Bluebirds (63 page)

The woman's face sharpened with suspicion. ‘What situation? What's happened? What's Gwynneth been doing?'

Felicity met her hostile stare. ‘She's had a baby, Mrs Morgan. A boy. He was born yesterday.'

‘A
baby
! How could she? There must be some mistake.'

‘There's no mistake, I'm afraid. He was very premature but the doctor believes he will survive, I'm thankful to say. Unfortunately, Gwynneth didn't tell anyone about her condition – no-one at all.'

Not even you,
Felicity thought, watching her mother's outraged expression.
Especially not you.
ACW Morgan had clung to her hand, weeping and trembling. ‘Don't tell her,
please
, ma'am . . . she'll kill me.'

She had done her best to calm her. ‘I'll
have
to tell her, but I'll speak to her before she sees you so she'll have time to get used to the idea.'

The airwoman had moved her head miserably from side to side on the pillow. ‘She'll
never
get used to it.
Never
.'

‘You mean to tell me,' Mrs Morgan was saying through tight lips, ‘that you let such a disgusting thing happen? You're responsible for the girls in your charge, aren't you? Supposed to be.'

‘I'm extremely sorry, Mrs Morgan –'

‘
Sorry!
Being sorry isn't going to help. Our family's disgraced. Humiliated. I'll never be able to hold my head up again . . .'

‘Surely the most important thing is that Gwynneth is going to be all right. It was touch and go, you know. She lost a great deal of blood.'

A passing WAAF sergeant had heard moaning coming from a boiler room and found Morgan lying on some sacks in a dark corner. The baby had been born and the girl was haemorrhaging badly. It seemed incredible that she had somehow managed to keep her secret, even from NCOs like Beaty who were always on the look out for trouble.

Mrs Morgan drew herself up in her chair. ‘You can spare me the details, thank you. Gwynneth's life is ruined anyway. No respectable man will look at her now. She'll have to marry the father, whatever he's like.'

‘Unfortunately that won't be possible.'

‘Why not? He must be made to marry her.
Ordered
to.'

‘He was killed in action six months ago. He was a sergeant pilot. Your daughter told me all about it, Mrs Morgan. They were going to get married when she learned about the baby, but he was killed before they could do so.' Felicity paused again. ‘They were very much in love, I'm sure of that . . . and these things do happen in wartime. It's no excuse, but time can seem so precious when so many young men are being killed every day.'

‘Are you telling me that loose, immoral behaviour is all right just because there's a war on? Where I live we have different standards, I can tell you.'

A village in the wilds of Wales. Strict chapel. Unbending and unforgiving of those who strayed from the path.

‘I can understand your distress, Mrs Morgan, and please believe me that I feel very responsible for what has happened and regret it deeply. But your daughter is in great distress, too, and she needs your love and understanding –'

‘Gwynneth knows very well what I think about such things. And her father won't have her over the threshold again.'

‘You can't mean that.'

‘I assure you that I do. She's made her bed and now she must lie on it.'

Mrs Morgan rose to her feet; she clasped the handbag to her chest, as though to ward off any contamination from her surroundings.

‘But you'll see your daughter, at least, Mrs Morgan. And your grandson.'

Her face was implacable. ‘As far as I'm concerned, I no longer have a daughter. And I have no grandson.'

The door closed behind her. Felicity watched through the window as she walked away towards the main gate – a grim, grey figure, stiff-backed and unrelenting. Remembering her own mother and her loving care and understanding, she felt very sorry for ACW
Morgan. There seemed no alternative for her but to go to some bleak home for unmarried mothers. She would be discharged from the WAAF on compassionate grounds, of course, and the Church of England Moral Welfare Council would do what they could to help, but Mrs Morgan would probably be proved right – her daughter's life was ruined. And she held herself responsible for it. Somehow she had failed in her duty towards Morgan.
A WAAF officer is responsible for the welfare and well-being of the airwomen under her charge
. That was one of the very first things she had been taught in training. And yet how could she have prevented such a thing happening? You could arrange all the lectures you liked about moral behaviour and chastity and venereal disease, but that was no proof against two people in love snatching time together during a war.

As she stared out of the window at the trees blowing in the wind and the brown autumn leaves bowling across the ground, another thought occurred to her. The baby would have two sets of grandparents, assuming the sergeant pilot's mother and father were alive. Morgan had told her his name and she would be able to find out their address from records. If she were to write to them and tell them what had happened, they might be very glad to learn that their dead son had left a son of his own . . .

As she mulled this over in her mind, Group Captain Palmer came into view, striding along the path towards the entrance to Station HQ. She drew back from the window, not wanting him to catch sight of her standing there idly. Two WAAFS passing him saluted smartly. She remembered his fury in the early days when he had received all manner of salutations from waves to curtsies. Thinking back to how undisciplined they had been then, she could hardly blame him. But since then they had shown what they could do. WAAFS were now working in all kinds of trades and they had been able to replace men in almost every field – as electricians, meteorologists,
armourers, welders, wireless and instrument mechanics, even as flight mechanics. She thought of nice Winifred Briggs who had so wanted to become one and wondered whether she had managed to achieve her ambition yet.

Group Captain Palmer had disappeared round the corner and would soon be passing her office door on the way to his. She no longer shivered when he did so. Their confrontations were now conducted on a very civil basis. He still remained a distant and awe-inspiring figure but he was unfailingly polite to her. Since that first terrible bombing raid on the station in the summer of 1940 there had been no more harsh words. It had been gloriously gratifying to hear him eat those words but she had not made the mistake of showing it. He had earned her respect by doing so and since then she had seen him in a rather different light. There was a rumour going round that he would probably soon be posted elsewhere, in which case she would have to adapt to a new station commander. A daunting thought. Better the devil you know . . . She listened to the devil's footsteps going briskly past in the corridor. He seemed such a lonely man but then it was a lonely job, as Speedy had pointed out, and his wife was always away in London. There were times when she felt quite sorry for him. Even times when she wanted to cheer him with a smile and some encouraging words, but except for that evening of the bombing raid when he had dropped his guard briefly and seemed almost human, he had never been that approachable again.

Speedy . . . He had been constantly in her thoughts ever since she had received the letter from Sinbad.
I thought I ought to let you know that Speedy went missing on a rhubarb over France. Nobody actually saw him go down, so we don't know what happened exactly. He hasn't been reported as KIA or POW yet, so there's still hope that he may be hiding up somewhere over there and will get back eventually. I am very sorry to give you this news but I thought you would want to be told. By the way, I'm looking after George for the time being
.

He had signed it Michael Sailer and for a moment or two she couldn't think who on earth he was. That had been two months ago and there had been no more news, but she had not given up hope. Speedy seemed indestructible. It was impossible to believe that he would not, any day, come breezing into her office, calling her some ridiculous name and reciting some absurd quotation as he twirled his battered cap on his finger and smiled his most charming smile. While there is life there's hope, he would certainly have said, and she could not believe him dead. There was another saying, though, that could equally apply: hope for the best, but prepare for the worst.

She sat down at her desk and began to draft out a letter to the sergeant pilot's parents.

The two men coming up the steps to the Mess as Anne was leaving were still wearing flying clothes. She looked at them curiously, not recognizing their uniform. Their caps were khaki with leather peaks and high in front, almost like the German ones. They wore flat-looking Mae Wests over short leather jackets, and fawn trousers tucked into flying boots. One of them was carrying his oxygen mask and he caught hold of Anne's arm as she passed him.

‘Say, miss, can you tell us, is this place the Officers' Mess?'

He was chewing gum as he spoke. American. That explained it. Tales were told of American serviceman's casual customs and dress – how they slapped senior officers on the back, saluted sloppily, slouched about. This was her first encounter with the species. The one who had stopped her was tall and fair with bright blue eyes, the other darker and smaller. Our new and powerful allies, she thought. Without them we'll never win the war. I must be very nice to them.

She smiled at them both. ‘Yes, this is the Mess.'

The fair one was still chewing. ‘We just didn't want to make any mistakes round here.'

You're about to make one right now, she thought – going into the Mess dressed like that. Aloud she said: ‘Are you on a visit?'

He laughed. ‘I guess you could say that, though it wasn't scheduled. We were up slow-timin' a new engine and we had some real problems with it, so we kinda had to drop in, ain't that so, Frank?'

The darker one shook his head ruefully. ‘Matter of fact we weren't even too sure where we were.'

‘You're at East Thorpe.'

‘So they tell us. There's a heck of a lot of bases in this area . . . it's going to take some getting used to.' He smiled at her. ‘I'm Frank Wallace, United States Army Air Force. And this is Scott Cullen, my co-pilot.'

‘How do you do. I'm Anne Cunningham, British Women's Auxiliary Air Force.'

The co-pilot was looking her up and down; his gaze rested finally on her shoulder. ‘I can't figure out your Air Force yet. What's that bar on your coat mean?'

‘I'm an Assistant Section Officer.'

He grinned. ‘Well you can assist me any time.'

His skipper said apologetically: ‘Take no notice. Scott's from New Jersey. He's never learned any manners.'

‘That's all right.' She smiled at him. ‘And where do you come from?'

‘Chicago, Illinois.'

‘You're both a long way from home.' She had no idea where either place was on the map.

‘Sure feels like it,' Scott Cullen said heavily.

‘Where are you based?'

‘Rudwick St Mary. I guess it's not far from here. You certainly have some great names . . . real quaint.'

‘What aircraft do you fly?'

‘B24s. Bombers. Libs . . . you British call them Liberators.'

‘I don't think I've ever seen one.'

‘You will,' the co-pilot assured her kindly. ‘You'll be seein' a whole lot of 'em from now on. Great ships.'

He was watching a WAAF officer approaching the steps, one of the prettiest in the camp, and followed her with his eyes into the Mess. A faint whistle came from his lips. ‘Well, I guess, we'll be stickin' around for an hour or so while they fix things up . . . Let's go get somethin' to eat.'

His skipper smiled at Anne, half-apologetically again. ‘Thanks for the help. I sure hope we run into you again.'

She hesitated, not wanting to sound bossy, but surely it was better to warn them. ‘Actually, it isn't done to wear flying gear in the Mess. I thought I'd mention it . . . so you know another time. You can always leave things in the cloakroom inside.'

‘Oh.' He looked embarrassed. ‘Thanks for telling us.'

As she walked away she heard the co-pilot say in an exaggerated Oxford accent: ‘Not the done thing, old boy. I say, we nearly put up a jolly frightful black. Damned bad show . . .'

‘Mrs Paxton to see you, ma'am.'

The woman shown into Felicity's office by a WAAF sergeant, was in complete contrast to Mrs Morgan. Instead of drab grey, she was dressed in warm cherry red and wore a wonderfully frivolous-looking fur hat. And she was smiling. She came forwards with her arms extended, her face alight.

‘Where is he? I can't wait to see him! Where's my grandson? And my daughter? I've come to take both of them home.'

Sometimes, Felicity thought later, when she had left Mrs Paxton cradling the baby in her arms and laughing delightedly with his mother, things did work out all right in the end. She walked back to HQ with a light heart, feeling that she had done something to set right the wrong. And in a few days she would be going home on leave. For a while she would be able to forget all about her cares and responsibilities – to stop worrying
about whether she was being completely conscientious, scrupulously fair, totally devoted to her duty. As she passed the open door of Robbie Robinson's office, the squadron leader called out,

‘CO wants a word, my dear. In his office.'

Group Captain Palmer looked up as she entered. She was relieved to find that it was nothing more critical than the arrangements for the Station Dance.

‘Another Christmas nearly here, Section Officer, and we still find ourselves at war, unfortunately.'