Chapter Eleven

“Well? What are you waiting for?” Flight Sergeant Stan Atkins let his hands slump into his lap in exasperation.

“I don’t know what you’re pissed off about,” Wing Commander Tom Alsop told his navigator from the other side of his desk. “You’re not the one who finally plucked up the courage to telephone his wife…”

“After I’ve spent the better part of two months having a go at you to do so,” Stan couldn’t resist adding, with a grin a shark would be proud of.

To his credit, Tom canted his head in acknowledgement. “As you say. Anyway, you and Sharon will be very happy to know that I picked up the telephone last night.”

“So.” Stan sat back and stroked his chin in puzzlement. “Why’d you call me into your office, then?”

“Because,” Tom said, wagging the handset at his friend, “all the damn lines must have been down last night, and I couldn’t get through.”

Stan rolled up his left sleeve and absently scratched his arm.

“How’s that doing?” Tom asked, using the handset as a pointer. When he’d been wounded last year, his friend had also suffered burns, and he liked to make sure he didn’t overdo the scratching and open up his still-tender scars.

As Stan glanced down, his eyebrows rose as they usually did when he realized what he was doing. “Not too bad, thanks, but wouldn’t it be nice if I didn’t always feel like scratching the skin off, though.” He rolled his sleeve back down. “One of these days, eh?”

A wry smile passed between them, with thoughts and feelings shared only by two people who’d been through so much together that actual words weren’t needed. “Suppose I’d better try again, eh?”

Stan coughed and ran a finger around his collar to loosen it. “I’ll leave you to it,” he said and heaved himself out of his seat.

“Oh, no, you don’t!” Tom told him. “Get your ass back in that seat. I may need to borrow some of your courage. Now…” He began to dial. “Sit down and keep quiet.”

First, Tom tried the cottage, but when he didn’t get an answer, he swore and muttered, “Idiot. They’ll be at work by now,” as he looked at his wristwatch.

Though he was doing his best not to listen, Stan was realistic enough to know his boss and friend would know he could hear. Looking down at his own watch, he frowned. The time was coming up to nine thirty, and he’d bet any money he had that Penny and the rest of the girls would be out on deliveries by now. He opened his mouth to speak, but when he looked up, he heard Tom asking to be connected with RAF Hamble. With nothing else for it—his friend might be lucky—he shut his mouth and waited. He didn’t have long before the call was answered.

“Hello. RAF Hamble? Yes, this is Wing Commander Alsop here. Can you put me through to Operations and Flight Captain Howell?” As whoever was at the other end of the phone spoke, Tom’s brow furrowed until you could almost sow potatoes in his forehead. “She’s where? At a funeral!” Not only did Tom’s voice rise a few octaves in barely controlled panic, but he also flew to his feet, to be joined a moment later by Stan. They may not have been blood family, but the two men cared for each and every one of those young women.

Tom was speaking again now. His voice had lost some trace of his panic, but he’d gone that color he went whenever he lost one of his squadron. “Oh,” he said, retaking his seat and running a hand through his hair, making a right mess of it. “I see. Please pass on my condolences to everyone, and can I leave a message for Third Officer Penny Alsop?” Stan pretended to be deeply engrossed in an edition of the Flight magazine he’d snatched up from the desk. Tom said, “This is her husband, and I’d like to speak to her…as soon as possible. Tell her…tell her…oh, heck! I’ll tell her I love her myself.” He may have not realized he’d said that before hanging up the telephone.

Stan waited a minute for his friend to fill him in. He’d distinctly heard the word “funeral,” and about the only thing he could be sure of was that it wasn’t for Tom’s wife, Penny. When he didn’t show many signs of speaking, Stan couldn’t bear the wait any longer. He leant forward and gripped his friend’s arm, giving it a quick shake. “Boss?” And then, a little louder when he didn’t respond, “Boss! Who’s dead?”

The last word seemed to pierce Tom’s demeanor, and he looked up, clearing his throat to find his voice. “Sorry.” He let out a sigh, reached down to open the bottom drawer of his desk, and pulled out a half bottle of whiskey and two glasses. Pouring a decent measure into each, he held out one for Stan to take. Coming around to stand beside his friend, he laid his free hand on Stan’s shoulder, took a deep breath, and told him, “Thelma Aston’s been killed.”

“Bloody hell,” Stan replied after a few seconds.

Tom raised his glass, and Stan matched the gesture. “To Thelma. We’ll miss you.”

They both knocked back their drinks, and Tom immediately refilled their glasses before putting the bottle away and settling into one of his easy chairs, gesturing for Stan to take the other.

“What happened?”

Tom shook his head, “No idea. That was the guardroom I spoke to. Penny, along with most everyone else, was at her funeral.”

The two sat in thoughtful silence before Stan asked, “Did they tell you what happened?”

Again, Tom shook his head. “I didn’t think it the right time to ask.”

“So what are you going to do? Are you going to ring back later?” Stan asked.

This time, Tom nodded. “Hell, yes! I’ll try Betty’s around six. I should be able to get a quick chat in before our op.”

“A quick chat?” Stan commented.

Tom wagged a finger in his friend’s face. “Don’t start. I’ve got to begin somewhere.”

“Hmm. Well, so long as you make the most of it. You do, don’t you? Want to make things right between you?”

Pre-war in the Royal Air Force, the sight of an officer and a non-commissioned officer sharing a drink together would have been a rarity, if not actually frowned upon. Perhaps stimulated by wartime experiences, though still not encouraged, it was far from unusual for the two to mix, especially amongst those who flew into danger together most days. Stan rarely noticed the differences between his and his friend’s uniforms, and would willingly give up his life for Tom, secure in the knowledge that Tom would do the same for him, without hesitation.

“I want her back, Stan.” Tom looked his friend in the eye, and Stan could see the worry in his friend’s eyes. “If she’ll have me.”

****

Betty took Nurse Grace’s hands between hers and waited for her friends to turn the corner toward the station. She’d catch them up shortly. “Have you got a minute?”

Sliding off the saddle of her bicycle before she fell, Grace managed to get both her feet down in the nick of time. What on earth could be so urgent? She observed her friend with interest. “What can I do for you?”

Betty released the nurse’s hands and took a few deep breaths.

“I was, er, wanting…hoping, to ask if you’ve heard from Marcus?” Betty stumbled over her words, and though Grace believed she really did want to know about her brother—half-brother, she corrected herself—something else was going on. Her suspicion heightened when Jane spotted Ruth and called her over.

Deciding to play along, Grace answered, “He’s well. I did ask if he could make it for the funeral”—she gulped as a catch caught in her voice—“but he couldn’t.”

“Yes, I was hoping to see him too,” Betty said. “It’s been what? A month since he’s been able to make it down. It’s not quite the same thing, speaking on the telephone, is it?”

Grace shook her head with a sigh. She’d only met Pilot Officer Marcus Palmer over Christmas, and the two had become instantly besotted. Neither had used the expression “love at first sight,” though all her friends had ribbed her endlessly over the few days of leave he’d been able to snatch. One of Britain’s fighter pilots, he’d lost the little finger on his right hand when it was shot off. He’d let slip that he considered it to be such a trifling wound, he was back on operations the next day. However, what with her nursing duties and his operations, they’d been able to get together only rarely since, and then she’d felt guilty not sharing him with Betty, who had made plain she was desperate to get to know her brother. After all, it’s not often you suddenly find you’ve a new relative, especially when, like Betty, you’d grown up in an orphanage.

“No,” she said, summoning up a smile for her friend, “it’s not. He is hoping to make it down this coming weekend, but we need to talk to confirm.”

Betty’s face also lit up with pleasure. “Oh, that’s wonderful. I do hope the two of you will pop in to see us? We’re not flying on Sunday. Is it Sunday he’s hoping to be down?”

Grace nodded. “Why don’t you call him tonight? I’m sure he’d love to hear your voice.”

“I will! What a good idea!” Betty replied, and then asked, “If you’re not on duty tonight, why don’t you come over? You can use our telephone and then stay for some tea. It’s only leftovers, but you’ll be very welcome.”

Grace nodded. “That would be lovely! I’ll be around about eight. Is that too late?”

“You’re welcome any time,” Betty declared.

Ruth had been standing to one side whilst this conversation ran its course, but now said, “You called, Betty?”

Betty looked around, as if making certain the three couldn’t be overheard, raising Grace’s interest. Perhaps now she’d find out what had been the real reason Betty wanted to speak to her.

“Have you still got that meat?” Betty asked, not at all what Grace expected to hear and making no sense whatsoever.

“Not on me,” Ruth replied, “but I haven’t thrown it away. Why?”

Betty didn’t reply straight away. Instead, she asked Grace, “Would you be able to confirm if something was poison?”

The conversation was turning a bit surreal. “I know someone who could,” she answered.

“Are they trustworthy?” Ruth asked, catching on. Useful it undoubtedly was, having a nephew in the police force. However, sometimes things needed to be as unofficial as possible, even with discretion being assured. This was one of those times.

Grace knew her friends well by now and nodded. “If you can let me have a bottle of Ruth’s elderflower wine, I think I can guarantee it.” Ruth nodded in agreement. “Now, what’s this all about?”

Quickly, as Betty could see in the distance that Jane had stopped at the guardroom and was waiting for her, she told her about the letter she’d received, with Ruth adding about what Bobby had nearly eaten.

Grace shook her head. “Bastards,” she spat, causing her friends to raise their eyebrows in surprise as neither had heard the quiet nurse swear before. Kneeling down, she gave Bobby, who’d followed his mistress and was lying flopped down at her feet, a big fuss before getting back to her feet. “You’re certain he didn’t have any?”

Ruth nodded, her face grim. “I’m sure. I’ve kept a close eye on him since, and haven’t noticed anything.”

“That’s good.” Grace nodded, her head suddenly jerking up as she noticed something over Betty’s shoulder. “I think we’d better go and get this whatever—piece of meat, I assume—and be off. I think Jane’s about to send out the guard for you, Betty,” she finished with a grin, pointing toward the station’s gate where Jane stood watching the group, her hands upon her hips.

Betty glanced over her shoulder. “Aah.”