He had leaned across her desk and kissed her lightly on the mouth. His moustache had tickled.
‘Goodbye, Assistant Section Officer Newman.’
‘Goodbye, Flying Officer Dutton. And good luck.’
‘Thanks.’ He had smiled into her eyes, his own shining bright. Then he had bent to pat George. ‘Be good, old fellow. Look after your new mistress and do everything she tells you.’
He had blown her another kiss from the doorway, winked, and then he was gone. Beside her, George had given a desolate whine.
The Rectory was shrouded in white and the laurels lining the driveway bowed down under the weight of the snow. The car slithered to a stop somewhere near the front door and Felicity went inside the house, George padding at her heels. The stone-flagged hall was glacially cold, the house in semi-darkness. The grandfather clock ticked loudly in the silence.
She found her father in his study, seated at his desk by the window and working on his sermon in the failing light. When her mother had been alive this room had always been untidy, but now it was chaotic – the worst she had ever seen it. Books and papers were piled high or strewn about on every available surface – shelves, tables, benches, chairs, the old leather chesterfield with the broken springs. They were even under these things, creeping in a slowly advancing tide across the carpet. And since Mrs Salter, from the village, was not allowed to touch anything in the room, the dust lay over it all, in a thick, grey film.
He was so absorbed in his work that he did not notice her presence until she spoke. At the sound of her voice he looked up from his papers, over the rim of his spectacles, and was instantly on his feet, his face alight with pleasure, his arms outstretched to her in welcome.
‘My dear child, what a joy to see you . . . I’d quite forgotten the time . . .’ He embraced her and then held her at arm’s length. ‘Let me look at you. You look well. A little tired, perhaps, but that’s probably the journey. How were the roads? This wretched weather . . . the snow . . . your hands feel like ice! I meant to light the fire before you arrived. So silly of me . . . Now, where did I put the matches?’
He fussed around, hunting for them. He was still wearing his galoshes, she noticed. The left one was split at the heel so very likely the shoe was damp.
‘I generally put them on the mantelpiece, but they don’t seem to be here now . . . good gracious, who’s this?’
‘This is George, Father. I’m looking after him for a friend. I hope you don’t mind his coming here. He’s very well behaved.’
‘Of course not. He looks a very nice dog. Now I must find these matches. They’re somewhere in this room . . .’
She found them under some papers on a chair and lit the fire in the grate, laid ready by Mrs Salter. The flames flickered feebly over the coal and she shivered in spite of her greatcoat.
‘You shouldn’t be sitting here in this cold, Father. It can’t be good for you.’
‘My dear, I never notice it when I’m working. And it does me no harm at all. I’m quite used to it.’
‘Shall we close the shutters? Then we could light the lamps.’
‘By all means.’
Felicity unfolded the shutters across the windows and lit the oil lamps. The Rectory had no electricity and the only running water was in the scullery; no improvements had been made to the house in the past hundred years. By the time she had done this the fire was burning brighter and they sat beside it for a while with George warming himself at the grate. She studied her father anxiously. He looked well enough, though rather thin. She knew that he frequently forgot to eat the food that Mrs Salter prepared and left for him. Dried out dishes would come to light, left in the bottom of the Aga, or untouched plates of cold food be discovered on the larder shelves. His jacket, she saw, had a hole in one elbow and was missing a button, and he was wearing odd socks – not that that had ever been unusual. She hoped he was not working too hard. The curate had joined the RAF and her father now had to cope with the parish alone. He had never learned to drive and went everywhere on his old bike, riding miles in all weathers and at all hours to visit his parishioners. Typically, he was unwilling, now, to talk about himself.
‘I want to hear all about you, my dear – not talk about me. How are you getting on and what have you been doing? That uniform suits you so well. Your dear mother would have been so proud.’
She chatted about RAF Colston and told him about some of her problems. He listened sympathetically.
‘That’s a great responsibility for you – to be in charge of all those young girls. And you’re not so much older yourself. But I’ve no doubt that you do your job to the very best of your ability. It’s never easy, of course, to lead . . . You mentioned your commanding officer in one of your letters, I think – what was his name?’
‘Wing Commander Palmer. And I’d sooner not talk about him. He’s hated us being there from the beginning. He loathes the very idea of having women on his station. We’re nothing but a nuisance to him and he’s convinced we’ll never be any real use.’
‘Well, of course, in the end he’ll realize that he was wrong. Time will prove the contrary, I’m sure. I have the greatest respect for women and the achievements they are capable of. Your mother was a case in point.’
They both looked up at the portrait that hung over the mantelpiece. The woman who had been taken from them eight years before stared serenely out over the disorder of the study. She had been as serene in life, Felicity remembered – somehow managing to combine the role of rector’s wife with that of consultant paediatrician. She wished that she had inherited more of her mother’s calm approach to everything.
‘I don’t think Wing Commander Palmer has much respect for women.’
‘Give him time, my dear. Remember that he bears a huge responsibility – for everyone and everything on the station. It must be a heavy burden, especially in wartime. He needs to be very sure of things.’
She smiled. ‘Well, I’ll try to see it that way, Father. And not that he’s just a bigoted old so-and-so.’
He patted her hand. ‘And now I’m going to pour us each a sherry – if I can find the decanter and glasses. Then we’ll have something to eat. Mrs Salter has kindly left us a pie in the bottom oven, I believe.’
They ate their supper in the kitchen, which was the warmest place in the house. George, fed first with scraps that Felicity had brought with her from the station kitchens, flopped down against the Aga and began to snore gently.
‘Where is his owner?’
‘Somewhere in France. He’s a fighter pilot. I agreed to look after his dog in a weak moment. Actually, I’ve rather enjoyed having him with me. He stays by my desk most of the day.’
‘He seems very fond of you. What about his master? Is he fond of you, too?’
‘Oh, it’s just a joke, I think, really . . . he’s always playing the fool and making me laugh.’
‘A great deal better than making you cry.’
She said seriously, ‘I hope nothing happens to him in France, Father. Or to any of the others over there. They’re all so decent.’
‘I’m afraid you ought to prepare yourself for the possibility that some of your decent young men are going to die, Felicity. It seems to me that it’s only a question of time before the Germans advance into France.’
‘But surely they’d never get through the Maginot Line. It’s supposed to be impassable.’
‘I imagine that they will simply go round it, and through Holland and Luxembourg and Belgium. Looking at the map, it seems only logical to me.’
‘But those are neutral countries.’
‘My dear, we are dealing with Evil. And Evil recognizes neither neutrality nor boundaries, as has already been demonstrated. I don’t believe that Hitler will rest until he has crushed the whole of Europe – England included – perhaps the whole world, if possible. And it will be up to your brave and decent young men, and others like them, to try and stop him somehow.’
She was quiet for a moment
, thinking of the pilots she knew. ‘I don’t think they quite see it like that. It’s almost like a game with them. They make a joke of it all.’
‘That’s natural. It’s their way. And no-one has tried to invade us yet, unlike the poor Poles and Czechs. The youth of England is not yet on fire.’
Speedy would have appreciated the apt quotation. Just what old Snodders would have said.
‘Supposing the Germans did break through the Maginot Line, or go round it, what then?’
‘They could drive us back and eventually succeed in occupying France as well. The French don’t seem to be well organized in military matters.’
She remembered the gloomy prognostications of Mr Cutler at the Christmas dinner party.
‘But if the Germans wanted to invade England they’d have to cross the Channel first.’
‘That would present difficulties, I agree, but it might not be impossible, given the likely supremacy of their forces. Especially their air force. It may all hinge on that.’
The Norfolk wind was soughing plaintively round the house and rattling the kitchen shutters. George, warm and comfortable against the Aga, grunted and twitched a hind leg in his sleep. Felicity rested her chin on her hands.
‘Do you believe that God is on our side, Father?’
‘My dear, I know that He is. He will give us the strength to fight this Evil. At the moment there’s precious little most of us in this parish can do except pray, but you have been given a very clear way to help in the fight. And so has George’s owner.’
Her leave passed quietly but busily. She helped Mrs Salter in the house and tried to restore some sort of order to the study. And she drove her father round to make his visits. She had bought the Ford with part of the money her mother had left her in her will, hoping that her father would also learn to drive so that he could make use of the car. But somehow that had never happened. He seemed perfectly content with his bike, travelling about the parish in a stately fashion with his black cape flapping out behind him like a loose sail.
She took George for long walks across the fields. Even in the winter bleakness Norfolk was beautiful to her eyes. She had always cherished its wildness. She loved the wide, open skies and the ever-changing cloud formations casting strange, shifting patterns of light on the land . . . the way a shaft of sunlight would suddenly break through banks of grey cloud like an illumination straight from heaven. And she loved the mewing cries of the birds, the trill of the larks and the clean, salt smell of the wind blowing in from the North Sea. George, happily, if fruitlessly, chasing rabbits, shared her pleasure.
The parish seemed almost untouched by war, tucked away in its remote corner of the county – except for the absence of most of its young men and women and for the presence of RAF bombers lumbering noisily about the skies. The old aerodrome had been a quiet little place in peacetime but all that had changed. As they drove past it she looked over the hedgerow and saw new hangars and huts and a vast concrete runway stretching away into the far distance. Her father was able to identify the aircraft.
‘Those standing over there by the hangar are Wellingtons, and that’s definitely a Blenheim, taxiing out – I can tell by the nose.’ And, peering upwards out of the car window, ‘that one up there coming in to land is a Whitley.’
She was surprised by this, considering his indifference to most machines of any kind, until she discovered that he often visited the bomber station.
‘Fine chaps,’ he said. ‘Very fine chaps. I’ve had some good talks with them.’
She understood now, too, how he might have gleaned information on the possible course of the war.
The parish church, standing close by the Rectory, was very old and too large now for a community which had once been more numerous and more prosperous. The congregation had shrunk to fill only a few pews and maintaining the fabric was a constant struggle. Felicity, going over to clean the brass, found the sexton’s wife sweeping the nave, bundled up in coat, woollen hat, scarf and mittens.
‘I heard you were home, dear. The Rector must be pleased. My Peter’s gone off with the BEF, you know. In France or Belgium somewhere. We’re very proud of him, but of course we do worry.’
Felicity’s last memory of Peter was as a schoolboy with a satchel on his back, scuffing his way along the lane.
Mrs Prewitt chattered on, wielding her broom vigorously and raising clouds of dust from the old tiles. The war would soon be over, in any case, wouldn’t it? At the last Mothers’ Union meeting they’d all thought that. Hitler had gone as far as he could and now he’d stay put. He’d learned he couldn’t mess about with people any more. Now the British Expeditionary Force was out there he’d know it wasn’t any good. And once this terrible winter was over they’d all feel a lot better. The papers said it was the worst winter this century and it certainly felt like it. All this snow and everything frozen solid. There were some snowdrops out in her garden, though, and she’d even seen a daffodil shoot or two. Spring wasn’t far away and Peter would be home again . . .
Felicity began to polish the brass. Mrs Prewitt finished her sweeping and her talking and departed, leaving her alone. She worked on quickly in the damp cold and when it was all done she sat down for a moment in one of the front pews. The altar cross gleamed in the gloom beyond the rood screen. She wanted to pray but she hardly knew what to pray for. For peace? Yes, but only as an honourable end to the war. For victory over Evil? That was more like it. That was what had to be achieved. Somehow. At any cost. She would pray for that. And for Speedy, and for Whitters and for all of them, that they would come back safely . . . and that Peter Prewitt would soon be home again.
It felt like going home from boarding school at the end of term. There was the same flutter of excitement in her stomach; the same feeling of release, as from a prison; the same heartfelt, thankful happiness. Anne feasted her eyes on the changing scenery as the train carried her towards London. The suburban houses had never looked more appealing, the dingy environs of London never more delightful. As the train crossed the Thames on its final approach to Victoria Station she was already on her feet and pulling her suitcase down from the rack. She took the Underound from Victoria across to Paddington to catch another train out to Buckinghamshire. An elderly woman in the corner seat opposite leaned forward.
‘Excuse my asking, dear, but is that a uniform you’re wearing? What are you?’
‘I’m a WAAF.’
‘A what, dear?’
‘A WAAF. The Women’s Auxiliary Air Force. We’re sort of part of the RAF.’
The woman was small and drably dressed but her eyes were bright. ‘Oh, are you dear? That’s nice. I do like the Royal Air Force. So brave the way they go up in those aeroplanes. It’s very smart, your beret, with that lovely badge. I did wonder what you were, though . . . there are so many uniforms around these days. You don’t fly the aeroplanes, do you?’
‘No, they wouldn’t let us do anything like that.’
‘I didn’t think so. That’s just the men, isn’t it? Still, it’s wonderful what you young girls get up to these days. I wish I’d been able to go off and do things like you in my day. You’re so lucky.’
‘Do you think so?’ Anne said curiously. The thought had never occurred to her.
‘Oh yes. You were born at just the right time, weren’t you? Very lucky. You didn’t mind my asking, dear, did you? I was just wondering . . .’
Her mother met her at the station in the Morris and Barley was sitting on the back seat. He wagged his tail furiously and licked her face.
‘I’m sure he knew you were coming, darling. He’s been waiting by the front door all day. Remember how he always used to do that when you came home from boarding school? Is that your new uniform?’
‘It’s all we have at the moment. Not the proper thing. We’re supposed to be getting tunics and skirts eventually. Horrible, isn’t it?’
‘Well, I can’t honestly say that that raincoat is the most flattering garment I’ve ever seen. Or the
beret! It looks much too big for you. To think you used to grumble about your school hat.’
‘Thanks, Mummy! That makes me feel a whole lot better!’ Anne pulled off her beret and ran her fingers through her hair. ‘We’re meant to wear the disgusting things going on leave. One of their hundreds of dotty rules.’
‘Well, you can change into your own clothes the minute you get home. There’s a letter from Kit, by the way. He sounds fine. They’re billeted in some frightfully grand place, apparently.’
They drove out of the station yard and took the familiar route that would bring them to Beechgrove. Her stomach began to flutter in anticipation again. She watched the scenery go by – sheltered, wooded slopes so different from the open, flat land round Colston.
‘Snow’s been pretty bad here too, by the looks of it.’
‘Perfectly dreadful. We’ve had more burst pipes in the house. Have you managed to keep warm?’
‘Just about. At least it’s warm in the kitchens.’
‘I wish you weren’t doing that sort of work, darling. Can’t you change?’
‘Don’t you start, Mummy. People keep on saying that to me.’
‘Well, it seems such a waste. You had an expensive education at St Mary’s. Surely they could make better use of you?’
Anne thought of ASO Newman’s sharp remarks. ‘It’s not very likely at the moment. Anyway, didn’t someone say that an army marches on its stomach? Same with the RAF, I suppose, though you’d think they’d fall out of the sky after some of the food.’
‘I think you’ve put on a bit of weight.’
‘We all have. It’s the stodge.’
‘And you look a bit tired.’
‘They work us pretty hard.’
‘Well, you must have a good rest while you’re here. Catch up on some sleep. I hope Fred and Betty don’t disturb you.’
‘Fred and Betty? Who are they?’
‘Our tame evacuees. Have you forgotten? Well, not all that tame, unfortunately. In fact, they’re both little menaces. You wouldn’t believe the way they seem to have been brought up. Actually, they haven’t been brought up at all – that’s the trouble, poor things. It’s not their fault. Do you know they’d never seen an inside lavatory before, or a proper bath with taps, or used a toothbrush. And they were absolutely infested with head lice.’
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