Bluebirds (35 page)

‘It's very good. Much better than my Polish. Do tell him.'

He translated and Stefan beamed even wider, displaying more gold. He jabbered something.

‘He says that he would be very happy to teach you Polish, if you wish. But I do not advise it.'

He smiled at her again as he spoke, like he had smiled from across the room. Close up, his eyes were a very light blue-grey colour. An un-English sort of colour, with un-English sort of depths.

He said: ‘I have not seen you before. You are stationed at Colston?'

‘Yes. I bet you've spoken to me, though. I'm an R/T operator in Ops. I've probably talked to you when you're flying.'

‘Of course! Often we hear women. You are very good. Very clear. Very patient with us and our bad English.'

‘You speak it very well.'

‘Thank you. You are kind, but is still very bad. They give us all English lessons since we arrive. We try to speak better, but is difficult for us. We cannot say
th
like you. We never say this sound in Polish.'

The one who was called Henryk something or other, added: ‘Everything different for us. Language, peoples, food, weather, machines . . .'

He had a thin face and sad brown eyes. The fourth, whose name she couldn't remember at all, nodded vigorously.

‘Is very difficult with machines. Speed in miles per hour. Altitude in feet. Fuel in gallons. All different for us.'

‘Oh, dear. How awfully muddling for you.'

‘No, is not awful. Is good for us. We happy to be here. England is beautiful country.'

‘Beautiful girls,' Stefan said unexpectedly and with another huge smile.

In the next room someone had put on a record and people had started dancing. The one whose name she couldn't remember at all bowed to her again.

‘Please, you dance with me?'

‘Yes, of course.'

She went with him into the next room where they had turned the lights down low and the music was smoochy. He seemed very nice but he wasn't the one she wanted to dance with. She kept him at a distance and talked brightly in stilted English. The awful thought occurred to her that because he had been the first to ask her to dance, some peculiar Polish custom might decree that the others were disqualified. She need not have worried. As soon as they returned to the other room, Stefan clicked his heels and
smiled at her hopefully, making twirling motions with his right hand. After him, and some fairly firm controlling in the darkened room, it was the sad-eyed Henryk's turn. Finally, when she was beginning to despair of his ever asking her, Michal Racyñski turned to her.

‘Now, at last is my turn. Please.'

As she moved into his arms he drew her close against him. He smelled of some delicious cologne and his cheek felt slightly rough and hard against hers. They danced in complete silence, without any need for words. She wished that the music would never end.

When the party ended he drove her back to the station in a very shabby Wolseley.

‘I apologize. This car is most old. I get it from dump. The squadron mechanics make it to go.'

She laughed, not caring a fig about the car – whatever it was, or wherever it came from. She felt unbelievably happy.

‘It's a very nice car. But what about the others – your friends?'

‘Tadeusz has a car too, but much better. He will take Henryk and Stefan. They will understand.'

He turned his head towards her as he spoke and she thought, though in the darkness she could not be sure, that he was smiling.

The Wolseley coughed and spluttered before consenting to burst into steady life. It was very draughty and the springs seemed either badly worn or broken. Comparison with Johnnie Somerville's Lagonda was a joke. An ironic joke, since for all that car's expensive comfort, she had felt none of the bliss she was feeling now in this ancient, uncomfortable vehicle.

She said: ‘I like your friends. Do you know, I'd never met any Poles before. Not one.'

‘So, how do you find us?'

‘Oh . . . very polite. Very charming. Very polished.'

‘Polished? I do not know this word.'

‘Smooth. Elegant manners . . . that sort of thing.'

He laughed. ‘Thank you. Is not so true, I think, but thank you.'

‘And very different from most Englishmen. From the other pilots, anyway. I can't explain it exactly.'

‘Perhaps we are different because we have lived different lives. And we are older than your pilots. We fight longer. The Germans take our country . . . kill many Poles, destroy our cities, take our freedom . . . We hate them very much for that. So, everything is different for us, like Henryk said.'

‘Squadron Leader Robinson told me that you were all in France before – with the French Air Force.'

‘Is true. Then we come to England – with some problems. We come with a boat. We arrive at a place called Falmouth.'

‘In Cornwall.'

‘
Tak
. A beautiful place where all the people are smiling and not afraid. I forget such places exist. They give us fish paste sandwiches and tea. Very kind. We have been many days without food on boat. A woman in a green hat gives me a cup of tea with milk and I am feeling very sick. In Poland we never put milk in tea. So, I ask her, please, is possible to have without milk? She laugh a lot – such a big laugh – and gives me a different cup with black tea. She says to me, soon you are used to it. A very nice lady. Very kind.'

‘What about the paste sandwiches? Did you like those?'

‘I never have these too. They are good but I cannot eat much in one time, so I eat a little bit and put the rest in my pocket for later. After that, we go by train to Liverpool. Then to Blackpool. Then, at last, they give us RAF uniform and we swear allegiance to your King. We learn first to fly Defiants. For me is like a chauffeur, with gunner in back. Then, they give us Hurricanes and I am very happy. And then we come to Colston. And then I meet you.'

This time she was sure that he was smiling. She
half-hoped that he would stop somewhere en route and live up to the terrible reputation, but he drove her straight to the main gate.

‘You permit I take you out one evening, please?'

‘I most certainly do permit. But I'll have to meet you somewhere outside the station. We're not supposed to go out with officers. They think it's bad for discipline.'

‘That is pity. But I meet you wherever you say. I do not wish you to have trouble because of me.'

‘I don't care.'

‘We meet soon?'

‘Yes, please.
Very
soon.'

‘I've met him, Pearl.'

‘Met who, love?'

‘The dark stranger. The one you saw in my tea leaves. And he's come from across the seas, just like you said.'

‘Blimey!'

‘I saw him on the other side of the room and I knew he was the one.'

‘Just like that?'

‘Just like that. His name's Michal Racyñski.'

‘Bloody funny name! Sounds like you got something stuck in your throat, then you sneezed.'

‘It's Polish. I think his first name is really Michael, but that's how they pronounce it – Me, not My, and with that sort of
ch
in the middle, a bit like a Scot saying
och
.'

‘I wish he
was
a Scot. You want to be careful of Poles, duckie. I've heard some stories about them . . .'

‘They've got beautiful manners.'

‘I bet they have! Did I ever tell you about the Polish airman I met on the train coming back from leave?'

‘What about him?'

‘Well,
he
was a bundle of charm. All smiles and hot looks, you know . . . Bloody train was packed, as usual, and he got up and offered me his seat.'

‘That was decent of him.'

Pearl chuckled. ‘Oh,
very
gallant. He bowed to me like
he was Prince Charming, pointed to the seat and said “plis, park your arse,” ever so politely. 'Course he hardly spoke any English so he didn't know any better. Must've been some RAF joker taught him that.'

Anne snorted with laughter. ‘Michal speaks rather good English. He's got a lovely accent.'

‘Yeah . . . You watch it, though, love. Don't go and lose your heart to a pilot, whatever he is. You know what can happen to them.'

‘I can't help it. It's too late.'

‘It's not worth it, love.'

‘Oh, yes it is.'

Pearl sighed and lay back on her pillow. ‘Well, don't say I didn't warn you.'

They had been whispering across the space between their beds after lights out. The hut was stiflingly hot and Anne kicked her blanket off. She felt restless and excited and not in the least like sleeping; more like getting up and dancing around, or doing something quite idiotic. Something completely crazy . . . She sat up suddenly.

‘I'm going for a swim, Pearl.'

Pearl's bed creaked. ‘Now I
know
you've gone bonkers. What do you mean a
swim
?'

‘It's much too hot to sleep. I'm going to take a dip in the static tank. Cool off a bit.'

‘Don't be such a loony. You'll get caught and there'll be hell to pay.'

‘No, I won't. Not if I'm careful.' She was already out of bed and pulling on her knickers.

‘You haven't got a swimsuit.'

‘Doesn't matter. I won't wear anything. I'm going skinny-dipping.'

Pearl lay back and put a hand over her eyes. ‘Christ!'

She carried her shoes until she was out of the hut. Practice with illicit comings and goings had made perfect and she could open both doors, inner and outer, without a sound. The moon gave her enough light to see her way and she moved silently, keeping in the shadow of
buildings. The big static water tank stood above ground and its black depths looked rather sinister and less inviting than she had imagined. She hesitated for a moment and then undressed quickly and climbed up over the side and lowered herself into the water. It felt wonderfully cool and refreshing and sinfully free to swim without a bathing suit. Just the sort of thing she felt like doing. She swam across to the other side and then back again, and then to and fro a few more times. After that she lay on her back for a while, floating aimlessly and looking up at the stars and thinking about Michal Racyñski. She thought about his incredibly sexy eyes and how it had been dancing with him and sitting close beside him driving back in the Wolseley . . . to keep herself afloat while she was thinking about all this she paddled at her sides with her hands.

The sharp-eared Station Warrant Officer, making his way late to his quarters, heard the small splashing sound and paused. Bloody rat, he thought. Gone and fallen in the tank. Serve it right! There was another splash. Bloody
big
rat, he thought this time, altering his course quietly. Close to the tank he trod on something soft and clicked on his torch to see his foot on a pair of black WAAF knickers. Near by there was more female clothing – a blue skirt, a blouse and a pink brassière. He stared at them for a moment and then shone his torch over the tank's side onto the water. Not a rat, a
mermaid
! She floundered as the beam caught her and sank quickly from view, but not before he had had a look. He grinned, waiting for her to re-surface as she would surely have to do, and then composed his features into a suitably ferocious warrant officer's expression.

‘You in there! I'm turning my back for one minute while you get out and get dressed, then I want your name and number!'

He grinned to himself again as he turned away. There were some compensations, at least, for having these bloody women about the place.

THE GERMANS ATTACKED
the station for the first time on a warm afternoon in mid August.

In the Ops Room, the plot for fifty plus hostile aircraft had moved remorselessly across the map, watched by all eyes. At last the Controller reached for his steel helmet.

‘Tin hats on everyone, please. I'm afraid they're coming for us.'

Virginia felt only the smallest flutter of fright in her stomach. Outwardly she moved her plot calmly. Not one of the faces of the WAAFS round the table betrayed any sign of fear. Pamela, directly opposite, was looking almost bored, as though it was no more than another mock attack.

In her office, Felicity was talking to one of the aircraftwomen. The girl's mother was seriously ill and she was arranging compassionate leave, reassuring the tearful ACW.

‘Don't worry, Hale, go and get your things packed and we'll arrange for you to be taken to the station so that you can catch an early evening train to London. Corporal Snow will –'

The tannoy blared suddenly into life, cutting off the rest of her sentence.

This is your Station Commander speaking. All personnel, except those engaged on essential services, are to take cover immediately! I repeat, take cover immediately! At any moment we will be attacked by enemy aircraft.

The station siren was wailing as Felicity urged a startled ACW Hale out of the office ahead of her. Above the sound of the siren she could hear the roar of the fighters taking
off. The corridors were already full of people hurrying from HQ, cramming their helmets on their heads as they went. She shouldered her way against the stream to check on other WAAFS in the building before she left it herself. Outside, everyone was running full pelt now towards the shelters.

A WAAF on the pathway in front of her tripped and fell and Felicity grabbed her and yanked her roughly to her feet; the girl's knees were bleeding as she limped on. At the entrance to the shelter she shepherded a group of airwomen down into the dugout, glancing anxiously at the sky. She could see the formation of enemy bombers approaching, like a shoal of black sharks swimming on against the blue. An RAF sergeant seized her arm.

‘Hurry them up, ma'am, for God's sake!'