by Molly Green
But he could never tell her he loved her. Not in that way. Not in the way he wanted. That he loved her with his body, heart and soul. He couldn’t bear her pity even though he was making a fair recovery. If she said she loved him in return he would always wonder if she only stayed with him because she was sorry for him.
Tears ran down his cheeks and he didn’t bother to use his good hand to brush them away. He remembered every one of their kisses, tentative at first but how quickly they’d changed to passion … loving, tender kisses they’d once shared when he’d honestly thought she was falling in love with him and might one day become his wife. It was what he’d dreamed of. And he’d been sure she’d shared his dream. Until he’d told her they could only be friends. What a damned fool he’d been.
Chas had nearly ruined everything for him. When he’d overheard Chas in the bar that night bragging about an English girl buying a toy dog for a child called Lizzie it was as though his heart was being sawn in half. Even that poor devil who’d just received a Dear John letter from his wife had asked him what was the matter. He’d told the poor bloke it was none of his bloody business, tipped back the rest of his beer, got up and strolled over to where Chas was sitting. Chas had his head bent listening to one of the other pilots and jerked his head in Murray’s direction. Murray swung his arm out and gave him a surprise blow on his jaw.
He was delighted to watch Chas rub that handsome face of his, a look of disbelief in his eyes.
‘What the hell was that for, buddy?’
‘I’m not your buddy and never will be,’ Murray growled. ‘That was for June. The next one won’t leave you in your seat. I suggest you leave her alone, you cad.’
He’d turned and marched out to a few chuckles from the table where Chas still sat. He didn’t care if he got court-martialled. All he knew was that it had given him the greatest satisfaction.
A bolt of pain now shot through his eye making him screw up his face against it. His good eye. Dear God, don’t let anything happen to his good eye. If only he could get back into his Spit and help his friends beat the Germans. But it wasn’t to be. They would never allow him to go up again. He closed his eyes to ease the pain.
But of course he was no longer flying Spits anyway. He’d moved into Bomber Command to get away from Liverpool – to forget June. But it had been the biggest mistake of his life. Fighting one pilot, one to another, both with an even chance, was one thing; dropping bombs on innocent civilians – worse, on women and children – was another.
Somehow when he’d transferred he hadn’t thought of individuals. They’d had it drummed into them that they were to drop bombs on the cities to crush the people’s morale. But he’d crushed so much more. To think he was responsible for ending hundreds, maybe thousands, of lives, even in the few weeks he’d been on those grim missions. Children who would never grow up to have careers and families. Children left with one or both parents killed. Some of them would end up in a home like Dr Barnardo’s – plucked away from everything and everyone who was familiar to them. As if that wasn’t bad enough there were the beautiful buildings – cathedrals, churches, houses, hospitals – and the railways: all smashed to smithereens. It made no difference that they were German buildings, German architecture. They were icons of beauty whoever had designed them and built them. His stomach churned as he thought of the misery he’d inflicted, night after night, upon German civilians who probably didn’t want this war any more than the British. In a way it was almost a relief knowing he wouldn’t be able to continue in Bomber Command. But because he’d been part of it, though only for a short time, how could someone as dear as Junie ever forgive him for the horror he’d brought upon innocent people? It didn’t help that many of his pals felt exactly the same.
He gave a despairing sigh and more tears trickled down his cheek. Life wasn’t really worth living if June wasn’t there by his side.
Chapter Thirty-Five
The landlady at the bed-and-breakfast could not have been more welcoming. She was a plump lady with her hair mostly covered by a hairnet, and wearing a pink flowered overall with lipstick to match.
‘I hoped you wouldn’t be too late, dear, as I need to pop to the shop and get a few bits, but I wanted to be here when you arrived. Come in, come in. I’m Elsie Sutton. But call me Elsie.’
She led June along a corridor to the sitting room.
‘Sit down, my duck. I’ll make some tea and then I’ll leave you to it while I go and get the groceries.’ She scuttled off.
Elsie was not the best cook. The macaroni cheese hadn’t been cooked long enough and tasted more of mustard than of cheese.
‘It’s not my best effort,’ Elsie apologised. ‘What with the rationing we don’t get enough in the way of cheese and butter – and the amount of meat I manage to get is laughable, even though they know I’m trying to run a business.’
‘It’s lovely, Elsie. Honestly.’ She smiled at the landlady. ‘Do you have children?’
‘Two sons.’ Elsie chewed her lower lip. ‘Both of them fighting for king and country.’
‘You must be very proud of them.’
‘Oh, I’m proud, all right. They look right handsome in their uniforms – they’re soldiers, both of them in the army – but I’d rather not be proud and have them home safe with me. Every time I see a telegram boy deliver something in the road I think, “Please don’t come any nearer. Don’t stop at my door. Go past. Go to anyone’s door but mine.” And then I think how horrible I am because some other poor boy’s been killed or injured and some other mother is heartbroken. I just don’t want it to be one of my boys. I don’t want to read a telegram with bad news. It’d kill me, what with my husband dead from influenza after the last war, poor bugger, when he fought in the trenches and never got a bruise. It don’t seem fair.’
‘Oh, Elsie, I’m so sorry. This dreadful war.’
‘When will it end? That’s what I’m asking every day. When will it end?’
June felt far more confident when she went to the hospital the following morning, but she was disappointed to see the stern nurse on duty again.
‘I’ve come to see Flight Lieutenant Murray Andrews,’ she began.
The nurse looked up. ‘Oh, yes, his fiancée.’ She emphasised the last word.
June caught her eye and felt there was a suspicious glint. But the nurse gave her a nod. ‘He’s just having a bed bath. It’ll be about ten minutes. Take a seat.’ She gestured with her head.
‘You may go in now.’
June made the short walk to the bed at the far end, which still had the curtains pulled round. She hesitated, but a plump nurse appeared and swung the curtains back, and there was Murray, propped up against a pile of pillows. He smiled as he saw her and June, a little self-consciously, kissed the nearest side of his face.
‘Hello, Murray. How are you feeling?’
‘Better now I’ve seen you.’
A glow spread through her. Even if she’d lost him as her boyfriend – was he ever that? – he was too precious for her to lose as a friend, and to her relief he seemed to feel the same way. She sat down on the metal visitor’s chair.
‘How do you really feel?’
‘Not so bad. They say I should be out of here in a week.’
‘That’s wonderful news.’
‘By the way, who let you know I was missing?’
His question came out of the blue and June swallowed. The last thing she wanted to bring up was Chas. But Murray was looking at her, waiting for her to answer.
‘Chas Lockstone. He rang me at the home. He said he knew we were friends – “buddies”, he called us,’ June said, deliberately ignoring Murray’s frown at the mention of Chas. ‘He said he was sorry not to have let me know earlier but he’d been on leave, and that you’d now been missing for a week or more. I was distraught. Then after I’d almost given up hope he telephoned to say you’d been found. Oh, Murray’ – she let her eyes linger on him and allowed herself to smile – ‘it was the best te
lephone call I’ve ever had. But Chas was hazy on what had actually happened to you.’
‘We were hit and bailed out but the plane caught fire,’ Murray said, his eyes now fixed on to the ceiling. ‘Luckily we were over Holland. Our luck held when we were picked up by a group of Dutch resisters who’d seen us come down. My arm was in a bad shape so they had to get a doctor to patch it up but he said I should have an X-ray and it would need to be operated on. It must have been a week or more before they managed to get me back to England.’
‘What happened to the rest of the crew?’
He closed his eyes as though his answer was too painful for him to tell her. ‘Four others injured, one of them seriously, one almost unscathed except for a few cuts and bruises … and one …’ He opened his bloodshot eyes and turned to look at her, his eyes wet. ‘My pal Johnnie. One of the best navigators. They couldn’t save him.’ She heard him swallow before he spoke again. ‘They were such super chaps, Junie. I’ll never forget any of them – especially Johnnie.’
She took his good hand and gave it a gentle squeeze. She was desperate to ask him why he’d moved into Bomber Command – was it anything to do with her? Had he had any intention of seeing her again? Did he miss her? But it wasn’t the time or the place. Murray was upset enough already.
The stern nurse gave her longer than yesterday, but she appeared after half an hour and warned June she only had five more minutes.
Knowing they would soon be saying goodbye again made them awkward with one another. They were both silent for quite one minute until June broke it.
‘Where will they send you from here?’ she said.
‘Back to Speke, I imagine.’ Murray kept his voice low, even though no one was around to hear him. Shorty was still lying peacefully in the next bed. ‘The doc likes to get you rehabilitated as soon as possible and there’s no job for me now in Bomber Command.’ He looked directly at her. ‘It was the wrong decision for me anyway.’
She decided this wasn’t the time to question him about why he’d put in for the transfer.
‘What about your eye—’ June started.
‘They’ve operated,’ Murray interrupted, ‘and are hopeful, but I’m not banking on anything.’ He sighed and lowered his voice. ‘You get used to anything in here. Even poor old Shorty will get used to his face in time. He’s had two operations since I’ve been in – six in all, poor devil.’
She didn’t know what to say.
‘They won’t let me fly again,’ Murray continued, his voice hard with resentment. ‘I’ll have to do office work, I expect.’
‘I know it’s not what you really want,’ June said, remembering how his eyes used to light up when he talked to her about taking off into the air, even though she knew he hated the actual fighting and having to witness another pilot go down, whether he was British or German. To Murray it was simply another young man, a skilled pilot like himself, spiralling to his doom. She smiled at him. ‘But at least you’re safe and getting well. And I’m sure they won’t keep you in office work forever.’
‘I don’t want to talk about it. What about you, Junie?’ He watched her closely. ‘Are you still happy at Dr Barnardo’s?’
Her heart turned over at his use of her name.
‘It’s where I belong,’ she said, simply.
Murray caught her eye and smiled. ‘Yes, you do belong there. I can see it now. That’s where you’re happiest.’
No! she wanted to scream out. I am happy there, it’s true, but I want to share it with you, Murray. I’m happiest with you. I want to be with you when this war’s over. Can’t you tell? But she remained silent. The last thing he’d want was for her to feel sorry for him. But it wouldn’t be that at all. She loved him. She always would. But she could never tell him because he’d made it plain, even before his accident, that he would never love her in that way.
‘Sorry to butt in but time’s up, I’m afraid.’ A nurse new to June stepped briskly towards them. ‘Lieutenant Andrews has got to go for an eye examination.’
Just as she’d done the day before, June leaned over the bed and kissed Murray’s cheek. Then to her surprise he brought his hand up to her face and stroked the contours as though he wanted to fix the memory of her deep within him.
‘Thank you for coming. You’ve cheered me up.’
‘I haven’t done anything for you to thank me for,’ June answered shakily. ‘I just wanted to see you, but tomorrow’s the last day. Then I have to go back.’
‘Maybe you can tell me what happened when you went to London that time.’ His eye closed as he leaned back on the pillows.
‘What do you mean?’ Had he heard about what she’d done to Billy Lavender? She steeled herself.
‘When you met Chas in London.’ His words were mumbled but she still heard him. Her heart did a sickening turn and she went pale. Chas – when she’d bumped into him in London after … What had Chas told him? Suddenly the image of Chas on top of her flooded her pale cheeks with fire. He must have boasted to Murray that he’d made love to her. Her hand flew to her mouth and she was thankful Murray still had his eyes closed. How could Chas? Was it because she’d tried to push him off, told him to stop, before any bomb went off? She remembered his humiliated expression. He couldn’t even use the excuse that they were interrupted by a bombing raid. That must be it. Chas had bragged to Murray that she was a willing partner. Had gone happily up to his bedroom of her own accord.
Once again the feeling of deepest shame swept over her. Why had she been so stupid as to go to his room, just because he’d said she was in shock and needed a cup of tea, and then why not take a nap on his bed? She’d been gullible and nothing could make the clocks go back. She’d have to live with this guilt forever. And whatever she said to Murray, how could he believe her?
No wonder he’d specifically said he didn’t want any visitors. He was terrified she’d come and torment him. He must have been devastated when Chas told him his version. Had Chas also told him about what she’d done to her father? What must he think of her? That it would serve her right if she was put in prison, no doubt. You might be able to forgive the person you loved one terrible thing, but two? That would be impossible.
Murray’s breathing became regular. June tiptoed out of the ward. Tears stung the back of her eyes but she was determined not to cry. The thought had never crossed her mind that she was doing something wrong. ‘Little tease’, she seemed to remember Chas calling her. Before all that she’d genuinely thought he was being kind and understanding after what she had just gone through with her father.
June took comfort that she would see Murray tomorrow, and perhaps have a chance to explain.
Chapter Thirty-Six
Murray had tried hard to drift off to sleep when June left. He kept seeing Chas inviting June up to his hotel room with one idea only in that Yank’s mind. Murray swallowed hard, praying she wasn’t taken in by Chas. The thought sickened him. No, June was too level-headed. But what if she really liked Chas? There was nothing he could do: she was a free woman. He could only hope that Chas had been his usual swaggering, boastful American self, showing off to his buddies that he could get any girl, and there was nothing in it.
In his irritation Murray began to cough. He raised himself to reach the jug on his bedside table. He drank thirstily but pulled a face midway through. It was lukewarm water and he craved cold.
‘Everything all right?’ A young nurse with bright ginger hair and freckles smiled at him. ‘Can I bring you a cup of tea?’
‘Yes, please,’ he said, mainly to get rid of the girl, nice though she was, to be left alone with his thoughts. ‘And some fresh water, thanks.’
‘Coming up.’ She grinned and disappeared.
‘Lockstone got what he deserved,’ Murray said out loud, thinking of the feeling of hitting Chas in the face. There was a mumble from the next bed, and immediately he felt ashamed.
‘What is it, Murray? Speak up, you old bugger.’
‘I was just thinkin
g of this damned war and how we’re both messed up and we’ve got to learn to live with it, and I don’t want anyone’s pity.’
‘No, that’s not what you said.’ The voice was clearer now, and more urgent. ‘I heard the name Lockstone. Presumably you’re talking about the Yank, Chas Lockstone. What did he get that he deserved?’
Murray sighed. He’d always known the risks but he’d never truly thought he’d end up being treated for third-degree burns. But at least it was his arm. Not like poor old Shorty, whose face had caught the brunt of the fire when his Hurricane had gone down. He’d thought Shorty was fast asleep. As if the bloke didn’t have enough on his plate without hearing Murray’s woes. He was just about to say it was nothing and pretend to fall asleep when he suddenly realised he was treating Shorty like some kind of fool. Just because his face was burned didn’t mean his brain had gone soft.
‘A punch in the jaw. I gave him one.’
‘Really.’ Shorty sounded amused. ‘Well, he’s had it coming for some time. What was it for?’
‘For telling his buddies, as he calls them, that he’d seduced June in his hotel bedroom.’
‘You didn’t believe it, did you?’
‘I did at the time, but when I thought about it later I knew June would never do anything like it. If she went to his room, there’d be a reason why and it wouldn’t be that.’
He broke off as the ginger-haired nurse appeared with his tea and water, and another nurse helped Shorty to drink some kind of liquid through a straw.
When they’d gone, Murray told him how his friendship with June had developed – even about Freddie and how he’d brought him to the home for Lizzie.
‘So what’s the problem now?’ Shorty said. ‘I ask that as I couldn’t help overhearing a bit of your conversation. I can’t see her but she sounds a lovely girl. And I could tell she loves you. It’s in her voice every time she speaks to you.’
Murray’s eyes filled with ready tears. Shorty seemed to understand more than he did. His voice was not quite steady as he answered his friend.
