Enduring Passions (18 page)

The man opposite was deep inside his
Daily Telegraph
, the headline, something about Europe, his bowler hat, umbrella and mackintosh on the rack above him. Two women were reading books, one, he noticed was by Daphne Du Maurier. A small boy in school cap, short trousers with
knee-length
grey socks and a dark blue gaberdine raincoat was reading a
Wizard
comic, with the
Hotspur
waiting on his lap.

She whispered to him. ‘Have you got your new address?’

He’d already written it out. He took it from his wallet and passed it to her.

‘There is a phone number as well, although I don’t know how the landlady feels about that.’

She nodded. ‘Write and let me know when you are going to be free and we can meet in London. Didn’t you say you could travel on the trains for free?’ She knew his budget was tight.

‘Yes. I’m getting an LNER warrant card, or at least a temporary one.’

As the train rumbled and lurched over the points and reached the fast track she suddenly remembered, ‘Oh Tom – what about the flying?’

‘It looks as though that will be all right. Mr Trubshaw has found a flying club that will take me, although I suspect I might have to pay a little more. I’ve got my log book with me.’

‘Oh, thank God.’

After another pause she whispered, even more quietly this time, ‘There is a register office in Peterborough. Can you get things started?’

He found her hand. ‘Yes. I’ve no idea when I can get off, but if it’s a problem they can fire me the way I’m feeling.’

Fay looked worried. ‘Don’t do anything too rash, darling, I’d hate to get you into trouble.’

He looked at her fresh face against the upholstery of the seat, her beret with its pom-pom raked down one side, hair flowing out in an unplanned riot of curls and at the red lipstick adorning her small mouth. A rush of madness came over him that took him completely unawares. Even as he was saying it, whispering into her ear, he could hardly believe it.

‘There’s nothing I can think of better than getting you into trouble.’

Nature had been tormenting him with desires he’d never known before.

Startled, Fay turned her head so that she could look directly into his eyes and saw that they were not twinkling with fun. He had a look that she’d never seen before. Ever since that night in her room at Claridges when she had had such a heat on her that she had taken his hand to her breast, Fay had tried to keep her mind off such things. But she had had difficulty some nights, lying there thinking of him, unable to sleep. She ran the tip of her tongue suggestively along her top lip and whispered back, ‘You’ll have to wait until I’m your wife.’

He just looked steadily back at her, holding hands as the
buttercup-filled
meadows of Wiltshire flashed past.

At Paddington they went on the Circle line to King’s Cross. The inside
of the station was, for Tom, disappointing, lacking the grandeur of the Great Western Terminus. But he was taken by the sight of a dark blue stream-lined engine with the name ‘Kestrel’ that had just drawn in. Sir Nigel Gresley had designed them. It radiated power and speed. One of its number, ‘Mallard’, had broken the world steam record of 125 mph over a part of the track he was about to go on. When it sounded its
whistle
, it was an excitingly low, klaxon-like sound, not a high-pitched shriek.

‘Here you are.’

Fay, completely oblivious of his interest in the engines, pointed out the departure board. ‘Hang on, I’ll get a platform ticket.’

While she scurried away, he rested the heavy case on the ground, watching the throngs of people coming off the train. A lot of sailors with their kitbags over their shoulders were clomping down the platforms.

When she came back he took up the weight of the case. Walking down the length of the train he enjoyed looking at the natural teak coaches with their cut back ends and white roofs.

‘Here we are.’

He boarded and entered the first compartment, flinging his coat on a seat next to the sliding door by the corridor, with his hat on top. He had to use a lot of muscle to swing the suitcase up on to the luggage rack.

Back on the platform they didn’t care about the crowds surging past, they just hung on to each other. He talked into her hair.

‘You going to go straight back?’

She shook her head. ‘No, I’ll pop in to see Sir Trevor’s secretary – I’ve told them I’m up in town. They’ve got some sheet music to give me, and more details of the itinerary. It all fitted in rather well.’

They continued talking about nothing in particular, conscious that time was running out. People started to find it difficult to find seats.

‘You’d better get on.’

He looked around, then back to her. ‘I’d rather stand all the way than leave you a second earlier than I have to.’

She chuckled. ‘Oh yes? No, you get on, I’d rather know you had a seat for the next couple of hours. Come here’ – she reached up and pulled his head down. For a kiss in public it was rather daring, in fact Tom Roxham distinctly heard someone say, ‘Oh really!’

When she released him, she said, ‘I can’t wait to be married – now go, and don’t forget to write.’

She pushed him on to the train and motioned him along the corridor, then pointed to his seat, blowing him kisses. She had meant to walk away,
but found she couldn’t. They stayed like that until eventually whistles blew, doors slammed. The coaches began to move. In the distance she could hear the locomotive labouring to get the great weight moving.

She walked alongside for several yards but the train seemed to
accelerate
quite quickly. She blew a last kiss and halted, the carriages passing with the regular double beat of the bogies on the track junctions, until the last coach went past with a hiss of steam.

As she stood and watched the receding train, she realized there was quite a downward slope out of the station which explained the quickness of its departure and then a rise into a tunnel. The red light of his train seemed to hang in the dark for a long time before it disappeared.

The green light of the semaphore signal at the end of the platform turned to red.

She turned and walked back feeling empty.

The digs turned out to be very good, a house in a street near the station run by a Welsh lady called Mrs Chick.

The breakfast he sat down to after a restless night on a brass bed that creaked with every move, was vast – eggs, bacon, a lump of black pudding and slices of fried bread. Tea was poured from the biggest pot he’d seen. Mrs Chick bustled around as other paying guests came down and sat around the one big table in the dining-room, introducing
themselves
. Most were travelling salesmen.

In her sing-song voice Mrs Chick told him about a footpath between the houses that would get him to the station quickly.

After a last visit to the lavatory he went back to his room and inspected himself in the full-length cracked mirror in the middle of his oak wardrobe. All seemed to be in order.

As he walked down the footpath between the back gardens of terraced houses, he could hear the railway long before he saw it. The squeal of steel and the crash of buffers accompanied by the labouring ‘chuffs’ of engines denoted a large marshalling yard.

As he approached the mainline, the thunderous roar of each train
travelling
at high speed lasted only a few seconds. It was followed by a wash of drifting smoke which made him tingle with anticipation.

The station was bigger and busier than Cheltenham, which seemed sedate in comparison. The police office there was large, with an
inspector
as well as a sergeant and several constables.

He was shown into the inspector’s office and stood to attention before
a man who couldn’t have been more different from Sergeant Whelan if he’d tried. Frowning as he examined the documents Tom had brought, the man finally looked up at him. He had a thin face and baleful eyes.

‘Well, Roxham, what are we to make of all this, do you think?’

Blinking, Tom said, ‘Sir?’

The inspector tapped the sheaf of papers with the back of his hand. ‘You – being transferred to us? What did you do to upset our country cousins so much?’

Tom objected strongly to the country cousins bit.

‘Isn’t it about needing new faces for important undercover work, sir? That’s what I was told.’

The man sneered. ‘We’re a big force, Roxham, why would we need to get you when there are people as far away as Aberdeen and Norwich who could do any job we wanted?’

It was at that moment that Tom knew for sure that what Fay had said was true. Her father had engineered this to drive them further apart.

Any lingering doubts about their elopement vanished. As soon as he had some time off he would go to the register office – even
before
the flying school.

By the end of the week he had done both and sent a brown envelope to her containing all the forms she needed to fill in. He already had his birth certificate with him.

He borrowed Mrs Chick’s son-in-law’s bike to get to the airfield. Like the station it was busier than Staverton and had a tarmac strip. In the clubhouse, with its walls adorned with a wooden propeller and black and white photographs, he found the man he wanted at the bar, talking with a lively group of young men.

‘Mr Dickinson?’

The chiselled features and jutting jaw of the man were completed by pale-grey eyes that seemed to bore into him.

‘Yes?’

‘My name is Tom Roxham – I believe Mr Trubshaw at Staverton Aero Club has been in contact with you about me?’

‘Ah, so you’re the laddie I’ve been waiting for eh? What will you have to drink?’

Although nothing was further from his mind, Tom instinctively
realized
that to get on with Dickinson he’d better not refuse.

‘I’ll have a pint of the Adnam’s, if that’s all right.’

‘Of course it is.’

The barman had already heard and was manning the handle, mug at an angle as the gold coloured liquid gurgled out of the spout.

Dickinson waved his hand at the four other men. ‘These are current members of our elementary Civilian Reserve Flying Training School – CRFTS for short.’

They all greeted him in turn with a handshake, saying their names as they did so.

Tom turned back to Dickinson as his beer was put on the counter. The latter handed it to him.

He took it, said ‘cheers’ as he raised it to his lips, and was greeted with a reciprocal chorus. When he’d had a few swallows, he lowered his glass and nodded at the talking group.

‘Am I joining them?’ he asked.

Dickinson shook his head. ‘These are all men who’ve taken the King’s shilling. Once they’re finished they either go back to their jobs to await the call, or straight to the air force for their uniforms and square bashing, then on to intermediate and advanced training.’

Seeing the look of disappointment on his face, Dickinson explained. ‘It’s the Volunteer Reserve, laddie; they’ve actually signed up for the air force who’ve put them on to these courses. It’s expanding rapidly since Herr Hitler tore up the Non-Aggression pact.’

Feeling somewhat out of it, Tom said, ‘I want to fly, Mr Dickinson, but I’ve got a job to hold down.’

A look passed between a couple of the men and Dickinson said, ‘Well, let’s hope that’s the way it stays – for all our sakes.’

But there was no mistaking the lack of belief in his voice.

Next evening, Tom flew a familiarization sortie, with Dickinson in the front seat. When they got back, the latter climbed out and said, ‘All right. Now do a circuit and try not to break our toys.’

Did they always say the same thing?

Off he went. When he taxied back Dickinson was nowhere in sight. He found him in his office – a little shed on its own, between two vast new hangars. He was signing something which he then rubber stamped. Without looking up he said, ‘Congratulations, you’re officially on our Civil Guard course now, Roxham.’

And from then on everything went at a faster pace. Because of a lack of work for him to do he increasingly found himself spending more time at the airfield than he ever did in his digs.

He met Fay in London twice in the following three weeks and a date
was set for the wedding – 22 May.

They were in a small restaurant off the Haymarket, with the pre-West End show crowd wearing white ties or dinner jackets all around them. There was talk of Flannagan and Allen and the Crazy Gang.

She was looking even lovelier to Tom, who had missed her badly.

‘So.’ She took a sip of red wine, seeming to roll it around in her mouth before swallowing. With hooded eyes, she looked over the rim of the glass at him.

‘That’s the day fixed then – and the
night
? You
can
get the next day off as well, I presume?’ She raised one eyebrow, eyes bright and
challenging
.

Tom finally found his voice. ‘You try and stop me.’

Afterwards, they walked hand in hand to the bright lights in Piccadilly Circus, watching the Schweppes Fountain for a while before she said, ‘Come back to my hotel for a nightcap?’

‘Of course.’

They sat in the American Bar at the Savoy.

‘Where are you staying tonight?’

He pulled a face. ‘I’m not. I’m getting the 1.30.’

‘Oh Tom! You could bunk on the sofa in my room like last time.’

He looked back at her levelly. ‘No I could
not
.’

There was no denying what he meant.

She just nodded. With a little shiver she knew he was right.

It wasn’t that she thought her virginity important any more – after all they were going to marry – but it was all about self respect.

A week before the wedding Dickinson told him to come to his office after he’d finished his post-flight checks. Tom wondered what he’d done wrong. He bumped into him coming out of the door.

‘Come and have a pint.’

When they were seated on their bar stools with their glasses, the foam sliding down the sides, Tom asked, ‘What’s this all about?’