A Different World (6 page)

Leaving the Underground and walking to the vicarage, she braced herself for her encounter with her father. It was always like that; it tied her insides up in knots. Once back in the vicarage she became a little girl again, subject to his punishment for her wickedness. The beatings had stopped when she went to college but she was still more than half afraid of him. He sapped her self-confidence until it was easier to agree with him than to fight, which was how her mother coped. But deep inside her was an ember of rebellion she hardly knew she had. It had showed itself
when she had insisted on accompanying her class to Norfolk and again when she had become engaged to Tony. Dear Tony. He gave her strength, encouraged her to stick up for herself. ‘Do it quietly,’ he had said. ‘Just be firm. He can’t hurt you.’ But even Tony did not know the whole truth.

She found her mother lying on the sofa, with a cold compress on her forehead. She scrambled to sit up when she saw Louise. ‘Darling, how lovely to see you. Why didn’t you let us know you were coming?’

Louise hugged her. ‘I wasn’t sure I could get away. What’s the matter, aren’t you well?’

‘Just a headache, that’s all. I’ll be fine now you’re here.’

‘Where’s Father?’

‘Visiting his parishioners. I didn’t feel up to going with him.’

Louise knew what it was like accompanying her father on his rounds. He had little sympathy for some of his flock, calling them idle and feckless and preaching hell and damnation when what they really needed was a little understanding and a helping hand. Others were sycophants and reminded her of the false humility of Uriah Heap. Going with her father had always embarrassed her and she knew her mother felt the same. Headaches, genuine enough, were her excuse not to go.

‘Shall I make us a cup of tea?’

‘Yes, please, then you can tell me all your news.’

It was lovely to have a couple of hours alone with her mother and she was soon recounting the doings at Cottlesham. She told her about the battle between the rival gangs which had culminated in bruises and bloody noses on the both sides. ‘John Langford called all the children, his and mine, into the classroom and gave them a long lecture about how wars start with little quarrels and they ought to learn tolerance and cooperation and helping each
other,’ she said. ‘I think it worked. Anyway Harry Summers, who was the ringleader of the Edgware lot, went home and that eased the situation somewhat.’

‘A lot of them came home, didn’t they?’

‘Some did, but that was before the war got going. I’m wondering if their parents made the right decision, after all.’ She paused. ‘Mum, I worry about you, what with the bombing and everything. Couldn’t you and Father move somewhere safer?’

‘He would never leave his parish, Louise, you should know that.’

‘Then you leave. Come to Cottlesham and stay with me.’

‘Without him? Oh, no, child, I could never leave him.’

Louise knew it was useless to argue, though she did mention what was in her mind when her father came home at lunchtime. He reacted predictably. Duty came before his own comfort and he would continue to do his duty and it went without saying that his wife would support him in that. The Lord would take care of them and keep them safe.

After they had had their meal, Louise and her mother did the washing-up while her father went to his study to compose the next day’s sermon. Louise had a feeling it would be centred on duty.

‘How is Tony?’ Faith asked.

‘He was well last time I heard from him. Sent you his regards.’

‘What’s he doing?’ She put a washed plate on the drainer. Louise picked it up to dry it.

‘Training to be a pilot.’

‘Do you worry about him?’

‘Of course, all the time, but I don’t let him know that. He’s hoping to get some leave when he finishes his training. Then he’ll be posted.’

‘Do you know where?’

‘No idea.’

‘I hope it’s not to one of those airfields being bombed.’

‘So do I, but I don’t expect he’ll be given a choice.’

‘How long can you stay?’

‘Just tonight, Mum. I’ll have to go back tomorrow afternoon.’

‘But it’s the school holidays.’

‘I know, but that doesn’t alter the fact that I am responsible for the children, even in the holidays. And I have to prepare for next term and liaise with Mr Langford over the arrangements.’

‘Of course, I understand. You’ll come to Communion in the morning?’

‘Yes, I’ll leave after lunch.’

Her father was so engrossed in preparing his sermon that he hardly noticed Louise was there. Perhaps he was softening towards her or perhaps he had given her up as a lost cause. Whichever it was, she was careful to say nothing that might cause dissension. She certainly said nothing of her meeting with Jan Grabowski. That would have been asking for a lecture on the perils of picking up strange men in railway carriages. But she had not forgotten him or her promise to write to him.

After persistent lobbying and in the face of a great shortage of pilots, Jan had been transferred from Blackpool, where they had been training, to an English fighter squadron in Tangmere, and though it wasn’t exactly what he had hoped for, it was a step in the right direction. He would teach those stiff-necked Britishers how to fly.

He arrived to find Witold already there, ensconced in the officers’ mess, a favourite of the WAAF waitresses who served him. It hadn’t taken his friend long to convince the RAF he could fly as well as any of them, and the next day Jan did the same. He found
himself in combat for the first time with those he had called ‘wet behind the ears’ and discovered they had plenty of courage, if little experience. But they learnt quickly, at least those who survived did. The casualty rate was horrifying. Jan’s first ‘kill’, a Messerschmitt 109 shot down into the Channel, brought great rejoicing. At last he was having a crack at the enemy and his first taste of revenge.

A week later Witold came to him with momentous news. Short of hearing from Rulka, it was the best news in the world. ‘They’re giving us our own squadrons,’ Witold told him gleefully. ‘The Polish Air Force flies again. Get your things together, we’re off to join them.’

It wasn’t quite what they expected, they discovered when they arrived at Northolt and joined their compatriots, many of whom they had not seen since leaving Poland. According to the agreement thrashed out between the Air Ministry and the Polish government in exile, every senior Polish Officer would have an equivalent British one and they would still be under British command. Officially designated 303 Squadron, it did not take the Polish flyers long to rename it the Ko
ś
ciuszko Squadron and to paint the squadron’s emblem on the Hurricanes they were to fly.

But they were still not operational. The station commander was adamant they had to learn English and understand what was meant by angels and bandits, scramble and tally-ho and how to count at least to twelve because the clock face was used to convey bearings. And they needed to measure their speed in miles not kilometres, and fuel in gallons not litres. Every day they went to classes while every day the Luftwaffe came and bombed airfields, coastal towns, shipping and important installations. It frustrated Jan and his companions until they were ready to explode. What they wanted was to get at the enemy, to defeat him and get their country back so they could go home.

While they were learning English and going on training flights, the Luftwaffe continued trying to bring the country to its knees and losses were frightening. Aircraft were coming off the production lines in vast quantities but there weren’t enough trained pilots to fly them. When one of Jan’s compatriots broke formation during training to chase after and bring down a Dornier bomber, the Air Ministry at last agreed the Polish flyers were ready for action. On the last day of August, the eve of the first anniversary of the invasion of Poland, 303 was made operational. It was the day on which the German High Command decided to send everything it had to finish the job they had started and sent wave after wave of bombers, escorted by fighters, to put an end to the stubborn resistance of the Royal Air Force. In that it failed. But only just. It was the most momentous time of Jan’s life.

It was one of excitement and danger, of jubilation mixed with sadness when friends were lost. There were times he was so overcome with exhaustion, he fell asleep as soon as climbed out of the cockpit and found a convenient armchair. At other times when given a few hours’ respite he and some of his fellow pilots would go to The Orchard in nearby Ruislip, where they were always made welcome and where they whiled away the time in false jollity. In between there were times of intense melancholy, when Jan thought about Rulka and their parting in the ruins of Warsaw. Was that the last time they would be together? Ever? Was she alive? How was she coping? And his parents, what had happened to them?

The tales coming out of Poland of imprisonment and executions and hardship were horrific. If his countrymen and women were not being ill-treated by the Germans, they were being rounded up by the Soviets as ‘enemies of the people’
and sent to Siberia in cattle trucks to work as slave labour. Among them were the elite of Polish society: army officers, professors, lawyers, doctors, anyone who might be a threat to the indoctrination of the people into the Soviet way of life, and that would certainly include aristocrats, his parents among them. He tried telling himself that no one really knew the truth and it was probably nothing but exaggerated gossip. He wrote to Rulka, telling her what he was doing, reminding her of the good times they had had and how he was looking forward to being with her again and how happy they would be when the war was won and they could live again in a free Poland. He couldn’t send the letter – he did not know how to – and simply folded it and put it away in a drawer with his clothes.

He wrote to Louise too. She had kept her promise to write to him and she seemed his only contact with the outside world, a world that was not one of scrambling into kit, of flying with nerve ends tingling, of falling asleep and getting drunk. She represented tranquillity in a world gone mad. She had indeed become his anchor.

‘You don’t mind me writing to Flight Lieutenant Grabowski, do you?’ Louise asked Tony. Having finished his training, he had forty-eight hours’ leave before being posted to a squadron and his first port of call had been the Pheasant at Cottlesham. There was little privacy in the pub and they had decided to go for a walk. She was holding his arm in both hands and her head rested on his shoulder. The day was unusually warm for the time of year and she was wearing a cotton print dress with a nipped-in waist and puffed sleeves. He had taken off his jacket and was carrying it over his other shoulder. A camera hung from a strap about his neck.

‘No, of course not,’ he said. ‘I feel sorry for the blighters being so far from home and loved ones. But don’t you go falling for him.’

‘As if I would! Don’t you know how much I love you?’

‘So you say,’ he teased. ‘But I’ve heard tales of their exploits with the ladies. Since they turned out to be such heroes, there’s no holding them back.’

The Polish flyers had distinguished themselves in the Battle of Britain, bringing down more enemy aircraft than any other squadron with fewer casualties, although those were far from light. Not until Churchill told the nation ‘Never in the field of human conflict has so much been owed by so many to so few’ did the people of Britain realise what a narrow squeak it had been and the extent of the contribution of the Polish airmen. They were feted everywhere and invited into people’s homes. In the public houses they hardly ever paid for their own drinks and the clippies refused to take their fares on the buses and received kisses for a thank you. Articles appeared about them in newspapers and magazines, all of which they lapped up. London society hostesses held lavish parties in their honour, where there seemed to be no shortage of food and drink. Girls almost threw themselves at them to the chagrin of the British airmen. In the air, fighting for their lives, they concentrated on what they were doing, but on the ground they had an endless capacity for enjoyment and causing mayhem.

Louise, who had come to know Jan from his letters, understood what lay beneath the surface. ‘I don’t think Jan is like that,’ she said. ‘He is pining for his wife. All I’m doing is trying to cheer him up.’

‘Then you do that, sweetheart. How could I begrudge the man a letter or two when I have so much more?’

‘I knew you’d say that. Where are you going to be stationed?’

‘Coltishall, 2-4-2 Squadron. It’s commanded by Squadron Leader Douglas Bader. He lost both legs in a flying accident nine years ago. I’ve been told he doesn’t let that hamper him and he’s still flying. The good thing is that the station is near enough to take advantage of a twenty-four-hour pass when I get one.’

‘It’s near enough for me to come over and see you for a weekend too.’

‘That’s an idea, though I don’t know how long I’ll be there. I might not come up to scratch.’

‘What makes you say that?’

‘Oh, I don’t know. I’m nervous, I suppose, going on ops for the first time. Will I have the guts to do it?’

‘You’ll be all right, more than all right, I should say.’

‘How do you know that?’

‘Because I do.’

They wandered down a grassy path just wide enough for a horse and cart or a very small car if you didn’t worry about its springs on the rutted surface. On either side were meadows dotted with bright yellow buttercups where cattle grazed. Tony took several pictures of Louise, positioning her with a wild rose hedge as a background.

‘I want one or two of you,’ she said. ‘Show me how to work the camera. It looks complicated. I’ve only ever had a Brownie Box.’

‘That was my first one, I had it for my tenth birthday and that started me off. It won’t help me much in the building trade, but I find the subject fascinating. When I go to the pictures I find myself thinking of camera angles and different shots, when I should be concentrating on the story.’

‘Would you like to do that sort of thing after the war, be a film cameraman, I mean?’ Louise asked