook, the food is plentiful and we’re allowed some time for rest and recuperation. We’re all girls of course, and our weekly £10/6d (!) doesn’t go far as you can imagine, but we manage to have fun anyway. Ma sent me half a crown which meant we could go to the Winter Gardens last night and pretend to be posh. It was lovely to have a bit of glamour after all that trudging about in mud and sleeping in damp huts. The band played ‘Oh, I Do Like to Be Beside the Seaside’. We bellowed out the words and made them play it again!

  One of our number claims to be a relative of Lupino Lane and after a few drinks she actually stood up and sang ‘Doing the Lambeth Walk’ with the orchestra. She made a pretty good fist of it, too, doing all his actions, even though it looked pretty incongruous in her ill-fitting WAAF uniform!

  Soon we leave for our technical training somewhere we haven’t yet been told, but you probably know where these things happen. I’ll send you an address as soon as I know. I wonder where you are, and whether it is anywhere near?

  If this reaches you in time, have a wonderful, peaceful Christmas. I miss our chats, and hope you are well?

  Fondest regards,

  Kath

  As he read to the end of the letter, his head began to spin. She remembered their conversation on the Cliff Walk. She missed their chats. She was learning all about his inventions. He lay back on his bed, holding the envelope to his chest and smiling to himself.

  Yet even as his heart rejoiced, he felt a pang of envy, even fear. They might be ‘all girls’ on the initial training, but the technical training would almost certainly be at RAF Cranwell. He’d spent several weeks there himself, and knew all too well the social whirlwind in which Kath would find herself. Hundreds of recruits, male and female, were trained there, as aircrew and in all kinds of wireless operation. The place was enormous and the facilities excellent. There were several Navy, Army and Air Force Institutes, the NAAFIs, serving good food as well as supplying basic necessities such as toiletries, dancehalls, cinemas and entertainment of all kinds. There would be any number of single men, handsome in their uniforms, ready to steal the heart of a beautiful young woman like Kath.

  And then, after that, she could be posted anywhere in the country to any one of the RDF stations now operating as far down south as Devon, and as far north as Grimsby. The chances of them being able to meet up ‘for the duration’ were slimmer than ever.

  This was the moment, as Lizzie had said, to be bold.

  Dear ACW2 Motts,

  I was thrilled to get your letter. What great news. Congratulations!

  Of course I remember our conversations on the Cliff Walk. It was difficult because of the secrecy surrounding our work, but by now you will have a general understanding of what I’ve spent the last six years working on. I hope it hasn’t disappointed. For my part, I feel very proud of our inventions, especially since they are being put to such good use right now. Your work will be challenging and exciting, and make an enormous contribution.

  If your technical training is based where I think it is, I am not far away. I’ve checked the trains and buses and it is quite doable for a visit. Perhaps we could meet in the city which is only a half-hour bus
ride away from your base? I’m told it’s an interesting place, and the cathedral is a ‘must’. We could have lunch? My treat, of course. If you like the idea, please send me your leave dates and we can try to co-ordinate.

  I do hope the training is going well. I’m sure they will be working you very hard. But I do hope you will be able to find time to see me.

  Your friend,

  Vic

  21

  Everyone said Cranwell would be a blast, and after weeks of square-bashing, living in miserable tents, surviving on tasteless rations and revising hard for exams, Kath was more than ready for some fun.

  She also felt confident that, with all the hundreds of personnel arriving and leaving the training base at Cranwell, there would be at least a few familiar faces. Sure enough, in the queue for supper in the mess hall that very evening she heard behind her the unmistakeably posh tones of Marcia Bonham.

  ‘Marcia! It’s you.’

  ‘I knew you’d get here some time, darling,’ Marcia said smoothly, as though she’d been expecting her. Before long, Kath had been led to a table and introduced to so many other girls that her head was spinning with names.

  ‘You coming to the dance in the NAAFI tomorrow evening?’ one said.

  ‘I’m in,’ Marcia said.

  Kath dithered. It was all a bit soon. ‘How much does it cost?’

  ‘It’s free, you ninny. Except for the drinks.’

  ‘I haven’t anything to wear.’

  ‘Come back to the barracks at six-ish tomorrow and we’ll find you something,’ Marcia said.

  They weren’t really allowed any mufti, but as usual Marcia had ignored the rules, and the next day, when Kath went to her barracks, she produced a large leather case containing a complete fashion wardrobe.

  ‘Try this one.’ She held out a silky blouse in glorious blue, like the sky on the clearest of days. It was too big around the bust but they hauled it in at the back, tucking it into waistband of Kath’s uniform skirt. ‘Perfect. Looks great with the auburn hair. Now, what are we going to do with that?’