Bluebirds (88 page)

After a moment or two he said: ‘This suit you're wearin' sure is pretty too, but I reckon it's 'bout time that came off as well.'

He unbuttoned the jacket for her, and then the blouse underneath, and then her skirt, and soon she was standing there in her petticoat.

‘Mum made this for me,' she faltered, looking at the floor. ‘It's parachute silk. We got some damaged from Flaxton.'

‘It's real pretty too.' He lifted her chin and held it in his hand, looking into her eyes. ‘But I ain't gonna let you keep that on neither.'

He picked her up easily and cradled her against him, and kissed her again. ‘Nor what's under there. Fact is, Winifred Gillies, I ain't lettin' you keep anythin' on at all.'

The Dakota gathered speed down the runway and rose into the air. Anne watched RAF Northolt and England drop away in a hazy pattern of little houses and roads and fields, with splashes of new spring green and the bright glint of a river.

The American army officer in the seat beside her leaned across. ‘Isn't that Windsor Castle down there?'

‘Yes, that's right.'

‘I went to see it once,' he said. ‘Wonderful place. And that famous school there where they wear top hats and tails . . .'

‘Eton.'

My brother went there, she wanted to tell him. We used to visit him and every summer they have this wonderful day in June . . . But she couldn't bring herself to talk about Kit to a stranger. He was nice looking and polite and very friendly, and he'd helped her to get her luggage on board, but she couldn't talk to him about Kit.

She watched the castle fade into the distance and presently the Dakota flew into cloud and England vanished from view. Liberated Brussels lay ahead. It was only the second time that she had been abroad in her life – the first was a family holiday in France – and she felt as eager about it as she had then. She had volunteered to be sent to Europe soon after D-Day but it had been early March before her posting had come through. The Americans had just crossed the Rhine that very day. It had been announced on the wireless and the newspapers had carried the simple headline:
They're Over!
Cologne had been taken. The Allies were advancing fast. And in the Far East the Yanks had been setting fire to Japanese cities with incendiary bombs. The final act of the war was being played out. Some of the newspapers had printed photographs of the ruins of Cologne. She had been shocked, at first, by the total devastation, by the mountains of rubble and by the carnage until she had reminded herself of what the Luftwaffe had done to London and English cities.

The American was offering her a cigarette. Philip Morris – the same brand that Frank had smoked. He reminded her quite a bit of Frank; he had similar coloured eyes and the same direct look. That brass thing on his shoulder meant that he was a major, if she'd got it right.

‘Will you be based in Brussels?' he asked.

She nodded. ‘At our 2nd TAF HQ there.'

‘That'll be in the Rue de la Loi.'

‘Do you know Brussels, then?'

‘Pretty well. I've been there on and off ever since your people liberated it.'

He'd know where to go and where not to go, how to get things done and how not to get things done – all the gen. She bent her head towards his lighter flame.

‘Do tell me
all
about it.'

Brussels was lovely old buildings and cobbled streets and squares and very grateful Belgians. We're liberators, she thought, as yet another one smiled at her. They've lived through five years of German occupation, and that's something we've never had to suffer – though we came close to it. The civilians looked hungry and poorly-nourished and she felt embarrassed by the good service rations. There was, naturally enough, a flourishing Black Market.

The 2nd Tactical Air Force Headquarters was in a tall building in the Rue de la Loi known as the Palais Residence, while RAF airmen and WAAF airwomen were billeted in separate blocks in a large barracks in the city called the Caserne Baudouin, previously occupied by the Luftwaffe. The walls inside the barracks were decorated with huge paintings of Dorniers and Heinkels and Messerschmitts in dramatic flight and the Mess had well-polished refectory tables. The Germans had considerately installed a completely new plumbing system that worked wonderfully and as Anne made a tour of inspection of the airwomen's quarters she marvelled at the shining taps that gushed forth constant hot water, compared with the lukewarm dribblings in many WAAF ablutions in England. Here were no cracked basins or missing plugs, no slimy duckboards or sacking partitions, no rust-streaked baths painted with a black line to mark the permitted five inches of tepid water. The WAAF slept in light and airy
dormitories and on good beds, though one airwoman complained to her.

‘I don't like the idea that I'm sleeping in some German's bed, ma'am. It gives me goose-pimples.' She was a wireless operator and had a plain, rather sour face that reminded Anne of Maureen. ‘I don't think it's right.'

And that was just the sort of thing that Maureen had always said.
It's disgusting. It oughtn't to be allowed
. And Gloria had always teased her, like the time when they thought England was going to be invaded any moment.
Storm troopers . . . just think of that, Maureen, something for you to look forward to. You'll be 'aving the bloody time of your life.
If Gloria had been here she would have given a tart answer:
Pity he's not still in it. Might take that lemon look off your face.
Anne found that she was starting to smile and hurriedly changed her expression.

‘I'm afraid you'll just have to be sensible about it, airwoman. We can't provide a different bed specially for you. We mustn't allow our personal feelings to interfere in any way with the job we're here to do. There's still a war to be won.'

The American major from the Dakota drove her round in a jeep, pointing out the sights. The city seemed to have escaped serious damage and the shops stocked goods unobtainable in England. They're going to recover much quicker than us, she thought. It will probably be years before we finish re-building and rationing and making-do-and-mending.

One residential street was blocked by a huge bonfire in the roadway. People were carrying furniture out of a house and tossing it onto the fire – chairs, carpets, cupboards, pictures. Anne watched in astonishment as two men added a valuable-looking table to the flames.

‘What on
earth
are they doing?'

‘The house belongs to a collaborator,' the major told her. ‘You'll see that happening quite often. The citizens are taking their revenge on anyone who got too friendly with the Nazis during the Occupation. And the POWs are
coming back. They often know who denounced them to the Gestapo . . .' He turned the jeep round. ‘Speaking of returning POWs, some Belgian friends of mine have asked me to a party this evening. It's to celebrate the release of their son. Would you like to come?'

‘Will it be a good party?'

He smiled at her. ‘I guarantee it.'

If a good party was to be measured by the amount of noise that everyone there was making, then he was right. The long drawing-room was crowded with people shouting at each other in French and English. She was introduced to the major's friends and to their army captain son, a pale young man who seemed overwhelmed by the fuss being made of him. She talked to him for a while, dredging up some rusty school French, and then to a British army lieutenant who seemed to resent her being in Brussels at all.

‘You WAAFS have had it pretty easy, haven't you?'

‘Easy?' She eyed his flushed, perspiring face.

‘All very well for you. I mean to say, us chaps came over here the hard way. My lot landed in Normandy on D-Day plus thirteen.'

‘Really,' she said coldly. ‘What kept you?'

She moved away from him and headed for the far corner of the room where someone had sat down to play a grand piano. The pianist, a Belgian civilian, was playing with his eyes half shut, a cigarette drooping from his lips, his hands drifting over the keys. She leaned on the lid and listened while he picked his way softly through a song, and sang a few of the words with him.

He squinted at her through a spiral of smoke. ‘You like to sing, mademoiselle?'

‘Love to.'

‘Ah . . .' He played a few bars of another song. ‘You know this one?'

‘Of course. Everybody knows that.'

‘Alors . . . chantez.'

She began by singing only to him, leaning on the
piano, and he watched her, smoking his cigarette and accompanying her quietly.

People standing near had turned to listen and gradually the room fell silent.

It was then that she saw Johnnie. He was standing on the far side of the room, leaning against a wall (as usual) watching her. The jolt of seeing him so unexpectedly sent the blood rushing into her face and almost put her off her stride. She collected herself just in time.

Everyone was applauding and a woman nearby was actually wiping away tears. The pianist leaned towards her.

‘You sing again mademoiselle?' He fingered the keys encouragingly.

But she shook her head. Johnnie was making his way across the room; there was no escape. She waited until he reached her.

‘You sing awfully well, Anne. I remember telling you that once before, long ago. And you're wearing that blue dress. It brings back memories too.' He smiled.

She ignored that. ‘What are you doing here in Brussels?'

‘I might ask the same of you. Did you desert your bomber boys?'

‘I changed horses. I'm admin now. They posted me here two weeks ago.'

He looked amused. ‘Admin? Not really your style, I'd have thought.'

‘That's exactly what Kit said.'

‘How is he?'

‘He was killed last November in France.'

His face changed. ‘I'm so very sorry, Anne. That's dreadful news. I know you were very close.'

‘Well, there we are . . . I always had a feeling it would happen. Right from the first. Have you got a cigarette? I could do with one.'

He produced the gold case and lighter. The gold signet ring was back on his hand but she saw that the fingers still looked painfully red and crabbed, though the burns on the side of his face had faded so that they were not so noticeable.

‘Are you back on ops now?' she asked him.

‘I have been. The powers that be finally decided that I could hold more than a cigarette and a cocktail glass.'

Even so, he was doing both awkwardly, she thought, and it had taken several attempts to work the lighter.

‘Do your hands still hurt?'

‘Sometimes. There'll be more work to do on them eventually, so I'm told, but they function pretty well and that's the main thing.'

‘You were lucky.'

‘So you have frequently told me.'

‘The war will soon be over anyway. You'll be handing in the Spits.'

‘I'm going to regret that. The Moth won't seem quite
the same. Actually, I haven't done any flying for a while. They sent me off on a long lecture tour of America.'

‘What on earth did you talk about?'

‘The RAF. Told them what fine chaps we are . . . how hard we've been fighting . . . all that sort of thing. Drumming up sympathy and goodwill. When I got back they roped me in for liaison work over here. I've been in Ghent for the past month.'

‘Liaison work?'

‘I read French and German at Oxford.'

She'd forgotten that, and that he'd been bound for the Foreign Office. ‘Another gong, I see. Congratulations.'

‘Consolation prize.'

‘Hmm. The DSO's usually a bit more than that. When did you get to be so modest?'

‘Since you taught me to be. It's hellishly hot and crowded in here, Anne. Let's go out onto that balcony over there and get some air. Then we can talk without having to shout.'

‘I'm supposed to be here with someone.'

‘Someone?'

‘A very nice American major. I met him on the 'plane coming over. He's been showing me around.'

‘Well, he won't miss you for a moment.'

French windows opened onto a narrow balcony overlooking the street. The party chatter and music faded behind them; the early April night was cool and still. Anne leaned on the railings. Johnnie was silent for a moment, smoking.

‘I've a suggestion to make, Anne. A proposition.'

She turned her head suspiciously. ‘What?'

‘That we start all over again. Pretend that this is the first time we've met. There you were singing, just like before, and I'm asking you to have dinner with me, just like before.'

‘And I'm refusing, just like before.'

‘So you're turning down my proposal flat?'

‘We've had a similar conversation once before, I think.'

‘I remember it well. Have you nothing more to say?'

‘I can't think of anything.'

He tossed his cigarette away. ‘The fact is, Anne, you've never let yourself
think
at all where I'm concerned. You've had this preconceived notion about me from the very first and you won't let yourself change it. You're stubborn as hell. You came very close to it in Gloucestershire – I thought you had – and then you suddenly backed away. I'm asking you, for the very last time, to give it another try.'