She read until the long fingers of dusk sneaked into the room, stealing the light, then she set down her book and lit a cigarette at the open window. Minutes later, the aerodrome began to empty; first the poor beleaguered Defiants left, followed by the Hurricanes. The beautiful black silhouettes of the aircraft slowly dissolved into the burnt pastel horizon.
It was time to get ready.
For the first time in a very long while, Elsie felt like a real woman. Not a wife. Not a widow. Not a sergeant. Just Elsie. She had left Cliff House under the glaring disapproval of her mother-in-law, but now, as she walked gingerly towards the village hall, she felt fantastic. She wore a long red evening dress and a matching felt hat with a wide brim and large veil. She had applied Vaseline hair tonic to make her eyelashes appear longer and had used her best red lipstick sparingly, now that it was so hard to find in the shops. When she had finished making herself up, she glanced in the mirror and smiled; the look that she had gone for—the film star, Tallulah Bankhead—had worked.
She was here. Sombre music—a live band, by the sound of it—spilled out from the darkened village hall. It was a standard brick building with criss-crossed anti-blast tape on the outside of the windows and blackouts on the inside. Apart from the music, it appeared quite deserted.
Elsie pulled on the thin brass door-handle and stepped into a small vestibule lit by a weak bulb. She checked herself, held her head high and opened the next set of double doors. Loud music and bright lights greeted her. She removed her coat and stood for a moment, scanning the room for familiar faces. As she looked at each face in turn without recognition—the clusters of women chatting together, the men laughing and munching on food from a long trestle table, the couples whispering and giggling, the band—she had the horrible fear that maybe none of the other girls would be coming after all. Well, she was here now and she was damned well going to have a drink at least.
With a fixed smile, she paced across the room, aware of the looks of approval she was receiving from the men whom she passed, finally arriving at the bar.
‘Gin and lemon, please,’ she ordered from a short, fat man with a large dewlap. He nodded and scuttled off to make the drink.
A shilling was slapped down on the bar beside her. ‘I’ll get this,’ a man’s voice said.
She flicked her head sideways, expecting to see William’s youthful face, but it wasn’t him. It was the profile of a man—vaguely handsome from what she could see—whom she was certain she had never clapped eyes on before. He was holding a cigarette to his lips and staring forwards. He had a neat moustache and oiled-back dark hair. His smart uniform, with impossibly perfect buttons, revealed him to be a pilot in the RAF.
Elsie raised an eyebrow, waiting for him to turn and face her, but he didn’t. If that’s what he wants…she thought, pushing the money back. ‘No, thank you.’ She turned her back to him, facing the empty dance floor, wondering what she had brought herself to: a dance-less dance where she knew nobody. She suddenly felt foolish for coming. Perhaps Agnes had been right, after all: maybe it was too soon.
‘Here you go, love,’ the fat barman said. ‘Sixpence, please.’
The man beside her thrust his money forward again and Elsie was too late to prevent the barman from taking it.
She sighed, took a sip of drink and faced him. ‘The least you could do is to look at me, so that I can thank you.’
The man turned, impassive. He drew on his cigarette at length and stared at her. He wasn’t smiling, yet there was a softness and sparkle in his eyes.
‘Thank you,’ Elsie said. ‘But there was really no need. I have my own money.’
He raised his beer glass. ‘The next one’s on you, then,’ he said, smiling for the first time.
Elsie turned and resumed her search for anyone familiar. Even William would have done at this precise moment. Where was everyone? There weren’t that many people here for them to be lost in the crowd. ‘This will be my last,’ she said finally.
‘Oh, I see,’ the man said, sagely, as if privy to some extra information that she had not divulged.
She watched him grinning again. Stupidly. ‘What do you see?’ Elsie demanded.
‘You’ve been stood up,’ he smirked. ‘Foolish man, in my opinion.’
Elsie held up her left hand. ‘I’m married.’
He shrugged. ‘Then he’s even more foolish to stand you up.’
‘He’s dead,’ Elsie said. She regretted her blunt delivery the very second that the words were out of her mouth.
‘I’m sorry to hear that,’ he said, his face compassionate. ‘I didn’t mean any offence.’
With precision timing, the rear doors flew open and in walked a gaggle of girls—Susie, Aileen, Betty, Pat and Lottie—all dressed up to the nines. What an entrance they made! Elsie smiled and hurried over to them.
‘Oh, thank goodness!’ she greeted. ‘I thought you’d deserted me.’
‘We had no idea you were coming,’ Pat said, ‘so sorry.’
‘It’s all a bit solemn,’ Lottie whispered, glancing around the room.
‘What do you expect?’ Susie snapped, ‘they lost four Defiant pilots and six gunners today; they’re hardly going to be hopping and skipping for joy, are they…’
Elsie flushed pink with embarrassment and looked back at the pilot at the bar with a different perspective. She was aware of an animated conversation taking place between the other girls, drawing the attention of those nearby, but Elsie was watching that pilot. He was still there, smoking his cigarette and blankly staring in front of him. Maybe he’d lost friends today. Maybe he’d been up there, witnessing the horror from the skies. It had been awful enough just catching the tail-end of it from the ground.
The chatter and giggling beside her drew even more attention. The pilot turned and caught Elsie staring back at him. She immediately switched her focus to Aileen who was standing beside her, but it was too late, their eyes had locked; he had seen her taking him in. Goodness only knows what he’s thinking now, Elsie thought.
‘Look, we’re here now, let’s make the most of it,’ Pat said. She lowered her voice and added: ‘It’s a terrible thing to say, but there’s a war on—people are dying every day—life goes on. It just has to…’
‘That’s easy for you to say,’ Susie retorted.
‘Come on, let’s just get a drink,’ Aileen suggested.
Elsie’s ability to vocalise her reluctance to return to the bar was muzzled by Aileen threading her arm through hers and leading the girls across the room in a swift, indomitable wave. They hit the bar in the centre, pushing a pair of dashing men in tails off to one side. Elsie tried her best not to end up near to the pilot, but, with her arm shackled to Aileen’s, it was impossible and she found herself stood right back where she had been only moments before.
She needed an escape route and leant awkwardly across Aileen to talk to Susie. ‘Is Daniel coming tonight?’
Susie shook her head, disappointed. ‘He was needed to get the Hurricanes back to Biggin Hill. He’ll be here tomorrow, though.’
Elsie went to answer, to offer a sympathetic response, but her thoughts were derailed by a persistent tapping on her left shoulder. It was him—the pilot. She ignored it momentarily, thinking about what she would say when she turned to face him. He kept tapping, and the flutter of pity that she had begun to feel towards him was instantly replaced. Still he tapped. A softly smouldering ball of vexation began to rise up inside her, intense and enlivened. She whirled around to see a ridiculous grin on his face. ‘What?’ she demanded.
He waved an empty beer glass in his hand. ‘I’m ready for that drink now.’
‘Looks like you’ll be very thirsty, then,’ Elsie replied curtly. At the other end of the bar, the rotund barman was tending to a group of uniformed pilots. She spotted William among them and waved. ‘William!’ He looked over and smiled. ‘Let me get you a drink,’ she called over, sliding a guinea across the bar in front of the pilot beside her.
&nbs
p; William’s friends began that silly back-slapping and whooping that Elsie noticed groups of men were inclined to do when in the company of women. He accepted her offer, took a beer and moved around the bar towards her. ‘Cheers,’ he said.
‘I watched you flying back to the aerodrome,’ Elsie said, chinking glasses with him. ‘Through a telescope.’
William smiled, flattered. ‘How did I do?’ he asked.
She played along. They both knew that there was no possible way for her to have known in which of the twelve Hurricanes he had been flying. ‘Perfectly,’ she answered. ‘A truly magnificent landing.’
His face lit up as he began to talk about the day’s events. Elsie listened more and more intently as he spoke, her awareness of the pilot beside her fading until she forgot all about him entirely.
The band struck up Who’s Taking You Home Tonight and gradually, one couple at a time, the dance floor began to fill.
‘Dance?’ William asked.
Elsie nodded, set down her drink and allowed herself to be led to the edge of the dance floor. He was an energetic, slightly clumsy dancer, obliviously stepping on her toes, as he twirled her around.
As the dance progressed, Elsie became aware that he was holding her at the edge of the dance floor, in full view of his friends at the bar. Her friends were watching too, perhaps aware of her growing unease at William’s boastful dancing display.
A sudden flash of white light dazzled the dance floor; she ground to a halt, waiting for her vision to return.
‘It’s just the local rag,’ William said, his knee banging into her, as he pulled her back into his arrogant performance.
Elsie just spotted the source of the light—two men, one with a camera and one with a notepad and pencil—when William thrust his groin into hers and threw back his head, receiving a tittering approval from the bar.
Another flash.
Elsie shielded her eyes and pulled away.
‘You look like you’re having a good time. What are your names, then?’ the reporter asked, pencil poised. Without waiting for an answer he added, ‘You local or in the services?’ He was a weedy man, too old for conscription, with a face gnarled and bitten by the Great War.
Elsie tried to break away, but William grabbed her wrist with his left hand, passing his right hand over her breasts. He pulled her in, tighter and she could feel his beery breath on her face. ‘Don’t go, we’re having fun,’ he whispered, but she wriggled free, scurrying over to the food table.
‘What a horrible man,’ Elsie breathed, looking back across the dance floor.
‘Did his hands go wandering?’ Pat asked, nibbling on a sausage on a stick.
‘Yes!’ Elsie responded angrily.
‘At least they’re after you,’ Betty commented, her mouth full.
‘You can have him,’ Elsie muttered. ‘And now there’s a bloody nosey reporter here, too.’
Elsie stayed at the food table through several songs, chatting with Pat, who regaled her with the long story of her failed relationships. Every so often, Elsie would take a quick look around the room. The pilot was still at the bar, alone. William had taken to tossing another girl—a younger, blonder and more relaxed version of Elsie—around the dance floor. She had been replaced, just like that. Not that she cared.
The band took a break, and when they started up again the tone of the evening had shifted. The lights were dimmed and they played on with All the Things You Are. The dance floor began to fill up again and Betty snapped up the offer of a pilot’s arm.
Elsie watched for a moment and smiled. It was time to go home. She found her coat among a pile near to the bar. It would be much easier not to say goodnight to anyone, just to slip out inconspicuously.
‘One dance before you go?’
Elsie looked up. It was the pilot from the bar. She saw something in his grey eyes—honesty or sincerity, perhaps—that touched her. One dance for her was simply that—one dance, but for him she knew that it meant so much more: it was possibly his last dance. He took her indecision as acceptance and stood with his hand outstretched, waiting. She put her coat back down and placed her hand into his. She thought she detected the flicker of a smile on his face as he led her to the dance floor.
It was instantly different with him; his touch was warm and he danced gallantly like a gentleman. As they moved around, she listened to the lyrics of the song. Someday my happy arms will hold you, and someday I’ll know that moment divine when all the things you are, are mine. In this stranger’s arms, she thought of Laurie, her husband—missing in action, presumed killed. She felt selfish, horrid when she realised that the sentiment of the song matched her feelings for him neither in life nor in death.
The song seemed to go on longer than she knew it to be—perhaps the band had extended it or perhaps she was just willing it not to come to an end just yet. But, finally, of course it did. He kissed her hand and allowed her to leave.
‘Goodbye,’ Elsie muttered, collecting her coat.
‘Goodbye,’ he answered, watching her go.
She successfully navigated her way across the room to the doors at the front of the building, without being noticed. She was still inexplicably preoccupied by the dance with the pilot as she stepped outside into near-total darkness. A thin slice of moon defied the blackout and illuminated the white stripes at the edge of the pavement.
‘You’re not walking home alone, are you?’
The pilot—whose name, she realised then, she didn’t know—was standing behind her. She couldn’t make out any of the features of his face, but she recognised his voice and the outline of his body.
‘Yes, and I’ll be fine, thank you,’ Elsie answered.
The pilot laughed. ‘You really are a stubborn thing, aren’t you?’
Elsie smiled. ‘What’s your name?’
‘Woody,’ he answered.
‘Well, Woody, yes I am stubborn, I suppose. And I’ll be fine. Goodnight.’ She crossed the road and began her walk home. A part of her was exasperated and a part of her was flattered when she heard his footsteps catching up with her.
‘What’s your name?’ he asked, matching her fast gait.
‘Elsie,’ she replied, keeping her focus on the path ahead.
‘Well, Elsie, you might be stubborn, but so am I, and I definitely don’t want to see a young lady walking home alone in the blackout.’
Elsie stopped and faced him. She leant closer to him, straining her eyes to find the detail on his face, but the night denied her it. Instead, she spoke to the darkness. ‘Listen, Woody, I’m billeted with my mother-in-law and I’ll have all hell to pay if I turn up late in the evening with a pilot on my arm, so, please just leave me to walk home by myself. I’ll be absolutely fine. Don’t worry.’ She strode on, faster this time, listening for his reaction.
Footsteps, but restrained. ‘I’ll just walk behind you, then,’ he called.
Elsie shook her head and marched on.
Eventually Cliff House, bathed in a shaded off-blue, came into view. Elsie flipped around. ‘Okay—I’m home. You can go now.’
Woody laughed. ‘Okay. Goodnight, Elsie.’
‘Good night.’ She walked the long drive, glancing over her shoulder from time to time to see if he had followed. But he hadn’t, she could just see a faint outline of his motionless figure among the shadows, watching her all the way to the house.
Elsie quietly unlocked the front door and, as she expected, she found the place deserted and dark. Only a small table lamp at the bottom of the stairs provided any light. As she closed the door and stepped out of her heels, she was thankful that everyone had gone to bed. She padded across the floor to the stairs. Her odd shift patterns at Maypole Cottage had quickly taught Elsie to navigate the house quietly; she knew which of the stairs creaked and which doors she needed to close quickly and which slowly.
She managed to reach her bedroom without making a single sound. The corridor was dark and silent as she pulled open her door. A sudden noise—muted
laughter, possibly—made her stop at the threshold and listen.
Silence.
She took a step backwards and noticed then that the room at the far end of the corridor—some kind of a study, if she remembered rightly from last summer—had a band of light showing under the door.
Elsie knew that she should step inside her own room, close the door and clamber into bed, but the devil in her thought otherwise. It was that voice, loud and impulsive, that frequently got her into hot water.
She took one step closer, reasoning with herself that she was still within reach of her room.
Shadows passed across the bar of light—there was movement inside.
Elsie took another step. Then another.
She could now hear the low murmur of talking. One voice, she thought, belonged to Agnes but the other—female—she couldn’t identify. It was deeper than Kath’s or Gwen’s voices. She thought she detected a London accent.
She slid forward another few paces and listened. Her heart rate increased and her breathing became faster, to the point that she was certain that, if she got any closer to the door, they would be able to hear it from the other side.
Even though Elsie couldn’t make out what was being said, she felt the conversation to be flat, almost business-like. In spite of herself, she moved closer to the door. It was now just two steps in front of her. She looked back; her own bedroom was now inexcusably far away.
She strained her ears, imagining that she was up at Maypole Cottage, inching the dial round on the Hallicrafter receiver, searching for clarity.
More movement inside the room, bringing one of the women alarmingly close to the door as she spoke.
The Spyglass File (The Forensic Genealogist Book 5) Page 9
