‘Red Leader, this is Acorn. Vector zero six fife at angels two zero.’
‘Acorn, Red Leader. Received and understood.’ Peter kept his eyes on his compass as he banked his Hurricane, climbing steadily. He hated night flying. With the blackout, there were no lights to be seen, no features on the ground to fix on. He had to trust his instruments completely. The worst thing was not having a visual check on his height. Horror stories abounded of pilots who had ended up ploughing their aeroplanes into the ground, convinced they were still well above ground-level.
However, with enemy bombers making nightly raids across England, targeting factories and homes alike, they had no option but to try and intercept them before more civilians lost their lives. His stomach tightened as he realised the vector Oldbourne Ops had sent would take his patrol through Surrey. No doubt it was an attempt to intercept bombers heading for London. He shuddered to think of bombs flattening more houses. How many people would die tonight if he didn’t intercept and stop the raid? Everyone had seen the newsreels showing houses reduced to matchwood and people scavenging in the ruins for the remnants of their possessions, but to him the images were personal. A sign of his failure.
He shut his mind to the horrific images. He needed all his concentration to find and destroy this latest wave of bombers. The trouble was, finding a Staffel of bombers before they could release their payload was next to impossible in the dark. The Chain Home network was directed out to sea. It could track enemy aircraft until they reached the coast; after that the RAF depended upon observers on the ground. This worked well in daylight – and had proved their salvation during the Battle of Britain – but at night the observers couldn’t see what was in the sky. It usually needed a piece of luck such as a searchlight beam catching a wing tip to give away a bomber’s location.
He glanced at his instrument panel again. According to his readings, he should be approaching the target. He leaned over to peer through his canopy, twisting his neck to look behind then scanning the blackness for any sign of enemy bombers. A crescent moon came out from behind a cloud, and Peter glimpsed a silvery glow far below. It must be the moonlight reflecting on water – probably a river – but it was impossible to make out any landmarks to pinpoint his location.
Dark shadows blotted out the light. Instantly Peter was tense and alert. More clouds or enemy aircraft? He craned his neck and squinted up at the moon, but whatever had briefly blocked the moonlight had gone past. Where were the searchlights?
Then he caught another glimpse of movement below and slightly to the right.
He toggled on his radio and spoke to the rest of his flight. ‘Bogey at one o’clock. Below us. Move to intercept.’
He sideslipped, craning his neck to search for another glimpse of the unidentified aircraft. It had to be the enemy; surely Ops would tell him if there were friendly aircraft in the area. If they could only keep the element of surprise, it gave them a chance to stop the bombers before they reached their target. After days of failing to find the aircraft they’d been sent to intercept, the whole squadron was desperate for a win. Although he told his men every day that the nightly bombings weren’t their fault, it was impossible not to feel crushed by guilt when news of each night’s atrocities filtered through. If only they’d tried harder, looked in the right place, maybe the women and children being pulled dead from the wreckage would still be alive. He’d never thought he could miss the exhausting days of the Battle of Britain, when he’d been senior controller in the Ops Room at Amberton, but now he was almost nostalgic for that phase of the war. Then it had been pilot against pilot. A clean fight. Then the Luftwaffe had been intent upon destroying the RAF. Now they had moved their attention to civilian targets, and no one in Britain was under any illusions about the ugliness of war.
A beam of white light stabbed the air, closely followed by another and another. Searchlights. Peter jumped as an explosion to starboard rocked his machine. The anti-aircraft gunners had started up. Another hazard of night flying was having to dodge the ack-ack from your own gunners.
One of the silvery rays struck a wing maybe a hundred feet below. Immediately more beams homed in and finally captured their prey: a Heinkel. Peter dived, his thumb twitching over the firing button.
‘Wait for it,’ he muttered. Despite the temptation to fire, he resisted, knowing the bullets would fly wild until he was closer. ‘Hold your fire.’ Even focused wholly as he was upon his prey, he was aware of ribbons of tracer from the other Hurricanes, their gun ports spitting fire. He was on the point of firing when another explosion shook his Hurricane, and something smashed through his canopy, forcing him to perform a tight roll and bank away. Planes flew in and out of sight as they were picked out by the searchlights. Then came the sight he dreaded: orange and crimson flames bursting up from the ground as German bombs hit their target. Peter’s Hurricane rocked as the force from the blasts struck. With alarm he saw that he had lost height from his last attack. He pulled back the control column. For a horrible moment he thought his engine would stall. From this height, he doubted there would be time to recover. He had a brief flash of May’s face and a deep sense of sorrow at the thought that he would leave the world without winning her heart. Then the Merlin engine surged into life and he was clear.
He toggled on his radio. ‘Aim for bombers that haven’t dropped their load.’ But it was futile. There was no way of telling. By now the light from the fires revealed a group of bombers heading back out to sea. He let them go; it was more important to stop any Heinkels that still had bombs to drop. He climbed, scanning the skies for a glimpse of any more bombers swooping on their target, but he could see nothing. A glance at his fuel gauge told him it was time to return to base. The end of yet another patrol where they had failed to stop the enemy. He gave the signal to his squadron and headed back to Oldbourne.
Already he was running the words he would use in his report over in his mind. How could he phrase it to inform the top brass that this method of patrol – waiting near likely targets in the hope of catching bombers before they struck – was a waste of time and resources?
A tingle of apprehension gave him pause for thought. It might be wiser to state the facts and leave it at that. The carnage night after night was surely all the evidence the top brass needed that their methods weren’t working. Was it really worth drawing attention to himself by speaking out? It had been a struggle to earn his commission after starting as a sergeant pilot; he had done it by sheer hard work, not complaining when others with the right old school ties had scaled the ranks faster. Then, just when he felt he had gained enough respect to overcome the handicap of his humble origins, an accident had resulted in the loss of his leg. He had only just regained his wings. He could almost hear the comments to the effect that he had ‘lost his nerve’ if he made a fuss. Perhaps it would be safer to stay quiet, trust that Fighter Command was already working on a better way of stopping the bombings. He didn’t want to risk a transfer to a training squadron.
May paced towards Jess, realised she was wringing her hands and clasped them firmly behind her back. ‘You had no right to interfere.’
‘No, no!’ Jess flung her script down upon the table. ‘Remember you’re not just acting like you own the place. You do own the place.’ She regarded May with a sigh. ‘If you want to look convincing, you have to feel it. Feel your authority, your God-given right to do as you please on your own land.’
May slumped into the schoolroom chair in despair. ‘You’ve picked the wrong person for Prince Charming.’ She hurried on when Jess opened her mouth, determined to say her piece before Jess could talk her out of it. ‘I’m not saying I won’t be in the pantomime, but Prince Charming? You know I’m not cut out to play him.’ She was babbling now, pleading for Jess to understand. ‘I’ll be a… a serving girl or something.’ She could be a serving girl. She knew how that felt.
‘There isn’t a part for a serving girl. The only serving girl is Cinderella.’
‘Why don’t I play Cinderella, then? You play Prince Charming. You’d make a far better Prince Charming than me.’ She felt a welling of hysterical laughter bubbling up in her chest. Only a few days ago she had begged to be let out of acting in the pantomime altogether and now she was asking to play the lead. But she had reconciled herself to taking part – it meant she could befriend Peggy. What she wasn’t reconciled to was playing someone whose character was the very opposite of hers.
The irritation drained from Jess’s expression. She gave a wry smile and sat in the opposite chair. ‘You mean you want to play a shrinking violet who sleeps by the hearth until first the fairy godmother then Prince Charming rescue her?’
May looked away, hot shame burning her cheeks. She knew she wasn’t as brave as Jess but it still hurt to have it pointed out by one of her closest friends.
‘May, look at me.’ Jess’s voice was gentle. May raised her gaze to Jess’s face and saw not the pity she’d expected but an oddly determined expression. ‘I know that’s how you think of yourself, but it’s not how I see you. Ever.’ Jess leaned forward, arms folded upon her knees. ‘Do you know what I thought the first time I saw you?’
‘How did the giraffe escape from the zoo?’
‘No!’ Jess’s brows drew together. ‘Stop putting yourself down. I thought why is that beautiful girl trying to hide her looks?’
‘I’m not—’
‘Yes you are. But that was only my first impression. When I got to know you, I saw how brave and capable you are. You’ve only shown glimpses of it so far, it’s like you’re trying to hide who you are most of the time, but every now and again, you show everyone who’s really hidden, crushed inside the mouse you try to pretend you are most of the time.’
‘Don’t be silly.’
‘I’m deadly serious. Who took charge in the bomb shelter that time? Not Hellerby.’
‘She was unconscious!’
‘Yes, but there were others there who were technically senior, yet you’re the one who stepped up.’
‘I…’ May was at a loss for words but felt Jess was reading too much into the bomb shelter incident. She hadn’t done anything special; she’d just made sure as many people as possible got out alive.
‘And Milan’s told me how you tackled Alex when the two of them followed Karol through the hedge into the Waafery.’
‘I didn’t tackle him. I tripped and got tangled up with him.’
‘Don’t let Evie hear you say that,’ Jess said with a grin. ‘But you were out there in the grounds, weren’t you, when you must have been scared.’
‘I was with Jean Ellerby.’
‘Then how about this?’ Jess’s expression became more serious. ‘You’ve agreed to play a part in the pantomime, even though you’re terrified of performing in public, because you want to help a poor girl. If that doesn’t make you a heroine, I don’t know what does.’
May felt her cheeks burn for an altogether different reason than before. ‘That’s beside the point,’ she said. ‘We were talking about the part I play.’
‘It’s precisely the point,’ Jess said. ‘You asked for acting lessons, and I wouldn’t be helping you if I made you play a role you’ve already been playing for twenty years. I know you’re finding this difficult—’ Jess pointed at the pages containing the first scene of the pantomime ‘—but I know you can do it. I wouldn’t have cast you as Prince Charming if I didn’t think you would be amazing. This is my pantomime, remember. My idea. I want it to be a success.’
May hadn’t thought of it that way. She’d been so intent upon helping Peggy, so wrapped up in her fears of performing in public, that she hadn’t thought of Jess’s commitment to the play, how her reputation would be on the line. Some of the fears subsided. Jess wouldn’t have given her the part if she thought May couldn’t manage it. ‘You really think I can do it?’ she asked.
‘Absolutely. You’re the best one for the part.’ Jess picked up the script. ‘Now, how do you think Prince Charming feels when he sees Cinderella in the forest? He’s been chasing the stag all day, through the royal forest, he’s finally got it cornered, when this slip of a girl, who shouldn’t even be there, starts telling him off for trying to harm an innocent creature.’
‘Well…’ May picked up her copy of the script and stared at the words until they blurred. ‘I suppose he would be angry with Cinderella for ruining the hunt.’
‘Good. Anything else? Why doesn’t he just tell his men to arrest her?’
‘Oh. Well, he’s attracted to her, isn’t he?’
‘Exactly. There wouldn’t be much of a story if he wasn’t. So he’s both annoyed with her and attracted. How are you going to act like that?’
‘I’ve no idea.’
‘Let’s start with the anger. That’s how he feels at the start. Say your line: “You had no right to interfere,” in an angry voice.’
Feeling more than a little silly, May arranged her face in what she hoped looked like an angry scowl and repeated the line in a gruff voice. ‘How was that?’ she finished.
‘Better. But it’s not just your voice that’s angry, it’s your whole body.’ Jess paused, thinking. Then she raised a finger. ‘I know. Imagine how you felt when Mrs Evans was being so rude about WAAFs.’
May immediately felt tension run up her spine and clench her jaw.
‘Now, remember this is panto, so you can really ham it up and make your actions larger than life. Whilst you’ve got that anger going inside of you, say your line again and let your actions show your anger as much as your voice.’
Jess had barely finished speaking when May turned on her, hands on hips and spat out, ‘You had no right to interfere.’ She used her height to her advantage, leaning over Jess and scowling down at her.
Jess looked startled and took a step back. ‘Better,’ she said. ‘Much better. Now say it again, but when you reach the word, “interfere,” I want you to notice how beautiful Cinderella is.’
All this effort for just one line? At this rate she would have every line right by Christmas 1950. She tried again but this time got a fit of the giggles halfway through.
Jess’s lips twitched. ‘That might do if Prince Charming was a ten-year-old girl. He’s bold and assured, the best at everything he does and used to getting his own way. Whatever he wants, he just has to snap his fingers and it’s done.’
‘Like Milan, you mean?’ May wouldn’t have dared to say that usually. Maybe she was getting the hang of Prince Charming after all.
Jess’s grin broadened. ‘Milan will have to do more than snap his fingers to get what he wants, but come to think of it, there is a certain… Milan-ness about Prince Charming. If that helps you with his character then by all means, think about how Milan would deliver that line.’
That was easy. May could picture Milan prowling around Jess or, rather, Cinderella, like a leopard toying with its prey. Jess didn’t seem to have any trouble handling him, but he would make minced meat of May if he turned his attentions on her. He was nothing like dear, sweet Peter.
The mere thought of Peter made the breath catch in her throat. Peter wouldn’t have been hunting a stag in the first place, but if he had bumped into May in the forest, he would have treated her like a princess. She could picture that scene even more clearly than the scene with Milan. Peter would instantly make sure he hadn’t frightened her, would find the most comfortable place in the clearing for her to sit and would share a delicious picnic with her, making his servants wait on her so she didn’t have to lift a finger.
‘May. May!’
May was jolted out of her pleasant daydream to find Jess regarding her, her head tilted and one eyebrow raised. ‘You were thinking of Peter, weren’t you.’ It wasn’t a question.
Yet again, May wished she were more like Jess. Jess would be able to laugh off being caught out in a daydream about her sweetheart, not blush like a lovesick schoolgirl.
‘At least, I hope you were thinking about Peter,’ Jess went on. ‘If that dreamy expression was you thinking about Milan, there’s going to be trouble.’
‘Of course it was Peter. I—’
‘Hah! I knew it!’ Jess waved her script in May’s face in a triumphant gesture. ‘You only ever look like that when you’re thinking of Peter.’
‘How do I look? Can everyone tell what I’m thinking?’ May was too horrified to be cross with Jess for catching her out.
‘Oh, don’t worry. I only know what you’re thinking because I know you so well. I’ve learnt to spot the signs. Your eyes go all misty and you glow like you’re lit up from the inside. You’ve got it bad, haven’t you?’ Although Jess’s tone was teasing, there was a wistfulness to her expression that took May by surprise. There was no need for Jess to be jealous of May, not when she had the most handsome pilot in Amberton clearly smitten with her.
‘I…’ She hesitated but, after all, she had always confided her worries about Peter with Evie and Jess until now. There was no reason to change just because Evie wasn’t there at the moment. ‘I suppose I have. It’s just harder now Peter isn’t here any more. Now I can’t wait to see him but when I do, it feels too pressured. Like a proper date.’
She’d half expected Jess to wave away her worries, tell her to have fun, so she was surprised and moved when Jess patted her on the arm. ‘Has Peter put any pressure on you? If he has, I’ll—’
‘No. You know he’s not like that. He promised to give me all the time I need.’
Jess was shaking her head. For a moment, May thought she was disagreeing and was on the point of defending Peter when Jess spoke first. ‘There are times I’d like to wring your father’s neck. He’s got you so twisted up inside, until you believe you’re unlovable and you can’t trust yourself.’
‘That’s not it. Not really.’
‘Then what’s the problem?’
‘I don’t want a marriage like my parents’. My mum couldn’t stand up to him. I don’t want to end up as an unpaid servant. Evie talked about having an equal partnership with Alex and that’s what I want with Peter. But I won’t have that if I can’t stick up for myself.’
Jess didn’t argue but gave a sympathetic smile. ‘Take all the time you need, May. I can feel it in my bones that Peter is the right man for you, but don’t make any promises to him until you feel it for yourself.’
Tears stung May’s eyelids at Jess’s understanding, but Jess wouldn’t allow her to become maudlin. ‘Now get your act together, Lidford. Give me that line again, and if it helps you to imagine Milan saying them, be my guest.’
May found an unexpected enjoyment in her acting lessons with Jess, and her performance of Prince Charming improved. She still dreaded performing in front of an audience, but she no longer feared making a mess of her part. She also discovered a skill at writing that she’d never guessed at. She and Jess met in the NAAFI as regularly as possible and worked on the script together. May surprised herself by thinking up almost as many funny one-liners as Jess. Although she might never be an eloquent speaker, writing gave her a way of expressing herself that she’d never dreamt of. Sometimes, when Jess was on duty at night, May would take up a pencil and another of Evie’s unused exercise books and scribble down a few scenes of a story or new lines for the pantomime. She knew her stories weren’t worth showing to anyone else, but she enjoyed creating the characters and the worlds they lived in.
They were well into the second week of November before she got another chance to see Peter. When he asked what she would like to do, she asked to go to the cinema. That way she could be with Peter, reassure herself that he was alive and well, without enduring the awkward silences, heavy with the emotion she didn’t feel ready to express.
As before, her heart leapt when she saw Peter waiting on the doorstep. She ran her eyes over him, anxiously looking for any sign of injury.
Her concern was mirrored in his eyes. ‘Are you quite well, May? No huddling in ditches with other pilots now I’ve left Amberton? No sneaky Chelsea buns enjoyed with senior officers?’
She laughed, and some of her anxiety faded. Trust Peter to always know how to put her at ease. He leaned in to kiss her cheek and just for a moment she allowed herself to relax in his arms, remembering how safe it felt. It was how she had felt at the Midsummer dance, as though being in Peter’s arms blotted out all her worries. But when he stepped back, the feel of his lips still burning on her cheek, she was able to study his face properly. He looked… haunted. There was no better word for it. Smudges of blue beneath his eyes and in the hollows of his cheeks told a tale of sleepless nights or illness. Come to think of it, his jokey tone had seemed forced.
‘How are you?’ she asked him. ‘You look pale.’
‘I’m fine. Just been doing a lot of night flying recently and I can’t seem to get the hang of sleeping during the day.’
‘Oh. I thought Hurricanes weren’t equipped for night flying.’
He gave a tight smile. ‘We manage. But you know I can’t talk about it.’
Abashed, May nodded. It was hard sometimes, when they spent so much of their waking hours on duty, not to be able to talk about it.
Peter held out his arm. ‘Anyway, I want to forget about the war today and enjoy our day out. Your carriage awaits.’
He led her outside. May looked around for his motorcycle but could only see an ancient Morris Minor. She craned her neck to see past. When Peter marched straight to the car and opened the passenger door for her, she laughed. This had to be another of his jokes.
‘Sorry,’ said Peter. ‘I know it’s a bit tatty, but it gets me around. I bought it from a friend last week.’
He was serious? He was certainly still holding the door, looking at her expectantly. ‘How can you drive it?’ She caught herself glancing down at his prosthetic leg as though checking to see if his leg had grown back.
Peter’s eyes sparkled, and his exhaustion seemed to fall away. ‘You never once ask how I manage to fly a high-performance aeroplane, yet you worry if I can drive a car?’
‘But the pedals…’
He shrugged. ‘Pilots have to use their feet on the rudder bars. It’s not much different. I just have to take care not to get my foot stuck under the clutch.’ He gestured for her to climb in. ‘Unless you’re too used to being the driver, of course. You could always drive if you prefer.’
May got into the passenger seat but couldn’t help a qualm of nerves when Peter climbed in and set off. He soon proved that he could handle the car with just as much finesse as a Hurricane and May relaxed into the journey. It wasn’t often that she could appreciate the scenery when travelling, as she was always the driver, focusing on navigating the maze of lanes when all the signposts had been removed. They chatted about their mutual friends at Amberton, and in no time the journey felt like their drives from the summer. All May’s awkwardness fell away and she was laughing and chatting just as they had before. Just as it had been when May had known she was falling in love with him.
The newsreel was just starting when May and Peter crept into the cinema and stumbled through the darkness to their seats, guided by the dim light of the usherette’s torch. At first May was too busy removing her coat and hat and arranging them on the empty seat beside her to take much notice of the images on the screen or the grim tones of the newsreader. Then she caught the words, ‘City in the Midlands,’ and her attention snapped to the screen. Street after street of flattened buildings flickered into view. May felt sick. These were streets she knew. The city hadn’t been named, but it was undoubtedly Birmingham. Whenever people were shown, she strained her eyes, searching for familiar faces, half expecting to see her father’s dark, sneering face gazing out at her from the screen. She found herself sinking down in her seat as though it would hide her from view. But mingled with her irrational fear of discovery was a need to know if her father and brothers had survived.
She became aware of Peter looking at her, his eyes gleaming from the reflected lights on the screen. ‘Is this your home?’ he murmured.
She nodded before remembering he probably couldn’t see her. ‘It’s Birmingham, yes.’
‘Do you want to leave? We can try and find out about any members of your family.’
‘No point. There’s no one important to me in Birmingham any more.’ She had told Peter even less than she’d told Jess and Evie about her family, and she wasn’t going to start now. Oh, Jess and Evie knew she’d been treated like a servant and about her mother. But they didn’t know the worst of it. Not by a long chalk.
She couldn’t drag her attention from the news, from the hideous shells of buildings she had once believed would stand for a hundred years or more. To see such a vibrant, teeming city reduced to its bare bones was an odd experience. She was shocked, of course, saddened over all the lives cut short, but it didn’t feel any different to her than seeing the reports on London, Southampton or any other place. Birmingham – and her family – were part of her past. She had escaped and had no intention of returning.
It took a while to realise that all was not well with Peter. The cinema seats were narrow, so their arms were touching even though Peter hadn’t made a move to hold her hand. Gradually, through the turmoil of her own thoughts came the realisation that Peter’s arm was trembling against hers.
‘Are you alright?’ she whispered. She’d never known Peter to display any kind of emotional upset. True to his name, he was a rock, dependable and steady, someone she could always lean on.
‘Yes, yes I’m fine. Just a bit chilly.’ May couldn’t believe that. If anything, the cinema was rather too warm. Evie would have been able to use logic to point out the flaw in his statement. Jess would have flat out challenged him. Either that or used it as an excuse to snuggle up close. But May was nothing like her friends and couldn’t bring herself to emulate either.
Yet she couldn’t allow Peter to suffer. Hesitantly, she placed her hand over his on the armrest and squeezed, pouring out her concern through touch as a substitute for the words she couldn’t find. At first she feared Peter would pull his hand away, but after a brief hesitation, when his hand seemed to freeze beneath her touch, he turned it palm up and returned her clasp in his strong, warm grip.
May hardly noticed the remainder of the newsreel. Her thoughts were entirely occupied with Peter. What was wrong with him? He hadn’t seemed ill and had been in good spirits on the drive to Chichester. But she couldn’t forget his almost haunted expression when he’d arrived at High Chalk House. It had to be something to do with his duties, something he had seen or done while flying. She knew enough pilots to know they all reacted differently to their experiences. Peter, who had only returned to flying when the relentless onslaught of the Battle of Britain was dying down, hadn’t had long to adjust to the difference between commanding the Operations Room and being in the air, in the thick of the action. It made her all the more frustrated that they couldn’t discuss his duties. All she could do was hold his hand and hope that she could impress upon him that she cared and was there for him.