NINE

Mildred Kenton announced she was too upset to go to chapel; that her eyes were too puffy and swollen and she didn’t want people asking her if she’d had bad news; because bad news came often these days in small yellow envelopes, and travelled fast. ‘I can’t face people. We’ll have to give it a miss this morning.’

Rosamund concentrated on her food, thinking about Jon, wondering what he was doing. Church parade, or a morning in bed, perhaps? Aircrews were spared a lot of the bull, he said, that most others had to put up with; could get away with murder at times.

She swallowed hard on the egg she was sure her mother had deliberately overcooked, mopped her plate with the last of her bread because it was unpatriotic to waste food, then rose to leave the table with a scraping of chair legs.

‘I’m going to see to the poultry,’ she said to the teapot. ‘I’ll do the dishes later.’

It was a relief to get away, she fretted, filling buckets at the pump in the yard. Anything was better than meeting her mother’s eyes, seeing anger in them still; evil, too.

She walked to the paddock, water slopping over her gumboots. Hens drank a lot of water; it would take three trips just to fill the water troughs. Then when she had thrown feed into each ark, she would collect the eggs, place them carefully in a bucket, lined with hay.

Hay. From the loft. Ordinary hay from an ordinary loft that had become the most precious place in the world.

Jon! I love you. Please take care and please be there tonight, at the gate?

She was in the dairy wiping the eggs when she heard the faraway growl of engines being revved and she closed her eyes and whispered, ‘No! Oh, no!’

They were going, tonight. Soon, there would be no mistaking it because the sky would be full of the sight and sound of bombers taking off, flight-testing their engines, checking instruments. Then landing, and taxiing back to their standing on the perimeter track, being worked on by riggers and mechanics and electricians. And later, armourers would fit the guns and load the belly of the aircraft with bombs, and fill the tanks in the wings with fuel.

Gently she laid the eggs on trays, ready to be collected on Tuesday by the lady who drove the egg packer’s van. She would leave empty trays behind her, and payment for last week’s eggs in an envelope. The egg money belonged to her mother; always had. In the bad days, when every penny did the work of two, hens provided the housekeeping money.

Her father came into the dairy and she smiled and said, ‘That’s the eggs done and dusted; just the churns to see to. I – I’d thought I might go to the village this morning, since we aren’t going anywhere. I don’t suppose I could take the tractor?’

‘No, lass, you could not! Fuel is rationed, and that tractor is strictly for business. And don’t you think that before you do anything else you should have a word with your mother, tell her you’re sorry?’

‘What for?’ Her reply was so glib it sounded impudent.

‘You know what for! It’s up to you to make the first move, lass, and then we might get back to normal again. I don’t like all this frostiness and frowning.’

‘Like I said, I’m sorry if what happened last night upset you, Dad, but I’m not going to apologize for Jon. She just wants to see me grovel, but I won’t! Not even for peace and quiet!’

‘Then all I can say is that you’re storing up trouble for yourself, Rosamund. Isn’t there enough upset in the world without you adding to it?’

‘My mother wished Jon dead. I can’t forgive that,’ she said flatly, finally.

‘I told you, she said it in the heat of the moment.’

‘She said it, and that’s enough for me. Look, Dad, there’s nothing you can say that’s going to make me stop seeing Jon, so please don’t get involved. If I give in to Mum over this, I’ll never be able to call my life my own! I’ll be nineteen soon. I’m old enough to go to war, so I think I’m old enough to have a young man – and one of my own choosing!’

‘You might be right, but did you have to go at it like a bull at a gate, lose your temper like you did? But I’ve had my say, and from now on it’ll be better if I keep my oar out of it. Trying to come between two fratching women is like trying to separate a pair of fighting dogs. Best leave ’em to get on with it!’

‘Bitches!’ Rosamund tried hard to smile. ‘You got the gender wrong! And you’re holding up the war effort. Have you loaded the churns?’

‘Aye. Be off with you!’

He watched her climb on the tractor, reversing it, trailer and all, as if she had been born to driving. She was a lass to be proud of, he thought, wishing that Mildred would leave her be, stop trying to put her own narrow ways into her daughter’s head.

He smiled and held up his hand, returning her wave, and in that moment he knew that far from keeping out of it, he would line himself up with her, might even suggest, when things had settled down a bit, that the young man should call at the house one of these nights instead of waiting at the gate like a leper.

When pigs flew, he thought gloomily.

‘So where did you get to last night?’ Bessie raised a teasing eyebrow. ‘You didn’t, did you? Ooooh, Rosamund, do tell?’

‘Hey! If you think I’m telling anybody about Jon and me, then you’re wrong!’

‘But did you?’

‘Sssssh! They’ll hear us!’ Rosamund hissed, pink-cheeked, even though it was bliss to almost admit it.

‘It’s OK. Mum has gone to church and Dad is in bed. Shall I make a cup of cocoa, or shall we go out?’

‘Cocoa, please.’ Rosamund settled herself at the fireside. ‘I just had to get out. The atmosphere at home is unbearable.’

‘Thought you’d be at chapel …’

‘No. My mother is too upset to go. She’s been weeping and didn’t want people to see her.’

‘What about?’ Bessie sensed drama.

‘Me. I was late in last night and she got nasty. Only half an hour, but she was waiting there with the sarcasm. So I told her about Jon. It just came out. I said I’d met an airman in the blackout and we’d started talking and been meeting ever since!’

‘Oooooh! Bet she went berserk!’

‘She hit the roof! Said I wasn’t to go out after dark any more and that she was going to get in touch with Jon’s CO! Then she said she wished Jon’s Lancaster would crash, and that it would serve him right!’

‘She said what?’ Bessie’s eyes were round as saucers. ‘But I told you she was a witch, didn’t I? Well, God forgive her, that’s all I can say!’

‘May He indeed, because I never will. Y’know, Bess, if I had somewhere to go I’d leave home, ask the Labour Exchange to let me change my job. It’s Dad I’m sorry for. What did he ever do to deserve my mother?’

‘Married her for her money – well, that’s what some say. But what about you? If I were in your shoes, I couldn’t bear to breathe the same air!’

‘Oh, I’ll stay, for Dad’s sake. I’m supposed to say I’m sorry, but I won’t! I can stick it out as long as she can. I don’t know about it being a witch who built our house, but I’m pretty certain she’s still around. And I know it’s a terrible thing to say about your own mother, but she just isn’t normal!’

‘You should wear your cross – always. That would keep her from harming you.’

‘Oh, she’ll not hurt me. Twisted as she is, she wouldn’t hex her own daughter. It’s Jon I’m worried about. He needs the cross more than I do.’

‘When Joe and Dave were called up, Mum gave them each a medallion; got the vicar to bless it. Why don’t you get your cross blessed? Nothing would be a match for that!’

‘How could I, Bess? I’d have to ask the minister, and Mother would get to know. She misses nothing!’

‘Then if you’ve got nothing against C of E, I’ll ask our vicar to do it. He needn’t know who it belongs to, and I’m sure he wouldn’t ask, anyway.’

‘I’ll do that! I’ll bring it tonight! I’m pretty certain Jon’ll be on ops, so I’ll come to yours instead.’

‘And will your mother let you?’

‘She’ll have to use physical violence to stop me, and I’m stronger than she is! This worm has turned, Bess! But I did so want to see Jon tonight, especially after –’

‘After last night, you mean? Was it wonderful?’

‘Yes. But Bess, I don’t want to talk about it, really I don’t. All I can say is that I’m not a bit ashamed of what we did; only sad that it didn’t happen sooner!’

‘Oooooh! Hope you didn’t get pregnant!’ Bessie was too awestruck to be envious.

‘I hope so, too, but I’ll know on Friday.’ She swallowed hard. She would really have to mark her diary now! ‘And, Bessie! The kettle’s boiling! Do I get my cocoa, or don’t I?’ Her voice, Rosamund marvelled, sounded very normal and matter-of-fact and not one bit like she really felt inside her; sort of squeezy and elated and just a little bit afraid. ‘And you won’t tell anyone, will you? You know what they’re like round here, for gossip.’

‘As if I would! Cross my heart and hope to die if I do,’ Bessie gasped. ‘I know your mother doesn’t like me and I couldn’t care less, but don’t let her louse it up for you and Jon, love. Be careful, won’t you?’

‘We will.’ Rosamund smiled. ‘And I’m glad you’re my friend, Bess; I truly am.’

Whilst it was still light enough to see, Rosamund walked openly, defiantly, to the steel-mesh fence and was dismayed to find that what she had feared would happen. They were flying ops, tonight. Up to a dozen from Laceby would join others from aerodromes in Lancashire; all heading south, picking up more squadrons as they flew.

Maybe it would be another thousand-bomber raid; maybe Berlin would be the target again, or Essen or Cologne. The war was far from over, it seemed. From somewhere, even though people said the Luftwaffe was tied up at the Russian Front, Goering had found enough planes to start bombing London again; the worst raid, the papers said, since the blitz of 1941. Tonight, J-Johnnie’s crew would fly their sixteenth op, and though Jon had already flown seven before he came to Laceby, he would fly out the thirty with the crew. The crew. Tom, Dick and Harry, Mick, Sammy and Mac. And Matilda Mint!

Rosamund turned disconsolately away, determined tonight, when she heard the first sound of engines, to return and tie a handkerchief to the fence; would say she was going to watch takeoff, and just let her mother try to stop her! She remembered the look in her mother’s eyes last night and sent her love to Jon, wrapping it around him in her mind. And the sooner the cross was blessed and round his neck, the better! She hurried away, all at once sickened by the war, wanting an end to it, wishing she had never met, never loved Jon; grateful that she had.

Her mother would have sanctioned the lighting of the sitting-room fire today, and she and Dad would be reading the papers as they always did. It was the only treat her father allowed himself; Sunday afternoons in his favourite chair, feet to the fire. He worked so hard it was the least he deserved, she thought, hoping fervently that the worst was over; that things would soon get back to normal – as normal, that was, as they would ever be in that loveless house!

She was not prepared, for all that, for what faced her when she opened the back door to run, startled, to the kitchen as she heard her mother’s moans. She found her sitting at the table, hands clenched into fists, rocking to and fro, sobbing.

‘Mother! What is it?’

‘I’ve said so all along, but nobody would listen to me! Well, I was right! They’ve admitted it at last! There is a secret weapon!’ She began a demented pummelling of the table top, pulling in her breath noisily, letting it go in anguished sobs. ‘Go on, then! Read it, if you don’t believe me!’

‘Dad …?’

‘Dratted newspapers!’ Bart flung the Telegraph across the table. ‘Go on! Front page; read it, lass, then tell your mother she’s getting herself upset over summat that might never happen!’

Rosamund shook open the paper, finding at once the column headed ‘NAZI’S SECRET WEAPON: RADIO BOMBER’.

There is evidence now that the Germans’ secret weapon is actually a crewless radio-controlled aircraft which, loaded to capacity with explosives, can be accurately directed to its objective.

It would, it seemed, be difficult to shoot down, either by fighters or anti-aircraft fire, but its delivery was its primary weakness, because of its complex launching system.

She ran her tongue round lips suddenly gone dry, and read on.

There were launching sites in Europe, and the article concluded that although the rocket could prove to be serious, there was little doubt that it would never be more than a temporary worry, which could and would be taken care of by the destroying of the launch pads by Allied bombers.

‘So?’ Rosamund’s voice did not sound as contemptuous or dismissive as she intended. ‘All right – there is a secret weapon and now we know about it! Probably we know where they are all hidden, too. Our lot will have a seek-and-destroy policy – or something!’

She took in her father’s ashen face, her mother’s demented rocking, her harsh sobs, and felt a strength she never knew she was capable of.

‘I think you should go to the doctor, Mother. Tomorrow. You’re a bag of nerves and you’ve got yourself run down. Ask him for a tonic. It’s been a long, dark winter and we’re all fed up.’

‘I’ve been to the doctor! Went before Christmas and got a flea in my ear for my pains! There’s nothing wrong with me, he said. I’m at that age, so I’ll just have to get on with it!’ Her voice rose higher. ‘And do you know what else I got for the price of a visit? I was told to count my blessings; that there were women far worse off than I am! But nobody listens to me! That rocket will be the death of us, I’ve known it all along!’

‘Will you stop it!’ Rosamund pleaded, sickened at the sight of her mother. ‘You are not the only woman they’ll be firing those rockets at – if ever they do! You’d think Hitler had your name on every one of them; that they were invented specially to fall on Laburnum Farm, to put paid to your precious privacy! This war hasn’t touched you, Mother! I am still at home and you have no sons for the war to take! We never go hungry and we don’t sleep in shelters or the Underground night after night because our house has been bombed to rubble!’

She paused, angrily snatching air into her lungs, knowing that what she was saying only made matters worse, but determined, now the flood gates were open, to say it.

‘And we don’t live in Leningrad, where they’ve been bombed and shelled for more than two years. We’ve never had to eat cats and rats, as they have! I don’t understand how you can be so selfish, Mother, and I’m going out before I say something I regret!’

She ran from the kitchen, anger churning inside her and puking in her throat. If she let herself, she could be sick, because that was what she was: sick, sick, sick of her mother’s selfishness, her narrow-mindedness, her total inability to think about anyone but herself!

Jon! Take care tonight because I couldn’t go on living if anything happened to you! Especially now she couldn’t; not since they had been lovers, a million years ago!

She pushed open the small door of the hay barn then stood, hand on the latch, breathing deeply, trying to stop the tears that choked in her throat; thinking about her mother and if women really did go peculiar when they got to that time of life. Was her mother mad, or bad? And for how much longer could her father put up with a loveless marriage; because that was what it was. And their daughter was the child of a loveless conceiving.

The barn was dark, with only a shaft of light slanting through the open door. It pointed across the floor to the foot of the wooden steps leading to the gantry and she turned away, closing the door behind her, because malice spilled out of her and must not be allowed to contaminate this special place.

She looked at her watch. It was too early to begin afternoon milking and she didn’t want to go back to the boundary fence. Best she should feed the hens, make sure the arks were secure against foxes; do anything to kill time until milking.

Feeling suddenly limp, as if the rage inside her had drained her of all feeling, she walked towards the paddock. Her mind was in a turmoil of bewilderment: thoughts she couldn’t make sense of nor sort into any kind of order.

Last night she had been so sure that nothing that lived or breathed could touch their love, because it had been so right. Yet now she feared for it, because her mother had gone off on a different tack. Last night’s angry threats had not worked, so now she hysterically demanded pity and attention, latching on to the bogey of the secret weapon, magnifying it out of all proportion just to cause another upset. Her mother was not mad; she was bad. And she was dangerous and ruthless and until now had never been thwarted nor gainsaid.

Why, Rosamund demanded, had she let her mother’s sarcasm get to her last night? Why hadn’t she bitten on her anger and let it wash over her, closing her ears to the accusations? Why hadn’t she matched cunning with cunning; stood silent and let the innuendoes flow over her head, whilst she hugged her secret to her, keeping their love safe from harm? Yet in her stupidity she put that love at risk, and her mother had wished Jon dead.

All at once the tears came, and she leaned against the dry-stone wall, her body shaking, crying out her anguish, needing Jon’s arms around her, whispering that it was all right, kissing away her tears. But Jon was on ops tonight and all she could do was wish him a safe return; wish him at the gate tomorrow night at nine. And she had better pull herself together, or her mother would know she had been weeping, and gloat inside. She fished for a handkerchief, dabbing her eyes, blowing her nose loudly and inelegantly, then squared her shoulders and stuck out her chin.

‘And that is the last time, Rosamund Kenton,’ she flung at the distant hills, ‘that you let her get you down! OK?’

She had stood at the bottom of the cow pasture long after the bombers had thrashed and roared into the sky; waited, fingers entwined in the steel-mesh fence, until the sound of their going could no longer be heard.

Eleven had taken off; she would count eleven back. She would! Jon would be at the gate tomorrow night, and everything would come right again.

‘I’m going to the village,’ she said, forcing her voice to sound firm and ordinary and remembering not to say she was going to see Bessie, because the very name could trigger another tirade of abuse.

‘Will you be gone long, lass?’

‘No, Dad. It isn’t too dark outside.’ There was half a moon, and a sky full of frosty stars. ‘I won’t be long. Just feel like a breath of fresh air.’

‘Mind how you go, then.’

‘I will. See you.’ She smiled briefly, closing the door gently, letting go a sigh of relief.

She was all right now; had managed to avoid her mother’s eyes. She had not expected her to speak, because since her outburst she had sat at the fireside, staring into the flames, not even knitting. She was, Rosamund thought as she pushed her cycle across the yard and down the lane to the crossroads, like an unexploded bomb, and she and her father were speaking only when necessary lest one careless word should start that bomb ticking.

She stopped at the six oaks, where she and Jon had kissed, wondering where he was now. Crossing the coast, maybe; giving Harry and Mick permission to test-fire their guns?

She pushed a hand into her pocket, feeling for the small gold cross. It had been given to her on the day of her baptism, but her mother had never encouraged her to wear it, saying that crosses and crucifixes were popish things, and that a string of pearl beads was far prettier.

Now, she would give that cross to Jon; guard him against any evil that might be directed towards him. It was childish of her, she readily admitted it, but if a cross could do no good, neither could it do harm, and it was always better to be sure. And she was being foolish and very wrong, she thought as she gazed, eyes straining into the darkness around her, even to think that Margaret Dacre’s soul was still around, much less have taken possession of her mother. Common sense said that witches did not exist, nor ever had, yet those who lived in the wild stretches of Lancashire always kept an open mind. You could never be sure, the old ones said, and that there were more things in heaven and earth than ordinary folk ever dreamed about – or words to that effect.

Ahead of her she could hear voices so she coughed loudly, because it was probably a courting couple. There were a lot of couples about since the aerodrome was built, all grateful for the blackout, she shouldn’t wonder. She called a greeting as she passed them, and envied the man and woman who walked close, thighs touching most likely, fingers entwined.

Then she smiled, because she would see Jon tomorrow. They hardly ever flew ops two nights running. It would be all right. It was just, she supposed, that since last night she must never take anything for granted, because to do so would be tempting fate, and she had enough to worry about with the mess at home.

‘Take care, darling,’ she whispered, then pedalled as fast as she dare in the darkness to Bessie’s house.

‘Come on in.’ Elsie Drake opened the back door, closing it quickly. ‘We’ve got the place to ourselves tonight.’

‘Mr Drake gone for a pint?’

‘No. He’s at work, on lates. Double time for Sundays, though for all the good it does, I don’t know why he bothers. Nothing in the shops to spend it on!’ She laughed, calling out that Rosamund was here, telling her to go through into the parlour.

‘I’ve brought you some milk, Mrs Drake; thought you might be able to find a use for a drop extra.’

‘My word!’ she smiled, holding up the large lemonade bottle. ‘That’s two days’ ration for the three of us, Rosamund. We could have had a rice pudding – if those dratted little Japs hadn’t collared all the rice!’

She thought tremulously of the days she could have bought half a stone of rice had she been so minded. Now, it was like bananas – to be remembered with nostalgia.

‘Hi! Twice in one day! Does your mother know you’re out then?’ Bessie teased. ‘Come and get yourself warm, and tell me the news!’

‘There isn’t any.’ She couldn’t tell anyone, not even her best friend, about her mother’s hysterics. ‘But I’ve brought the cross. I want it blessing, Mrs Drake,’ she offered by way of explanation, ‘for Jon. Help keep him safe. Do you think I’m being mawkish?’

‘Oh my word, no! Not one bit! But why can’t your own minister bless it for you?’

‘Because my mother might get to know, and –’

‘And she doesn’t know about your young man,’ Elsie Drake nodded. ‘Are you sure you can’t tell her? She was young herself, once. Happen she might take it better’n you think.’

‘She won’t, and I don’t want her to know.’ Rosamund glanced briefly, gratefully, in Bessie’s direction. ‘She wouldn’t understand. She thinks I’m too young to have a boyfriend.’

‘Maybe the pair of you are, but wars change things. Make things seem more urgent. That’s when a girl has to be careful, and you both know what I mean,’ she said meaningfully, eyeing them over the tops of her spectacles. ‘Feelings run high when there’s a war on, and it’s understandable for a young man to want to know what life is all about.’

‘And there are plenty of girls who are curious, too,’ Bessie sighed, ‘and worried because all the young men are away at the war, and wondering if they’ll ever get a husband.’

‘They will, if they wait long enough. Now when I was your age, men were very thin on the ground,’ Elsie Drake sighed. ‘So many had been killed in the Great War, you see, that there were a lot of spinsters around. Thank the Lord there hasn’t been the terrible slaughter, this time, and none of that awful trench warfare!’

‘But there might be, Mrs Drake. What about when the second front starts? It’s almost certain to be somewhere in France, and they might start digging trenches all over again!’ Rosamund whispered.

‘In my opinion, the second front – if ever it comes, that is – will be so well organized that our lot will go through France like a hot knife through butter. Things are all mechanical now. They don’t have horses pulling their guns and wagons like they did in the last war. Won’t take long once that lot in London decide when it’s going to be.’

‘But there’ll be the Japs to settle up with after Europe, Mum. The Americans are helping us and we’ll have to help them with those Japs. This war could go on for years yet, and I’ll be past it by the time it’s all over,’ Bessie pouted.

‘Past it!’ her mother laughed. ‘You’re only bits of lasses, so don’t look so badly done to! And why don’t we all have a cup of cocoa, cheer ourselves up!’ She was thinking of the lemonade bottle on the slate slab in the pantry; of cocoa made extravagantly with boiled milk instead of water, and the stuff in blue tins They called milk powder! ‘Won’t be long!’

‘Thanks for not telling your mother they know about Jon,’ Rosamund whispered when they were alone.

‘I said I wouldn’t, didn’t I? What do you take me for then?’

‘A good friend, Bess, and I hope we’ll always be friends, no matter what happens.’

‘Of course we will! We’ll be bridesmaid for each other and stand godmother when our kids are christened! Oh heck, Rosamund! I wish I had a boyfriend – a serious one, I mean. Dancing partners are all very well, but I’d swap Mick any day, for a steady!’

‘Being in love isn’t all wine and roses, especially when you’ve got a mother like mine!’

For a moment she was tempted to tell Bessie about the upset over the rockets, and how awful it had been. But she bit on her tongue, because what happened this morning was her mother’s business and anyway you didn’t admit, even to your best friend, that you thought your mother was going off her head!

‘Oh, come on, Rosamund! You told her where to get off, didn’t you – told her about Jon and that you were going to keep on seeing him, no matter what? All you’ve got to do now is not to let her trample over you any more! And put the cross on the mantelpiece, so Mum doesn’t forget it. There’s a Mothers’ Union service tomorrow – I’ll remind her to take it with her.’

‘Thanks, Bess. And when we’ve had our drink, I’ll have to be going. Don’t want to stay out too long – rock the boat any more than I have to.’

Yet even as she said it, she wondered what new upset would be waiting for her the minute she opened the door, then asked herself yet again if she had been wise to tell her parents about Jon. And even as the thought slipped through her mind, she knew she had been wrong.

But it was too late for regrets.

Rosamund was grateful when she got home to find that her mother was in bed.

‘She was past it,’ Bart Kenton said. ‘Made herself a glass of hot milk and took one of her herbals, and she’s sleeping now. I’ve not long been to have a look at her.’

‘I’m sorry I was the cause of it, Dad. I should have kept quiet about Jon, but I’d give anything to be able to bring him home. You’d like him. Even Mum would. His Aunt Charlotte brought him up. She never married. Her young man was killed in the last war. She sent me a photograph of Jon, and I’ve written to thank her. I’ll show you, if you like. Or do you think you’d better not see it in case Mum finds out?’

‘I’d like to, very much. But not tonight, lass. I was only waiting for you to come in before I went to bed. I could do with a good night’s sleep, an’ all.’

‘I’ve said I’m sorry, Dad …’

‘Nay, Rosamund. It isn’t your fault. Maybe the doctor was right, and your mother is going through a funny time. She was always one to keep herself to herself; this war upset all her plans, and she took it personal. She’s tried to ignore it, but it won’t go away. Bear with her, there’s a good lass? She’ll come through it, given time.’

‘But have we got time, Dad? This war is awful for everyone – especially those with people they love in it. Jon’s on ops tonight. I’m worried sick about him.’

‘I know. I heard them going. And there’ll be a right old din when they come back in the early hours! Best I get myself off to bed before they do! And lass, try not to worry over much? One day, it’ll all be over and it’ll be a rare old day, when that happens. I know what I’m talking about! Your dad did his share of fighting, don’t forget.’

‘I won’t, and I’m proud of you. Mrs Drake was talking about your war tonight, and the terrible killing. You never say a word about it.’

‘Only if I have to. Best forgotten. Put my medals at the bottom of a drawer when it was over, and I haven’t looked at them since. But I’ll bid you good night, Rosamund. See the fire is safe before you go to bed, and don’t forget the lamps.’

‘I’ll check everything, and, Dad …’ She held out her arms, drawing him close, laying her cheek on his. Then she stood back, pink-cheeked, because shows of affection were rare at Laburnum Farm. ‘I love you very much,’ she whispered as he walked, shoulders bent, from the room; said it in defiance of the woman who slept upstairs, and softly, so he should not hear it. ‘’Night,’ she called.

She awoke to Shep’s howling. It was as if she was tuned in to the animal; both of them on the same waiting wavelength. She lay still, heart thudding. The dog’s keen ears had picked up the faraway sound of engines and very soon she would hear them, too.

She wondered why he didn’t make a fuss at takeoff, but lay in his kennel, unmoving, as the heavily loaded bombers roared low overhead. Did he know it was important to waken her so she could listen and count? Dear old Shep, who hadn’t barked on Saturday night.

She swung her legs out of bed, feeling for her slippers, then reached for the dressing gown that always lay at the bottom of the bed, wrapping it round her, fastening it tightly, trailing her fingertips along the bedside table from which it was only two steps to the window. Pulling back the curtains she pushed open the window, wincing as cold air slapped into her, reaching for the eiderdown, snuggling it round her. All was darkness, save for a few fading stars. She focused her eyes in the direction of the aerodrome and saw one dim light ahead, then another and another until the sky glowed in two straight long lines. They had lit the runway flares; the bombers were almost home.

She heard the first faraway drone of engines almost at once. A returning aircraft seemed to make a very different sound to one which was taking off. It was a lighter, keener tone and not the aggressive growl they left behind them as they shuddered into the sky. Was it because their bomb load had gone, the fuel in their tanks almost used up, or was it because of the clear morning air? Was it all in her mind? Did the relief she felt make her light-headed?

The first-home Lancaster circled overhead. The first was the luckiest, she supposed; could land at once without waiting and circling. Was it Johnnie or Zebra or Sugar? Did it matter, as long as they all got back?

One down with a roar; ten more to go, two of them already circling. It was going to be all right. Jon would be at the gate tonight. He would.

Yet when the bedside alarm jangled a five o’clock reminder that it was time to go to the shippon, only ten bombers had returned and to add to her fears, the runway lights had long since been extinguished.

One not back, nor expected back, it seemed. Automatically, she drew the blackout over the window, then lit the candle, pulling on her clothes with clumsy fingers, wondering what to do. Instinct urged her to get on her bike, go to the village and phone the aerodrome, but would the switchboard there accept her call? They didn’t when crews were flying; a security thing. And when that happened no one could ring out either. Even if Laburnum Farm had been on the phone, Jon could not have sent her a whispered, ‘Hi! I’m back. I love you!’

There was nothing to do but wait until tonight, telling herself over and over again that Jon was all right. He had to be because they belonged now, and nothing must harm a love so precious. She fell to her knees, opening the bottom drawer of the chest, taking out Jon’s picture.

‘Darling – please, if you love me, be there tonight?’

The day dragged. Rosamund went through the motions of milking, but the missing plane was never far from her thoughts. She loaded milk churns, unloaded them at the end of the lane, all the time scanning the sky. She was at the far end of the paddock from where she could look down on a distant, misty aerodrome when she heard what she had been hoping for; the sound of aircraft engines. It came from afar, but it was a Lancaster sound; maybe the missing bomber. She searched the sky until her eyes lit on it, watching it get closer, bigger, dropping lower. Then it was circling, waiting permission to land, and as it flew low overhead on its second circuit, she was able to pick out the squadron markings and the letter C. It was one of Laceby’s! C-Charlie was home and waiting to touch down. They had all made it! Again!

She looked yet again at the mantel clock. Still fifteen minutes to go, but she could stand it no longer!

‘I’m going out,’ she said shakily. ‘I – I need some air – a walk …’

‘Wrap up warm then,’ her father said gently. ‘And take the flashlight with you; have a look at the arks whilst you’re about it; let those foxes get a scent of you.’

‘Good idea,’ she smiled, waiting for her mother to protest, forbid her to go. But Mildred Kenton’s eyes were fixed on her knitting, her mouth a tight button of disapproval.

Her father nodded and smiled briefly, and she knew it was his way of saying he was on her side. She wrinkled her nose in return and hoped he knew she was grateful to him.

Closing the back door behind her she ran as fast as she dare, blinking her eyes to accustom them to the darkness outside, because Jon might be early and she wanted to be early, too; be waiting when he got there.

She paused at the kennel, bending to fondle the dog. ‘Good boy. Don’t bark, then?’ Shep was on her side, too. At the top of the narrow path that led to the little iron gate she stopped, calling his name softly.

‘Rosie?’

She flung herself into his arms and they hugged tightly, not kissing nor speaking; just glad to be together.

‘I came early. I couldn’t wait another minute,’ she whispered at last. ‘I’m glad you did, too. Kiss me?

‘Up until midday,’ she said breathlessly, tremulously, many kisses later, ‘I’d have given all I owned for just one of those. Then I saw C-Charlie coming in to land, and everything was all right again. What happened, Jon? Why was he so late?’

‘He’d taken some flak; his instruments had an attack of the gremlins. Anyway, they ended up at RAF Waddington – in Lincolnshire. His RT was working, fortunately, and they let him land. They patched him up, got him airworthy, and he shoved off back to Laceby – very relieved, I shouldn’t wonder.’

‘I’m glad he made it.’

‘So were we all. But how long have we got?’

‘Not long, Jon. I said I was going out for a blow of fresh air and Dad said I was to take a look at the poultry whilst I was about it. There are foxes about, so it won’t hurt to let them get the scent of a human. Checking the arks gives us a few more minutes, but tomorrow night, if you can make it, can you be here early? You know why …’

‘I can make it for half-seven. But what excuse will you give – Bessie’s again?’

‘No. I shall just say I’m going out.’ She couldn’t tell him about Saturday night; he had worries enough, flying ops, without her adding to them.

‘Will there be trouble, Rosie? I don’t want friction at your place because of me. I’m still willing to risk calling.’

‘And I don’t want you to – yet. I’ll know, darling, when the time is right. And meantime, I’m getting into your aunt’s good books.’ Change the subject! ‘I wrote to her, thanked her for the photograph.’

‘Good! But let’s do that checking? D’you know something – I’ve never kissed my girl in a field full of hens!’

‘There’s a first time for everything.’ All at once she was very happy, and slipped her arm in his, snuggling close. ‘And, darling – please don’t be flying tomorrow night? Be at the hayloft, early?’

‘I’ll do the washing up,’ Rosamund said when supper was finished. ‘Then I’ll be going out.’ Her voice sounded ordinary, because she had the words arranged ready in her mind. ‘About half-seven.’

‘You went out this afternoon,’ her mother said tartly.

‘To the village, to post a letter to Jon’s aunt. If you’d asked me, I’d have told you.’

‘I see. Then if you must go out, I want you in early. Where did you say you were going?’

‘To meet Jon.’ She was shaking. Telling the truth was much harder than inventing glib lies. ‘And I don’t know what we’ll be doing; probably just walking, and talking.’

She began to stack cutlery and plates on a tray; did it methodically, scraping uneaten scraps into the pigswill bucket, concentrating hard on the simple task to shut out the thinly disguised hostility behind her mother’s probing.

‘Early,’ Mildred Kenton stressed. ‘Before the news.’

‘I’ll try. It’ll all depend on what we decide to do.’

She was becoming apprehensive, because her mother was intent on another upset, and it was important she should not allow herself to be goaded into saying something else she might regret. And she had told only half a truth when she admitted to posting the letter, because she had called on Bessie’s mother, too, to collect the cross; wrapped it carefully in a clean handkerchief because it was special, now it had been blessed. Now it had become an amulet against ill wishes, and lay in the bottom drawer of the chest, beside Jon’s photograph.

‘I said early, or you’ll find the door locked.’

‘You may please yourself, Mother. It’s your house and your door and your key, and I can always sleep at Bessie’s. I’m sure Mrs Drake wouldn’t mind.’

She looked at her father for support and saw he was engrossed in choosing a pipe from the rack at the fireside. She glanced back to her mother, looking her straight in the eyes, holding them with her own, throwing out a challenge.

‘There’ll be no need.’ Mildred Kenton was the one to surrender, drop her gaze. ‘As you say, Rosamund, this is my house, though you seem at times to forget it!’

‘As far as I’m concerned,’ Bart jammed a pipe between his teeth, ‘I don’t see why she can’t have the young man call for her! It isn’t right he should wait at – have to hang around in the cold.’

‘Wait where?’ Mildred demanded.

‘We usually meet at six oaks, Mother.’ Another lie; one her father would recognize because he knew they met at the iron gate – had almost said so.

‘I don’t approve of that man, and you know it! Meet him where you like, for all I care!’ She turned to face her husband. ‘But she’s not bringing him here, Bart Kenton, and that’s my final word!’

‘All right! Just stop it, you two! I’m sorry I told you about Jon! I should have gone on telling lies, deceiving you both. But I won’t stop seeing him!’

‘So do what you want, lady!’ The venom was back in Mildred Kenton’s eyes. ‘You’ll come to a bad end if you carry on as you are doing! And when you do, when you get yourself into trouble, just don’t bother bringing it home!’

‘So you’re threatening your own daughter now!’ Rosamund gasped. ‘You’ve already wished Jon dead, said you hope his plane crashes, and now it’s my turn! Don’t dare get pregnant or you’ll be kicked out! You are ill, Mother! Not your body, but your mind, and I don’t know how Dad has put up with you all these years!’

She ran from the room, feet slamming angrily on the narrow wooden stairs, locking her bedroom door behind her.

Then closing her eyes, she whispered, God – it’s Rosamund Kenton and I’m sorry for all the trouble I’m causing. But I love Jon so much that I just don’t know what to do …

Her bottom lip began to tremble and she bit on it hard to stop the tears she dare not let fall. And she did know what to do! It had come to her in a flash, as if God had really heard her!

She would say she was sorry for the things she had said, that she didn’t mean any of them; would lie through her teeth for the sake of peace and quiet. She understood, she would say, the stress her mother was under, beg her not to be upset; to think of her health, and try to take things a bit easier.

What she would not apologize for was her love for Jon! As far as Jon was concerned, there was no deal! She would grovel, pay lip service if that was what it took; would do it glibly if only to keep the pressure off her father, and ill wishes away from Jon!

Carefully she poured water into the bowl on the washstand. It was very cold, and washing in it had a steadying effect on her. Then she brushed and combed her hair and put on a skirt and blouse, all the time willing herself to be calm. She wasn’t proud of what she was about to do, but she didn’t have a lot of choice!

She opened the drawer, gazing at the photograph of Jon, slipping the cross into her pocket. Then she blew out the candle and walked downstairs to the kitchen.

‘Mum – Dad – I’m going out now. I shouldn’t have said what I did, and I’m sorry for it. Don’t upset yourselves. I won’t be getting myself into trouble, and I’m sorry you’re ill, Mother. I’ll try to help you more in the house. And I won’t be too late in.’

She glanced at her father, begging him with her eyes to understand. Then she forced her gaze to her mother, who looked at her blankly, then turned away to pick up her knitting.

Rosamund went to great pains to close the kitchen door gently behind her, then walked carefully across the darkness of the dairy to take her coat from the peg, buttoning it up, wrapping a muffler round her neck and ears. Then she took the cross from the pocket of her skirt slipping it, for greater safety, into the deep pocket of her jacket. And as she did so her fingers touched something cold and hard.

She knew at once it was the key to the keeping pantry, off the dairy. It had a door that was seldom used, and opened onto the yard. Nor did it have bolts on the inside.

It was her access to the house, Rosamund realized, in case her mother had a fresh fit of pique and locked her out; no one but her father could have put the key in her pocket!

Smiling, she sent him her thanks, walking carefully on cobbles slippery with ice, knowing that though it had hurt her pride to offer it, the apology had been necessary.

She crossed the yard, whispered to the sheepdog, then made for the hay barn. And whilst she waited, she would empty her mind of the things said in anger, because nothing mattered, now, but Jon. He was her reason for being, the axis on which her world spun giddily; her reason for getting up and going to bed, her breathing out and breathing in. Without him she was nothing, and if one night he didn’t come back then she would want to die, too.

She thought about the little gold cross, knowing already that Jon wore a medallion on a chain around his neck; had felt it with her fingertips as they lay in the hay. And tonight she would thread her cross there to protect him from evil, though she wouldn’t tell him so.

It was a charm, she would say, from her to him; something to keep him from colliding, at takeoff, with low-flying witches on broomsticks. They would laugh about it and he would never know how near the truth her words were.

She was sitting on the wooden steps, chin on hand, thinking how much she loved him, how desperately she needed him to make love to her, when she heard the click of the door latch.

‘Jon?’ she whispered, switching on her torch. ‘Over here, darling …’