Beauty Chorus, The (3 page)

‘Yes, a boy.’ Stella folded her arms across her stomach.

‘Is he with your aunt?’

‘No, I—’ The tears caught her suddenly.

‘There, there love.’ The woman’s knitting slipped softly to her lap as she put her arm around Stella. ‘Let it out. A little cry is good for us all now and then.
There’s not a woman here who hasn’t lost someone.’

Stella pulled a handkerchief from the pocket of her coat. Her fingertip brushed the letter folded carefully there.

‘How did he …?’

‘Oh no, he’s alive still.’ Stella wiped at her eyes, quietly blew her nose. ‘I’m so terribly sorry,’ she said, quickly recovering herself. ‘I do feel
silly, and in front of a perfect stranger. Please excuse me.’

They heard the staccato crack of gunshots as planes flew overhead. ‘We’re all friends now,’ the woman said. ‘I’m Eileen by the way.’

‘Thank you, Eileen. I’m Stella, Stella Grainger.’

‘So where is he, your little lad?’

‘David?’ Even the sound of his name was music to her. She wanted to say it again,
David, David, David
, to somehow conjure him back to her. ‘He’s in Ireland, with
my husband’s mother. I just … I just left him there.’

Eileen heard the pain in her voice. She patted her hand. ‘I’m sure he’ll be safe there, love.’ She sighed. ‘How old is he?’

‘Six months.’

‘Is that all? Oh, it’s hard isn’t it—’ Eileen broke off as the sleeping man at her side let out a snore. ‘Shut up, Jack.’ As she elbowed him, he
snorted. ‘You’ll wake everyone up.’

She turned back to Stella. ‘Not that it’s anything I haven’t put up with for thirty years. Look at him with his false teeth hanging out. Put them in, Jack! Nobody wants to be
seeing that!’

The man raised his hand to his lips and adjusted his teeth, flashing Stella an even, yellow smile before turning and settling back to sleep.

‘So where’s your husband, is he fighting?’

Stella didn’t answer.
Careless talk costs lives
, she thought.

The lamp guttered and went out. ‘Oh, ruddy hell, not again.’ Eileen fumbled with her bag as she put her knitting away.

Someone coughed, hacking, waking in the shelter. From the sliver of light around the entrance, Stella guessed it must be sometime towards dawn.

‘So where is he? Your husband?’ Eileen tried again.

‘I lost him,’ Stella said curtly.

‘Oh love, I am sorry.’ Eileen felt for her hand in the darkness, squeezed her fingers.

In the corner, the Christmas lights washed the faces of the sleeping babies pink. From the nearest cradle, a pair of small arms stretched up and a high, keening wail began.

‘Hush. There, there.’ Eileen picked him up. ‘You miss your mum, don’t you?’

Stella felt the old familiar tightening in her chest as the baby cried, the tingling pinpricks. ‘How old is he?’ she asked quietly.

‘I don’t know.’ Eileen settled beside her, the baby in her arms. ‘Two, three months perhaps?’ The baby cried out as he pushed away the teat of the glass bottle she
tried to coax into his mouth. ‘Poor little mite. Don’t like the bottle do you? But you’ll have to eat, you’re wasting away.’

‘David never wanted a bottle.’ Stella turned the gold band on her finger slowly. She thought of the milk she had been throwing away since she’d left Ireland. She wondered
whether he too cried out for her at night. It had seemed almost criminal at a time when everyone was making do, pouring her milk away, a little less each day. The tightness in her chest became
unbearable. She felt Eileen watching her.

‘Were you feeding him?’

‘Yes.’

Eileen looked at the anguished face of the baby. ‘Could you? I wouldn’t ask but …’

Stella recoiled. ‘No! I couldn’t possibly.’

As Stella shrunk back in her place, Eileen turned to her. ‘He’ll die soon,’ she whispered. ‘I’ve seen this too often lately.’

Stella inhaled sharply as a wave of anxiety washed over her. ‘I can’t, I just can’t.’

‘Your baby is safe.’ Eileen shoved the child into her arms. ‘You’re here for a reason tonight, I’m sure of it.’ Stella instinctively held the child closer,
supported his head. ‘We all have to do what we can.’

Stella nodded silently, unbuttoned her heavy overcoat with trembling fingers. She glanced self-consciously around, but everyone had averted their eyes. As she loosened her shirt, the dawn air
penetrated her thin silk camisole, felt cool against her skin. She shifted the child in her arms, cooed softly to him. She was so used to David’s plump arms, his soft, heavy body. This child
was smaller, his shoulder blades like angular wings beneath his knitted blanket. As she held him against her body, she felt him relax, sobs turning to snuffles, then silence as he began to feed, a
small fist clutching at her shirt.

‘There now,’ Eileen said approvingly. ‘When I was in hospital with my last, I had so much milk I fed half the babies on the ward.’ She pulled the blanket closer around
him.

Stella sensed the woman on the bunk opposite watching her, and looked over.

‘Good for you, love,’ the woman said. ‘Anything we can do to help these poor wee children …’ Her voice trailed off. ‘Where is your lad Eileen?’

‘I don’t know.’ She smoothed her creased skirt. ‘He’s on the Lancasters,’ she said to Stella. She took a deep breath, sat upright. ‘Still, at least
Annie’s nearby. She’s driving ambulances.’

‘What about you, love?’ the other woman asked Stella.

She hesitated. ‘I’m a pilot.’

‘No!’ Eileen’s face lit up.

‘I’m joining the Air Transport Auxiliary.’ She felt the baby break away from her breast and she lifted him to her shoulder, rubbing his narrow back.

‘But women can’t fly planes can they?’ the woman asked.

‘Of course they can!’ Eileen folded her arms. ‘What about that Amy Johnson?’

‘She’s one of our ATA girls,’ Stella said proudly. The baby burped, pushed back against her collarbone, searching hungrily now.

‘There’s a good lad!’ Eileen laughed.

‘We’ve just arrived from Singapore. I heard the ATA were taking women pilots, and I wanted to do my bit. Now David is safely in Ireland, I’m joining up tomorrow…
today,’ she corrected herself. She felt Eileen watching her and looked up.

‘Your husband would be proud,’ she said.

Would he?
Stella wondered. Or would Richard think she was a fool to risk her own life and leave their child motherless like the baby in her arms. The truth was, she no longer cared if she
lived or died now she had lost him. For months it had felt like she was looking at the world from beneath deep water – everything was muffled, blank, deadened. When she slept, fitfully, she
always hoped tomorrow would be the day she would wake and feel like her old self, but she never did. She woke exhausted, and would lie listening to David’s pitiful cries, not knowing how she
could drag herself from bed and survive another day. Each time she admitted this to herself she was overcome with guilt. David still needed her – or did he? Perhaps he would be safer and
happier on the farm with dear, dependable Sarah and George. That’s what she had told herself a thousand times – that he was better off without her.

From outside, the wail of the ‘all clear’ siren cut through the dank cold air, and people began to stir. In a lifetime spent overseas, she had always longed to visit England, always
imagined she would feel at home. But everything was alien to her. Today was the first day of her new life. She had shed her skins. She was not a wife, not a mother any more. Who was she? Was this
country that she had never set foot in before meant to be her homeland, with its blacked-out windows and sinister balloon-filled skies? Stella scanned the faces of the grey-skinned people in their
greasy coats as they crowded towards the door and felt more alone than she had in her entire life.

She had no idea how many people trailed past as she stroked the baby’s fragile skull, her fingertips tracing the soft down of his hair. She imagined the thousands of men, women and
children stirring across London in Tube stations and basements, emerging to face another uncertain day. Sated, the baby finally released his grip on her blouse and fell back into a deep, relieved
sleep. His tiny fingers extended, waved liked the fronds of a sea anemone. She looked down at his face – perfect, unblemished. ‘Sleep well, sunny Jim,’ she whispered as she handed
him to Eileen.

She stood, stretched out the cold and ache of her limbs and buttoned her coat.

Eileen caught at her fingers. ‘Thank you, love, you might just have saved this little lad’s life.’ Wordlessly, Stella squeezed her hand.

Pale winter sun rose over London. Stella scrambled from the shelter, shielding her eyes. Oxford Street was deserted, silent, its pavements glistening, encrusted with shattered
glass like diamonds. Fragments crunched beneath her shoes, the mournful ‘all clear’ siren rising and falling in a wave across the frozen air. From the centre of the road Stella scanned
the grey figures emerging like ghosts from a tomb. Then she saw her.

‘Auntie!’

Dorothy looked over, ran to her. ‘I thought I’d lost you.’ They held tight to one another as weary figures drifted by.

‘I was just down the road.’

‘Come home now, love, let me make you some breakfast.’

Stella slipped her hand into her coat pocket. The letter with her instructions was still there. Home. Where was home now? Richard was her home, her place in the world, and that had gone now.
‘I can’t. Please don’t let’s argue again.’

‘But you’ve only just arrived, and you’re the last! Your brother. My Nigel.’ Fear and sadness clouded her face. ‘This wretched war. We’ve lost everyone we
loved.’

‘That’s why I have to go.’

‘I can’t bear it.’ She hung her head. ‘Not you too. You’re so young.’

‘I’m old enough, and the ATA needs all the pilots it can get.’ A defiant, uncertain smile flickered across her lips. She glanced at her watch. ‘The morning train …
I must go.’ Dorothy nodded silently, fighting her tears. ‘Take care, Auntie,’ Stella whispered as she kissed her. The scent of violets lingered as she walked away. Stella turned
back, her face bright in the morning sun, and waved. ‘I’ll be home soon!’

3

Megan cycled along the coast path above Barafundle Bay, the wind whipping her dark curls, the dogs racing joyfully behind her. Her battered brown leather sheepskin flying
jacket was zipped up to her chin, but she was still freezing. Her face and hands were pinched by the cold air as it skimmed across the dunes and cliffs from the glittering sea below. Gulls wheeled
in the clear Pembrokeshire sky, a rosy sun rising on the horizon. At the hangar on the far side of the airfield she swung her right leg over the bike, freewheeling to a standstill by the main
door.

‘Come on boys! Rex!’ she called. The old collie perked up his ears, left the rabbit warren he was nosing around and raced towards her. Megan heaved open the door and dawn light
flooded the dark interior of the hangar. Her breath hung in a cloud on the freezing air. It was as if the Tiger Moth was waiting for her, and as she walked by she touched the wing as if she were
greeting an old friend. She sprang up into the cockpit and sighed contentedly. She lost herself running through procedures, closed her eyes as she handled the controls, imagined soaring out over
the sea. By the time the dogs barked, the sun was high in the sky.

‘I thought I’d find you here.’ Rhodri strode through the open door. ‘What are you doing, love?’

‘Oh you made me jump, Da!’ It felt strange to smile. Since the news about Huw there had been no laughter in the house. ‘I’m just practising. It’s been so long since
I’ve flown.’

‘You’ll be the best pilot there.’ Rhodri smiled up at her. ‘The ATA are lucky to have you.’ He offered her his hand as she jumped down. ‘Some lads from the
RAF are coming to pick this old girl up in the next couple of days. I think they’re taking her up to the base at Angle.’

‘They’d better take good care of her.’ Megan patted the wing. She was the same height as her father, and she had his dark curls, though his were streaked with grey now.
‘Come on, love, your mother’s got lunch waiting, and your cousins have come over from Tenby.’

Megan bridled. ‘What are they doing here?’ She stooped to pick up her bike, and wheeled it beside her father as they crossed the old airfield.

‘Don’t be like that,’ he said gently. ‘Without your brother, God rest him, there’s no one to take on the farm and airfield after the war. They are
family—’

‘No!’ Her temper flared. ‘The airfield was Huw’s, and mine.’ She fought the wave of nausea as she thought of her brother, the way he had teased her on his last
leave, tickling her until she was breathless with laughter, pinned to the cool summer grass on the lawn. Whenever they got together it was as if they were small children again. Now he was gone.
‘What do the Davies cousins know about flying? Nothing!’

‘They know about business, love. How can you manage all this and the farm on your own?’ Rhodri said tenderly. ‘Your ma and I aren’t getting any younger.’

Megan glanced at him. It was true. They had married late, and Nia was forty when she had Megan. Since receiving the news that Huw was missing, presumed killed on a bombing raid, it was as if
they had aged ten years overnight. Her father’s kind, dark eyes were red-rimmed, with fresh wrinkles circling them.

‘They know about money,’ she said bitterly. ‘They couldn’t care less about whether the airfield reopens after the war. They’re just after the farm. This is our
family business, and I’ll run it alone if I have to.’

‘It’s too much,’ he said as they entered the farmyard, chickens scattering ahead of them. ‘You’ve not got enough experience flying, or with the business,
love.’

‘But I will have! I’m going to be flying all sorts of planes, Da.’ She looked up as a young man in shirtsleeves stepped out of the milking parlour. He stooped to the well and
pumped water into a cast-iron pail. ‘I’ve got Bill, too. He’ll help me with the animals.’

Rhodri sighed and put his hands in his pockets. ‘After you’ve done the cows can you take Rex up to the barns and check the sheep, Bill?’