Bluebirds (17 page)

He put down his glass. ‘I'm going to bed now, Caroline.'

‘That's right, toddle off to beddy-byes. You're afraid to listen . . .'

‘I'm not afraid to listen. There's just no point in continuing this conversation, and I'm extremely tired.'

‘You
are
afraid to. You can't take it, can you, David? You can dish it out all right, but you can't take it.'

He left the room and went slowly upstairs. They shared the same bedroom but no longer the same bed and he lay wakeful in his in spite of his tiredness. She still had the power to hurt, to get under his guard sometimes. He could dismiss the ridiculous remarks about Assistant Section Officer Newman, but others rankled. Was he really so pompous? Did he behave as though he were God Almighty? He supposed that it must seem so, sometimes – certainly to Caroline who had no understanding of what it took to run a station properly. Station Commanders were supposed to engender a healthy amount of respect and fear. It was a necessary part of their job. They were not intended to be popular. He could remember a Station Commander back in the early days who had wanted to be liked, one of the chaps, joking with everybody . . . It had been disastrous for discipline and the station had gone steadily downhill until, eventually, he had been replaced. That had happened in peacetime and so no great harm had been done, but in wartime on an operational station top-line discipline was imperative. To permit anything less was to fail in one's solemn duty. That was the way he saw it. The Methuselah jibe had hurt too, if he were honest. Damn it, he was only forty-one. Scarely an old man yet, though it was true that he was nearly twice the age of a good many of those under his command on this station. He thought, as he'd thought increasingly of late, that he'd give a hell of a lot to change places with some of those young pilots . . . to be in his early
twenties with a fast machine like the Hurricane to fly. They were going to be on the centre of the stage in this war and he'd got to watch from the bloody wings.

He heard Caroline come up to bed much later. From the way she stumbled he could tell that she had continued to drink downstairs. She fell asleep immediately and started to snore.

Tomorrow, he remembered, was the Station Christmas Dance.

Anne sat on a chair at the side of the stage. Nobby Clarke, the corporal armourer sat beside her. Behind them the station band, conducted by a sergeant wireless operator called Joe, was playing
Apple Blossom Time
and below them, on the hangar floor, a mass of people swayed to the rhythm. Faces turned up towards her as they passed in front of the stage. She saw grins and winks, waves and mouthings – Sandra giggling at her, Pearl giving her the thumbs up. Her own face felt stiff with nervousness. She fingered the knot of her tie and wished she was down there with them all and not up on the stage about to make a complete fool of herself. She wished she had made a mess of her audition, or got laryngitis.

Nobby shifted on his chair beside her, flicked at the sleeve of his best blue and smoothed his shiny hair with the flat of his hand.
Apple Blossom Time
was drawing to a close and her stomach fluttered in fright. Nobby nudged her – unnecessarily.

‘Your turn coming up, love.'

Joe, baton raised, arms stretched wide like the Pope giving his Easter blessing, looked over his shoulder at her expectantly. She forced herself to stand up and take the few steps to the microphone. Every face in the crowd below seemed to be turned towards her – hundreds of white blobs stretching all the way to the back of the hangar. Whoops and whistles came up to her and someone at the front shouted up something unintelligible and probably rude. Then the noise died
away as the band began to play. She gripped hold of the microphone, waited for her moment and took a deep breath.

To her great surprise her voice sounded quite steady and she began to feel more confident. Her legs stopped shaking and she loosened her stranglehold on the mike. Joe was nodding his approval as he wielded his baton with little flicks of his wrist. The dancers were surging past below the stage and it gave her an exhilarating feeling now to look down on them, as though
she
were propelling the moving mass. She swayed a little this way and that, as she remembered seeing dance band singers in films do, and wished that she were wearing a slinky evening gown instead of her navy skirt, shirt and tie. It was hard to play the part properly, dressed like a schoolgirl. When it was time to sing again, she even managed to smile as well.

She finished to loud applause and an ear-splitting volley of whistles. Nobby was clapping his hands at her, Joe was beaming. She'd done it, and by the end she'd almost been enjoying herself.

She went into the wings and downstairs to the backstage dressing-rooms where she'd left her things. ‘We'll
try you with just one number,' Joe had said. ‘See how it goes. Maybe more next time if you do OK.' Now she could relax and join the others. It was icy cold in the dressing-room. She switched on the mirror lights and sat down, pulling her raincoat round her shoulders. Her eyes looked bright and her cheeks flushed. She fished her compact out of her respirator case and began to apply powder. It was then that she noticed the man reflected in the mirror. He was standing in the doorway behind, watching her. It gave her a fright until she realized that he was not some station ghost, but flesh and blood. And, at the same moment, she recognized him.

He was leaning against the doorpost, a lighted cigarette dangling between the fingertips of one hand, the other in his trouser pocket, one foot crossed over the other. What a nauseatingly affected pose, she thought. Did fighter pilots ever stand upright? They were forever leaning against something – aeroplanes, or walls or doors. Seeing that she had seen him, he smiled at her reflection.

‘Mind if I come in?'

She snapped the compact shut and turned to face him. ‘You already seem to be. Are you looking for someone?'

‘You, as a matter of fact.'

‘Me?'

‘Yes,
you.
Don't look so surprised. I came to congratulate you. You sang awfully well.'

‘Did I?'

‘Don't you believe me?'

‘I don't think so.'

He laughed. ‘I'm Johnnie Somerville, by the way.'

‘I know you are.'

‘How so?'

‘I've seen you before.'

‘Really? Do you know, I don't remember seeing you . . .'

‘Well, the first time you nearly ran me down in your car.'

‘Did I honestly? I'm frightfully sorry. That was extremely careless of me.'

‘It was rather. The other time was at the Officers' Mess dance last week.'

He looked puzzled. ‘You were there?'

‘I was standing right behind you when you were with a friend of yours.'

He frowned and then his brow cleared. ‘I know, you were the one skulking by the door when Willy and I were talking. What on earth were you doing there?'

‘I'd been helping in the ladies' cloaks.'

‘Good lord, couldn't they find something better for you to do? Why weren't you singing?'

‘This is the first time I've done it.'

He smiled at her. Good teeth, she saw, as well as the rest of the good looks. He pushed back a lock of the too-long fair hair from his forehead.

‘Well, you were incredibly good. Cigarette?'

He had levered himself off the doorpost and was holding out an open case – gold, of course, she noted. What else? As it happened she had run out.

‘Thanks.'

He lit the cigarette for her with a gold lighter. God, there was even a gold signet ring on his left hand, and a gold watch on his wrist that looked as though it had come from Aspreys. And that uniform certainly wasn't ordinary old RAF issue, but the work of some London tailor. As he held out his arm with the lighter she saw that the jacket sleeve was lined with scarlet silk. On the stage overhead Nobby was crooning his number, ‘Blueberry Hill.'

‘What's your name?'

‘Aircraftwoman Cunningham – sir.'

‘For heaven's sake, skip the “sir”. We're neither of us on duty. And I meant your Christian name.'

‘We're always called by our surnames.'

He had found a wall to lean against now. ‘Not by me.
You look like a Diana, or a Penelope, or a Portia . . . something like that.'

If he wasn't careful she'd throw up. She put away the compact. The evening would be over before she'd had time to have some fun.

‘Sorry, I've got to go.'

He moved to the door with surprising speed and blocked her way. ‘Not before you tell me your name.'

‘Actually, it's plain Anne.'

‘Dinner one evening?'

‘What?'

‘Will you have dinner with me one evening?'

‘No, thanks.'

‘Why not?'

‘Because I don't want to. Excuse me, please.'

He didn't move and he obviously didn't believe her because he was looking highly amused.

‘I may not ask you again.'

‘Good. That'll save me the trouble of refusing again.'

‘You don't know what you'd be missing.'

‘I've a pretty good idea.'

‘I often drive up to London . . .'

‘Bully for you. Now, would you stand aside, please.'

‘When you've told me why you won't have dinner with me.'

She was angry now. The joke had gone on long enough. ‘Have you forgotten what you said about WAAFS? I heard you very clearly. You should take your own advice and steer clear of me. You don't know where I've been. Stick to your own kind.'

She pushed past him and he let her go. He did not seem in the least embarrassed or contrite. On the contrary, as she went down the corridor she distinctly heard him laugh.

Winnie was rather enjoying herself at the dance. She had been coaxed onto the floor several times and it hadn't been as hard as it looked. She found that she could sort of walk
backwards in time to the music and a sideways step got her round the corners. Nobody minded if she made mistakes. And she loved the music which made her want to dance, even if she couldn't do it very well. She thought Anne was very brave to stand up on the stage and sing. Wild horses wouldn't have dragged her up there at all, let alone to sing in front of the whole station. Everybody came to the Christmas Dance – officers and other ranks, all mixed up together, even the Station Commander. Maureen was dancing too, though she didn't look as though she was enjoying it. Enid, on the other hand, looked as though she was enjoying it a bit too much, pressed close to a tall corporal – at least more than Terry would have liked. They heard less and less about Terry now and Enid no longer carried his photograph round with her in her pocket. It had been put away somewhere in her locker. Once Winnie had found Enid's engagement ring left on the side of one of the washbasins in the ablutions hut. The little red flower that had sparkled so brightly on Enid's finger looked dull and the gold had had a greenish tinge to it. When she had returned the ring Enid had not seemed very worried.

‘Oh, thanks, I must have forgotten it,' was all she had said.

Winnie had been rather shocked. If she had mislaid Ken's ring she would have been really upset. What would Terry, far away on the high seas, think about Enid going out with other men like she did? She had always told them how possessive he was. Ever so jealous was what she always said about him. Terry didn't even like her to
look
at another man. So far as Winnie could see, Enid was doing a bit more than looking. Still, it was none of her business and at least Enid didn't cry any more.

A sergeant with a little moustache like Hitler's asked her for the Excuse Me dance. They were only halfway round the floor when someone else tapped the sergeant on the shoulder and she changed partners. She was beginning to get the hang of it all quite well and was laughing with
a leading aircraftman from the Orderly Room as they tried to do a rumba, when another man broke in and she saw, to her dismay, that it was Taffy Jones.

It was a shock because she hadn't seen him for a while and had hoped that he'd been posted somewhere else.

‘Hallo, Winnie.'

He put his arm around her and she recoiled from him. He tightened his hold.

‘Have you missed me then, Winnie?'

She turned her head away from his face and the green eyes that looked at her so intently. He frightened her and all her enjoyment had gone. She was stiff as a poker in his arms.

‘I've been away on leave. Home to Wales.'

She said, very politely: ‘Oh. Did you have a nice time?'

‘Not bad. I'd sooner be here, though.'

‘Don't you like goin' on leave?'

‘Well, you're here, aren't you? Why should I want to be somewhere else?'

She looked round desperately, hoping that someone would tap Taffy on the shoulder and take her away from him, but there was nobody near.

‘Don't look so worried, girl.'

He was a good dancer, she could tell that. Better than any of them so far. But she hated the way he held her so close with his face only inches from hers. She kept her head turned and prayed for the music to end, but the band seemed to play on for ever. When, at last, they stopped Taffy held onto her arm. The band were putting down their instruments to take a break and everyone was moving off the floor in a great tide, pushing and shoving towards the refreshments. Taffy elbowed a way through the crush, pulling her after him and found a space for her on one of the benches at the side of the hangar.