Anxiously, she waited for the call sign of D-Doggo. At last, she heard, ‘Hello, Woody, this is Lindum D-Doggo. One engine u/s and wounded on board . . .’
At once, Bob Watson was standing behind the operators. ‘Kay, call up number four and tell him to overshoot. Fleur, tell D-Doggo he has straight in approach. Corporal—’ Bob called to the airman who manned the internal telephone. ‘Call up the ambulance and fire tender.’
Fleur took a deep breath. ‘Hello, D-Doggo, you are number five to land, straight in approach, runway two-zero . . . switch to channel B.’
Calmly, her instructions were repeated and then they heard the drone of the aircraft as it approached the runway.
‘His other engine doesn’t sound too healthy,’ Bob said. Everyone was holding their breath, trying to see out into the darkness. The aircraft touched down, the noise fading as it ran towards the end of the runway.
The radio crackled again. ‘Hello, Woody, this is number five. Turned left off runway, but second engine now u/s. Over.’
From the clipped message, Fleur knew that the aircraft had been able to turn off the runway, but now it seemed that the second engine had given up on them and the plane could taxi no further under its own power.
‘Help is on its way, number five,’ she said into her microphone. ‘Well done. Out.’
Now Fleur could breathe easily again and at once began to call up the aircraft waiting to land. It had been a close call for Tommy Laughton and his crew. The rear gunner was injured, but at least they were all home. Five planes failed to come back. Debriefing revealed that one had been seen to crash in enemy territory.
‘I did see parachutes, though,’ one of the pilots told Ruth.
Three aircraft had ditched in the sea, though the fate of the crews was unknown and one plane couldn’t be accounted for at all.
D-Doggo was badly damaged and would be out of commission yet again for two or three days whilst the mechanics worked on it frantically. Several more planes in the same squadron needed extensive repairs before they would be airworthy.
‘I’ve got a seventy-two, so I’m going home. And this time, I really will speak to Ma,’ Robbie promised Fleur. ‘What about you? Can you get any leave?’
She shook her head. ‘No. Sounds like there’s a big op on for tomorrow night. We’re on duty.’
A fleeting look of regret crossed Robbie’s face. ‘And I’ll miss it,’ he murmured. Fleur looked at him incredulously, shaking her head slowly. She said nothing, but she was wondering just what it was about these young men that made them want to be in the thick of danger. Was it the excitement? And was that excitement all the more thrilling because it was dangerous? She didn’t know. All she knew was that Kenny craved that same kick.
Robbie put his arm about her waist. ‘I’m sorry you can’t get leave too. We could have met up. Spent some time together.’
‘I know,’ she said softly, anguished at the thought of not being able to spend every precious minute with him. ‘But maybe it’ll be worth it if you do get a chance to talk to your mother.’
‘I’ll make sure I do this time. I promise.’
Fifteen
Fleur attacked the gardening work with a vigour born of anxiety and frustration. Anything, to keep her mind from wandering to Robbie and what was being said between him and his mother.
She double dug an area down one side of the garden ready for planting potatoes, then levelled an area nearby to plant carrots and cauliflowers. After that she carefully weeded the rhubarb patch. Then she marked out the oblong shape for the Anderson shelter and began to dig out the hole. The ground was hard and the effort back-breaking.
Taking a break about mid morning, she went into the house to find Mrs Jackson standing at the kitchen table rolling out pastry. Beside her was a container of shrivelled-looking rings.
‘What on earth are those?’ Fleur asked.
Mrs Jackson chuckled. ‘Dried apple rings.’
‘Dried? I’ve never heard of doing that.’
‘Oh, they come out quite well if you soak them and then use them in a pie.’
‘My mum always bottles all her fruit. She’s got a cooker as well as the old range and she uses a huge metal container. A big box-like thing . . .’ Fleur demonstrated its size with her hands. ‘It holds about eight bottles at once. And she packs all the fruit into them with syrup and then boils them for – oh, I don’t know how long.’
Mrs Jackson was nodding. ‘Yes, I used to do something similar in the oven with Kilner jars, but since Arthur went I haven’t had the heart. Truth is, I found it too hard to get the fruit picked.’
Fleur put her arm around the old lady’s shoulders. ‘Well, this year we’ll harvest it all and we’ll see what we can do then, eh?’
Mary Jackson smiled. ‘That’d be lovely, dear. My Arthur would be so thrilled to think all his hard work hadn’t been wasted. He planted those fruit trees, y’know, when we was first married. There’s two apple trees and a Victoria plum as well as raspberry canes and gooseberry bushes. Just before our Eddie was born, it was. And he built that bench under the apple tree so’s I could sit down there with the pram.’
‘Eddie? Who’s Eddie.’
The old lady’s face fell into lines of sorrow. ‘Our boy. Our son. Our only son.’
‘And – er – where is Eddie now?’ Fleur held her breath. For some reason she feared the answer.
‘He was killed in the last war. On the Somme.’
‘Oh, Mrs Jackson, I am sorry.’ She paused, before asking tentatively, ‘Have – have you any other children?’
‘Two daughters. Phyllis and Joyce.’
Fleur waited for Mrs Jackson to volunteer the information herself. ‘Phyllis is married and lives down south. She . . . she doesn’t get home much, but she writes every week.’
Fleur nodded. She had seen the letters arriving regularly and had posted replies for the old lady, although she hadn’t known they were addressed to Mary’s daughter.
‘And . . . and Joyce?’
Mrs Jackson was silent for a moment, concentrating on rolling out the pastry for the apple pie. Her voice was husky with sadness when she did answer. ‘Joyce was only seventeen when she started courting a lad from the village. She . . . she got herself into trouble.’
Fleur said nothing, knowing that in such a small community the gossips would’ve had a field day.
‘They got married but . . . but she died having the bairn. She was only just eighteen.’
Fleur’s eyes filled with tears. ‘Oh, Mrs Jackson, how sad. I’m so sorry. And . . . and what happened to her baby?’
‘A little boy, it was, but his daddy – the whole family, in fact – moved away. They’ve kept in touch and I’ve seen him a few times while he’s been growing up. I’ve always sent him a little something at Christmas and on his birthday.’
How sad that must be for the old lady, Fleur thought. The boy’s birthday would also be the anniversary of his mother’s death.
‘He . . . he’s seventeen now.’ Mrs Jackson’s expression was suddenly anxious. ‘I expect he’ll be called up when he’s old enough. If . . . if it’s not over by then.’
‘Same age as Kenny.’
‘That’s right. Your Kenny reminds me of Simon in some ways. Same cheeky grin.’ Now she smiled fondly.
‘Do you mind Kenny coming here? I mean, I wouldn’t want it to upset you if he reminds you—’
‘Mind? Heavens, no, dear. I like him to come. He’s a lovely lad.’
‘Has Phyllis any children?’
Mary laughed fondly. ‘Oh yes. Four. Two boys and two girls. Clever, wasn’t she?’
Fleur laughed too, glad to move on to a happier note. But still, even with her other grandchildren, it seemed Mary had worries.
‘One of the girls is in the WAAFs like you and the other is in the Land Army. The eldest boy is a fighter pilot. We were very worried last year when the Battle of Britain was going on. He was in the thick of it. But he’s all right, thank the Goo
d Lord. And the youngest boy, well, he’s only thirteen. I hope it’ll all be over by the time he reaches call-up age.’
‘Oh, my goodness, let’s hope so,’ Fleur said fervently.
There was a silence between them as Mrs Jackson shaped her pastry to fit the pie dish.
‘Has Harry any family?’
‘Not now. They only had one child – a boy – and he was killed an’ all in the last lot. Ypres, I think it was.’
Fleur couldn’t think of anything to say. How sad it was for these lonely old people and now they were being plunged into another terrible war. Hearing about Mrs Jackson’s loss and old Harry’s made Fleur understand her mother’s fears a little more. What she couldn’t understand was Betsy’s vehement hatred of Meg and her son. Surely, in such troubled times past animosities and feuds should be laid aside, forgotten and forgiven. Whatever could have happened to make her mother so bitter and resentful against Robbie’s?
Outside again, Fleur eyed the area she had marked out for the Anderson shelter with a frown. She’d made a start but was getting tired now, and she had to remember that she still had a full eight-hour night shift to do.
‘I’ll do a bit in the front garden,’ she decided. ‘The ground might be a bit softer there.’
She hadn’t been digging for many minutes when she heard the familiar, ‘Hi, Sis.’
Fleur looked up at the sound of squeaking brakes as Kenny slithered to a halt at the gate. He jumped off his bike, reared it against the fence and straddled the gate without bothering to open it. Fleur grinned and leant on her fork. ‘Hello. What brings you here?’
‘To see my sister, of course.’ Kenny grinned and the twinkle in his eyes told the rest.
‘Really?’ Fleur teased with a wry note of disbelief in her tone. Then she capitulated and laughed. ‘It’s good to see you – whatever the reason. But shouldn’t you be at school?’
‘Nope. Our school’s sharing with another that got bombed out. So we go in the morning and they have the afternoons. And before you say anything – yes, I have taken this morning off to get here, but don’t tell Mum, will you?’
‘You bad lad!’ Fleur laughed again, but Kenny knew she wouldn’t give him away.
‘What are you going to do here?’ He changed the subject, pointing to the newly turned earth at her feet.
‘I thought runner beans. I’ll get them planted and then build a frame from canes for the plants to climb. I’ve seen a bundle in Harry’s shed.’ She lowered her voice. ‘And Mrs Jackson said that her Arthur always used to grow her a row of sweet peas. They’re her favourite flowers. I’d love to grow some for her, but I don’t think I dare.’
Kenny frowned thoughtfully. ‘Wait a minute. What about . . . ?’ He moved to the corner of the cottage furthest away from Harry’s cottage and pointed at the end wall. ‘Down this narrow border here. It’s not much use for anything else, and behind that big bush she’s got there near the fence, it won’t be easily seen from the road. I reckon you could get away with it there. And if the authorities say anything . . .’ he shrugged. ‘Then you’ll just have to rip ’em up again.’
Fleur beamed at him. ‘You clever old thing. That’d be perfect. It’d just take a narrow frame, wouldn’t it?’
‘And it’ll get a bit of sun,’ Kenny added. ‘Not much, but enough. Mind you, you’re a bit late now for getting sweet peas sown, aren’t you?’
‘Dad’s got some seedlings, hasn’t he?’
Kenny’s face cleared. ‘So he has. I’d forgotten. I’ll bring you a trayful next time I come.’
‘Meantime, I’ll get that narrow border dug over and a cane frame built, but not a word to her.’
‘Won’t she see it?’
Fleur shook her head. ‘Doubtful. She only comes out once a week to go to church and then she walks round the other end of the cottage and down this front path.’ She stood a moment and glanced towards the other end of the building. ‘No, she’ll not see it. Not unless she goes that end deliberately – and I don’t think she will.’
‘Mum’s the word then, until you present her with a bouquet of sweet peas.’
Fleur hugged herself. ‘I can’t wait to see her face.’ Then her expression sobered. ‘Talking of “mum” – is everybody all right at home?’
Kenny laughed. ‘Right as they’ll ever be. She’s still adamant that if I apply for college, I won’t be called up, and nothing we say will persuade her any different.’ He pulled a face. ‘I reckon when the time comes, she’ll march into the nearest recruiting office and tell them I’m not going and that’s it.’
Fleur wasn’t laughing. ‘You know,’ she said seriously, ’she might very well do just that.’
‘Eh?’ Kenny looked scandalized. ‘I was only joking. Oh, Sis, she wouldn’t really, would she?’
‘She’ll do anything to stop you going. Anything she can. She’ll use the “reserved occupation” argument and anything else she can think of. She certainly might apply to the local War Agricultural Executive Committee for your exemption.’
‘But it wouldn’t work, would it? I mean – they wouldn’t take any notice of a chap’s mother, would they?’
‘If she makes a proper application as your employer, then, yes, I think they might.’
‘Does she know that?’ he asked worriedly.
Fleur shrugged. ‘If she doesn’t yet, she’ll soon make enquiries and find out. You can be sure of that.’
‘Fleur, I want to go. Just like you.’
‘Oh, don’t say that, Kenny.’ Fleur groaned. ‘You make me feel so guilty.’
Kenny shook his head. ‘That’s not what I mean. I’d go anyway – I’ve told you that already – even if you hadn’t volunteered.’
Fleur looked at him, wanting to believe him but not sure she could. She had set an example to her younger brother and he didn’t want to be outdone by her. If anything happened to him . . .
‘Right then, where do you want me to start?’ Kenny interrupted her maudlin thoughts with his ready grin and willing pair of hands. ‘By the way,’ he added, trying to sound nonchalant, ‘Ruth here, is she?’
‘She’ll be home later. She should be back before you go. But, yes, I would be glad of your help.’
Kenny grinned. ‘More digging? I thought you’d’ve got it finished by now.’
‘It is – more or less – but I want to build an Anderson shelter that both Mrs Jackson and Harry can share. Down the bottom of the garden. I’ve made a start, but the ground’s so hard.’
‘Right-o. I’ll help you dig out the foundations.’
‘Actually, there’s something else I’d rather you helped me with today, if you would.’
‘Oh yes. What’s that then?’
‘I’ve made arrangements to go up to Top End Farm and see about some manure. If I can get some for this afternoon, I was hoping to get it dug in tomorrow. I’ll be off all day after tonight’s shift. In fact I’m not on again until the day after tomorrow in the afternoon, so I’ll get a good long go at it. But now you’re here.’ She smiled archly at him. ‘You could help me dig it in this afternoon. I was going to ask Robbie, but his plane’s grounded for repairs and he’s gone home to see his mother, so I thought I might twist Ruth’s arm to lend a hand.’
Kenny guffawed loudly. ‘I don’t think you’ll get either of that pair of townies to deal with a pile of—’
‘Careful, Kenny,’ Fleur laughed. ‘Mrs Jackson’s a lady. It’s “manure” to her.’
Her brother’s grin widened. ‘I’ll try to remember, Sis. She’s a sweet old dear. I wouldn’t want to upset her. She reminds me of Gran.’
They were both silent for a moment, remembering with affection their father’s mother who had lived with them for the last two years of her life.
‘She is a bit, I suppose. Gran had arthritis just like her.’
‘And she’s round and waddly – just like Gran.’ After another brief pause, Kenny said, ‘Right then, what about this – manure? How are we to get it here?’
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br /> ‘I saw the farmer. Mr Clegg. He said if I went up today, I could have one of his horses and his cart. I’ve to do the loading up that end and the unloading this end and take the horse and cart back before I go on duty.’
‘Sounds as if it’s a good job I’ve come then.’
‘Bro, you don’t know how glad I am to see you.’
‘You only want me for my brawn,’ Kenny teased, flexing his muscles.
‘Absolutely!’ she retorted, but brother and sister smiled at each other with deep affection.
They walked the half-mile through the village until, a short distance after the houses ended, Fleur pointed to a rough track leading down a slight incline towards a farmhouse and outbuildings nestling in a natural shallow vale. Kenny glanced around him. ‘Is this what they call the Lincolnshire Wolds?’
‘I’m not sure. I think they’re a bit further east. More in the centre of the county. And then there’s the Lincoln Edge. Not so flat as people think, is it? I think it’s flatter to the east – towards the sea and in the south of the county.’
‘Oh yeah. What they call the fens down there, isn’t it? Mind you, you can see why it’s ideal for all the airfields they’re building, can’t you? I heard someone call it “bomber county” the other day.’
‘Really?’ Fleur was thoughtful for a moment. ‘Well, yes, I can see why they might call it that. Right,’ she said more briskly as they reached the farm. ‘Now, where is Mr Clegg?’
‘Well, there’s his horse and cart standing over there near that pile of . . .’ He grinned. ‘Manure. And if I’m not mistaken, someone’s already started loading.’
As he spoke, a forkful of manure flew up in the air and landed with a thud on the growing pile in the back of the cart. As they approached, Fleur stroked the horse’s nose and patted his neck. ‘Now, big feller,’ she murmured.
Hearing her voice, the man at the back of the cart straightened up. ‘Na’ then, lass. Thought I’d mek a start for ya.’
The farmer was a big man, tall and broad with iron muscles standing out on his arms. He wore heavy workaday boots, dark green corduroy trousers that had seen better days, a striped, collarless shirt and a checked cap. Mr Clegg nodded towards Kenny. ‘Brought reinforcements, I see. Yar young man, is it?’
Wish Me Luck Page 11
