Bluebirds (86 page)

She was holding out her own glass for him to re-fill. ‘We've got tickets for a new show, darling. You could meet us afterwards for dinner, if you like.'

He poured her drink. ‘I don't think so, thank you. I've already eaten anyway. And I've got some papers to look at before a meeting first thing at the Ministry.' He sensed the collective sigh of relief behind his turned back.

‘How boring of you, David. And how typical. Don't you
ever
have any fun?'

She was needling him on purpose, as she always did when she had been drinking. He handed her the replenished glass.

‘There hasn't been much time for fun lately. Things have been pretty busy.'

She made a face. ‘God, I'll be so glad when this
bloody
war's over . . . It will be soon, won't it? I thought when they landed in France it would all be finished in a few weeks, but they don't seem to be making much progress. And that fiasco over trying to take that bridge –'

‘They're doing their best,' he said quietly. ‘These things take time. The Germans are putting up a lot of resistance. Fighting very hard.'

‘
And
sending these frightful rocket things over now! Can't the RAF stop them doing that, at least? Why can't you bomb the place they're coming from, or something?'

‘We already have.'

‘Why didn't you blow it to pieces?'

‘It's not as simple as that.'

A lot of damage had been done to the secret weapon establishment at Peenemunde last year, he knew, though at the cost of many lives. Forty bombers had been shot down. The RAF and the Americans had been successful in destroying flying bomb storage depots and their big launch sites, but the V-2 rockets were sent from tiny launching pads and were much more difficult to deal with.

He said: ‘I really don't think you should be in London, Caroline, if you can possibly help it. You ought to try to arrange to leave as soon as you can. It would be much safer.'

‘Don't be silly, darling. You know I can't stand being in the country for long. I'm enjoying London. It's getting to be fun again.' She glanced at the colonel who had been listening with interest. ‘Anyway, I can't think why the
RAF don't do bombing raids in daylight. How can they ever hit anything in the dark? Why don't you do like the Americans. Vic says they nearly always hit the target.'

Palmer looked at the American. ‘I think Colonel Schaeffer would agree that daylight bombing presents plenty of problems of its own.'

‘Sure does,' the colonel said easily. ‘And we were dropping like flies before we got the Mustang. Now that little beauty goes all the way with our boys, I reckon the tables are turned on the Luftwaffe. Pretty soon we're going to wipe them out of the skies. I guess that fighter's the pawn that's changed the whole game.'

‘There you are, David. The American Air Force is doing your job for you.'

‘Well, I wouldn't say that exactly, Caroline . . .' the colonel demurred.

‘Nor would I,' the squadron leader said loudly. He had flushed even deeper and took a large swallow from his glass.

‘I think you're all simply
wonderful
,' the girl who had giggled breathed. ‘
Terribly
brave.
All
of you.' She gave David a coy look.

He felt tired and depressed by them and wished they would go soon so that he didn't have to carry on with this ludicrous conversation. To his relief, the other woman looked at her watch and announced that they would be late for the theatre if they didn't hurry.

‘You're not coming, sir?' the squadron leader asked politely.

‘David says he's got work to do,' Caroline said, draining her drink. ‘All work and no play makes him a very dull boy.' She waved at him from the drawing-room doorway. ‘Don't expect me back early. We'll probably go on somewhere after dinner. Have a boring evenings, darling . . .'

When they had gone he sat down with his whisky and leaned his head against the back of the chair. He closed his eyes and thought of the evening when he had
brought Felicity here. It was a year since they had met by chance in Piccadilly and he had heard nothing of her during that time. Nor had he tried to contact her in any way. What was the point? It would only embarrass her. And probably annoy her, too. If she had ever really felt anything for him – and he believed that she once had, remembering that night – then it had been over long since. She was probably married to Dutton by now, maybe even with a child on the way . . . He thought for a moment of what might have been – of the kind of home he might have had with her, of the children they might have had, of how life might have been. And then stopped himself abruptly. There's no fool like an old fool he reminded himself wryly.

He poured another drink and settled down to work on the papers. Around eleven o'clock he went to bed in one of the spare rooms and fell asleep almost at once. Sometime during the night he was awakened by a loud explosion some distance away. It was not until early in the morning, though, when a policeman came to the front door, that he learned that a V-2 rocket had landed close by the restaurant where Caroline and her friends had gone after the theatre. The explosion had killed them all.

Anne stood in the middle of Kit's room. She looked round it very slowly, taking an inventory, registering all that was left of him.

She looked at the model cars on the shelves, the Eton Eight oar on the wall, the Wet Bob trophies and the balsa wood airplane models hanging from their strings. After a while she walked over to the chest-of-drawers and stared at the row of leavers' photographs propped against the wall and their smiling faces. Only Atkinson and Stewart were still alive, so far as she knew. The rest were all dead. And now Kit was dead too.

When she had been given the news at Colston she had coped very well, carrying on with her duties and working away at her desk. It was not until Pearl had come into
her office and completely ignoring their new conduct of behaviour, had simply put her arms around her, that she had broken down and wept for him.

Her parents had been devastated, but Anne felt as if a part of her had died with Kit – as though that part lay buried with him in the grave somewhere in France. He had been her other half and the loss was terrible to bear. She had been left to carry on a life without him – to ride on alone.

He had died bravely, they said. So bravely that he was to be given a posthumous Military Cross. He and a small detachment of thirty men had held a vital bridge for more than eight hours, against overwhelming enemy odds and under heavy shell fire. He had gone to the aid of one of his men who was lying wounded in the open and had succeeded in dragging him to shelter before he himself had been caught by machine-gun fire. The debt that Kit had always believed he owed had been paid in full.

She took one last look round the room and then went out, closing the door behind her.

The sexton's wife wielded her broom briskly down the nave, sweeping a little rustling accumulation of dead leaves before her.

‘I don't know how so many of them get in here. I s'pose they must blow in whenever the door's opened.' She paused and leaned on her broom. ‘That's a lovely tree you're doing there, dear.' She was swathed in layers of clothing against the bitter cold, a long, knitted scarf wrapped several times round her neck beneath a hat like a tea-cosy. Her breath vaporized in clouds as she spoke. ‘It's nice you're home on leave to do it this year.'

‘Do you think it looks all right?' Felicity stepped back for a better view of the church Christmas tree. ‘Some of the ornaments got broken last year, unfortunately, and of course we can't replace them.'

The glass baubles were stored away carefully in a cardboard box in the vestry and brought out each year.
The parish children loved them and this Christmas there would be more London evacuees again, sent to safety from the V2s this time. She wanted the tree to look good for them.

Mrs Prewitt began to herd the dead leaves up against a pillar. ‘Maybe we'll be able to soon. I got some peanuts at the greengrocer's the other day and put them by for a treat. I heard someone in the queue say we might be getting oranges too. I think I've forgotten what an orange looks like. And a banana.'

‘Have you any news of Peter?'

Mrs Prewitt shook her head. ‘He's somewhere in France with the rest of them. What I say to myself, and to Stanley, is that he's got this far all right and there's not much further to go, is there? It won't be long now.'

She had evidently not heard about the Germans' surprise offensive in the Ardennes – history repeating itself frighteningly as they advanced through the same forests as in 1940, before Dunkirk.

‘I'm sure it won't, Mrs Prewitt,' she said firmly. ‘
Next
Christmas it will be peace. And Peter will soon be home again now.'

Mrs Prewitt's face beneath the knitted tea-cosy hat lit up. She clasped the broom handle to her breast.

‘Oh . . . what a day that'll be!'

When she had finished decorating the Christmas tree to her satisfaction, Felicity walked back through the churchyard gate to the Rectory. Last night's frost was still hard and crisp beneath her feet, the afternoon light fading fast. As she entered the hallway her father came to the door of his study.

‘There's someone to see you in here, my dear. I've lit the fire.'

It would be one of the parishioners. Mrs Clark about the church jumble sale, or perhaps Mrs Anstruther with one of her eternal grumbles about the flower rota . . . She took off her overcoat and went into the study.

David Palmer, standing beside the fireplace, saw the
shock register on her face as she caught sight of him. She went very pale and then very pink, and stood looking much the same as she had done on the other side of his desk that first day at Colston.

‘I'm sorry to come here like this, Felicity. Please forgive me.'

She found her voice and some of the colour receded. ‘That's all right. I'm just a bit surprised, that's all. How did you know I was here?'

He smiled slightly. ‘I found out. It wasn't difficult. I wanted to see you. Your father seemed to think that you might be willing to see me, when I explained why just now.'

‘Oh . . .' She looked round but her father had left the room and closed the door after him. ‘Well, won't you sit down? I'm sorry it's so cold in here. I'm afraid the house is always freezing. The fire doesn't seem to make much difference. And of course the weather's been bitter. I really think we might have a White Christmas, don't you? There was a thick frost this morning –'

She was gabbling on and he interrupted her gently. ‘I haven't come here to talk about the weather, Felicity. I've come to talk about us.'

‘Us? But there's nothing to say.'

‘Caroline's dead,' he said. ‘She was killed by a V2 in London three months ago. I don't suppose you knew.'

She shook her head. ‘No. I'm sorry.'

‘I shouldn't be coming here like this, so soon, I know, but I was so afraid that if I waited for what they call a decent interval, I might lose any chance . . .' He paused. ‘And I would never have come at all if somebody else hadn't given me good reason to hope that you might still feel something for me. I'd given that up, you see. I thought you would have long forgotten me . . .'

He saw that she had no idea to whom he was referring and ploughed on recklessly.

‘About a. week ago I had a letter from Speedy Dutton. He'd heard about Caroline's death – I think it was
reported in some of the newspapers. He wrote to me about you. He told me enough to make me realize that there
was
some hope . . . I suppose you could say he betrayed a confidence, but he did so with the best intentions, do you see?'

She did see. Speedy was not only an angel, but Cupid as well. She turned away.

He misinterpreted the turned back, the bent head, the silence. ‘I'm so sorry . . . I shouldn't have come here, I realize that. It's all been a mistake and it was very stupid of me. Inexcusable.' He picked up his cap. ‘I'll leave at once.'

She turned round then and he saw that there were tears in her eyes and that she was trying to smile at him.

‘You'll stay to tea, at least?' she asked. ‘Father would be so pleased. And so would I.'

He put down the cap again slowly.

‘I'd like that very much,' he said.

‘Ooh, it's
lovely
, Winnie!' Nora held up the new suit on its hanger admiringly. ‘However did you manage it with the coupons?'

‘Mum saved up for me, an' Gran hardly uses hers. We got it in a shop in Ipswich.'

‘I like the hat, too.' Nora tried on the little hat and looked at her reflection in the mirror over the washstand in Winnie's attic room. She tipped it at a rakish angle and patted the bunch of false flowers. ‘You've got to wear it like this, see . . . so's it looks really smart.'

She looked so funny wearing the hat with her Land Army jersey and breeches that Winnie started giggling. She hung the suit carefully back in the wardrobe and stroked one of the soft wool sleeves. It was the smartest thing she'd ever had.

Nora was tweaking the hat veil over her face. ‘I'm glad you're not gettin' married in uniform like lots of people do.'

‘Virgil will be.'

‘That's different. It looks right on a man. An' the Yanks' uniforms are smashin'. Virgil'd look dreamy, anyway, whatever he wore. He's gorgeous. An' ever so brave, too, doin' all those missions. I was afraid he'd never get through, Winnie? Did you worry a lot?'

‘'Course I did.' But worry wasn't enough of a word to describe the terror that she'd felt during the past weeks – the daily dread of bad news, the miserable agony of waiting until Virgil had done his final mission and come home safely.