Blackbirds (11 page)

Sharon leaned in an open window. The car smelled of oil and leather.

Honeysuckle was in the back seat. She wiped her mouth. “There you are!”

Sharon stepped back.

Honeysuckle opened the door, stood up, and hugged Sharon close. “You darling!”

Sharon looked at Michael and asked, “What did I do?”

“You made sure that Linda was flown to the hospital.” Michael set the picnic basket on the grass.

“The surgeon thinks he'll be able to save her legs because of you.” Honeysuckle wiped at her eyes. “If you hadn't done that, she might have died from shock or infection. They use salt baths to treat burns at East Grinstead and have a very high survival rate for burn patients.” Honeysuckle pulled out a handkerchief and gave her face a working over.

“Should we eat?” Michael asked.

Both women glared at him.

Honeysuckle said, “Men think only of their stomachs.”

“It was just a question!” He picked up the basket and headed for the shade under the wing of the Lysander.

Honeysuckle took Sharon by the elbow, and they followed Michael. “I hope you don't mind. I made Harry set this up. They needed aircraft delivered here. It's a new airfield. All very secretive, you know. I simply wanted to thank you face to face.”

Sharon shrugged. “I just did what needed to be done.”

“That's exactly why we're here.” Michael set the basket down in the shade.

Honeysuckle released Sharon and pulled the red-and-white checked cloth off the top of the basket. “What have we here?”

“You packed it, Mother,” Michael said.

“Where's your sense of humour? You've become so serious since you returned from France.” Honeysuckle pulled out sandwiches wrapped in waxed paper. She handed the first to Sharon. “It's real ham, not that disgusting stuff from a can.”

Sharon sat down next to Honeysuckle. For a moment, Sharon imagined she caught the scent of her mother. She closed her eyes, trying to hold onto a rich memory of Leslie's hand on hers. It was gone. She opened the waxed paper and inhaled the scent of fresh-baked bread, butter, mustard, and ham. Sharon longed for home as she bit into the sandwich.

Michael sat down next to her. His arm brushed against hers.

Sharon felt a tingling in her belly.

Michael reached across and took the Thermos.

Sharon felt heat on her face.

He poured a cup of coffee and handed it to her.

“Thanks.” Sharon held the sandwich in one hand and the coffee in the other.

Honeysuckle looked over as the workmen started up some of the machinery. “What are they doing?”

Michael ignored his mother's question and turned to Sharon. “So, being from Canada may mean that you speak French.”

“Don't you dare change the subject, Michael, and don't even think about recruiting Sharon for your bloody nighttime flights into France! It's dangerous enough being in England!” Honeysuckle pointed a finger at her son, then turned to Sharon. “Linda told me about your close shave with those Messerschmitts.”

I hope she didn't tell you all of it.

Michael frowned at Honeysuckle.

“I was just making conversation, Mother.” Michael handed her a cup of coffee.

“You forget, I know how you and your father work. There will be no recruiting of Sharon. Is that understood? We will not repay her kindness to Linda by putting her in more danger.”

Michael went to reply.

Honeysuckle held up her hand to stop him.

Michael took a bite of sandwich instead.

What is going on here?
Sharon thought.

“Michael and his father are beginning the organizing and supplying of resistance forces inside occupied France.” Honeysuckle looked at Michael, as if daring him to tell her to be quiet. “They need pilots to fly our people in and out of the continent. If you spoke French, he would then try to recruit you. He may, in fact, be trying to recruit you anyway. You have quite a reputation in the
RAF
. The Royal Air Force is such a closed little community, you know.” She looked at Sharon. “Yes, I said
RAF
, not
ATA
. You see, I have many sources of information, just like my husband.”

Damn it, Linda
,
your devotion to revealing secrets can be so annoying
.

“And no, Linda did not tell me about the way you broke up that Nazi bomber formation,” Honeysuckle said.

“Mother, all of this is supposed to a secret! By rights, I should have you arrested.” Michael smiled at Sharon.

Honeysuckle waved her sandwich at him dismissively. “Sharon's one Canadian who is not going to be used as cannon fodder to protect the Empire! Now, we need to talk about your Uncle Marmaduke.”

“My uncle?” Sharon asked.

“Yes, your uncle. He's certainly no relation to me, although he has tried to have relations,” Honeysuckle said.

“Mother!” Michael shook his head. “What's come over you?”

“Well, he has a way of making his presence known to all of the young women who live near the Lacey Estate. And he thinks that you” — Honeysuckle pointed at Sharon — “have come to England with the sole intention of laying claim to your mother's property.”

“What?” Sharon asked.
What kind of mess am I in now?

“Marmaduke treats his servants as if they don't exist. So when he talks with his wife or his mother, he often talks in front of the people under his mother's employ. And they talk with me.” Honeysuckle looked at her son as though expecting him to contradict her.

“That's not why I came to England,” Sharon said.

“Yes, we know that, but your uncle is a man who thinks that everyone else in the world was meant to provide for people like him. He believes that rules are meant for others to follow, and that he has the right to live his life the way he does because of who he is. Most of all, he is not a man to be taken lightly. It would be better if you were careful in your dealings with him. And it could be a disaster if you were unaware of his motivations.” Honeysuckle reached for her coffee.

“It's true, Marmaduke has become comfortable in his role as a member of the privileged class,” Michael said. “And he has been known to take certain liberties. At the same time, certain events from the Lacey family's past mean that he must navigate some very treacherous territory.”

“We both know that,” Honeysuckle said.

Sharon waited.
What are they talking about? I'm inside the conversation,
but outside of their understanding.

“His desire to conceal certain embarrassing family secrets could become useful,” Michael said.

“This is such a dirty business,” Sharon said.
My uncle comes close
to raping me, and all we can do is politely dance around it by saying
things like “embarrassing family secrets
.”

Michael said, “We're at war. It's all about dirty secrets and dirty tricks.”

Enough of this!
Sharon finished her sandwich and rolled the waxed paper into a ball. Above her, a pair of blackbirds with orange bills dove, climbed, and turned. The pair swooped low over Sharon's head and disappeared behind a shrub. She stood up, finished the last of her coffee, and looked down at Honeysuckle. “Please tell me what my mother was like when she was young.”

“I've been hoping you would ask.” Honeysuckle stood and brushed off her dress. “Come on, Michael, you drive us to Bedford. Sharon and I have things to talk about.” She reached into the picnic basket and pulled out a packet of letters tied together with a while ribbon. “Your mother wrote these to me. Would you like them? I've been saving them for you.”

CHAPTER 9

Sharon put her uniform jacket
on the back of the chair at the cottage.
Will I ever see Linda back here, stuffing her face with fish and chips?

She turned back to the door and saw a letter leaning up against the baseboard. It had been pushed through the mail slot.

Sharon bent over, scooped the letter up, and read the return address. The name Patrick O'Malley was written in the top corner. She sat down and used her nails to peel back the envelope flap. Her thumb and forefinger picked out the letter and unfolded it. Possibilities ran through her mind, then she began to read.

DEAR SHARON,

I'VE BEEN WRITING THIS LETTER FOR A FORTNIGHT.

YOU HAVE A BROTHER. THERE, I'VE SAID IT. A HALF-BROTHER.
BUT THERE'S NOTHING HALFWAY ABOUT SEAN.

I'D LIKE YOU TWO TO MEET. PERHAPS YOU COULD GET A DELIVERY
TO BIGGIN HILL FOR AUGUST 18TH? IT'S HIS ELEVENTH BIRTHDAY, AND
I THINK IT WOULD BE A GOOD TIME FOR THE TWO OF YOU TO MEET.

YOUR FATHER,
PATRICK

Sharon read the letter again.
I have a brother
. She closed her eyes and savoured the euphoria.

CHAPTER 10

“I'll do what I can.”
Mother had dark circles under his grey eyes, and he leaned with one elbow on the counter at the White Waltham dispersal hut. He handed her the chit with her delivery. “It's another Lysander, same place as last time. Cloak and dagger stuff.” He winked.

“I wonder what he wants this time?” Sharon looked at the chit and its very specific directions.
How come I'm so nervous?

“You know, if it's possible, I will get you a Spitfire delivery on the 18th.”

Sharon smiled. “I know you will. It's just. . .”

“There's a bloody war on,” Mother said.

“Exactly. Mother? Do you know what an eleven-year-old boy would want for his birthday?”

“Now you've asked a difficult question. Give me a day or two to think. Best be on your way. More and more talk of Hitler's invasion fleet and Goering's Luftwaffe gathering itself for a big push.”

Sharon picked up her gear and her chit and made her way to the Anson waiting at the edge of the airfield. A handful of pilots stood leaning on the wings or smoking cigarettes a polite distance from the aircraft.

Thank God, the pilot isn't Jolly Roger the drunken sod
.
Christ! I'm
beginning to sound like I was born here.

The pilot was fiftyish and looked more like a farmer in his baggy grey flight suit. “Alright, you lot. Grab your kit. Lots of deliveries this morning. Can't let Herr bloody Hitler and his boys march right in and take over, now can we?”

“Being a bit optimistic again, Douglas?” One of the pilots was busy crushing a cigarette under his boot.

Douglas smiled and studied the passengers from under two thickets that passed for eyebrows. “Have we been invaded yet?”

The pilot heaved his parachute onto his shoulder. “Not so far.”

“Then we've got work to do.” Douglas squeezed himself inside the aircraft and the rest followed. He settled himself into the pilot's seat and looked at his clipboard. “Which one of you lot is Lacey?”

“Me.” Sharon raised her hand, then dropped it. The other pilots smirked at her unintentional impression of a schoolgirl.

“We're not in bloody school,” someone said.

“Asshole,” Sharon said.

“Another Yank who doesn't know her place,” someone else said.

“I'm not a Yank!” Sharon hated the way they'd managed to put her on the defensive.

“Save your fight for the Germans.” Douglas looked at Sharon. “Sit near the door — we're dropping you off first.”

She did as she was told. After they were in the air, she thought,
Douglas looks like a labourer, but he's a brilliant pilot.

Thirty minutes later, she was watching the Anson take off. She walked over to a hangar where a Lysander stood waiting.

A mechanic held his hand out, and she gave him the chit. He stuffed one hand in his pocket. The other held the chit at arm's length. He was shorter than Sharon, and she could see flakes of dandruff along the part of his black hair.

“Give us a hand,” he said as he turned toward the Lysander. These were the only words he spoke.