The Greatcoat

About the Book

About the Author

Also by Helen Dunmore

Title Page

Dedication

Prologue

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Copyright

In the winter of 1952, Isabel Carey moves to the East Riding of Yorkshire with her husband Philip, a GP. With Philip spending long hours on call, Isabel finds herself isolated and lonely as she strives to adjust to the realities of married life.

Woken by intense cold one night, she discovers an old RAF greatcoat hidden in the back of a cupboard. Sleeping under it for warmth, she starts to dream. And not long afterwards, while her husband is out, she is startled by a knock at her window.

Outside is a young RAF pilot, waiting to come in.

His name is Alec, and his powerful presence both disturbs and excites her. Her initial alarm soon fades, and they begin an intense affair. But nothing has prepared her for the truth about Alec’s life, nor the impact it will have on hers …

Helen Dunmore is an internationally acclaimed writer whose works includes novels, poetry, short stories and writing for children. She has won the Orange prize for
A Spell of Winter
, the McKitterick Prize and first prize in the National Poetry Competition; she has also been shortlisted for both the T S Eliot Prize and the Whitbread Novel Award. Her books have been translated into twenty-eight languages, and she is a Fellow of the Royal Society of Literature.
The Greatcoat
is her first ghost story.

By the same author

The Betrayal

Zennor in Darkness

Burning Bright

A Spell of Winter

Talking to the Dead

Your Blue-Eyed Boy

With Your Crooked Heart

The Siege

Mourning Ruby

House of Orphans

Counting the Stars

To Jane

IT WAS SIX-THIRTY
; two and a half hours since briefing. The men stood around outside the locker room, waiting for crew buses to take them to the aircraft at their dispersals. All day it had been raining, off and on. Cold, wintry East Riding rain. At three the cloud had hung so low that the treetops were hidden. It looked as if ops would be scrubbed again, but then a light wind chased the murk away. They were on. They were going to the big city.

In the locker room earlier, Alec had given Jimmy a ten-bob note. Jimmy had stared at it blankly.

‘What’s this, Skip?’

‘You won your bet, remember?’

Jimmy folded the note and stowed it carefully with his valuables, in his locker. He’d given his winnings to Alec for safe keeping, so he wouldn’t drink them. Now the ten-bob note was locked away with the
letter
to Phyll he’d written years ago, it seemed; but it was really only months ago, before the crew’s first op. It wasn’t the kind of letter he’d want her to keep, if it came to that. He hadn’t known what to put. He ought to write another, a proper letter she and the kid could be proud of, but he hadn’t got round to it.

‘Bloody jammy bastard,’ said Douggie. ‘I’d have made you go two hundred yards.’

‘Bloody good navigation if you ask me,’ said Jimmy. He was only twenty-two but he had a wife and baby, and ten bob was ten bob. He’d cycled a hundred yards in a straight line with a Waaf on the handlebars, another on the crossbar and a third pillion, and had won his bet. Balance had been the problem but they’d been grounded for two days by fog, and intensive training had paid off.

‘Bang on,’ said Alec.

Jimmy and Les lit cigarettes, heads together. Laney, next to Alec, began to growl under his breath to the tune of ‘Deutschland, Deutschland über Alles’:

We don’t want to go to Chopland

We don’t want to go at all

We don’t want to go to Chopland

Where our chances are f***-all
…

No one reacted. It was what Laney did every time, before they got on the crew bus. Now buses pulled up and crew names were shouted into the raw dark. Alec’s stomach burned as it always did. He knew it would stop as soon as he was back inside K-Katie. His mind was fogged with thoughts of Elizabeth but he knew that they too would dissolve. He would be clear as he always was, checking instruments, intercom, controls.

‘Got your gloves, Skip?’

‘Got my gloves,’ Alec confirmed.

His silk gloves were lucky. Each time he climbed into Katie he touched her with them. Each of the crew had his own luck, but they all believed in the Skipper’s gloves. He wore them under two other pairs: chamois leather and wool. He never wore his gauntlets. They were clumsy, and in them he couldn’t get a feel for the controls. He didn’t tell his crew about the other good-luck charm, the private one.

The men swayed in the dim blue light as the bus bounced along the perimeter track. He watched the back of the Waaf who was driving. She had red hair and a big freckly smile for them when they had clambered on, heavy in their flying kit. No one spoke. They were wound up now and they needed to be doing. He checked his crew over in his mind. Jimmy OK, Douggie OK, Les you never had to ask, Syd was
A1
again after missing two ops due to a throat infection, Laney OK – but for the whole two days Rod hadn’t been able to stop binding on about the fog. Alec had said nothing, but he’d heard the edge in Rod’s voice and seen the quick, cautious way the others glanced at him. The fog had been bad for everyone. They were too near the end of their tour now, and they didn’t want to be messed around. Twenty-seventh op tonight; after tonight, only three to go. You just wanted it over but you knew you couldn’t think like that. Trying to get things over with was what led to mistakes. Ops being posted and then scrubbed got on everyone’s nerves. You started thinking: If we’d gone ahead last night then we’d be on twenty-eight now, only two more to go after tonight.
Tour expired
. Even to think about it was dangerous. It was like looking directly at the Aldis lamp as you taxied down the runway, instead of letting it register at the side of your field of vision. That was the way to lose the sharpness you’d built up: the power to see into the dark that swelled all the way from here to Berlin. He wasn’t going to make that mistake.

You stupid bastard, he told himself, you’re already making it.

ISABEL SAT BACK
on her heels and watched flames spring up in the grate. They were pale and there was no heat in them. She was cold, she was tired, her back ached and her eyes stung – from the smoke, of course. But at least the fire was lit. As long as she looked only at the blue and yellow flames, she could begin to feel at home. The room was so dark, even with the light on. It was crammed with furniture and it smelled of Brussels sprouts.

Philip opened the door. His arms were piled with medical textbooks, right up to his chin. His eyes searched Isabel’s face as she turned to him.

‘Are you warming up a bit?’

‘I’m fine.’

‘You’re too thin, that’s what it is.’

‘I’m not one of your patients, Philip.’

Awkwardly, as he watched, she stood up.

‘I went to the butcher and got a meat pie, just as they were closing,’ said Philip proudly. ‘It was off the ration.’

‘You didn’t!’ He had braved the queue of head-scarved women, all looking sideways at him and maybe clicking their tongues at his presence.
Eh, dear, what’s his wife thinking of
? He hadn’t cared about his dignity, or the fact that although they might not yet know he was the new doctor, come to work in Dr Ingoldby’s practice, they would recognise him soon enough. Isabel reached out and touched Philip’s hand. ‘That was very clever of you,’ she said.

His lean face softened. ‘You only need to put it in the oven,’ he said.

‘I brought the potatoes with us,’ said Isabel, ‘and those carrots. They’re a bit old, but I cut out the worst bits.’

They had been children of wartime and all they asked of food was that it should fill them. Isabel was a poor cook. Fortunately Philip’s mother was no better, and after years of national service and medical school, he was hardened. He never complained, and he was as proud as Isabel when she brought her watery stews and dense cakes to the table.

They had been married for two months. This was
their
first home together, after an eight-week eternity of living with Philip’s parents in their narrow house where bed springs cracked like whips and the flush of the lavatory was the bellow of a caged water-dragon. His parents wanted Isabel to call them Mother and Father, as if she and Philip were still children, and siblings. But they were grown-ups. Philip had his first job. Isabel would set up home.

‘I’ll be working all the hours God sends,’ Philip had warned her.

Footsteps crossed the floor above their heads. Slow, heavy, deliberate. All the way to the window they went, and all the way back. The landlady. Philip knew her, because he had handled the negotiations for the flat. The rent was too high, but with the housing shortage it was what you had to expect. Isabel had only glimpsed Mrs Atkinson’s ponderous back-view, clad in a grey working pinafore, disappearing upstairs. That was her idea of welcome, evidently. Their flat was on the ground floor, with a sitting room that looked over the road, a bedroom at the back, and off the bedroom a pokey kitchen with a wooden-lidded bath taking up most of the space. There was a cloakroom in the hall: you had to go out of the flat each time you wanted what the landlady called ‘the facilities’.

‘The facilities are shared,’ she had told Philip grimly. ‘No personal effects are to be left there.’

‘I don’t see why. There aren’t any other tenants,’ Philip told Isabel.