ELEVEN

‘Did you know, Skip, that Yank aircrews have only to do a tour of twenty-five? So what’s so special about them?’

Apart from the fact, Willie MacBain brooded, that they had better uniforms, better rations, bigger bombers and more pay!

‘Can’t say I did, Mac, but it makes sense,’ Jon shrugged. ‘They do all their bombing in daylight, which I wouldn’t fancy at all, and those B-17s of theirs are great, heavy kites; not as nippy as a Lancaster. Reckon they deserve a shorter tour.’

They had been unable to get a seat on the Manchester-bound train, but what the heck? They were on seven days’ leave; seven nights away from operational flying – who needed a seat?

Mac offered a cigarette; Jon shook his head. His mouth tasted foul; it always did when he was tired. When he got home he would sleep the clock round, smug in the knowledge that last night J-Johnnie had flown its twenty-second operation. A nasty one, to Bremen, but short, for all that. Give him Bremen any day; the Americans were welcome to Berlin, which they seemed to have taken over lately.

He shifted his position, and rotated his head. The floor on which they squatted was dirty, but so were most trains these days. And a bit of dirt wasn’t all that important when you were going on leave. It was only when you’d had it and were on your way back to war, that you cared.

‘Soon be at Manchester.’ They changed trains, there; Mac for Glasgow, himself for Chester.

‘Aye. I’ll sleep all the way to Central, if I can get a seat. Your wee milkmaid didn’t see you off at Preston. Are you going off her?’

‘Hell, no! She just couldn’t make it this time. I’ll be ringing her tonight.’

Rosie would be at Bessie’s house, waiting. It pleased him to think about tonight and her slightly breathless, ‘Hullo? Jon?’

He adored her; adored the way her voice sounded on the phone. She was adorable in every way. He would miss her. Seven nights without loving was a long time.

He closed his eyes and wondered at his luck. One more op to do for his tour, then seven more to finish the thirty with J-Johnnie. Few pilots made the magic number, yet it looked as if he would notch up thirty-seven! All down to the St Christopher medallion he wore round his neck with Rosie’s little cross. And Matilda Mint and a smashing crew, of course, with luck all over them. And Rosie.

Rosie. It was good to think of making love in the little upstairs room at Fellfoot with his greatcoat spread on the floor …

He felt a dizziness, then blinked open his eyes and shook his head. Mac was looking at him strangely.

‘Will you tell me, Skip, what put that smug smirk on your face? You looked good and daft.’

‘Nearly dropped off.’ Jon pulled his tongue round dry lips. ‘Like I said – tired.’

The train began to brake and slow. Change at Manchester, then the bus from Chester to Little Sellow – or thumb a lift, whichever happened along first.

He got to his feet, pulling his cap from the epaulette at his shoulder, picking up his respirator. His eyes were gritty, and granted three wishes they would be a mug of tea, the soft, springy bed with the blue eiderdown, and Rosie in his arms. Not making love – he was too damn tired – but Rosie beside him when he awoke in the morning.

‘See you, Mac,’ he said when they parted. ‘Have a good leave.’

The platform from which the Chester train would depart was crowded, as it always was; there would be one mad scramble for seats when it arrived. If it arrived. Sometimes trains just didn’t come. He found a pillar to lean on, folded his arms, closed his eyes and thought of a bed with clean, white sheets and a blue eiderdown. And Rosie.

‘Hi! You’re early! Come in! Guess who’s here!’ which was a typical Bessie Drake greeting, Rosamund smiled.

‘Tell me.’

‘Our Dave! Thought he was in the Med, but what do you know? They’re back to join the Home Fleet. Dave reckons it’s because of the second front.’ And wasn’t the Mediterranean pretty quiet these days, with Malta safe, North Africa cleared of Axis troops and half of Italy in Allied hands?

‘Where is he now?’ Rosamund knew how lucky it was to touch a sailor’s collar.

‘Out, wouldn’t you know!’ Elsie Drake smiled fondly. ‘Arrived out of the blue not two hours ago, dumped his kit, took all the hot water for a bath, then away on the bus to Preston. There’s some tea left in the pot – pity to waste it. Want a cup, Rosamund?’

‘Please. And close your eyes and hold out your hands.’ She placed a newspaper parcel in the upturned palms. ‘Careful.’

‘Eggs!’

‘One each for your breakfast – well, there would have been if David hadn’t been home.’

‘But can you spare them?’

‘Sure. This is the time of year when even old hens lay well. And isn’t it light tonight?’

‘Oh my word, yes!’ The clocks had been moved forward an hour to double-summertime. It wouldn’t be dark tonight until almost nine. ‘And the apple trees in blossom, and the birds singing their little heads off. Makes a difference, doesn’t it – a little bit less of that old blackout?’

‘Makes a difference at Laburnum, too. The herd is out to grass now in the day. A lot less work.’

‘And how’s your young man?’ Elsie Drake offered a willow-pattern cup on a rosebud saucer. ‘Gone on leave, I hear.’

‘Yes. Part of me is glad, because he isn’t flying, but I’m missing him already. I – I don’t suppose you’d mind if he phoned?’

‘Any time at all. No need to ask! How is your mother?’

‘Fine, thanks. I’ll tell her you asked.’

Her mother wasn’t fine, but it was politic not to talk about her delicate condition. Mildred Kenton would not want her hot flushes passed round Laceby Green Mothers’ Union! Nor would she tell her that Mrs Drake asked kindly after her, because the name still rankled at Laburnum Farm.

‘You’ll never guess what Dave brought,’ Bessie grinned. ‘Just wait till I show you!’ She clattered up the stairs then down again, to place her trophies on the kitchen table. ‘A film for my camera, a lipstick and a pot of cold cream. And a bottle of whisky for Dad and four tablets of scented soap for Mum! His ship called in at Gibraltar on the way home; he got them there. I’ll be able to take a snap of you, Rosamund, for Jon. And when he gets back, I’ll take the two of you together, as well.’

‘Oh, Bessie – thanks!’

She felt a pricking of tears behind her eyes because everybody was so kind at Bessie’s house; and because she wanted her mother to be more like Bessie’s mother, and laugh sometimes. So she blinked rapidly and sniffed them away, then smiled radiantly, because at that very moment the phone in the hall began to ring.

‘Off you go and answer it, Rosamund,’ Mrs Drake beamed. ‘It’s bound to be for you!’

‘Hullo?’ Heart thudding she lifted the receiver. ‘Jon …?’

‘So you managed to get through?’

‘Yes, thanks. Not as much delay on trunks as I thought.’

‘And how is Rosie?’ Charlotte Martin knelt on the hearthrug to put a light to the paper and kindling in the fire grate.

‘She still loves me. I said I’d try to get through tomorrow, if that’s all right?’

‘You know it is. And things are – we-e-ll – all right between you?’

She stared at the flames as they licked the firewood. She really shouldn’t be asking; it wasn’t any of her business, truth known. ‘I mean, last time you were on leave you said there wasn’t a lot of chance of your getting married and I –’

‘You asked me to be careful – take care of Rosie. And I have been, and she’s fine. Do you blame us, Aunt Lottie?’

‘No. I wish it could have happened for Guy and me, but there you are! When I was Rosie’s age, young men were expected to marry the lady first. Only bounders took advantage. Now at least, thank God, there are ways of getting round it. I enjoy Rosie’s letters, by the way. She has a way with words, y’know.’

‘You think so?’ Jon smiled, pleased.

‘I know so. Words are my business. Has she ever written poetry – anything like that?’

‘Aunt Lottie! Do you know what the crew call her? My milkmaid! Rosie works on a farm – a land girl. She went to grammar school, got her school certs, but I think the only thing her mother had in mind for her was marriage – to a farmer’s son. She’s the only child. She’ll inherit, you see.’

‘Money in the family, is there?’ Satisfied the fire had taken hold, she went to sit beside her nephew.

‘I think they’re comfortable, but the house seems the main asset. There are only a couple of acres to it – the rest they had on lease from the local landowner until the Air Ministry plonked the aerodrome on half of it. The house is very old and solid, and much too big for three people. Rosie’s folks should have had half a dozen kids. It’s a house for children …’

‘Which the pair of you will have one day – when you get round to marriage, that is – and fill the place up?’

‘I doubt it, Aunt. I’m an engineer, not a farmer and Rosie’s inheritance is the furthest thing from my mind. I’d marry the girl if they threw her out tomorrow – barefoot and penniless. Wish they would, actually …’ He laid his arm round the elderly woman’s shoulders, pulling her close. ‘I’ve never said thanks – not in so many words – for all you’ve done for me, Aunt Lottie. I couldn’t have had a better mother. You know I love you, don’t you?’

‘It cuts both ways, Jon. We needed each other. When I took you on I was in a pretty bad way. You filled a gap in my life. Take care of yourself, won’t you, and your Rosie? I’m pretty sure you’ve found the right girl, Jon.’

‘I know I have. It’s just that I can’t marry her yet. I’d still like to meet her parents, but she won’t have it. They know about me now, but they haven’t asked to meet me. Suppose we’ll have to be satisfied with half a loaf.’

‘Count your blessings, son! I suppose you’ll be going back a day early?’

‘Would you mind? I should really be back by noon, Thursday, and there’s no telling that we wouldn’t be flying that same night. If I go back early, at least I’ll see her on Wednesday. Things are hotting up, now – the second front, I mean. A lot of our targets are in France, and the fighter boys are shooting up trains and gun emplacements on the French coast like there’s no tomorrow.’

‘You think it’ll be soon, then?’

‘Not quite yet. General opinion is that they’ll have to wait for tides – and the right weather. And there’s a strong buzz that all leave will be stopped before it happens.’

‘Well, that’s pretty silly, if you ask me! As good as telling Hitler we’re on our way!’

‘He knows it already. What he doesn’t know is where. Nobody does.’

‘Then the sooner it’s over and done with the better!’ Charlotte Martin jumped impatiently to her feet. ‘Now enough of war talk. I’m going to make a pot of tea, then we’ll listen to the wireless – OK?’

‘Fine! Want any help?’

‘I’m perfectly capable of making a pot of tea, thanks all the same!’

So Jon grinned and stretched his legs to the fire, and closed his eyes. And thought about Wednesday night at Fellfoot. With Rosie.

Sunday was bright and sunny. As she waited beside the six oak trees, camera case over her shoulder, Bessie Drake saw her first butterfly of spring. It settled on a bright yellow bog buttercup, and she recognized it as a red admiral. Winter was really gone when butterflies and bees were about, and tadpoles wriggled in ponds. She lifted her face to the early April sun, and closed her eyes, wondering if first butterflies brought wishes with them. She knew there were wishes on first swallows and the first cuckoo call so it wouldn’t hurt to include red admirals. She opened her eyes to fix them on the butterfly, but it had gone, and her wish with it!

I wish, I wish, she had been going to say, for a young man who’s as good-looking as Jon and dances like Mick, and if you don’t mind, who isn’t aircrew. Because it couldn’t be a lot of fun for Rosie, worried sick every time Jon’s Lancaster took off on ops. It was bad enough worrying about Mick, and she wasn’t in love with him!

‘Why,’ she demanded of Rosamund when she arrived, ‘couldn’t I have met you at the crossroads?’

‘Because I want us to go to Fellfoot.’

‘But if I take it there, everybody who sees it will wonder why you want a snap outside a boarded-up old house! It would be giving the game away.’

‘Nobody’s going to see it, I hope, but you and me and Jon. And I don’t want the house in it. I want you to take it beside the pond. There’s a big flat stone; we sit on it, sometimes, if it isn’t cold. It’s looking pretty there, now. The willow is in leaf, and the silver birches.’

‘So it’s a special place, kind of?’

‘Every place I’ve been to with Jon is special. I wish you could fall in love.’

‘I’m in no hurry,’ Bessie shrugged loftily. ‘I’ll meet Mr Right one day, and I’ll know – like you did. So where do we go from here, then?’

‘The devious way. Across the field, up to the paddock wall, then we can’t be seen from the house, after that.’

‘And how’s it going to be when the nights are really light? Had you thought of that?’

‘No. But we will. There are more ways than one, to get to Fellfoot; coming down, though, is a bit of a slither. But let’s get on, Bess? And I’m ever so grateful for the snap.’

‘There are only twelve on the roll. I’ll have to eke them out, because I don’t know if I’ll ever get another. I want one of Dave in his uniform and Joe, when he’s next on leave, and if we can manage it, one of you and Jon together.’

‘Are you sure you can spare me two, Bess?’

‘Sure. So shall we go, then?’

‘OK. But keep down, especially when we get to the paddock wall. My mother’s got eyes in the back of her head!’

Didn’t all witches, Bessie brooded, though she had the good sense not to say it, because she and Rosamund had been best friends since they were eleven, and sat together every day on the school bus. And Rosamund couldn’t help it if her mother was peculiar!

‘So has my dad,’ she said instead.

‘So!’ Mildred Kenton shook the Sunday paper and folded it to a more manageable size. ‘Things are going a bit better, it would seem.’

Germany being bombed day and night, the Russian armies sweeeping, almost unchallenged, into the Crimean Peninsula, and the Allies poised ready to invade the Continent any day now. And serve Hitler right for starting it, and upsetting everyone’s lives! That man had a lot to answer for. She hoped Mr Churchill would have him hanged when it was all over!

Yet what was more gratifying than anything she had read today was a complete absence of news about the secret weapon, secret no longer. She scanned the papers from end to end every day, and there hadn’t been a word lately. Talk. That’s all it had been, put out to frighten people. Propaganda. Indeed, if it wasn’t for the way her daughter was behaving, life would seem half-bearable again, she reluctantly admitted.

Gone were her worries about the farm accounts, and she had finally decided against the purchase of a secondhand car when she realized that the one to benefit most from it would be Rosamund. Once she got her hands on it, heaven only knew where she would be off to! A car would have been very nice, but its disadvantages were obvious. Their daughter had altogether too much freedom already, without offering her more on a plate!

‘Where is the girl?’ She took off her reading glasses to squint over the top of her paper at her husband. ‘Off out with the airman, is she?’

‘Last time I heard, she was meeting Bessie at six oaks. Seems David Drake got his hands on a roll of film, and Bessie is going to take a snap of Rosamund.’

‘I wasn’t told about any snaps!’

‘You wouldn’t be. The lass doesn’t mention Bessie unless she has to, though what you’ve got against the Drakes beats me, Milly. And the airman went on leave last Thursday, so she isn’t with him!’

‘Leave! They’re always on leave! And why didn’t she tell me? Why is it her father gets all the news?’

‘Since you ask, I think she’s learning how to keep the peace. What you don’t know, you can’t fret about. And I still think she should be allowed to bring the young man home, or at least have him call for her in a civilized manner. The more you forbid her to see him, Milly, the more awkward she’s going to be! It’s human nature. Why don’t you have a word with her, some time; say you’d like to meet him?’

‘Because I don’t want to meet him! That man has turned Rosamund’s head, and turned her against her parents, an’ all!’

‘Not against me, he hasn’t. Why can’t you trust the lass? There are thousands of girls her age away from home. Their parents don’t like it, but I’ll bet they aren’t making a big issue of it. Why can’t you accept that Rosamund isn’t a bairn any longer; has a mind of her own?’

‘Oh, a fine speech, Bart Kenton! All right! Take my daughter’s side against me, but I promise you’ll live to regret it!’

‘Well, now.’ He folded his paper slowly, deliberately, then laid it on the table at his side. ‘You’ll make me wish I’d never seen Rosamund’s point of view, then? Is that a threat, Mildred?’

‘I – I – Oh, you know what I mean,’ she gasped. ‘You’re twisting my words! I meant that if you don’t stop being soft with her, she’ll do something we’ll all regret!’

‘Then time will tell, won’t it, which of us is right?’

He reached for the paper, indicating that the matter was closed. And Mildred, who recognized the tone of his voice, knew better than enter into an argument. Most times her husband was biddable and kept his opinions to himself, but today she knew he was all set for digging his heels in.

Men! If only her daughter knew the bother she was laying up for herself, she would take more notice of her mother, who only wanted the best for her, when all was said and done!

‘I fancy a drink of tea. Will I make one for you, too, Bart?’

‘Thanks. A cup would go down very nicely, Mildred.’

It was her way of apologizing, and his of accepting it. The way it always was, he thought, when you married a woman of Milly’s ilk. But he’d known how it would be when they were wed; he couldn’t have it all ways. Cold she may be, but she had turned herself into a fine farmer’s wife. Pity, though, that she was jealous of her own daughter!

‘Good! Hold it! Smashing!’ Bessie stood, back to the sun, squinting into the camera. ‘I’ll come just a bit nearer so I get more of your face in. Now one, two, three and smile please! Fine! Is it really lovely, Rosamund – being in love?’ she whispered, settling herself on the flat stone.

‘It’s better than lovely some of the time, and worse than awful when he’s flying, or on leave.’

‘We-e-ll – I didn’t mean that, exactly. What I mean is – is –’

‘Making love? Being lovers? Look, Bess, that’s got to be between Jon and me,’ she said, gently reproving.

‘Yes, but aren’t you scared of getting caught in there?’ She nodded in the direction of the little house. ‘And aren’t you afraid of getting pregnant? What would you do if something went wrong?’

‘Leave home pretty quick, I reckon – after they’d let me marry Jon, of course. It’s the only hope we’ve got of getting married. It’s a pig, isn’t it? I can’t even take him home, yet my mother would have us down the aisle the minute she knew I was pregnant. And when it was born, she’d swear on the Bible it was a honeymoon baby that had come two months early!’

‘I think most mothers would. I wouldn’t be too afraid of mum if ever I got into trouble, but Dad would be another matter. He can be very narrow-minded! When I asked him why he was so sniffy about me going out with boys, he said he knew what went on in their heads, which doesn’t say a lot for him, does it?’ she giggled.

Bessie always made a giggle of things, Rosamund thought, joining in with her; couldn’t be serious for long, even over an important thing like getting into trouble and having to get married, and hoping there wouldn’t be too much talk about it in the village. And trying to convince busybodies that a seven-pound baby really was two months premature!

‘I think,’ Rosamund said, trying hard to be serious, ‘that next time around we’ll come back to earth as men!’

‘What! Grow hair all over and have to work till you’re old ’cause you’ve a wife and kids to support! Think I’d be happy staying a woman. But you don’t believe in reincarnation, do you?’

‘I’ve a feeling Jon does. But he’s been to university. You pick up all sorts of ideas there, I suppose.’

‘But what if you both came back in another life, and got married to someone else?’

‘I don’t think we would. We’d recognize each other again, I hope. Come to think of it, I’d like two lifetimes with Jon.’

‘My, but you’ve got it bad, haven’t you?’

‘Yes, I have,’ Rosamund said softly. ‘Thank God.’

She lifted her face to the April sun, and thought about Wednesday night, here at Fellfoot. With Jon.

Unusually alert, the crew of J-Johnnie drained their mugs of rum-laced tea and gave their full attention to the probings of the debriefing officer, and the woman sergeant who sat at his side, taking shorthand notes.

Skip had done it, the lucky so-and-so; had flown thirty ops! Jammy, that’s what! Seven from his last station and twenty-three from RAF Laceby Green. He’d really got some in, knew what it was about; would keep Johnnie in the air for another seven, when they would all have done their tour! And what was even jammier, that twenty-third op had been a milk run, mine-laying off the Dutch coast, then climbing steadily, making for the skies over Germany to drop Window to upset enemy radar – fine metallic strips that sent radar screens into confusion, helping the main bomber force that followed to reach Berlin without detection.

When finally the debriefing officer was satisfied, and the crew had offered their own observations – maybe that there was a heavier than usual concentration of flak over the Dutch-German border, and that searchlights had appeared where once there had been none, they stubbed out their cigarettes, making a rush for the door, lifting Jon in the air, letting go a great Ya-hoo!

‘Good old Skip!’

‘Congratters, you lucky sod!’

‘What say we go to town tonight – drink the place dry?’

‘Steady on! We aren’t out of the woods yet!’ Jon grinned. ‘OK, so we’re on the home stretch, but watch it! You lot have seven more to do – with me up front!’

‘Yeah! Lucky seven! C’mon, Skip. Your bint’ll let you off tonight. Tell her it’s special!’

‘Correction! It isn’t special till you’ve all done your thirty, and Rosie isn’t my bint; she’s the girl I’m going to marry!’

‘Sorry, Skip. Slip of the tongue. Got a heavy date, then?’

‘You bet. But right now, all I want is to get my head down.’

Strange that he could sleep like a baby, Jon thought, after an op; how easily, gratefully, the tension slipped from him and all he had to do was close his eyes and think about Rosie, and tonight.

This afternoon, after briefing, he had tried to sleep away the hours to takeoff, but he had thought instead about the Leipzig raid, two nights ago, and seventy-eight of ours lost; one of them from Laceby. So he had pulled on trousers and battledress top, and walked the circumference of the perimeter track in the hope of catching sight of Rosie. But the pasture was empty of cows and there had been no sign of her, because she was probably in the shippon. It had been good, though, to hear birdsong, see trees in leaf again, feel the sun warm on his face. It would be all right, he’d told himself over and over. OK – so tonight would be his thirtieth; so what?

Because the thirtieth is dicey. It’s like the first and the thirteenth; it’s a bastard.

Yet tonight’s op had the makings of a milk run. Every Lancaster he passed was being loaded with mines, and he already knew where he would be dropping them. And dropping Window was a doddle, too. After tonight, smothered in luck, he would go on for another seven. And when that happened, he would persuade Rosie to take him home with her; ask her parents for permission to marry.

She would be nineteen in June. Young to be married, but there was a war on and girls younger than Rosie were in uniform. In wartime they grew up quickly; young men, too. Overnight they were ordered to become men, fly planes, fire guns, drive tanks, hurtle from the sky at the end of a parachute.

Rosie was mature enough for marriage; had parted with her innocence gladly. And if he made it for another seven, he would go to Laburnum Farm, whether she liked it or not, and tell them he wanted to marry their daughter!

‘Hey, Skip! Penny for them!’ Fingers snapped, a hand passed in front of his line of vision.

‘Sorry! Miles away …’

They had come to the Nissen hut, their billet since early November. It had been cold in winter and likely would be too hot, soon. The floor was covered in brown linoleum, but it did little to keep the cold from underfoot; their beds were hard, their blankets scratchy. Yet it was a marvellous dump to get back to, with the twenty-third op behind them.

‘Here we are again, then! Home sweet home!’

Tom opened the door and, laughing, they followed him. Then they stopped and stared, and all at once there was nothing to laugh about.

At the far end of the hut were seven beds which, until two nights ago, belonged to the crew of Z-Zebra. But Zebra got the chop over Leipzig, and now someone had stripped those beds, folded the blankets, left clean sheets. Likely as not they had done it quietly, with hardly a word spoken; had emptied the contents of lockers onto beds, then gone on to search trouser and jacket pockets.

All things personal would be set aside and sent, with a letter of condolence, to the next of kin. The station commander would sign the letter, his regret genuine. And likely he would thank God seven times over that his flying days were long behind him.

Greatcoats were never worn on operations, and left hanging behind a door, or beside a bed, and those who came to do what had to be done knew that anything left in the pockets of greatcoats was not to be sent to the next of kin. Because some things you didn’t want your mother or your girl or your wife to know about; some things were best disposed of discreetly and kindly, and crews, who knew exactly what would happen if they got the chop, trusted the people who would carry out those last rites.

It had to be that way. Letters left behind – last letters, written just in case – would be posted and even before that happened another Lancaster, fresh from the makers, would fly in to take Zebra’s place. And before the end of the week another crew would claim those beds; a sprog crew, with brand-new stripes up, and they wouldn’t think about the men whose bedspace they were taking over, because to do that was unwise.

‘Flaming Norah!’ Sammy hissed. ‘Clean as a whistle. They’ve even swept the soddin’ floor!’

Cheers, Z-Zebra and so long. Been nice knowing you!

‘Well, whether you are coming or not, Jon Hunt, this gunner is going to drink himself legless, tonight,’ Mick jerked, tight-lipped. ‘Bloody legless!’

Without another word, they hung flying kit on pegs and got into bed, and not one of them slipped easily into sleep. Instead, they thought how very easily it could have been them – which was stupid, really, when there was damn-all they could do about it.

Rosamund smiled at a drift of bluebells because they were beautiful and because she was high-as-a-kite happy. Summer was almost here, yet winter had been kind, and mild, too. Not once had snowdrifts blocked the lane for days on end, making it impossible for the milk lorry, the egg collector and the postman to get to Laburnum. Jon, too, come to think of it.

Now the squadron took off without a flare path, and she was able to recognize J-Johnnie’s markings as she stood at the fence, and though the cockpit was too high from the ground to see Jon as he passed on the way to takeoff, she got a good view of Mick in the rear turret.

‘Tail-end to Skip,’ Mick would probably say over the intercom. ‘Just passed your milkmaid. Did you see her?’

And Jon would almost certainly answer, ‘Pilot to rear gunner. Please keep to correct procedure,’ in case the brass hats in the control tower or the ops room were switched on to them, but there would be a smile in his voice, for all that.

It was a little after seven. Jon usually arrived early, and Rosamund wanted not to waste one minute of their time together. Tonight would be special, because he would have the smell of success all over him; would know now that to fly thirty operations was possible.

She paused at the oak trees, closing her eyes to recall that there they always stopped to kiss. Memory storing, she called it. Then she climbed the gate and made for the rising ground and the shelter of the paddock wall.

Soon she would see the pond and the little house. Perhaps Jon would not be there yet, and she would sit on the big flat stone beside the pond and watch as he climbed the slope from the main road. It was the way he came now. Because of the light nights, they no longer met at the little iron gate.

She reached Fellfoot’s sheltering wall, then looked down. Jon was sitting on the stone, arms round knees, and she paused to look at him, mentally to record his slimness, the fair, unruly hair, the beauty of him. And when he turned and saw her, he would smile with his lips, his eyes, with his entire face, and love of him would slice wantonly through her.

She called his name and he turned and smiled exactly as she knew he would. And need of him took her and she ran to his waiting arms to stand close, not speaking for a few seconds, grateful to be together. Then she lifted her lips, and he bent to kiss them.

‘Hullo, you,’ he said huskily.

‘Hullo yourself, and congratulations. How does it feel to have done thirty?’

‘Unbelievable – but it isn’t over, quite yet.’

‘You wouldn’t want to leave the crew, Jon?’

‘No. It wouldn’t be allowed, anyway. They wanted to celebrate my thirty, but I told them not yet. But when it’s really over, I’m coming to see your folks, Rosie. I’ve made up my mind!’

‘Ssssh.’ She laid her mouth on his, silencing him. ‘Shall we sit here, or walk? It’s such a lovely evening.’

‘We’re doing nothing till you’ve told me why you won’t talk about me meeting your parents. I want to, Rosie.’

‘Because they wouldn’t let me get married if you did; my mother wouldn’t, anyway. She wears the trousers, you know, at Laburnum.’

‘But how can they say no – or yes – when they haven’t met me?’

‘Because. That’s what my mother always says. Just because and no other word of explanation. We can wait, Jon. I know you’re going to be all right. I’m so certain you’ll all make that last seven, that I can say it without crossing my fingers. So why should we spoil what we’ve got by telling her we’re in love? She doesn’t know what love means. She would sneer, and dirty it. Believe me, darling, I know her so well.’

‘How can you say that, Rosie? Has there been a quarrel? Was it because of me?’

‘No. I watch what I say these days. But she always wants to rule the roost. There are only two ways of doing anything: her way and the wrong way!’

‘And your father?’

‘Oh, Dad’s an old love. Sometimes I wish he would stand up for himself a bit more. When he does, Mother shuts up, but he should do it more often. And I’m being awful, aren’t I, because you don’t have parents …’

‘I’ve got a father – I told you. But he doesn’t want to know; was glad enough for Aunt Lottie to have me. He stood his corner till I was through university, then that was it. But as far as I’m concerned, Aunt Lottie is my mother, my next of kin. It says so, in my paybook. I wish you could meet her, Rosie.’

‘So do I. But this war isn’t going to go on for ever, and I won’t always be a minor.’

‘You’ve got two years to go, darling …’

‘So? Does it really matter? We couldn’t be more married, so please don’t do anything rash, Jon? Promise you won’t – not yet?’

‘OK. Promise.’ He gentled her cheek with his fingertips. ‘Who am I to object if you like being a scarlet woman?’

‘I adore it, Sergeant Hunt, and I adore you. And had you thought – the moon will be nearly full tonight, and we’ve never made love by moonlight? It isn’t cold. Shall we walk further up towards the tops, give Fellfoot a miss? There won’t be a soul around.’

So they took hands, walking slowly, carefully, in the fading light. To the east, the moon hung low in the sky; a bomber’s moon, though tonight it would be their friend, looking down on them, saying not a word.

Beneath their feet the scutchy grass grew thickly, springily, and stretches of heather and ling sprouted new green shoots from winter-withered roots. It would be softer beneath them than Fellfoot floor.

‘Are you sure you want to,’ he hesitated. ‘I mean –’

‘Want to! Listen! Being with you, making love with you, is all I ever think about! Why, all of a sudden, do you ask?’

‘Because we’d be taking a risk, Rosie. I haven’t got anything in my pocket. I thought I had, but –’

‘So for once, just one time, I’m going to get pregnant?’ she whispered, her hands sliding down to his buttocks, her lips close to his. ‘Darling, listen! Tonight is special. I want you to make love to me out here in the wilds, by moonlight! Please? It’ll be all right. It will!’

‘We shouldn’t, darling, but I want you so much. Are you sure?’

‘Sure I want you? Sure I love you? Yes, and yes! I want us to be lovers. Tonight. Now. I want you to look into my eyes in the moonlight and say you love me, that you’ll love me for ever. And when for ever is used up, that we’ll come back and find each other, and live it all again. Promise we will?’

‘Right now, Rosie Kenton, I want you so much I’d promise you anything. But tell me again it’s all right …’

‘I love you, Jon. I want you. Nothing else matters.’ She lifted her mouth to his, clasping him to her.

The moon rose higher in the sky, and when he took her he said, ‘I love you, darling. By moonlight, I do so love you.’