‘No, thank you. I don’t smoke.’
‘What, no vices?’
‘Not that particular one.’
He smiled at her. The most striking thing about him was his eyes. They were blue and very bright, and they shone with life and laughter. Otherwise, his looks were not remarkable. He was of medium height, slim and brown-haired with a small, neat moustache. Like many of the fighter pilots, he had a certain look that set him apart from all the grounded penguins on the station . . . an easy confidence, a casual outlook on life, signalled for all to see by the top tunic button left undone. He also had charm. In abundance.
He squinted at her through the smoke from his cigarette. ‘Why on earth haven’t we met before? Where have you been hiding from me?’
‘In Station HQ, actually.’
‘Extraordinary!’
‘I’ve seen you before, as a matter of fact.’
His eyes widened. ‘I must be slipping badly . . . when and where?’
‘It was soon after I arrived. You were standing with some others outside HQ when I came out with Sergeant Beaty after seeing Wing Commander Palmer. You all looked at us as though we’d just landed from Mars.’
‘Good Lord, I remember now . . . you gave us the shock of our lives. Matter of fact, I only really saw that sergeant. I thought at first it was a chap dressed up for a lark.’
She looked at him severely. ‘That was Sergeant Janet Beaty.’
‘Almost had me fooled.’ He grinned. ‘I must say that uniform looks pretty splendid on you, though – much better than it does on us chaps. Very attractive. There’s something about a woman in uniform . . . on the right one, that is. It didn’t do quite the same for that sergeant of yours, I’m bound to say. Look, I can’t call you Company Assistant Newman. Too jolly formal. What’s your other name?’
‘Felicity.’
‘I say, that means happiness, doesn’t it? Are you happy?’
‘Most of the time, I suppose.’
‘Not all of the time? Bad show that. We’ll have to do something about it. I’m happy all the time. Take no thought for the morrow – that’s my motto. Live dangerously for today. My real name’s Ian, by the way. Far better known, though, as Speedy.’
She asked why and then instantly regretted it. He tried, unsuccessfully, to look modest.
‘Because I’m the fastest worker in the squadron – on the ground.’
‘Really?’ she said coldly.
‘Really. Honest injun. No girl can resist me. You might not believe it to look at me, but there it is.’ He eyed her appreciatively across the rim of his glass. ‘Tell me, what’s a lovely girl like you doing in the Women’s Air Force thingamijig? Is your father RAF, or something?’
‘No, he’s a rector. He has a parish in Norfolk.’
‘Lord, is he? Never go near the sky pilots myself if I can help it.’
‘Sky pilots?’
‘Padres. God bods. Devil dodgers. Call ’em what you will. Not really my line at all. No offence intended, you understand.’
‘None taken.’
‘Good show.’ He beamed at her. ‘You know, some of the chaps were a bit fussed at first about having popsies round the station.’
‘So I gather.’
‘Not me, though. I’m all for it. Brightens the old place up no end, and it’s jolly nice having them waiting on us in the Mess. Makes the food taste better.’
‘We’re not here just to brighten the station up, Flying Officer Dutton.’
‘Speedy, please . . .’ His bright eyes danced. ‘I rather hoped that was why they sent you. To comfort the brave heroes. Smooth our fevered brows. Boost our morale, and all that sort of thing.’
Declining to rise to the bait, she took a swallow from her glass and coughed as the fiery taste hit the back of her throat. Speedy patted her on the back sympathetically.
‘Lethal concoction old Badger brews. Should’ve warned you. He pours all the bottles in the bath and stirs it with a paddle. I say, look who’s just come in. Enter our flint-eyed Station Master. Don’t often see him at these junkets.’
Through watering eyes, Felicity caught sight of Wing Commander Palmer at the far side of the room. There was a little eddy of movement around him – as though Royalty had arrived.
‘Damn good pilot in his day,’ Speedy was saying. ‘A real Biggles of the skies, so they say. Bit past it now, of course. Still, he knows how to run the shop all right. Rod of iron stuff.’
‘Who’s that with him?’
‘The blond lovely? Rather a corker, isn’t she? That’s his wife, Caroline. Our First Lady. Rich too. Her family owned a brewery, or something. Lots of loot. Rich, beautiful and very classy. Mind you, I’m not sure I envy the old man that much. She spends most of her time up in the Smoke. Not too keen on us humble RAF types. She’s come slumming tonight.
Mrs Palmer’s long hair was ash blond and her face an oval of pale, smooth skin. She was tall and slim and her plain black dress made every other dress in the room look cheap or dowdy. A little circle of men had surrounded her; a ring of Air Force blue around the black.
‘Bees round the honeypot,’ Speedy observed.
‘I’m rather surprised you’re not there too.’
‘She’s not my type, actually. Bit too much of the cool northern beauty. Besides, I’d be wasting my time for once. She’s not interested in any rank below Flight Lieutenant unless you happen to be very closely related to the Duke of Westminster. That little bunch there haven’t a hope, if they did but know it.’ He smiled at her disarmingly. ‘I’d much sooner be where I am. Ever been to the Old Ship?’
‘What old ship?’
He squeezed her arm. ‘Not a real ship. A pub. First class little place down on the coast not far from here – right bang on the harbour. Very picturesque, as they say in guidebooks. I’ll take you there. You’ll love it. Jolly good grub and booze and cosy little corners . . .’ He gave a sudden groan. ‘Oh God, there’s old Whitters making faces at me. Wants to meet you. I suppose I’ll have to take you over and share you around a bit. Don’t let any of ’em fool you, though. Terrible line shooters.’
Felicity allowed herself to be dragged across to the noisy group behind and to be introduced to Whitters, Dumbo, Sinbad and Moses. Flying Officer Whittaker was tall and gangling and his wide grin showed two badly chipped front teeth. He looked like an overgrown schoolboy, with an energetic eagerness to match. His hands wove patterns in the air as he resumed the story he had been recounting.
‘So, there I was, screaming downhill, going full bore, when all of a sudden there’s one hell of a bang and the old kite starts bouncing around like a bucking bronco. I sit there, hand frozen on the stick, hardly a dicky bird left on the clock, eyes tight shut, preparing to meet my Maker, when, blow me, she pulls out of it, meek as a lamb . . . and I open the old peepers just as I miss this church tower –’
‘Norman or Early English Perpendicular?’
‘Don’t know much about that sort of thing, Sinbad. I’m not an egghead like you. It was sort of square and looked as though it had been there a fairish time . . . where was I?’
‘Missing the church tower.’
‘Thank you, Speedy. And by a whisker, I can tell you. Knocked off the weather vane clean as a whistle. And there’s all these people running about in the graveyard and hiding behind tombstones . . . Sunday morning, you see, so I suppose it was matins. And there’s the parson shaking his fist up at me and flapping his cassock like an old hen –’
‘Surplice, Whitters, old chum.’
‘I must say I did rather get the impression that I was a bit, Moses.’
‘No, you’ve got the wrong word, you clot. You mean his surplice, not his cassock. A cassock’s that long black job they wear underneath, so he couldn’t have been flapping that. Must have been his surplice – the white pinny thing with big sleeves.’
‘That was it. Amazing what you know, Moses. Flapped them both like anything. Looked as though he was trying to take off.’
<
br /> ‘I expect he was a bit upset about his weathervane, Whitters. Wanted to come up and tell you about it.’
‘He may have been, I grant you, Dumbo. Actually, I think they thought I was a Jerry, or something. Anyway, I gave them all a wave to show I was friendly and waggled the old wings before I popped off. Damn close shave, though.’
The short one called Sinbad said airily: ‘Reminds me of the time I had a rather close encounter with Lincoln Cathedral . . .’
Speedy sighed deeply. He said in Felicity’s ear: ‘Don’t say I didn’t warn you about them.’
She laughed. Their good humour and high spirits were very infectious and she felt better than she had felt at any time since she arrived at Colston – surrounded by these incorrigible young men with their absurd nicknames.
Speedy was squeezing her arm again and whispering once more in her ear. ‘Don’t forget our date. The Old Ship. First evening we can manage it.’ He raised his voice. ‘I saw her first, Whitters, so you can buzz off!’
Amid the laughter and Whitters’ protests, Felicity suddenly caught sight of Wing Commander Palmer’s cold eye upon her across the room.
‘And this is a Marshal of the Royal Air Force.’
The airwomen, sitting in a darkened lecture room, stared at the picture projected onto the screen of an RAF cap heavily decorated with gold braid.
The elderly officer who was giving a talk on the history of the Royal Air Force, was explaining how to recognize rank from uniform and the significance of badges and decorations. He traced the cap’s peak with the tip of his cane and tried to be jocular. ‘Lots of scrambled egg there, as you see. That’s what we in the Service call it . . . unofficially, of course.’
They laughed politely.
‘Silly old bugger,’ Pearl muttered.
They stifled yawns as he droned on at great length about thirty historic years in the air.
The lecture on venereal disease, given by the Station MO, shocked and disgusted them all – even Pearl. They watched in silence as images of ulcerated flesh were flashed onto the screen before their eyes.
The MO was brisk and matter-of-fact. ‘The first thing to remember is that promiscuous intercourse can lead to infection,’ he tapped at the screen which displayed a face with its features apparently half-eaten away, ‘and eventually, if not treated, to this sort of result. The second is to take note of the symptoms of venereal infection, such as I have described, and to report it immediately if you should ever get any of them, so that you can receive early treatment. The third thing to remember is that if you girls keep yourselves for Mr Right then you’ve got nothing to worry about. None of this will ever happen to you.’
Winnie averted her eyes from the sickening sight on the screen. She had never heard of such diseases and the idea of girls going with lots of different men, like the doctor had said, was completely strange to her. The nearest thing she could think of was when Dot Bedwell at The Pig and Whistle had gone walking out with both the blacksmith and the cobbler and it had come to blows between the two of them. There had been a lot of talk in the village and some had said that Dot lived up to her name. Three months later she had married the blacksmith and it had all been forgotten. Winnie could not imagine going with anyone other than Ken – not even walking out, let alone anything else. It had always been Ken. And Ken had never tried to do anything else other than hold her hand or kiss her goodnight sometimes. Of course, she knew that there would be more than that some day – you couldn’t live on a farm and not know how nature worked – but that was all in the future, for when she and Ken got married. It had nothing to do with what the doctor had talked about or these horrible pictures. She stared down into her lap, her cheeks burning in the darkness.
After the lecture, Anne cornered Pearl.
‘Do some girls really behave like that – go with any man?’
‘Crikey, of course they do. You are the innocent, aren’t you? Where’ve you been up ’til now?’
‘In a girls’ boarding school, actually.’
‘No wonder then . . . I take it you do know all about the birds and the bees, or didn’t they teach you that at that posh place of yours? Don’t tell me you still think the stork brings babies or they’re left under a gooseberry bush?’
‘The subject was never mentioned. It was unmentionable. But they did teach us the reproductive cycle of the rabbit in Biology. It’s more or less the same thing, isn’t it?’
Pearl roared with laughter. ‘I s’pose so, but I bloody hope I never breed like ’em.’
‘Pearl, have you ever done it? You know . . . it?’
‘No, I haven’t love, since you ask. Never met any bloke I fancied enough, to be honest. Nothing above the knee is my motto.’
‘Waiting for Mr Right?’
Pearl blew a raspberry. ‘Waiting for Mr He’ll Do. I don’t believe there’s such a thing as the perfect man for me – just one that’s less of a bastard than most of the others.’
Anne thought back to whispered conversations with other girls in the dormitory at St Mary’s, after lights out, when they had pooled what meagre information they had. Unfortunately, they’d all been pretty hazy about the whole thing. Any books that might have thrown some light on the fascinating subject were banned at school, though someone had managed to get hold of a copy of No Orchids for Miss Blandish during the holidays. Cross-questioned closely, she had been disappointingly vague. One girl had declared solemnly that her mother had told her that when two people got married they were joined bodily as one in a holy union. Someone else’s mother had said, less upliftingly, that it was something that women just had to put up with and it was better not to think about it. Nobody could imagine what it would really be like, or feel like. The Biology class had provided some interesting facts, including the reassuring one that sperm and urine were never passed at the same time, but Miss Richards, chalking neat diagrams of ovaries and testicles, pipes and passages on the blackboard, had kept her lesson firmly in the animal world. Besides, with her hair netted at the back of her head like a ball of grey wool and her long, sad cardigans, it seemed unlikely that she had ever had any firsthand experience. Even Kit had been unhelpful. Can’t really say, old bean. Different thing for men, isn’t it? You’ll have to wait and find out for yourself one day. One day . . . but when, and with whom? He was out there in the world somewhere, walking around, and that was a funny thought, but how was she going to find him?
They were given another lecture on Gas Attacks and later an RAF corporal with leathery skin and a long-suffering expression took them for Gas Drill.
‘Pay close attention now, if you please. Some of you ladies may think this is all a bit of a lark, but I can tell you it’s not. If so much as one speck of mustard gets into your lungs you’ll never be rid of it. It can blind you and burn the flesh from your bones. So, never mind your hairdos or your make-up, just get those respirators on!’
The heavy rubber masks were foul-smelling and clung suffocatingly to their faces like limpets. The WAAFS filed after the corporal into the Decontamination Centre where thick, acrid fumes rose from a container placed on a table in the centre of a room. They lumbered round and round the table, following their leader in a weird war dance. Outside again, they dragged off their respirators and stood sucking in deep lungfuls of fresh air. Vera was coughing and clutching at her throat, while Enid sank to her knees, moaning.
The corporal shook his head sadly. ‘Crikey, what a fuss you females make. What’re you all goin’ to do when it’s the real thing?’
Sergeant Baker, who took them for their first drill, was even more sceptical than the gas corporal. They gathered before him in a timid cluster at the edge of the parade ground. He was a big, beetroot-faced man with a voice like a foghorn and he looked them over with cold eyes, taking in the varying heights, shapes and contours, and the motley array of civilian clothing. Finally, his acid gaze came to rest in disbelief on Gloria’s high-heeled, peep-toe shoes.
‘You can’t wear them thing
s. Go and change ’em.’
Gloria lifted her chin. ‘I ’aven’t got no others so they’ll just ’ave to do.’
He went redder still, an angry purple flush spreading upwards from his thick neck. ‘I’m not ’avin’ them on my parade ground. It’s an insult to the Service and to ’is Majesty.’
Gloria shrugged. She bent down and took off the offending shoes and suspended them from the backs on one forefinger, swinging them gently to and fro. Sergeant Baker glared ferociously as she stood there in stockinged feet on the wet asphalt.
‘Catch her death, she will,’ someone muttered.
There was a long moment while the sergeant and Gloria confronted each other; at last he gave a snort of disgust.
‘Put ’em back on. But next time you come in proper footwear, see, or you don’t come at all.’ He stared round the group. ‘God help us with you women. How’re we goin’ to fight the war with you lot on our backs? ’itler’s secret weapon, that’s what you are. ’E won’t need to lift a bloomin’ finger.’ He whacked his stick across the palm of his hand, making some of them jump. ‘Well, the first thing I’ve got to say to you lot is that you’re not ’ere to enjoy yourselves. Get that? The second thing is that you don’t do nothin’ ’til I give the order. Is that understood?’
They nodded obediently, huddled together like driven sheep and shivering in the cold wind. Several windows in the barrack block along one side of the square had opened and airmen were leaning over the sills. Whistling and laughter could be heard. The sergeant turned in that direction with a savage yell.
‘Pack it up, you lot, or I’ll make you tag on the end of these women and see ’ow you like that.’ He swung back and pointed at Vera who cringed. ‘You there! Come and stand over ’ere. You’re the marker. I want you all in a line each side of ’er. Tallest to the right, shortest to the left. Get yourselves in ‘eight order. Fall in!’
There was a hopeless muddle as they tried to arrange themselves. Exasperated, the sergeant seized those out of order by their shoulders and moved them bodily about like pawns on a chess board until they had formed a row before him, the tallest at one end, down to the shortest.
Bluebirds Page 7
