Cast the First Stone (24 page)

He nodded silently before putting his arms around her and kissing her in the way he had wanted to for so long. It was October and the leaves had fallen from the trees making a soft carpet on the ground. It was a balmy evening, not at all cold for the time of the year. Simon took off his greatcoat that he was wearing and laid it on the ground. He didn't feel guilty that they were breaking their promise to one another to remain just good friends as they made love for the first time. It was a tender and gentle consummation of what they felt, more a quiet need in both of them than a raging passion.

He sighed as he buried his head on her shoulder, stroking her hair and kissing the softness of her neck. ‘I know we said we wouldn't . . . but thank you, Yvonne. I suppose it was bound to happen, wasn't it?'

She smiled at him. ‘It was what we both needed. Come along, Simon. We'd better get a move on.' She laughed easily. ‘Brush yourself down, or there'll be some comments made.'

They brushed the dry leaves from their clothing, emerging a little sheepishly from the coppice, but there was no one to see them. The camp seemed deserted, but there was more sign of life as they came near to the huts and the main buildings; couples walking arm in arm, as they were, and a group of AC2s returning rowdily from wherever they had been.

He said goodnight to her at the corner of her hut, kissing her gently on the lips. ‘Goodnight, love,' he said, using an endearment common to all northerners, but one he had not used before in speaking to Yvonne. ‘Sleep tight.'

‘Dear Simon,' she said, stroking his cheek. ‘You sleep well, too.'

Simon felt lighter in spirit as he went to bed that night, not brooding so much about the ill-fated flight that had killed one of his comrades and wounded another. It wasn't as if this had not happened before, but it had affected him more deeply this time. He was realizing more than ever the futility of it all, and wondering how much longer he could continue. How he wished – and prayed – for an end to it all, but there was no sign of a swift end in sight.

He felt, though, as he lay there that he was not alone. ‘Thank you, Lord,' he whispered, daring to believe that there really was someone watching over him. He did not dwell on what had happened with Yvonne. He would think about that another time.

The next op, two days later, was completed satisfactorily, but the op that took place the following night was to prove fateful for Simon. Again, it was on the homeward flight that they ran into trouble. This time they were aware of the enemy plane suddenly appearing, and after a brief skirmish it was shot down. But Simon had been wounded. The bullet entered his left shoulder, but as he doubled up with the pain and felt the blood start to flow he found himself breathing a sigh of blessed relief that he would be out of it for a while.

Fortunately they were in sight of home. The plane had not been damaged and there were no more casualties amongst the crew. His comrades staunched the flow of blood from what was not a life-threatening wound. It was enough, though, to put him in the camp hospital for the next few days.

It was good to see his mates, and Yvonne, who all came to visit him.

‘You jammy devil!' said Steve. ‘That's you grounded for a while . . . Seriously, though, you're due for a respite from it all, aren't you?'

‘True enough,' Simon agreed. ‘Only two more ops and then I would be due for some leave, but I can't say I'm sorry to be missing them.'

‘Poor old Simon,' said Yvonne, kissing his cheek. ‘Does it hurt very much?'

‘Yes, it's bloody painful,' he answered truthfully. ‘But it could have been much worse. There'll be a scar where they got the bullet out, but what does that matter? Thanks for coming to see me. It's strange to be lying here and being waited on.'

‘Make the most of it,' said Yvonne. ‘You deserve it.'

She didn't stay long, nor did she say ‘See you soon,' or any such words; but Simon was quite sure he would see her again.

A few days later, when he was discharged from the hospital, he was asked to report to the Wing Commander. He was told that after his leave, which was due immediately, he was to be taken off flying duties. When he returned to the camp in two weeks time he was to be an instructor, teaching new recruits who were aiming to be navigators. He felt as though it was an answer to his prayers.

There was hardly time to say goodbye to his mates and to Yvonne. He caught up with her in the NAAFI to tell her his good news, but they were unable to spend much time together as she had promised to go out with some of her friends later that evening and she did not want to let them down.

‘Good luck, Simon,' she said. ‘You deserve a break if anyone does. Enjoy your leave . . . and I'll be seeing you.' She kissed him fondly but without a great deal of passion, giving a cheery wave as she went out of the door with her friends.

He felt a little deflated. It would have been good to spend the evening with her, but they were not beholden to one another, and there was the boyfriend in the Merchant Navy that she never mentioned any more.

He spent a little more time with his mates before going back to his hut and packing his kitbag ready for departure the next morning. His parents did not know he was coming home so soon, although they knew about his injury. It would be a nice surprise for them when he arrived, and he was looking forward very much to seeing them again.

Simon enjoyed his leave and the welcome rest and relaxation. It was good to see his parents again, and his sister, who came home from the farm where she was working as a land girl. He found, though, as the time drew near or him to return to camp that he was looking forward immensely to seeing Yvonne again.

On his return he was relocated to a different hut where he would be in charge of a group of AC2s, several of whom would be amongst the trainee navigators that he would instruct each day. He met his new room mates, unpacked his bags and settled in, and after the evening meal he made his way to the NAAFI, hoping to see Yvonne again. He could not see her when he entered the room, so he sat and chatted with a group of his old flying mates, catching up on what had happened during his absence. His eyes kept straying towards the door, looking out for the young woman he was now thinking of as his girlfriend. In a little while a group of Yvonne's friends came in; Phyllis, Mavis and Eileen, all of whom he had met before. He was expecting Yvonne to follow, but she did not appear.

The trio of girls sat at a table, then Mavis got up and went to the counter. ‘Excuse me,' Simon said to his pals. ‘I'll just go and see if Yvonne is around.'

He expected a few meaningful guffaws or sly remarks, but the men were silent and he saw Steve and Andy glance warily at each other. He crossed the room and sat down next to Phyllis and Eileen. They greeted him in a friendly way, but he noticed a glance pass between them, as he had with the men.

‘Hi there, Simon. Enjoyed your leave?'

‘We've missed your smiling face. It's not the same without you.'

‘Hello there,' he said. ‘Yes, I've had a good rest more than anything, but it's nice to be back. Er . . . is Yvonne around? I though she would be with you.'

They seemed ill at ease as they looked at one another. ‘As a matter of fact . . . Yvonne isn't here now,' said Phyllis.

Simon frowned. ‘What do you mean, not here? Has she gone on leave. Or . . . she's not ill, is she?'

‘No, she's been transferred to another camp,' said Eileen. ‘She went a few days ago, but we don't know where she's gone. She didn't say, or maybe she didn't know.'

‘But she's only been here – what? – five months or so. I don't understand.'

‘No, neither do we,' said Phyllis. ‘She was rather cagey about it, I must admit.'

Mavis returned with a tray holding three mugs of coffee and three Kit-Kat biscuits. ‘Hello, Simon,' she said. ‘Oh dear! I should have got a drink for you. Sorry, I hadn't seen you there.'

‘No, thanks,' said Simon. ‘I won't be stopping. They've just been telling me about Yvonne.'

‘Oh . . . yes, I see.' Mavis gave him a sympathetic smile. ‘I'm sorry, Simon. Actually . . . I did ask her if she had a message for you, but she said no.'

‘Is that all she said?' asked Simon, feeling very puzzled and disappointed.

‘Well . . . what she actually said was, “No, I don't think so. It's probably best this way.” And the next day she'd gone. It was a shock to us as well.'

‘I suppose that's that then,' Simon shrugged. He paused before saying, ‘We were just good friends, you know, Yvonne and me. We never intended to get serious, but I must admit I was getting very fond of her.' He stopped then; there was no need to give any explanation to Yvonne's friends. They were looking at him with concern. He smiled wryly. ‘It's just one of those things, I suppose. Thanks for telling me anyway. I'll see you around.'

He didn't feel like returning to his mates. It was November, and the night was cold and still with just a faint glow from the moon. He made his way along the country lane that led to the village pub. He didn't want any company save his own, and there was no one there that he recognized.

The whisky he ordered soon disappeared, followed by his usual pint of bitter, then another in quick succession. He was brooding about how much he would miss Yvonne. What had gone wrong? Had her sudden departure got something to do with him? Maybe she was regretting what they had done, although she had been just as willing as he was to take that step. Maybe she had heard from her boyfriend and was feeling guilty about him, Simon. Had she asked for another transfer, to get herself out of a difficult situation? He would probably never know, or ever see her again.

He could not remember ever feeling so bewildered and dejected. He was about to order a third pint. Why not drink himself into oblivion? What the hell did it matter? Then something brought him to a halt. He closed his eyes; he felt decidedly woozy, but the commonsensical part of his brain told him he would be unable to get back to camp if he drank any more. This was not the answer to his problem. What was it all about, anyway? A young woman with whom he had had a wartime friendship. Yvonne had simply brought it to an end, and he had to get over it.

Simon was twenty-four when the war came to an end. He was demobbed from the RAF in the late summer of 1945.

His position at the estate agency in Bradford was still open for him, should he want to return to it. He felt somewhat guilty in doing so as he had already made a decision about his future career. He saw it as more of a ‘calling', though, than a career that he had actively chosen. Simon knew that he wanted to enrol at a theological college and train to be what was known as a ‘Clerk in Holy Orders'; in other words a parish priest or a vicar, as they were more commonly called in the Church of England, starting initially as a curate. He made it clear to his employers that he was working there only on a temporary basis.

It was too late for the admission of 1945, but in 1946 he was pleased to learn that he had been successful in his application and interview and was to start his training in September at a college in north Yorkshire.

No one was more surprised than the members of his own family.

‘By heck, lad, that's a turn up for the book!' his father said in his usual forthright way. ‘I must confess I've never seen you as a “Holy Joe”.'

‘And nor will I ever be, Dad,' replied Simon. ‘I've had a change of heart. Some might call it a conversion, but it wasn't a sudden thing with me. I've come to realize, though, that I had no real aim in life before I joined the RAF. I was just . . . drifting.'

‘You were only young though, Simon,' said his father. ‘You were no different from many young men of your age. I knew you would settle down eventually and make something of your life. It's just rather a surprise, that's all, to think of you being a vicar.'

‘I'm sure he'll be a very good vicar,' said his mother loyally as they drank their customary cup of tea when they had finished their Sunday dinner. ‘He knows how to talk to people, and how to listen to them as well, as though he's really interested. My friends at the Mothers' Union were thrilled to bits when I told them, Simon. It's not every young man who goes out of his way to talk to his mother's friends the way you do.'

‘Thanks for the vote of confidence, Mum.' Simon smiled. ‘That's part of it, of course. Learning to get on well with folk.'

‘Aye, I know you've got the gift of the gab,' laughed his father. ‘Our parson's not without it neither. I must say it was a damned good sermon he preached this morning. Oh . . . sorry! A jolly good sermon I should have said. I reckon I'd best watch my language now, hadn't I?'

‘Don't be so damned silly, Dad,' said Simon laughing.

Simon was twenty-seven when he had finished his training. He had kept in touch with Mike Sedgewick, his padre friend from his RAF days. Mike had been very pleased at the choice of career Simon had made. He was still in the same parish in Sheffield, and by a stroke of good fortune – or maybe it was Fate – he was in need of a curate just at the time that Simon was seeking his first placement.

Simon found suitable ‘digs' with a family in the parish and settled down well in his new surroundings and his new profession. He was popular in the parish – as good-looking young curates always tended to be – with the older as well as the younger women; and with the men, too, who found him down-to-earth and approachable.

Millicent Hogarth was the daughter of the family in whose home he had found lodgings. At twenty-eight she was a year older than Simon and she worked as chief buyer at a bookshop in the city. It was inevitable that they should become friendly. They shared a love of literature and they worked quite closely together in the church where Millicent was a Sunday school teacher and a keen and active member of the parochial Church Council.