MIRANDA HAD BECOME Group Captain Llewellyn’s personal driver whenever he needed to be taken on a long journey, and these were happening rather frequently now, because Operation Overlord, which had started the previous June, meant a great many meetings of the top brass. Avril, on the other hand, drove whatever she was given – the blood wagon, the liberty truck, convoys carrying heavy weapons from one place to another – just about anything. Which was why, when the letter arrived, she was called in from her post as ambulance driver for the day to receive it.
Avril’s forehead wrinkled into a frown. What had she done to receive an official letter? But the Waaf who had come to fetch her scowled up at her and jerked an impatient thumb. ‘Come along, Donovan, you’re wanted in Flight’s office,’ she said impatiently. ‘Letters ain’t always bad news . . . maybe it’s a perishin’ postin’, or you’re bein’ made up to corporal, ha ha!’
But at the mere mention of a posting Avril jumped down from her seat in the ambulance and hared off across the grass to their flight officer’s small room. She shot through the doorway, her heart hammering in her throat, but at a glance from the officer’s chilly blue eyes she pulled herself together. She came stiffly to attention and saluted with such force that her right temple tingled. Then she said, as coolly as she could, ‘LACW Donovan reporting, ma’am.’
‘Official letter, Donovan,’ the flight officer said, and she must have seen the shock which Avril was trying so hard to hide, for she unbent a little. She handed it over, advising, as Avril’s hand closed on the flimsy paper, ‘Take it to your hut and read it in there. They won’t miss you on the blood wagon for several hours yet. It passes my comprehension why we have to man the ambulance all through the day when our planes only attack by night.’
Avril could have told her; enemy planes did not work by the same rules as the British ones, which meant that the airfield could be attacked at any hour of day or night, but she realised that Flight Officer Adams was only making conversation to give her support, for she must have already guessed what the letter contained. So Avril answered accordingly. ‘It’s something we all query, ma’am,’ she said, hoping her voice was not wobbling. She threw off another smart salute, turned with a click of her heels and strode out of the room.
She pushed open the door of their hut, glad to find it empty, and went over to her bed, slumping on to it and unfolding the sheet of paper. She found she was trembling so much that the words on the page blurred. For a moment she simply sat there, staring at the paper before her, then she took a deep breath and held it for a count of ten, releasing it slowly in a low whistle. She did this twice and then the words on the page were clear, could be calmly read.
Her eyes went first to the signature: a known name, occasionally mentioned in Pete’s letters, and of course it said what she dreaded to hear, that Corporal Peter Huxtable had not returned from a raid and was accordingly posted as missing. Since Corporal Huxtable had given her name as his next of kin it was his duty to inform her that Lancaster BT 308 had been shot down, but that the pilot of the aircraft following it in the formation had seen several parachutes open and thought that some of these had reached the ground safely.
Avril took another deep breath and expelled it even more slowly than she had the first. She thought of the dangers which Pete must face even if he had managed to get out of the plane; landing behind enemy lines in an area his aircraft had recently been bombing could mean that a trigger-happy air raid warden – if they had such things in Malaya – might blast off a round of deadly bullets without a moment’s consideration. But on the other hand, there was that thing called the third Geneva convention . . .
The hut door burst open, stopping Avril’s thoughts in mid-flow. The little Waaf who had instructed her to go to the flight officer came into the hut. Her face was pink, concerned, but Avril met her gaze blandly. ‘In a hurry, Ellis? If you’ve come to find out what was in my letter . . .’
The other girl’s face turned from pink to crimson and her eyes sparkled indignantly. ‘Flight told me to make sure you were all right,’ she said stiffly. ‘But I can see there was no need for concern. God, you’re a hard nut, Donovan; don’t nothin’ crack your shell?’
Avril made a great play of putting her letter away in her locker, so that the other girl could not see her face. When she was in full command once more, she swung round and spoke, her voice even and unemotional. ‘Not while I’ve got nothing to moan about,’ she said quietly. ‘My feller’s missing, but the aircraft behind his in the formation saw ’chutes opening. My feller will come out of it all right; he’s like a cat, always lands on his feet.’ She hesitated, then gave her fellow Waaf a tight little grin. ‘But thanks for coming over, Mary; it were real good of you.’
Together the two girls left the hut and Avril began to chat of other things, the work in which she was engaged, the meal they would presently eat in the cookhouse and how she missed her best friend Lovage, who was now seldom on the airfield, but taking the top brass wherever it wanted to go. She missed her, of course she did, but Miranda would be back, probably before dark . . . The two girls chatted on, as though neither had a worry in the world.
Miranda had a perfectly dreadful day. Some senior officers were a positive joy to transport from one place to another, but Air Commodore Bailey was not one of them. He made no secret of the fact that he did not like women, did not trust women drivers and had no intention of placing his valuable life in the hands of someone he described as ‘a chit of a girl’. In normal circumstances, therefore, Miranda would never have been told to drive the commodore, in his beautifully polished staff car, from the station he had been inspecting the previous day to what was described as an unknown destination in the north of England. But when the orderly officer went to wake the commodore’s driver he found him writhing in his bed, sweat standing out on his forehead, obviously burning up with fever. The man had to be hospitalised at once, and within the hour was on the operating table having a burst appendix removed, and poor Miranda, looking forward to a quiet day for once, was given her new orders, reminded of the air commodore’s feelings regarding women drivers and sent round to the Commodore’s quarters to be given details of her destination.
Dismayed, for everyone knew Air Commodore Bailey, Miranda begged to be excused, suggesting that almost any man in the MT section might take her place. But men were at a premium and the officer who had given her her instructions raised a quizzical eyebrow. ‘What do you mean, Lovage? Oh, I dare say he can be a bit difficult, and women don’t like that, but I’m sure you’ll charm the pants off him, if you’ll forgive the expression. Just do your best and don’t get lost, and we’ll see you back here before dark.’
Not at this point knowing her eventual destination, Miranda could only assure the orderly officer that she would do her best, but when she read her instructions and realised she was going up to Northumberland she gave a soft whistle of dismay. She thought it extremely unlikely that she would be back at the airfield before dark, for the days were getting shorter and, though the main roads would probably be quite clear, if one came across a convoy heading in the same direction it could add hours to any journey.
However, orders were orders and Miranda nipped into the ablutions to damp her curly hair into submission, though it was cut short and little could be seen beneath her cap. Then she checked her appearance, which was as immaculate as a clothes brush and Brasso could make it, and she drove to the meeting point, where she had her first unpleasant experience of the day. The air commodore, deep in conversation with the group captain, crossed the concrete apron and paused to allow his driver to wriggle out from behind the wheel and come round to open the rear passenger door for him. He began to thank her, but then the words seemed to shrivel in his throat. ‘What – what – what?’ he barked. ‘Where’s Jones?’ He put a hand out to rest on the roof of the car, but made no attempt to climb inside. Instead he swung round to face the group captain. ‘I remember you telling me Jones had been carted off with a pain in his innards, but you never said . . .’
The group captain hastily cut across what he must have guessed would be an offensive sentence. ‘LACW Lovage is one of the best drivers we have, so you’ll be in good hands,’ he said soothingly. ‘She has her instructions and understands that you must reach Northumberland before the weapons trials can begin.’ He turned to Miranda, still holding the passenger door open. ‘You can get the air commodore to his destination without trouble, can’t you, Aircraftwoman?’
‘I’ll do my best, sir,’ Miranda said. ‘So long as we don’t find ourselves held up by a convoy or by closed roads . . . but I’ve got a map which the orderly officer assured me is up to date, so we’ll hope for the best.’
The air commodore, a large man who probably weighed in at over fifteen stone, had climbed into the car and leaned back against the leather, but at her words he jerked forward, waving a sausage-like forefinger almost in her face. ‘Hoping for the best is not good enough, young woman,’ he growled. ‘If one route is closed to us by heavy traffic or convoys we must find an alternative one.’ He might have gone on at some length but Miranda closed the door smartly and got back behind the wheel. Giving her a wink, the groupie stood back and saluted smartly as Miranda put the big car into gear and drove forward, trying to take no notice of the muttered imprecations coming from the rear seat.
She had hoped that the air commodore might unbend when he realised the quality of her driving, but she hoped in vain. He criticised constantly, accused her of taking wrong turnings, complained if she drove too fast but disliked it even more when she had to slow to a crawl. He refused to leave the road for so much as a cup of coffee or what the troops called a ‘comfort break’, and by the time they reached the airfield where the trials were taking place Miranda was as tired as though she had driven to Scotland and back. However, she did not mean to let it show, and when the guards at the gate of their destination waved her down and examined her papers and those of her illustrious passenger she put a brave face on it. The guards told her where to go and said a trifle reproachfully that she was early, so the commodore would have to kill half an hour before a meal was served in the officers’ Mess. Miranda could not help shooting a triumphant glance at her reluctant passenger as she drew to a halt and got out to open the rear door. ‘There you are, sir, with thirty whole minutes in hand,’ she said chirpily. ‘I’ve been told to go to the Mess and await further instructions from you, but first I have to go to the cookhouse. I’m sure they’ll find me bangers and mash, or a plateful of . . .’ She stopped speaking as her passenger, ignoring her completely, marched stiff-backed into the officers’ mess, slamming the door behind him with enough force to take it off its hinges.
‘What a mean pig,’ Miranda muttered. But some men were like that; if you proved you were as good at your job as a man, they resented you all the more. And this elderly air commodore was probably bursting for a pee – she was herself – and so had not dared to stop and throw even a word of thanks to the driver who had managed to get him to his destination with thirty minutes to spare.
Despite her hopes and everyone’s expectations, however, the trials took longer than expected and it was full dark when the big car eased out of the tall gates once more and headed for the main road south. Miranda had managed to grab a second meal of sorts at the cookhouse as soon as she realised that they would not be leaving until much later than planned, and she supposed that someone must have fed her officer, so when he climbed into the car, smelling faintly of both food and alcohol, she hoped that his temper would be much improved. In her experience a man who has been well fed and watered was usually either chattier or more comatose as a result. After a mere couple of miles, a peep in the rear view mirror showed the air commodore comfortably settled in one corner of the long leather seat, eyes tightly closed, little bubbles of saliva coming from the corners of his mouth. Miranda could not help a little chuckle of pleasure escaping her. Thank God! If only he would sleep all the way to his quarters, how happy she would be. In order not to wake him she took extra care, and of course care was necessary due to the blackout, but even so she only took forty minutes longer on the return journey than she had going north.
As she drew up beside the administrative offices, she wondered for the first time how she should wake her passenger. She could imagine his rage if he realised she had known he was sleeping, had seen him dribbling – disgusting old man – on to the leather upholstery of the beautiful car. But the orderly officer, who had no doubt arranged the trip with considerable trepidation, must have been keeping a lookout for them, because he popped out of the offices like a jack-in-the-box, and when she tried to get out of her seat and go round to open the rear door he shook his head and put a finger to his lips. ‘I’ll wake him gently, but don’t expect any thanks for your good driving,’ he whispered. ‘And as soon as he’s awake and on his feet you’d best get rid of the car and see if the cookhouse can dream you up char and a wad, late though it is.’ He patted her shoulder and even in the pale light she saw the flash of his teeth, white against tanned skin. ‘Many thanks, LACW Lovage; I take it all went according to plan?’
Miranda nodded. ‘Yes sir. We arrived early and left late,’ she said cheerfully. She lowered her voice. ‘I don’t envy Corporal Jones, sir.’ The orderly officer chuckled, but just at that moment there was a heaving and a muttering from the figure slumped on the rear seat and Miranda, quick to see the good sense of a speedy disappearance, only waited until her passenger was out of the car before making off without a backward glance.
She decided to see if Avril would accompany her to the cookhouse, for there are few things worse than sitting down to a plate full of lukewarm food, the only person in a great echoing room set with dozens of tables and chairs, all of them empty except one’s own. Upon investigation, however, she discovered that there were only two girls in their hut, neither of them Avril. She emerged from the hut, closing the door softly behind her, and almost immediately came face to face with another Waaf. ‘Hiya, Lovage,’ the girl said cheerfully. ‘Lookin’ for your pal? She’s gone to the NAAFI; said she’d wait up for you when you weren’t in for a meal earlier.’
‘Thanks. I hate eating alone in the cookhouse, so I’ll get Avril to keep me company,’ Miranda said. When she got to the NAAFI, however, expecting to find Avril the centre of a group, she saw her friend sitting alone at a small table, industriously scribbling. She had a mug of coffee before her but when Miranda got near enough she could see that the drink was cold by the skin on it, and the way Avril was hunched over the page upon which she was writing warned Miranda that something was up. She slid into the seat opposite and tapped the other girl’s mug. ‘You’ve let your drink go cold,’ she said disapprovingly. ‘What’s happened?’
Avril said nothing but fished in her tunic pocket and handed the letter to Miranda, who read it at a glance and then whistled softly beneath her breath.
‘Oh, Avril, poor old Pete! But missing doesn’t necessarily mean . . .’
‘I know, I know,’ Avril said impatiently, ‘I’m being sensible and telling myself it just means more waiting. He – he gave me as his next of kin, otherwise I really would be waiting, and wondering, too. But since his squadron leader says they saw chutes open, at least there’s hope. Oh, Miranda, I wish I’d been more generous! To pretend he meant no more to me than the other fellers I’d gone with was just plain stupid, and now I’m payin’ for it.’ She gave her friend a watery grin. ‘I’m writin’ a letter to him now. I’m going to add a page or two each day and then, when he comes home – I suppose I should say if he comes home – he’ll get a whole batch of news in one go. And I’ve started the letter by sayin’ I won’t go out with anyone else because he’s the only feller that matters to me and always will be. Do you think I’m doin’ the right thing?’
‘Yes, of course you are,’ Miranda said, keeping her inevitable reflections to herself. Avril loved dancing, the cinema and the company of young men. Miranda could appreciate her feelings, but doubted whether Avril would be able to stick to a nun-like existence. However, only time would tell, and right now her friend was undoubtedly sincere.
It was four whole months after the squadron leader’s first letter telling her that Pete was missing before Avril got another letter, this time with Pete’s familiar handwriting on the envelope. On their way to breakfast they had stopped off at the bulletin board in the Mess and Avril had taken down the letter, her heart hammering in her throat. Seeing Miranda’s interest, she shook her head. ‘It’s probably been in the post for months, or stuck in the wrong pigeon hole, so I don’t mean to get all excited,’ she said. ‘I won’t wait till we reach the cookhouse, I’ll read it now.’
She slit open the envelope with clumsy fingers and pulled out the printed sheet it contained. ‘I told you it would be nothin’,’ she said bitterly. ‘It’s one of them forms . . . oh, my God, my God, my God!’ And Avril, who never showed emotion, who had not cried even when Gary had been killed, or not publicly anyway, burst into tears.
‘What is it? What is it?’ Miranda asked agitatedly. ‘Oh, Avril, I’m so sorry . . .’
Avril raised a tear-drenched face, her mouth beginning to form into a watery smile. ‘He’s a prisoner of war,’ she said huskily. ‘It’s one of them standard letters giving his address and saying he has been in hospital but is out of it now, and he’s scrawled on the bottom Love you, Avril. Pete.’ Miranda was in the middle of telling her friend how happy she was when Avril gave a whoop and bounced across the Mess. ‘I’m goin’ to get that letter, the one I’d been writin’ for the past four months,’ she said jubilantly. ‘It’ll take him a month of Sundays to read it, but I’m sure he won’t mind that. And I promised him that we’ll get together just as soon as he’s back in Britain.’ She gave Miranda a defiant look. ‘That means as Mr and Mrs Huxtable, even if we can’t marry straight away, because I was a fool, and wasted the time we could have spent together.’
‘Oh, Avril, I’m so happy for you, and I’m sure it won’t be long before the war’s over and Pete can come home,’ Miranda said. She grinned wickedly at her friend. ‘Does this mean you’ll come to dances and start flirting again, the way you did before Pete went missing?’
Avril laughed with her but shook her head. ‘No point,’ she said. ‘I’m a one man girl now, and it means just that. And now let’s get to the cookhouse because I’m absolutely starving; no matter what rubbish they’re handing out I’ll eat every scrap.’
‘How do I look?’
The war had been over for several months and Miranda and Steve were alone in the living room of the small flat into which Avril and she had moved only the previous week, because despite Avril’s brave words Pete had said that he would prefer to start their married life after the wedding rather than before it. This had made Avril go scarlet to the roots of her hair, whilst Miranda, who had been present at the time, had had to stifle a laugh.
Pete had returned from the POW camp thinner and sporting a black beard streaked with grey, and looking, for a moment, a dozen years older than the Pete she had known. Avril would have walked straight past him, and when he had grabbed her, accusing her of forgetting him, Avril, once so proud of never showing emotion, had wept bitterly. But the weeping had been of short duration, and the kissing and cuddling that followed had been quite sufficient to prove to Pete that, beard or no beard, he really was her dearest love.
Now, however, Miranda twirled until the skirt of her new-second-hand dress flew out, showing her petticoat, and Steve got up from the creaking sofa to grab her and give her a kiss whilst assuring her that she looked gorgeous; so pretty, in fact, that she would outshine the bride. Miranda smiled. She had seen Avril’s dress and knew that though her own blue cotton was both fresh and attractive, it would be totally eclipsed by Avril’s long white gown, borrowed from a theatrical costumiers for this special occasion.
She and Avril had decided that they would like a double wedding but this had been impossible since Pete’s first action on arriving in Liverpool was to buy a special licence, something which neither Steve nor Miranda had even heard of before; they themselves would be married conventionally after the banns had been read three times in their local church, and they had arranged with Mrs Mickleborough to have a small reception at her home. It had never occurred to either Miranda or Avril that Pete owned other premises, as well as his cycle shop, in the city. They both knew of course that Pete was ten years older than Steve, and had not wasted those ten years. He had been not a spender but a saver, and before the war had gone in for property, so that now he had a comfortable sum in the bank just waiting, he told them, to be spent on a home for his wife to be.
Realising that a double wedding was out of the question, Miranda had thrown herself wholeheartedly into the preparations for her friend’s great day. She had agreed to be a bridesmaid and had found a pretty dress on Paddy’s Market, and she and Steve had put their gratuities together to buy a small kitchen table and two stools for the newly-weds, which had just about cleaned them out financially.
As soon as the wedding was over, Pete would move into the flat in which Miranda and Steve now waited, and the lack of somewhere of their own was the main reason why Miranda and Steve had still not settled on the wedding date. Because of the bombing every single room in Liverpool was bulging with occupants and as soon as a property came up for rent it was grabbed. When Miranda moved out of this flat she would have no option but to go back either to share with Aunt Vi or to accept a put-you-up in the Mickleboroughs’ front parlour. She told herself it was unfair on Steve’s mum to add yet another person to a house already bursting at the seams, but Steve assured her that his mother would take an extra non-paying lodger in her stride, especially if that person was willing to help in the house and even do a bit of cooking.
The door opening put an end to Miranda’s thoughts and she beamed as Avril bounced into the room. She had always been a big, tall girl, but dressed in dazzling white satin with a wreath of lilies of the valley crowning her smooth flaxen head she looked like a princess, Miranda thought. Steve wolf-whistled, his eyes rounding. ‘Avril Donovan, you look fantastic!’ he breathed. ‘Wait till Pete sees you; he’ll be over the moon to think you’re his and his alone. Can I kiss the bride? ’Cos I am acting father of the bride, after all.’
Avril curtsied. ‘Ta very much; I thought I looked good, but now I’m sure of it,’ she said. ‘You ain’t one to pay compliments you don’t mean, old Steve. But just remember this ’ere bridal gown is the very same one what Miranda will be wearing in a few weeks, so just you keep your kisses for her, young feller.’
Miranda was about to make a joking remark when something occurred to her and she clapped a hand to her mouth. ‘The bridegroom isn’t supposed to see the bride before the wedding, because he won’t be so astonished at how lovely she looks in the dress,’ she said. ‘Oh, hell, does that mean, if I wear that dress, we’ll have bad luck?’
‘No, of course not . . .’ Steve began, but Avril interrupted.
‘You’re mad, you. It ain’t the dress, it’s the woman,’ she explained. ‘It’s something to do with ancient times, when they rigged some girl up in wedding finery with a real thick veil in front of her face, and passed her off as the bride, or so I’ve heard tell. So you needn’t worry, Steve – oh, heavens, where’s me perishin’ veil? Miranda Lovage, you’re supposed to be helping me to get ready, and you never even noticed I’d not got me veil on yet.’
Miranda shot out of the room, fetched the veil and draped it elegantly over her friend’s coronet of the tiny sweet-smelling flowers. She stepped back to admire the effect just as a taxi drew up in the street below, and sounded a toot-toot-ti-toot-toot on his horn.
Both girls squeaked and headed for the stairs whilst Steve, following, told them that they had plenty of time and reminded Avril that if she didn’t pick up her skirts she would soil them on the piles of wet snow left over from the storm a week before.
The three of them bundled into the taxi and Avril grabbed Miranda’s hand. ‘I hope I’m doin’ the right thing,’ she muttered. ‘I hope Pete is, for that matter. We’ve been apart for so long that sometimes he seems like a stranger. Partly it’s the beard, but I can’t expect him to shave it off just because it makes him look so different. Besides, I know he’s rather proud of it.’
Miranda patted the hand which clutched her own. ‘You’re both doing the right thing,’ she said gently. ‘It’s the same thing that Steve and I will be doing in a few weeks, and we have no doubts, do we, Steve?’
Steve pretended to frown and consider, but just then the taxi drew up outside the church and in his role as surrogate father of the bride he had to be first out so that he could accompany Avril to where Pete awaited her at the top of the church.
Avril tucked her hand into Steve’s arm as they reached the porch, and glanced behind her as her friend adjusted her train. Her veil was down but it was a frail and beautiful affair through which she could see quite easily. She smiled her thanks, and then the organ music swelled and they began to process up the aisle. She was clutching Steve’s arm so hard that she saw him wince, but then he was pushing her gently towards her waiting bridegroom, and the three of them stood, shoulder to shoulder, as the priest began the wedding service.
Avril clutched her bouquet nervously. The sonorous words rang out. ‘Dearly beloved, we are gathered together here in the sight of God, and in the face of this congregation, to join together this man and this woman in holy matrimony; which is an honourable estate . . .’
Avril had been staring straight ahead of her, waiting for her heart to stop beating so fast, knowing that the time was about to come when she would have to speak, and speak calmly what was more. For the first time, she risked a glance at Pete, standing so still and straight beside her, and a squeak of surprise emerged from her lips, just as the priest said, ‘First, it was ordained for the procreation of children, to be brought up in the fear and nurture of the Lord . . .’ He paused, but when Avril said nothing more he continued with the service whilst Avril caught Pete’s hand and squeezed it convulsively. The black beard, of which she knew Pete was secretly proud, had disappeared, and above the clean lines of jaw and chin she saw the love in the eyes he fixed upon her. Avril smiled at him; her heart was dancing with joy. At that moment she knew without any doubt that she and Pete were about to set out on a journey together, and that, whatever might befall them, their happiness was assured.