Blackbirds (16 page)

“What kind of rot is that?” the officer said.

Sharon stood up with her feet shoulder-width apart.

William pointed at her Spitfire. “She just landed. Shot down four bombers and, if I'm not mistaken, that's blood on the belly of the Spit. The fifth one was a 109 pilot who bailed out and hit her propeller.”

“You mean to tell me that girl just shot down five of the bastards?” The officer shook his head in disbelief.

Sharon looked to her right and saw the brown paper wrapping on the soccer ball. She walked over and picked it up.

“Where are you going?” the officer asked.

She looked at William. “To a birthday party in Leaves Green.”

“Haven't you heard? One of the Jerry bombers crashed into the village. Who knows what you'll find. It's a bloody shambles there, too.” The officer pointed to the north to emphasize his point.

“Right over there.”
The fire warden wore a helmet, a faded, khaki-coloured World War I army uniform, and a grey moustache. He pointed to half of a row of four houses. The furthest half of the two-storey, side-by-side homes stood straight and white in the sun. The nearest half was rubble. The twin-finned aft section of a Dornier bomber lay to one side in the back garden. Its swastikas were still visible on the fins.

“Which home was Patrick O'Malley's?” Sharon asked.

The fire warden lifted his helmet. “The one on this end what got hit by the bastards.” He walked away.

Sharon looked at the pile of wood, brick, and shattered glass. The front door of the nearest home hung open like a drunken guest leaning on the doorstep.

A woman stepped out of the bakery with a bag. She was wearing a flowered dress and her grey hair was tied back. She saw Sharon and walked over. “How are you, love?”

Sharon looked at the soccer ball tucked under her arm. “Late for a birthday party.” She tried to smile.

“That was the only lucky thing about what happened. The plane crashed about an hour before Sean's party was to start. All the children 'round here were invited.” The woman shifted her bag to the other arm.

“Has anyone seen Sean?”

“His mother, Hazel, was just outside the front door when the bomber crashed. She was thrown out into the street. They took her body away. Sean was inside. I don't know how Patrick will take the news.”

“He's dead.”

The woman put her free hand to her chest just below her throat. “The whole family is gone, then?”

Sharon looked at the woman. “What's your name?”

“Margaret.”

“Was Sean's body found?”

“What's your name, then?”

“Sharon.” She looked down at her flight suit and realized for the first time how out of place she must appear.

“Patrick's Sharon?”

“That's right.”

“Sean was so looking forward to meeting you. He talked of nothing else this past week.”

Sharon handed the soccer ball to Margaret. “Will you hang onto this for me?”

Margaret took the ball. “What are you going to do?”

“I think my father would like to be buried with his son and his wife.” Sharon walked closer to the rubble. She turned to Margaret. “Where was the kitchen?”

Margaret moved closer, put the packages down on the sidewalk, and walked past Sharon. “This way.”

Sharon followed.

“Why the kitchen?”

“If there was a cake, and Hazel went outside, well, he probably went for a taste of the icing. I know that's what I would have done.”

Margaret lifted her skirt to her knees and stepped over a pile of debris. “Right about there, I should think.” She pointed.

“Thank you.” Sharon unzipped the top of her flight suit, pulled her arms out, and tied the flight suit arms around her waist. Then she loosened her tie and pulled it off. Sticking it in a pocket, she said, “No time like the present.”

Sharon bent and took a brick in each hand, tossing them into what had once been a back garden. One of the bricks bounced and banged up against the Dornier's fuselage. It made a satisfying thunk.

“Fucking Nazis!” She picked up a brick, aimed at the swastika on the tail, and fired. The brick flew overtop of the tail. “Goddamned cancer!” She picked up another brick and threw it. It missed to the right and swished though a bush. “Shitty war!” Sharon picked up a third brick.

“Does it help?”

Sharon turned.

“Nigel Brown.” He held out his right hand. His left was tucked in the pocket of his grey work pants. His tan work shirt was rolled up at the sleeves. He was over six feet tall. He had a five o'clock shadow and a round face.

Sharon stepped down off the pile and felt the calluses on his hand as she shook it. “Sharon Lacey.”

Nigel looked at the wreckage and kicked at a brick with his work-boot. He rubbed a hand over his bristles. “You were saying?”

Sharon shrugged. “Nothing useful.”

“You're a pilot, I see,” Nigel said.

“Yes.”
What does he want?

“Patrick told me you were coming today. Your father and I were neighbours.” Nigel surveyed the wreckage.

“Where's your house?” Sharon looked over to the houses still standing.

“Next-door neighbours.”

“Oh.” Sharon looked at the rubble. “Did you live alone?”

“Margaret's my wife. She wasn't home at the time. I was at work.” Nigel shook his head. “Fucking war.”

“Yes.” Sharon turned, bent at the waist, and picked up a piece of wood. She tossed it into the backyard. It made a clunk as it hit the swastika on the tail of the Dornier. “Fuckers!”

Nigel moved to her right and grunted as he picked up a section of roof. “Give us a hand.”

Sharon grabbed the opposite corner, and they dragged the weight into the backyard.

“Margaret says you think Sean was in the kitchen.” Nigel wiped his hands across the front of his pants.

Sharon nodded. “It was his birthday. When I was eleven, if my mother went outside, I'd be in the kitchen getting a taste of cake.” She closed her eyes with a memory of her mother handing her a bowl with the remains of the icing. She licked her lips and smiled.

Nigel chuckled. “If memory serves, that would be my objective as well.”

Sharon felt sweat trickling down her back as she bent to pick up more debris. “Why are you here?”

“Margaret and I have no children of our own. Sean and I were friends. When he wanted to chat, he would often come over to our home.”

Sharon hefted a clump of four bricks still held together with mortar. She heaved the load, then looked over her shoulder to see it whiz past Nigel. “Sorry.”

“Why are you here?” Nigel asked.

“Sean's birthday!” She bent back to grab another brick.
Don't be
angry with him. He's trying to help
.

“No, why are you in England? You sound American.”

“Canadian. My mother died. I came to meet my father and my mother's family. So far, it hasn't worked out very well.” Sharon threw more bricks on the pile in the backyard.
At this rate, we might find
Sean in a week
. She stretched her back and looked at the sky, where vapour trails etched the course of another air battle. Every so often, she could hear the chatter of machine guns.

An hour later, she stood and closed her eyes as a swell of dizziness washed over her.

“Margaret has organized some tea for us.” Nigel put his hand on her shoulder.

Sharon nodded and went to sit on the curb next to the front step — all that remained of her father's house. She saw a puddle of dried blood in the middle of the road.
Must be Hazel's
. This was followed by a flashback of blood pooling under the nose of her Spitfire. And next to that, on the concrete, her father's blood.

She looked up and saw that a dozen people now worked on the rubble. “I didn't realize so many people came to help.”

“What's that?” Margaret carried a basket and was followed by two other women. “My sisters, Maxine and Geraldine.”

Sharon nodded at the pair of women, who smiled at her. They both wore dresses. “Thank you.”

“Where's Paddy O'Malley? Down at the pub while all of you do the digging?” The voice came from behind the sisters.

Sharon turned in the direction of the voice.

A man and a woman stood arm in arm. He wore a new green army uniform and she a blue dress. “Is he stuck in a bog somewhere?”

Sharon stood.

Margaret set down her basket and stood next to Sharon. “He's dead. Killed during today's raid on Biggin Hill.”

The woman in the blue dress pulled at the soldier's arm, but he stood his ground. “Won't get any sympathy from me. Bloody
RAF
left us at the mercy of the Luftwaffe at Dunkirk!”

Maxine took Sharon's hand. “Every town has one. Goes to the pub in the afternoon and in the evening comes out looking for a fight. Sit down and have summat to eat.”

“Time for tea.” Geraldine lifted a red-checked tablecloth out of the basket.

Maxine and Margaret spread the cloth on the sidewalk and set out plates of sandwiches.

The soldier said, “Leave the Irish bastard to rot!”

Rage blossomed in Sharon.
Leave it alone
.

“The bastards were cannon fodder in the last war. Let the Irish do the same in this one!” The soldier made a fist and shook it at the women.

Sharon shook off Maxine's grip and covered half the distance to the soldier before anyone had time to react.

The soldier's girlfriend turned when she heard Sharon's approach. “Peter!”

The soldier turned. He stumbled back when he spotted Sharon.

“Asshole!” Sharon cocked her right arm and kicked with her left leg.

Her fist caught Peter on the nose. Her left foot caught him square in the belly. Peter hit the ground. She found herself sitting on his chest, her fists mechanically driving blows into Peter's face. “You son of a bitch!” She smelled the alcohol on him. It was fuel for her rage.

Someone grabbed her around the neck and shoulders and pulled her back. She kicked at the soldier and missed.

Nigel said, “That wanker's hardly worth it. But it was fun to watch. You're a tiger, Sharon. Patrick would be proud of you.” He dragged her back. “We don't have time or energy for this. Look at your hands. How are you going to get Sean out if you waste all of your anger and strength on the likes of Peter here?”

Sharon looked down at her fists. The knuckles were smeared with blood. She hung her head.

“Bitch broke my nose!” Peter stood up, supported by his girlfriend. “I'm gettin' the constable!” He pulled away from his girlfriend's hand and marched down the road. His ankle turned and he fell sideways into the gutter.

Margaret took Sharon by the elbow. “Come on, let's get you cleaned up.” They walked over to the bakery. The owner greeted them at the door.

“We need to get this one cleaned up,” Margaret said.

“Sink's at the back.” The baker pointed with a white finger. “Makin' a fresh batch of bread for you.”

“Thanks,” Sharon said.

They found the sink. Margaret turned on the taps. Sharon winced as the water hit her raw knuckles. “Ooh. Everyone is being so nice, and I get into a fight.”

“Actually, there's not much you can do wrong in this village.”

“What?” Sharon looked at Margaret.

“Word from Biggin Hill is you shot down five Huns today. Two more people from the village were killed at Biggin Hill today. Add those to Hazel and Sean, and we've got a funeral for sixteen tomorrow at the chapel. People around here are happy to hear that someone is hitting back against the Nazis.” Margaret looked for a towel.

“Still, beating up one of the local soldiers is hardly the best way of showing my gratitude.” Sharon shook the water off her hands and took the offered towel. “Thanks.”

“Peter was a bully as a child, and he's a bully of a man. He survived Dunkirk and can't understand why the town didn't welcome him as a hero. Sits down at the pub and expects everyone there will buy him drinks. Fact is, most of us still can't stomach him.” Margaret crossed her arms. “Now, let's get some food into you before you fall over.”

Sharon ate two sandwiches and, when she found there was coffee, drank three cups.

Maxine handed her another sandwich. “Try my cucumbers. Grew them in the back garden. A very good crop, if I do say so.”

“Thanks.” Sharon unwrapped the waxed paper and took a bite. There was a sweet taste of ripe vegetable mixed with salt, encased in fresh bread. “Very good.” She swallowed and took another bite.

“When did you eat last?” Maxine tucked her hands between her knees into the folds of her blue dress.

Sharon covered her mouth. “This morning.”

“It's nearly eight o'clock,” Maxine said.

Sharon looked at the wrecked building and aircraft. “A lot has happened since this morning.”