Beneath Us the Stars (2 page)

She had first blurted out her feelings one night back in 1944. Young they might have been, but life had been lived on the edge then, with death a constant companion.

He managed a weak smile at the memory of that night, so clearly recalled, as if it were yesterday – he grunted at the irony –
better
than yesterday.

Like most young men of his generation he had had to go to war. With the invincibility of youth wrapped around him, at least to begin with, he had not thought much about death; that was something that happened to someone else.

It wasn’t so later.

But he’d never forgotten Mary’s sudden revelation in the heightened atmosphere of that evening, even though they had never spoken of it again.

Now his life was coming to an end.

Oblivion?

Or was she going to be proved right?

He replaced the photograph, took another sip of the whiskey, tried to steady his nerves.

A hard lump had come from nowhere and made it
difficult
to swallow.

Bill drove the open-top MGB that he’d lovingly looked after for the last thirty years. Mary was always grumbling that since her confinement to the chair some two years ago,
due to arthritis in her spine, the car was totally impractical. But secretly he guessed she was as in love with it as he was. It harked back to an age when their world was younger and freer.

Glenn Miller’s orchestra was coming from the
radio-cassette
-player.

He pulled up at a T junction.

Mary picked up the map on her lap.

‘It’s left.’

He shook his head.

‘Right.’

She tapped her finger on the map. ‘I tell you it’s left. It is twenty-five years ago since we last came. Those trees have grown since then, that’s what’s misleading you.’

Bill banged the steering wheel.

‘I know this place like the back of my hand. For God’s sake, it’s etched into my memory, woman.’

Mary was unmoved.

‘You daft old coot, it’s left, I tell you.’

Still grumbling, he did as he was told.

‘Bloody English lanes. For Christ’s sake they all look the same.’

They eventually drove into a wood, later emerging into a modern commercial trading-estate.

Bill drew to a halt and surveyed the scene.

‘Oh, my God.’

They sat in silence with the motor the only sound, the cassette turned off.

At last Mary said: ‘Nothing’s the same any more. The whole country will be built over soon.’

He put the MG into gear.

‘Let’s try the other side of the wood, there’s a track over there.’

It was unmade, with deep depressions and ruts. The car lurched and bounced and creaked. She didn’t say anything, but the pain in her back was awful.

Eventually they were confronted by a dense hedge.

Mary pointed. ‘There’s a way to the left.’

‘Got it.’

He spun the steering wheel. They both saw it at the same time – the remains of an old runway with lank weeds
pushing
up through cracks in the concrete, and with old tyre-streaks still visible. Beyond, some 400 yards away across a ploughed field there was the remains of a derelict brick building, the windows and roof long since gone, the metal work rusty and twisted.

Bill eased the car to a halt.

‘That’s the control tower.’

They both stood in silence, lost in the dreams of the past: – dangerous times, austere times – but a time when they were young and full of life.

Bill pulled the cockpit hood back. Immediately the noise crowded in and smoke swirled around, coming from
burning
huts. Men were running everywhere, fire-bells sounded, ambulances roared past, planes were still landing; mayhem was reigning. Hands helped him unbuckle his harness and he climbed out on to the wing, then jumped to the ground, his legs almost failing him. He’d been sitting cramped up for hours. His eyes fell on a long row of tarpaulin-covered bodies.

Shuddering, Bill shouldered his parachute and pulled off his flying-helmet. His face was wringing with sweat and oil-stains. As he stumbled along his crew chief fell into step beside him.

‘How was it, sir?’

Bill growled. ‘The Battling Bastards of Brunswick were out in force today.’ He looked wildly around. ‘What the hell happened here?’

‘You wouldn’t believe it, sir, but half an hour ago a lone Heinkel dropped a stick of bombs right on top of the mess hall and the cookhouse – blew them to smithereens.’

Another ambulance went past and the smoke seemed to thicken.

Coughing, Bill asked: ‘Casualties?’

The crew chief cleared his throat and spat on the ground. ‘Yes, sir, twenty-three dead, as many wounded. He sneaked up on us right down on the deck. Sun was blinding. Gone before we knew it. Hardly a gun fired. Classic nuisance raid.’

Bill scowled. ‘Nuisance? Tell that to them.’ He jerked his hand at the tarp-covered figures. ‘Did the RAF get him?’

‘Couldn’t tell your, sir.’

Bill reacted savagely. ‘God damn it. Who the hell is supposed to be defending this place when we’re away?’

With his legs stronger he left his crew chief behind and strode rapidly towards a hut with a large G painted on its side, and entered.

Inside were rows of tables with intelligence officers taking notes from aircrew.

Bill slumped down in an empty chair and held up a chipped enamel cup, into which an airman poured black coffee. The intelligence officer sitting before him added a generous slug of whisky.

He muttered his thanks.

The man let him take a few sips before he asked: ‘Bad one?’

Bill, his anger gone and the exhaustion hitting him like a freight train, seemed almost physically to shrink. ‘No more
than usual.’

The intelligence officer dropped his gaze to the cup. It was shaking.

The walls of the Officers Club were decorated with bits of German aircraft and pin-ups. Dance-music sounded in the background. Bill sat at the bar, staring morosely into his glass of beer, smoke curling up from the neglected cigarette held in his hand. A mature-looking major slid quietly on to the stool beside him, and indicated without speaking to the barman that he too would have a beer like Bill’s.

Nobody said anything until the major had had his first couple of sips.

Speaking to the rows of bottles on display before him he said: ‘I’m ordering a one-week pass for you – with
immediate
effect.’

Bill looked up, noticed the doctor for the first time.

‘Doc, I can’t. We need every ship we can get into the air. It’s impossible. Anyway, why are you picking on me?’

The flight-surgeon chopped his hand decisively down to emphasize the point.

‘Ordering, Bill –
ordering
. It’s cut already. Go down to London, go anywhere, have some fun. For God’s sake, man, you’ve been in the firing-line non-stop ever since you got here.’

Bill shook his head.

‘There are others who need it more than me.’

The doctor sighed. ‘OK, I knew it wasn’t going to be easy, so I’ve revoked your fitness to fly – to be reviewed in one week.’

Before Bill could say anything he added: ‘Go first thing in the morning – hell, you’ll be back soon enough and I guess there will still be plenty of war for everyone.’

Later that night he lay on his bunk, smoking a Lucky Strike, staring up at the ceiling, listening to the faraway rumble of hundreds of heavy bombers heading out to sea. The Royal Air Force. Round the clock.

He couldn’t sleep – not without the doc’s pills, and since he wasn’t going on the job in the morning he’d decided not to pop one.

His mind was racing. What would he do for the week? London? The Washington Club or 100 Piccadilly, or maybe even the Woolly Lamb, Chappies or Eve’s? The thought of mooching around with all the thousands of GIs flooding the bars, the streets and the theatres wasn’t attractive. The whole area was jokingly called the American Colony. Then there were all the loose women hanging around the
doorways
, the so-called Piccadilly Commandos; he shuddered, no, definitely not London. He would have liked to go to a country hotel, get away from it all to somewhere peaceful, but he didn’t know any, and in any case, they were difficult to get at. That left Cambridge or Norwich.

He decided on Cambridge – and a look around the colleges.

It was a decision that was to alter his life.

On a cold winter’s day he watched the countryside go slowly past the carriage window, the steam and smoke from the engine drifting away across the meadows to
merge with the fog still hanging around. Dripping trees loomed ghostlike from the murk.

There had been no squadron take-off that morning, all wing operations cancelled because of the weather. The irony of it did not escape him.

The train stopped several times for no apparent reason, though he’d been told by a local that they often did, due to poor coal.

The compartment was freezing, there was no heating. Muffled voices, coughing, and occasional shouts and laughter carried in the silence. Troops with kitbags used as seats blocked the corridor which was blue with acrid
cigarette
smoke.

By the time they steamed into Cambridge he’d had enough. He chose to walk into town rather than wait for one of the shared taxis, many with bags of gas on their roofs, which was used as fuel.

When he started to pass Georgian buildings, then later great high walls and sixteenth-century architecture, his spirits lifted. True, he’d flown over the place a couple of times, but it was here on the streets that you really got the flavour of the ancient town and its university.

He’d managed to find a small hotel through the American Red Cross Club, who’d booked it for him. Like all the public places in England it had a war-weary look about it: of times, now gone, when the carpets, the curtains, the wallpaper had obviously been bright and new. Now it was all faded and threadbare, and needed a good clean.

Still, a cheerful fire of logs burned in the grate of the small lounge, with its aspidistras and brass ornaments.

After checking in he had a quick drink of warm and watery beer at the bar, where he was served by a man in his late sixties with a shiny bald head, who doubled as the porter. When Bill told him he was hoping to see some of the sights he found an old booklet and pushed at Bill over the counter.

‘There’s all the colleges in there, and it shows you how to get down to the Backs by the river. Course, nothing like it was pre-war, sir, but the buildings are much the same, ’cept for some of the windows being protected.’

Bill emerged into a raw but now sunny early afternoon, consulted the pull-out map, and struck out for the first of his targets.

He found it and paused before a stone archway,
admiring
the shield and coat of arms above, and the figures carved in stone.

He took a tentative step or two into the stone
passageway
, from where there was a view of manicured grass beyond. A windowed kiosk was set in one wall.

‘Can I help you, sir?’

Bill stopped. A man in a porter’s uniform was addressing him through a pulled-back window.

He crossed to him.

‘Ah, yeah. I was hoping to see over the college.’ He tapped the guide. ‘Particularly the chapel and the library.’

The man leaned further out and pointed. ‘Chapel’s in use at the moment but the library is free. Cross to that corner – but don’t go on the grass, that’s for Fellows only. Through the passage and you’ll see the entrance on your right.’

Bill grinned. ‘Many thanks.’

He ambled out into the quad, stood for a moment
admiring
the ivy-clad Tudor buildings with their great clusters of spiralled chimneys, then slowly made his way to the far corner. He looked back. The porter was still watching him. He gave an exaggerated salute, and received a friendly wave.

The library was breathtaking. He gazed around at the lovely wooden ceiling, at the ancient leather-bound and gold-tooled books that lined the walls, and the long oak tables and benches. He examined some of the student initials and dates carved all over the surface. One said J.B, 1776. Some scholar had whiled away his time, left his mark, as across the ocean England was losing a colony: his
country
was being born. He trailed his finger over the carved signature, before moving on. At the far end were two large windows. Bill swung his leg over the rope that hung between two moveable wooden posts and studied the stained-glass frieze that ran along their margins. Beyond, through the clear but obviously hand-made panes he could see another smaller courtyard with seats and a lime-tree.

A female voice suddenly cut into his reverie.

‘What are you doing here?’

He turned. Standing there was a young, fresh-faced woman who had just come through a small arched side door, a couple of books were clasped to her chest. Stunned, Bill didn’t reply for a moment. She had a beautiful clear complexion, her skin was unblemished, pink and healthy, washed by the rains of England, never burnt by a raging sun. It was topped with wavy dark hair cut to such a length that it ended tantalizingly near the corner of her mouth,
which, though devoid of lipstick, was pink and firm. But it was her eyes really that made such an impression on him. Clear, intelligent, full of … he couldn’t think what. Life? Innocence? But they were challenging at the moment.

‘Well? Didn’t you see the notice? This section is not open to the public.’ Her tone was sharp, her English accent like cut glass.

At last Bill found his voice. ‘I’m sorry, I guess I’m just too inquisitive for my own good, but this is such a beautiful old building, I couldn’t resist seeing it all.’

Mary reddened – knew she was doing so and was embarrassed and angry by the realization. ‘Well, you shouldn’t be here really,’ she snapped, instantly regretting her tone. My God, she thought, I am behaving like a
fourteen
-year-old prefect. Well, not
herself
at fourteen, for she’d been remarkably backward at that age. But coming through the door, thinking about an interpretation of a low German dialect, she had been confronted by a man in uniform. When the officer had turned round, he was as handsome as any hero had been in her innocent adolescent dreams of a few years ago, with dark hair and blue eyes, lean and muscular.

But what had made her so breathless, so shaken, was his undisguised interest in her.

As usual, she had hidden her shyness by being
aggressive
.

He nodded at her books. ‘Sorry, I’ll leave you to it.’

To her astonishment she set the books down,
instinctively
pulled her cardigan protectively around her, and said: ‘There is no need.’ She waved a hand at a bookcase in
the corner by the door she had just come through. ‘There are some first editions of note in there. I can unlock it and show you them – if you’re interested, that is?’

Bill grinned, and with that grin the warmth just flowed through her.

‘I would like that very much.’

She walked to the cabinet on legs that seemed somehow to have lost their strength. Conscious of his eyes on her back she had difficulty with the lock – her hands seemed inordinately clumsy.

She looked up – saw his reflection. Their eyes met. At that moment the lock clicked and she drew the door open, half-turning to indicate one of the shelves.

‘There we are. There are some American ones there – you are American, aren’t you?’

He grinned mischievously and came closer.

‘You guessed right – pretty obvious, uh?’

She flapped a hand which then fluttered nervously at her throat.

‘The uniform – and the voice….’

‘Ah, the accent.’

He stood beside her, scanning the shelves. He was tall, and his uniform with its dark tunic and pale creamy-pink close-fitting trousers, fitted his lean figure like a glove – so different from the British lads in their coarse cloth and
ill-fitting
battledress blouses.

His hand paused over a book.

‘May I?’

She nodded. ‘Of course.’

He took one down, slowly turned the pages, and
murmured appreciatively.

‘I’ll be damned, Samuel Taylor Coleridge.’

He flipped the pages, then read aloud in a rich
melodious
voice that made her spine tingle.

He stopped abruptly, feeling a shiver run down his own spine.

The North Sea was always sunless.

He looked up, closed the book and held it out to her.

‘Like being back at school.’

She replaced it on the shelf and closed the cabinet. When she turned there was an air of expectancy.

Bill cleared his throat nervously.

‘How very rude of me – I haven’t introduced myself.’ He held out his hand. ‘I’m Lieutenant Bill Anderson.’

She took the hand. It was firm, even bony. ‘Doctor Rice.’

Her eyes were just about level with the small wings on his breast.

‘You are in the Air Force?’

Bill shrugged. ‘Yes, I guess it shows. And you, what branch of medicine are you in?’

Flustered she waved a hand around. ‘No – no. I’m a doctor of philosophy with the temporary wartime status of a research fellow. My degrees are from London.’

He pulled a face.