The FitzOsbornes at War (38 page)

‘But you definitely saw a parachute,’ Veronica said.

‘I
think
I did . . .’

I gave him an encouraging smile and he took a shaky breath.

‘Yes, I did,’ he said. ‘Actually, it may have been two parachutes.’

‘
Two?
You’re sure about that?’

‘Um . . . yes?’ He gazed helplessly about the pub, then plunged his face into his pint of beer.

Veronica persisted a little longer with her questioning, without success. It was only as we were gathering up our coats, preparing to leave, that he said, ‘Um . . . There
is
one other thing. One of the boys asked me to . . . to mention it to you.’

‘Yes?’ said Veronica, and I held my breath.

‘Well . . . it’s about Toby’s car, you see. The Lagonda. Toby sort of said that Wicksy – I mean, Pilot Officer Wickstead – that he could have the car, if Toby ever . . . um, if he didn’t make it back from an op. Not that he wrote it down officially or anything, but –’

‘Keep it,’ said Veronica shortly. ‘It’s not as though civilians can get hold of any petrol these days.’

‘Oh, jolly good!’ he said, brightening. ‘Thanks! It’s what he would have wanted, you know, and we’ll take good care of it. And, of course, if Toby
were
to make it back –’

‘Yes, of course,’ she said.

We watched him tug on his cap and make a rapid escape out the side door, before turning to each other.

‘What a
complete
waste of time,’ Veronica said.

I had to agree. But after she’d gone up to the bar to ask about the bus schedule, the girl wiping down the tables came over to where I sat.

‘You’re Toby’s sister,’ she said, setting down her tower of glasses. ‘I could tell as soon as you walked in. You look just like him.’

‘You knew . . . know him?’ I said.

‘Oh, all the flyboys come in here,’ she said, ‘and you could always count on Toby being right in the middle of the rowdiest lot! But don’t get me wrong – he was polite, you know? A real gentleman. Not like
some
of those boys, always trying to sneak a kiss! He was never like that.’

‘No,’ I said, smiling despite myself, ‘no, he’s not like that at all.’

‘I
was
sorry to hear,’ she said. ‘You’d think I’d get used to it, wouldn’t you, living next door to the aerodrome? But it’s always sad.’

‘He’s not dead,’ I said. ‘Just missing.’

‘Yes,’ she said gently. ‘Yes, of course.’ And the look she gave me was so kind that I had to turn away, blinking furiously.

And it
keeps
happening. I’ll be doing something completely ordinary – typing a letter at work or queuing outside the grocery shop – when, all of a sudden, I’ll be overwhelmed with anguish. Where is he now? Is he hungry? Is he cold? Does he have somewhere safe to sleep? Is he injured, is he in pain? It’s such agony that I can hardly bear the sight of the people around me, going about their usual lives. How can they be so
unfeeling
? At my worst moments, I find myself wondering if it would be better if he’d never survived that crash – but then my mind goes blank. I
can’t
think about how he might have died, I simply can’t.

The person who best seems to understand how I feel is not Veronica, oddly enough, but Julia. She came round to our flat that first terrible night, and threw her arms around me, and didn’t even attempt to offer any consoling words. She knew there was nothing to say. It’s not that Veronica doesn’t hurt as much as I do – I know she does, perhaps
more
than I do, if that’s possible. She and Toby were ‘the twins’ for most of their childhood, after all. But right now, Veronica’s and my methods of coping with Toby’s disappearance are so different that we aren’t much comfort to each other.
I
can hardly manage to get out of bed each morning, whereas she’s throwing herself into learning everything she can about Allied pilots who’ve been shot down over Nazi territory. What percentage of them have been confirmed dead, how many have been taken prisoner, which factors have led to successful escapes . . .

But no doubt her approach is more sensible than mine. As I write this, she sits across from me, pounding away at my typewriter. When I managed to stir myself out of my apathy to ask what she was doing, she said she was writing to someone she knew at the British Embassy in Madrid, a man who’s been helping escaped Allied servicemen evade the hostile Spanish authorities. Presumably he’s working unofficially, hence the need to correspond with him outside office hours. She also said she’s campaigning to be allowed to take up another temporary post at the Embassy next month.

Where
does
she find the energy? It took all my strength just to get dressed this morning. What does it matter any more, whether my stockings match? Who cares if I’ve lost a button from my coat? What’s the point of combing my hair? I haven’t even opened today’s post, even though one of my letters is addressed in Rupert’s handwriting. I’m sure his letter will be thoughtful and sensitive, but I cannot face any kindness right now. In fact, I cannot write another word. I’m going to bed.

7th June, 1942

W
E’VE HAD NEWS, OF SORTS,
from Belgium. The parents of the other missing pilot from Toby’s squadron received a small parcel a few days ago, containing the silver four-leaf clover that had been their son’s lucky charm. Not a terribly
potent
charm, it turns out. The accompanying letter was from the Belgian Red Cross, and stated that the pilot’s body, still strapped to his open parachute, had been found near a small village not far from the coast. He appeared to have died of head wounds, probably sustained when his plane was hit. A farmer had reached the body before the Luftwaffe police and their search dogs, and he’d managed to retrieve the charm from the pilot’s pocket, along with a recent letter from the pilot’s mother that contained her address. These had been handed on to the local Red Cross, and they’d forwarded the items to England.

So, at least one family now have a definitive answer. Or have they? The items certainly belonged to the pilot, but had the Red Cross been deceived by the villagers about the manner of the pilot’s death? If so, to what aim? Could the man still be alive? Could he be hiding, or aiding the local Resistance? Or is the whole thing, even the ‘Red Cross’ letter, some sinister trick of the Nazis?

All these questions are courtesy of Veronica, who appears to have taken leave of her senses. The moment she heard the news, via the Colonel, she dashed off to interrogate the bereaved parents, who have a house just outside London. She even copied out their Red Cross letter, in case it contained some secret message in code. The poor couple must have thought she was
mad
.

‘Oh, no,’ said Veronica. ‘When they heard I was from the Foreign Office, they just assumed I was an intelligence agent.’

She admitted she had not corrected their mistaken assumption. She also conceded that her visit hadn’t actually provided us with any additional information about Toby. Not that this seems to have deterred her in the slightest. She even wrote to Simon, demanding all the details he possessed and asking him to investigate further. Simon sent a terse, uninformative response – although that’s quite normal for correspondence between the two of them.

Henry, of course, remains optimistic. To her, the parcel is conclusive proof that Toby is alive. She says that if he
had
been killed, his body would have been found near his fellow pilot’s. She’s also heartened by this evidence that the local population is keen to thwart the Nazis, even in small ways. ‘The villagers probably passed Toby on to the Resistance weeks ago,’ she wrote to us – and presumably to Aunt Charlotte, as well. Heaven knows what our poor aunt makes of it all, but she pays more attention to Henry than to anyone else these days, so she’s probably feeling more positive than
I
am.

19th June, 1942

A
FEW DAYS AGO, I
began writing a frank account of what happened last week. But I was struck by the terrifying thought that someone might read it, so I tore out the pages. I was on the verge of ripping the paper up and setting fire to the scraps – and then I stopped and considered. I don’t regret what happened. It’s true that I’m unlikely to confide in Veronica about it when she returns from Spain – but I’m not
ashamed
.

Besides, what is the point of keeping a journal, if one lies to oneself about significant events in one’s life? Especially as there really
is
very little chance that anyone will be able to decipher this, apart from me.

So, I will start again – at the beginning this time, rather than at the end, even though
that
is the bit occupying most of my waking thoughts and quite a few of my dreams.

Right. Well, Saturday was Julia’s birthday, and Daphne was determined that we should celebrate it with as much lavishness as the war would allow. I’d agreed to go out with them – not because I was feeling at all celebratory, but because I was too listless to argue with her. On Saturday morning, then, I collected my blue evening gown from the cleaners on my way home from the shops. With Veronica away for a few weeks, my shopping list had been shorter than usual, but nevertheless, I was weighed down by a wicker basket, a bulging string bag and a heavy silk gown. I plodded down the narrow path towards our flat, wondering if I’d be able to summon up enough energy to repaint the bathroom before Veronica returned, now that the plasterer had finally fixed all the cracks in the walls . . . Then I glanced up, and my heart seemed to stop.

For there, sitting on the steps leading to the front door of the flat, was a tall, slender young man in RAF uniform. His head was in his hands and his cap hid his face, but I hadn’t any doubt as to his identity. Who else could it be, except Toby? I dropped my burdens and began to run.

As I drew closer, he heard my footsteps, and he sat up straighter and pushed back his cap. Now I saw his hair was not blond but black, that he was older than Toby, that he was family and yet . . . unfamiliar. Because it was Simon, but when he turned his face to me, I scarcely recognised him. It wasn’t just that he was pale and unshaven and hollow-cheeked – he looked utterly defeated. I slowed to a walk to give myself time to prepare for what was obviously going to be horrible news.

‘Hello, Simon,’ I said unsteadily, when I stood at the foot of the steps.

He nodded at me and said nothing. His eyes were sunken and dull.

‘You gave me quite a shock,’ I said, trying to smile at him. ‘I wasn’t expecting you. I hope you haven’t been waiting long. Veronica’s not here, of course, she left three days ago for Spain –’

I think I had the notion that if I kept babbling, he wouldn’t be able to tell me anything awful. Actually, an even
more
effective way of avoiding the news would be to remove myself from his presence altogether, and it was then that I recalled my scattered shopping.