Bluebirds (32 page)

‘I can't believe it – how
could
he do such a thing!'

‘Well, fortunately, there was this retired admiral in the same compartment. “You'll do nothing of the kind, my man,” he says to the guard. “This gallant boy is trying to return to his unit and you should be giving him every assistance.” Plain sailing after that. All tickety-boo. When we got to Charing Cross I took the tube out to Elm Park and finally staggered into the Mess, all footsore and weary. There they were – Whitters and the rest of them, lounging about, feet up – and there's me standing there with water running off me, sand in my shoes and seaweed round my neck. And do you know what old Whitters says to me?'

‘Something nice, I hope.'

‘He says: “Bad luck, old man. You've just missed dinner.”'

Felicity burst out laughing. ‘I never know whether to believe you or not.'

Speedy pretended to be offended. ‘Would I ever lie to you?'

‘Probably. But you haven't told me how you hurt your forehead.'

‘Ah, thereby hangs another tale. If you're very good and sit still, Titania, I'll tell you. The other day I was screaming along after this 109 . . .'

From where he was sitting, David Palmer could see the two of them talking together and he watched Button's hands weaving extravagant patterns in the air, obviously shooting a tremendous line. Section Officer Newman appeared to be falling for every word of it. He drank his whisky and soda reflectively.

Beside him Robbie Robinson said: ‘Dutton seems to be living up to his reputation all right.' He sounded amused.

Palmer shifted sideways in his chair, away from the sight of Section Officer Newman laughing at something Dutton had just said.

‘I thought Section Officer Newman had more sense.'

‘Oh, I think she's got plenty of that. I've never doubted it for a moment.'

‘Hum.' Palmer raised his glass again. ‘He must be about as hard to shake off as that damned dog of his.'

The squadron leader puffed comfortably at his pipe. ‘I imagine Felicity is rather fond of the two of them, but she seems to have them both pretty well under control, from what I've seen.'

‘Mmm.' Palmer groped for a cigarette and lit it. ‘I still can't get used to having these women here, you know, Robbie. It still goes against the grain with me. I suppose I'm getting too old a leopard to change my spots.'

‘Hardly, sir. It's understandable. It's been an added burden for you, having them here – an unknown factor, as it were. But so far I think one can say that it's working out rather well, don't you agree? They're definitely pulling their weight.'

‘They seem to do their work well enough, I grant you. I'm not really grumbling so far as that goes. What does concern me, and always has done from the very beginning, is how they'll measure up if this station comes under enemy attack.
When
it does, I should say. It's a virtual certainty now . . . sooner or later. If they panic and have hysterics we're going to be in serious trouble.'

‘I don't believe they will, sir.'

‘So you told me before. I only hope you're right.'

Dutton and Section Officer Newman were going. He watched as they left the room together and saw the way she turned to smile at him and the way he touched her arm. He thought of the one occasion when he had invited her to a drink in the Mess. Ordered her, might be a better word. It had been soon after he had conceded defeat and allowed WAAF officers into here. He had escorted her over himself and they had entered the ante-room to
startled looks and whispered comments. She had asked for a dry sherry and refused the cigarette he had offered her. The conversation had gone stickily, he remembered. He had asked her what part of Norfolk she came from and they had talked about that briefly. She had mentioned that her father was the rector of the parish. Her mother, he knew, was dead.

He had said: ‘I'm afraid I've never been to Norfolk. One day I really must try and visit all the places I've never been to in England. I seem to have spent most of my service life in the south, or in France.'

‘Have you been in the RAF long, sir?'

‘Twenty years.'

It must have seemed like a lifetime to her. In fact, it
was
her lifetime – almost. He preferred not to dwell on that thought.

She had sat upright in the chair, holding her glass stiffly in front of her. He could not recall her smiling, let alone laughing.

She had asked politely: ‘Do you miss the flying at all, sir?'

‘Very much. As a matter of fact, I still manage to get up now and again – tag along with the chaps and make a nuisance of myself.'

‘I'm sure you're not that, sir.'

More careful politeness. Rigid deference to her commanding officer. He knew he had only himself to blame for the fact that she could not relax in his company. He had tried his best to be jovial, to put her at her ease.

‘Flying a modern fighter is a young man's job, unfortunately. In my day, of course, we had bi-planes – Camels, Pups, that sort of thing. Much slower than the machines these young men are flying today.'

Young men like Speedy Dutton.

She had gone on being very polite. ‘But still needing a lot of skill, surely, sir?'

‘I wouldn't say that. The old crates more or less flew themselves. Have you ever been up at all?'

‘No, sir.'

He had said heartily: ‘We'll have to see what we can do about that.'

He had thought of taking her up himself, but so far there had been neither the time nor the chance.

His thoughts switched to Caroline and the last time he had seen her. She had been packing to leave the station, like all the other civilian wives. He had watched as she tossed clothes into the open suitcase on the bed.

‘Is it really necessary for you to go back to London, Caroline? It would be perfectly possible to find somewhere reasonably near the station for you to be.'

She had slammed a drawer shut and moved to the wardrobe. ‘Don't be ridiculous, David. I've no intention of mouldering away in some damp little cottage miles from anywhere. At least there was
some
sort of life here. Frankly, I think the RAF have a bloody cheek tipping us out.'

‘It's a question of your safety, you know that. All aerodromes in the south are prime targets now for the enemy. It would be irresponsible folly to allow women civilians to remain on them.'

She had dragged a green wool costume out and was wrenching it off its hanger.

‘What about your WAAFS? Don't they count as women?'

‘They're service women, not civilians. Part of the Air Force. They have work to do here.'

She had looked at him over her shoulder as she bundled the costume, anyhow, into the suitcase.

‘You've changed your tune a bit, haven't you, darling? A few months ago you couldn't wait to get rid of the lot of them. Now, you're talking as though they were indispensable. You always said they'd have hysterics if someone dropped a bomb anywhere near them.'

‘They probably will. But there's nothing I can do about it now. They've taken over a lot of the men's jobs and, with them, the risks as well.'

She had taken a pair of black suede evening shoes from the wardrobe and thrown them on top of the green costume.

‘What about your little WAAF, then? Will she be staying too, to keep you company?'

‘Who are you talking about?'

Another pair of expensive shoes had followed the black ones – grey glacé kid this time, with bows on the front. ‘Don't look so innocent, darling. The WAAF officer who came to dinner here at Christmas . . . the one you lust after.'

He had said coldly: ‘If you're referring to Section Officer Newman, yes, she'll be staying.'

‘That'll be fun for you, then, David, won't it? With me safely away in London.'

He had controlled his temper. It was pointless to argue. She loved an argument and was much better at it than he. He might well, he reflected now, have pointed out that
she
would undoubtedly have a great deal of fun without him in London, but he hadn't. He had learned over the years that it was far easier to say nothing.

She had snapped the clasps of the suitcase shut and come to stand close to him. The costly French scent that she always wore had filled his nostrils; he hated the smell of it. At thirty-two her skin was flawless, her ash blond hair like silk, her aquamarine eyes brilliant. She was an exceedingly beautiful woman but he had looked at her without desire, or love, or interest.

He had said matter-of-factly: ‘I'll come up as soon as I can get away.'

She had given him a tight, dry smile. ‘Don't bother yourself, darling. I'm not one of those dreary, clinging service wives. So far as I'm concerned it will be a pleasant change to be away from here. I won't have to be nice to all those RAF bores the whole time. I'll find much more interesting things to do in London.'

‘I'm sure you will.'

She had moved forward suddenly and kissed him, her
mouth open against his. He had stood stiffly, without moving, and she had stepped back after a moment and looked at him.

‘You're a bloody attractive man, you know, David, but now you've been promoted, I suppose you'll be stuffier than ever.'

‘I expect so.'

She had laughed. ‘Your little Section Officer is probably madly in love with you, poor thing. Some women like a strong, stern father-figure. They love being ordered about and subjugated. It gives them a thrill.'

He had picked the heavy suitcase off the bed. ‘You'll miss your train, Caroline,' he had said.

Palmer put down his empty glass and sighed. Robbie Robinson looked at him.

‘You feeling all right, sir? You look a bit under the weather.'

‘Just tired.' He signalled the waiter. ‘I could do with the other half.'

Lime Avenue was just as Anne had imagined it – a quiet, respectable suburban street, lined with knobbly lime trees. The houses were identical Victorian semi-detacheds with neat little front gardens and brightly-coloured stained-glass panels in the doors. As she walked along the pavement, net curtains twitched and a woman cleaning her windows stopped work to turn and stare. Maybe it was the uniform?

She took Jimmy's envelope from her breast pocket and re-checked the number – thirty-seven. It was further along the road and had one of the neatest gardens. The red tiled path up to the front door looked as though it had been polished and the flanking rows of marigolds had been precisely spaced. She rang the door bell.

The woman who opened the door was also very much as she had imagined. She was small and thin, with tightly permed hair, and was dressed in a plain blouse and skirt. She looked at Anne with dull eyes.

‘Yes?'

‘Mrs Shaw?'

The woman nodded. The dull eyes seemed to register the Air Force uniform and there was a flicker of some emotion in their depths.

‘What do you want?'

The doorstep was not the place to hand her a letter from her dead son; it was not what Jimmy would have had in mind.

‘May I come in for a moment? I have something to give you.'

‘I suppose so.'

Her voice was as dull as her eyes – flat and uncaring. She led the way into the front room, which felt cold even on the warm summer's day. There had been highly polished linoleum in the narrow hallway and here were the spotless net curtains that Anne had pictured, the starched antimacassars on the armchair backs and, prominently displayed on the sideboard, several framed photographs of Jimmy – ranging from a solemn-faced little boy to one of him in his RAF uniform – without the wings. He was looking straight at her with that earnest expression that she remembered so well. She felt her throat tighten and turned her head away.

Mrs Shaw was standing with her back to the tiled fireplace, her hands clenched together at waist level. She said tonelessly:

‘They have already sent me everything that belonged to James.'

James, not Jimmy. His mother was staring at her with her dull eyes and the flicker of emotion, Anne realized now, had been hostility. There was no invitation to sit down. No welcome. No appreciation of the fact that she had come all this way and taken time out of her precious leave. This was going to be much more ghastly than she had expected.

‘My name is Anne Cunningham, Mrs Shaw. I'm from RAF Colston where Jimmy – James – was stationed once. I met him there.'

Mrs Shaw's eyes never left her face. ‘May I ask, Miss Cunningham, if you were James's girlfriend. He never mentioned you in any of his letters.'

‘We were just friends, Mrs Shaw. We used to go to the cinema together sometimes, or to the pub. That's all.'

‘James never drank. His father was very strict about that.'

The memory of Jimmy cradling his beer awkwardly in the Saracen's Head and fumbling with cigarettes and matches passed through her mind. There was a pair of men's carpet slippers lined up beside the fireplace with perfect symmetry – the only evidence of Mr Shaw. The room managed to be cold and yet stuffy at the same time, and the silence of the house was oppressive. It was the most depressing place she had ever been in. No wonder Jimmy had escaped as soon as he possibly could. She tried to think of something suitable to say next; something that might comfort this sad woman.

‘He always talked a lot about you both, Mrs Shaw, and about his home. It meant a lot to him.'

‘I'd sooner not speak of it, if you don't mind. It's a very painful subject.'

‘Of course. I'm sorry.'

‘You said you had something to give me, Miss Cunningham.'

Anne groped in her tunic pocket for the letter. She held it out. ‘James gave me this before he was posted away to France – when he left Colston. He asked me to give it to you personally if – if anything happened to him. I promised him I would.'