THE STILLNESS DISTURBED Julia. The cottage had become silent. Izzy was living at Mrs Brent’s and Claire had gone back to London. There was nobody around when Julia got up in the morning, nobody around when she got home at night. All that, and there was never anything to eat.
Thinking Julia went out every night, and very anxious to get home to see Izzy’s baby, Mrs Brent never left any food. Julia ate at the Golden Mallard, sitting on her own at a table by the window, a book open beside her plate. She liked to give the impression that she’d chosen not to have a companion. Of course, she hadn’t.
The war was barely over, but already things had changed. People had moved on. They’d left the area, got postings elsewhere, or they’d been demobbed and gone home, back to their old lives. The base was quiet now. A lot of the pilots had left. The mess was half-empty in the morning. Face it, Julia said to herself, it’s not the same any more.
Lying in bed at night, Julia considered her situation. Soon, Izzy would be back living here. And, though she didn’t really mind babies, she didn’t feel enthused about living with one. In the world she came from, babies were removed from society. They might be brought into the drawing room for visitors to examine, coo over, delight at, but they’d be taken away before they disgraced themselves by being sick or doing something even more disgusting.
Here in the cottage, the baby would be omnipresent. It would cry, there would be baby things lying about the place, it would keep her awake at night – and she was a person who liked her beauty sleep. There would be nappies drying in the kitchen, bibs and mushy food, toys. And there it would be, a baby, reminding her every time she saw it that she didn’t have a child, and would never be able to have one with the man she had loved. It was time to go back to London.
In London she knew too many people to be alone if she didn’t want to be. And, she thought, if she was going to be a solitary soul, she’d rather it was in her own home. She could cry there.
She handed in her notice the next day and, on the way home, dropped in to see Izzy. She sat on the end of the bed, asked how she was feeling.
‘I’m being tended,’ said Izzy. ‘I hate it. I’m not meant to put my feet on the floor for a fortnight. I’ve done ten days. It’s boring.’
‘You haven’t got up?’
‘Yes, I have. But don’t tell Mrs Brent. I get up when she’s out at work and he’s away delivering eggs, chickens and whatever else he delivers and I wander about taking the baby with me. He likes it.’
Julia said she was sure he did. She went over to peer into the crib. What happened shook her. The child was awake, staring up at her, moving his mouth, waving a tiny fist. Julia’s heart turned over. It was such a strange and urgent feeling – and so unexpected – she took a step back.
‘It’s all right,’ said Izzy. ‘He won’t bite you.’
‘I know,’ said Julia. She put her hand to her stomach to quell the longing that had started there. ‘I’m just not used to babies. In fact, up till this very moment, I thought I didn’t like them.’
‘So did I,’ said Izzy. ‘I was dreading him coming along. But he seems fine. I think we’ll get on. Especially once I’m back at the cottage. Here I’m expected to feed him every four hours on the dot and not pick him up otherwise. Mrs Brent and the midwife say if I do I’ll spoil him. But I intend to spoil him. I wasn’t spoiled and look what happened to me.’
Julia smiled. ‘Actually, that’s what I came about – the cottage. I’m leaving. Going back to London. You really will be on your own, darling.’ She was secretly pleased to see Izzy’s disappointment.
‘I’ll miss you,’ said Izzy.
‘I’ll miss you. But I won’t be that far away. You can come see me any time.’
‘I know,’ said Izzy.
Julia asked if she’d be all right. ‘You know, money and everything. You’ll be paying all the rent now.’
Izzy said she’d be fine. She had a load of money saved. ‘I’ll have to move on myself, sometime. Get a job somewhere. Don’t know what I’ll do, though.’
Julia said she’d been wondering about that herself. ‘I wrote after several jobs, but nobody’s hiring women pilots. Absolutely nobody.’
‘Doesn’t really surprise me,’ said Izzy. ‘Thing is, flying is the only thing I can do.’
‘Me, too,’ said Julia. She got up, kissed Izzy, said she had to go. ‘So much packing to do.’ Then she leaned into the cot, touched the baby, and said, ‘You take care of your mother.’ At the door she turned. ‘By the way, what did you call him?’
‘Sam,’ said Izzy. ‘I don’t know anybody called Sam. Haven’t slept with anybody called Sam and nobody in my family is called Sam. So, it’s a whole new fresh person in my life.’
‘Good plan,’ said Julia. ‘I’ll be orff.’
‘Well, orff you go,’ said Izzy. ‘I’ll miss not having someone in my life who says “orff” instead of “off”. I’ve come to like it.’
Julia said, ‘I’m orff, then.’ As she walked to the front door, shouted, ‘Orff, now. Taking orff and orff I go.’
She got Eddie Hicks to drive her, and her cases and large trunk, to Blackpool. The women porters there loaded her luggage onto the guard’s van. In London, she gave her taxi driver a five-shilling tip to help her get everything up the stairs to her flat. Both of them were bent double, sweating and complaining.
Then she was on her own. She dragged the trunk inside, shut the door and sat on it, looking round. Walter had been right, she needed furniture.
She opened a couple of windows, put the kettle on and walked through to the bedroom. She touched the pillow where Walter had put his head, opened the wardrobe, stroked his jackets. She held one of his shirts to her face, breathed him in. The scent of him – cologne, tobacco – she’d forgotten that. She went back to the trunk, sat on it. Now was the time to cry. But she couldn’t. She thought she’d forgotten how.
Over the next few weeks she visited salerooms, and eventually found a sofa and a chair that she liked enough to buy. She furnished her kitchen, put rugs on her floors, bought cups and plates. In the evenings she wrote to everybody she knew asking for a job. There was nothing. There was no chance of anybody employing a woman pilot. She gave up. Celebrated her defeat by putting on her favourite evening dress and going out to the 400 Club to drink champagne and dance.
In late July, the heat lay outside, a huge tangible thing. All the windows of the flat were open. Julia lay on her sofa, reading. She wore a silk robe, sipped the iced tea she’d made.
When the doorbell rang, she considered not answering it. She really wasn’t feeling sociable. But it rang and rang. Whoever was out there was keeping a stubborn heavy finger on the bell. Sighing, she got up and opened the front door. Almost wept with relief.
‘Charles.’ She opened her arms, took him to her, hugged him.
He held her with one hand, the other was gripping a black-lacquered stick that was keeping him upright.
She stood back, considering him. He was thin. He looked older, tired. ‘You look absolutely awful,’ she said.
‘Thank you,’ he said. ‘Shot in the knee.’
‘How absolutely awful for you.’
‘I’m just lucky it wasn’t higher up.’
She laughed, a small snort, for she didn’t really think it funny.
‘It’s not without advantages,’ he said. ‘A limp, a stick and a uniform have some perks. I get offered a seat on the train, cars let me cross the road in front of them, people step aside with deference on the pavement. I’m enjoying it.’
‘You would,’ she said.
He limped through to the living room. ‘My God, furniture. Very grown up of you.’
‘Yes,’ she said. ‘I thought it time.’
He sat on the sofa, wounded leg stretched, unbending, in front of him. Walking stick propped against the arm. She sat next to him and asked what happened.
‘We were under fire. I was on one side of a track, dug in. The enemy not far beyond us. Chaps on the other side of the track, but about half a mile away from me, were making breakfast. I tried to run back to get some. Got hit in the knee.’
‘Trust you,’ she said. ‘Wounded in pursuit of a fry-up.’
He put his arm round her. ‘That’s right.’ Then, he said, ‘Met some of your cronies at the Savoy last night. They told me you were in town, and about your husband.’
She said, ‘Walter.’
‘Yes.’
‘Not long after D-Day, in France. Silly bugger had to see the action.’
‘You’re a widow. I’m going to limp into my dotage. Not so good, is it?’ He sighed. ‘To think, we used to be beautiful.’
‘I still am,’ said Julia.
He kissed the top of her head and said, ‘Of course you are.’