Nightingales Under the Mistletoe (38 page)

But in spite of their brave faces and determination to carry on with business as usual, she was sure that they felt the loss of their comrades very keenly. Millie had been racking her brains all day to come up with a way she could help them, and she'd finally had the idea of allowing the men to hold a service of remembrance in Billinghurst's private chapel. It wouldn't bring their friends back, but it might help if they were allowed to show their respect properly.

Millie went up to the house to see William and tell him about her idea. But it wasn't just the memorial service that was on her mind. All day long she'd been thinking about their kiss. She wanted to find out if it had been just an impulse brought on by the heat of the moment, or if, as she hoped, it was the start of something more serious.

Jennifer Franklin and Agnes Moss were typing away at their desks when she walked into the hall. They greeted her in their usual way, Franklin with a polite smile and Moss with a scowl.

‘Where is Squadron Leader Tremayne?' Millie asked.

She caught the sideways look Agnes Moss gave Jennifer Franklin, but this time she had too much confidence to let the girl's sly attitude bother her.

‘He's on the airfield, Lady Amelia,' Franklin said. ‘Would you like to leave a message?'

‘Thank you, there's no need. I'll walk up there and see him myself.'

‘You'll have to be quick,' Agnes Moss muttered, not looking up from her typing. ‘He's due for take off in ten minutes.'

Millie looked at her, not sure if she'd heard properly. ‘He's flying tonight?'

‘According to the schedule,' Agnes shrugged. ‘He's co-pilot of G-Grasshopper.'

Millie ran all the way up to the airfield. She reached the guardhouse just in time to see the planes taxiing into position on the runway. There were six of them lined up, one after another.

One of the ground crew was passing, and lifted his hand in greeting.

‘If you're looking for Tremayne, he's just taking off,' he shouted over the deafening sound of half a dozen Halifax engines roaring into life.

Millie watched the planes soaring into the sky, her heart in her mouth. It was an awesome, terrifying sight.

She went back to the Lodge, but couldn't rest or eat. She tried to play with Henry to distract herself, but she kept looking out of the window.

Of course her grandmother commented on it. ‘Really, Amelia, will you sit still? You're up and down like a Jack in the Box. What are you looking for anyway?'

‘Nothing, Granny.' But she kept her nose pressed against the glass, straining to hear the tell-tale sound of aircraft engines telling her William had returned safely.

It was exhausting. Every nerve in her body seemed stretched to breaking point, just waiting for news.

It was nearly midnight when she heard the roar of the planes overhead, by which time she had lain awake for several hours, imagining flak storms and diving German fighters, and burning planes crashing into the sea. She got up and dressed quickly, throwing on her coat against the chilly February night.

William was climbing down from the cockpit by the time she reached the airfield. He'd taken off his helmet and his dark hair was ruffled. His flying suit emphasised the long, lean lines of his body.

He saw Millie standing at the end of the runway and strode towards her. ‘Hello, what are you doing here?'

‘Waiting for you.'

‘That's nice.' He opened his arms to her, but Millie held herself back.

‘Why didn't you tell me you were flying?'

‘I didn't know myself until this morning. A few of the rookie pilots were a bit unnerved by what happened last night, so I was told to take a couple of them up and show them how it's done.' He was smiling, but Millie's face was too rigid to respond.

‘And will you be flying again?'

‘Probably. We've been losing so many men lately, I'm likely to be back on active service within the next month, if not sooner.' He tugged at the straps of his gloves with his teeth to loosen them. ‘Why do you ask?'

‘I don't want you to fly.'

He stopped, halfway through peeling off his gloves, and stared at her. ‘What?'

‘I don't want you to fly. It's too dangerous.'

He smiled uncertainly, as if he wasn't sure if she was joking or not. ‘I don't think I've got much choice in the matter!' he said. ‘Besides, I want to go. It's my duty. How can I send those boys up if I'm not willing to go myself?'

He was talking but Millie wasn't listening to him. She was thinking about the hours she'd just spent lying awake, her heart pounding with fear, waiting for him to come home. She couldn't put herself through that again, night after night. Not after losing Seb the same way.

‘What if something happened to you?' she whispered.

‘Nothing will happen, I promise.'

‘How can you say that? How can you make a promise like that after what happened last night?' Her voice shook.

William looked at her for a long time. ‘You're right, I can't,' he said flatly. ‘But as I said, I don't have a choice in the matter.'

‘No, but I do,' Millie said quietly.

‘What do you mean?' He frowned.

‘I mean I can't allow myself to – be with you if this is the kind of life you lead. I don't want to get hurt again. I don't think I could bear it.' She lowered her gaze. ‘I think we should end this before it goes too far.'

William stared at her. ‘You don't mean that,' he said flatly.

‘I do. I'm sorry, William, but I've already been through enough heartache. I can't do it again. I'm not strong enough.'

‘Or you don't care enough?'

His words lingered in the air behind her as she walked away.

Oh, William, she thought. Couldn't he see, she already cared far too much?

THE TINY CHAPEL
at Billinghurst Manor was full for the remembrance service. The pews were a sea of slate-blue uniforms, while more airmen crowded in at the back with the locals. It seemed as if everyone in Billinghurst had come to pay their respects to the airmen they had taken to their hearts.

Squarely at the front of the chapel, as usual, sat Mrs Huntley-Osborne, surrounded by her cronies. She bristled with self-righteousness, as if the entire congregation was there for her benefit. The rest of the village filled the sides of the chapel.

Daisy sat at the back with the other nurses. Many of her friends were sniffing back tears, handkerchiefs pressed to their faces. At the far end of the row, Janet Carr sat with her back perfectly straight, staring unblinkingly ahead of her. Her fiancé David had been navigator on the ill-fated D-Dragon flight that night.

Max sat a few rows in front of her, his head bowed. Daisy fixed her gaze on the shorn blond hair at the back of his neck. She felt so sorry for him, she couldn't hate him any more. He had lost his best friend, and anyone could see it had drained the life from him.

She wasn't the only one watching him. On the other side of the chapel, Grace sat perfectly composed, staring at Max. There was a raw yearning in the way she looked at him, her hands folded in her lap as if to stop herself reaching out for him.

As if he knew he was being watched, Max turned his head slightly and caught her eye. Both of them looked away sharply, their gazes dropping to the ground.

Daisy felt a pang. She tried to tell herself it wasn't her doing, but she couldn't fight the feeling of guilt that overwhelmed her. There was already too much unhappiness in the world, and she couldn't help feeling as if she'd brought about even more.

The chapel door opened behind her, and a sudden hush fell over the congregation. Turning round, Daisy saw why. Sarah Newland had walked in, her baby in her arms. Her pale face and fiery red hair contrasted dramatically with the shabby black coat she wore.

The silence lasted a second or two, then broke into a hubbub of whispers.

‘Look at her!'

‘What's she doing here? She should know better than to show her face.'

‘Bold as brass, that one.'

‘Fancy bringing that child into a house of God.'

The tide of whispers followed her, but Sarah seemed determined not to be aware of them as she made her way to the far side of the chapel, head held high, baby clasped to her shoulder. But Daisy could see the scarlet flush rising up her neck.

She reached the area where the villagers stood, packed shoulder to shoulder, almost as if they were forming a wall against her.

‘May I find a space, please?' Sarah's voice was quiet and clear, making a challenge.

Everyone ignored her. Then, suddenly, a voice rang out from the front.

‘Here, you may take my seat.'

A collective gasp echoed around the chapel. Even the British and Canadian airmen who knew nothing of village life seemed to be aware that something interesting was happening as Mrs Huntley-Osborne rose from her place on the front pew and stepped aside.

Sarah stood frozen, her expression wary. For what seemed like an endless moment, the two women stared at each other across the width of the chapel. Then, slowly and cautiously, Sarah moved towards Mrs Huntley-Osborne.

‘Thank you,' she whispered.

‘We can't have you standing with a baby, can we?'

Almost immediately, both of the people beside Sarah jumped to their feet to offer Mrs Huntley-Osborne their seat. She placed herself down on Sarah's right. The two of them sat side by side, neither of them speaking or even looking at each other. But Daisy was aware, as were most of the villagers, that a momentous shift had occurred.

She glanced across at Grace to see if she'd noticed it too, before she remembered that they weren't on speaking terms. A cloud of loneliness settled over her then. It was at times like this that she missed her sister more than ever.

After the service, Grace slipped quickly out of the chapel. Daisy saw Max looking for her. He stood like a mighty oak, his big frame towering above the rest of the congregation as they filed past him towards the doors.

Daisy wormed her way through the crowd until she was standing behind him.

‘If you're looking for Grace, she's already left.'

‘Oh.' His broad shoulders slumped in dejection.

Daisy hesitated, not sure what to say next. She had always struggled to make conversation with Max. Not like Grace, who seemed to be able to chat away to him for hours …

‘I'm sorry – about Harry,' Daisy ventured. ‘It's such a terrible thing for his wife. She must be heartbroken.'

‘He was due to go home next month.'

‘No! How awful.'

Max nodded. ‘Just a few more weeks and we would have been safe and sound in Canada.'

It took a moment for Daisy to register what he'd said. ‘We? Are you going back to Canada too?'

‘Yes.' For the first time, his frowning gaze flicked to meet hers. ‘I thought Grace would have told you.'

Daisy lowered her gaze. ‘Grace and I aren't on speaking terms.'

‘Told me what?'

‘So you won't know that I asked her to come with me? Daisy's mouth fell open with shock. She'd had no idea that Max's feelings for her sister ran so deep. ‘What did she say?'

‘What do you think?' His eyes turned to chips of ice. ‘She turned me down. Said she couldn't leave her family.'

Daisy was silent, shaken by his revelation. ‘But I don't understand,' she said. ‘She could have had a new life …'

‘I guess she prefers her old one.' Max shrugged.

Daisy pictured her sister's yearning face as she'd watched him in the chapel. It was exactly the same expression she saw on his face now.

Jess couldn't face the service in the chapel. She'd woken up on Sunday morning with the same pounding headache behind her temples that she'd had ever since the day Harry died. It wouldn't go away, even with the aspirin Miss Carrington had given her.

Even so, she'd tried to go, for Harry's sake. As soon as her night duty finished, she'd walked up the lane to the tiny stone-built chapel in the grounds of Billinghurst Manor. But as soon as she walked in, she realised she couldn't do it. It was too hot and too crowded, and she could feel clammy perspiration blossoming all over her body just from being there, crushed in by people on every side. As everyone else took their seats, Jess had slipped outside, gulping in the cold, fresh air as if her life depended on it.

Now she took refuge by the ornamental fountain, soothed by the bubbling water and the darting fish in the pond's murky depths.

There were six new sets of initials carved into the stonework, the letters fresh and white against the mellow grey stone. Jess quickly found the one she was looking for: HT. Harry Turner. And there, underneath it, was the date the plane had crashed,
28
February
1942
.

Jess traced the letters with the tip of her finger, but they still didn't seem real to her.

Why have a tribute at all? she wondered. Why constantly remind themselves he was dead? Wasn't it easier to keep him alive in their minds, as if he'd just popped outside for a smoke? Then they wouldn't have to face the unbearable pain of knowing they would never see him again.

Either that, or they should forget him completely. What was it Christina Rossetti said in her poem? ‘Better by far you should forget and smile/Than that you should remember and be sad.' It would make no difference to Harry whether they mourned him or not, and it was surely easier for everyone than sobbing in the chapel, wringing their hands and feeling sorry for themselves.

As she had written in her last letter to Sam, it was far better to try and put it behind them and get on with life. That's what Harry would have wanted, and that's what Jess was trying to do. But her friends wouldn't have it. Daisy and Effie followed her around, watching her closely, as if they expected her to break into hysteria at any moment.