A Kestrel Rising (11 page)

I’m glad that I was able to visit you too. It is always nice to escape the daily slog, even if I was soaking wet and shivering by the time I got back. Luckily, our hut is quite warm and I hogged the stove for a good hour before I felt ready to move again. Don’t worry about the chocolate, really. I can take it or leave it. Right now, I’d much rather have a good home cooked meal, so I’m counting down the days until Christmas because I finally have a week’s leave. I was stuck here last year. Aislinn will be home too, with her fiancé, Charlie. It should be quite a lively Christmas. I’m not sure about Charlie. Mama has dropped some veiled hints in her letters that Ash could do better, but I shall wait and see and judge for myself. My sister has proved to have dreadful taste in the past. I’m hoping this one might be an improvement. If that makes me sound snobby then, I suppose I am!

Not much else to report here. It’s getting colder, but then you would know that better than I would, since you’re closer to the sea than we are. At least we have the fens and Brecks in the way here.

I suppose I should go. I have parts to deliver to Newmarket, one of the better runs because there’s always a mug of tea and a sandwich waiting for me there, and I do like the town, although, since it will be afternoon by the time I get there, I won’t see any horses.

Take care of yourself and stay out of trouble.

Regards,

Ilke

November was marked by the coming and going of letters and by the sound of bombers taking off in the night. Ilona heard them depart and knew that, somewhere over the east coast, the fighter squadrons would join them as they headed across the North Sea for their targets. She had managed to avoid thinking about pilots for over a year but the correspondence with Francis had plunged her back into that dangerous world once more. She didn’t spend the hours and days fretting about his safety. It wasn’t that kind of friendship, just an exchange of letters griping about life in the RAF and WAAF, about the endlessly shifting Fen winds and the war. She liked this Francis, the pilot who loved his Spitfire and loved the thrill of leaving the earth behind and the angry roar of the Merlin engine. Grace had pronounced the correspondence harmless and, in spite of her best efforts, she could find no hidden meaning buried in his letters, which had deflated the matchmaker inside her.

November fell into December, bringing rain and icy winds. Ilona had been on a long run to far-flung satellite fields and returned to the depot to find everyone huddled by the wireless, looking pale and shocked.

“What’s happened?” she asked the depot sergeant as she hung the keys on their hook.

“The Japs bombed the Yanks,” he told her, his face gray. “Pearl Harbor. Destroyed a fair few ships. They snuck in at dawn, the evil, crafty bastards.”

“Were there many killed?”

“They don’t know for sure yet, but they reckon so. A lot of ‘em would have been asleep when the attack started. I reckon the Yanks will join the war now.”

“I suppose they will.” Ilona thought of Francis and his parents and tried to imagine their shock. At least England had had time to prepare before the bombing had started, a surprise attack like that was as bold and black an act of war as anything. She bid the staff goodnight and walked back to the hut, pulling the sheepskin collar of her jacket up around her face. The bitter wind made her eyes water. When she reached the hut, she found the same scene, reenacted with half a dozen girls sitting beside the wireless looking frightened and shocked.

“Did you hear the news, Ilke?”

“Just now at the depot. How awful.” It seemed, to her, as if the entire world was being sucked into this war and she wondered where it would all end.

They made room for her on the cot and she listened to the news out of Pearl Harbor while the numbers of the dead began to rise.

Dear Ilke,

Thank you for your letter. It was waiting for me on the same day that we found out we are on the move again. Not too far, just another, end-of-the-earth field in the middle of Norfolk, the chopping and changing is a real annoyance. Just for once, I’d like to stay somewhere long enough to be comfortable.

Pearl Harbor was a shock. I’ve heard that quite a few of my countrymen over here are all afire to go and have a crack at the Japs. The RAF isn’t too happy about it, but they don’t have to worry about me. I’d miss my Spitfire, so I’m staying for as long as the RAF will have me. I guess things may change at some point when the US gets organized enough to send more planes and men over here, but, until then, my loyalty is to the Brits. After all, they didn’t have to let some wet-behind-the-ears Yank fly one of their planes. I think they like me anyway, because I look after my planes and haven’t broken many. As much as I moan about the God-forsaken places we get posted, at least I know that, somewhere close by, there will be a decent pub.

Now for the really good news. In spite of all the upheaval, I get to have a few days off at Christmas. So, I’ve been thinking, since it looks like we’re traveling on the same days and my train journey takes me, more or less, where you are, why don’t we travel together? I’ll let you know which train I’m on and save you a seat. That way, even if it’s standing room only, we can keep each other company. Let me know what you think. I know that talking to me is a bit different from writing letters, but I think we’re over the awkwardness of our first couple of meetings and can probably manage a crowded train journey without sniping.

Right. That’s this letter done. It’s getting dark and you know what that means. We’re off to escort your Bomber Boys again.

Regards, etc.

Francis

“So, will you take him up on his offer?” Grace asked.

“I think so. He’s right about the train journey. It goes quicker if you have someone to talk to. I’m sure our families would be pleased to think we can all sit down and have Christmas dinner together without bristling and snarling at each other.”

Grace laughed. “Your mum will be glad that there won’t be any scratch marks on the dining room table, I’ll bet.”

“Not from me, anyway. Now all we need is snow and for Papa to bag some pheasants for dinner and it will be a lovely Christmas.”

Chapter Ten

Ilona stood shivering on the platform at Cambridge while the Norwich train slowed and rolled into the station with the slow hiss of brakes. A cloud of steam billowed into the frosty morning air while doors slammed up and down the platform. She peered along the carriages and tried to find Francis amidst the chaos until a sharp whistle caught her attention. She spotted him about five cars along, waving while he stood by a carriage. She picked up her bag, waved back and hurried along the platform as doors began to close.

“Hello.” He grinned and took her bag. “We’re lucky. I have seats and the heating is working.”

She smiled back. “I have sandwiches and a flask of tea.”

“How did you manage that?” He led her along the carriage, squeezing past soldiers.

“A friend in the canteen. One of the advantages of being a WAAF on a base where there aren’t many is we’re all friends. She does it for all of those who are traveling, because she hates to see us go hungry.”

“Here we are.” He pointed to two empty spaces beside a sleeping soldier. “It’s a bit of a squeeze but as neither of us are carrying much weight at the moment, we should be fine. Now, do you want to be sandwiched between me and a perfect stranger or sitting on the aisle staring at another stranger’s belt buckle?”

“Since you put it like that, I’ll take the middle seat. Your legs are longer than mine. You need the aisle.”

He crammed her bag into the last gap on the luggage rack and sat beside her. It was a squeeze but it was better than standing. It was worth the discomfort knowing that, at the end of the journey, she would be home for the first time in sixteen months.

They spent the first part of the journey reminiscing about Christmases before the war. His always seemed to involve lots of snow—and flour all over the kitchen from his mother’s annual attempts to make mince pies.

“It’s a running joke in our family,” he told her. “Mom’s mince pies taste terrific but the kitchen always looks like a bomb site by the time she’s finished. It’s never that bad when she makes anything else, just mince pies.” He looked at her. “Can you cook?”

“Not a thing. I’ve been deplorably spoiled.”

He laughed. “At least you’re honest.”

“I really should learn. I know I won’t be living on canteen food or home cooking forever. Perhaps I should buy a cookery book.”

“Or do what Mom did and persuade the Reardons’ cook to teach her. That worked well because me and Dad never went hungry.”

“I’ll get a cookery book. Mrs. Maplin would never let me near the stove.”

Crossing London was a stark reminder that there was a war in progress, with sandbags everywhere on the Underground and walls plastered with posters with worthy advice and warnings. She was glad to reach Paddington and even happier that her companion appeared to have a knack for finding empty seats, this time unshared by any strangers. She handed out the sandwiches and they shared the mug from the flask between them as the train rolled away from the gray London suburbs and into the open countryside. The sun was sinking to the west and violet shadows stretched across fields still touched with frost. A luminous rosy light washed the landscape, promising a bitterly cold night. Ilona didn’t mind because she would be in her own bed with a fire roaring in the fireplace after a lovely home cooked meal. They both fell silent and watched the fields slip past and be replaced by trees and hills as they neared their stop.

“So what are you looking forward to most about being here?” she asked.

“Sleeping…in a real bed.” He sighed and it was rich with longing. “What about you?”

“The same.”

The train slowed. Ilona recognized the house alongside the track and the way the track curved toward the bridge and the station. “We’re here.”

Francis took her bag down from the rack, retrieved his own and carried them both to the door of the carriage. “I can see your parents.” He leaned out of the window. “Does that mean I get a lift home?”

“I should think so.”

The train stopped. Francis opened the door and helped her onto the platform. For a moment, she remembered her previous homecoming and was relieved this one wasn’t colored with the dreadful, black grief that had flooded the last one. This time her mother smiled when she swept her into an enthusiastic hug. It was good to climb into the car and leave the long journey and the WAAF behind, if only for a handful of days.

“Your sister is so excited that you’re home,” her mother told her.

“What’s Charlie like?”

“Loud. Nice enough, but loud.”

“Oh dear.” Ilona guessed that she would be spending a lot of time in her room or outside. There were plenty of long walks to be had, if the weather held.

Her father turned the car onto the Reardons’ drive where frost lingered in hollows beneath the trees and pulled up in the broad gravel circle by the front door. Francis retrieved his bag and thanked him for the ride. He kissed Ilona quickly on her cheek. “Thanks for your company and the sandwiches.” He slid out of the car. “I’ll see you soon.”

“You two seem to be getting on rather well.” Her father observed, as they turned back down the drive.

“Yes, we are,” Ilona said, surprised at her own answer. “He
is
nice. You were right, Mama.”

“It’s just as well,” her father replied. “Being as you’re being thrown together over the next few days.”

“We are?”

“Lady Woodplumpton’s Christmas Eve party tomorrow night,” her mother said. “Then the Reardons are coming to us for Christmas Day, and then, of course, we go to theirs for Boxing Day, so your father is right. It’s good that you’re getting on. It wouldn’t have been much fun having you two bristling at each other all the time.”

“No, you don’t have to worry about that.” She felt relief and contentment wash through her when they pulled up in front of the house. The windows glowed golden in the dusk and Aislinn waited at the front door. Ilona had barely climbed out of the car before being engulfed in her sister’s perfumed embrace.

“Ooooh!” she exclaimed. “It’s so good to see you!”

Ilona hugged her back. “It’s lovely to see you too,” she said into the black cloud of her sister’s hair. “It’s been ages.”

“Two years.” She stepped back. “Don’t you look lovely in your dress blues.”

“Tired and travel-stained, more like.” She took her sister’s arm and they walked into the house. The hall was softly lit and warm and the aroma of something wonderful stole out of the kitchen.

“I’m so excited for you to meet Charlie.” Aislinn giggled. “He’s been dying to meet you.”

“Same here.”

On cue, a man appeared in the doorway of the small sitting room. He wasn’t much taller than her sister was and he grinned hugely. “Hullo, I’m Charlie. It’s nice to meet you.”

Ilona took his hand and felt hers squeezed. “It’s nice to meet you too.” She noted the Brylcreemed black hair, the large white teeth and dark eyes and wondered if her sister had lost her mind.

“I’ve heard a lot of about you.”

“I’ve heard a lot about you too.” She wanted to get to her room, get out of uniform, and she excused herself. “I really ought to wash and change for dinner.”

“Don’t worry, love. Plenty time to catch up.”

“I look forward to that.” He couldn’t be all that bad if Ash loved him. There must have been something in him worth her sister’s adoration.

She picked up her bag and retreated up the stairs. Her room was ready for her. A fire roared in the hearth and her mother had put a vase filled with holly and evergreen boughs on her dressing table. The bed looked tempting and, had she not been hungry, she would have been happy just to crawl under the freshly laundered sheets and eiderdown and sleep. Instead, she washed, changed and headed back downstairs in search of a pre-dinner sherry.