‘Yes I do,’ Edward told him. ‘When is it?’
‘Two weekends’ time, just after the schools break up. The only problem is, we’re on holiday then.’
‘Ah. Anywhere nice?’
‘Only France, Dad. Where we usually go – but, listen, there’s an air show at Biggin Hill the first week of September. Would you come along to that instead? It seems they’ve still got plenty of Spitfires due to be flying.’
‘Of course – makes no odds to me. Actually, if anything that would be better – Biggin’s much closer than Duxford. So, shall I put that in the diary?’
‘That would be great. You sure you don’t mind?’
‘Course not. A promise is a promise.’
And by then, he thought, I should have finished.
When Andrew Fisher did eventually call, he apologised profusely. He’d been away, he explained, but was thrilled to have got Edward’s letter. His voice was soft, rather gentle; not unlike Harry’s, Edward thought. He lived in Oxford – not so very far away; he’d happily drive to Somerset. How was Edward fixed this Saturday? Or Sunday? Sunday would be better, Edward told him – no cricket. Well, it was the last Saturday of term.
Andrew told him he would be with him by around eleven, and so Edward spent an impatient morning waiting. He was too agitated to concentrate on the paper or his book, and the hours passed slowly. He filled the kettle, plumped up the cushions on the sofa again, went out and bought biscuits to go with the coffee, and agonised over which pub he should take him to should Andrew wish to stay for lunch. He then decided he should fetch his logbook, so went upstairs and took it out of its metal tin. Glancing through it again took up a few more minutes.
Eleven o’clock came and went. Edward looked at his watch, then the carriage clock above the fireplace, repeatedly. ‘Where the hell are you?’ he muttered. Nevertheless, when the doorbell did finally ring, just after a quarter past eleven, the sudden shrill noise made Edward jump.
He hurried to the front door and opened it to see a middle-aged man with greying hair and a warm, pleasant face that reminded him immediately of Harry. ‘Andrew,’ he said. ‘How nice to meet you.’
‘I’m sorry I’m so late,’ said Andrew, shaking his hand. ‘It took a little longer than I’d expected. I thought I’d left plenty of time, but there were a lot of slow and winding roads.’
‘Doesn’t matter at all,’ said Edward. ‘I wasn’t doing anything. Anyway, come on through.’ He led him into the sitting room, then offered him coffee. ‘Why don’t you have a look at this while I make it?’ he said, handing Andrew his logbook.
As Edward made the coffee, he hoped he would be able to keep his composure. Now, don’t go getting emotional, he told himself. When he walked back into the sitting room with a tray of coffee and biscuits, he saw Andrew had the logbook open on his lap.
‘I’ve got Harry’s logbook in the car,’ he said. ‘It’s amazing how similar they are. Canada and Cornwall and Malta. You were even on the same OTU.’
‘Yes. I think we were pretty unusual, actually.’
‘Harry perhaps wrote a few more notes in his.’
‘Well, everyone was different. I noted down things occasionally – when I’d hit something, or if anything particularly important happened.’
‘I notice on 21st June, 1942, you’ve written, “HARRY MISSING.”’
‘Yes.’ He cleared his throat. ‘Do you take milk and sugar?’
‘Milk, please.’ Andrew shifted in his seat, then said, ‘I really am very grateful to you. I’ve been hoping for some time that I might find you, but it was quite difficult.’
‘I’m afraid that once I’d left the RAF, I never really kept up with anyone. Like everyone else, I simply got on with my life.’
‘I can’t say my parents ever talked about it much, either. My dad was in the navy and mum worked in the ATS. No, to be honest, it’s only in the last couple of years that I’ve become so interested. My father passed away and then my mother decided to move. It was when we were clearing out the house that I found a trunk full of Harry’s things. Of course, I knew all about him – we had a couple of pictures of him in the house. In fact, we had one of the two of you. I’m guessing it was taken in Cornwall sometime. You’re both in shirt sleeves, sitting on the edge of a cliff, it looks like. So I’ve known about you most of my life.’
Edward looked down at his coffee and pinched his leg. Come on, take a hold of yourself, he said. He coughed, and said, ‘I think I remember the one. It was taken at Perranporth. I had a copy once.’
‘Well, I’ve brought you another.’
‘Have you?’ He felt his spirits rise. ‘How wonderful. Thank you.’
‘Not at all. And I recognised you immediately when you opened the door. From the photograph.’
‘I don’t suppose you ever knew him – Harry, I mean.’
‘No. My parents were married before the war, but I was born afterwards. My mother has never talked that much about Harry – to be honest, I think she knew very little about his life in the RAF apart from the letters she got from him – and of course the censors stopped him from saying too much. But for me he’s always been this rather romantic figure – the dashing fighter pilot uncle. When I found the box of his things he started to come to life, so to speak. And I wanted to know more.’
Andrew did not leave until after four o’clock. Edward had discovered that talking about Harry had been easier than he had imagined; he’d been stunned by how quickly time had flown. They had lunched in one of the pubs in the high street, (an easy decision in the end); had argued over who would pay (Edward insisted), and then had gone back to the house, where Andrew had shown him his box of Harry’s letters and other belongings. It was strange seeing Harry’s handwriting once more; to look at them and think, he wrote this when he was still alive. And Edward felt as though he were somehow intruding, too: these letters had not been written to him. It unsettled him, and yet his desire to make that link with the past was stronger than his sense of impropriety. There were other things: old school reports, mostly commenting on Harry’s sporting prowess and cheerful disposition; the telegram warning Harry’s parents that he’d gone missing; an official inventory of Harry’s belongings – the very belongings that Edward had so reluctantly packed up during those terrible days on Malta. And there were the photographs too. Not many, but enough to remind Edward that his memory had not deceived him. Harry had been the person locked away in his memory.
Andrew had asked about his death, and Edward had struggled to keep his voice steady. He wondered whether Andrew had noticed.
‘He must have gone down in the sea somewhere,’ Edward told him. ‘But whether he was shot down, or something went wrong with the aircraft, we will never know. Going “missing” is a terrible thing. At least if we’d found him, there’d be a grave or something.’ He wanted to say more, to tell Andrew that barely a day had gone by when he hadn’t thought of Harry, that Harry had been the best friend he’d ever had. But he just couldn’t.
When he’d gone, Edward sat back down in his wing-backed armchair and looked again at the photograph Andrew had given him. He would have it framed, he decided, and then put it next to the picture of his wife. I’m not going to shut you out any more, he thought.
His thoughts turned to Kitty. There’d been mention of her in the letters. ‘She’s an absolute cracker,’ Harry had written to his sister, ‘and I’m sure we’re going to get married after the war.’ But although Andrew had asked him about her, Edward had told him only part of the story: the gharrie race, the brief romance, and the pining for her after she’d gone. He’d not mentioned what Harry had told him: that Kitty had been the love of his life.
Edward closed his eyes, remembering a wet night in London – must have been early August; while he was still on leave after returning home from Malta. He’d found Kitty’s address amongst Harry’s belongings and had written to her from Malta, but had heard nothing back; he had no idea whether his letter had even reached her.
Had no idea whether she even knew. So he’d been determined to visit her, to explain in person; to see if she was all right. He felt he owed it to Harry.
When she’d opened the door of her flat, she had been surprised to see him; a moment had passed before she’d recognised him. ‘You’re Harry’s friend,’ she’d said.
‘Yes – Eddie. Eddie Enderby.’
She looked as though she were about to go out: wearing a dress, pearls and brightly coloured lips. Her appearance flustered him.
‘Well, come in,’ she said. She glanced anxiously behind her. Another girl poked her head round a door at the far end of the corridor. ‘That’s Annie,’ said Kitty. ‘Don’t mind her.’ She led him into a large high-ceilinged drawing room. ‘Can I get you anything? I don’t think I can offer you much, though.’
‘No, no thank you. Kitty, it’s about Harry.’
‘Is he all right?’
Edward’s heart sank. ‘No. No, Kitty, I’m afraid he’s not. He went missing in June.’
Her eyes widened and then she put her hands to her face. ‘Oh no, poor Harry.’
‘I’m sorry,’ he said. ‘I wrote to you, but you obviously haven’t received it.’
‘No,’ she said. ‘I haven’t heard from him for a while, but then I thought, well – I didn’t blame him.’
Edward looked at her. A tear ran down her face. ‘The mail was terrible from Malta, but I promise he wrote every day. Here,’ he said, handing her a handkerchief.
‘Thank you. Oh God, poor Harry. I feel so responsible.’
‘Why would you feel that? No, Kitty you mustn’t. Really, it’s just one of those terrible things. Hardly any of us made it back from Malta.’
‘But don’t you see, if I hadn’t written . . .’ She stopped, froze, as the doorbell rang again. She looked at him and then glanced at the door. ‘I really must get the door,’ she said.
Edward sat there, confused. Voices in the corridor – a male voice. He heard them kiss on each cheek, then muffled conversation. Moments later she reappeared, with a man in army uniform. She introduced them, then said, ‘Eddie, we’re going out to supper. Would you like to come too?’
‘Supper?’ said Edward. He couldn’t understand; he felt himself redden.
‘Only if you’d like to.’
‘No – thank you. No, I must get going. I just thought . . .’ He looked at her, then at the man beside her – a young man, about Harry’s age, good-looking, impeccable in his uniform. The ribbon of an MC above his tunic pocket. Edward stood up. Suddenly it was all so clear. He felt hot in the face and angry – real rage coursed through him. ‘Christ – to think Harry loved you,’ he said. ‘How could you be so bloody heartless?’ He stormed past her, without a glance.
‘Eddie, wait,’ she said after him, ‘I’d already broken up with him. I’d sent him a letter . . .’
Edward opened his eyes. Ah, the betrayal, he thought. He could still recall the sense of hurt he’d felt; the humiliation. Somehow, she had belittled Harry, denigrated him. He had walked for miles, cursing Kitty, cursing Malta, cursing himself for surviving. Eventually he had stumbled into a pub, and drunk until his brain became so addled he no longer knew what he was thinking.
At the time he’d wondered whether Harry had received her letter, but then had dismissed the idea. There had been no post in the few days before, he was certain. And anyway, Harry would have told him. No, whatever the reasons Harry disappeared, it was not because of Kitty. Of that he was sure – sure now, as he had been then.
He thought about those months that followed his return from Malta. It had taken him a long time to adjust to life back in England. During that first leave he had been sullen, withdrawn. His parents must have been shocked by the change in him. It can’t have been easy for them, he thought. He tried to remember those days, but his mind was hazy. Home had been frozen in time; his mother and father still treating him like a precious child. But he was not a boy any more. Far from it. He was still twenty years old when he came home, but felt twenty years older.
A memory came back to him – of a dinner his parents had given. It must have been soon after his return from Malta, while he had still been on leave. His mother had done her best, managing a vegetable soup, vegetable and rabbit stew and even baked apples; his father had been hard at work in the garden since the start of rationing. The guests had been friends of his parents whom Edward had not met before, but they had lived on Malta some years before. He was a retired naval commander. What were their names? Lively, Linley – Commander Linney, that was it.
‘We thought you might like to talk to someone who knew Malta before the war,’ his mother had told him, and then had apologised for not being able to invite anyone his own age. Talking about Malta was, of course, the last thing he’d wanted to do, but his mother had already arranged it, and he had not wanted to upset her.
But of course, that’s exactly what he had done. Commander Linney had barely drawn breath. Was such-and-such still there, he’d asked Edward? No, well it used to be quite the place. Do you remember, darling? Yes, when old so-and-so stood up and danced on the table . . . Anecdote followed anecdote. The Gut, the Snakepit, the parties, races at Marsa – an endless whirl of social engagements, a gay time had by all. If Edward had tried to explain something, the commander invariably cut him off. ‘Have much to do with the Maltese?’ the Commander asked him.
‘A little.’
The Commander smiled and shook his head. ‘They’re a lazy bunch, you know. The niggers of the Mediterranean, we used to call them. Couldn’t believe they were given the George Cross, although I suppose we needed to do something to keep them on side.’
‘They were very brave, the ones I met,’ said Edward. ‘They deserved that award, if you ask me. They’ve been bombed to smithereens. Whenever we were bombed at the Xara Palace they barely flinched.’
‘Yes, I remember the Xara Palace,’ said the Commander. ‘Baron Chapelle’s place. You know, there’s the most fantastic balcony there overlooking the Island.’
‘Yes, I know,’ said Edward, ‘I lived there.’
‘You can see everything from there: that wonderful dome of Mostar church, the Dingli cliffs? Did you ever go down there? Swim at the Blue Grotto?’
‘Well, I flew over them enough times, but swimming, no, I –’
‘Oh, you really should have done! The Blue Grotto is marvellous.’ He turned to Edward’s parents. ‘One of the most beautiful swimming spots I know. I can’t believe you never swam there,’ he said, turning back to Edward. ‘We had many happy times there, didn’t we, darling.’
‘Yes, it was lovely,’ agreed his wife.
‘I think Edward was quite busy flying,’ said his father.
‘And being bombed and shot at.’
This last comment was ignored. Instead, the Commander launched into a story about a review of the Mediterranean Fleet and how the ships in Grand Harbour had dazzled in the summer sun.
‘Oh, for God’s sake,’ Edward had said at last.
‘Edward!’ said his mother.
‘Well, I’m sorry, but I’m sick to death of hearing about this. There were no ships in Malta, only half-sunken crates. There are no bars, no restaurants, no parties or race days at Marsa. And how dare you bad-mouth the Maltese. They never asked to be attacked and they’ve put up with it all heroically – and they’re still there, with no food and living in squalid caves under the ground. So think about that before you tell the next person how dreadful they are. And Malta’s not some island paradise. It’s a hellhole, a stinking pile of rubble, the most God-awful place on earth.’
For a moment no-one said a word; they just looked at him aghast. Edward felt himself redden, and then, defiantly slamming his napkin on the table, pushed back his chair and stormed out.
He winced, just thinking about it now. His poor parents; they had deserved better. Later, after the Linneys had gone, his father had come into his room and sat down on his bed beside him. ‘I know you’ve been through a lot,’ h
e said, ‘but that was unfair of you, you know.’
Edward had said nothing.
‘Get some rest,’ his father told him.
Edward nodded then turned his face to the wall. He felt his father’s hand on his shoulder then heard him stand up and leave the room. It was a strange paradox: he was no longer their boy, but a battle-scarred man of twenty-one, and yet at that moment it was as though he were ten again, having been sent to his room in disgrace.
He had apologised – profusely – and had written to the Linneys as well, but his relationship with his parents had changed after that; it was as though his mother, in particular, was wary of him. The difference in him had been so marked, he now recognised, they must have felt as though they hardly knew him any more, nor what to say.
Perhaps, he wondered now, that had had something to do with his desire to be posted abroad again. That sense of shame; he remembered that keenly. Far better to get away, and then he could not disappoint them; then they would not have to see what was happening to him.
First, however, there had been nine long months instructing in Gloucestershire, passing on his considerable experience to eager young pups – boys really, just like he’d been. He’d hated it – the lack of camaraderie, the isolation; the loneliness. Time and again he’d asked for a transfer, but he’d always been refused. But then the Allies began preparing for another invasion – Sicily, southern Europe at long last. Experienced men were needed; men who knew Malta, who knew the Mediterranean. And so in May, 1943, when he asked yet again for a transfer, his request was granted.
21st June, 1943 – that was the day he’d touched back down on Malta. One year to the day since Harry had gone missing. When he’d left the Island the previous July, he’d looked out of the window of the Dakota that was taking him and Laurie Bowles back to Gibraltar and had watched the Island shrink until it was nothing more than a dot on the wide expanse of sea. He’d sworn to himself he would never return. And now I’ve broken that promise for a second time, Edward thought to himself.
A Pair of Silver Wings Page 27
