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Authors: Lizzie Lane

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BOOK: Home Sweet Home
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Just like now, the train had passed acre after acre of ploughed-up fields, the monotony intermittently relieved by a green oasis of pastureland where cattle or sheep still grazed. Even though they passed close to Newmarket, the heart of British horse racing, she didn't see any horses. Grassland was precious; horses were a luxury, though they were also a valuable alternative to cattle. Horse steak wasn't dissimilar to beef, though she hadn't tried it herself.

Leaving home for good had left her with an empty, cold feeling inside. It wasn't just leaving her family and the village she'd grown up in; the prospect of what she would have to face at the other end of her journey also concerned her. She'd seen Michael's bandaged hands and torso on her last visit. Now he was due to have his bandages finally removed.

She'd thought herself prepared for the event, but still her stomach rolled nervously at finally having to face the extent of the injuries that Michael had endured.

Michael's job was necessary to the war effort, but extremely dangerous. She had to face that. But how injured was he? She'd been told he would fly again and not to worry, but what did that mean? People would say anything to help her get over the shock. She didn't blame them for doing so, but despite their reassurances she couldn't help imagining it being worse than they admitted to.

They'd explained all this to her on her previous visit. Only some of it had sunk in. Questions remained. How badly scarred would he be? Could he still walk? Yes, he must be able to walk otherwise they wouldn't have said that he would still fly once he'd recovered. But his hands? His beautiful hands? Would he be able to feel her when he touched her?

All those questions still hung in her mind on this journey through the flat Lincolnshire countryside. Before she'd left, her father had taken her to one side and reminded her of where she needed to be. ‘Your place is with him. By his bedside.'

‘I should have moved there when he asked me to,' she'd replied.

Her father had looked a little sad at the prospect of losing her, but had said, ‘He's your husband, Mary, and it's only right that you should be living with him, not here with us.'

It was dark by the time she'd alighted from the train at a branch station. The sound of a whistle screeched before the name of the station – the one she'd travelled to on her last visit – was shouted out. A dim blue lantern, similar to the dim bulbs they used in the railway carriages nowadays, cast just enough of its cold, blue light so people could see where they were going. Apart from the lantern, the unfamiliar surroundings were as black as a coal pit.

Shouts and laughter fell on to the platform as a whole battalion of army privates bundled out of the train carriages making jokes and laughing, their burning cigarettes glowing red in the deep black night.

On the train, one of them had told her that they were on their way to important east coast bases. The south and east coasts would be the front line should the enemy invade and had been packed with troops since the outbreak of war – more so now the Americans had arrived.

She had looked at the faces of the private and his companions, bright and cheerful despite the gloomy compartment, young faces that would soon turn old and worldly wise once they'd experienced what a war really was.

What the station lacked in light it made up for with other noises besides those of the men in uniform. Their boots clattered over the platform and clouds of steam hissed from the underbelly beneath the locomotive and the funnel on top.

In her heavily pregnant state, Mary's sense of smell was extremely acute, sickeningly so sometimes. Damp wool, men's sweat, cigarettes and smoke smelling of cinders from the steam engine formed an acrid brew that made Mary gag. Swaying slightly and closing her eyes, she placed her hand over her nose and mouth.

The crowd pressed on around her, a human tide surging towards the ticket inspectors and the exit, the former only serving to slow the flow but determined to do their job.

Once the throng had largely dissipated and she had room to breathe, she placed her case between her feet, took a deep breath and looked around her. Last time she had come here, Mike's friend Guy had been waiting for her and taken her straight to the hospital, where she had stayed until it was clear Mike was out of danger. Then she had returned to the only home she'd ever known, to pack up and return.

The light from the lantern threw a pool of light immediately in front of her. Whoever had been sent to pick her up would see her here, picked out by the poor light and close to the station clock. She looked up at it, saw its Roman figures. Nine o'clock. It had indeed been a long day, though according to some on the train, fifteen hours to cross from one side of the country to the other was quite normal.

Emerging from the gaping blackness of the exit, a figure paused to flash his identification at one of the ticket inspectors. Like a shadow that had come to life, he made his way to her, the only woman still on the platform. It wasn't Guy.

‘Mrs Dangerfield?'

The light played tricks with his features, but his uniform was that of a member of RAF ground crew. He was of average height and build, not a prepossessing man at all, though there was something odd about one side of his face. At first glance, she put it down to the dark shadows thrown by the blue lantern. On second glance, she knew the cold light was not to blame.

Fear and a creeping sickness tightened her stomach. The skin on one side of his face resembled a mask, a cruel mask that made it seem as though his face had been torn apart then reassembled from the wrong pieces. The skin of his right cheek looked paper thin, one eye slanting downwards, his mouth uneven from a silky patch of skin that seemed to have been sewn on to his upper lip.

Her mind raced and her blood ran cold as the man in front of her saluted smartly and offered to take her case.

‘Yes … yes … of course.'

‘My name's Sergeant Paul Innes. It's a bit late to go straight to the hospital, so I have strict orders to make you comfortable tonight and take you to the hospital tomorrow.'

Mary tried not to let her mouth hang open, but it wasn't easy. It was difficult to take her eyes off the damaged side of his face. Suddenly she became aware of her bad manners.

‘I'm sorry,' she said apologetically and tried to sound light-hearted, as though nothing was out of the ordinary and his face was unblemished.

My voice sounds shaky, she thought. My smile is too stiff, and as for my hands …

She curled the fingers of one hand into her perspiring palm. Luckily she was wearing gloves otherwise she would have left red crescents behind. Her teeth ached with the effort of smiling and pretending that nothing was wrong.

Sergeant Innes didn't appear to notice, or if he did, he hid it well. It was no good. She just had to apologise properly.

‘I'm sorry. I don't mean to stare.'

He smiled a lop-sided smile. ‘Oh, don't you be sorry about that, Mrs Dangerfield. I'm afraid it's a legacy of a burning Hampden bomber. I'm still alive. That's all that matters. The wing commander sends his apologies, Mrs Dangerfield. He would have collected you himself, but he's on Ops tonight. I've been ordered to take you to your cottage. I've got you some food in and lit the fire.'

He was affable and kind, but she shuddered as she wondered how many times he'd had to carry out this duty.

After placing her luggage on the back seat, he helped her into the car. They moved off, away from the town and into a dark, flat landscape. It took about an hour travelling along unlit country roads before they finally arrived at Woodbridge Cottage.

Once out of the car, he grabbed her luggage from the back seat, helped her out from the front seat and switched on a torch. They followed the flashlight's circular beam the length of the garden path.

‘Where are you from, Sergeant?' Asking a question helped to keep their conversation light and friendly, away from the taboo subject of Michael's injuries.

‘Birmingham.'

She couldn't help remarking that he was a long way from home, simply because she felt she had to say something, however innocuous.

‘We're all a long way from home, Mrs Dangerfield.' Sergeant Innes didn't seem to have noticed her anxiety. ‘But that's the nature of war. All hands to the pumps, no matter where they come from. Right. Open sesame.'

The beam from the torch picked out a bird box on the right-hand side of the cottage door. She couldn't remember it from her last visit but then she'd spent so little time here. It had been just somewhere to sleep after spending most of her time with Mike at the hospital. A huge iron key hung on a hook just below it.

‘Here it is,' he said. He took the key and swivelled the torch ahead of them to pick out the keyhole. Now she noticed that the cottage had a sweet little front door. The key clunked as it turned in the lock.

Although the sergeant wasn't that tall, he had to duck to enter, and the top of her head barely missed the frame too. She smiled at the thought of Michael hitting his head on its low oak lintel. A pang of regret clutched at her heart. If only she'd come here sooner. They could have enjoyed some time together, talking about the baby, walking through the surrounding countryside. On the first visit she had stayed here all alone. Hopefully on this visit she wouldn't be alone for too long.

Precious as it was, some time together was all it would have been if she had come up earlier. Nothing she could have done would have prevented what had happened.

Because it had been dark, she hadn't seen much of the garden and had been too preoccupied to notice anything on her first visit. Tonight she smelt damp green leaves and fertile earth and imagined that in summer it was a riot of smells and colour thanks to sweet-scented stock, honeysuckle and lavender. Although the countryside was flatter than at home, the smells at least were the same.

The door opened directly into the living room, where a welcoming fire glowed in the grate. Once the blackout curtains were pulled, Sergeant Innes switched on a table lamp. The room echoed the look of a summer garden with its chintz-covered armchairs and flowery curtains. Despite the fact that the seats of the chairs sagged a little, they looked comfortable.

The sergeant offered to take her suitcase upstairs for her.

‘There's no need. I can manage.' She wanted him to go. Her legs felt terribly weak. She reached out and grasped the back of a chair.

Sergeant Innes reached out as if to steady her. ‘I think you need to sit down, Mrs Dangerfield. You've had a long journey in your condition.'

‘Oh, don't worry about me,' she said, attempting a light laugh. ‘You surely have more important duties with the air force.'

‘Not at all. That's what I'm here for, Mrs Dangerfield. Would you like me to make you a cup of tea before I leave?'

‘No,' she said, managing a weak smile. ‘I'm quite fine now.'

There was kindness in his eyes. ‘Now this here's the kitchen,' he said. The door he opened was almost a mirror image of the front door, planks of pine nailed to two cross braces.

‘I remember,' said Mary.

‘Ah, yes. Of course you do. Well, there you are. It's small but cosy. I've got you in a few tinned things, your bacon ration and some eggs. Had a hard job getting those,' he said to her. ‘But where there's a will there's a way – and a farmer over the back field willing to gamble just about anything in a game of cards.' He winked. The corner of his damaged right eye drooped downwards, giving him a strange, almost roguish look. ‘Trouble is he isn't much of a gambling man. Oh, and I persuaded Mrs Catchpole, who does a bit of cleaning for the officers, to make a nice toad in the hole. Not that there's likely to be many toads in it, but I guarantee it'll be tasty.'

For the first time since seeing his injured features, Mary controlled her fear and looked him directly in the face.

‘Thank you, Sergeant. I think I'll be very comfortable here.'

‘No bother, Mrs Dangerfield. Not sure what time I'm to pick up your husband, but don't count on it being too early.'

‘Whatever time is fine. It gives me a chance to settle in.'

Once the door had closed behind him and the big iron key was hanging on yet another nail to one end of the fireplace, Mary sat down and thought about things. Just as she'd composed her expression to face Sergeant Innes, she'd have to do the same for her husband when she saw him tomorrow. It wouldn't be easy and she thought about it long and hard, so long that she hardly noticed that the only light in the room was from the glowing fire and the meagre table lamp. Dancing shadows played over the walls, but they didn't worry her. Today was almost over. It was tomorrow she was worried about. How would she cope?

She took a deep breath. Control yourself. Be calm.

The words popped into her mind and she took instant notice. The best thing to do is to keep yourself occupied.

Determinedly, she got to her feet. Sergeant Innes had gone to a lot of trouble. It was only right that she should enjoy what he'd arranged for her. She recalled Michael telling her that although far from town, the cottage had some degree of electricity downstairs.

‘Upstairs it's candles or oil lamps,' he'd told her.

Her first stop was the kitchen. Besides the eggs and bacon Sergeant Innes told her about, she found bread and cheese, tinned meats and fresh vegetables set in the middle of a simple pine table. She couldn't help wondering whose ration card had been used.

A covered pan containing the toad in the hole was keeping warm on top of a cast-iron range. The coals in the fire bed glowed hot and red. Despite the iron cover, the smell escaped, made her nose tingle and her stomach rumble. However, eating could wait. This was the cottage Michael had earmarked to be their home for the duration of the war – or at least as long as he was stationed here.

There was no gas stove. Not surprising, really. They were in the midst of fertile agricultural land, some of the best in England. She guessed there was no gas for miles. As long as she kept the kitchen door open, the range would heat the house and cook the food. Hunger hadn't been much of an issue the first time she'd been here as she was so worried about Michael. But now he was coming home and she had it in mind to make sure the house was well presented. In the morning, she would explore the garden and pick some flowers, even if she had to put them in jam jars around the house.

BOOK: Home Sweet Home
13.03Mb size Format: txt, pdf, ePub
ads

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