Bluebirds (40 page)

She listened and watched, totally fascinated. Taffy had opened a new door for her, and onto a world she had longed to discover. When, finally, he put down the pencil, she was transparently disappointed.

‘That's enough for now. You'll get muddled, Winnie. I'll tell you more another time.'

After that, it was an easy matter for him to persuade her to go out with him.

He took her to the cinema in town, travelling in on the bus. It was a Betty Grable picture and Winnie enjoyed it. Compared with wartime England, America seemed a wonderful place. Everything on the screen up above her looked dazzlingly beautiful and so full of colour and light. The people were so good-looking and well-dressed that she could scarcely believe that they were real. Everything about them was perfect. And their homes were like palaces. She had never seen such space, such luxury . . .

Afterwards they went to the cinema café and had sausages and chips, and a pot of tea. Again, Taffy paid for her though she tried hard to stop him.

Over the café table he explained a bit more to her, this time about the aircraft engine. She listened entranced to him speaking of pistons and four-stroke cycles; of carburettors and cylinders; of compression and sparks and ignition; of valves and cams and magnetos. They were all magical-sounding words to her and she began to understand what she had only been able to reason instinctively about the Fordson. Taffy drew more diagrams for her on a piece of paper, among the teacups and plates, and, again, he stopped just when she wanted badly to know more.

It was dark and raining when they walked to the bus
stop and they waited in the shelter of a nearby doorway. He screened her from the slanting rain, one arm raised protectively against the wall. Her closeness tantalized him, but he was careful not to touch her. He wished he could see her better. He had always thought her adorable in her uniform. He loved the way her hair curled up round the edge of her cap and the way her large eyes looked at him from beneath its jutting peak. The belted tunic fitted her so neatly at the waist and the severe, masculine cut only made her seem all the more desirably feminine in his eyes. He was not the only one, he knew, to think so.

‘You know what some of the lads call you girls?' he told her. ‘Bluebirds. From the bluebird of happiness, see? That's what you can bring us . . . if you want to.'

He knew she was blushing in the darkness.

‘The bus is comin',' she said, and ducked under his arm as it came swishing along the street towards them.

The chalk mass of the South Downs lay a few miles to the north of Colston, where it curved inland away from the sea. Anne, standing on the top of them, and thinking back to geography lessons at school, remembered that the mass had once been joined to France thousands of years ago. When the Ice Age had ended the melted waters had flooded the depression between England and Europe, creating the Channel. Just as well, in the circumstances. She was still panting from the steep climb up as she surveyed the countryside spread out far below. Everything was in miniature. Little fields, all shapes and sizes, fitting together like pieces of a jigsaw, trees looking just like the toy ones made of lead that she and Kit had played with in the nursery, lead cows and sheep dotted about, and a toy lorry speeding along a road. The houses were Monopoly houses and a toy train, just like Kit's, puffed along at the far side of the jigsaw. The colours were all dusty late summer green and harvest gold, the horizon a hazy, distant border.

She took off her cap and shook her head, letting the
wind blow through her hair. ‘We could walk for miles along the ridge, as far as Beachy Head that way, and Hampshire that way.' She waved her arm vaguely east and then west. ‘It's lovely, isn't it? Like being on top of the world.'

Standing beside her, Michal Racyñski smiled. ‘Beautiful England. The most beautiful country in the world.'

‘Do you think so?' she said, pleased. ‘More beautiful than Poland?'

‘I think so – yes.'

She had no idea what Poland looked like. Not the faintest clue. Forests, most probably. Dark fir trees, though, not leafy English ones. Gloomy clearings, not sylvan glades. Where had she been when the geography lessons had covered Poland? Asleep at the back of the class, most likely, while Miss Carpenter droned on about climate and crops and natural resources.

She admired the jigsaw again. ‘Does it look like this from an aeroplane?'

‘Yes, but is not the same feeling. We have feet on ground. And is low.'

‘What's it like being high up?' She lifted her head. ‘Up there in the clouds?'

He spread his hands. ‘Is very difficult to tell you. Like to dance in space. Like in paradise. Like to reach for the stars . . . I have not the words in English. Or even, perhaps, in Polish.'

She had watched his face as he struggled to express himself. ‘You love flying, don't you?'

‘Very much. Since a small boy I want to fly. As soon as I am big I join the Polish Air Force. When Warsaw is bombed we fight the Germans. Many, many die. Many 'planes are destroyed. Our aerodromes are bombed. The army is fighting German tanks with horses. Everything is very, very bad.'

They began to walk westwards along the ridge of the Downs. There were blisters coming on both her heels from her beetle-crusher shoes, but she scarcely noticed
them. He had taken off his cap too and the wind was blowing his hair about. It made him look much younger, she thought, stealing a sideways glance. She could imagine him as a small boy.

‘How did you come to England?' she asked. ‘What happened?'

‘Oh, is long story.'

‘Tell me, just the same.' She wanted to know everything about him.

He smiled at her. ‘You are very curious. If you want so much, I tell you some.' He put his hands in his pockets as they walked along. ‘When all is so bad in Poland, I am sent to Rumania with other pilots to fetch French machines. The Rumanian government promise these, but instead, when we arrive, we are all made prisoner and put in camp.'

‘How rotten of them!'

‘Rotten? I do not know this word.'

‘Beastly. Not nice.'

He laughed. ‘No, was not nice at all. The camp is place for horses. Was only straw and cold water. We eat soup and black bread one time a day. So, soon I escape. I walk and I walk. I hide in ditch and woods. I sleep in cellars with rats. All the time I walk and then I hide. Then I come to railway station. I have no money for ticket, so I jump on train when is moving.'

It all sounded incredible to her, like a story out of some adventure book. ‘What happened then?'

‘I sit in train. All are Rumanian people. A man who is opposite look and look at me all the time, and I think I am finished. I was told many Rumanians are for Germans, you see. He speak to me in Polish because he sees my Polish pilot's bag and he knows this. I think he betray me but when the man is coming for the tickets he gives me his ticket and pretends to lose his own. When we arrive at Bucharest he takes me to a restaurant and gives me food. I did not eat for two days before and so was very good.
Best food I ever taste. Then he shake my hand and wish me luck.'

‘Jolly decent of him.'

‘
Tak!
Jolly decent. I like that English.'

‘What did you do then?'

‘I go to Polish Consulate in Bucharest and get train ticket to Belgrade. Was no longer possible, you understand, to go back to Poland. So, I try to go south west, to go to France. I never think then of going to England. At the frontier station to Yugoslavia there are German soldiers everywhere. Everybody is taken from train and put in room for interrogation. There are two German officers who ask many questions. I speak to them in German and tell many lies. I say I am student. When we go to Rumania we are all given false passports which say we are students, not military. I think because I speak good German they believe me and let me go on to Belgrade, but many others are arrested. I see them march away.'

And all this had been going on, Anne thought, while she had been moaning about cleaning ranges and peeling potatoes, and finding the whole war rather, a yawn. She pictured the train thundering across war-torn Europe, the frontier station, the jackbooted soldiers, the cold-eyed German officers rapping out frightening questions, the shuffling queue, women sobbing, children crying, the unlucky ones being hustled away . . .

He went on. ‘From Belgrade I go to Athens by train and then go with Polish ship to Marseilles. That bit is easy. I join with the French Armée de l'Air. I speak good French, much better than English, so language was not difficult like here. They teach me to fly Potez – French fighters, you know – and I go north, near Rennes. We do what is called chimney flights . . . We protect factories and power stations . . . things like that. Was the beginning of 1940, before France fell.'

‘Poor France.'

‘Poor France,' he agreed. ‘But we Poles are not understanding them very well. We ask them: Why you not
attack the Germans? Why you wait and wait until is too late?'

‘My brother says the French think we let them down. Deserted them.'

He shrugged. ‘I think the French do this to themselves. They were not well organized. Many stop to fight. A Pole is never like that. We fight to die, even when is hopeless.'

She hated to hear him talk like that. Henryk had died because he had gone after a German without any bullets left. That was crazy. But everyone said the Poles were like that. They hated the Germans.
Loathed
them. She had never met a British pilot who felt such hatred.

‘So, when France fell, you came to England?'

He smiled. ‘Was not so easy. Not so quick like that. When we are in France the Germans come nearer and nearer and one day when I come back to land I am told I must switch off engine and leave my machine. Germans are coming very soon and we must all surrender. But I do not do this. Instead, I take off again very quick. They shoot at me, but they miss.'

‘The
French
shot at you?'

‘I do not obey the order, so they shoot. Is natural.' He shrugged. ‘I have not much fuel, so I fly south to next aerodrome.'

‘Why didn't you go north, towards England?'

‘Because I know Germans are already in north, and I cannot go as far as England. So, I go south and then I leave my machine and I walk.'

‘More walking?'

‘
Tak
. More walking. I walk many, many miles since this war begins. Then I meet other Polish pilots, also walking, with some Czech officers. We try to find transport but the French do not want to help us. With luck we find big depot and make the gate open with guns. We take lorry, fuel, some food, and we drive to Bordeaux. Is all bombed. All ships there are sunk, except one. We get on this ship and the captain he take us to England. Five days on sea
and no food except some peanuts that is cargo before. The captain has mascot. An animal . . . I do not know name. Has milk.'

‘A cow?'

‘No, is too big. Smaller. Little like this.' He held out his hand, palm down. Then he stroked his chin. ‘And has little beard.'

‘Oh, a goat.'

‘Yes, a goat. But she disappear during voyage. People eat her. Captain is very sad. Very cross.' He laughed at Anne's expression. ‘Don't be so shocked.
I
do not eat her. Everyone is very, very hungry. You must understand this. You never know what is like. You are lucky.'

She stopped walking and turned to face him. ‘I know. I've been thinking just that, listening to you. I
am
lucky. We're all lucky in England. We've never had to go really hungry. And we haven't been invaded by the Germans. Not so far, anyway.'

‘It never happen,' he said. ‘We stop Germans, I swear. They are never in your country, like they are in mine.'

She saw the sadness in his face, and bitter anger too, and longed to comfort him.

‘One day you'll go back to Poland.'

‘Of course. First we fight Germans here, then we go back to free our country. And then I think we need you to help us fight Russians. You see, is never finished with Poland.' He ran his hand through his hair. ‘Is always war. But we not talk of this now. For now I am happy to be here in England.'

‘I'm happy you're here too.'

He smiled down at her, into her eyes. ‘Thank you, Anne. I am very glad you say that. You are so English . . . So . . . so simple.'

‘
Simple
? That means stupid.'

He frowned, vexed with himself. ‘Is wrong word. I certainly not mean this.'

‘Straightforward?'

‘Perhaps. I wish I speak better English to talk how I
want with you. Ah! Decent.
Tak.
Jolly decent. That is something like I mean, I think.'

She said doubtfully, ‘It sounds a bit hearty. Jolly hockeysticks, and all that.'

‘Hockeysticks?'

‘It's a game. We played it at school.'

I can't explain all that to him, she thought. He'd never understand. She was downcast to think that he saw her in such a light. Like a schoolgirl. A jolly English schoolgirl. All giggling and blushing and innocent. He'd be used to other women, of course. Polish ones, French ones . . . slinky Continental women who were not a bit ‘so English'.

They walked on and she tried not to stride out too energetically beside him, to make a more graceful impression. Then she began to think about the hatred he must feel for the Germans who had taken his country away from him, and to wonder if she would ever feel the same if they invaded England . . . whether she would be able to kill a German, to fire a rifle like the airman had shown her, without hesitating.

‘I saw a Messerschmitt shot down the other day,' she said. ‘It was awfully close. Pearl and I were biking over to the station when we heard the siren go. We jumped into a ditch to take cover.'

He exclaimed.
‘Close?
What happened?'