24

The work of Vic and his team had been turned upside down by the arrival of the US air force.

He and another British research engineer were paired with a couple of American scientists and sent all over the country visiting newly built USAF bases. Their job entailed making sure that ‘friend or foe’ transmitters and receivers were properly installed into hundreds of newly arrived Flying Fortress bombers and other aircraft, and that AI, the air interception equipment that allowed aircrews to follow the flights of other nearby aircraft directly from their cockpits, was working correctly.

The work was pressured and exhausting, demanding all of Vic’s powers of diplomacy, but the living conditions and meals were more luxurious than anything he’d ever experienced. Once they’d accepted that he wouldn’t eat their delicious-smelling crispy bacon, hamburgers and hot dogs, they came up with plenty more to satisfy his taste: proper eggs cooked all ways, pancakes with maple syrup and, for lunch or dinner, plenty of fresh vegetables along with the crispiest chips – or ‘fries’, as they insisted on calling them. Their ice cream was simply out of this world.

American scientists and engineers were assigned to each development team, and they had only weeks to make sure that all of their systems were co-ordinated. He didn’t take to them at all, at first. They were so loud, and so bossy, so certain their way was right. For a start, it seemed inevitable that they would have to adopt the new American term RADAR – for Radio Detection and Ranging – even though it just seemed like an overblown version of their own acronym.

The Yankee dollars were very welcome and their research budgets quadrupled overnight, but it took time to get used to each other’s way of working. The best way of dealing with them was as he’d done with other overly confident characters like Frank: let them have their big bluster first, getting it out of the way, after which he would quietly but insistently point out the flaws of their argument. It didn’t make him especially popular, that he knew from experience; but it earned him respect and, more importantly, it saved time.

The other trial, of course, was dealing with their questions about his origins. One of his teammates, Randy (short for Randolph, but Vic couldn’t trust himself to say it out loud for fear of sniggering like a schoolboy) said quite bluntly that he’d been surprised to find Vic working alongside ‘white folks’.

‘Back home, the blacks are segregated, even in the military.’

‘Segregated? You mean, kept apart by law?’ Vic was aghast.

Randy explained it was only in some states where seating on buses, schools, swimming pools and working areas in factories were divided into ‘black’ and ‘other’.

‘But why?’ Vic gasped.

‘Gee, it’s so normal I don’t really know why, and never asked. That’s the way it’s always been, so I guess folks feel more comfortable that way.’

‘White people feel more comfortable, you mean?’

His friend clapped him on the shoulder. ‘Aw, don’t take it amiss, Mac. It don’t make a bitty bit of difference between you an’ me, eh? It’s great working with you, chum.’

But for all the constant company, Vic was lonely.

Most of all, he missed Kath. That day in Lincoln glowed in his memory; his hand could still feel the imprint of hers as they’d walked together, and he could still taste the astonishing sensation of her lips meeting his as they’d waited for her bus. His heart seemed to ache in his chest when he thought of her, and he felt sure this must be what they called ‘falling in love’. But did she feel the same about him? He longed to see her again, to reassure himself.

By now, he felt sure, she would have had her post-training week’s leave in Felixstowe. With Lizzie’s words about persistence ringing in his ears, he had written several times to Kath’s home address. He’d received nothing from her apart from a brief note thanking him for the lovely day in Lincoln.

He told himself to be patient. In these troubled days everyone was on the move, sometimes with only a few hours’ notice. No one could be sure of where they might be posted next.

Another week went by. Surely by now she would be at her first real posting? His requests for leave had thus far been refused ‘due to operational priorities’, but he was certainly due some time off, and hoped to use it to visit Kath. But where was she?

And then, on the very same day, two envelopes arrived in his pigeonhole. The first was addressed in Kath’s rounded, generous hand.

Dear Vic,

Thank you for the two letters, which I picked up from home when I came back on leave a week ago. I’m sorry for the long silence and hope this reaches you now that you are doing so much travelling. Still I am sure your work is interesting, as ever, and you are achieving yet more great things!

You won’t believe it but I’m back here, where we first met. The place is full of memories and reminders of the times we had here. Not that I’ve had much time to think, trying to get used to the crazy shift patterns and feeling dog tired most of the time. Also, the weather is so miserable I haven’t been able to get out into the gardens. Our favourite walk is out of bounds anyway, covered with barbed wire and the rest, as you can probably imagine.

I had a very exciting week at HQ before this, seeing what they do with what we tell them. I half wondered whether I might see you there, but no luck. Being there brought it home to me, all over again, how critical your work has been, and still is. Hats off to you all!

I’m still a novice, but learning fast. It’s terrifying and exhilarating and exhausting all at once. I’ve got no idea when I’ll get leave, but will let you know. In the meantime, if you’re ever up this way it’d be so lovely to see you. Write again soon.

Fondest regards,

Kath

The news was better than he could have possibly hoped. That they were allowing women back to Bawdsey was surely a sign of the Allies’ growing confidence that the dangers of enemy invasion or air attack were receding. The world suddenly seemed less bleak, and he was so thrilled by the warmth of her words that he lost himself in a brief reverie and almost forgot to open the second envelope. It was the official buff variety marked CONFIDENTIAL, TOP SECRET and Not to be opened by any unauthorised person. It contained a rail warrant with the usual cryptic instruction: Report to USAF Martlesham 1400 hours Friday. That was in just two days’ time.

He ran to the lab and pulled down a map. USAF Martlesham was, by a quick reckoning, just a dozen or so miles from Bawdsey. ‘Thank you, gods,’ he gasped, barely able to believe his good fortune.

He allowed the reverie to return, imagining Kath on board the ferry, in one of the rooms in the Red Tower or the White Tower, or with her head bent over a screen in one of the bunkers along with her fellow WAAFs. The image now began to include himself, walking those paths hand in hand with her, the gardens filled with spring flowers, the sun in her hair, her laughter, the feel of her lips . . .

Vic and his English teammate Monty had been at USAF Martlesham for just three days when Randy told them about the dance planned for the coming Saturday in the new mess hall.

‘They’re flying in a swing band from Austin. It’ll be a knockout. You have to be there, kiddo.’

Vic had become accustomed to being called ‘kiddo’, and assumed it was because he was so much smaller than most of them. They were all giants, dwarfing even Monty’s five foot ten, though their faces were so youthful they looked as though they’d only just learned to shave. And although they spoke the same language, he often failed to understand them. A swing band? And where on earth was Austin? It didn’t matter anyway, because he didn’t plan to go, knockout or not. Monty was keen, but Vic rolled out his usual excuses: can’t dance, nothing to wear, bit of a headache. But Randy was nothing if not persistent.

‘Look,’ he said, lighting up a Lucky Strike and lounging back on Vic’s bunk as though he owned it. ‘I hear what you’re saying, Mac, you don’t feel comfortable at dances. And I get it. There’s your colour an’ all, and those uptight English ballroom affairs are enough to make anyone uncomfortable. But have you ever been to an American dance, with a jazz band? It’s black music, man. There’re no fancy doo-dah steps to learn, you just do what feels right. I guarantee you won’t be able to resist tapping your toes, and before long you’ll be on the floor, ’specially with a couple of daiquiris inside you.’

‘Thank you, but I really don’t think so . . .’ What on earth was a daiquiri, anyway?

Randy’s voice took on a confidential tone. ‘I shouldn’t be sayin’ this, but it really ain’t the done thing to refuse. The brass hats might think you ungrateful.’

Vic recognised at once that he’d been checkmated. These Yanks might act stupid some of the time, but they were clever devils underneath.

‘Okay then, I’ll come for a short while, just to be polite,’ he conceded.

‘Good man. See you in the bar, seven sharp.’

A daiquiri, Vic discovered, was a drink of rum mixed with ice and lime juice that slipped down so easily that it was only quarter of an hour later you realised how strong it was. After drinking two of them, he belatedly recalled being warned that American measures were double or even, sometimes, treble those served in English pubs.

As Randy led them from the bar across the stretch of tarmac to a nearby hangar, the fresh air helped to clear Vic’s head and he felt ready for anything. Even so, the sheer noise of the band, the size of the dance floor and the numbers of dancers, at least a couple of hundred, was daunting. Randy and Monty disappeared, leaving him clinging to the wall like a gooseberry. He soon discovered that his feet were actually tapping, all by themselves, to the irresistible rhythms of the music. No one seemed to be taking any notice of him. Dancers whirled past, flinging themselves from side to side without any semblance of formal steps, and he was so transfixed that he failed to notice the young woman sidling up beside him.

‘You look lonely,’ she shouted over the din. ‘You’re not from round here, are you?’ Her Suffolk inflections reminded him of Kath. Must be one of the girls they bussed in from nearby villages for these affairs.

‘No,’ he said. ‘I’m from Tunbridge Wells.’

One eyebrow raised in a sceptical arc. ‘Pull the other one, fella.’

‘Honestly,’ he said. ‘I’m half English, half Indian.’

‘I’ve never met anyone even partly Indian.’

‘We’re perfectly harmless, as you see. Don’t bite, or whisper evil spells.’

She laughed. ‘Would you like to dance?’ How bold girls were becoming, these days. Must be the war. He rather liked it, this turning of the tables.

‘Not really,’ he said.

‘You don’t have to know any steps.’

Too drunk to resist, he allowed her to take his hand and lead him into the melee. They danced – or rather, he moved his feet around and after a while, cautiously, his arms – until he was quite out of breath.

‘Can I buy you a drink?’ he said, pulling out a handkerchief to mop his brow.

‘That’d be nice,’ she said. ‘My name’s Carol. What’s yours?’

‘Vic.’

‘Short for Victor?’

‘Short for Vikram.’

‘That’s more like it,’ she said, threading her arm through his. ‘Now, where’s the bar?’

Just as they were crossing the tarmac the boom of music from the hangar stopped for a second, and in the unaccustomed silence they heard a giggle, then another.

‘Someone’s having fun,’ Carol said. ‘C’mon, I’m dying for a drink.’

Peering into the darkness, Vic could just about make out two figures in the shadows, at the corner of the building. Another giggle. A male voice, American: ‘You’re a sweet kid, d’ya know that? D’ya wanna see my Thunderbolt?’

The girl spoke, and his heart seemed to stop beating. Even though he couldn’t hear the words, it sounded just like Kath’s voice.

‘Gimme another kiss, and I’ll show ya.’ The man gathered the girl into his arms again, smooching her so intimately, so intensely, that it made Vic’s stomach turn upside down. The kiss seemed to go on forever. She didn’t seem to be resisting; in fact, she seemed to be enjoying it.

‘Ooh, you are naughty,’ the girl said, with a giggle that sealed his certainty. It was Kath. What on earth was she doing here? The answer was perfectly plain.

He felt Carol’s hand trying to take his, pulling him along. ‘You coming, or what?’

But his feet were rooted to the ground, watching helplessly as the couple pulled apart from their clinch and disappeared behind the building. His head was spinning, he felt nauseous and desperate to lie down.

‘Sorry, I’m not feeling very well,’ he shouted to Carol and turned away, stumbling in the direction of his barracks. Once there, he dragged himself along the corridor to the bathroom, where he was violently sick. Back in his bunk he succumbed to misery, silently weeping for the girl he’d missed so much, on whom he’d pinned such ridiculous hopes.

The girl he’d believed himself to be falling in love with.

The girl he’d allowed himself to imagine might, just might, have been starting to feel the same.