Still Waters (55 page)

It was to the public telephone box, of course. She had a good walk, two miles or more, but at last she came to the little glass and metal booth and slipped inside. The telephone number which Mal had given her was engraved on her memory; she picked up the receiver, repeated it to the operator, put her money into the hungry little slot at the top of the box and waited, finger poised hopefully over Button A.

After a good many rings a man answered, giving the name of the station and adding, rather crossly, ‘Officers’s Mess’.

It was only then that Tess realised she did not know the Australian’s full name.

‘Umm . . . can I speak to Mal, please? I’m afraid I can’t remember his surname.’

‘Mal? I’m sorry, Miss, what was his last name?’

‘I can’t remember,’ Tess said again, feeling small. ‘He’s a pilot officer, he flies bombers – Lancasters. He did ask me to ring.’

‘Sorry, I don’t know anyone called Mal,’ the voice said. And put the receiver down.

Tess stared at the instrument for a few moments, then slowly replaced her own receiver. Damn and confound it, she thought violently. Why on earth didn’t I ask for his full name? I could have, easily. I could have worked the conversation round to it, instead of sitting there like an idiot, basking in his presence.

She considered ringing again, then decided not to bother. The same man would answer, without a doubt. She would leave it for a while and then try again. Perhaps if she left it until later she might have more luck? But if she didn’t manage to get in touch with him, would he not ring her? Yes, of course he would, he had her name, all he needed to do was look in the telephone directory. Delamere was an unusual name, he would only find three or four, if he was really keen – and she knew he was – he would try them all and would come, at last, to Marianne.

Only Marianne was still a bit annoyed because she hadn’t managed to get a job at Rope’s, and live at home. And she didn’t think Marianne would take kindly to strange Australians ringing up and asking for her stepdaughter, though she had no idea why she felt this to be so. Indeed, Marianne was quite fun now when she went home on leave, though she was still subject to terrible fits of melancholy.

Maurice had made all the difference, there was no doubt about that. He made Marianne feel young again and because she felt young she accepted Tess as simply another girl in whom she could confide. It’s sad that it took Daddy’s death to make the two of us friends, Tess thought now, but the truth is, once Daddy was out of the equation Marianne looked properly at me and decided I was quite nice, after all. And I dare say I looked at her differently, too. At any rate, I find her good company.

But right now, she had to decide whether to ring again in a few minutes, or hang around here for an hour or two, or go home and face the long walk back. She had more or less decided on the long walk back when something else occurred to her. Mal hadn’t talked a lot about himself, but he had said he was on bombers, and British bombers, she knew, flew at night. It was only the Yanks who undertook daylight raids. Which could mean that she wouldn’t find Mal in the officers’ mess in the evenings at all.

I’m on early milking today, tomorrow and the next day, Tess told herself. What’s to stop me coming down and telephoning instead of having breakfast? I can bring some grub with me – bread and honey – and eat it as I walk. And I’ll probably speak to someone different at a different time of day – someone who’s not so cross and impatient. And right now, so my walk isn’t wasted, I’ll ring Marianne and warn her that she may be getting a phone call.

She asked the girl on the exchange for the Barton number, then waited whilst the connection was made, deciding what she should say and wondering what Marianne would say in reply. She would tell her stepmother he was just a bloke she’d met at a dance and Marianne, who was extremely annoyed with Ashley right now, might well approve simply because Mal wasn’t Ashley Knox.

Marianne was cross with Ashley because he had told her off for hoarding, that was the trouble.

‘You’ve got enough food in that spare bedroom to feed an army,’ he had said disapprovingly. ‘If a bomb fell on the house you’d lose the lot. Why not hand it out to those in need?’

‘How do you know what I’ve got in there?’ Marianne had said, bristling. ‘Can you see through walls?’

Ashley, who had hung out of Tess’s bedroom window and waved a mirror around until he could see clearly into the spare room had said, mysteriously, that it was surprising what you could see from a low-flying Spitfire. Cherie and Tess had immediately got the giggles, but Marianne had gone quite white. She had said, ‘I didn’t know . . . it isn’t as if I’ve told any lies or anything,’ and had then rushed out of the room. To check her hoard and pull the curtains, Ashley said wickedly.

‘She’ll be a lot more careful when she undresses now,’ Cherie crowed, clapping her hands. ‘And she’ll stop having baths altogether!’

‘You’re a cruel pair,’ Tess had said. But she had laughed too, because Marianne’s attitude had been funny. And later, when Marianne realised that Ashley had been teasing her, she had been very cross with him.

‘He isn’t welcome here, coming to pry and spy,’ she had said. ‘You tell him, Tess, that he’s no gentleman. It’s not nice to say the things he did.’

‘He was joking, Marianne,’ Tess said gently. ‘He never thought you’d believe him.’

‘Why should I not believe him? I still don’t know how he knew . . . unless you told him.’

‘I said he couldn’t sleep in the spare room because it was where you kept your extra bits and pieces of food,’ Tess said, not wholly truthfully. She had actually used the words ‘wicked hoard’. ‘I expect he looked out of my bedroom window. You can see things sometimes, if the spare room window’s open.’

That sent Marianne rushing off again, to investigate, and when she came back, flushed and breathless, it was to say that Tess was right, it was possible to see into the spare room as she had said, that Ashley was a horrid young man, and that Cherie must stop laughing or she would get a smack.

At this point in Tess’s thoughts, however, the telephone receiver was picked up and Marianne cooed ‘’Ello?’ into the receiver. She always sounded extra specially French on the telephone.

‘Marianne, it’s me, Tess. I’ve only got fourpence, so I can’t talk for long, but I’ve met a young Australian bomber pilot, called Mal. I think he may telephone me, only the farm isn’t on the phone so he’ll ring the Old House. If he does, could you take a message, please?’

‘Ye-es,’ Marianne purred. ‘A young man who is not Ashley is always welcome here. What was his name again?’

‘Pilot Officer Mal something-or-other of the Australian Air Force,’ Tess said, speaking slowly and carefully. ‘I’m free on Thursday afternoon and Friday morning, and if you could give him my address at the Sugdens’, then he could perhaps come and find me there.’

‘Why don’t you ring him?’ Marianne said plaintively. ‘Suppose I am out? Maurice is coming at the weekend, we may go out. He often takes me out.’

‘I keep ringing, but I can’t get hold of him,’ Tess said. ‘Please, Marianne. If he rings, give him my address. And could you tell Cherie as well, please?’

‘Very well,’ Marianne said. Suspiciously. ‘This young man . . .’

‘Oh, oh, the pips!’ Tess squeaked. ‘Sorry . . . goodbye . . . see you next weekend!’

Mal returned to his station in a daze and tumbled into bed happier than he had been for a long time. Tess, Tess, Tess, he kept thinking. Soon we’ll talk without that Ashley chap listening, meet each other on equal terms. Why, we might hold hands, maybe even kiss!

He waited for a telephone call all day but nothing came, and he was flying that night. He went into the briefing meeting, returned to his quarters, put on warm clothing, for it was always cold at altitude, and planned what he would say when she rang. He went along to the mess but though he looked on the cork board there was no message for him and though he asked one or two people, no one had taken a telephone call for him.

The briefing was for a sortie to Munchen-Gladbach and as they neared the target, Mal became aware that because of Tess, his feelings had all turned around. Usually at this point the fear and the excitement pounding through his head made him think of the very things he most dreaded. He imagined the horrible plunge to earth, the fearsome smash, the darkness. Then he saw pictures of his mother, reading the dreaded telegram, telling his small half-brothers that he wouldn’t be coming home any more . . . he saw the homestead, the cattle, the men, tacking up for a round-up. The bush in the wet flashed before his eyes, the river in spate, the great crocs which could, and did, take the unwary whether it be man or beast. And all this went on whilst the kite droned onwards, the men went about their business of keeping them on course, dodging enemy aircraft and avoiding flak.

But tonight he saw none of those things. Tonight he saw Tess, holding the receiver as she telephoned the mess, smiling, small white teeth biting her lower lip, fingers playing an imaginary tune on the phone book whilst she waited.

It was cheerful, delightful, to be anticipating something good for a change, something positive. And the raid went well, because he rather thought they’d laid their eggs, in RAF parlance, around the right place at around the right time. Through the smoke and din, with flak bursting constantly just below them, to the right, to the left, they kept steadily on course and when they were overflying England again, with eleven out of the dozen kites which had taken off five or six hours earlier, Mal felt reasonably satisfied with the night’s work. And the kite which had been shot had been over northern France by then and he had personally seen the parachutes flower and had circled, watching their slow journey to earth, ready to fire if anyone attacked them.

Going down over France, furthermore, might mean you could get home. If you ditched over Germany it was prisoner of war camp for the duration.
For you, gentlemen, the war is over,
the Jerries were supposed to say, in true Music Hall fashion. Perhaps they really did. I hope to God I never find out, Mal thought, as he droned on towards Norfolk – and Tess – with the eastern horizon beginning to pale towards dawn. I’ve done ten ops now, so I’m a third of the way through my tour. And . . .

‘There’s the city, skip,’ Percy said into his intercom. ‘Not long now. Wonder what’s for brekker?’

‘Cold porridge and leathery toast if you’re lucky, sport,’ Geoff said. ‘And if you ain’t lucky it’ll be cold
burnt
porridge and leathery toast.’ His Australian idea of a good start to the day had received a rude awakening the first time he’d walked into the cookhouse after a raid; even their ordinary breakfast wasn’t too marvellous, but at four a.m. on a cold winter’s morning with a skeleton staff of weary, white-faced WAAFs yawning behind their hands the food was abysmal.

Still. After breakfast I can ring Tess, Mal told himself, stretching his legs one at a time, whilst making his hands into fists and then starfishing them inside his big leather gauntlets. He always tried to keep his limbs moving, otherwise, when he landed, he crawled out of the cockpit like an arthritic crab. ‘We could skip the early shift, grab a few hours, and then eat later,’ he suggested out loud. ‘Where have the sandwiches gone?’

‘They were bleedin’ stale,’ Fred said. ‘I shot the crusts out when we laid the eggs. They probably did more damage than the bombs; they were damn’ nearly as hard.’

Subdued chuckles all round but just then Sidney began to flap his hand for silence as he started to talk to the tower. Mal saw the airfield lights looming up in the greyness and worked his fingers some more, preparing for the approach. And presently they were skimming the runway, touching, bouncing, touching again, slowing . . .

‘Brekker next, fellers,’ Percy announced as Mal brought his craft gently to a halt. ‘Anyone prepared to put money on burnt porridge?’

Breakfast proved to be porridge – unburnt – toast, and dried egg. Not bad, not good. But Mal was hungry and ate everything on offer, filled up with several cups of hot tea, then went over to the officers’ mess. It was empty at this hour, but he strolled across to the cork board, just in case. There were several messages, but there was one with his name on it. He leaned closer. It was signed by someone on another flight, someone he’d never heard of, but it had his name across the top.

‘
Mal
,’ the message read.
‘Some girl rang, said she didn’t know the rest of your name. I think she said her name was Tess, or possibly Jess. Better get in touch, popsies who like cantankerous Aussies don’t grow on trees!’

I wonder who told the bloke I was an Aussie, then, Mal thought, before he realised that, failing to remember his surname, Tess would almost certainly have said he was Australian. He stood before the cork board, reading the message over and over, whilst a huge grin bisected his face. She had got in touch, she hadn’t simply gone her way, forgotten him. He had known she wasn’t that sort of girl, but when a week had passed without a word it was only human to wonder – what a relief to know he had been right about her.

He unpinned the message from the board, folded it and put it into the pocket of his flying jacket. Pity she’d not left a telephone number, but she would ring again. Or he could ring her. He hadn’t caught her surname but thought it was something like Delmar. Not that it mattered; she knew he was here now, and would undoubtedly try again.

He left the mess and went to his quarters. He had a tiny slip of a room off a long corridor of similar rooms and went in quietly, because others who had been on the raid were already in bed, closing the door gently behind him. He undressed wearily, longing for sleep now, and opened the window, then pulled down the black-out blind to keep the light out, not in. He climb into bed, then remembered the note, got out, fetched it, flattened it out on his coverlet and got back into bed once more.

He lay down, heaved the covers up, then tried to read the note, but it was impossible in the gloom. Not that it mattered, he realised, as he turned on his side. He knew it by heart.