The Greatcoat (6 page)

This time she didn’t hesitate. She walked past the deserted guardhouse and into dereliction. Stronger than ever, the wind buffeted her. Impossible to believe that the airfield had been peopled only seven years ago. Isabel stepped lightly. The roads were broken up and there was mud everywhere. There had always been mud, she remembered, in those wartime
winters
. The men had lived in it, cycling from Nissen hut to Nissen hut. They needed their bikes, her aunt had said, when a sergeant’s tyres were slashed by one of the local boys, outside the Green Man. It was sabotage, said her aunt. It was because of a girl, Charlie told Isabel later.

She wished she had a bike now. She was so small and insignificant, just a dab of life that could be squashed out by a finger. She remembered the vastness of the Lancasters when they lumbered over the sky. Isabel wandered on, past the hangars, drawn as if by a magnet to the main runway. She looked down its length, which disappeared into the distance. No aircraft could land on it now. Maybe time and harsh winters had ploughed up the surface; maybe it had been damaged deliberately, for reasons that Isabel couldn’t fathom.

The wind moaned on the perimeter. The feeling of fear was in her again. She had braved it to come here, but still it was stronger than her. It seemed as if she could put out her hand and touch thousands of lives which had never ended but had broken off into a silence that hung more heavily than any noise. They were here, she knew it. The men on their motorbikes who raced the green lanes, or hauled their Lancs into the air with a thunder that made the walls of her childhood bedroom vibrate.

They were not here. They were gone, the survivors back into their lives, the dead wherever the dead go. They would never again ease those huge black machines forward from the dispersal pans, and guide them along the narrow concrete taxiways, onto the chosen runway. She and Charlie had looked up into the air crew’s faces, and heard their tales. Not about ops – they never talked about them, and she and Charlie knew better than to ask. But they liked to talk about their Lancs.

The wind blew grit at her and she closed her eyes. It was time to go, and not come back here again. All of it was over and there were good reasons why the place had been abandoned. It was a hostilities-only bomber station, like the one she and Charlie had haunted, pedalling out there on their bikes, getting as close as they could.

She walked away westward. The pall of cloud was breaking up into red streaks of sunset. She turned and saw its reflection pulse at the top of the control tower, where the glass must still be unbroken. Light flashed, and flashed again.

That night Philip wasn’t on call. He came home with a bottle of cider and two packets of crisps. Isabel poked the fire until sparks flew and tuned the
wireless
to the Light Programme. Sure enough, there was dance music.

‘But you’re tired,’ she said, seeing how Philip lay back in his chair. He took a deep draught of cider and smiled at her.

‘You can have my salt too,’ he said.

Isabel emptied both blue-paper twists of salt into her own bag, held the top and shook hard. She ate her crisps one by one, with slow greed. Philip put down his empty glass and she reached to fill it, but he laid his hand over the top. ‘I might be going out later.’

‘But you’re not on call tonight.’

‘No, but the district nurse rang in about an emphysema case.’

‘Is Dr Ingoldby ever on call, or does he sit at home holding Janet’s wool every single evening?’

‘It’s all valuable experience, Is. You knew it would be like this.’

‘Yes, I knew.’

‘Isn’t there a play on or something?’

‘Don’t you like the music?’

‘It’s all right. If you like it, keep it on.’

It was quarter to ten when the phone rang. Philip leaped up to answer it. She heard his voice through the bedroom doorway, his telephone voice, clear and professional. She heard him take down symptoms and directions. He didn’t know his way to the house
of
every patient in the practice yet, but at this rate he soon would, she thought.

When he was gone she cleared away glasses and crisp packets, and re-stoppered the cider bottle. After a moment’s thought she unstoppered it again, poured out another glass and drank it off like medicine. Her head buzzed. She would fall into bed, into the darkest of slumbers where she would think of nothing.

Isabel dreamed of the Lancasters. They came over so low and heavy that it seemed they must lose their grip on the air and plunge down, loaded with bombs, onto the sleeping village. She lay tense, willing them higher. The roof above her was transparent and she stared straight up at the belly of the aircraft that was passing over, and then she could see through metal, too, and there were the men, the pilot like a coal heaver at the controls, the flight engineer alongside him helping to push the throttles forward to get the laden beast into the night sky.

Through the thunder of engines she heard him knocking. This time she knew at once who it was. Her eyes flew open and she grasped the coat to her. He would be at the window in the other room, just as before. This time she wouldn’t be a coward. She would go and see what it was he wanted. He must
have
been drinking in the town, she thought, and lost his way. He needed directions.

In the dark she slid back the curtain again, and there he was. The street lamp lit him and he raised his hand to the window again, but this time he didn’t tap on it. He spread out his hand flat on the glass, all the while looking at Isabel. She clutched the coat to her. Her brain was still fogged with the noise of engines. She shook her head, but the sound would not shake out. He was looking at her intently, waiting for something. All at once she understood what it was, and lifted her own left hand, to match his right, and laid it on the glass. They did not quite match, because his hand was broader and longer than hers and so she could still see its outline, seeming to hold her own hand within it. There was nothing between them now but the thinnest possible layer of glass. It felt cold, and then warmer, as if her own body heat were penetrating it. She stood there entranced, and then she saw that his lips were moving. They were forming the shape of her name.

‘Is-a-bel. Is-a-bel,’ he was saying, though whether aloud or not she couldn’t tell. He was on the other side of the glass.

Glass can break, she thought, and fear leaped in her and then died down. She could see that he was not the kind of man to put his fist through a window.
Their
hands held still on the glass, and she thought she could feel his heat. At that moment his hand fell. He sketched a brief, humorous salute, turned, climbed easily over the railings and was away down the street. There was another street light on the corner, and as he passed under it his outline showed as clear and sharp as broken glass, before he turned left and disappeared into the shadows.

Isabel let the curtain drop, and pulled it into place. She hadn’t realised until now how fast her heart was beating, and she was warm inside the coat, warm as she had never been before in the cold flat.

Now she thought for the first time: How did he know my name? It had seemed quite natural that he should know it, when they were face to face. He could easily have heard Philip calling her, from one room to another. It wasn’t hard to find out a person’s name.

It was clear to her now that he wasn’t a stranger. He was familiar with the area. He must be stationed nearby. He’d come into Kirby Minster for the night and lost his way … But surely that couldn’t happen twice? It was queer to knock twice at the same window, when you knew no one within the house. And the way he had mouthed her name …

The thoughts pattered through her head, logical, sensible, but deep inside her something thrilled like a string under tension. She should be afraid of him, she thought. But how could she be afraid? I won’t think about it now, she decided. I’ll leave it until tomorrow.

She knew now that she would say nothing to Philip. If she did, he would be furious. He would make enquiries, and call the man a peeping Tom. The RAF officer would not come again. Isabel spread the greatcoat carefully over her side of the bed and crept under it. Everything was quiet now. She huddled down tightly, arms crossed over her breasts, knees drawn up, but not because she was cold. She held herself like someone hiding a secret.

‘Who’s that? What are you doing? Phil?’

‘Hush, Is, I’m bringing in the logs.’

‘What?’

The light was on in the living room and through the open door she saw Philip drag a sack to the fireplace. He looked like a hunter bringing home the trussed body of an antelope.

‘I’ve got the logs!’ he called softly, triumphant.

‘But it’s the middle of the night.’

‘It’s almost seven.’

‘And you haven’t even been to bed.’

‘Don’t worry about me. I kipped down for a couple of hours at the Walkers’ after I’d got old man Walker comfortable. The oxygen cylinder valve was faulty, that was the problem, but luckily I had another cylinder in the car. He needed ephedrine too – I’ll have to have a word with the district nurse – Anyway, young Walker filled up the boot while I was asleep.’

Isabel got out of bed, wrapped her dressing gown around her and went into the kitchen.

‘I don’t care if you’ve had two hours’ sleep or not, I’m going to cook you some breakfast and then you’re going to bed. You can’t live like this.’

But she knew already that he wouldn’t listen, lit up as he was with fatigue and success. Those dour, wordless farmers had thanked him. He was part of their lives.

She broke eggs into the frying pan and beat them with a wooden spoon while his toast browned under the grill. She would feed him at least, if he wouldn’t sleep. Behind her, the logs were already flaring. He’d used firelighters, which usually he wouldn’t countenance.

‘Look at this! They’re apple wood, and it’s seasoned,’ he said. ‘They cleared out the old orchard last year.’

His face was eager as a boy’s. He was happy with his life, she thought. They wouldn’t have had this fire, but for him. Old man Walker would still be gasping
for
breath if Philip hadn’t known what to do for him. It was typical of Philip to carry a spare oxygen cylinder in the car. No, she thought, ‘happy’ wasn’t exactly the word. It was more that Philip belonged in his own life … Well, she’d known that before. It had struck her because she so often seemed to be on the outside of her life, looking in, not sure whether she wanted to enter it or not.

‘Come and get warm, Is,’ he called.

‘I’m not cold,’ she said, and was surprised to discover that this was true.

‘You’re always cold.’

She buttered his toast, slid the eggs onto it and carried his plate through to the living room. She saw that he was reluctant to leave his fire, but he went to the table and as soon as he sat down began to wolf the eggs and toast, as if he had just discovered how hungry he was. His eyes were on the textbook which she’d pushed to the side of the table. He always kept a book there so he could absorb information at odd moments. She knew he wanted to pick it up now and make use of the time, but was holding back for her sake. She went over to the fire and spread her hands to the blaze. The smoky sweetness of the wood made her eyes sting.

Philip was already getting up from the table. He would have a strip-wash in the cold cloakroom, a
clean
shirt, and then he would be on his way to morning surgery.

‘I’ve made your sandwiches. They’re in the meat-safe,’ she said, rising from the fireside.

‘Thanks. What are you up to today, Is?’

‘I’m going for coffee with Janet Ingoldby,’ she said quickly, to shield her empty day from him, and then wished she hadn’t. He might mention it to Dr Ingoldby. ‘At least I think I am. But you know how hopeless I am with dates.’

‘That’s nice.’

‘And I’m going to make a steak-and-kidney pudding for tonight. You will be home in time, won’t you?’

‘Ought to be. Where’s my shaving soap, Is?’

‘On the chest of drawers. And there’s hot water in the kettle.’

When he was gone she would pile the fire high. It wouldn’t matter for once. She would make herself busy all day; it would probably take most of it for her to achieve the steak-and-kidney pudding. After that she would measure the chairs and work out how much fabric it would take to re-cover them. She would read a chapter of
Lettres de mon moulin
, to keep her hand in.

By midday, Isabel was deep in flour. She’d rolled out the suet pastry, but it wouldn’t make a smooth
sheet
as it did in the book; it kept crumbling. Perhaps she hadn’t used enough suet. Her hair slipped forward and she pushed it back behind her ears.

The doorbell rang. Isabel moved quickly, to forestall the landlady. Mrs Atkinson always tried to answer the flat’s doorbell as well as her own. But this time there was no one on the stairs or in the hall. She must be out. Isabel wiped her hands on her apron, unlocked the door and opened it, thinking of the milkman come with his bill, or the grocer’s boy with a forgotten item—

But it was him. Of course. She looked at him: his uniform, the shape of him. He was neither smiling nor serious. He looked at ease, as if expected. Yes, she thought, and her hands dropped to her sides. She was open, defenceless. It was him. Who else could it have been?

HE WAS A
tall, fair man, strongly built. He had the Viking look of men from the far north-east. He was not quite smiling at her.

‘Aren’t you going to let me in?’ he asked, and looked beyond her, into the hall. ‘There’s no one here, is there?’ He said ‘no one’ as if it were a code word for a name they both knew but would not speak. Isabel shook her head. It was true: the house behind her was empty. She was sure the landlady had gone out. Why does he speak to me like that, as if he knows me, she asked herself, not sure if she should feel offence, or fear. But she knew she was neither offended nor afraid.

‘I’m all over flour,’ she said, in place of the other things that crowded in her head.