Bluebirds (16 page)

‘I really don't know, and I don't think we should discuss it.'

‘Now you're looking even
more
disapproving. Very well, let's talk about what you're doing in the Air Force instead. Amy's quite wrong about women in uniform, you know . . .'

Mr Cutler was sitting on Felicity's other side. He had scarcely said a word throughout the soup and fish course, but over the pheasant he began to talk morosely about his business which, she gathered, was something to do with tins. The war, he told her in glum tones, was bound to affect it.

‘There'll be a shortage of raw materials, you see. Shortage of everything, come to that. They'll have to ration it all in the end. I tell you, this war hasn't got started properly yet. Things are going to get a lot worse before we're through. I wish I could persuade Amy to take the children to Canada, but she won't. I keep telling her that it'd be a damn sight better being bored over there than living here under the Nazis, but she won't listen.'

‘Surely it won't come to us being invaded?'

‘I'm very much afraid that it will. The Huns have got to if they want to beat us.'

‘But the French –'

‘Oh, they'll let us down. The Germans will attack them first and they'll give up, you'll see. No stomach when it comes to a real fight. And once the Huns have taken over France they'll be all set to invade us.'

‘They'd have to cross the Channel.'

He gestured tiredly. ‘They've got a Navy, haven't they? Not to mention an Army and an Air Force – bigger and better than ours.'

She thought of Speedy's casual words.
Come the spring and they'll be ready for the off
 . . . Down the far end of the dinner table, Wing Commander Palmer was talking to the officer's wife seated next to him, his head bent towards her.
This is an operational fighter station in wartime and you and your recruits will be under my command.
If gloomy Mr Cutler was right then it might no longer be a question of the WAAFS taking the men's places to release them for active service. They would soon be in the front line themselves and RAF Colston would certainly come under attack from the enemy. How would they stand up to it? They were all young girls, born in peacetime, whose only experience of gunfire, like hers, had been to hear it safely in the distance in the station butts. Supposing some of them panicked? A girl like Potter, for instance, could easily have hysterics, or at least become a serious liability. Who could say how any of them would behave? She watched the Station Commander thoughtfully for a moment. For the first time she could appreciate some of his reservations – at least in that respect. In every other she was convinced that he was completely wrong. The WAAFS could, and would, cope with most trades just as well as the men. In the end he would have to eat his words.
Cooking, cleaning and clerical work
 . . . He'd soon have to change his tune. More recruits were due to arrive after Christmas, and there would be more after that. And more, and more . . . As she thought about this,
the Wing Commander turned his head in her direction and she looked quickly away.

After dinner, while the ladies sat in the drawing-room waiting for the men to finish their port, Lady Howard complained stridently about her servant problem. Her cook had given notice and gone to work in a munitions factory, their head gardener had joined the Army, the under gardener had just been called up, and one of the housemaids had insisted on going off to be a Land Girl.

‘Left us in the lurch to go and work for some farmer! I told Reginald, I don't know how we're going to manage. We shall just have to shut up both wings and let the garden run to seed.'

Felicity listened to her and to the sympathetic murmurings from some of the other women. All over England, she thought, there must be people who perceive the war only as an inconvenience to themselves. Lady Howard deplores the loss of her servants, Mr Cutler moans about a tin shortage while his wife grumbles that her fun is being spoiled and admits frankly that she doesn't care a fig about the fate of the Poles, nor, presumably, that of the Czechs, Finns, persecuted Jews, or for anyone else whose life and liberty is threatened and for whom we are supposed to be fighting. She doesn't understand, as any Pole or Czech could tell her, and even her husband has tried to, that it's not her entertainment that's at stake but her freedom and very existence.

She was glad when the men came into the room and put a stop to the conversation though this was short-lived when Wing Commander Palmer paused by her chair.

‘I hope you're enjoying the evening?'

‘Yes, thank you, sir.'

‘Good . . . good.' He cleared his throat. ‘One of the drawbacks of Service life can be having to be away from one's family at Christmas and so on . . . Does your family live far away?'

‘Norfolk, sir. At least my father lives there. My mother died some years ago.'

‘I'm sorry to hear that. Brothers or sisters?'

‘No, sir.'

He cleared his throat again. ‘I believe you were at Cambridge?'

‘Yes, sir.'

‘Beautiful place. Which college?'

‘Girton, sir.'

‘Bit out of town, isn't it?'

Mrs Palmer called from across the room. ‘David! Lady Howard has something to ask you . . .'

‘Excuse me.'

He left her side, to her great relief. The stilted, unnatural exchange had flustered her. She was even thankful to resume a conversation with Mr Cutler who was now talking pessimistically about the inadequacy of the Royal Air Force.

‘The German Luftwaffe's twice the size, did you know? I've been told that on good authority.
And
their pilots have had combat experience . . . Spain, Poland . . . those chaps already know a thing or two. Ours are still wet behind the ears. Haven't a clue most of them, I'll bet.'

At the end of the evening, she walked back to her quarters under a glittering, starry sky. It was very cold and felt and smelled as though it would soon snow. She had not enjoyed the dinner party in the least and it was good to be out of the house and in the clean air. It had tired and depressed her, and she still could not understand why she had been asked. Perhaps all Station Commanders considered it their duty to show some sort of bogus Christmas spirit. Mercifully she had only had to exchange a few words with Wing Commander Palmer, and even fewer with his wife. She walked quickly, not needing a torch to see her way, her high heels ringing against the paving. As she passed by the Sergeants' Mess she could hear someone playing ‘Hark The Herald Angels Sing' on the piano – strumming it out loudly. In a few days it would be Christmas; the first Christmas of the war.

While his WAAF officer was walking back beneath the stars, Wing Commander Palmer stood in front of the dying fire, finishing his brandy. To his annoyance, Charles Savage had lingered after the other guests and now Caroline was saying a prolonged good night to him at the door. He was very familiar with the situation and it had been a long time since he had cared. They had been married for eight years and for six of those she had been unfaithful with a variety of men. Savage had been only one in a long line.

He drank more brandy and stared into the embers. He had tried his hardest to make the marriage work, but he had failed. He blamed himself entirely for having been foolish enough to marry her in the first place. He was ten years her senior and it was he who had pursued her and not the other way round. He had fallen in love with her the moment he had seen her at a dinner party when he had been on leave in London years ago. She had sat opposite him and he had been almost unable to take his eyes off her throughout the whole meal. He supposed now that it must have been infatuation – the blind infatuation of a long-time bachelor, dazzled by a very beautiful woman. It was several years since he had felt any love for her and doubted that she had ever felt any for him. It remained a mystery to him why she had ever accepted his proposal unless perhaps she had been impressed by the uniform and the medals, and had somehow imagined Service life to be glamorous. He realized now what a disappointment he must have proved – how stuffy and dull he must quickly have seemed to her, and how boring and constricting her life as an RAF wife. He should have foreseen that it could never have made her happy.

Palmer drained his glass and helped himself to more brandy from the decanter on the side table. He sat down in an armchair and rubbed his hand over his eyes. He was very tired and the dinner party had been a strain. He had not felt in the least in a social mood and he had found the effort exhausting. Lady Howard had been particularly
tiresome, asking endless questions and complaining about noise from the aerodrome in the early mornings. He had done his best to be placatory. Squadron Leader Forrester's wife, new to the station and sitting on his other side, had, by contrast, been so withdrawn and shy that conversation with her had been equally hard work. On reflection, he thought that he should perhaps have taken the time to talk more to Assistant Section Officer Newman, but somehow the opportunity had not presented itself. She had been deep in conversation with that ass Savage or that fellow Cutler and when he had tried to have a word with her after dinner Lady Howard had intervened with yet more infuriating questions. Pity. He had asked the WAAF officer with the idea that it might help put their relationship on a better footing. Not that he had changed his mind about the folly of having women serving on the station, but because he had accepted that they were here to stay, whether he liked it or not. And he'd been pretty hard on ASO Newman, one way and another.

He heard Savage's flashy sports car start up outside with a low growl. Caroline had taken her time saying good night, as he had expected. He was fairly sure that Savage had been her lover at some point but it was no longer of any interest to him with whom she slept so long as she observed certain basic rules of behaviour and put in a reasonable number of official appearances as his wife. The hot and terrible jealousy and anger that he had first experienced had long since been replaced by a cold indifference. He had even managed to face the fact that her infidelity was common knowledge on the station. He had immersed himself in his work and career and kept up the outward pretence of a normal marriage, so far as it was possible. As he saw it, the only alternative was to divorce her and to him that was unthinkable.

The sports car revved noisily and he heard it drive away, the sound fading into the distance. Thank God Savage had gone! There was a bang as the front door shut and the sharp click of his wife's heels as she crossed the parquet
floor in the hall. She came into the drawing-room and he could tell at once that she was in a vile mood. She flung herself into the armchair opposite him.

‘Get me a drink, will you, David. A large one.'

He got up to pour her a brandy and handed her the glass. She took a swallow and closed her eyes.

‘God, what a boring evening! Those ghastly RAF and their dreary little wives . . . do we have to have people like that?'

‘You know we do.'

‘I don't see why. Surely you see enough of the men during the day and the wives have nothing to say for themselves. Christ, what a stuffed shirt that Squadron Leader Forrester is! And his wife hardly uttered all evening.'

‘She was very shy.'

‘Shy! She seemed positively moronic. Can I have a light please?'

He lit her cigarette for her and stayed standing by the mantelpiece. She looked up at him, blowing a thin stream of smoke.

‘I have to hand it to you, David . . . I didn't know you were such a dark horse.'

He frowned. ‘What do you mean exactly?'

‘That WAAF of yours – Newland, or whatever her name is – I thought we'd asked her in the line of duty too.'

‘We did.'

‘Oh, come off it! I saw you looking at her . . . are you screwing her?'

He kept his face expressionless. He had learned long ago not to react to any of her taunts.

‘Don't be absurd, Caroline.'

She laughed harshly. ‘You're a pompous prick, David, you know that? Always up on your high and mighty Station Commander's horse, ordering everyone about as though you were God Almighty! Don't tell me you wouldn't like to screw her even if you haven't already
done so. I could see it in your face. As a matter of fact I think it's terribly funny! Really rather amusing! You've been ranting on about what a bloody nuisance the WAAFS are going to be and all the time you've had your covetous eye on their officer.'

He said quietly, ‘That happens to be quite untrue, but you must think as you like.'

She had drunk nearly half the brandy already. ‘Personally I thought she was as dull as ditchwater, and that thing she was wearing was years out of date. Charles was quite taken by her, you know. Extraordinary! I wouldn't have thought she was his type at all. Actually, Charles has become a bit of a bore. I don't think I'll bother to ask him again.'

‘I'm thankful to hear it.'

‘You're not jealous, by any chance?'

‘No, I'm not jealous. I just don't happen to like him.'

‘You don't like anyone who's amusing. All you like is your stodgy RAF types . . . preferably ones you can boss around. You can't give Charles orders. He doesn't have to kow-tow and say yes, sir, no, sir, three bagsful, sir, so you don't like him. Give me some more brandy, please.'

‘Haven't you had enough?'

‘Oh, don't be so bloody dreary! I'm not one of your junior officers. Just give it to me.'

He took her glass and poured more from the decanter. She spoke to his back.

‘You should have married someone like your WAAF, David. She'd have made you a good little RAF wife. She'd have polished all your bloody medals and done everything you told her. She'd probably have saluted you after you'd poked her. Mind you, you're old enough to be her father, aren't you? You must seem like Methuselah to her. Still, I suppose it's sort of
droit de seigneur
, isn't it? I mean you can't refuse your commanding officer. Mustn't disobey him. All you need do is give the order and she'll jump into bed. I wonder what she really
thinks of you. She must think you're the most frightful old bore.'