Under a Wartime Sky

by Liz Trenow

  Kath.

  Scarcely daring to breathe, he began to move slowly forward. At the crunch of his footstep on the gravel she turned, registering her recognition with a weak smile. Her eyes were dark smudges, her face grey with exhaustion.

  ‘Oh, it’s you,’ she said flatly. ‘I heard you were here.’

  ‘Yes, it’s me. May I join you?’

  ‘Of course.’

  He sat at the other end of the bench. The gap seemed as wide as an ocean. ‘It’s nice to see you.’

  ‘It was certainly a surprise to learn you were here,’ she said, a touch of acid in her voice. ‘You never replied to any of my letters.’

  ‘I’m sorry. I didn’t think you’d want to hear from me, after . . .’ he hesitated. Why poison this moment, now?

  ‘Go on, say it, Vic. After what?’

  ‘After I saw you at Martlesham with that American, I realised how stupid I’d been ever to imagine you’d be interested in me.’

  ‘Oh, hell, Marcia was right,’ she groaned, dropping her head into her hands once more. ‘I didn’t believe her. You hate dances. And anyway, I didn’t even know you were posted there.’ When she turned to face him her cheeks were wet with tears. ‘It didn’t mean anything, Vic. Nothing. Nothing at all,’ she repeated more firmly. ‘You have to believe me. Those cocktails had gone to my head and I had no idea what I was doing. I hated myself later for being such an idiot.’

  He gave a bitter laugh. ‘I was an idiot too, not writing back because of my silly wounded pride.’ He moved closer, took her hand and squeezed it.

  She squeezed back. ‘Am I forgiven?’

  ‘Of course, if you forgive me.’

  ‘Well, we’re here now, and that’s all that matters.’

  They sat in silence, hand in hand. Even though they were only yards from the sea, the walls of the dell seemed to insulate them from the sound. They could hear only the faintest of roars as the waves hit the beach, and the sigh that followed as the shingle shifted beneath the retreating waters.

  ‘I heard about the problems last night,’ he said, at last. ‘Monty said it was a really difficult shift, counting back the stragglers after that raid.’

  ‘He doesn’t know the half of it,’ she said quietly.

  ‘Do you want to tell me the other half?’

  She gave a great, weary sigh. ‘My brother was on that raid. That’s why I’m out here. Can’t sleep for worrying about whether he got back safely.’

  ‘Most of them made it home, Monty said.’

  ‘But there was one – he probably told you – acting strangely, who we couldn’t identify. Flying along the coast, then wheeling and coming back again. We couldn’t see any “friendly” signal. I had to alert Stanmore, and they sent out the fighters.’

  ‘Which was the right thing to do.’

  ‘But what if it was him, Vic? What if it was Mark? And because of me he was shot down?’ Her voice broke.

  ‘You mustn’t allow yourself to think that, Kath. The IFF was working fine – we checked it again this morning.’ Even as he tried to reassure her, he heard the voice in his head: what if the receiver had failed, even after his adjustments? His mind flashed to that long-ago day in the old receiving room, the glow of pride when the test system worked, and the sickening moment when Scott uttered those terrible words, ‘They’re saying the plane is down, sir.’ He could still smell the new paint, even now.

  Her voice brought him back. ‘I’m sure it was nothing to do with that. I heard about your heroic climb up the mast, Vic. I keep trying to tell myself that it was just circumstances. Maybe the plane’s transmitter was damaged; or perhaps it really was an enemy plane.’

  ‘You just reported what you saw. Stanmore would have verified everything before acting, and anyway the fighter crew would have checked the plane before firing at it. You did what you had to do in the circumstances. Whatever it was, it’s very unlikely to have been your brother. He’ll be safely cuddled up in his bunk, completely unaware that you’ve been worrying about him. It’s all in a day’s work for those guys,’ he said.

  ‘I hope you’re right. I put in a call to his base, but they never give out information till they’ve made completely sure . . .’ She shivered slightly. He put his arm around her shoulder and she snuggled up against him. In spite of her obvious distress, an unfamiliar feeling of contentment seemed to invade every pore of his body as he felt her warmth against his chest. He seemed to have been locked into a frozen state for weeks, but now something inside was melting, like frost on a lawn yielding as the sun chases the shadows away.

  ‘C’mon, you’re getting cold,’ he said. ‘Shall we go and get a cuppa? I could probably rustle up a biscuit too, although there’s no carrot cake these days. Nor cake of any kind, for that matter.’

  ‘Cake or no cake, that sounds nice.’ She paused. ‘But I’m not allowed in the officer’s mess.’

  ‘We can smuggle them up to my room, if you don’t think that’s too forward of me. It’s rather grand, and it has a terrific view.’

  When he returned from foraging for tea and biscuits, she was sitting in Johnnie’s chair. For once it didn’t make him sad; it felt right to see her there.

  ‘You weren’t exaggerating about the view, you lucky thing. I could look at it forever.’ She stood and went to the window.

  He put down the tea tray and went to her side. ‘This is the room I shared with Johnnie, you know.’

  ‘Oh Vic, I’m so sorry. Does it bring back sad memories?’

  ‘Sad and glad. Glad to have known him. We had a lot of fun together, he and I. We seemed to read each other’s thoughts, and made each other laugh. A lot. I’ve seen his widow and children a few times since, as well. They’ve become almost like family to me.’

  ‘Did I ever tell you that it was a friend of Mark’s piloting that seaplane?’

  ‘Captain Burrows?’

  ‘I was so worried that they’d find it was his fault.’

  ‘And I was terrified they’d find it was caused by the kit we’d installed. But in the end, it was a problem with the plane’s construction that no one could have predicted.’

  ‘All those deaths. And the war hadn’t even begun.’

  ‘But somehow it feels better, having you here.’ He put his arm around her. ‘I was so afraid I’d lost you, too.’

  She turned and took his face in her hands. ‘You’ll never lose me again, Vic.’

  It was the most passionate kiss he’d ever known. The shabby room, the view and the sound of the waves beyond the window seemed to melt away, the whole world reduced to the focus of her lips, her tongue and the fire of his desire.

  The tea went cold.

  It was the first time for both of them, a muddled, embarrassed, fumbled affair that in the end, against all odds, felt like the most perfectly natural thing in the world. Delicious, in fact, utterly overwhelming, beyond anything he could ever have imagined. And it seemed to be the same for her. Afterwards, as he watched her sleeping beside him in the narrow bed, he believed himself the happiest man in the world.

  29

  Dearest Kath,

  I am now back at base and trying to sleep, but it is impossible. My heart still pounds when I think of the astonishing, wonderful things that happened between us yesterday, and I cannot put into words how much it meant. You are the most beautiful girl on the planet and it broke my heart to leave you. It feels so utterly and horribly cruel. We are meant to be together, not torn apart.

  I have two more weeks here so will put in a request for leave at the end of our assignment and hope you might be free to meet me somewhere, for a couple of days. We could go to a hotel, if you like the idea.

  I’m such a coward that I failed to say it this morning when we parted. But please believe me, Kathleen Motts, I am head over heels in love with you.

  Write soon.

  With all my love forever,

  Vic

  Dearest Vic,

  Did it really happen? I feel so blessed and loved, bu
t also miserable that you had to leave so soon.

  Work continues here and there is no news from Mark, which I pray is good news. I will move heaven and earth to arrange leave so we can have a little more time together before you have to go back. Yes, yes, yes to a hotel. How risqué!

  I miss you horribly already. If only this bloody war was over and we could be together.

  With all my love,

  Kath

  Dearest Kath,

  Hurray, I have leave! March 25th–27th.

  Being a Suffolk gal, you probably already know the White Horse in your local town. Shall we meet there? My friend says it’s quite comfortable in an old-fashioned way. Apparently Charles Dickens stayed there and wrote about it in The Pickwick Papers, which I tried to read in school, though I have to confess most of it has been erased from my memory, as has so much of my school learning. I’ll try to get hold of a copy so we can read it together.

  I do hope you will be able to make it. After that I will have to go back to London and it might take some time to get leave again.

  With all my love forever,

  Vic

  Dearest Vic,

  I have been given leave! Imagine, two whole days (and nights) together!? I cannot wait! What time shall we meet on Thursday?

  Still no news from Mark. I’m trying not to worry but it’s getting very hard. Seeing you will be a great distraction.

  All my love,

  Kath

  Dearest Vic,

  We have just heard that Mark is missing in action. I am devastated, and Ma and Pa are in pieces, so I have to be at home with them and cannot come to meet you.

  I’m bitterly disappointed, but I’m sure you will understand. How can I be happy for us when this terrible thing has happened? So sorry, sorry, sorry.

  All my love,

  Kath

  Dearest Kath,

  I cannot imagine what you are going through and though of course I’m disappointed not to see you, I perfectly understand that you must be with your family. Have you any news how or where he went missing?

  Please be reassured that I shall always be there for you, through thick and thin.

  Tomorrow Monty and I must return to HQ and I will fit in a short visit to see my Pa and his ghastly new wife before heading back to London. The boss has written to say he wants to meet me ASAP as he has ‘exciting news’. Heaven knows what that could mean. But please go on writing to me, when you can, c/o the old address.

  I think of you every moment of every day, hoping you get better news.

  With all my fondest love,

  Vic

  Dearest Vic,

  Mark didn’t return from the raid, along with the rest of his crew. His fellow pilots believe the plane was hit and disabled in some way. They saw him heading for home but after that, nothing. I still cannot believe it and keep expecting him just to turn up at the door one day.

  I am trying not to think about the straggler we couldn’t identify that night. I have asked our CO to check with Stanmore whether they ever got a firm identification, but they are so busy and it would require someone to trawl back through the records of that night, so he isn’t hopeful of a reply.

  I am back at work now and just managing to get through each day as best I can, but I’m completely broken up inside. Ma and Pa are putting on the old stiff upper lip, of course. He works all hours on the trains and she continues to be queen of the WRVS but I know they are devastated, as am I.

  Marcia and the others have rallied round and try to make sure I am never alone, although sometimes that’s exactly what I want, time on my own to cry for my lovely brother.

  I so wish you were here to put your arms around me.

  Your loving

  Kath

  Dearest Kath,

  I’m sure everyone’s been trying to comfort you by telling you that ‘missing’ doesn’t mean dead and that miracles do happen – and they can, of course. But I also know how hard it is to cling to any hope when you’ve had news like this. In the meantime you absolutely must not, for a single moment, believe that Mark was in that ‘straggler’ plane or that you had anything to do with it. Other planes failed to come home that night. It was not your fault.

  Here is my new PO address.

  With all my love forever,

  Vic

  Dearest Kath,

  I think of you every moment of every day, and miss you so much. But I’m afraid this letter brings mixed news. The Yanks were apparently so impressed that they want me to join a research team over there into some really cutting-edge developments in our field. It’s so confidential they’re not even sharing many details until I get there, although the boss has given broad hints. Of course they have oodles of money to throw at these things so it’s a pretty exciting opportunity.

  But it means I shall, for at least a while, be even further away from you, my darling Kath, the love of my life, at a time when you most need comfort and support. I am so sorry, but there is no way of refusing this posting, I’m afraid.

  Know that my heart will always be yours, however far away, and that we will be together again just as soon as this bloody war allows it.

  I leave on Friday, and will send my address as soon as possible. Your letters are a lifeline.

  I love you,

  Vic

  Dearest Vic,

  I’m pleased for you, of course, but how I wish you weren’t going to be so far away. Please travel safely and go on writing as often as you can. I miss you terribly.

  There is still no news from Mark. And I’ve just heard that my best friend Joan’s husband has been killed. He was a Quaker, and defied his parents to go and fight. What a bitter irony. Joan is devastated, of course, and has been given leave from her ambulance driving. I try my best to support her, but despite the lovely weather and encouraging progress across the Channel, everything here seems very bleak. Please write soon.

  Your loving

  Kath

  Dearest Vic,

  I haven’t received any letters from you for two months now. I keep trying to persuade myself that this is perhaps because you are moving around so much, so I have also sent copies of my letters to HQ hoping they might forward them and find you that way.

  There is good news, of a sort. We have heard at last from Mark. He is in a PoW camp somewhere, which is probably quite horrible, but at least he is safe. Apparently he managed to get out of his stricken plane that night and he and two surviving crewmates were rescued by a German gunboat after floating for forty-eight hours in an inflatable dinghy. All three of them were injured. I cannot imagine the agony of wondering whether you will ever be found, or will simply die of starvation and thirst in the middle of the North Sea.

  I am so relieved that he wasn’t in that ‘straggler’ plane. And you must now stop worrying about any part the IFF problems might have played that terrible night.

  Please write. Please, please.

  Your loving

  Kath

  Dearest Vic,

  I hope you receive this. I’m getting desperate. I have not heard anything from you for four months. Please write and let me know your current address.

  Your loving

  Kath

  Dearest Kath,

  I’ve still not received any letters from you, and am utterly miserable. We have moved labs, twice, but I have left forwarding addresses each time and also checked with them by telephone, but they say there’s been no mail for me.

  Work is fascinating and challenging and we live in relative luxury here but I feel so guilty that you are all still living with the fear and stress of it, as well as rationing and other miseries. I pray (to anyone who might be listening, Christian and Hindu gods alike) that you and your family are safe. I miss you so much and it is purgatory not knowing what is going on in your life, or whether you have met someone else.

  After the ‘dance incident’ I vowed never to be so pig-headed and proud again. So I beg you, even if your heart is elsewhere, please write and let me know a
t least that you are well and happy.

  Fondest love,

  Vic

  EPILOGUE

  December 1973

  Now, as the tea cools in his cup and the clock hand inches closer to six, the other customers of the tea room end their conversations, pull on their coats and gather up their Christmas shopping, wishing him ‘Merry Christmas’ as they walk out into the bitter night.

  When the last of them has left, the absurdity of this whole ridiculous expedition hits him. Here he sits, alone in an empty cafe, waiting for someone he vaguely imagines could just possibly be a woman he once knew thirty years ago, based on the slimmest of evidence: the taste of a piece of carrot cake. In his head he calculates the odds: how many Kathleens per head of population, how many in Felixstowe, of the right kind of age? Surely one carrot cake recipe is much the same as any other.

  What a poor deluded fool he is, clinging to an illusion, a pipe dream. And even if it is her, what would she want with this aged, faded fellow who has clearly given up on himself, who has no money, nowhere to stay and not a single clue what to do next? He wonders abstractedly whether, if he slept in the car tonight, he would freeze to death. Perhaps he ought to try it, throwing his life to the fates. If the weather turns cold enough to kill him, so much the better. At least he wouldn’t have to make that decision.

  Yes, that is what he will do. His mind is made up. He stands and gathers his coat, rummaging in the pockets for all the loose change he has, hoping it will be enough to pay for his tea and cake. But then, just as he moves towards the kitchen door to ask for the bill, it swings open and a woman asks, ‘Can I help you?’

  It is the voice that gives her away, for he does not immediately recognise the worry-worn face, the close-cropped grey hair and the middle-aged spread of her hips.

  ‘Excuse me,’ he says, and falters. He clears his throat and says instead, ‘Kath? Is it you?’

  Her eyes are wide with astonishment; still the same hazel flecked with green. ‘Vic?’ she whispers. ‘No. Can’t be. Oh my goodness, it really is.’