A Kestrel Rising (21 page)

I hope you can get away. Now that my mind is made up, I can think of nothing else.

Regards,

Ilke

Dear Ilke,

You’re saying yes? You would really do this? When I read your letter I wanted to jump in my plane and do a Victory Roll. Instead, since I was sitting on my bed in the barracks, I had to pretend that it was just the usual bread and butter letter, which you and I always exchange. Like you, I can now think of nothing else. I have been trying to figure out where we can go and, once again, Harry has come up with the goods. I think he feels guilty for what happened at Dieppe, although I’ve told him time and time again that there was nothing he could have done and that he did the best thing by getting out of there in one piece. He says I can borrow his car and, even better, his friend, the landlord at the local pub, has a sister-in-law who has a small cottage that she lets out. Here’s the part where kismet comes in, once more. The cottage is by the river, south of Grantchester. It’s out in the middle of nowhere, down a long track, so it is very secluded. She would be glad of the income, given that most of it comes in the summer, so it should not be a problem to arrange. Apparently, it’s pretty basic, but there are fireplaces in the rooms that matter—living room and bedroom—and there’s a wireless, so we’ll have music. I know you are hopeless at cooking, but I think I can take care of that, if we find the time to eat. The bonus, of course, is that it’s not far, so we don’t have to worry about petrol rationing. We can get fresh eggs and milk from the farm and there will be plenty of firewood.

Now we have to work out when. We are about to start training in our brand new planes. I’ll be saying goodbye to my beloved Spitfires and learning how to fly a Thunderbolt. We saw our first one yesterday when one of the top brass came to pay us a call. He told us that he had a ‘surprise’ for us and, while he was talking, we heard an engine outside. It sounded rough and loud, like an elephant clearing its throat. We all trailed outside to have a look and there was this beast standing next to one of the Spits. It was monstrous. Its wing tip was as high as the cockpit of the Spitfire. It’s not the most elegant of planes, especially standing next to one of our beautiful, graceful little Spitfires. It’s like comparing a carthorse to a thoroughbred. I can’t say I’m looking forward to the change. For a start, as much as I complained about the snugness of the Spitfire, at least it felt like it fit, as if I was part of the plane. The cockpit in this thing is enormous. One wag said he’d break his leg if he fell off the seat. I hate to think what it’s going to be like to fly, so be prepared for a lot of complaining from me.

Realistically, I think it will be the middle of February before I can expect to get away. I don’t know that I can wait that long, but I guess I’ll have to. Provided I don’t splatter one of these Thunderbolts and myself all over the runway. I just know that it will be worth the wait. Please bear with me.

We deserve this, Ilke.

Regards, etc.

Francis

* * * *

“Are you sure about this, Ilke?”

The three girls warmed themselves by the fire in the John Barleycorn.

“Yes,” she replied. “I’m sure, very sure.”

Betty lit a cigarette and watched the smoke spiral lazily into the dark beam above her. “I can’t say that I blame you. He is rather good looking. This ‘no strings, no promises, no vows’ business, do you really think it will work?”

Ilona shrugged. “I don’t know, but I know that I want this. I know it makes me seem like a loose woman, but I’d rather do it with Francis than anyone else. In fact, I wouldn’t want to with anyone else. We are good friends. We understand each other.”

“I don’t know.” Lily studied her drink. “What happens if you end up falling in love? What if he does and you don’t, or you do and he doesn’t? Then it gets complicated or, even worse, he falls in love with someone else, or you do.”

“We’ll cross that bridge if and when we come to it. I can’t imagine that it will. We both believe that, because we can be certain of nothing, we find our comforts where we can and”—she blushed—“if his kisses are anything to go by…”

Betty giggled. “Ilke! You’re awful!”

“I really can’t put it into words. I miss Ian. I still love him and I always will, but I miss the physical side of things. I can think of worse ways of spending five days. But I really can’t imagine falling in love with him and, even if I did, I wouldn’t dream of telling him.”

“I think you’re both mad,” Lily said, “but I understand. I just hope neither of you end up getting hurt or hurting each other. Imagine what your next family Christmas would be like, all that resentment, heavy sighs, long, dark silences. People would be asking questions, more feelings would be hurt. Just be careful, Ilke.”

“I will. Don’t worry. I promise. I won’t let anyone hurt me again, by either leaving me or dying. I can’t let that happen again. I just have to save that part of myself and keep it locked away.”

“As long as he doesn’t notice,” her friend replied.

“Really, Lily, I don’t think it will be like that. I wish I could explain, but it just feels right. I can’t put it any better than that.”

* * * *

Dear Ilke,

It’s been a rough couple of weeks, coming to grips with ‘The Jug’. The RAF chaps have been having a laugh at our expense, saying that, at least if we were attacked by Germans, we could unstrap ourselves from the seat and run around the fuselage dodging their bullets. That’s one of the lighter moments. We’ve been having mock dogfights and have discovered, the hard way, the shortcomings of our new plane. We’ve lost four pilots in the fourth group because the Jug is just not all that nimble below eight thousand feet. It just can’t match the Spitfire when it comes to turns. HQ finally banned mock dogfights below that altitude, thank God. I couldn’t help but envy those guys in the Spitfires. I’m sorry to sound so unpatriotic about an American-made plane, but the Spitfire will always be my first love. I can still remember that day at your house when that plane flew over. I wanted to be that pilot. I wanted that plane and I guess I’m very lucky that I got to fly them for as long as I did. I think I will always pine for them. The Jug is a bugger when taxiing too. It’s difficult to see over the nose. I had to have a member of the ground crew sit on one of the wings and give me hand signals to let me know if I was heading the right way up the runway or not—or even if I was on the runway. That’s another shortcoming. The plane is heavy and we need a long run at take-off. Mind you, it’s heavy for a good reason. It has a larger fuel load, so should go farther than just across the channel for a couple of spats with the krauts, and it’s well armored, so hopefully, none of us will end up like Swiss cheese. Still, yours truly has finally figured it out and found the good things about flying them, such that they are. It’s very fast in the dive, so they reckon, the best thing, in a fight, would be to pounce on them from above, make one quick pass and climb like buggery. That should work pretty well, so my bosses are pleased with my progress and, I’m happy to say, that I will get my leave before we go fully operational with this beast. I will come and collect you on Saturday the twentieth. I should be there for 10.00 and we have the cottage until Wednesday. Don’t worry about food. I’ll take care of that. Just bring yourself.

I hope I can concentrate on my flying in the meantime.

Regards, etc.

Francis

Dearest Ilke,

Congratulations. You are now an aunt! Aislinn had the twins last night. It was all very dramatic. Her waters broke when she was walking back from the village shop. By the time she made it home, she was well on the way to giving birth. Your father had to get in the car and go and fetch the midwife. Luckily, she got here in time to deliver two strapping, very loud babies—one of each. She and Charlie had already decided on names, James and Nancy, and they are adorable little things. They are the image of their mother, black hair and blue eyes, but loud, Ilke—loud like their father. I love them dearly, but I dread to think what they will be like by the time they start talking. Ah, well, at least they’re healthy and Ash is recovering very well, given what an unholy rush it all was. She sends her love and promises to send photographs as soon as your father can figure out how the camera works. Charlie is on the way home to see his babies and, as you can imagine, is absolutely beside himself. I still can’t believe I’m a grandmother. I don’t feel old enough.

I shall write a longer letter later, when things have settled down a bit. Your poor father is walking around in a daze. I think he’s forgotten what it’s like to have babies in the house. I expect he will be spending a great deal of time in the greenhouse and in the garden.

I hope all is well with you. Have you heard from Francis? If you write to him, please send him our love.

Until later, dearest Ilke,

Love,

Mama

Ilona read the letter again, finding it hard to imagine that her sister was now the mother of twins—flighty, lively Ash, of all people. It seemed like only yesterday that the two of them were tearing around the countryside on their ponies and running wild on the lawn. It had been less than four years since they had lived at home and she could not believe how much had happened in that time. She felt far older than her twenty-three years, but then, she had lived more in those last three-and-a-half years than she had the entire time she had been at home. She found herself remembering that miserable, rainy Christmas Eve when Francis had arrived on their doorstep, all sullen, silent and not at all good company. It felt like a lifetime ago, a life that belonged to someone else, and that Francis had been someone else. She felt a sudden twist of longing for him and prayed for time to move on.

Chapter Eighteen

“I can’t believe it’s raining, again.” Ilona finished packing her bag. “All it’s done these past few days is rain.”

“That’s not going to matter much, is it?” Betty grinned.

Ilona blushed. “I suppose not.” She fastened the buttons on her jacket and straightened her hair. “How do I look?”

“Gorgeous, like you always do,” Lily said. “Now go and have fun.”

She picked up her bag and headed to the door. She found the bicycle propped up by the front steps and hung her bag over the handlebar. As she pedaled through the quickening rain, she couldn’t help but remember another bicycle and another place, in another time. She pushed the memory aside. This was different, a cottage in Grantchester, not a little house on the edge of the moors at midsummer. She turned toward the gate and left her bicycle in the rack beside the guard’s hut. The rain filled the silent, gray morning with a constant, whispering patter as it landed on the dead leaves and pavement.

Francis waited by the car, his coat over his head. He smiled when Ilona spotted him and he opened the door for her. He had left the engine running and the car was a warm haven against the damp chill. He climbed in beside her and kissed her.

“Lovely day, isn’t it?”

“Beautiful.” She tried to restore her hair to some semblance of order. “Why do we almost always get the rain?”

“I don’t know.” Francis pushed a damp lock of her hair away from her face. “But it really doesn’t matter, does it?” He put the car into gear and peered through the small, clear space left by the windscreen wipers. “I’ll tell you, now, I’d much rather be flying a plane than driving this car in the rain. I can see why Harry wasn’t too fussed about lending it to me.”

Ilona sat in silence and let him concentrate on driving. Francis whistled tunelessly while he drove and she wondered whether he did that when he flew, and imagined that it would drive his squadron mates to distraction if he did. It was hard for her to push memories of Ian aside, determined as she was to give Francis her full attention. She gazed out of the rain-splattered window. The flat landscape was drenched beneath a restless, sullen sky that promised even more rain. The enormity of what she was about to do finally sank in. Ian had been the only man she’d ever known intimately. She realized that she really hadn’t thought the matter through at all. A mixture of relief for Francis’ safe return and a desperate desire for physical comfort had led to this. She hoped that it would be enough.

Ilona bit her lip and stole a glance at her companion. His hand rested on top of the gear stick and she tried to imagine that hand touching her, trailing across her skin. Longing stirred inside her and she shut her eyes for a moment. It was a beautiful hand, slender and long fingered. Ilona remembered how those fingers had strayed in the crowded darkness of Harry’s car. She curled her hands into the folds of her coat and tried to distract herself with the passing scenery. It would be enough. The fact that she remembered those moments made her realize that she wanted more.

The day was dark and it was only mid-morning. She hoped that the cottage was warm and dry. Francis followed a succession of narrow country lanes, lined with bare and black hedges and dotted with the occasional house, where lights glowed softly out of windows into the mid-winter gloom. It was a good day for not going anywhere and she was relieved when he glanced at the little hand-drawn map and announced that the turn-off was close by.

“It should be around here somewhere,” he muttered. “There should be a little sign saying
Poplar Cottage
on the left.”

Ilona peered out of the window and spied a gap in the hedge and, beyond that, a row of poplar trees. “I should think it’s just here.” A small, white sign on a gatepost told her that she was right. “This is it.”

“Well spotted, Hawkeye.” He grinned and turned the car onto a rutted, muddy track that trailed along the edge of an open field. The poplars ran along the other side of the track and led the way to the cottage, almost hidden at the bottom of the lane by a circle of more poplars. Their branches reached toward the heavy sky. The cottage was small, white with two tiny dormer windows peeking out of a thatched roof. Ilona noticed a thin plume of smoke rising from the chimney. She stared at the upstairs windows and hid her shaking hands in her pockets.