20

Arnie walked to school the long way round; along the narrow road and around the big, sweeping bend that led to the village. That way he didn’t have to turn his face away as he passed Ridings, and didn’t have to walk past St Mary’s and see the deep, dark hole in the churchyard. He didn’t want to look at where they would put Mrs Fairchild, but when it was all over and the flowers were there to keep her company, he’d go and stand beside her, have a big, long think about her. Not today, but soon …

Today, Aunty Poll had packed sandwiches for him to eat at school at dinnertime and an orange she had stood in a queue for at Helpsley. He usually came home for his dinner, but not today because Aunty Poll would be at Ridings and busy with the funeral and funerals were no place for a little lad, she’d said.

It was funny, he frowned, that when he was expected not to cry he was a big boy, nearly ten, and when Aunty Poll wanted him not to do something he was no more than a nine-year-old tiddler. He wished she would make up her mind. And he wished Mrs Fairchild was still here. She’d been his special friend and she’d promised to teach him to play chess when he was ten. He missed her already. Almost always in summer when he walked to school by way of the farmyard and the apple orchard, he’d see her there in the ruins. She’d always been pleased to see him and always found time for a talk.

Last night, he’d gone to Home Farm because Aunty Poll had said it would be a kindness to help Mrs Ramsden and that maybe, if she had someone with her, she wouldn’t burst out crying so much. Very inclined to tears was Grace Ramsden – at the weepy age, Aunty Poll said – and if she had a small boy to chat to, maybe it would take her mind off things and that would be doing something for Mrs Fairchild, in a roundabout way.

So they had spread a newspaper on the table at Home Farm and he’d cleaned all the horse brasses that Duke would wear to the funeral. He’d polished them really hard because Mrs Ramsden said they wanted old Duke to do Mrs Fairchild proud. When he’d made them shine so much that Mrs Ramsden said she’d never seen them looking better, he’d gone out to pick long trails of ivy and young, fresh sprays from the yew trees for the cart they’d be taking her to church on.

But he didn’t want her to go and he didn’t like what those Germans had done to her. All at once it didn’t seem such fun to fly in a bomber or be a pilot; not when you had to kill people. Maybe after all, he’d set his mind on being a bank clerk; maybe a bank was the best place to be.

His bottom lip began to tremble again and the funny little croaky bit in his throat got worse, all the hurt he’d felt since it happened welled up inside him and burst out in tears – big, warm salty ones and not even to think about his orange would stop them.

This morning he was a nine-year-old tiddler and he didn’t care if the whole village saw him crying.

Roz decided to wear her grey costume and white blouse because all black, Polly said, was too stark for so young a lass, though if Roz hadn’t looked so peaky and frail she’d have dug her heels in over the business of the hat.

‘But I don’t have a black hat, Polly. The only one I’ve got is my summer straw.’ And even with the rosebuds removed and a black ribbon sewn around the crown, it still wouldn’t have looked right, she’d urged. Nor would she wear one of Gran’s black hats, she said, fixing Polly with a Fairchild stare.

‘I’ll tie my hair back with a black ribbon,’ she muttered mutinously, ‘and if the vicar doesn’t like it, then hard luck!’

‘You may please yourself,’ Polly retorted primly, conceding defeat, acknowledging that the lass had grown into a fine Fairchild. Once this dreadful day was over, she could turn her mind to her young man and to fixing a date for the wedding; she’d settle down and care for Ridings as she’d been reared to do. Aye, and do it well.

‘Have you thought which way we’ll all walk to the church?’ she demanded of Roz, determined things should be done correctly. ‘Will you walk alone, or shall Mr Dunston be with you?’

‘I think it’s best if someone is with me, Polly – one of you, anyway.’

‘Nay’ Poll Appleby knew her place. ‘I’ll follow behind you.’

But in front of Grace and Jonty, mind, her being an official guardian. ‘Mat will be leading the horse, then? You’ve got it all settled?’

‘Mat and Duke will take her there, Polly.’

‘Aye.’ On a farm cart, the way she’d have wanted it. No fancy motor-hearse for Hester Fairchild. She’d made that plain more than once. A shire horse had more dignity than ten men in top hats and when her time came, she’d said, she hoped Polly would remember it. ‘And Kath?’

‘She’ll be there, with Flora. She’s gone to the hostel to pick up her best uniform. Marco will see to the farm. There’s a relief landgirl there for a couple more days. He’ll be all right.’

‘Your young man isn’t coming, then?’

‘No. Gran never met him – well, not officially – and we haven’t made our engagement public, yet, so it wouldn’t be right. And anyway, he can’t come. He was on standby last night and they didn’t go, so it’s almost certain he’ll be flying tonight, he said.’

‘That was him on the phone, I suppose?’ As if she’d needed to ask, Polly sniffed.

It was Paul,’ Roz whispered and for the fleeting of a second the pain left her eyes and the corners of her mouth shaped themselves into a smile.

He’d phoned to tell her he loved her; phoned early because soon all outside lines would be dead.

‘I love you,’ he whispered as he put the phone down. ‘Fifty years from now, I’ll still love you.’

‘Take care tonight, Paul. And I love you – so very much.’

No one but you, my darling. As long as I live, only you …

‘I’m glad I kept these ribbons, Mat. Must’ve known, when I put them away that we’d be in need of them again.’ And she must somehow have known, Grace frowned, that five years after they’d been used for Grandma Ramsden, there would be such a shortage of everything as to make black funeral ribbons non-existent.

‘Didn’t we use them for Mother?’ Mat watched their careful ironing intently. ‘Didn’t I plait them into Duke’s mane?’

‘You did, love; and Duke not long broken-in to harness, then, and a bit mettlesome, still …’

‘But he did the old lady proud.’ And would do Mrs Fairchild proud, an’ all. Duke knew what was expected of him.

‘I’ll be glad when this day is over, Mat. How I’m to get through the afternoon, I don’t know.’

‘You’ll be all right, lass. There’s no shame in honest tears. And I’ll be beside you in the church.’

The farmer on the Helpsley road was to walk the Shire horse back to Home Farm and stable him. Once they had carried Mrs Fairchild into church, Duke’s work would be done.

‘I’m grateful, Mat. How you put up with my moods and tears, I don’t know. I weep so easily, these days. Must be my age.’

‘Whatever it is, I love you Grace. You know that, don’t you?’

‘I know it.’ She’d wanted to tell him she loved him too, but he didn’t often say such things and when he did it seemed to make her go all soft inside and tears fill her eyes. ‘Don’t ever leave me, love,’ she whispered, dabbing her eyes, taking deep, steadying breaths. ‘I couldn’t abide it, if you did.’

‘I won’t leave you, and you know it,’ he said softly, pulling her into the shelter of his arms, hushing her and kissing her tear-wet eyelids, just as he’d done when they were courting. ‘Oh, you silly woman – just who would I leave you for, will you tell me? And whilst we’re about it, don’t you ever leave me, for neither could I abide it, if you did.’

She had smiled, blinked away her tears and was comforted, for a while.

At a little after one o’clock, Hester Fairchild returned briefly to Ridings. They brought her coffin in a Red Cross ambulance, driven by a wartime volunteer and accompanied by a nurse who looked younger, even, than Roz.

Mat Ramsden waited at the head of the great grey horse, proud in full harness, its mane and tail entwined with ribbons of black, the bright brasses glinting in the afternoon sun with every toss of its head.

With gentle, capable hands, four young men from farms around placed the oak coffin on the low waggon covered in greenery and trailed with loops of ivy. Mat, wearing his sad suit for the second time that month, fondled the horse’s neck with slow, steady strokes. Then he clicked his tongue in his cheek and said softly, ‘Walk on, lad. Take her proudly.’

Slowly they circuited the house then swung left to the carriage drive. It had to be the long, agonizing way, for hadn’t she loved those trees of oak and beech and wasn’t it right that she should leave by the great, ornate gates through which she had come as a bride, more than forty years ago?

Roz walked alone, a bunch of pink roses in her hands. Behind her, though she had not wanted it that way, walked the two people Hester had chosen to guide her grandchild through the remaining years of her youth: a middle-aged solicitor from York and a Helpsley-born servant.

At the gates of Home Farm, Jonty offered his arm to his pale-faced mother and her eyes sought those of her husband, needing the reassurance of his smile and the love that was never far from his gaze. Her hand clasped that of her son and she leaned against him for support then took her place in the procession, her chin tilted stubbornly.

The cart moved slowly on. From the stackyard gateway Flora and Kath moved to take their place and Marco held wide the gate, lowering his head, crossing himself as the woman who had died in his arms passed through it, asking his God that her soul might rest in peace.

By the gate lodges, where once estate workers had waited cap in hand for her coming and their wives in starched white pinafores had bobbed a curtsy to Hester Fairchild, the Manchester lady placed her tribute of flowers on the cart beside the coffin. From cottages along the way came men and women in sober suits, black coats and hats to join those who followed the mistress of Ridings to the little church in Alderby.

Roz walked dry-eyed, the roses picked that morning clasped tightly to hide the trembling of her hands. Yet she walked with the dignity her grandmother would have wished, shoulders straight, head high; walked in slow time to the clopping of the horse’s hooves, to the jingle of harness, the clinking of brasses and the rotund grind of the wheels of the cart. Her eyes did not waver; her heart cried out to her lover to help each sad step that took her nearer to the place of parting.

At the churchyard she paused beside the newly-dug grave. She did it deliberately to accustom herself to it and not come on it later, with shock. Leaning against the hedge was Martin Fairchild’s stone. When it was in place again it would bear two names and Gran would rest beneath his memory. They had taken down a span of the railings that encircled the Fairchild graves, that the gravediggers might work the more easily. Those railings must not be put back. As a small child they had saddened her and she had demanded to know why those who lay there should be set apart from the rest. Gran said that one day she would understand, but she did not understand. She only knew that the railings were wrong and that the verger should be told she did not want them replaced.

At the church porch, the bearers waited. She must go. She must listen to intonations and sad psalms; must join in the singing of hymns chosen long ago by her grandmother.

This day should be cold and grey, wet with December fog, but it was June and the sun high in a sky of brilliant blue. For that at least she was grateful.

Polly removed her pearl-ended hatpin, took off her hat and hung it on the door peg, sighing with relief that it was over.

‘Tea?’ she asked of no one in particular. ‘Think we could all do with a cup.’

And thanks be that the war had put paid to funeral teas, she thought grimly. She didn’t like funeral teas – she never had, with everyone standing about not knowing what to say and saying the wrong thing every time they opened their mouths, like as not. The rationing of food had settled the matter and with a bit of luck it would never return.

‘Please,’ said Kath.

‘Right, then. Set a tray, Roz, there’s a good lass, though I suppose I shouldn’t be giving you orders, now.’

‘You shouldn’t,’ Roz smiled, ‘but you will, Poll Appleby.’

‘Aye. And come to think of it, I’ll be able to go on giving you orders till you’re one-and-twenty,’ she teased, glad of that smile, though brief, on the young girl’s lips.

‘Mind if I go upstairs and get out of these clothes?’ Kath’s walking-out uniform of breeches, knee-length stockings, pullover and shirt was much too hot for a day such as this. ‘Won’t be long.’

‘Is your young man coming tonight?’ Polly asked when they were alone. ‘I think it’s right that him and me should meet, don’t you? Your Gran would have wanted it.’

‘She would, and you shall – but tomorrow. I’m almost sure he’ll be flying tonight. He hinted as much when he phoned me this morning. He said he’d had a talk with the padre – about us getting a special licence. It’s still all right – the wedding, I mean?’

‘I said as much, didn’t I?’ Polly Appleby did not go back on her word. ‘But quiet, mind.’

‘Just Paul and me and you and Kath as witnesses. How will that suit you?’

‘It’ll have to suit me, I suppose, though I’d have liked to see you in white and a decent honeymoon afterwards.’ But the rationing of clothing had made proper weddings impossible, she sighed – unless a bride could borrow a white dress and shoes. And what about utility wedding rings? Her face flushed dully as she remembered.

‘Roz – there’s something you must know. When Mr Dunston went to the hospital about – things, they gave him your gran’s wrist-watch and the pearls she was wearing, and her wedding ring. They’re upstairs in her jewel box; they’re yours, now.’

‘And?’ Roz whispered.

‘And I’d like it if you’d wear her pearls on your wedding day, and –’

‘Be married with her ring, Polly?’

‘Be married with her ring,’ she confirmed gravely. ‘That way she’d be there, too, wouldn’t she?’

‘She would, Polly. I’ll wear them for her – and thank you.’

‘Nay. ’Twas but a thought.’ Polly’s mouth trembled and her eyes misted with tears but she blinked them away impatiently. ‘Stands to reason you don’t want one of them cheap little utility rings. Which lass would, given the choice? Ah well, I’ll just sup this tea, then I’ll be off. Don’t want Arnie waiting for me at the gate.’

Arnie had had more than his fair share of neglect these last few days; he’d felt Mrs Fairchild’s passing, too. Best make a bit of a fuss of the bairn tonight. A bit of love and attention once in a while never hurt anyone. Besides, she wanted to be out of this kitchen. Tomorrow she would start afresh. Tomorrow Roz would be mistress of Ridings, Polly reasoned, and by then she would have cried her long-overdue tears, cussed them Germans roundly and asked the good Lord to see to it that Mrs Fairchild was with her Martin again.

‘Say so-long to Kath for me,’ she whispered. ‘I’ll be here tomorrow, same time. I’ve got my own key, if you’re out.’

She left quickly, for tears still threatened.

‘Bless you, Polly,’ Roz whispered to the empty room. ‘Thank you. For everything.’

‘Polly said,’ Kath murmured, draining her cup gratefully, ‘that there was great respect at the church today. Every house in Alderby represented and half of Helpsley, too.’ Polly had watched and noted; had taken in every smallest detail of the afternoon. It had kept her mind off things; helped her maintain the dignity of Ridings. ‘The church was packed.’

‘Was it? I hardly saw a thing. I shut myself off; I had to. All I saw was the grave. It seemed so very sad. Until then I’d told myself no, it hadn’t happened, that I was going to wake up from this gigantic nightmare and Gran would be there, pottering about in the ruins. But this afternoon, in the churchyard, I had to accept it. I’m on my own, now.’

‘You’ve got Paul. And you’ll soon be married.’

‘Yes, I will. And I’ve got you, Kath. You won’t ever think of moving on, will you?’

‘I won’t. Only if they insist and then not without protest. But how about tonight? Are we going to Tuckets Hill? I feel like notching up another op.’

Anything to steer the conversation away from the trauma of the afternoon. And she must learn, Kath resolved, to be a good listener, for there was so much more, she was sure of it, that Roz had yet to talk out of herself.

‘You bet we’re going up to Tuckets! And Kath – I will try to pull myself together. Just give me a little time.’

They were half way up the hill that overlooked Peddlesbury aerodrome, walking slowly in the early evening warmth, hands clasped companionably.

‘Crazy, isn’t it,’ Roz muttered, ‘them being so cagey about accepting phone calls when the squadron is operational? It’s like confirming it; like giving advance warning. Any German agent need only lift the phone and ask for 217.’

‘Oh, I doubt it, Roz. So our bombers are flying? How is Jerry to know how many – and where they’ll be heading? I’ll bet they’ve come to expect air-raids, somewhere or other, every night of the week, now. Those thousand-bomber raids must be getting Hitler really rattled.’

‘You could be right. And don’t take any notice of me. I won’t be fit to live with till Paul’s got these last four behind him. I thought, just thought, mind, that it might be nice to hold back the wedding till he’s finished his tour. But we won’t. I just want to be married to him; properly and openly married, and as soon as we can. And, Kath – thanks; for these last few days, I mean. I don’t know how I’d have got through them if you hadn’t been with me. They say no two women are really close until they’ve shared a grief, and wept together. Thank you for sharing mine, and putting up with my tears …’

‘No bother.’ Kath’s reply was rough with emotion. Just to be needed was thanks enough. She had never been close to anyone; not before Roz. ‘You’d have done the same for me. In fact there’s something I’ve got to tell you. I’ve known since Monday, but I figured you’d got enough on your plate. Flora brought me the letter, telling me about it, and when I saw her this afternoon she gave me another; one that arrived this morning.

‘Barney’s been wounded, you see. His CO wrote to me first, to the Birmingham address. Barney’s in hospital at a place called Hafiif – it’s near Cairo – though they told me precious little else. But this morning’s letter was from Barney – well, sort of. Actually, it was written by a nurse; she put a little note on the bottom.’ She reached into her pocket for the envelopes, handing them over with a shrug of resignation. ‘Read them, Roz. See what you make of it. I’d just about got used to it, and then the second letter came. Do you think it could mean he’s too badly injured to write?’

‘Oh, Kath – I’m sorry. I know Barney could have his moods, but I’m sorry he’s been hurt. But his letter – well, the reason could be simple, couldn’t it? It could just mean that his right hand – or arm – has been injured, or something. I mean, think back to a time when you might have cut your finger – fairly badly, that is – remember how awkward it was, writing with even one finger bandaged? Maybe Barney’s arm is in a sling – of course a nurse would write a letter for him. Anyway, it’s one way of looking at it.’

‘I suppose it is. Oh, I know I’d decided that Barney and I were finished, but I didn’t want this to happen; truly, I didn’t.’

‘I know. Don’t you think Barney might have told you a bit more in the letter? He said he was fine; mightn’t he have said why he couldn’t write, or didn’t it occur to him?’

‘Don’t think that. Let’s face it, nurses are there to nurse, not write letters all day. There could be quite a few in that hospital not able to hold a pen and maybe the nurses don’t have time for long letters. Or perhaps they aren’t allowed to give out information like that?’

‘You’re always willing to give Barney best, aren’t you? But you’re going to have a bit of facing-up to do now, you know. Have you told Marco, by the way?’

‘No. No one knows but you and Flora. I’ve been trying to keep away from Marco these last few days, but tomorrow I’ll be getting back to normal working and it won’t be easy.’

‘It won’t. Have you thought what’s going to happen now between you and Barney?’

‘Happen? How can I know?’ Kath let go a sigh of exasperation. ‘I won’t change my mind, if that’s what you mean, but I thought the day I asked him to let me go would be a long way off and suddenly it isn’t. It’s almost certain he’ll be sent back to England, now. The wounded usually are.’

‘You could be right.’ Roz handed back the letters. ‘But maybe he hasn’t been seriously wounded; at any rate, that’s the way you’re going to have to think until you hear to the contrary. Just tell yourself that he can’t write because his arm is in a sling – okay? And I think you should tell Marco, too, because it seems that decision time is going to be a whole lot sooner than you thought.’

‘Decision time? But I already told you. I’ve made up my mind. Nothing has changed. I want to leave Barney. Does that make me sound like an unfeeling bitch, Roz? My husband is in hospital – maybe badly wounded – yet still I want him to let me go?’

‘Not unfeeling. Just honest – so for goodness’ sake stop agonizing. It’ll give you wrinkles. Right now we’re here to see Paul on his way – remember? After that we’ll talk about you and Barney – and Marco.’

‘No, Roz. There’s one thing I have faced up to and that is that there’s no future at all for Marco and me. Nothing is more certain, or more hopeless.’

Her eyes misted with tears and she covered her face with her hands, wishing she didn’t feel so guilty, so heartless. But she’d be punished, wouldn’t she? They, the Fates – or whoever it was up there who decided the way things should be – would make her pay for what she wanted to do. ‘All right,’ they’d say, ‘let her be rid of Barney, if that’s what she wants. But she shan’t have Marco …’

‘Don’t say that, Kath. Think how hopeless it seemed for Paul and me; yet look at us now – almost married.’

‘But you are single and I’m not.’ Kath dabbed at her eyes then blew her nose, loudly. ‘And you’re right – we’re here to wish Sugar good luck. Look down there, Roz. Something’s happening. A couple of them have got their engines running already – and we forgot the binoculars!’

‘Never mind. We’ll just wish them all good luck, like always, then we’ll know they’ll all get back. And they will. They’ll be all right, won’t they, Kath?’

‘They’ll be fine. Paul has the best skipper in Bomber Command. He’s got you to come home to and Skip has his baby to look forward to, so they’ll make it. They’ll do their thirty. Why don’t I go back for the binoculars? It won’t take me long and we’ll be able to see a whole lot better.’ She held out her hand. ‘Give me the key and you just stay here and relax. Close your eyes and think about weddings – okay?’

‘Mm. Weddings.’ Smiling, Roz closed her eyes. ‘Don’t be long?’

‘I won’t.’ It was good to see her smile again.

Once she reached the bottom of the hill, Kath began to run. Not so very far away she knew that Mat and Jonty and Marco would still be busy with the last of the hay. Since the first cut, the weather had been perfect, with a hot sun beating down from a clear sky and though she had missed her first haytime, Kath knew that hay needed sun to dry it. Now that hay, sweet with the scent of high summer, had been raked into cocks, ready for carting away and storing in the loft above the cowshed. In spite of time lost, just one more day would see them finished, Mat had told her. And another good day they would have, Kath thought, lifting her gaze to the sky. The swallows were still flying high. Mat’s hay would be safely in before the weather broke.

She heard the slow, steady clopping of a horse’s tread and knew that just around the bend in the lane she would meet up with Duke, the waggon behind him piled high with hay and Mat leading him companionably. Stepping on to the grass verge she waited, smiling, as they passed.

‘Whoa-up, lad.’ Mat brought the horse to a halt. ‘Now then, our Kath. Out for a walk?’

‘No, Mat. Just going to the house to pick up something we’d forgotten. Roz is up at Tuckets, watching the take-off. Thought we’d see it better with the binoculars …’

‘Is Roz feeling a bit better? She looked badly this afternoon. Happen now it’s over she’ll pick up a bit.’

‘I think she will. Mat, I don’t know about Roz, but I’ll be back to work in the morning. I can manage the milk-round alone; tell Grace I’ll be seeing to the dairy work, too. It can’t have been easy for you with the two of us off.’

‘It wasn’t. Didn’t realize we’d come to rely so much on the pair of you. Grace has missed having you about the place, Kath. Will I tell her you’ll be in for an early cup, like normal? She’s been in a terrible state over Mrs Fairchild. Try to cheer her up a bit, there’s a good lass.’

‘I will.’ Kath smiled up into his eyes, her affection real. Our Kath, they always called her and she wished she were indeed theirs. Could she have chosen her parents they would have been exactly like Mat and Grace. ‘But I’ll not keep you. You look tired, Mat.’

‘I am. Shan’t be sorry to hit the hay tonight,’ and he threw back his head and laughed at his play on words. ‘So-long, lass. Tell Roz I – Good grief! See that?’ His face creased into disbelief as he reached for Duke’s bridle. ‘What’s he playing at?’

Kath closed her eyes, flinching at the roar of a bomber flying low; too low. A Lancaster, its black underbelly so near she could almost have reached up and touched it.

‘Ruddy-well hedge-hopping, that’s what! Nearly took the top off the load!’

‘He’s in trouble, Mat,’ Kath whispered. ‘He’s far too low.’

They watched, stunned, as the bomber disappeared behind the trees in Peddlesbury Lane, its engines spluttering.

‘He isn’t going to make it …’

They sensed and felt the impact as it hit the ground, heard the terrible roar, saw the blinding flash of the explosion high above the treetops.

‘Oh, my Lord!’

There was silence, then; a second dragged out to a minute. Then smoke, mushrooming up; black and dense, flames licking through it.

‘Mat! I must go!’ Back to Tuckets, back to Roz. Oh, God, God, God! One of Peddlesbury’s and with a bomb-load, too. The noise of the explosion still beat inside her head. She had never run so fast. Roz, it’s all right. It wasn’t Sugar. It wasn’t!

They met at the foot of Tuckets Hill; Kath breathless, chest heaving, Roz white-faced, eyes round with fear.

‘Kath! I saw it! Right at the very end of the runway – going like mad for take-off. Then it seemed to slew …’

‘Slew? Then what?’

‘He was going just fine. Another second and he’d have been airborne. Then something went wrong. I think it’s just behind the wood. I’m going there!’

‘No, Roz! You mustn’t! You can’t! They won’t want people there. It could be dangerous.’

But she was running already, heels kicking the ground, hair flying.

‘Wait for me!’ She couldn’t run any more. Already there was a pain in her chest. ‘Roz – come back! That wasn’t Skip; it wasn’t!’ Holding her heaving sides, Kath stumbled after her. Roz mustn’t see that crash. It would haunt her, if she did, every time Paul took off. ‘Wait for me …’

She caught up with her at the edge of the wood, arguing with the armed sentry who blocked her way.

‘Sorry, girl – like I said, you can’t go any further and that’s an order.’ There was damn-all to see, anyway. Just bits here, bits there and a hole so deep it could hide a hangar.

‘Which one was it? Was it Skip Wright’s?’ Her voice was high and wild, bordering on hysteria. ‘What are the markings on it? Surely you know that? It’s all I want to know.’

‘Markings? How the ’ell would I know?’ He looked up sharply as a bomber roared overhead, climbing surely, its undercarriage already up.

‘They’re still going?’ Roz gasped. ‘After what just happened, they’re still taking off?’

‘There is a war on, or hasn’t anybody told you?’ The sentry’s voice was surly. Today had been pay-day. He’d intended spending an hour or two at the pub tonight, not being ordered out to stand guard over a bloody great hole. Because that’s all there was to see. There’d be none of them walk away from that one, poor sods. ‘A war on – all right? So why don’t you go home, miss? There’s nothing you can do and I don’t want to have to call the sergeant, now do I?’

‘But I want to know! I must know!’

‘And I flippin’ can’t tell you.’ She was beginning to annoy him. ‘So ring the aerodrome – they’ll know something. Ring the adjutant or the padre, but don’t ask me.’

They flinched as another bomber roared into the sky above them. Two gone. Three, if you counted the first.

‘Kath – what are we to do? He won’t let me go any farther; said people would be all over the place, looking for bits of shrapnel, bits of the plane. I’m not after souvenirs – God knows I’m not. I just want to know …’

‘Come home, Roz. He’s right. He doesn’t know anything. We’ll ring the aerodrome – set your mind at rest …’

‘But they might refuse the call. What’ll we do if they won’t accept it?’

‘We’ll keep on ringing till they do. And if we can’t get any sense out of them tonight, then you’ll have to wait until morning when Paul phones – all right?’

‘Yes. It wasn’t Sugar, was it?’

‘Of course it wasn’t.’ She took Roz’s shoulders, gripping them tightly. ‘Listen to me, will you? You’ve had more than your fair share of trouble for one week and there’s Skip’s baby to think about, too. God wouldn’t be that rotten, now would He?’

‘No. You’re right. It isn’t Paul. Paul said he’d take care.’

‘And he will. He’s getting married next week. Now are we going home or are we going to stand here debating the issue all night? I could do with a cup of tea, I know that much. And as for you, Roz, you’ll do exactly as you’re told. When I’ve phoned Peddlesbury you’ll go to bed with a cup of hot milk – all right?’

‘All right. I’m sorry if I made a fool of myself, only it was such a shock; such a terrible explosion. I don’t seem to have slept for so long. I feel like I want to close my eyes, shut it all out and not wake up till Paul phones.’

‘That’s my girl. Sleep – that’s all you need. In no time at all it’ll be morning and you’ll be telling yourself what a fool you were to get so worried. It’s ten to one against it being Paul – and odds like that are just fine by me.’ Kath laid an arm across her shoulders, pulling her close. ‘Come on, now. Home.’

And Paul? Kath sent her thoughts high and wide. Wherever you are, whatever you are doing right now, for God’s sake take care. She can’t take much more. She really can’t …