Bluebirds (25 page)

‘Winnie, give me the chance to tell you how sorry I am. I never meant you any harm . . .'

He had tried to go on, pleading with her, but she'd walked away quickly and taken refuge with Anne and Pearl. Pearl had put an arm round her shoulders.

‘Bothering you again, is he, ducky? Some men never learn. Must be barmy about you.'

Winnie closed her eyes. If she didn't stop thinking about it she'd never get to sleep, and she was dog-tired. She had to be up early in the morning. There was a lot to do.

She was up long before dawn. There had been no more snow overnight but carrying the lamp across the yard, she could see the glittering rime of a hard frost. Buttercup's flank was warm against her cheek as she squirted the stream of milk from the cow's udder rhythmically into the pail. She was a good milker and fast and her father grunted a kind of approval when she finished early and went to help him feed and water the other animals.

After breakfast, when it was light, she worked on the Fordson in its lean-to shed. The bucket of radiator water standing beside the tractor had frozen too hard to be broken with a hammer so she fetched some more from the well. Then she pulled the old sacking off the engine
and took a look. Dad sometimes switched the tap the wrong way and tried to start on TVO instead of petrol, so maybe that had been the trouble. She unscrewed the little tap on the carburettor to make sure it was properly drained and turned the tap to petrol. Then she went round to the front and swung the starting handle hard. Dead as a doornail, like Dad had said.

She checked the magneto next, taking off the cap and wiping it out with a piece of cloth, and then she rubbed carefully between the points with a bit of sandpaper. When that was done she unscrewed the front spark plug and dripped some petrol down the hole like Mr Stannard at the next door farm had once shown her. She screwed the plug back and cranked the starting handle again. Still nothing. This time she took out all four plugs and put them in an old tin with a splash of petrol and set a lighted match to them. There was a little woomph as the petrol ignited and then died. Another of Mr Stannard's tricks to make them warm and dry. She screwed them back again and tried the starting handle once more. At the third go the tractor's engine sparked and burst into life.

She was pouring the water into the radiator when her father appeared in the lean-to entrance, his face ruddy beneath his brown trilby, his boots and leggings caked with snow. He shouted above the noisy throb of the engine.

‘Got her goin', then? Must've bin somethin' cured hisself.'

As she went about the house later, doing more chores, Gran watched her from her chair, puffing on her cigarette. Her upper lip, bristly as Susie's back, was yellow-brown from all the tobacco she'd smoked and her face grimy with soot from sitting close and so long by the range. Her pattens still hung on the big iron nail by the back door but it was years since she'd walked further outdoors than down the path to the privy. When she was a girl, though, she'd told Winnie once, she always wore her pattens out into the yard and everywhere. All the countrywomen had
worn them in those days, clopping along the lanes like they'd been shod.

‘What's up wi' yew, then, Winifred Briggs?'

‘Nothing, Gran.'

‘Fiddlesticks! Yew met some feller?'

‘No, Gran.'

‘Huh! Pity! Hoped yew'd find someone other'n that tibby o' yours. Still, there's plenty o' time. Keep lookin'.'

‘I don't want to find anyone else, Gran.'

The old woman snorted.

Ken came to tea. He shuffled into the house in his awkward way and stood twisting his cap round and round in his hands and giving her his shy smile. Gran was at her worst, making her sharp remarks and sucking at her tea loudly. After the meal he helped her take the dishes through to the sink in the scullery and carried the kettle of hot water for her. She tipped some cold water from the pail into the basin and began rinsing the crockery.

‘Weather's been bad,' Ken said, drying a plate slowly.

‘It's been bad in the south, too, ever since the New Year. Bad everywhere, so they say. Dad says there's six inches of ice on the pond, at least. He has to keep breakin' it for the animals.'

‘Must be a bother.'

‘Well, you know how he grumbles . . . I don't know what he'd do without somethin' to moan about. That's a nasty cough you've got there, Ken.'

He looked paler and thinner than she remembered, and he kept on with that coughing every so often.

‘I've had a bit of a cold, that's all. Don't seem to go away, though.' He picked up another plate. ‘I didn't tell you, Winn, but I tried to join the RAF. I didn't tell Mother, either. I just went to the place in Ipswich one day when it was early-closin', quiet like.'

‘What did they say?'

‘Same as Mother's always said. They won't have me with my asthma. And somethin's wrong with my feet,
too. I tried the Army as well, and the Navy, but it's no good – none of them will. I feel such a useless, good-for-nothin'.'

She touched his arm. ‘Oh, Ken, what a shame! But there'll be somethin' you can do. I know there will. Somethin' will turn up for you.'

‘I hope you're right.' He put down the plate and picked up a cup and began to dry it carefully. ‘You said in your letters Winn, that you're still workin' in that Orderly Room place . . .'

‘That's right.'

‘So, they're not goin' to let you do any work with the aeroplanes, like you hoped?'

‘Well, not yet, anyhow.'

‘So, what you're doin' – with the forms and all that – it's not so important?'

She saw the way his thoughts were moving. ‘Well, it
is
really, Ken. It has to be done so's the station can run properly. All the right forms have to be filled in for all sorts of things, like I told you.'

‘Yes, but anyone could do that. It doesn't have to be you. And it's not what you wanted to go and do, is it? Not what you went and joined the Air Force for?'

‘No, but our officer says they'll be lettin' us train for all sorts of trades before long. There's lots more WAAFS now.'

‘But I don't think they'll ever let you work with the 'planes, Winnie, really I don't.' He coughed again. ‘I've been talkin' to Mother. She says she's quite willin' to have you come and live over the shop, if that's what we want. She won't stand in our way. She says another pair of hands might be useful, now she's gettin' on a bit. We could get married soon as the banns are read. If you're not doin' anythin' all that important in the Air Force – well, not what you wanted, anyway – there's not much sense you stayin' on, is there?'

‘But I couldn't just leave like that, Ken. For no reason.'

‘Gettin' married'd be a reason. Joe Girling was home on leave and he told me the army girls can leave easy if they get married.'

‘I wouldn't want to, though, Ken. Don't you see? I want to do more than just help in a shop.'

‘That's all I'm doin',' he said quietly. ‘Isn't it?'

She turned to him unhappily, aware how she was hurting him. ‘I'm sorry, I didn't mean it like that. Really I didn't. You do much more than just help. Your mother couldn't manage without you, the way you do all the post office counter and everythin'.'

‘You could do all that too. Learn to.'

She said stubbornly: ‘It wouldn't work, Ken. Even if your mother'd let me, and I'm not sure she would, I wouldn't want to leave the Air Force just for that. Please don't ask me to give it up – not just yet. As soon as the war's over I'll come back and we'll spend the rest of our lives here together.'

‘The war could go on for years, Winnie,' he said sadly.

Later, when he left, she put on her coat and walked outside a little way with him. The moon had risen over the farmhouse and the snow sparkled frostily and crunched beneath their feet. It was very cold and very clear. They could hear a dog fox barking a long way off in Dersham Wood and the distant, rumbling drone of an aircraft.

‘Bomber,' Ken said. ‘They've built a new RAF aerodrome up at Riddlesden. Great big place with concrete runways. There's lots of bombers there.'

‘I know. Dad told me. There was one came over low this morning. I don't know what kind it was. We only have fighters at Colston. The bombers couldn't land on the grass there.'

She had watched the big aeroplane lumber over the farm, its two engines roaring louder than any fighter. There had been a gun turret at the nose and one at the tail, and she'd seen the guns poking out. She had thought it looked rather a clumsy thing with its blunt
nose and high tail fins at the back, but the RAF roundels painted on it had given her a glow of pride – a warm little rush of excitement inside her as though in some way it belonged to her, or she to it. She had waved as it swept over her head. The chickens had scattered about the stackyard, the Suffolks had plunged up and down in the stables and the ewes had barged about, terrified. Her father, far from waving, had shaken his fist angrily at the bomber and sworn he'd be losing all the lambs.

‘They say they're bombin' the German battleships,' Ken said. ‘I heard it in the shop.'

They listened to the throbbing of the engines fading away into the night. After a moment Winnie spoke again.

‘I couldn't leave the Air Force, Ken. I want to be a part of it all.'

‘I know, Winn,' he said heavily. ‘I understand.'

He coughed again and she tucked his muffler more closely round his throat.

‘We'd better not stand out here any longer, Ken. It's too cold and it'll be bad for your cough. You'd better go.'

‘I s'pose I had. Well, good night, Winnie.'

He bent to kiss her cheek quickly, as he always did. Taffy's scornful remark came, unbidden, into her mind.
What does that precious Ken of yours do then? Hold your hand at the pictures and then give you a good night peck on the cheek?

‘Winn, there isn't anyone else, is there? Somebody else you've met?'

‘No, Ken, there's no-one else. No-one at all.'

He gave a sigh of relief. ‘That's all right, then. I just wondered . . .'

‘There's no need to worry.'

‘You'll still marry me, then?'

‘Of course I will. I promise.'

He trudged away through the snow, his cap pulled down and his head bent against the wind. He was coughing again as he went down the lane.

Felicity reached home just before dark. She had driven her Ford from Sussex to Norfolk and the roads had been treacherous all the way. The car had skidded and slid about on the ice and snow and it had been a frightening experience. The only thing to be said for the appalling weather, she thought, as she negotiated yet another icy patch, was that it was apparently even worse on the Continent, in which case the Germans would be equally inconvenienced.

George sat patiently in the passenger seat beside her, seeming to enjoy the ride. Speedy had spoken the truth when he had promised her that the bull terrier would be no trouble to look after. George had assumed the part of her protector and spent his days beside her desk, on guard. If he was suspicious of any visitor he took up his bandy-legged stance in front of the door, blocking the exit, until she called him off. He had never bitten anyone, or even tried to, but his fierce expression was enough. It amused her that he invariably did this whenever Sergeant Beaty entered her office, whereas Robbie Robinson could come and go with impunity.

It seemed a long time since Speedy had handed George over into her reluctant keeping. He had appeared in her office, tugging George by his lead, and had flung one arm wide dramatically.

‘Fair stood the wind for France when we our sails advance, nor now to prove our chance longer will tarry . . .' He let his arm drop. ‘I think that's right. They were off to bash the Frogs at Agincourt, if I remember correctly.'

‘Speedy, you're not going?'

‘This very day. God for Harry, and all the rest of it. So, I've brought old George for you. You promised to look after him, remember?'

‘Did I?'

‘Unquestionably. You wouldn't want him to have to go into kennels, would you . . . be put behind bars? You'd hate that, wouldn't you, George? Look how his tail's
drooping at the very thought! You can't let him down. I told you, he'll be no trouble. He'll be good as gold.'

The bull terrier had wagged his tail uncertainly and given a little whine.

Felicity had sighed. ‘Oh, all right. I'll take care of him for you.'

‘Good show! I knew we could count on you. I told you so, George, old chap, didn't I? Said it would be all right. You stand guard while I'm away. Bite anyone's ankles who's a nuisance to the kind lady.'

He had leaned across her desk and kissed her lightly on the mouth. His moustache had tickled.

‘Goodbye, Assistant Section Officer Newman.'

‘Goodbye, Flying Officer Dutton. And good luck.'

‘Thanks.' He had smiled into her eyes, his own shining bright. Then he had bent to pat George. ‘Be good, old fellow. Look after your new mistress and do everything she tells you.'

He had blown her another kiss from the doorway, winked, and then he was gone. Beside her, George had given a desolate whine.

The Rectory was shrouded in white and the laurels lining the driveway bowed down under the weight of the snow. The car slithered to a stop somewhere near the front door and Felicity went inside the house, George padding at her heels. The stone-flagged hall was glacially cold, the house in semi-darkness. The grandfather clock ticked loudly in the silence.

She found her father in his study, seated at his desk by the window and working on his sermon in the failing light. When her mother had been alive this room had always been untidy, but now it was chaotic – the worst she had ever seen it. Books and papers were piled high or strewn about on every available surface – shelves, tables, benches, chairs, the old leather chesterfield with the broken springs. They were even under these things, creeping in a slowly advancing tide across the carpet. And since Mrs Salter, from the village, was not allowed
to touch anything in the room, the dust lay over it all, in a thick, grey film.