Jean reached Reading without incident. She’d spent much of the short flight coming to terms with the news of Harry Wood’s death, picturing the grief that his parents must suffer and reflecting on how everyone at Rixley would miss him. Such loss was sewn into the fabric of warfare, along with heroic feats on the ground, at sea and in the air. All families in the kingdom were affected, all friends and colleagues left saddened and diminished by these events.
No doubt the Rixley crew would eventually hear from Gordon details of the bombing raid on Northgate. Jean hoped that Harry hadn’t suffered too much, had perhaps been knocked unconscious at the time of the blast and had never come round. Tears welled up when she remembered his unmarked, eager, nineteen-year-old face.
Having made her usual textbook landing and handed over her Spit without fuss to the ground crew, Jean’s mood was subdued as she walked to the canteen to wait for Douglas. Ah, Douglas! The name was enough to conjure up the storm of emotions that she’d kept at bay until the moment earlier that day when she’d stood with him by the pilots’ hatch and he’d said in his halting way that he would never do anything to offend her. She remembered their earlier kiss in the lounge at Burton Grange and the leap of joy in her heart then the uncertainty afterwards, when Douglas had acted so coolly towards her. Have I got this right? she asked herself as she sat and stared out at the usual ferry pool activity – Amazons towing aircraft into position on runways, ground crew running hither and thither, pilots reporting in and signing off at the ops room. I know I care for Douglas, but does he care for me?
Doubt was a state of mind that Jean hadn’t had much practice in dealing with. She liked to be in control, to plan a course through life and stick to it. It seemed that love scuppered such resolve; threw you off balance in a situation where there were no rudder pedals or joystick to correct the steering or adjust the altitude. It was like blind flying without instruments to guide you.
Does he care for me? she wondered again. And how shall I find out?
She studied the sky for signs of Douglas’s Anson. A Lancaster roared down the runway and took off, followed by two Hurricanes. A plane circled high overhead, waiting for the approach to clear. Could this be her taxi-plane?
Another doubt darted into her head: shouldn’t she have tackled the thorny topic of Douglas’s poor hearing as Gillian had suggested? Yes, I should, she told herself firmly. Then, Yes, I will – soon!
Once the sky was clear, the circling plane made its approach. As Jean had suspected, it was the Anson, with Douglas at the controls. She watched anxiously and was relieved to see the pilot crank down the undercarriage and land his aircraft smoothly and without a hitch. Perhaps Gillian had been wrong, after all.
As the propellers of the old reconnaissance aircraft slowed, Douglas unstrapped his harness and peered out through the square windshield. No wonder the damned thing was mostly used as a training aircraft these days. It had taken almost 150 cranks of the handle to lower the undercarriage – an exhausting process that had left him out of breath. The aircraft had been all right in its day, with space for a bomb-aimer to lie prone in the nose section, with the pilot in his cockpit behind and two folding canvas seats to the rear for a wireless operator and a navigator. But these days the RAF demanded more speed and manoeuvrability of its front-line bombers. ‘You’re like me, old girl,’ Douglas muttered as he hitched his lame leg towards the exit door. ‘Practically on the scrap heap.’
‘Stay where you are,’ Jean called from the runway. She’d left the canteen as soon as she’d been sure that it was Douglas’s plane. ‘I’ve already signed us out to save you the bother. We can head straight off.’
So Douglas resumed his seat, restarted the engines and waited for Jean to climb aboard. She chose a fold-up seat directly behind him.
Hitching her parachute pack on to a hook beside her seat, she leaned forward to tap him on the shoulder.
He turned to find her face close to his.
She smiled and kissed him on the cheek. ‘I’m glad to see you,’ she whispered.
He gasped at the touch of her warm lips on his cold skin. Then he smiled back. ‘You’re wonderful, Jean; did you know that?’
‘You’re not so bad yourself.’ She settled into her seat then strapped herself in. ‘Go right ahead, First Officer Thornton; we’re cleared for take-off.’
‘Harry Wood was a grand lad.’ Inside Number 1 hangar at Rixley, Stan tossed a spanner towards the replacement mechanic, a seventeen-year-old cadet named Bob Cross from the Air Training Corps. ‘You’ll have all-on to fill his shoes.’
Bob reached out to catch the spanner like a cricketer fielding a difficult catch. He’d arrived at Rixley on the Tuesday following the Northgate raid. Despite a raw enthusiasm and an eagerness to prove himself, the sallow-faced, dark-haired lad found that he hadn’t exactly been welcomed with open arms. ‘I’ll do my best, sir,’ he assured Stan on the Thursday following his arrival.
‘Your best might not be good enough,’ Stan growled. ‘Pass me that wrench.’
The newcomer stared at a bewildering row of tools set out on Stan’s workbench. ‘Which one?’
Stan continued to lean over the nose cone of the Hurricane that was in for repair. Seemingly he had eyes in the back of his head. ‘Not that one; the big one next to it,’ he muttered impatiently.
Bob rushed to oblige in a pair of overalls hanging at half-mast from his lanky frame.
‘Poor sod.’ Mary stood with Jean at the entrance to the hangar, looking out at a downpour as they listened in on the bad-tempered exchanges between Stan and his hapless new apprentice. The two women were at ease, arms folded and leaning against the hangar door.
‘Stan’s still upset about Harry and who can blame him?’ It was half past eight and Jean and the other pilots had just learned that low cloud would prevent them from flying until after eleven. ‘We all are. What happened in Northgate has put everyone on edge.’
‘Have you heard the rumours that are doing the rounds?’ Mary went on. She was especially disappointed by the delay on this, her fourth day of flying. ‘They say that Jerry has Rixley in his sights again.’
‘They always say that.’ The drumming of rain on the metal roof of the hangar was a depressing sound but Jean tried to make the best of things.
‘Yes, but that doesn’t mean it’s not true. Cameron mentioned that Hilary is taking the threat seriously this time.’ Ah, Cameron! Since Monday Mary had spent three evenings on the trot with him, either walking in the grounds of the Grange or sitting quietly in the Fox and Hounds. He’d been quite open about their blossoming romance whilst Mary, true to form, had felt it was wise to be more circumspect. Wait and see, she’d told herself. If it all goes wrong between us, the fewer people who know about it the better. ‘Of course, fingers crossed the rumours could still be wrong.’
‘Yes; let’s hope so.’ Jean glanced up and saw no break in the clouds. ‘I’m thinking of making a run for it,’ she decided. ‘Are you coming?’
So they sprinted for the canteen where they found Angela also at a loose end.
‘How’s Bobbie’s head?’ Mary asked as she pushed wet strands of hair back from her face and noticed that the room was full of disgruntled, thwarted crew. The windows were steamed up and once more the rain pelted loudly on the roof.
‘Mending slowly but surely.’ All week Angela had taken meals to Bobbie’s room and run around doing her laundry and other chores while the patient recovered. Only that morning she’d changed the dressing on Bobbie’s forehead and seen for herself that the cut was healing well. But Bobbie’s mood was still low and Angela had been unable to coax her out of her room. ‘Jean, you are such a dark horse,’ she began on a different tack.
The accusation startled Jean into thinking of Douglas. ‘Why? What have I done now?’
‘You’re wearing your new flight captain stripes.’ Angela patted the three shiny gold stripes on Jean’s sleeve. ‘Why didn’t you share the good news?’
‘Congratulations!’ Mary cried as Jean blushed.
‘Actually, a little bird did inform me.’ Angela was in one of her teasing moods; her way of overcoming the boredom of not being allowed to fly. ‘A little bird who happens to be sweet on you, as a matter of fact.’
‘Angela, please!’ Desperate for her to keep her voice down before she named Douglas, Jean tried to slide away from the counter with her mug of tea.
‘A little bird whose name begins with S.’
‘S?’ Jean stopped short.
‘Yes; don’t look so surprised. I mean Stan Green; who else?’ Realizing by the look of puzzlement then dismay on Jean’s face that she’d overstepped the mark, Angela quickly backed down. ‘Darling, it’s none of my business. I’m sorry.’
Mary’s eyes opened wide. Could it be true that Stan was keen on Jean? He’d never mentioned anything, but now that Mary considered the possibility she thought there might be something in it. It was a nice enough idea if it turned out to be correct.
‘You’re quite wrong.’ Jean gathered her dignity and prepared to walk away. ‘That’s all I have to say on the matter.’
‘Drat!’ Angela grimaced at Jean’s elegant back view then cast a sideways glance at Mary. ‘Me and my big mouth!’
That evening, after a frustrating afternoon of trying to get as many planes as possible off the ground, Douglas joined Jean in the officers’ mess at the Grange.
‘You look tired,’ she commiserated. ‘Let me get you a drink.’
‘No need; George will bring one across, and one for you too.’ He settled in the easy chair opposite, making the most of the new, relaxed atmosphere between himself and Jean. One kiss of greeting had been all it took to break his resolution to step back. ‘I took the liberty; I hope you don’t mind.’
‘Not at all.’ Jean stifled the urge to lean over and hug him; that would have to wait until the next time they found themselves alone – hopefully tomorrow evening when they planned to visit Gordon in the military hospital in Foxborough. ‘Tired and worried,’ she added.
‘I am, a little,’ Douglas admitted.
‘What about?’
‘The usual.’ Their whiskys arrived and the room began to fill up. Horace had just come in with Agnes and Fred and the trio went to join Angela and Teddy at the bar.
Angela’s choice of a simple but striking white blouse and wide black slacks teamed with a red gypsy bandana made her the centre of attention as usual, Jean noticed.
Douglas followed the direction of Jean’s gaze. ‘Angela puts on a good show; I’ll say that for her.’
‘How do you mean?’
‘You’d never guess that she’s recently had a bad row with her father over staying with the ATA.’ Douglas preferred not to go into too many details, though he’d heard them from Hilary. ‘I admire her for standing up to the old man. She has integrity, whatever else people say.’ The whisky warmed him as it slid down his gullet. ‘Which is more than can be said for our friend over there.’
Jean picked out Teddy from the group. He was casually dressed in an open-necked shirt and cravat, with a tweed jacket, brown trousers and brogues. ‘Has he been up to his old tricks again?’
‘No; I put a permanent stop to that. You remember I hinted that there was something more serious?’ Their renewed intimacy prompted Douglas to take Jean into his confidence. ‘Hilary has an official file on his desk dated August this year. It has Teddy’s name on the front. The form inside had the look of a court martial document, though I can’t be sure.’
‘Good Lord! Can an RAF pilot be court martialled for stealing petrol?’ Jean took a guess at what the file might contain.
‘No, that would bring a simple reprimand from his squadron leader, unless he put someone else in danger or harmed someone by it. That’s a possibility, I suppose.’
They sat in silence, gazing across at Teddy who entertained the others with a tall story. He had one hand around Agnes’s shoulder but was paying more attention to gorgeous, vivacious Angela, while Horace and Fred stayed quietly in the background. There was much smiling and laughter as Teddy rounded off the tale and more drinks were ordered.
When Teddy noticed that Jean and Douglas were staring at him, he broke away and sauntered across with his glass. ‘Now then, you two – mind if I join you?’ he queried jauntily.
‘Come again?’ Douglas failed to catch what Teddy said.
Teddy grinned and took a swig from his glass. ‘Never mind; I can see that three’s a crowd.’ With a wink at Jean he wandered on through the door and into the hall.
‘Did you see that?’ Jean was incensed. ‘Teddy Simpson just winked at me. What a cheek!’
‘Ignore him,’ Douglas said. Jean when angry was quite something. He was fascinated by the colour rising in her cheeks and the flash of fire in her grey eyes. ‘Let’s talk about something more pleasant. ‘What do you say we make a night of it tomorrow after we’ve visited Gordon in the hospital?’
Teddy continued to smile as he went up two flights of stairs to his attic room. High time to pay Bobbie a little visit, he thought.
After Saturday night he’d deliberately played things cool and the tactic seemed to have paid off. People’s memories were mercifully short, so that Bobbie’s appearance half-naked at the edge of Burton Wood was already almost forgotten. There’d been a temporary setback for Teddy when Cameron had investigated the mystery of who had lit the log fire in the grooms’ quarters, but that fuss had also soon died away. Then a major reprieve had come about on Monday after Bobbie’s close encounter with the Focke. The head wound that she’d sustained had kept her in her room ever since.
Teddy whistled as he rummaged in his bottom drawer and found a slim square packet wrapped in cellophane. He tucked it in his jacket pocket, checked his reflection in his shaving mirror, adjusted a stray lock of hair then descended the stairs.
‘Knock-knock!’ He stood outside Bobbie’s room and tapped on the door. Without waiting for an answer, he went in. ‘How’s the patient?’ he asked cheerily.
Sitting in a cane chair by the window, Bobbie gasped. She was dressed in pink silk pyjamas and sat curled up with her feet tucked under her and a book on her lap. Her wavy hair was tied back by a white ribbon to keep it clear of the large dressing on her forehead.
‘I’ve brought you a present to cheer you up.’ As Teddy strolled across the room, he pulled out the cellophane packet and placed it on her open book. ‘A pair of stockings,’ he explained. ‘I guessed your shoe size at four and a half; I hope that’s near enough.’
Bobbie stared at the shiny wrapping. With a shaking hand she whisked the slim packet on to the floor. ‘Get out,’ she hissed.
‘Don’t be like that.’ Teddy stooped to pick it up. ‘I came to find out how you were, that’s all.’
‘I said, get out!’ He leaned over her, close enough for her to smell the whisky on his breath; the same smell as when he’d kissed her and pressed her down on to the mattress. ‘Get out or else I’ll call for help.’
Teddy ignored her, perching on the low window sill and stretching out his legs. He tossed the nylons on to Bobbie’s dressing table then, folding his arms, he leaned back against the cold window pane. ‘Everyone’s downstairs in the bar. No one will hear you.’
Bobbie leapt up and ran frantically for the door, only to find that Teddy had beaten her to it.
He gripped the door knob. ‘Calm down, Bobbie. I thought you’d be pleased to see me.’
She groaned, tried to prise his fingers from the knob then gave up and retreated to the window. ‘What do you want?’
‘I told you: to see how you are and to give you a present. What could possibly be wrong with that?’
‘I don’t want you here. Please leave.’ She stared at him with a mixture of fury and fear.
‘Bobbie,’ he crooned, still standing between her and the door but advancing slowly towards her, ‘whatever is the matter? What is it that I’m supposed to have done wrong?’
‘Don’t come any nearer,’ she warned.
Teddy stopped in the middle of the worn Axminster rug, taking his time to gaze around the room at Bobbie’s hairbrush on the dressing table, next to a gold powder compact and a tube of lipstick. ‘This is the after-effect of Monday’s near miss,’ he surmised. ‘Believe me; shock can do this to a person. It’s made you jumpy for no reason.’
‘Believe you!’ Bobbie echoed. Her whole body was shaking with anger now; how dare Teddy come in without being invited? How dare he look at her things and judge her?
‘Yes,’ he insisted in a low voice. ‘Just hear me out.’
She backed away until she reached the window. ‘No; why should I?’
‘Listen to me,’ he pleaded. ‘About Saturday night; I gather you may have got the wrong end of the stick.’
Bobbie groaned again then put her hands over her ears.
‘We were having such a good time at the Spa Ballroom, remember? Come on now; you can’t deny it.’
Bobbie let her hands drop to her side. Palm trees and a piano, a crush of twirling bodies, Teddy’s hand on her back as they waltzed. Smiling, laughing.
‘There; you see. And after the first few dances, we bumped into Jean and Douglas, which threw a dampener on things for a while but at least we wangled a lift home out of it.’
Drinks at the bar, a band playing. A ride home on the back seat of Douglas’s Ford – Bobbie had no trouble remembering this. Still she kept herself pressed against the window, watching Teddy warily.
‘Douglas drives like an old-age pensioner, so we didn’t reach home until after midnight. We both breathed a sigh of relief when we said goodnight and watched him and Jean disappear into the house.’
A dark night with thick cloud covering the moon. The cobbled stable yard. Tottering in high heels up stone steps. Where? Why?
‘It was late but neither of us was ready to turn in.’ Teddy took two cautious steps forward. ‘We went for a walk. You were cold.’
A black sky. Tottering and shaking. A silver flask with a drink that burned her throat. Flames flickering. Teddy’s voice, his face, with eyes that didn’t reflect what his voice was telling her. ‘No.’ Bobbie warned him not to come any closer.
‘Right you are. I promise I won’t lay a finger on you. I only want to find out why you’re so on edge.’
‘I don’t … I didn’t …’ Particles of memory collapsed like soot falling down a chimney, blackening everything in the hearth below.
‘You were cold so I lit a fire,’ Teddy reminded her. ‘You never gave me any sign that you weren’t willing.’ He went carefully, studying her reaction, watching her eyelids flicker, hearing her broken intake of breath. ‘If you had, I would have stopped straight away.’
Bobbie shook her head. ‘I don’t …’ Remember.
‘I would never hurt you; you know that?’
Slowly she nodded.
‘I took care of you, Bobbie. It’s obviously a bit of a blur to you at the moment but afterwards I made sure you got safely back to your room and so on.’
A black layer of guilt covered events that could never be washed away. No memory of her room but of trees, wind and wandering barefoot until dawn.
‘You believe me, don’t you?’ Teddy waited and when Bobbie didn’t reply, he decided to take a calculated risk. ‘Ask Douglas if you can’t recall the exact details. He was here when we came back to the house; he definitely saw me take you up to your room.’
‘Douglas saw us?’ She closed her eyes and slumped forward, wilting under the burden of fresh shame.
‘Don’t worry; Douglas is unshockable. He’s seen it all before.’
‘Go away – please!’ Bobbie breathed. She felt for the chair and sank down.
Teddy judged that he’d done enough for the time being. ‘I can see you’re tired,’ he sympathized. ‘Can I get you anything?’
‘No. Please just go.’
He smiled and nodded. ‘I’ll leave your stockings there on the dressing table.’
Bobbie didn’t reply. She closed her eyes and felt she would be sick. Opening them again at the click of the closing door, she gulped in air, forced back tears and then leaned sideways to press her burning cheek against the smooth, black window pane. In all her life she had never felt so alone.