BY THE END of February, Izzy was wearing her flying suit most of the time at work, even in the mess. It was voluminous, big enough to take two of her, ideal for concealing her condition. She knew, however, that the day of reckoning was coming. She couldn’t hide Buster for ever.
She was alone in the cottage most evenings. Claire was always out. Julia, too, since she had taken up her social life again. ‘No lovers, though,’ she told Izzy. ‘I just like being with friends. It stops me brooding.’
Izzy sympathised. She was doing quite a lot of brooding herself.
She wrote to Elspeth, to Jimmy and to her mother and told none of them about Buster.
‘One day it will all come out,’ Julia said. She was on her way out to go with some airmen friends to her favourite club in Blackpool. She planned a lot of dancing. ‘Going to a sweaty, smoky dive. Such places remind me of Walter.’
Izzy said that one day Buster would come out, and that would be it. ‘No hiding him.’
‘Buster?’ said Julia. ‘You’re not going to call the baby Buster, surely. That’s a dog’s name.’
Izzy said she knew that. ‘I have no idea what I’ll call the baby, but for now it’s Buster.’
Julia said, ‘Whatever.’
A car tooted outside.
‘I’m off. Look after yourself, darling. Go to bed early. You and Buster need your rest.’
Izzy waved goodbye. She still envied Julia. Grief had not diminished her beauty. If anything, it had enhanced it. There was a deep and remote sadness in her eyes. Something that said, keep away from me, which had a magnetic effect of men. Julia’s beauty filled every room she entered; people stared. That beauty had filled this small living room, made Izzy feel lumpen, dowdy. But then, that could have been the hideous dressing gown she was wearing.
There was Julia, off to a nightclub, to drink, dance and flirt, no doubt, in her blue dress. Lips and nails painted scarlet. And here was she, bundled into an enormous and unflattering garment her mother had chosen, suffering dreadful heartburn. Life wasn’t fair.
Julia was rich, beautiful and had a brand-new handbag. She’d got one of the pilots to bring it back from Brussels, where leather goods weren’t rationed. She had asked Izzy if she wanted one. ‘Shoes, too, if you can trust a man to bring you something you’d actually wear.’
Izzy had refused. ‘I need all my money for when the baby comes.’
Still, Izzy, Claire, Julia and all the others were busy. Izzy figured as long as she kept out of the way, slipping into the operations room and the mapping room when they were too busy for anyone to notice her, her secret was safe.
Of course, Mrs Brent had noticed Izzy’s condition. She had scrutinised her, noticing the glow in Izzy’s cheeks. ‘She’s in the family way,’ she told Mr Brent. ‘I know when someone’s expecting. I’ve seen it too many times.’
‘It’s not right,’ said Mr Brent. ‘Flying about and her in the puddin’ club. Little baby won’t know what’s happening to it, whooshing about way up high.’
‘It’ll be snug as a bug where it is,’ said Mrs Brent.
They were at the kitchen table, spread before them was a selection of chutneys, jams, scones, cheese and an apple pie.
Today had been a good day for Mr Brent. He’d traded a dozen eggs for two bottles of cider at the pub, a rabbit – skinned and ready for the pot – handed in to the doctor’s surgery had bought him ointment for his bunions, a hen, too old to lay, had been slipped over the counter at the chemist’s shop and three bars of soap, some toothpaste and a jar of cold cream slipped back at him. Soon, it would be warm enough to open the beehives. He’d planted this year’s potatoes, carrots and cabbages in the garden. The strawberries, blackcurrants and gooseberries had survived the winter. Rationing didn’t really touch the Brents’ lives.
He reached over for a third slice of pie, just a sliver to go with the last of his cider. Mrs Brent slapped his wrist. ‘Greedy guts. That’s for Izzy. We’ve got to keep her fed, she’s eating for two.’
Mr Brent drew back his hand, sighed and wondered who was the father of Izzy’s baby.
‘That Yank she’s been seeing. When she was ill that time, he came to see her. I was there, but I had to go to do the washing-up at the hotel. But I slipped back later to see she was all right. Well, the pair of them were in bed, curled up together, sound asleep, stark naked. Didn’t see me. I left them to it.’
Mr Brent tutted and said, ‘Young people these days.’
Mrs Brent folded her arms, leaned back in her seat and told him that Izzy and her Yank doctor weren’t doing anything they hadn’t done. She turned heftily in her chair and shouted, ‘Jacob, I know you’re out there in the hall eavesdropping. There’s some apple pie and cheese here for you to drop off at Izzy’s on your way to the pub.’
Hearing about Izzy’s pregnancy upset Jacob. He had his moves planned. As soon as peace was declared he’d start his journey back to Poland. He hoped to get a flight to Berlin with one of the pilots. He assumed they’d be taking supplies over there. All he had to do was find someone corrupt enough to take a bribe. He had his eye on Gerald Harper, a pilot who’d been court-martialled out of the RAF for hedge-hopping and had a fondness for women, whisky and gambling. Jacob reckoned Gerald might be tempted by fifty pounds in cash. The fifty pounds, Jacob had in mind was, right now, in Izzy’s knicker drawer. It was Jacob’s wish that it stayed there. If Izzy moved away, his plan would be scuppered.
He put the apple pie on Izzy’s kitchen table – he’d eaten the cheese on the way – and told her it was a present from Mrs Brent. ‘She says you’ll need it now you’re eating for two.’
Izzy picked at the pie, popped a sliver of pastry into her mouth and asked how she’d known that.
‘She knows everything,’ said Jacob. ‘She looked at you and knew.’
Izzy said, ‘Yes, I’m pregnant.’ Then, she pleaded, ‘You won’t tell anyone, will you?’
‘Your secret is safe with me.’ Of course it was. He needed Izzy to stay put. If her pregnancy was discovered, she’d be sacked, and she might leave the village.
She thanked him and offered him some pie. ‘Or a cup of tea? Some cheese? We have Camembert. It’s a bit ripe, we’ve had it for a few days.’
‘How did you get that?’
‘Somebody brought it back from France and gave it to Julia. She has her admirers.’
‘And how did the pilot get it? Did he buy it?’
Izzy said, ‘No. I don’t know what use money is over there. People seem to be more interested in getting things that aren’t available in the shops.’
‘Such as?’ said Jacob. For someone who planned to barter his way home, this was interesting.
‘Bicycle tyres, apparently,’ said Izzy. ‘Everyone’s keen to get bicycle tyres.’
Jacob helped himself to a piece of runny cheese and said, ‘Really.’ Bike tyres, in a million years, he’d never have thought of that.
Izzy lasted in her job for another three weeks. She was to remember the exact date of her downfall for the rest of her life. On 24 March 1945, she was standing in the mess listening to a report about airborne troops crossing the Rhine. She’d been thinking about Jimmy. He hadn’t been in touch for weeks. She was standing in the doorway, sideways on to the corridor, hands in pockets with the light behind her, highlighting her shape.
Edith bustled past, small steps, shoes squeaking on the lino. ‘Hello, Izzy,’ she said. Then she stopped, backtracked, ‘Izzy? Izzy? Are you . . . ?’
Izzy blushed and said, ‘Yes.’