FOUR

Rosamund stood shivering at the open window to gaze over towards the fells; to where, on any normal Guy Fawkes night, she would have seen distant clusters of red stars and bursts of silver and gold and green shimmering in the wide night sky. Yet all she saw now was a blackness that made her want to reach out and push it aside; an unnatural darkness. No bonfires now. Any kind of light after dark was forbidden. For the duration.

But we were winning the war at last. Leningrad and Stalingrad were free again. Heaps of rubble, both, but free. All North Africa rid of Axis soldiers and Allied armies on Italian soil, and marching through Naples.

Was the invasion of Italy the second front Stalin was constantly demanding? Her father said not; that there was a long way to go yet.

‘How long is a long way, Dad?’

Bart Kenton had not known, but she must remember, he had said, that almost all the world was at war, and when peace came to Europe there would be another war to face, in the Far East.

She pulled down the blackout, drew the rose-printed curtains across the window, then felt for the candlestick and matchbox.

The flickering flame made the room cosier, and the dark corners seemed to form a barrier that shut out that world at war. Here, in the little room above the kitchen, she felt safe enough to let her thoughts go free again, to remember the shock of seeing the bombers four days ago.

She had been standing at the far end of the cow pasture, watching the comings and goings of trucks and tractors and airmen. Yes, and women airmen, too. Waafs.

Then she felt a shiver of apprehension as her eyes were drawn to a shape, no bigger than a sparrow in flight, high in the sky. And as she watched it grew bigger and the sound of its engines could be heard. Four engines. She could see them distinctly, now, because it was dropping, slowing, obviously looking for the runway below. Then it circled, wheels down, and she knew it was the first of RAF Laceby Green’s bombers. Operational before Christmas, local opinion had it. For once, it seemed, gossip had got it right. Two more were already in sight.

She ran, heels pounding across the pasture, forgetting to close the gate behind her; ran across the foldyard and past the pigsties and the brick dovecote, hurtling into the kitchen.

‘There’s one of them landed and two more circling! Lancasters!’

She stood there, gasping on her breath, waiting for her mother to run to the front of the house and watch. But she didn’t. She only said, ‘Well, we knew they would – one day.’ Said it with a fateful acceptance, then closed her eyes, as if briefly praying.

‘Yes. We knew.’ Rosamund went to stand at the window. She couldn’t see the bombers, but their noise filled the air with a great growling, as they came in to land. ‘Was there a letter from Mrs Drake this morning?’

‘Are you expecting one?’

‘Yes. Hasn’t anyone brought the post in?’

‘Not yet. You’d better go and collect it. What’s it about?’

‘She’ll be asking if I can stay there on Saturday night. There’s a do on in the parish hall – something to do with the choir …’

The choir. Her mother would approve if the church choir had a hand in it, she thought as she lifted the lid of the post box at the end of the lane. Her mother would say yes – especially as Bessie’s mum had taken the trouble to write; make it official.

The letter was there, and she hurried to give it to her mother, placing the remainder of the post on the mantel behind the clock.

‘Well – go on! Open it!’ she said when the envelope lay untouched on the table for what seemed an age.

‘Haven’t you work to be getting on with, Rosamund?’

‘Plenty. But can I go, or can’t I?’

‘I’ll read it, child. Later.’

‘It’s in aid of the choir …’ Dammit! Why should Bessie’s mum have to go to the bother of writing? Why couldn’t a young woman of eighteen stay the night at her friend’s house without permission from the Holy Ghost? The eighteen-year-old Waafs at the aerodrome would be allowed sleeping-out passes; she’d take bets on it.

She sighed, determined not to make an issue of it, and went in search of her father. Dad would be all right about it, though it made her feel guilty that she so often asked him to take sides. She found him sweeping out in the foldyard.

‘I’ll give you a hand, Dad …’

With the coming of colder nights and the risk of ground frost, the milking herd spent the night in the shelter of the yard. Soon, they would spend both night and day in it and be no end of a bother. Milk cows were tender creatures, to be guarded against the cold so they shouldn’t start coughing or, worse still, go down with bovine TB. Tuberculosis in a herd was a nasty thing.

She picked up a brush and said, without preamble, ‘Mrs Drake has written to Mum. I want to stay the night at Bessie’s on Saturday. There’s a do on in the parish hall in aid of choir funds.’

‘And what did your mother have to say on the matter?’

‘She hasn’t even opened it! She’s doing it on purpose because she doesn’t like Bessie.’

‘We-e-ll, you sometimes get a little bit defiant when you’ve been at Bessie’s …’

‘You mean I’ve expressed an opinion of my own, like any girl of my age is entitled to? D’you know, Dad, I’ll bet you anything you like that some of those Air Force girls at the ’drome are no older than me, yet nobody thinks they’re up to something when they want to stay out the night!’

‘And will you and Bessie be up to anything?’ He smiled as he asked it.

‘Dad! Don’t you think chance would be a fine thing! What on earth is there to get up to in Sin City? Carryings-on with choirboys?’

‘There are a lot of strange young men around now.’ Bart Kenton felt duty-bound to warn his daughter of the recent influx of strangers. ‘They say you can’t get near the counter, some nights, at the White Hart.’

‘I wouldn’t know. Did you see the bombers, Dad?’

‘I did. And a right noise they made, an’ all.’

‘What’s it going to be like when there’s a whole squadron of them and they start flying ops?’

‘I reckon there’ll be a few disturbed nights for people around these parts.’

‘Mum for one, you mean?’

‘Mum,’ he laughed. ‘But I dare say we’ll get used to the din.’

‘I dare say we’ll have to. They’re here for the duration. And maybe when Mum realizes they aren’t going to crash on Laburnum, she’ll learn to put up with it.’

‘Don’t say things like that, even in jest!’ The gentle face was all at once serious. ‘Planes have been known to crash on houses.’

‘Not on ours they daren’t, and anyway, Bessie’s dad says they’ll mostly be taking off over the village, that being the direction of the prevailing wind.’

‘Happen they will.’ He studied his pocket watch. ‘Did your mother have the kettle on? I reckon it’s just about time for drinkings.’

The kettle had boiled and the brown pot was covered by a knitted cosy when they opened the kitchen door, yet the letter still lay on the kitchen table. Unopened.

It wasn’t until Rosamund had cleared the supper table and washed and dried the pots and pans that she felt entitled to ask, ‘Well, can I go to Bessie’s on Saturday or can’t I, Mum?’

‘I think not, Rosamund.’ Mildred Kenton’s mouth took on a belligerent set. ‘You know I don’t like you going to that house.’

‘That house! You’d think I was asking to stay the night at a brothel!’

‘There now, Bart! Did you hear that? It’s always the same whenever the Drake girl’s name is mentioned! Tell her she’s not to go!’

‘I’ll do no such thing! And the Drake girl has a name, Mildred! Tell me, will you, what has the lass done to offend you so?’

‘Nothing.’ She laid aside the sock she was knitting. ‘And everything. Those Drakes are far too free and easy for one thing, and for another –’

‘For another, you simply don’t want Rosamund to go?’

‘There’ll be the blackout. I don’t like her out in the blackout …’

‘Laceby’s blackout is no different to ours! Take a flashlight, lass,’ he looked meaningfully at his daughter, ‘and check the foldyard.’

Ostensibly he was making a point, Rosamund realized, though really he wanted her out of the kitchen because there was going to be words.

‘Oh, for goodness’ sake! I won’t go if it’s going to cause trouble!’

‘Off you go,’ Bart said quietly, nodding in the direction of the door, ‘and take the dog with you.’

Without a word, not looking at either parent, Rosamund left the kitchen groping for the flashlight that always stood on the dairy window ledge, and lit her way to the yard door. It wasn’t pasted over with brown paper as regulations demanded, with just a small, circular hole in the centre to give a pinpoint of light. Its beam was long and strong because no one, her mother said, would notice it up here. Up here was Mildred Kenton’s undisputed kingdom; her refuge from people and especially from a war she wanted no part of.

Rosamund swept the beam to the dog kennel and the black and white collie blinked and whined, his chain rattling.

‘Come on, Shep.’ She bent to release him. ‘Good boy, then.’

Silly, she supposed, having a sheepdog when they had no sheep. But Shep barked a lot at strangers and marauding foxes, and was a nice old thing, really.

She fondled his ears then switched off the light, her eyes accustomed now to the denseness of the night, walking slowly to the foldyard to lean on the gate. Her father didn’t really want it checking; no point in disturbing the herd. All he wanted, she sighed, was to reason with her mother; insist that it was all right for their daughter to spend a night away from home.

There would be no words, as such; no shouting or fists banged on the tabletop; Bart Kenton always made his point quietly. It was why, on the rare occasions it happened, he always won. Her mother knew it too, though there would be a price to be paid. No one could act as hurt and offended as her mother, Rosamund thought bitterly. Her silences could last a week and ordinary, normal people called it sulking.

The dog pressed against her calf as if it understood.

‘It’s a queer old world, Shep,’ she said, and her voice sounded small and forlorn in the great, wide darkness.

She blinked her eyes rapidly. She always blinked when she wanted not to weep and tonight especially, she was determined not to give way to tears.

She sniffed loudly, then focused her eyes in the direction of the aerodrome. The sky above it was dark, though she knew that if she walked through the paddock and up the incline, she could have an uninterrupted view of it. Perhaps then she would see brief pinpricks of light or the flaring of a match but that, apart from dim blue lights atop the control tower and the hangars, was all there would be to give its position away. Only on moonlit nights did it stand out black and angular against a silver sky.

She wondered if the three bombers had been towed into the hangars or if they had already been given their dispersal points and were now guarded by men with rifles.

She looked down at her watch, clucking impatiently because she couldn’t see it. Had she stood here long enough? Was it all over in the kitchen? Perhaps she should wait a little longer; best she shouldn’t walk in to a cold silence. Cold silences were worse than a shouting match.

The night was chilly. She decided to count to a hundred and one, then walk slowly back making sure to bang the dairy door to warn them of her coming.

When finally she stood blinking in the sudden glare of light, her father sat alone, the morning paper on the floor at his side. Her mother’s knitting, four needles protruding awkwardly, lay on the other chair. The mantel clock ticked loudly in the silence and she saw it was almost nine o’clock.

‘Where’s Mum?’ She held her hands to the fire.

‘Gone to bed, with a bit of a headache.’

‘My fault, wasn’t it?’ She knelt at her father’s feet and reached for his hand, laying her head on his knee. And because they were alone, he stroked her hair in a rare gesture of affection.

‘Nobody to blame. I think it was the bombers coming that upset her. She’ll be herself again by morning.’

‘Maybe tomorrow there’ll be more of them.’

‘Aye. Turn the wireless on, there’s a good lass.’

She rose to her feet. Sulking or not, her mother would expect the nine o’clock news to be listened to. Every word. It was the only time she willingly allowed the war into Laburnum Farm.

Rosamund did not mention Mrs Drake’s letter. She knew that her father had put his foot down, as he did from time to time when he felt strongly about something.

‘I don’t think I want to listen to the news tonight, Dad. Shall I make us a cup of tea?’

‘If you think the rations will run to it …’

He placed his empty pipe between his teeth. Bart Kenton never smoked it; just used it for comfort occasionally. Tonight, Rosamund thought, must be one of those stress times, even though he had won.

‘I don’t think Mum will miss a spoonful. I’ll use the little pot,’ she smiled. ‘Shall I cut us a slice of teacake?’

‘Might as well go the whole hog …’ He removed his pipe to smile at his daughter and she thought that once, her father must have been quite a good-looking man. Before the frown lines came, that was, and the grey hair, and an almost perpetual quietness.

‘Dad,’ she whispered, ‘I’m sorry. I really am.’

But he merely said, ‘Whisht,’ and nodded towards the kettle.

‘You’re early!’ Bessie grinned. ‘I didn’t expect you yet!’

‘Mum said she’d milk for me. Said she didn’t want me riding in the dark.’

‘To tell the truth I’m surprised she let you out at all!’ Bessie rolled up the last curler and snapped it shut, because even a beetle drive in the cold parish hall merited an effort. ‘What did you have to do? Grovel?’

‘No. But Dad put his foot down. It was him said I could come.’

‘Your mother is queer. She gives me the shudders. If people believed in witches these days, she’d be one!’

‘Bessie!’ Rosamund giggled. ‘And she isn’t queer, exactly. Just a bit funny-peculiar sometimes.’

‘I expect she’s in the change. Mum told me about it. Women can go quite ga-ga and imagine all kinds of things.’

‘Let’s not talk about Mum. Did you see the bombers, Bessie?’

‘You mean the eleven that flew in on Wednesday? I was at work. I missed it. What was it like?’

‘Noisy. I was helping shift the poultry arks and Dad and I got a marvellous view. They flew in all together, then circled and got lower, and landed one by one.’

‘Lucky dog. Mum said they’re big things. I believe they’ve been flying round quite a bit, but it seems all quiet today.’

‘I suppose they were testing, sort of.’

‘Mm. It’s called circuits and bumps. Doing one or two rounds of the aerodrome then landing again,’ Bessie said knowledgeably, folding a flimsy scarf around her head, because it didn’t do to be seen with curlers in your hair; not even by your best friend.

‘Who told you?’

‘Dad. The flight sergeant he drinks with told him. They’re becoming quite buddies, those two. He told Dad about the women pilots too.’

‘Women pilots! You’ve got to be joking!’

‘No. Honestly. Those first three Lancasters that came were flown by women! And all on their own! They’re called ferry pilots and they deliver planes all over the place. Fighters or bombers; they just get in them and take off! Those three were straight from the factory. Brand-new.’

‘Bessie! That’s a dangerous thing for a woman to do! They might even get shot down!’

‘So they could. But they’re in more danger, I believe, when they land.’

‘Really? The one I saw touch down did it very well.’ Had she but known, Rosamund frowned, that women were piloting those planes, she would have stayed and cheered like mad!

‘No! Not that! Predators, I mean. Wolves. Randy blokes …’

‘Well, I reckon,’ Rosamund giggled, ‘if they can fly a Lancaster, they can take care of themselves all right! It’s amazing, though, just what women can do when the occasion demands.’

‘Work in the wages office of a shirt factory, for one! And talking about the RAF, we’ve been making shirts for Waafs, all week. Such a lovely blue. I think if I joined anything, it would be the WAAF. Sometimes, I wish I could.’

‘Me, too.’ Not so long ago, when her mother was being sniffy about Mrs Drake’s letter, Rosamund would have taken the King’s shilling without a second thought. ‘So what are we going to do?’

‘Well, I said I’d see to the supper tonight. Mum won’t be back from Preston till six, so I’d like to have it all ready for when she gets back. Buses always give her a headache. The vegetables are done, and there’s a rabbit casserole ready cooked. Remind me to pop it in the fire oven, will you, in about half an hour?’

‘You were lucky, getting a rabbit.’

‘Not really. We get one every week. Ned Loftus lets us have it for nothing. Dad turns a blind eye, you see, when he does a bit of poaching in the Hall grounds. Haven’t you ever had things off Ned?’

‘N-no. Well, he wouldn’t walk all the way to Laburnum, would he, with a rabbit?’ Rosamund blushed deep red and was glad Bessie was staring into the dressing-table mirror.

‘It figures. I can’t see your mother taking anything under the counter. She’s very religious, isn’t she?’

Rosamund thought of the pheasants and clothing coupons and eggs carried secretly to chapel most Sundays, and declined to comment.

‘Shall we go downstairs and get the supper on?’ Bessie’s bedroom was colder than the snug little room at the top of the kitchen stairs. ‘And what time will we be leaving tonight?’

‘It starts at half-past seven. I hope enough people turn up for four tables. If the choir didn’t get the parish hall free, they wouldn’t make a profit. Ooooh! I hope there’ll be some blokes there from the aerodrome.’

‘Bess! Can you see any red-blooded young man sitting all night, shaking a dice and drawing beetles on pieces of paper? Even if HM Forces do get in half-price!’

‘A girl can but hope! I’ll bet you anything you like that those Waafs at the aerodrome aren’t short of dates, the lucky things!’

A girl can but hope. The phrase might have been especially coined for one Rosamund Kenton, virgin of this parish. What wouldn’t she give, right now, to be one of the Waafs at RAF Laceby Green!

‘Give me your hand, Rosamund.’ The fog, which had caused Mrs Drake’s bus to be late, was even denser as the two set out for the parish hall. ‘As if the flippin’ blackout isn’t enough!’

They walked slowly, blinking rapidly. Bessie trailed her hand along the stone wall until she was sure of their bearings, then pulled her friend’s arm through hers, walking with more confidence.

‘Watch the kerb.’ She felt for it with her toe, felt too the iron grid of the water drain and knew the little stone hall would be about twenty paces ahead. She had learned to find her way around Laceby after dark by counting steps and memorizing things like gates and fences. ‘Just take it easy. Not far to go.’ Bessie was still counting.

‘I’m fine. I can see a bit now. How on earth, Bess, can bombers take off in this?’

‘They can’t. If the met. people tell them there’s going to be fog, they call off the flying. Bet the aircrews aren’t half glad. There might be one or two at the beetle drive – oooh! Hey! Steady on, mate!’

She sidestepped to miss the bulk that loomed at them out of the blackness, but Rosamund took the full force of the encounter.

‘Ouch!’ Her handbag went flying and she would have followed it had not a hand grabbed her arm.

‘Sorry! I was looking for you! I could hear you but I couldn’t see you. The transport’s over there …’

‘Hang on! My friend has lost her bag.’

‘OK. Stand still, and I’ll look for it.’

A thin beam of torchlight touched their feet then circled the path, and in it Bessie could make out trousers and boots.

‘Which transport?’

‘The one for the dance – at the aerodrome. We put notices up …’

‘My bag!’ Rosamund wailed. Her purse was in it, and her only lipstick.

‘Got it. It’s still closed; nothing’s spilled out. Look, better stick your arms in mine, both of you, or there’ll be another collision.’

‘But we’re going to the –’ Rosamund’s protest was silenced by a dig from Bessie’s elbow.

‘Where’s this dance going to be held?’ Bessie was quick on the uptake.

‘In one of the huts. Not very glamorous, but at least it’s empty. There are one or two musicians at the camp; they’ve got a band together,’ the voice hastened. ‘We-e-ll, the place is hardly up and running yet. I’m glad you’re coming. We’re short of partners, and –’

‘Sounds good.’ Her friend, Rosamund thought, was positively purring. ‘Are you in the band, by the way?’

‘No. As senior sergeant in the mess I was put in charge of the transport. A dance isn’t a lot of good without girls, and I was ordered not to go back without some!’

He had a nice voice, Rosamund thought, trying desperately to convince herself that this was a good idea.

‘And how many have you got?’

‘The two of you make seven, but if it goes well tonight, the word will spread. We plan to hold dances every Saturday night.’

‘You mean if you aren’t going off bombing?’ Bessie demanded. ‘Do you fly, by the way?’

‘Yes. But here we are. Hang on and I’ll give you a hand up.’ He shone the light into the interior and Rosamund was relieved to find that there were indeed five girls there. A hand guided her to a wooden bench. A voice whispered, ‘You’ll have to hang on to the side when we get going. It’s a bit bumpy …’

‘Think there’ll be any more?’ the voice asked.

‘Shouldn’t think so.’ Bessie’s reply was prompt, as if she wanted to be off before she had second thoughts. ‘What time does it finish?’

‘Eleven-ish. We’ll have you safely home long before midnight.’

The tailboard banged shut and was made secure; the transport started with a lurch.

Rosamund whispered, ‘Well, I hope you know what you’re doing, Bessie Drake! Supposing there’s someone there who knows us?’

‘We’re the only two from Laceby Green. It’ll be all right. Anyway, it’s too late now,’ Bessie giggled nervously. ‘Oh, c’mon. Live dangerously!’

Dangerously, Rosamund echoed silently, nervously. Oh, my goodness!

The Nissen hut was bare and smelled of newness; the floor was covered in brown linoleum. Chairs lined the walls; thick blackout curtains covered the small windows

‘How many did you get, Skip?’ a voice demanded.

‘Seven.’

‘Only seven! S’truth, there’ll be a riot!’ At the far end of the floor, a group of musicians talked earnestly. Beside them, straight-backed, sat no more than a dozen girls in WAAF uniform. Grouped in the middle of the floor, airmen worked out that the odds on grabbing a dancing partner were three to one against. Someone wolf-whistled as seven civilian girls blinked in the sudden light.

‘Hallelujah!’ Bessie whispered throatily. ‘We’ll be danced off our feet!’

‘Jonathan – Jon – Hunt.’ The voice assumed an identity. Rosamund gazed, embarrassed, at the wings above the pocket of his tunic. Then she raised her eyes to the knot in his black tie, to his chin and finally his eyes. Blue eyes.

He was holding out his hand and she whispered, ‘Rosamund Kenton.’

‘Rosie,’ he said firmly, smiling, holding her hand, still; looking down into her eyes.

His hair was thick and fair, his smile unbelievable. He was very tall and slim; someone a girl could fall in love with. This very minute.

‘No one calls me Rosie,’ she choked, mesmerized.

‘They do now, and I’m keeping hold of your hand because I want at least one dance. And just in case we get separated, I want the first waltz. And the last one.’

‘Yes. OK …’

She was making a fool of herself. Why couldn’t she be like Bessie, who was hanging on to an air gunner for dear life?

‘This is Mick,’ Bessie grinned. ‘He’s his tail-end Charlie.’

‘He is called Jon,’ Rosamund said breathlessly, ‘and what’s a – er – tail-end Charlie?’

‘Mick is my rear gunner.’ Jon was still looking into her eyes. ‘Harry is our other gunner but he’s on a forty-eight-hour Compassionate. He’s just become a father.’

‘I see. Do you really think we should be holding hands like this?’ Why was she making such a fool of herself?

‘Yes, I do. I rather like it and anyway, any minute now they’re going to start.’

To a roll of drums a quickstep was called and he pulled her to face him, his hand behind her back.

‘No fancy footwork,’ she whispered. ‘I’m not very good.’

He was still looking at her; right into her eyes. She wished she could look away.

‘Just follow me,’ he said comfortably. He guided her onto the floor and their steps matched at once. It was as if they had danced together before tonight; lots of times.

But then, of course, they had. She smiled up at him, all at once relaxed, because they’d been dancing together, in her dreamings, for a long, long time.

She smiled again because he was good to be with; good to touch, to hold closely. She was glad he’d asked her for the last waltz and that she’d said yes.

‘Oh, lordy!’ She stood stock-still in the middle of the floor, so they stumbled and bumped into another couple. ‘We can’t have the last waltz! We’ll have to be home long before eleven. We aren’t supposed to be here, you see. We were going to a beetle drive in the parish hall …’

‘Oh, Rosie! And I grabbed you both in the blackout …’

‘We-e-ll – yes.’

‘But I didn’t hear either of you protesting.’ Laughing, he began to dance again.

‘If Bessie had, I would’ve, too.’

‘But Bessie didn’t!’

‘No. And if I’m truthful, I wanted to come here.’ She closed her eyes, pleased she was getting the steps right, and that he wanted to dance with her again.

‘Why weren’t you supposed to be here, Rosie?’

‘Because we didn’t know about it and because we wouldn’t have been allowed to come, even if we had. Well, I wouldn’t.’

‘Your parents are strict?’

‘Yes. We-e-ll, Dad is all right, but Mum is worse than strict. And she thinks I’m still a kid, and I’m not!’

‘How old are you, Rosie?’

‘Eighteen. And a bit …’

‘Then you are most certainly not a child. Some of the Waafs on the station are quite young – but old enough to be in uniform.’

‘I was envying them tonight – being away from home, I mean. But I’d miss Laburnum if I had to go away. Laburnum Farm, I mean. It’s about a mile outside Laceby, to the north. You might have flown over it and not known.’

‘I think I know where it is. At the far end of the north/south runway. A stone house.’

‘That’s it! You can’t miss it, Jon. It’s a straggly house, and our land reaches down to the perimeter fence, actually.’

‘Then we’re neighbours! I’ll give you a wave, next time I’m flying over!’ The dance ended, and he took her elbow and guided her to the furthest corner of the hut. ‘I think the next one will be a waltz. It’s mine, don’t forget.’

Mine. Delight tingled through her and for a little time she forgot about being found out, and punished.

‘I don’t think anyone will ask me; not whilst you’re holding my hand so tightly.’

‘Don’t you like having your hand held, Rosie?’

‘No one has done it until now. Not a young man.’

‘I asked if you liked it.’ He was looking at her very seriously, and she knew that if she said she didn’t like it, then that would be the end of things between them. She raised her eyes to his.

‘With you, I like it very much.’

‘Good.’ He smiled again, and an unfamiliar, wonderful feeling sliced through her.

‘Tell me about yourself, Jon.’ If tonight was to be the first and last time, she must know all about him. ‘How old you are, your brothers and sisters, where you live …’

‘Age nearly twenty-three.’ He moved closer, letting go her hand, laying an arm on the back of her chair. ‘Born in my aunt’s house in London – 19 January 1921. Parents both gone – next of kin my Aunt Lottie.’

‘No parents? Jon – I’m sorry.’

‘Don’t be. I never knew them. When I was three months old, Mother and I went to India to join my father. I don’t think she wanted to go.’ He shrugged, pushing aside a lock of hair that fell over his eye. ‘Anyway, it seems she couldn’t or wouldn’t get used to the life – became very unhappy. In the end, my father pushed off with someone else, asked for a divorce, said he’d give her grounds …’

‘Divorce!’ Divorce was a wicked word at Laburnum Farm. ‘What did your mother do?’

‘Took an overdose.’

‘Killed herself!’

‘Suicide.’ He said it matter-of-factly. ‘I suppose you could say it saved the mess of a divorce.’

‘But that’s awful!’

‘I guess it is – was – at the time. But you did ask and it happened long ago, when I was two. I was put in charge of a ship’s nurse and sent home to England, to Aunt Lottie. I don’t remember much until my fourth birthday really. I was given a tricycle. You don’t forget your first bike!’ He was smiling again.

‘And you don’t resent what happened to you?’

‘Why should I? And anyway, it happened to my parents. I had a good life. Aunt Lottie worked on a newspaper and gave it up when she was landed with me – went freelance. My father sent an allowance until I was through university. We haven’t heard from him for over a year.’

‘What about your uncle?’ The music had started again, but still they sat there as if, she thought, they were getting things straight between them. Right from the start.

‘There was no man about the house. My aunt never married. Her young man was killed in the last war. She never wanted anyone else. I think she looks on me as the son they might have had together if things had been different.’

‘So you were happy, Jon, as a child?’

‘Very. Happier than I’d have been with my parents, I shouldn’t wonder. How about you?’

‘Can we dance?’ All at once she wanted to tell him about the way it really was and if they were dancing, she wouldn’t have to meet his eyes. ‘It’ll be better, if we’re dancing.’

‘Why?’ He rose to his feet and held out his arms, but she did not go to him.

‘Because – well, I don’t know how to say it. It’s a bit embarrassing.’

‘You’ve got a boyfriend,’ he said flatly.

‘Lordy! No!’ She laughed because that really was funny. ‘Quite the opposite. Mum and Dad treat me like a child – Mum especially. If it wasn’t for Bessie, I suppose I’d still be thinking they’d found me under a gooseberry bush. No! That isn’t fair.’ She was blushing furiously, already regretting what she had said. ‘I know about things. I should do; I’m a farmer’s daughter and I’d be daft if I didn’t. But Mum doesn’t talk about it at all; you know – between men and women. That’s why I’m pretty dim, really, about men. I’m not a pushover, though.’

‘Want to go outside, Rosie – talk …?’

‘No! We-e-ll, yes. It might be best. But I’m not –’

‘Not a pushover,’ he said gravely. ‘You’ll be perfectly safe. I’ll keep my hands in my pockets, I promise.’

He held out a hand and they walked towards the door, side-stepping the dancers. She looked up to see Bessie, who winked at her over the air-gunner’s shoulder and mouthed, ‘Naughty.’

The cold outside slapped into them as they stood still in the darkness for the usual fifteen seconds, blinking, peering into the blackness, feeling the dampness of the fog on their faces.

‘Are you all right, Rosie?’

‘I’m cold. I should have brought my coat.’

‘Green, isn’t it, with a brown collar? I’ll go back and get it.’

‘No! Don’t bother.’ She didn’t want any fuss.

‘Come here, then.’ He unbuttoned his tunic, wrapping her into it, pulling her close. His body was warm beneath his shirt and she marvelled that it was the closest she had been to any man. ‘That better?’

‘Mm. Lovely.’

‘So tell me, then?’ He laid his cheek on her hair.

‘I don’t know where to start, really. And anyway, it’s sort of personal …’

‘You’ve got a wooden leg?’

‘Idiot! I – I suppose, really, that it’s only fair you should know you’re the first man I’ve ever dated – if you can call bumping into a man in the blackout a date.’

‘A blind date, sort of?’ She could sense the laughter in his voice.

‘What I’m trying to say is I’m no good at kissing, and all that. Not like Bessie.’

‘Do you want to be kissed?’ He pushed her a little way from him, cupping her face in his hands, but she shook it free.

‘Of course I do, but I just told you, I don’t know how!’

‘But it isn’t a question of knowing, sweetheart; it’s all about wanting to. It isn’t something you have to learn. It’s something you want to do, so it comes easily.’

‘I suppose you’ve kissed a lot of girls, Jon?’ How had she got herself into this mess?

‘Heaps.’

‘And did you like doing it?’

‘Very much.’

‘So you’ve had a lot of girlfriends?’ she whispered, dismayed.

‘Dozens. But I’ve never fallen in love – was always too busy, I suppose.’

‘Doing what?’

‘Oh, playing games – football, tennis. Swotting for exams; getting a scholarship to university; more swotting. Joining the RAF …’

‘You’ve packed a lot into twenty-two years. I haven’t done anything.’

‘That, Rosie, you seem pretty keen to establish! So why don’t we do something about it? Close your eyes!’ He placed a finger beneath her chin, tilting her face. ‘And open your lips – just a little …’

Bemused, she did as he asked, pulling in her breath, waiting, deliciously afraid, for his mouth to touch hers. And when it did, his lips were warm and firm and she let go a keening sound like a lovesick mouse! Why hadn’t she moaned softly, dammit, like they did in the movies?

She pulled away, but he put a hand behind her head, so she closed her eyes without being told to and parted her lips, and the second time it came right and she wrapped her arms around his neck so he wouldn’t stop.

‘Ooooosh!’ She let go her indrawn breath, then laid her lips to his, very gently. ‘You were right,’ she whispered. ‘It’s all a question of wanting to. Snuggle me close again, please?’ She clasped her arms around his waist and he wrapped his jacket around her again and the nearness of him seemed right and safe and dizzy-making. ‘Tonight, when it’s all over, will you think I’m a bit of a nutcase?’

‘Tonight, before it’s all over, I shall ask you when we’re going to meet again. You do want to, Rosie?’

‘I want to; I really do – but how?’ Falling in love, she supposed, was much, much easier than sneaking out to meet a man. ‘Mrs Drake had to write a note to Mum to make it all right for me to sleep at Bessie’s place. I’m hardly ever allowed out, Jon. I suppose really you can’t blame Mum, us living so far away from the village, but she’s going to get suspicious if I keep wanting to stay with Bessie. And anyway, it mightn’t always be convenient for Mrs Drake.’ Dismay wrapped her round and she wished she had never come to the dance; never met Jon Hunt.

‘Then why don’t I call for you? Surely that would make it all right?’

‘It wouldn’t. You don’t know my mother! She doesn’t want me to have anything to do with men – especially men from the aerodrome. Time enough to think about that sort of thing, she said, when the war is over.’

‘And is that what you want – not to fall in love, I mean, until it’s safe; till you know he won’t be killed?’

‘Jon! No! I shouldn’t have said that!’ Aircrews were always getting killed! ‘Mum didn’t mean anything by it. What she really meant, I suppose, was that I’m too young to know my own mind, so it would be better to wait till I’m older – twenty-one, sort of.’

‘And is that what you want, Rosie?’

‘No.’ Her voice wobbled with tears. ‘My mother is very practical – not a bit romantic. But she’s a good woman, in her own way. It’s just that at times I feel sorry for Dad. Sometimes, I wonder how they got me.’

There! She’d said it! Now he’d know what a funny family she came from. It made her want to weep, almost, because all at once she knew her parents never kissed now, and even when they had, her mother had probably taken the back of her hand across her mouth to wipe the kiss away. Mentally, that was.

‘You know how they got you! What you mean, I suppose, is how much joy was there in it?’

‘Joy. Yes. Loving should be a joyful thing, shouldn’t it?’

‘Oh yes, Rosie Kenton! And mind-boggling and wonderful! And tender and warm and passionate!’

For a while she didn’t speak, then she drew a deep, steadying breath and said soberly, ‘You seem to know all about it!’

‘I know how I want it to be – but it’s got to be with the right girl!’

‘And will you know when you’ve found her?’

‘Meet me tomorrow night and I’ll tell you!’

‘I can’t, Jon. You know I can’t.’

‘Couldn’t you slip out for ten minutes?’

‘You’d walk all that way, just for ten minutes!’

‘I like walking. Look – you’re cold. Let’s go back inside and talk ways and means.’

‘Only if we can talk first about Bessie and me getting home by half-past ten!’

‘For a kiss, I might …’

This time she knew exactly how it was done, so she lifted her chin and closed her eyes and parted her lips. And it was easy, and wonderful. And absolutely right.

When they had all decided it would be politic to leave the dance at ten and walk to Laceby by way of a short cut Bessie was familiar with – even in the blackout – Mick said, ‘OK, Skip, that’s settled then. We’ll meet up outside at ten.’

He looked quite cheerful about it, Rosamund thought, but then he and Bessie had danced together all night. And she wouldn’t mind betting that if he asked Bessie to meet him in Clitheroe or Preston, she would be able to make it, because her mother would say she could, but not to let her father find out, and to get herself home by eleven.

But imagine, Rosamund frowned, saying, tomorrow morning when she walked into Laburnum kitchen, ‘Mum! I met the most wonderful man at the areodrome last night and he walked me back to Bessie’s. Can he come to Sunday tea?’ Imagine the horror, the disbelief, the accusations of deceit. Going to a dance at the aerodrome, when she had said – and Mrs Drake too, in her letter – that she and Bessie would be at the parish hall! And that would only be the start of the silences and sulking and strange sideways glances!

‘Jon – are you sure you can find your way to Laburnum in the dark?’

They were dancing, cheek on cheek, bodies touching, their feet moving in small, slow circles. Someone had turned off the main light, and the half-dark lent itself to intimate moving.

‘Dearest girl, I can find my way to Germany and back in the blackout. Finding your place will be a piece of cake!’

‘You’ve flown ops before, then? I thought the squadron was a new one.’

‘It is, mostly. But a few of us have been operational before. One pilot is on his second tour of ops.’

‘You mean he’s started his second thirty? And how many have you done?’

‘Seven – lucky seven, they say it is. The first op is a bitch – I can vouch for that – and if you make it home, then the next six are dicey. But when you’ve done lucky seven, then you’ve got a good chance, so aircrew folklore has it, of making your tour of thirty. I must, in all honesty, admit that not a lot of crews do.’

‘Jon! Don’t say that! Don’t ever say that again!’

‘I had my fingers crossed, Rosie! You always cross your fingers when you take a swipe at Fate!’

‘Where did you fly from before?’

‘Leeming. That’s the other side of the Pennines. I flew a Halifax, then, so I’m on what you might call a conversion course right now. Lancasters are good planes – ours is J-Johnnie – and I think I’ve been lucky in my crew.’

‘Your new crew?’

‘Mm. My first lot are still flying – had done their twenty-sixth, last time I heard. I had a spell in hospital blue, you see, so my first crew got a replacement pilot.’

‘You were wounded, Jon!’

‘No. Laid up for three months with a broken leg! I did it playing football. No heroics. My squadron leader played merry hell with me! Anyway, I’ve got myself a decent bunch, though none of them has flown ops before. A pilot chooses his own crew, usually. No one to blame but himself, then, if he picks a wrong ’un. I was lucky. I got a navigator who was a failed pilot.’

‘Why is that lucky?’ Her lips were close to his ear and she wanted, very much, to kiss it.

‘Because if anything happened to me, at least there’d be one bod on board who had an inkling of how to get the plane down. An insurance, really. He’d done a fair few landings, actually, before they failed him. So he became a navigator, and I grabbed him.’

‘Tell me about them.’ She must know everything about him!

‘Well, you know about Mick and about the other gunner who’s on Compassionate.’

‘Yes. Harry …’

‘Well, my navigator is called Richard, though he gets Dick, and the wireless op is Sammy – he’s Canadian, from Manitoba. The flight engineer is Willie MacBain – Mac – and the bomb-aimer is –’

‘Tom! It’s got to be Tom!’

‘Right! Tom, Dick and Harry! That’s got to be lucky.’

‘Does luck come into it, Jon?’

‘You’ve got to have your fair share, I suppose. But really it’s down to all of us to make sure we get back in one piece. My crew seem to have a lot of faith in me. Maybe it’s because they know I’ve been there and back a few times. They’re a good crowd. We’ll be just fine.’

‘And what is your lucky mascot called?’ Aircrews always had a lucky mascot, didn’t they?

‘We don’t have one, though one’ll turn up, bet your life on it.’

The music stopped and they linked little fingers and walked back to their corner. Then she turned to him, smiling.

‘Y’know, Jon, we’ve known each other less than three hours, yet it feels like I’ve always known you.’

‘Maybe you did, in another life.’

‘You believe in reincarnation? Don’t you think it’s a bit unchristian?’ Her mother wouldn’t believe in it!

‘No.’

He was very firm about it. He wanted to say that when you aren’t yet twenty-three and it’s odds-on there’s a Messerschmitt pilot with your name on his list, reincarnation is a very good thing to believe in; a second chance, sort of. But he didn’t say it, because right now, come hell or high water, he was going to do his tour of ops and come off flying for a year at least and by then, who knew what would have happened between them? Because tonight wasn’t a one-off. Tonight, when finally he saw her, could put a face to the voice in the blackout, he knew he’d been meant to meet her. She was the girl he’d been waiting for since ever he could remember. Fair, blue-eyed and beautiful. A virgin too.

‘Well, I mean –’ he floundered, when she didn’t speak. ‘Wouldn’t you want a second chance; maybe get it right next time around? Or maybe do the same, only more so. I don’t know why I believe in it and I haven’t had any fearsome flashes of a past life either. I don’t think, though, that you can just snuff out a soul.’

‘Don’t! Please. Let’s talk about tomorrow? Will you be flying tomorrow night?’

‘Not if this fog keeps up – and our met. boys think it will. I don’t think we’ll be on serious ops for a week or two yet. We’ve got a lot of sprog pilots and you can’t just throw a squadron in at the deep end. I reckon we’ll have a few milk runs, first – easy ops, I mean. Shall we try to meet? About eight-ish?’

‘Could you make it a little before nine? Mum and Dad always listen to the news. I’d have a better chance if the news was on.’

‘So give me instructions from Laceby village then?’

The band began to play a waltz.

‘This’ll have to be the last one, Jon. It’s almost ten. But getting to Laburnum is fairly straightforward, if you take the right fork at the pub. Can you lay hands on a decent torch? You’ll need one if it’s foggy. You pass six oak trees on your left, then keep on to where the road turns sharp left. Got that?’

He said he had, and drew her closer.

‘The left-hand road is to Lancaster. To get to Laburnum you turn right. It’s just a dirt road really, and about a hundred yards to a big wooden gate. To the left of it, there’s a little iron one. Wait there. Don’t push through it because it squeaks, and the dog might hear you. Wait there, and I’ll come to you. Even if it’s only for a minute, I’ll get out somehow!’

‘I’ll be there – fog permitting. I’ll hang around for about half an hour. If you can’t make it tomorrow night, I’ll be there again on Monday – same time. That all right?’

‘If you’re sure you want to …’

‘You know I want to.’

‘All right, then,’ she whispered. ‘And Jon – I want to as well. Very much.’