9

Tuesday was not a good day for Arnie, but he knew he would accept it with the stoicism that had carried him this far in his nine-and-a-bit years and tomorrow, he reasoned, it would be all over for another year.

But today, this last Tuesday in April, the school dentist was coming to Alderby. His name was Mr Brown; a name spoken in a whisper. Two weeks ago, Mr Brown’s visit had been a fleeting one. That day he had merely said, ‘Open wide,’ murmured to the lady who wrote things on a card, then said, ‘Next one please, nurse.’ And Arnie’s keen ear had translated the murmurings into one extraction which was a relief, really, when it might well have been The Drill.

The Drill was an instrument of torture and this morning the dentist would bring it with him, and The Chair, and set up his surgery in the front parlour of the school house. And The Drill would stand beside The Chair like a thin, menacing stork which came to horrible, whizzing life when the pedal at its base was pumped up and down by foot; up and down without stopping as if the dentist were pedalling the organ in church, or Aunty Poll’s sewing machine. That pedalling, Arnie considered, was bad enough at half-past nine in the morning, but by three in the afternoon, when the dentist’s foot was tired, The Drill whizzed more slowly, more erratically, and fillings then were only for the stout-hearted; for those boys amongst them who would be Paratroopers or spies or maybe even pilot a Lancaster, should the war last long enough.

Arnie walked reluctantly to school, a clean white handkerchief – for the blood – folded carefully in his pocket. He wished he were grown-up enough to be able to make up his own mind about visits to the dentist; wished people could be born complete with teeth which would stay there, undecaying, until they grew old like Aunty Poll and could choose to have the sort of teeth they could put in and take out and leave all night in a cup on the window sill. But mostly this morning he wished that God would drop a brick on Mr Brown’s pedalling foot, or something equally miraculous and sneaky.

He stuck his hands in his pockets, thinking how it would be. He would be brave, of course, even though Aunty Poll had said it was only a baby tooth that was getting in the way of the new one growing beneath it; a tooth she said he could have wiggled out himself if he’d had the sense, and saved her a shilling. But even the comparatively painless loss of a milk tooth was nothing compared to The Waiting.

The Waiting was almost as awful as The Drill and The Chair. The Waiting began when the footsteps of the nurse could be heard in the corridor outside, causing the entire class to hold its breath and eyes to swivel to the door.

Sometimes the footsteps tapped past and the dreaded knock was heard on the door of the other classroom and they knew it was all right again for fifteen more minutes.

The dentist’s nurse was little and plump and walked like a pigeon with short, jerky steps. She wore a white coat and a blue hat with a silver badge pinned at the front of it. She was always cheerful, always smiling. That was why Arnie disliked her almost as much as he disliked Mr Brown, for she had no right at all to smile or be cheerful whilst leading boys and girls to the horrors of The Chair and The Drill.

But it was lovely, he acknowledged, when a patient was led groggily to a low stool outside and given a white enamelled mug, half filled with rosy-pink liquid.

‘Rinse and spit out.’ They were words of magic, Arnie sighed. They meant it was all over and he could sit there, swooshing the liquid around his mouth and spitting noisily and splashily into the bowl on his knees. With luck it was possible to make the half-mug last until the next victim was led in, eyes wide with terror, as you grinned at him shamelessly.

Arnie also liked it because it was the one day on which spitting was allowed; the one day in the whole year when you could do it and not get a cuff around the ear.

He closed his eyes and thought not of the smiling nurse who would stand at the classroom door and cheerfully say, ‘Arnold Bagley, please,’ but of the delights of rinsing and spitting. If he hadn’t, he would have run away to Hull, and never come back.

Had Kath known what awaited her at Home Farm that same morning, she too would have run away.

She had arrived to find a scowling Mat, an indignant, pink-cheeked Grace, and Jonty, who told her apologetically, almost, that the milking machine had broken down. Could she and Roz get milking-stools and caps from the dairy?

‘Milking-stools?’ This was the day she had so dreaded, the day on which she would be exposed for what she was: a towny who was unable to milk a cow by hand. ‘Jonty, I’m afraid I –’

‘Damn! I’d forgotten. Come on. I’ll show you how. Best you should learn.’

This, thought Kath unhappily, was the moment of her undoing; when the silly cow kicked out or refused to let her milk down. This was when she would fail miserably and all she had learned these past four months would count for nothing. This was when Aunt Min would say, ‘I told you it wasn’t all collectin’ eggs.’

‘Chin up, now. Don’t look so badly-done-to.’ Jonty smiled. ‘You can try your hand on the old girl. Placid as a worn-out boot, that one. You’ll be all right with her.’

‘I won’t be able to do it.’ Kath pulled the milking-cap over her hair. ‘Your dad’s going to hit the roof when he finds out I’ve never hand-milked before.’

‘No he isn’t. He’s only looking annoyed because Mum’s just said her piece. She never wanted a milking machine in the first place. New-fangled, she thinks they are and a waste of good money. Dad can’t stand it when she does her I-told-you-so bit. But he’ll get over it. Milking machines are here to stay and even Mum will have to admit it, sooner or later. Trouble is they sometimes break down and spare parts are hard to come by these days.’

‘So how long is it going to be out of action?’ Kath demanded anxiously, setting her stool beside the oldest cow in the herd.

‘As long as it takes, I suppose. It’s the pump this time, but I’ve been on to York and they’re seeing what they can do to help. Now get yourself settled. Open your knees and hold the bucket between them. If you don’t it’ll most likely get kicked over. Relax, now. Wrap your fingers round her udder like it’s a calf’s tongue, and squeeze. Gently. Squeeeeze …’

Kath wrapped and squeezed and an amazing squirt of milk hit her knee.

‘Good. Now just direct it into the bucket, and you’re away.’

She squeezed again, tilting the udder. From her right hand came a ping as the milk hit the bucket; from her left hand a similar sound.

‘Great. Gently does it, now. Relax, Kath. Rest your head on her side, find your rhythm …’

She glanced down at the froth of white in the bucket. The elderly beast munched contentedly on the cow-cake in front of her, lazily flicking her tail. The bucket began to fill; Kath’s hands relaxed. She was doing it. She was getting milk out and why oh why wasn’t Aunt Min here to witness this triumph?

‘All right?’ Roz called from two stalls down.

‘I think so.’ Her cheeks were burning and she was still shaking inside but she was milking a cow by hand, she really was. At last that fearful December morning when she had set out for faraway Peacock Hey could be forgotten for all time.

‘Great, Kath. You’ve got it. Milk those two quarters out, then do the other two. You’re doing fine,’ Jonty said approvingly, picking up his stool, walking away.

Great. Doing fine. Such heady words. The milk hissed frothing into the bucket. It was all right. She could do it; she could hand-milk. Softly, contentedly, she began to hum. What a wonderful day this was turning out to be.

This lovely day had come, Roz exulted. Even though they’d be making a late start on the milk-round, Mat had given her the afternoon off and he wouldn’t go back on his word – Mat was like that. Things were upside-down because of the milking, but she would still have time to bathe away the smell of cows and wash her hair before catching the three o’clock train from Helpsley Halt.

She kept one ear on the sounds around her, the other alerted for sounds of Lancasters taking-off. The constant noise of aircraft was a part of life now, and Alderby St Mary people became aware of Peddlesbury’s bombers only when they weren’t flying; it was the silence they noticed. If there was no activity at the aerodrome this morning, no aircraft taking off and circuiting the village on short test flights, it was almost certain that tonight the squadron would not be operational and that Paul would be waiting for her at York station, as they had planned.

Please, no circuits and bumps this morning. Let him be there when I get off the train.

And that was pretty silly, come to think of it; to ask such a thing of God when she knew she was about to break two of His commandments and feel nothing but happiness doing it.

Already she had pushed her nightdress into the bottom of her handbag and this afternoon she would leave the house with a nonchalant ‘Bye. See you!’ aware that her grandmother would expect her to catch the last bus or train back to Helpsley, knowing she would be on neither.

She wished she need not be wearing her blue cotton nightdress tonight; wished it could have been flimsy and clinging and that she had scent to dab at her wrists and ears. But there was a war on, and even brides must make do with ordinary nightgowns and very little else in the way of a trousseau.

But only Paul mattered; being with Paul, falling asleep in his arms, awakening to find him beside her, still. That would be worth all the lies and deceit. She would be grateful for tonight, remember it fifty years from now when her grandchildren demanded to know what her war was like – really like.

‘Pretty awful,’ she would tell them, ‘but we survived – and there were the good bits to help us bear it, of course.’

And she would glance across the room at a still-handsome Paul, and he would return her smile because he too remembered a long-ago April night.

This would be the first of their many lovely days. It would all come right for them. She knew it.

She lifted her head to hear Kath singing. Softly, she began to sing with her.

‘Time for drinkings, Marco.’

Cleaning out poultry arks and moving them to fresh ground was hard, thirsty work and Kath felt the need for a drink from the bottle of water that lay in the cool of the hedge.

She sat down on the grass, wriggling herself comfortable against one of the arks, tilting the bottle, swallowing in noisy gulps.

‘Want a cigarette?’ She handed over the bottle. ‘Go on! You can give me one of yours when your Red Cross parcel comes.’

‘You always give me yours.’ Marco frowned as she struck a match and cupped the flame with her hands. ‘Why are you so kind, Kat, when you should hate me?’

‘Hating is a waste of time.’ She shrugged, inhaling deeply.

‘Mrs Fairchild does not think like you.’

‘No, and that’s her business, I suppose. But Roz is all right – you know that, don’t you, Marco?’

‘Si. It is strange when Roz is not here. She goes to York?’

‘To buy shoes.’ Lie number one. ‘And maybe she’ll go to the flicks.’

‘What is flicks?’

‘The pictures. Films. Movies.’ Kath laughed. ‘And how about my Italian lesson today?’

‘Ah, si. La lezione. Today, the word is grazie – thank you. And for the cigarette I say molto grazie, which is much thanks.’

‘Grazie. Molto grazie,’ Kath repeated.

‘Good. And it is good also that you smile. You are happy today, Kat?’

‘Very happy.’

She closed her eyes and tilted her face to the spring sunshine. She felt almost at peace. It was good to be Kath; our Kath, who was needed here. This morning she had milked her first cow, filled buckets with warm, frothing milk. She was relieved that the new-fangled machine would be working again for afternoon milking, but glad that this morning it had broken down. Milk a cow – of course she could, and Aunt Min would be the first to hear of it!

She leaned a little to her right and her arm brushed Marco’s. It felt good to touch another human being, feel the warmth of his skin against her, the comfort of it. Her hand lay relaxed beside his. Gently he covered it with his own.

‘Why are you happy, Kat? You get a letter?’

‘No. No letters.’ Not for more than two weeks. ‘Don’t laugh at me, but this morning I learned to milk.’

‘And this is being happy?’

‘For me it is.’

‘Ah,’ he said softly, and she knew that if she opened her eyes she would see his forehead puckered into a frown of bewilderment.

But she did not open her eyes. She thought instead of Roz and Paul, that tonight they would be close, lips whispering against lips in the darkness whilst she, Kath, would be alone, a married woman who wasn’t married. The wedding ring she wore warned other men she was not for the taking, that she must live out this war unloved and unloving. That was why this brief nearness, this unexpected touching was special and innocent and why life owed it to her. Gently she removed her hand from where it lay, then entwining her fingers in his she murmured, ‘For me it is very happy.’

The engine pulled into York station, hissing steam, braking with a suddenness that sent bumper clanking against bumper the length of the train and caused passengers already standing to sit down again.

Roz let down the window, then pulling off her glove turned the soot-stained door handle and stepped on to the platform. Her heart thumped the way it always did when she and Paul were to meet; the will-he-be-there, won’t-he-be-there thumping.

‘At the barrier nearest the footbridge stairs’ were the last words he had spoken to her and she’d whispered that she would be there, then reached on tiptoe for one last kiss before she ran through the ruins and across the cobbled kitchen-yard to feel in the darkness for the back-door keyhole.

Now she slammed shut the compartment door and walked with eyes lowered because she didn’t want to know that no tall young airman waited beside the barrier nearest the footbridge stairs; didn’t want to know that he wouldn’t be coming because this morning They had told pilots and navigators to report at noon for first briefing which would mean that tonight S-Sugar would be operational again.

She heard a familiar cough and lifted her eyes. He had come! Paul was walking towards her, smiling the way he always smiled. He wasn’t flying tonight. Thank you, God, thank you!

‘Paul,’ she whispered, then ran into his arms; his dear, waiting arms.

For a while he held her tightly then she pushed him a little way from her and whispered, ‘I love you. Did you know?’ and lifted her face for his kiss.

Linking hands, he picked up the small suitcase he said he’d remember to bring. ‘You’re sure about tonight, Roz?’

‘Very sure. It was my idea, remember? And I just said I love you.’

‘I love you, too.’ His smile was indulgent. ‘Right, then. Where to?’

‘Let’s find somewhere to stay, shall we, then the worst bit will be over.’

‘I did hear –’ He stopped, frowning. ‘This chap told me about it – a little bed-and-breakfast place near Micklegate Bar. Small, but –’

‘Discreet? Somewhere we’ll not meet up with half of Alderby?’

‘Well – yes. I was thinking about you, that’s all – how it would be if someone from the village saw us.’

‘They won’t see us. York is a big place, and who knows about us but Kath? Don’t have doubts, Paul. Not now.’

‘I won’t. I haven’t.’ How could he, when this was a day-to-day life and all that mattered was here on this street, and now, with Roz beside him. For just one night there would be no war; no fear-filled yesterdays, no uncertain tomorrows. Sugar was a lucky old bitch; it had been all right since they’d got her. They’d finish their tour, do their thirtieth. They’d make it. ‘No doubts at all. And did I ever tell you I love you – at Micklegate Bar, I mean?’

He looked up at the great, towering gateway that stood guard over the city.

‘Not at Micklegate Bar, you didn’t,’ she told him gravely. ‘And never at four in the afternoon.’

‘Then will you remember this time and this place? And fifty years from now, Roz, will you remember that it was here I asked you to marry me?’

Five past four on St Mary’s church clock and all over for another year. Now the dentist would take away The Chair and The Drill and go to plague another school.

It hadn’t been all that bad, Arnie considered. The worst bit had been when the nurse stood smiling at the classroom door and said, ‘Arnold William Bagley, please.’

He had forced himself to smile back, just to show her he didn’t care and so she wouldn’t look down at his knees which were shaking something awful. He’d closed his eyes tightly so he couldn’t see what was going on and he hadn’t opened them until he heard the ping of the tooth dropping into the dish.

That beautiful sound caused his eyes to fly open, and the dentist was saying, ‘All over, sonny. Off you go with nurse.’

All over, and the best bit still to come. He’d sat on the stool and held out an eager hand for the white enamel mug of rosy-pink liquid.

The memory of it caused him to whistle cheerfully and he kicked out at a stone, even though Aunty Poll said he mustn’t kick stones because it did his boots no good at all and boots cost money and coupons.

He took a backward glance at the clock. It didn’t chime, now. They’d had to stop the chimes because they sounded too much like church bells and church bells ringing would mean that the Germans had invaded us though it was very doubtful now because Aunty Poll said they’d bitten off more than they could chew, in Russia.

It was a pity they hadn’t had a try. He’d always fancied fighting on the beaches and never surrendering; wanted desperately to throw Molotov cocktails or have a go with a machine gun in defence of the gate lodges. But his turn would come. The dratted war would never be over; Aunty Poll was always saying it, so with luck he’d be able to be aircrew, like Roz’s young man.

He was almost home now, and he slowed his pace to a sad, foot-dragging trudge. Remembering the handkerchief in his pocket he unfolded it and held it to his mouth. Eyelids drooping dramatically he pushed open the kitchen door.

‘Now then, lovey.’ Polly gathered him to her and hugged him tightly. ‘Didn’t hurt much, did it?’

‘It did!’ he choked. Then, nose twitching, he demanded to know what was for supper.

‘Supper? You won’t be wanting supper!’ Polly held back a smile.

Frowning, Arnie gazed up over the folds of the handkerchief. The smell from the oven was tantalizing and unmistakable. Meat and potato pie, that’s what, and rhubarb and custard, he shouldn’t wonder.

‘It was only a baby tooth,’ he said airily.

‘So you weren’t frightened, Arnie? Not even a little bit?’

‘Nah,’ he retorted scathingly, pushing the handkerchief back into his pocket. ‘Hey, Aunty Polly,’ he grinned, opening his mouth wide. ‘Want to see the hole?’

After they had found a room, they spent the remainder of the afternoon walking the walls that circled the old part of the city.

Roz had held her breath as the door was opened to Paul’s knock and she had forced her head high, returning the smile of the young woman who wished them a good afternoon and asked them to come inside.

She had only two rooms for letting, she apologized, and one was already spoken for; would they mind the smaller one, at the top? They could take a look at it first, if they wished?

Paul had said that wouldn’t be necessary, that he was sure it would be fine – without asking how much it was, even.

He’d signed the little book that served as a register, then; Mr and Mrs Paul Rennie. Bath. He’d signed it firmly and surely; smiling at her gently as he laid down the pen.

She sighed, remembering, leaning her elbows on the walls; loving him, loving this day.

‘Do you suppose they ever envisaged our war – those men, I mean, who once stood guard on these walls?’ She frowned. ‘What would they have thought, those bowmen, if they’d seen your Lancaster flying over, Paul?’

‘That the end of the world had come, I shouldn’t wonder.’ He laughed, taking her hand.

She leaned closer. She would remember today; would remember sights and sounds and scents. Every smallest thing she would photograph mentally; the blueness of the sky, the blossom in the gardens below them, the chestnut trees breaking into bright green leaf. And ahead of them the Minster, standing uncaring like a great, ages-old watchdog keeping guard over the city.

‘Shall we come back here when we’re very old, and remember today?’

‘Fifty years from now, you mean?’ He laughed at his use of her own favourite phrase. ‘It’ll be almost the year two thousand. So many years ahead, will you still love me?’

‘You know I will. What shall we do tonight. Paul – before, I mean …’

She would like to dance, if they could find somewhere. She liked dancing with Paul; the tallness of him and the delight of their closeness. Or would they just walk? She didn’t really care what they did as long as she didn’t have to leave him. But tonight there would be no last kiss, no parting. She closed her eyes, sighing. Even tomorrow morning he would still be there.

‘Why the sigh?’

‘Not a sigh; not really.’ She smiled up at him, eyes bright with love. ‘I was just letting a little of the happiness out of me, that’s all. I’d have gone off pop! if I hadn’t.’

‘I love you. Did I ever tell you?’

‘Often. And I’ll never love you more than I do now, Paul Rennie, though I’ll try. I promise I’ll always try.’ She closed her eyes to hold back the tears; the lovely, silly, happy tears, and begged her god not to ask too high a price for this wonderful, shining happiness. ‘Fifty years from now, I’ll still be trying. And did you mean it at Micklegate Bar when you asked me to marry you?’

‘Did you mean it when you said you would?’

‘You know I did and oh, Paul, wouldn’t it be wonderful if we could announce it in the paper? Something like, on the twenty-eighth of April, 1942, at Micklegate Bar at about four in the afternoon, Paul Rennie, RAFVR to Rosalind Fairchild. But we can’t. Not yet.’

‘We’ll tell them, soon. When I’ve got the last one behind me; when we’ve finished our tour.’

‘Yes. I’ll take you home then to meet Gran. And we’ll tell her we want to be married. It’s all right for you, Paul; you’re over twenty-one. But I’ve still got two years to go. She’ll understand, though. She’ll let me.’

It was growing dark as they crossed the Ouse Bridge, walking hands clasped to Micklegate and the bed-and-breakfast place. When the clouds parted they saw the moon, full and bright, all at once lighting hidden corners, giving shape to old buildings, towers and churches.

‘I’d forgotten the moon, Paul. Moonlight sort of hides the war, doesn’t it; makes everywhere look mediaeval again.’

‘I hadn’t – forgotten it, I mean. It’s a bomber’s moon.’

‘Not tonight. Not for you, it isn’t. And tell me why you’re smiling?’

‘I was thinking about when I was signing the register. You pulled your gloves off and I nearly yelled, “Don’t!” I thought she’d see your left hand, but you’d swapped your ring over. And I do love you, Roz. I keep wanting to tell you. Crazy, aren’t I?’

‘No. Never that.’ They had come to a phone-box. ‘Look – can you walk on a little?’ There was a call she must make and she didn’t want him to hear her when she said she was stranded in York. Lying was bad enough; to have Paul hear would cheapen tonight, and that was far worse. ‘Just want to ring home.’

‘You’ll be all right, Roz?’ He understood and his face showed concern.

‘I’ll be all right. Just wait for me at the corner.’

Turning her back on him she reached into her pocket for the two sixpenny pieces she had put there especially, then lifting the receiver she asked for the Alderby St Mary number.

‘Have one shilling ready, please,’ the operator said. ‘I’m ringing the number now.’

‘I’m sorry, Gran,’ she whispered inside her as she waited, breath indrawn, for the phone to be answered. ‘So very sorry to do this to you …’

The room at the top of the tall, narrow house in Micklegate was small and the big old-fashioned bed took up most of it making it seem even smaller. At the window, the blackout curtains had already been drawn and the rose-patterned curtains that matched the bedspread pulled over them. On the wall opposite stood a washstand with a bowl and jug, a white, fluffy towel on the rail at its side. But because of rationing, there was no soap in the rosebud china dish.

‘Paul – I haven’t brought any soap with me.’

There had been a half-used tablet in the bathroom but she couldn’t have taken it. Gran would have known then, wouldn’t she?

‘It’s all right.’ He opened the small case and took out his toilet bag. ‘I’ve got some. And it’ll be all right. Don’t worry, sweetheart.’

‘I’m not. I won’t. Gran didn’t believe me, though, when I rang. I told her I’d missed the last bus and the last train as well. She didn’t say she didn’t, but I knew. She sounded surprised, and hurt.’

‘She must have been, and I’m sorry,’ he said softly. ‘I wish it could have been different. If there hadn’t been a war; if I wasn’t flying, we’d have all the time in the world.’

‘But there is a war, Paul, and we might not have time.’

‘I know. But it will come right for us. That Lancaster is a lucky old kite. When we’ve done our thirtieth we’ll be taken off operational flying – maybe they’ll send us somewhere as instructors. Could be we’ll have a whole year away from ops.’

‘Mm.’ A year was a long, long time. When you lived each day as it came, a year was forever, almost. ‘And, darling, I know that tonight isn’t our first time, but it’s the first time we’ll be properly together and I feel just a little – well, edgy. I want it to be perfect, you see.’

‘It will be. No snatching tonight. And no picking bits of hay off your coat.’

‘There’ll be tomorrow morning, too.’ She smiled. ‘That’s what’s going to be so wonderful – opening my eyes and finding you still there.’ She took his face, his dear, tired face in her hands. ‘Fifty years from now we’ll come back to this place and fifty years from now I’ll still be loving you. But till then, we’ll always have tonight and this lovely, lovely room. Just you and me.’

She wouldn’t think about tomorrow; wouldn’t think of the hurt in Gran’s eyes nor Polly’s button-round, indignant mouth. Tomorrow was a lifetime away. All that mattered was here and now when her name, just for tonight, was Rosalind Rennie.

Hester Fairchild lay in the pink-eiderdowned bed, worrying about the phone-call from York. Roz hadn’t missed the last train, except by choice. Roz had known, when she left the house that afternoon, she’d thought as she replaced the receiver, that she wouldn’t be home tonight.

After the phone-call, a suddenly-old woman had gone to her granddaughter’s room, opening drawers and cupboards, doing things she would never before have dreamed of. And everything had been there; her dressing gown hanging behind the door, her slippers beside the bed where she always kept them, and beneath the pillow – and she had blushed as her hand searched there – Roz’s pyjamas lay, folded neatly.

Could it be, she frowned, that Roz had not gone to York prepared to stay the night? Perhaps it was as she had said – her watch had stopped and she really was stranded there. She had been glad that her suspicions were without foundation. Then she opened the bathroom door and her eyes were drawn to the tumbler beside the wash-basin and the white toothbrush that should have been there, and wasn’t.

‘Why couldn’t you have told me, Roz?’ she had whispered. ‘Why must it have come to this?’

Now she tossed unsleeping, the moonlight making patterns through the uncurtained window, shining mockingly on the loneliness of the woman who lay there. Take care, Roz. She sent her anguish winging. If you are with him, with the airman from Peddlesbury, tell me about him when you come home. Don’t lie to me. Trust me? Believe me when I say I know what it’s like to love a man until it hurts – and to love and want him still.

A tear slipped from the corner of her eye and she let it slide unhindered, down her cheek. For the life of her she didn’t know who that tear was for. For Roz? For herself? Either way it was wrung from the very deeps of sadness, and tasted bitter on her lips.

That same moonlight touched the house in Micklegate and lit the little top room. Roz had pulled back the curtains so it should light their nakedness and stand witness to their love, make it special. She had wanted to see him, too; to remember the need and love in his eyes.

‘What time is it?’

‘Nearly two, I think.’

‘Don’t go to sleep yet, Paul.’ They mustn’t waste a moment of this night in sleep.

‘I love you.’ He raised himself above her, chin on hand, looking at her shoulders, her mouth, sensuous now; her small, round breasts, the nipples hard from wanting him and red like cherries, after their loving.

‘I wonder what the world is doing out there,’ she murmured. ‘I want it to be written in the sky for everyone to see. Paul and Roz. They love, they have loved, they will love …’

‘Get out of bed and look.’

‘No. I don’t want to leave you.’ She wanted him again.

‘Was it good?’

‘It was good, Paul. Tonight, we should make a love-child.’ All babies should be made in moments this good, this perfect.

‘No. Not yet. I love you too much.’

‘But we will have children, Paul?’

‘We’ll have children. When there’s no more war.’

‘Everything’s so quiet.’ She reached up to kiss the hollow at his throat. ‘The world’s holding its breath, for us.’

She traced the outline of his jaw with her fingertips, ran her fingers through tousled hair that made him look like a boy awakened from sleep.

‘The moon’s watching us, though. It’s a lovers’ moon tonight, not a bomber’s moon.’

‘It’s going to be all right for us, you know that, don’t you, Roz? That night when Jock bought it – thank God I had you, darling. I thought I’d never fly again but I’m sure, now. Every time we get back it’s thumbs up for another one behind us.’

‘We were lovers that night. The first time, remember? It was so cold. Not like now, in this beautiful room.’

‘It’s a very ordinary room, woman. When we’re married we’ll have a bridal suite – do it properly.’

‘When we’re married we’ll come back here. There’ll have to be a moon and we’ll arrange for the world to stand still, like it is now …’

The world outside was not standing still. In other, more ordinary rooms, children cried in the night and were comforted. In the sleeping streets of that old, old city, policemen walked their beats and women on switchboards blinked sleepy eyes, waiting for morning and the end of their watch, another blessedly quiet watch, thanks be. And air-raid wardens wondered if the ration would run to another pot of tea, for this was the ungodly hour when eyes longed to close and bodies were cold from fatigue. A hot, reviving mug of tea would help keep them awake until morning came.

The air-raid warden was stirring his tea, wishing there was sugar to spare to spoon into it when the telephone at his side began to ring.

‘’Allo. ARP Priory Street.’

‘Purple alert,’ said the voice. ‘Repeat. Purple alert.’

The air-raid warden said ‘Ta’, picked up his pen, dipping it ponderously in the ink bottle, then wrote Purple alert. 0236. 29th April in the log book.

Hostile aircraft, and a purple alert meant they were only minutes away. Mind, it’d probably be Hull again, poor sods. There was nothing here for Jerry to waste his bombs on.

‘If you want a sup of tea you’d best come quick and get it,’ he called to no one in particular. ‘That was a purple …’

They came in over Flamborough Head. Twenty-four Junkers-88 bombers, their mission aided by a moon that shone on the waters of the Humber estuary. Navigation was easier on moonlit nights; easy to follow the Humber waters to where they were joined by the River Ouse. Straight and steady flying, then, to York. And all of that city laid out beneath them, easily visible. The Luftwaffe crews were on to a good number in the small hours of that late April morning.

The ten-fifteen express from King’s Cross to Edinburgh approached York station almost on time and the fireman put down his shovel, wiping his face with a rag. The driver peered out into the half-light, recognizing the blacked-out signalbox that was just about a mile away from York. He could do with a five-minute break; trains were easy targets for hunting German fighters on moon-bright nights like this. You couldn’t entirely black out a train; not when its red glowing firebox had to be regularly stoked. But it had been a good run north, for all that …

The telephone in the ARP post in Priory Street jangled again and automatically the air-raid warden reached for his steel helmet. Only four minutes since the purple alert …

‘’Allo!’

‘Air-raid warning red.’ That voice again. ‘Repeat. Air-raid warning red.’

‘It’s a red!’ he called, jamming on his helmet, reaching to throw the switch of the siren that sat atop the building. A flaming rotten red, and him not had his second cup yet. But those swines always knew when you’d brewed up, didn’t they?

The Priory Street siren and those around it began their undulating wail; like souls trapped in torment thought those whose sleep it disturbed. For ninety seconds that seemed to stretch into forever the lamentations went on, chilling some into immobility, others to stark panic. There’d been alerts before and it had been all right. There’d be alerts again, like tonight, but best be sure. Best go to the shelter.

‘Roz,’ Paul said urgently, pulling his arm from beneath her shoulders, flinging off the sheet. ‘Get dressed. Now!’

‘No,’ she pouted. ‘Damn it. Oh, let’s not get up?’ They were always having alerts, always getting up, going into shelters and then what? Nothing.

‘Now, I said.’ He was taking no chances with her safety. He wanted her downstairs – under a table or under the stairs, if that’s all the shelter there was. ‘Get something on. Quick!’

‘Bloody hell,’ said the air-raid warden, ‘it’s us!’ Not Hull, again; not Manchester or Newcastle; tonight they’d come for York. And with fire-bombs, that’s what. Incendiaries, raining down. They’d come to burn the place out.

He hammered on the door of a house showing a light. Only a small window, but big enough for those sods up there to see. A lavatory window. It was always the lavatory windows, the minute the sirens sounded.

‘Get that light out! Get it out!’

The ten-fifteen King’s Cross to Edinburgh express pulled into the London and North Eastern station at York just as the sirens had done with their wailing; just as the first high-explosive bomb crashed through the glass, dome-shaped roof and exploded with a sickening, shaking roar. It shattered the platform, sent glass flying in sharp, lethal daggers. Carriage doors sagged; travellers lay where they had been flung, stood stupefied or ran toward the ARP warden who blew on his whistle and pointed them in the direction of the nearest shelter.

More bombs hurled down, and more; fire-bombs crashed into roof spaces and lofts, began their hideous blazing. York, once guardian of the north, ringed round by stout walls and defended by bows and arrows, had no answer to this.

The first, furious explosion wiped all protest from Roz’s lips. Shocked into mobility she slithered into her nightdress then flung on her jacket.

‘Paul!’ She felt her hand grasped and followed him, stumbling in the darkness to the dim light that shone two floors below them.

‘Come down. Careful of the stairs,’ the bed-and-breakfast lady called from the cellar door. A sleeping baby lay over her shoulder, her hair hung loose down her back. ‘Hurry. We’ll be all right down here.’

A candle burned at the turn in the worn stone steps, lighting a small, damp-smelling cellar, its floor covered by old, worn rugs. Beneath a wooden table, its legs shortened so that it stood little more than a foot and a half from the floor, another child lay on a mattress, wide-eyed, thumb in mouth.

In the centre of the cellar, set six feet apart, two thick wooden joists gave support to the ceiling above and, catching Paul’s eye, the woman whispered, ‘My husband put them there. Safer for us, he said, if the house got a hit …’

She was on her own, Roz thought dully. Her man was gone to war and she managed as best she could, rearing her children alone, renting out rooms to eke out the Army pay she drew each Thursday from the Post Office. She was young; too young to have this existence thrust upon her.

On a bench opposite sat a middle-aged man. He looked like a commercial traveller and he’d pulled on trousers and shirt, though his feet were bare and he held a handkerchief to his mouth. He’d forgotten his dentures, Roz thought. In his haste to get down here he’d left them behind and it wasn’t funny. It wasn’t remotely funny.

She reached for Paul’s hand and held it tightly. She was afraid. Those first bombs had been too near – the station, was it?

The bed-and-breakfast lady laid the sleeping baby beneath the table-shelter then drew a blanket over her children. Her face was young and fresh; her eyes old and fear-filled.

‘All right, sweetheart?’ Paul whispered.

‘Fine. Just fine.’

The air-raid still raged and though the explosions seemed farther away now, the noise was horrendous. Why York? Had they mistaken it for some other city? Roz swallowed hard and it sounded loud in the trembling silence.

The commercial traveller pushed his handkerchief into his trouser pocket. Perhaps he had fought in the last war and was suddenly ashamed of his embarrassment. Perhaps all at once he thought damn it, and to hell with his teeth, sitting two floors up. Perhaps things like that didn’t worry old soldiers.

Placing a hand over his mouth he said, ‘Bad do, this. Who’d have thought they’d have a go at York?’

‘We’ve had a lot of alerts but no bombs, till now.’ The woman placed an arm protectively over her children. ‘My husband’ll be out of his mind when he reads about this in the papers. He’s with an ack-ack battery, near Scapa Flow. Wish he were here now.’

‘It’ll be all right,’ Paul comforted. ‘These old houses are solid.’ He looked to the window at ceiling height; a long, narrow window that opened out at street level. Useful that could be. ‘You’re safe as houses down here.’

‘You fly, don’t you?’ she whispered, gazing at the wing on his tunic. ‘Give ’em a bashing tomorrow night? For York?’

‘I’ll do that.’ He felt Roz stiffen beside him, knowing that even though there was a lull in the bombing and the only sound that of anti-aircraft shells screaming up into the sky, this could well be only the start of it. There could have been incendiaries amongst the HEs. There almost always were. Fire-bombs started a blaze that could be seen for miles, provided a target for the next wave to bomb on.

He pulled Roz closer. Her hand clasped his tightly, her body rigid with fear and shock.

Was this then, she thought, how it always was? Tomorrow night would it be S-Sugar’s bombs, falling on men too old to fight and children too young to understand. And on frightened, lonely women.

She smiled up at him and he bent his head to rest it on hers.

‘I think it’s stopping now,’ the bed-and-breakfast lady said, it seems farther off, don’t you think?’

She drew her tongue round her lips. She longed for a cup of strong, sweet tea. She needed her husband beside her, not in khaki; not called up to fire an ack-ack gun miles and miles away from her and the kids. She wanted him, the comfort of his closeness in the night and him kissing and touching her, as it once had been.

‘I think you’re right,’ Paul said softly, knowing that was what she wanted to hear. ‘I think the worst’s over …’

The all-clear sounded a little before five in the morning; the sweetest of sounds in a shocked city.

‘Right, then.’ The commercial traveller made for the stairs. ‘Back to bed, I suppose.’

He wouldn’t go back to bed, though. He’d get a shave and finish dressing, then be off to the station as fast as he could, home to Manchester on the first train out.

‘I’ll be making a pot of tea, if you’d like to come up to the kitchen.’ The woman looked at her children, sleeping still. ‘They’ll be all right here. Think I’ll leave them. Let’s put the kettle on.’

‘It’s kind of you,’ Paul smiled, ‘but we’ll have to be away. Best I get back to camp.’

‘Did you have to say that?’ Roz sighed when they were alone. ‘I’d have loved a cup of tea, I really would.’

‘I know, sweetheart, but I want to get you out of here. Just look out there.’ He drew aside the curtain to reveal a sky that was red with fires. ‘We’d best get weaving. They could be back before long to bomb on those fires; it’s the way it is. Believe me, I know.’

‘But what will we do – get the milk-train?’

‘Train? I suppose we just might be lucky. But I don’t care how; all I want is to get you out of this. Just out, all right?’

The air was foul with the stench of destruction; of water-drenched buildings and blazing timber. Thick, dark smoke shifted in billowing drifts and ages-old dust floated around them, mixing with minute pieces of fire-blackened paper. Voices called urgently, men dug in rubble and those without spades used their hands. A fire engine sped past, bell clanging.

‘That bomb, Paul; the one that sounded so near …’ Her fingers tightened within the grasp of his hand. ‘It hit the Convent. They’re carrying people out.’ Eyes wide with disbelief she gazed at the waiting ambulances, at a stretcher and the scorched, stained habit of the nun it bore away, a cloth covering her face.

‘Come away, Roz. Let’s get to the station. Maybe they’ve been luckier there.’

Maybe by some small miracle they’d get a train out – perhaps the early milk-train to Helpsley. There might even be transport waiting outside. The station was the likeliest place.

They had not expected the devastation that confronted them.

‘Sorry, lad. No trains,’ the elderly policeman who stood at the station approaches said. ‘No station. Direct hit …’

‘God, what a mess!’ Paul jerked. ‘Many hurt?’

‘Aye. Hurt and killed. Got the London train, see. Most of it just gutted. If you’re looking for someone, try the Butter Market. In Kent Street. That’s where they’ve all been taken.’

‘No. There’s no one. Just wanted to get back to camp. Hadn’t realized …’

‘Then you’d best try shanks’s. Only way out of here, this morning. Or you might be lucky with a lift …’

He turned and walked away. He had better things to do with his time than talk to airmen who were well able to take care of themselves. And besides, they were still digging in the rubble in there. Nasty business it was, finding bodies.

‘He’s right. Let’s start walking.’ He took her arm in his. ‘We’ll get a lift, no bother.’

‘It – it’s terrible. Such a mess. So many killed.’ Her lips were stiff and she shook with fresh fear. It could have been them; could have been the tall, narrow house in Micklegate and the sleeping children whose father was miles away. And what about Gran, alone? They’d have had an alert at Alderby, too. She’d have known York was being bombed.

‘Sir?’ A hand pulled at Paul’s sleeve. ‘Sir, can you help us, please?’

Two young women stood there, faces dirty and tear-stained. Two young aircraftwomen, shocked and bewildered. ‘We don’t know what to do. Just getting off the train, we were. Lost all our kit. Burned. Don’t know how we’re to get there and there’s no one to ask …’

‘Where do you want to be?’ Paul’s voice was gentle.

‘RAF Peddlesbury, sir. Don’t even know where Peddles-bury is.’

‘Your first posting, is it?’

‘Yes, sir.’ The second, the younger one spoke. ‘But our kit? We’ll be in trouble. Left it on the train. We just ran …’

‘I wouldn’t worry about it, if I were you. You’re both in one piece – that’s all that matters. And I’m going to Peddlesbury. You’d better come along with us.’

‘Can we? Oh, thanks. It’s awful in there …’ Fresh tears, then, to be brushed away with the back of her hand.

‘Would a cigarette help?’ Paul offered his packet. ‘There’ll be no transport here yet awhile. Think we’d all best try to thumb a lift. And stop worrying about your kit. Enemy action. Nothing at all you could have done.’

Roz held Paul’s hand as he struck another match, and held it out for her. His hands were steady. He’d look after her, look after them all. Paul would get them out of this nightmare. She smiled her thanks, her hand lingering on his.

‘Come on then, ladies. Let’s try to make it to the Helpsley road. Could be we’ll pick something up there.’

They set off together; Paul scanning the sky, ears alert for sounds of aircraft, for a second wailing of the sirens that would confirm the worst of his fears.

He wanted Roz out of this, and the two Waafs. Just frightened kids, the pair of them. Ought to have been at home with their mothers.

Hell, but this was a damn awful war.

The fingers of St Mary’s church clock pointed to seven-thirty as the Army lorry came to a stop at the top end of Alderby Green.

‘Right, then,’ the driver called. ‘This is where I turn off. You’ll be okay from here?’

Paul thanked him and said they would, helping the aircraftwomen down, holding up his arms to Roz.

‘Tonight?’ he whispered as he swung her to the ground.

‘Yes. Same time?’

‘Same time – unless …’ He didn’t have to say it.

‘See you, then.’ She knew he wouldn’t kiss her; not in front of the Waafs; not here, right in the middle of Alderby.

‘’Bye.’ His eyes said ‘I love you’, then he turned and walked away, the young girls beside him.

She waited until they had rounded the bend in the lane, then looked around her in amazement. There had been no bombs here, no fires, no killing. Nothing had changed in Alderby. Nothing ever would except that maybe this morning the milk delivery was late.

‘Kath!’ Just to see Daisy and the milk-cart, the normality of it, sent relief rushing through her. ‘Oh, Kath!’

‘You’re all right? Oh, thank God! They’re all frantic at the farm and I couldn’t say a word. They know, though.’

‘How? Who told them?’

‘Jonty. He went to Ridings when the siren went; wanted to know if you were both all right.’

‘And I wasn’t there,’ Roz whispered flatly.

‘That’s it. He stayed with your gran till the all-clear went. When I got there this morning he had a face like thunder on him.’

‘Had he just? Well, it’s none of his business, is it?’

‘It is if he loves you. But you’ll want to be getting home and I’m late enough as it is. The Warden made us all get out of bed when the bombing started; we were in the shelter most of the night and I slept through the alarm. Last up gets the worst bike. By the time I got there, there were only two left in the bike shed, and both of them with a flat tyre. Had to blow the damn thing up three times on the way.’

‘Panic all round, eh?’ Roz shrugged. ‘Look, Kath – I’ll tell you about York later. It was pretty bad; I was really afraid. Tell Mat I’ll be over just as soon as I’ve got into my working togs and had a cup of tea. And Kath – thanks.’

‘What for?’

‘For not going on and on about it; for not saying you told me so.’

‘Was it worth it, Roz?’

‘Like I said, the raid was awful, but yes, it was worth it.’

‘That’s all right then, isn’t it?’

She stood, frowning, as Roz hurried away, then clicking her tongue, she took the pony’s head, leading it on.

My, but she wouldn’t be in Roz’s shoes for anything this morning. Facing her grandmother would be one thing; facing Jonty’s rage would be altogether another.

Sorry love, but I did tell you so …

The kitchen door opened the minute Roz set foot on the cobbled yard and she was gathered into her grandmother’s arms, and hugged until it hurt.

‘Roz! Darling, you’re all right!’

‘I’m fine, Gran, and I’m sorry to have been a worry to you, but don’t go on about it – not just yet. Please?’

‘I won’t. But, Roz, whatever possessed you to miss that train? What were you thinking about?’ Tell me? I’ll try to understand, truly I will. Only tell me about him. No more lies between us.

‘But that’s just it. I didn’t think. My watch, you see. And I was all right. There was a shelter. York’s in a terrible mess, though. There were two Waafs in the YWCA with me and we all hitched a lift back together.’ Lies. Lies. ‘The army driver told us he thought the Minster is all right, but they got the Guildhall and the station’s gutted and the Edinburgh express. The Convent got a direct hit, Gran. We saw nuns being carried out.’

Her face crumpled and she closed her eyes tightly against the tears she had been longing to cry since that first, frightening bomb; closed them against the lies she was telling and must tell, for Paul.

‘There now. It’s all over. You’re back home and that’s all that matters. Come inside and I’ll put the kettle on. A cup of tea is what we’re both in need of.’

‘I’m sorry, Gran.’ The tears came, then. ‘I’m sorry you were worried and sorry you were alone last night.’

‘But I was all right. Jonty came.’

‘Yes. Kath said.’ She should have remembered. ‘And, Gran – I – I …’

‘Yes?’ Tell me. Tell me about your airman.

‘Nothing. Just that I – I was afraid last night, that’s all.’ I want to tell you about Paul, but I can’t. I love you, but I can’t tell you about how it is between us. Not just yet. ‘And I need that cup of tea. I really do.’ Some day soon, I’ll tell you, Gran. When Paul has done his tour and we know he’ll be safe for a while. I’ll bring him home, then. ‘And I’m truly sorry – for missing the train.’ For lying about Paul and me when all I want is for you both to meet and like each other and for you to let me marry him.

But you won’t let me. You’ll say I’m too young and that I’ll understand, some day, that you were right. You’ll say it because you’ve forgotten what it’s like to be young and in love; desperately, hurtingly in love. ‘Forgiven, Gran?’

Kath was still not back from the milk-round when Roz hung her coat behind the dairy door and rolled up her sleeves. But there was plenty to do and she was glad of the quiet; glad to be here, where there’d been no bombs. Paul would be back by now, and the two Waafs. She hoped it would be all right about their kit.

Fear ran through her again just thinking of it and she took a deep breath, willing herself to be calm. It wasn’t only the air-raid; it was being found out. Gran knew, and Jonty, and there’d have to be more lies. It wasn’t fair, which was stupid, wasn’t it, when people were always saying that all was fair in love and war. Plain stupid. She flung round as the door opened, already on the defensive.

‘Well, Roz, I hope it was worth it?’ Jonty stood there, his face a mask of anger. ‘I hope it was worth all the worry you caused? And how did you get back so early?’

‘I hitched a lift, if it’s any of your business. As soon as the all-clear went, we –’

‘We?’ His face flushed darkly.

‘Yes! We. Me and two Waafs. An army lorry stopped for us.’

‘Then why didn’t you do that last night? Why didn’t you hitch a lift then?’

‘I would have, if I’d known what was going to happen. If I’d known about the air-raid, I’d never have gone to York, would I?’ She breathed in deeply, trying to be calm, to bite hard on the anger that made her want to fling the truth at him. But he knew already, didn’t he? And maybe Kath was right; maybe he was in love with her. ‘But don’t say you’re glad to see me; glad I’m all right!’

‘Glad to see you?’ His hands reached for her shoulders, his fury erupting as he shook her violently. ‘All right? God, you don’t deserve to be all right! You were with the airman, weren’t you? You were with him! All night. You’re a tramp, Roz; a tart!’

Her hand flew high and wide then she slammed it into his face with all the force she could muster. White-faced, wild-eyed she spat, ‘Don’t ever do that again! Don’t ever touch me again! You are not my keeper; you are not my lover; you are – you are nothing!’ She pushed into him, and bewildered by the fury of her attack he stood aside to let her pass. ‘Never – ever – touch me again!’

Head down, she ran blindly. Across the yard, across the orchard and up the lane that led to the village. Climbing the field gate she made blindly for the haystack, almost gone now, and throwing herself face down on it she began to weep with great, tearing sobs.

‘I hate you, Jonty!’

Her fists beat her fury into the ground. She hated him for knowing about last night; hated him for dirtying it for her. But most of all she hated him because he’d made her hate herself.

She wept until there were no tears left; sobbed out the terror that had been York, their lovely night spoiled. And she cried shame for her lies and because Jonty had called her a tramp and a tart, and that had hurt.

She sat hugging her knees, fighting fresh tears. How long she had been there she didn’t know.

‘So this is where you’ve got to?’ It was Kath. ‘Jonty sent me to look for you. Trouble, was there?’

‘I hit him.’

She wondered how Kath could be so calm, so matter-of-fact about it all. But Kath was like that. There was a quietness in her that made her that way. She had survived a lot of air-raids, hadn’t she, though she never talked about it and she hardly cried at all that day she’d fallen from the stack. But then, it wouldn’t do if everyone in the world were the same; if everyone had red hair, and a temper to match it.

‘Hit him? Silly thing to do, wasn’t it?’

‘He asked for it. He shook me, then he called me a tramp, and a tart!’

‘He’d been worried about you. And jealous, too, I shouldn’t wonder. You aren’t helping yourself any by getting into a state about it. What’s done is done. It was just bad luck about the air-raid, that’s all.’ She offered a handkerchief. ‘Here. Dry your eyes and blow your nose and let’s be having you. We’re behind with the work as it is, and I’ve still got a flat tyre to see to.’

Roz did as she was told, fear, anger, guilt all gone. Now she was drained of all emotion. She couldn’t even feel shame.

‘God, Kath, who’d be young? Just who, will you tell me? Right now I wish I were old, really old – or that I’d never been born. I just feel numb.’

‘I know, love.’ Kath laid an arm across the dejected, drooping shoulders. ‘But things’ll be better tomorrow. You need a good night’s sleep. We all do. And just to help you feel a little bit better, there’s the milking parlour to be mucked-out.’

Her mouth tilted into a smile, then she began to laugh and Roz laughed with her. There wasn’t anything else to do.