We'll Meet Again (13 page)

‘Oh, Tim.’ She put her glass on the bedside table, took his from him and put that down too, so that she could take both his hands in her own. ‘It’s no more than they are doing to us. You should hear my friend, Sheila, on the subject. She lost her whole family, mother, father and six siblings.’

‘Two wrongs don’t make a right.’

‘No, of course they don’t, but what else can we do? If we stood back and did nothing, what do you think would happen? We would lose the war and be occupied like France and the Netherlands, Norway and poor Poland. We simply cannot let that happen. Since Dunkirk, bombing is about the only weapon we have.’

‘I know. I tell myself that all the time, but it isn’t as if we’re doing a lot of good. At Brest we were trying to hit the
Scharnhorst
and
Gneisenau
but we couldn’t see them for cloud and I don’t think we did a bit of damage. I didn’t mind doing that. After all, the men on the ships are all combatants, but then we switched to bombing industrial targets. Precision bombing they call it.’ He gave a cracked laugh. ‘We’re not getting within fifteen miles of the target and what are we hitting instead? People’s homes.’ He took his hand away and raked it through his hair. ‘I didn’t mean to go on like this. I’m sorry.’

‘I wish we hadn’t gone to see that damned film.’

‘It wasn’t that. Or only partly. I’ve lost a lot of good pals and films like that, glorifying war, make me sick.’

‘Can’t you ask to be taken off operations for a while?’

‘Can’t do that. It would mean abandoning my crew and they’d be a man short and have to put up with a new navigator or be scattered to other crews. They wouldn’t thank me for it. We’re like another family: live together, work together, let off steam together and look out for each other. I couldn’t break that up. Besides, what reason could I give, except blue funk? The RAF has a way of punishing that. LMF, lack of moral fibre, they call it and you get stripped of your rank and sent to do all the dirty work on the base, like washing up and cleaning the lavatories. I can’t think of anything more humiliating.’

‘Oh, Tim.’ She took his face in both her hands and kissed his lips and then she saw the tears gathering in his eyes and knew he was exhausted. ‘Tim, darling, you’re too tired for all this soul-searching. Shall we try and forget it, just for a little while?’

He nodded, unable to speak. Gently she pushed him back onto the bed, lifted his feet onto it and took off his shoes. By the time she had done that, he was snoring gently.

Sipping the last of her wine, she sat and watched him. In sleep he looked little more than a boy with his fair hair flopping over his face. She, who was a year younger, felt quite motherly. That she had had every intention of losing her virginity that night lost its appeal. She put down her glass and curled up beside him with her arm across his chest.

He was gone when she woke. She went to the window and drew back the blackout curtain. It was just beginning to get light. She stripped off to wash, put her clothes back on and took the glasses, plates and empty bottle down to the lounge and left them on the table where they had been sitting. She did not believe, for a minute, that it would fool the inn’s staff but she didn’t really care. She had paid her bill in advance, so there was no need to stay. She set off to walk to the station to catch a train to Cambridge and thence to Bletchley.

It was a cold, overcast morning, but still fine. People were moving about the streets in the half light of dawn, going about their daily business in factories, offices, inns, driving vans, buses and trains. Life had to go on, some sense of normality maintained, but she was still filled with the image of Tim fighting back tears. There had been no evidence of the light-hearted young man who had joined the Royal Air Force the day after war was declared, keen to do his bit. She knew as well as anyone that whatever was said publicly about industrial targets, the bombing was far from accurate. And he knew it too. Poor man! His gentle soul had imagined what was going on beneath his wings and made him sick. In that condition, how long would it be before he snapped? She prayed someone in authority would recognise the signs and do something about it.

‘Lady Prudence,’ Constance said, when Prue arrived back at Victoria Villa. ‘I wasn’t expecting you back just yet. I haven’t prepared a meal, I’m afraid.’

‘That’s all right, Mrs Tranter. I can always eat out. Where is Sheila?’

‘In her room, I think. She came in and walked straight by me and up to her room without a word. I despair of ever teaching that girl manners.’

‘I’ll go up to her.’ She picked up her overnight bag which she had dropped in the hall and climbed the stairs. Leaving the bag on her bed, she went and knocked on Sheila’s door. ‘Sheila, it’s me. I’m back.’

‘Come in.’ The voice did not sound in the least sulky.

She went in to find Sheila putting away her journal. ‘Your aunt said you had walked straight past her without speaking.’

‘I did say hallo, but she was listening to the news and didn’t hear me, so I came up here.’

‘She hasn’t cooked dinner.’

‘I know. She doesn’t when you’re not here.’

‘Come on, we’re going out to eat. You can tell me all about it on the way.’

‘Now, tell me what’s happened,’ Prue said, as they walked quietly through the town in the dark, in search of somewhere to eat. ‘I know by the look of you, something has.’

‘James came on a bit strong and I had to fend him off. It was in the corridor of the main house, I’d gone there to pick up some post. He tried to pull me into one of the empty offices …’

‘I thought you were growing rather fond of him.’

‘No. It was the music, nothing more. What made him think I’d …’ She shuddered. ‘I didn’t give him any encouragement even
though he said I did. I was only trying to please him over the panto, that didn’t mean I wanted him all over me. Just shows how stupid I am, doesn’t it?’

‘You are not stupid. Far from it. How did you get away in the end?’

‘I kneed him in the groin.’

Prue laughed. ‘Oh, dear, I bet that made his eyes water.’

‘It made him let go of me and I ran. I’m always making a mess of things. First Chris then James. Will it always be like that?’

‘No, of course not. You are still very young. There’s plenty of time to meet Mr Right.’

‘Perhaps I have and I turned him down.’

‘Oh. And you regret that?’

‘I don’t know. I couldn’t begin to think of anything like that when I was still grieving for Ma and Pa and the kids, but I want to stay friends with him. I’ve written to him, but he hasn’t replied.’

‘There could be any number of reasons for that. Do you know where he is?’

‘No, in training somewhere, I think. I sent a letter to his mother to forward. I think he’s done with me.’

‘If he has, he’s a fool. There’s plenty more fish in the sea.’

They turned into the British Restaurant which served cheap but nourishing food and were soon eating chicken and chips.

‘I was thinking I might like to go on the stage after the war,’ Sheila said. ‘I loved doing the panto.’

‘Going on the stage is a precarious sort of life as a profession.’

‘So what if it is? I’ve no one to please but myself.’

No one, Prue mused. What must it be like to have no one? She didn’t count Mrs Tranter, who was a cold fish if ever there was one, and would deride whatever Sheila tried to do. It would be interesting to know what had made her like that. Was it
simply jealousy? ‘Then good luck to you,’ she said. ‘I’ll come to all your first nights.’

The rest of the evening was spent imagining Sheila as a star with her name in lights and stage door johnnies queuing up to take her out to supper. Prue said nothing of her own weekend; it was not something she wanted to share with anyone, not even Sheila. It was late when they returned to Victoria Villa and Constance had already gone to bed. They crept up the stairs giggling.

Work went on apace at Bletchley Park. More huts were built, more bombe machines were installed, more people arrived and some left, including James Barry who was being transferred. He stayed to stage the revue and afterwards there was a party to send him on his way. Sheila had considered withdrawing from the cast but Prue persuaded her to keep going. ‘If you want to be a professional you are going to have to deal with men like him,’ she said. ‘Just pretend it never happened.’

He must have wanted to do that himself, or perhaps he realised that without Sheila the revue wouldn’t be half the success it was because they managed to work together and the performance was received warmly. She even went to his party and shook his hand afterwards as he went round everyone, kissing some of them. He didn’t kiss her.

Although the news was heavily vetted, it was impossible to keep the bad news from the public. Ships were still being sunk, Greece and Yugoslavia had been lost, Crete invaded, Malta under siege and nothing going the Allied way in North Africa where
German troops, under General Rommel, had come to the aid of the Italians and were pounding Tobruk, which had only a couple of months before been taken by British and Australian troops. Prue was kept busy translating the German army and air force traffic, which didn’t make light reading. She knew that the Russians and Germans had signed a pact of mutual help. In return for industrial raw materials to make weapons, and grain from the Ukraine, the Russians would receive machinery for their factories. But she also knew that Hitler was planning to invade Russia. Stalin would surely not have signed that agreement if he had known of that. Had no one told him? Naturally she said nothing to anyone; her job was not to reason why.

It was June before she had leave and was able to go home. To her surprise and delight, she found her brother, also on leave. He looked extremely fit, heavier than he used to be and more mature, but it suited him.

But she didn’t think her mother looked well at all. She was thinner, her complexion pale and everything seemed an effort, although she tried not to let it show. ‘Go and unpack and change,’ she told her. ‘Dinner won’t be long.’

Prue made her way up to the room which had been hers since childhood. Nothing had changed; the furniture was exactly as it had always been, her dolls and teddy bear still sat in a row along a shelf. Her books still filled other shelves and a tennis racket and hockey stick were still propped in a corner. She smiled to herself as she opened her wardrobe door to select something to wear for dinner. Clothing had been rationed and what there was was subject to so much restriction; it was good to wear something which didn’t have the utility mark sewn into it. She chose a blue silk dress, the colour of a summer sky, with a very full skirt and a nipped-in waist. The gong sounded for dinner as she was going downstairs.

‘It’s good to have everyone together again,’ Marcus said, as all four sat down to eat. ‘How have things been with you both?’

He knew a little about Prue’s job and the need for secrecy, so he didn’t ask her about that. But she told him about the Easter revue in which her friend, Sheila, starred. ‘It was a roaring success,’ she said. ‘Sheila is hoping to go on the stage after the war. She’s saving up all her money to have proper singing lessons. She’s got a voice like an angel. I think singing helps her to get over what happened to her family, but she won’t give up the idea that her brother is still alive. She thinks she saw him on a newsreel at the beginning of the year. If he is alive, it would be wonderful if they could be reunited. I wish I could help, but I don’t know how to. You haven’t got any ideas, have you, Papa?’

‘Short of putting an ad in the newspapers, I haven’t. She could try the film people, I suppose. I expect they keep copies of newsreels in archives.’

‘This little waif seems to have tickled your fancy,’ Gilbert said.

‘She’s not a little waif, Gillie. She is quite tall and has a gorgeous figure. And she’s strong, mentally as well as physically. I don’t know that I would have coped half as well as she has. You’d know that if you met her.’

‘I can’t wait,’ he said, laughing.

‘Next time we all have leave together I’ll arrange it.’

‘Don’t know when that will be. I might have to go abroad.’

‘Abroad? Where? When?’ his mother demanded.

‘I don’t know yet. I’ll tell you when I do.’ Unwilling to elaborate, he turned to his father. ‘Enough of me. What’s been happening here in Longfordham?’

‘Not a great deal. The Home Guard and the estate keep me busy and the airfield is nearly finished. I hope when the war is over, they put it back to what it was. All that concrete is an eyesore. Your
mother is kept busy with the Women’s Institute and the WVS.’

‘I am the evacuee co-ordinator,’ Chloe said. ‘I’m always having to settle disputes or chase parents who haven’t sent the money for the children’s keep. Ronald’s mother is particularly bad at that, though Mrs Potts doesn’t seem to mind. I think she is growing rather fond of the boy and perhaps that’s not a good thing. She will have to part with him eventually.’

‘I hope it is not all too much for you,’ Prue said, turning to her mother. ‘You look tired.’

‘We are all tired,’ she said. ‘Tired of this dreadful war. There seems no end to it and all we hear is bad news. How is anyone ever going to stop it?’

‘We will, Mama,’ Gilbert said. ‘We will.’

‘The servants are all gone except Cook, a couple of maids and Hedges, who is too old to be called up,’ she went on as if he had not spoken. ‘And what with rationing and one thing and another, it’s a daily struggle to maintain standards. The house is beginning to look quite shabby. And people aren’t honest any more.’

‘What do you mean, not honest?’ Prue asked, wondering if her mother was complaining she hadn’t been told what she did at Bletchley. She felt constrained from joining in any discussion or speculation about the conduct of the war because she was afraid she might inadvertently let slip something of the knowledge she had acquired in her job. She wondered if her mother had noticed it.

‘We’ve had things stolen,’ her father put in. ‘Oh, not valuables from the house, but eggs, vegetables, flowers, bags of chicken feed and garden implements. Someone’s going round at night taking them. It’s worrying your mother because she thinks whoever it is will come into the house next.’

‘Do you think it’s just someone who’s hungry?’ Prue asked.

‘They are taking an awful lot if it is. It’s not only us but others have had things go missing. We are going to set up a watch tonight and catch whoever it is red-handed. It will give the Home Guard something useful to do.’

‘I’ll stand watch with you,’ Gilbert said.

It was about ten that evening when someone was spotted darting about in the woods. Gilbert and a handful of Home Guard gave chase, but in the dark they lost whoever it was.

‘He must have realised he was walking into a trap and turned tail,’ Gilbert said to Prue after they had given up and returned to the house. ‘He led us a merry dance. I think he got out onto the railway line. There’s a hole in the fence.’

‘I’ll get it mended tomorrow and we’ll watch there tomorrow night,’ their father said. ‘Might as well turn in now.’

Gilbert went to bed and slept like a log. He did not hear the bombers going over on their way to Germany, though Prue did and she prayed for their crews, especially Tim. Was he still on ops, still dropping bombs on German cities? She felt sure he would never ask to be relieved of his duties. He would view that as failing everyone, his crew, his country, himself most of all.

After breakfast next morning, Prue and Gilbert went riding on the heath. It had always been their favourite place to ride, but now half of it was covered with concrete and ugly buildings although there were still places where the old heath survived, where the grass was rough and gorse bushes bloomed all year round. As she clicked her tongue and urged the horse forward over the railway crossing, she wondered about the wild creatures that had called the heath home, the hares and rabbits and skylarks. The war was affecting animals too.

‘I’m worried about Mama,’ she said, after they had had a gallop and were walking their horses. ‘She doesn’t look well.’

‘The war is having that effect on all of us, don’t you think?’

‘Not you. You look fit as a fiddle.’

‘That’s because I am. You don’t look so bad yourself, blooming in fact. New boyfriend is it? Or are you being faithful to old Tim?’

‘He’s not old, only a year older than me.’ She paused. ‘I’m worried he’s cracking up. When I last saw him, he was really down because of bombing German cities. He was concerned that there were innocent people being killed …’

‘Innocent people are being killed in this country too.’

‘So I pointed out to him, but it didn’t seem to help.’

‘The bomber boys are having a rough time of it. Terrible casualties.’

‘So he said. What about you?’

‘I’m not cracking up if that’s what you mean.’

‘No, I meant your love life.’

‘That would be telling.’

‘Then tell.’

‘Her name is Esme and she’s very pretty and very tiny. Comes up to here.’ He put his hand just below his chin. ‘She’s in the ATS.’

‘When am I going to meet her?’

He shrugged. ‘Who knows?’

‘You said you might be going abroad.’

‘Yes.’

‘Where?’

‘Can’t tell you.’

‘Yes you can. I won’t tell a soul. Knowing you, I bet it’s somewhere where there’s some action.’

‘If you must know, it might be France.’

‘Gillie!’ she exclaimed. ‘That’s what the parachuting is all about. Does Papa know?’

‘Yes, but don’t you dare tell Mama.’

‘I won’t.’

‘I’ve told you my secret, what about yours?’

‘Secret, what secret? All open and above board, that’s me.’ She paused. ‘Come on, let’s go back. It’s nearly lunchtime and I’m starving.’

Mr Potts was standing by the railway gates when they approached. He tipped his cap to them. ‘Good afternoon, my lord, my lady. You haven’t seen that pesky evacuee of mine, have you?’

‘No, sorry,’ Prue said. ‘What’s he been up to now?’

The man sighed. ‘I wish I knew. He’s never around when he’s wanted. Miss Green says he’s been playing truant again and when he is in school he seems half asleep.’

‘Oh, dear, I wish I could help you, but we didn’t see anyone except the men working on the airfield, did we, Gillie?’

‘No, ’fraid not. I expect he’ll turn up.’

‘He’ll get my hand on his britches when he does.’ He opened the gates for them and they rode across the lines and made their way home.

‘Do you think the evacuee could be our secret thief?’ Gilbert queried.

‘A boy of twelve?’

‘Why not? Children grow up fast nowadays.’

‘Mama told me she caught the young scamp wandering in the grounds,’ Prue said. ‘She said he’s a cheeky beggar, but I think she rather likes him. He’s not used to the freedom of the countryside and I think he’s making the most of it. You can’t really blame him. It doesn’t make him a thief.’

‘Perhaps not, but he’ll bear watching.’

‘Is this all you’ve got?’ Aggie Barlow surveyed the contents of the sack that Ronnie had dumped on the kitchen table. There were six
eggs, some carrots and parsnips, a couple of small onions, a pound or two of potatoes, some stored apples with wrinkled skins, a dead chicken and a bottle of wine.

‘That’s all there was. It’s too early in the year for peas and beans and things like that. I had to dig the spuds out of a clamp.’ He looked round at the kitchen of the tiny ground floor which had been his home before going to Longfordham. He had never realised how filthy it was. The oilcloth on the table was so badly stained it was difficult to make out the pattern on it. There were unwashed plates and glasses in the sink, the cooker was caked with grease and he didn’t think the floor had seen a mop for a year. Until he had learnt about cleanliness from Auntie Jean, he hadn’t noticed how bad it was. Now it disgusted him.

‘A clamp?’ She was dressed in a black skirt whose hem had come undone, an off-white blouse and a black cardigan with holes in the elbows. Her hair was in steel curlers and covered with a scarf. It was what she wore in the house. When she went out, she changed into a smart frock, silk stockings which had been nicked from a bombed-out house in the west end, her best shoes, a tweed jacket and a felt hat with a long feather. Her face would be made up with red lipstick and dark eye make-up and her hair would be waved. Ronnie knew perfectly well what she was up to, but he dreaded the day his dad came home and caught her at it.

‘It’s a big heap of spuds covered in straw and earth,’ he explained. ‘It’s supposed to stop them freezin’ and rottin’. The onions are hung up in a shed on a string. The carrots and the parsnips I had to dig out o’ the ground. It’s bloody risky. I nearly got caught the other night. A whole platoon of Home Guard was chasing me.’

‘Your pa would clip your ear if he was ’ere.’

‘Well, ’e ain’t, is ’e?’ Ronnie knew very well his father would not punish him for thieving, but for failing to deliver. But at
least he hadn’t been caught, which was more than his dad could say. It looked as though his errant father would spend the war in Pentonville.

‘No, more’s the pity. ’E’d ’ave us in clover if ’e was, what with all the bombing makin’ it easy. You could come back, you know. You don’t have to stay in the country.’

‘I like it there.’ The prospect of coming home did not appeal to him at all. ‘I could bring you flowers, there’s lots growing in the gardens at the hall. They wouldn’t be missed.’

‘OK.’

Ronnie left her sorting through what he had brought. She’d have it all down at Queen’s Market in the shake of a lamb’s tail. He wanted to help her, but she was never satisfied. It was a good thing he already had some stuff stashed away in his special hiding place. He had caught a glimpse of the men digging in the wood before that man died and his curiosity had led him to discover the entrance, even though the Home Guard had concreted the trapdoor in, rolled a heavy boulder over it and stuck dead leaves and bracken all round it. They thought they had sealed it and no one would find it. More fool them! The boulder had been too heavy to lift but he had managed to hitch it away, inch by inch, and dug out the cement round the trapdoor. Once he had broken it open it made a super hiding place. The ladder had been removed when the bunker was sealed off, but he had made a new one with some rough pieces of wood and could go in and out at will. He didn’t put the boulder back, it was too heavy to keep moving, but if he covered the trapdoor with leaves and bracken, anyone who knew about it would imagine the boulder was still over the entrance. So long as the gamekeeper didn’t catch sight of him coming and going, it couldn’t be safer. He had dived into it the other night and pulled the trapdoor back in place, laughing
softly to himself when he heard his pursuers pass over the top of him.