Wish Me Luck

by Dickinson, Margaret

  ‘Oh! A WAAF!’ The woman smiled a welcome and held out her hands. ‘And what a pretty one too.’

  ‘I bumped into her in the blackout, Ma. Knocked her over getting off the train as a matter of fact.’ He put his arm about Fleur’s shoulders with an easy familiarity that she was amazed to realize she didn’t mind. ‘You could say she fell for me there and then.’

  Now Fleur did retort, muttering beneath her breath so that only he could hear, ‘You should be so lucky!’

  She heard – and felt – his laughter rising from deep within his chest. She glanced up to find him looking down at her, his face so close that she could feel his warm breath on her cheek. In just that brief moment she noticed the way his eyes crinkled at the corners when he laughed and the tiny, stray hairs at the end of his eyebrows. And his smile – oh, his smile – such white, even teeth with tiny spaces between them. She’d only to stretch just a tiny bit and she could’ve kissed his mouth . . . At the unbidden thought, she felt the blush rise in her face.

  ‘The least I could do was bring her home,’ Robbie went on smoothly as she felt him squeeze her shoulder. For one foolish moment she wondered if he could read what was in her mind. ‘She can’t get transport tonight to where she wants to be,’ he went on, explaining to his mother. ‘I couldn’t let her sleep in the station waiting room, now could I?’

  ‘Dear, dear,’ Meg Rodwell tutted. ‘Certainly not. Come in, love, and make yourself at home. You’re very welcome.’

  Now that Fleur’s eyes were becoming used to the bright light after the darkness, she saw that Robbie’s mother was slim and youthful looking. Her shoulder-length red hair, showing not a trace of grey, was swept back over her ears in curls and waves. Her green eyes smiled a welcome. She was wearing a fashionable patterned cotton dress with short sleeves and padded shoulders, its hem only just covering the knees of her shapely legs. Fleur couldn’t help smiling at the contrast between this woman and her own mother, who, as a busy farmer’s wife, had little time for ‘titivating’, as she would have called it. Fleur’s mother wore her greying hair drawn back into a bun at the nape of her neck and dressed in plain blouses and skirts that were usually covered with a paisley overall. And sensible shoes were a must about the farm. At the thought, Fleur looked down at Mrs Rodwell’s dainty feet. It was no surprise to see the high-heeled shoes with a ribbon bow at the front.

  But the woman was smiling so kindly at her, drawing her further into the room and towards a chair beside the warm fire burning in the grate of the old-fashioned kitchen range. Fleur gave a start as she suddenly noticed a bent old man with a crocheted shawl around his shoulders sitting on the opposite side of the hearth.

  Robbie let his arm slip from about her and moved towards him, putting his hand on his shoulder. ‘Now, Pops. How are you?’

  The old man looked up and reached out with a hand that was misshapen with arthritis, the knuckles swollen and painful. ‘Mustn’t grumble, lad, mustn’t grumble.’

  ‘You never do, Pops.’

  To Fleur’s surprise, the old man’s eyes watered as his fond gaze followed Robbie’s mother while she bustled between kitchen and the back scullery, setting food on the table. ‘No,’ he said in a quavering voice. ‘Because I know how lucky I am.’

  Meg came into the room carrying two laden plates. ‘Come and eat. You must be starving. I’ll just go and change the sheets on your bed, Robbie …’

  Fleur roused herself. The warm fire was already making her drowsy. ‘Oh, please, don’t go to any trouble on my account. I can sleep on the sofa—’

  ‘I wouldn’t hear of it—’

  ‘Certainly not—’

  Robbie and his mother spoke together and the old man laughed wheezily. ‘There you are, lass, outnumbered.’ He tapped the side of his nose. ‘And if you take my advice, you won’t argue with m’lady here. Rules the roost, she does.’

  ‘Now, Dad.’ Mrs Rodwell stepped towards the old man, tucked the shawl cosily around him and planted a kiss on his white hair. ‘You’ll have this nice young lady thinking I’m a regular tartar.’

  Robbie pulled a comical face. ‘Well, you are.’ He winked at Fleur. ‘We’d better do as she says before I get my legs smacked.’

  As Robbie towered over his mother by at least eight or ten inches, Fleur could not suppress a giggle at the picture that sprang into her mind of the grown-up young man hopping from one foot to another to avoid the chastising hand. They were all laughing now.

  ‘Come and eat.’ Robbie urged her to take a seat at the table. ‘And then it’s night-nights for you. You look as if you might fall asleep in the gravy.’

  ‘What did you say her name was?’ Meg Rodwell asked her son the following morning as she cooked breakfast.

  ‘Fleur,’ Robbie replied, his mouth full of fried bread. They had both been so tired the previous evening that, once they had eaten, Meg had shown Fleur to Robbie’s bedroom and he had headed for the sofa set against the wall in the cluttered front room which his mother used, working from her home as a dressmaker. Despite the austerity of the war – or more likely because of it – there were still many calls on Meg’s talents with her sewing machine. ‘Make do and mend’ was the order of the day. Whilst much of her work was now altering and re-styling second-hand clothes, it was a matter of pride to Meg that she was still able to support her family. And now that Robbie contributed some of his RAF pay whenever he came home on leave, she didn’t have to work long into the night these days. Though she would gladly have worked around the clock if it meant keeping her boy safe.

  Smiling brightly as she determined not to spoil their few precious hours together with her darkest fears, Meg turned to greet the young WAAF her son had brought home as the girl appeared in the kitchen. She looked rested this morning, but still a little self-conscious and perhaps feeling awkward now at having allowed herself to be taken home by a complete stranger.

  ‘Come and sit down, love,’ Meg greeted her warmly. ‘What would you like to eat? I’m sorry I’ve no eggs—’

  ‘Please, don’t apologize. I don’t want you to go to any trouble. I feel very embarrassed, descending on you like that in the middle of the night and eating your rations.’

  ‘Don’t mention it. We were glad to help. Sit down, do.’

  ‘What about the old gentleman?’

  Meg laughed. ‘Oh, he doesn’t get up until later. You’re not taking his place or his breakfast – I promise.’ She returned to the stove in the scullery, but left the door open so that she could talk to them as they sat at the table. Dropping a single rasher of bacon into the frying pan, she said, ‘Now, have your breakfast and then Robbie will walk you back to the station. Where is it you’re going?’

  Fleur sat down at the table. ‘South Monkford.’

  Meg was suddenly very still, staring at the girl. ‘South Monkford,’ she murmured, her eyes misting over. ‘Fancy.’

  ‘Robbie mentioned that you used to live there.’

  Meg nodded slowly. ‘A long time ago,’ she whispered. ‘A long time ago now.’

  ‘My father had a tailoring business there, didn’t he?’ Robbie put in. ‘And didn’t you say someone called Pinkerton took the shop over from you? Well, Fleur says they’re still there. Two old dears – sisters – running it.’

  ‘Fancy,’ Meg murmured again, prodding absent-mindedly at the sizzling bacon.

  ‘Maybe you know Fleur’s family. Her surname’s Bosley—’ Robbie began, but he got no further as his mother turned sharply, catching the handle of the frying pan. It clattered to the floor, spilling hot fat and the precious piece of bacon over the tiles and splashing her legs. Meg’s hands flew to her face and her eyes were wide, staring at Fleur. She swayed as if she might fall.

  ‘Ma? Ma, what is it?’ Robbie was on his feet and moving swiftly to catch hold of her. He helped her to a chair, whilst Fleur hurried to the tap in the scullery to get a glass of water.

  ‘Here,’ Fleur said gently. ‘Drink this.’

  Meg took the glas
s with shaking hands and sipped it. ‘I’m sorry. How stupid of me.’

  The young couple glanced at each other and then, concern on both their faces, looked back at Meg, but neither asked the questions that were racing around their minds. It had been Fleur’s name – her surname – that had startled Meg so.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ Meg said, placing the glass of water on the table and taking a deep breath. ‘It was just . . . hearing your name.’ She looked up into the open face of the lovely girl standing in front of her, so smart, so confident in her WAAF uniform.

  And now she looked more carefully she could see the likeness. The rich, brown hair and deep, dark brown eyes, watching her at this moment, with such concern.

  ‘How is he?’ Meg asked softly. ‘How’s Jake?’

  Now it was Fleur who sank into a chair, staring at Robbie’s mother. ‘My dad? You … you know my dad?’

  Meg nodded.

  ‘He . . . he’s fine.’ Fleur waited a moment but Meg volunteered no more. ‘How d’you know him?’

  ‘I—’ Meg hesitated. It was an ironic and cruel fate that had conspired against her to bring these two young people together. The past that she wanted to keep buried was doing its best to catch up with her. She must say nothing. It was not her place to be telling this girl things that perhaps her parents had never told her and most likely didn’t want her to know. After all, she hadn’t told her own son, had she?

  Meg shuddered, and Robbie sat down beside his mother too, chafing her hand that was suddenly cold between his warm ones. He was willing Fleur not to ask any more questions that were obviously upsetting his mother. ‘Are you all right, Ma?’

  Absently, as if she had only just become aware of the pain, Meg rubbed her leg. ‘The fat splashed, but it’s nothing.’

  ‘You ought to put something on it.’

  ‘Don’t fuss, Robbie,’ she said sharply, her spirit returning, the colour coming back into her face. ‘I’m all right.’ Now she turned to Fleur. ‘I’m sorry, my dear. How silly of me.’ She was back in control of her feelings now and of the situation. But inside she was still quaking. I must be careful what I say, what I ask, she was thinking. Forcing a brightness into her tone, she said, ‘It was just hearing the name after all these years. Of course I knew your father when we lived there. Both your parents.’

  The two young people were aware that there was much more to it than just that. They glanced at each other, wanting to ask more, but afraid of distressing Robbie’s mother again.

  But in her turn and despite her desire to let secrets stay hidden, Meg could not stop herself asking, ‘Are they still at Middleditch Farm? Still working for the Smallwoods?’

  Fleur hesitated but, seeing Robbie’s slight nod, she answered, ‘Dad owns the farm now. The Smallwoods both died about eight years ago and they left the farm to my father and mother.’

  Meg gasped and before she could stop herself, she blurted out, ‘Not – not to their daughter?’

  Fleur was puzzled. ‘I didn’t know they had a daughter.’

  Meg closed her eyes and shook her head. ‘I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have said anything.’

  Again Fleur and Robbie exchanged a glance, but their attention was brought back to his mother as she asked one last question. Was it Fleur’s imagination or was there a slight hardening of her tone as Meg asked, ‘And your mother? How is Betsy?’

  Three

  ‘So – what do you make of all that then?’ Robbie said as he pulled the front door shut behind them and shouldered Fleur’s kitbag. They began to walk side by side along the street towards the station.

  Fleur frowned. ‘I honestly don’t know.’

  ‘There’s more to it than she’s letting on,’ Robbie said.

  ‘Well yes, I thought so too, but I didn’t like to say. I mean, it’s none of our business, is it? Certainly not mine.’

  He touched her arm. ‘I’d like it to be. I’d like to see you again. We’re going to be on the same camp. It shouldn’t be too difficult. I mean – that is if … if you … ?’ He was suddenly boyishly unsure.

  She smiled up at him, surprised that he even needed to ask. ‘Of course I want to see you again. That’s if you want to be seen with a lowly ACW, Flight Sergeant Rodwell?’

  ‘Mm,’ he murmured absently as if the matter of rank was the very last thing on his mind at this precise moment. He squeezed her elbow. ‘It’s strange, but I feel as if I’ve known you years.’

  ‘I know,’ she said simply and without being conscious of what she was doing, she slipped her arm through his and they walked closely side by side, matching their strides.

  They didn’t speak again until they were standing on the platform. Robbie had put her kitbag in the carriage and now they stood facing each other. He put his hands on her shoulders, smiling down at her. ‘I’ll see you soon then?’

  She nodded and now she did what she’d been wanting to do almost since they’d first met. She stood on tiptoe and kissed him. Not a chaste kiss on the cheek, but on his wide, generous mouth.

  As she drew back, he laughed softly and murmured, ‘You hussy . . .’ Then his arms were tightly around her, his warm mouth on hers. Her arms wound themselves around his neck, her body pressed to his.

  A whistle sounded and a merry, gruff voice said, ‘Break it up, now. Train’s leaving if you’re catching it.’

  They broke apart and turned to see the guard with the whistle in his hand, grinning at them. ‘Sorry, folks, but the train can’t wait.’ The man’s craggy face softened. ‘Not even for you.’ In his job he saw so many partings, so many tears. He often wondered what happened to all those youngsters whose poignant goodbyes he witnessed. Did they meet again or did those tears of ‘sweet sorrow’ become a deluge of grief?

  But these two were laughing and blushing, and the older man guessed their love was new and young, just on the threshold . . . But his train couldn’t wait – not even for love.

  Fleur scrambled aboard and leant out of the window, clasping his hands. ‘Come out to the farm later,’ she invited rashly, ‘and bring your mother.’

  ‘I’ll be there. Can’t vouch for Ma, but I’ll be there,’ he vowed.

  He stood watching the train out of sight, marvelling that in the space of a few hours he had found the girl he wanted to spend the rest of his life with. However long or short, he thought soberly, that life might be.

  ‘I wish you’d’ve let me know you were coming. I could’ve come to fetch you from Nottingham last night.’ Jake Bosley frowned worriedly. ‘I don’t like the idea of you going home with a complete stranger. Even if he is in the RAF, he could be anyone.’

  Fleur grinned as she dropped her kitbag to the floor, returned her father’s bear hug and then dutifully kissed her mother’s cheek.

  Betsy sniffed. ‘It’s nice of you to remember you have a home.’ There was a pause before she added, ‘When are you going back?’

  Deciding to ignore the barbed remark, Fleur responded gaily, ‘Good old Mum. You always say the same thing. It sounds as if you can’t wait to get rid of me again.’

  Betsy’s mouth tightened. ‘You know very well that’s not the case. We never wanted you to go in the first place. But you had to have your own way, didn’t you? Couldn’t wait to get away. Anyone would think—’

  ‘Now, now, Betsy love. Don’t spoil the precious time we’ve got with her,’ Jake said, trying as he always did to quench the sparks that so easily flared between mother and daughter.

  ‘I’m sorry, Mum. I was only teasing.’ Fleur kicked herself mentally. She ought to know by now that her mother rarely took teasing from anyone – unless, of course, it was Fleur’s younger brother, Kenny, doing the tormenting.

  Fleur turned back to her father. He was still frowning anxiously. He was a good-looking man and middle age was being kind to him, for there were only a few flecks of grey in his thick, brown hair. His build was stocky and strong from years of farm work even though he walked with a stiff leg – the result of a wound in the Great War that
everyone had believed would ‘end all wars’. How wrong they had all been! But she saw now that the laughter lines on his face were deepening into anxiety and the look in his dark brown eyes troubled her, for she knew she was the cause.

  He hadn’t wanted her to join up. Neither of them had. Her mother had cried and stormed and demanded that she stay at home, whilst her father had gone about his work on the farm with a worried frown permanently on his face.

  ‘You don’t have to go. You’re doing important work here on the farm,’ he’d tried to insist.

  ‘You’ll be killed,’ Betsy had wailed dramatically. ‘I know you will.’

  ‘Oh, Mum, girls don’t fly. I’ll just be on an aerodrome. In the offices or the canteen or – or something.’

  ‘Airfields get bombed,’ Betsy had persisted. She’d got Fleur dead and buried already before she’d even signed up. But for once Fleur had stood her ground. She wanted to do her bit, wanted to see something of life away from the farm, though of course she didn’t tell them that.

  ‘Kenny’s still here.’ She’d tried to soften the blow. ‘He’s too young to go.’

  ‘That depends on how long this wretched war goes on,’ her mother had said bitterly. ‘He’s seventeen now.’

  ‘Only just,’ Fleur said.

  ‘What if it lasts another two years?’ her mother persisted. ‘He’ll get called up when he’s nineteen. And I bet,’ she added bitterly, ‘it won’t be long before they lower the age for call up.’

  ‘But he’ll work on the farm. Dad can apply for a deferment for him. He won’t have to go,’ Fleur had argued.

  ‘But he will go.’ Betsy’s voice had risen hysterically as she’d said accusingly, ‘Because he’ll copy you. He idolizes you. You can’t do anything wrong in his eyes.’ There was more than a tinge of jealousy in Betsy’s tone. It was she who idolized her son, and she made no effort to hide her possessiveness. Miraculously, the boy himself was unspoilt by her favouritism and Fleur enjoyed an easy, bantering relationship with her brother.