We'll Meet Again (18 page)

To Ronnie, the arrival of the Americans on the airfield was manna from heaven. They gave him so much he no longer needed to nick things. His hiding place in the woods was full of chewing gum,
chocolate bars, sweets they called candy, cigarettes, tins of peaches and spam. All of it could be sold or taken to his mother, not that he went to see her any more often than he had to. Getting on and off trains without paying was becoming increasingly difficult. The old lady in the cottage by the line was always peering out of her window, watching everyone coming and going. He had a good idea it was she who had shopped him before. He could, with his new wealth, buy a ticket, but that went against the grain. You never paid for anything you could get for nothing.

He liked the Americans. They had an easy-going way with them; they accepted him on face value and didn’t ask too many questions. He wasn’t supposed to go onto the airfield, but it wasn’t fenced and though the perimeter was patrolled, the guards simply grinned at him and let him go, just telling him to keep off the runways. He was, in their eyes, just a kid. He was thankful that he was small for his age.

He rode a bicycle he had found abandoned in a ditch, probably by one of the airmen who had ‘borrowed’ it to get back to base. Old Tom Green, the gardener up at the hall, had given him some black paint for it and helped him fit a new tyre and he was very proud of it. He cycled for miles, usually alone. He didn’t have pals, mainly because they couldn’t be trusted to keep his secret and they would definitely inhibit him when he saw an opportunity for a little enterprise. Not only that, they were jealous of his rapport with the GIs.

Their bombers were huge and called Flying Fortresses. There was one often parked on the corner of the field close to the railway crossing where it seemed to dwarf the Potts’ cottage. Mrs Potts was nervous when it was there. ‘Asking to be bombed, it is,’ she would say to whoever would listen. Indeed, on one occasion a German aeroplane flew so low along the railway line Ronnie could
plainly see the pilot looking over at him and dived into a hedge. But the fortress had not been there that day and the German had machine-gunned the line and then veered off when one of the anti-aircraft guns on the base had started firing at it. Ronnie could hardly contain his excitement as he retrieved his cycle and went on his way along the old lane to the airfield. It was, according to Johnnie, off-limits to civilians, but Ronnie took no notice of that.

He had been going onto the heath ever since he came to Longfordham. In the beginning he watched the workman pouring tons and tons of concrete for the runways and perimeter track and had made a footprint in one corner which was still there. He went to sell the workmen whatever he had to offer, but now he came because those huge bombers fascinated him, and so did the fliers. He soon learnt he could not sell them anything because they had everything: stuff he hadn’t seen in England since the outbreak of war, oranges and lemons and tinned fruit, spam and bully beef, chewing gum and a dark sweet drink called Coca-Cola. The sad tale he had told them of a father fighting in the desert and a mother bombed out and unable to cope may have increased their natural generosity.

‘Did you see it?’ he demanded of Johnnie when he reached the Nissan hut where his particular friends had their quarters. Captain Johnnie Howard was a pilot. He was sitting beside his bed writing a letter. The rest of the ten-man crew were either doing the same, sprawled out on their beds or playing poker round a small table. ‘Johnnie, did you see that Jerry? I saw his face as plain as day. It was a Messerschmitt, weren’t it?’

‘Sure was.’

‘Did they shoot it down?’

‘No, don’t think so. What are you doing here?’

‘Just mooching. It’s Saturday. No school. Ain’t you flyin’ today?’

‘No, it’s a rest day. D’you want a Coke?’ He threw the boy a can, who caught it deftly.

‘Ta.’

Johnnie put his letter in the locker by his bed and looked at his watch. ‘Opening time. I’m going to the King’s Head before it shuts again. Any of you guys coming?’

Martin and Oscar said they would, but the poker players, unwilling to abandon a good pot, elected to stay where they were. Ronnie followed them out and put the can of Coke into the saddlebag of his bicycle which he had propped against the wall, then wheeled it beside the men as they set off for the railway crossing. The only pub in the village was on the other side of the line.

‘That’s a mighty fine machine,’ Johnnie said. ‘Can I take a ride?’

‘Sure.’ Ronnie was even beginning to talk like them.

Johnnie took the bike and wobbled up the road. ‘You ride on the left, remember?’ the boy shouted after him. The American veered over to the left, just missing a jeep coming in the opposite direction. He turned and rode back. The other two took their turn at trying the bicycle, wobbling about and laughing joyously.

‘I could do with something like that to get around,’ Johnnie said to Ronnie as they used the pedestrian gate to cross the line. ‘Do you know where I could get one?’

‘I could find one for you. It’ll cost you.’

‘How much?’

‘Don’t know. I’ll have to find out.’

‘You do that.’

Ronnie could not enter the public house, so they parted at its doors. He rode on to Royston where he knew of a man who sold and repaired bicycles. His was a good trade to be in, when petrol was so severely rationed you could only get if for essential work so
it was a bicycle for short journeys, a bus or the train for longer ones.

He hid his bicycle in a hedge before entering the shop. It was only a converted blacksmith’s forge and the front was open to the elements. There was an elderly man working on an upturned bicycle.

‘I want to buy a bike,’ Ronnie told him. ‘But I ain’t got much money, only my pocket money and what I saved from doing odd jobs. It don’t matter if it’s clapped-out, I can do it up.’

The man looked at the boy, sizing him up. Ronnie put on his best butter-wouldn’t-melt-in-his-mouth expression and produced a half a crown from his pocket. ‘Will this do?’

The man laughed. ‘No, bor, I can get more than that for a boneshaker outa the ark.’ When Ronnie screwed up his face ready to weep with disappointment, he added, ‘Tell you what. You work here on Saturdays and I’ll let you have one for that half a crown.’

‘How many Saturdays? Two do?’

‘You drive a hard bargain for a little ’un, bor. Make it three.’

Ronnie worked on Saturdays for the gardener at the Hall, but he’d have to skip that for three weeks. It was a pity because he liked old Tom and even enjoyed working in the garden. At this time of the year it was mostly raking up leaves and cutting down what Tom referred to as herbaceous plants ready for the winter. Sometimes the Earl came out to speak to him and ask how he was getting along. The old boy had been good to him, so he made it a rule not to pinch anything from him. Besides, nowadays he didn’t need to.

‘OK,’ he said. ‘Can I start now?’

Mr Tweed agreed and he worked hard all afternoon. He also watched and learnt. One day he would start his own workshop, buying and selling bicycles. There were thousands of Yanks up on the ’drome and they were all potential customers.

It was dark as pitch when he left to go home and he didn’t have the glimmer of a light, not even the blackout ones which had the glass covered with blue tissue paper. He knew the road so it didn’t matter, except he needed to watch out for potholes and keep alert for other traffic. He was late for his tea.

‘Where d’you think you’ve been?’ Auntie Jean demanded. ‘You can’t have been working in the Earl’s garden in the dark.’

‘There isn’t much to do at this time of year, so I’ve been working at Mr Tweed’s bike shop. I need some money for a birthday present for me mum.’

‘That’s all right then. But tell us next time, I don’t like not knowing where you are. You’d better get your tea. We had ours half an hour ago.’

Ronnie smiled to himself as he sat at the kitchen table to wolf down paste sandwiches and cheese scones spread with real butter. Country living was a lot better than town living, especially when there were farmers with cows in the meadows. He had long since got over his fear of the animals, just as he had learnt to groom the horses in the Earl’s stables, instructed by Terry.

Johnnie’s bicycle was delivered two weeks later, for which he received five pounds. Ronnie was gleeful, especially as Johnnie seemed to think he had a bargain and others asked him to find them bicycles. He most definitely didn’t want to go home to London and he was equally sure his mother didn’t want him to.

Johnnie Howard loved the English countryside, even in winter when the trees were bare and the air was damp and misty, and in summer it couldn’t be bettered, it was so lush and green. It was the country of his forbears, it was where he had been born, not to the couple he called Mom and Pops, but to an unknown English mother and father. He knew very little about them. As far as Mom and Pops were concerned, it was a closed subject. When, as a child, he had asked them how he came to be adopted, they told him he wasn’t wanted by his natural parents, but he was wanted by them. They adored him and spoilt him and so he had refrained from asking again. That didn’t mean he was no longer curious.

When he told his mom he was being sent to England, she had said. ‘Look up my folks, Johnnie, if you get the chance. They will be thrilled to see you. They haven’t seen you since you were a tiny baby.’ She had given him an address in Derbyshire. He had written to his grandparents as soon as he arrived in England and his grandmother had replied, welcoming him, but so far he had not managed to get to see them. He was aware they were not his
real grandparents, but they might be able to tell him something. He didn’t like going behind Mom’s back, but this wanting to know was eating at him, especially since he came to England. He looked at every woman of the right age and wondered if she could be his mother. He knew it was stupid; after all, he had no idea where she came from, nor even if she were alive. He was due eight days’ furlough in the New Year, he’d make the trip then. In the meantime, there was a war to wage and the Hun to beat.

Their missions were conducted in daylight, but it was still dark when they were roused for breakfast and went through the routine of every crew flying that day. Wash, dress, shave and have breakfast of eggs, bacon and toast, real eggs when they were flying. From there they made their way to the briefing hut where they sat and smoked, waiting for the sheet to be pulled off the big map hanging on the wall to reveal their target for that day. Sometimes it was in the occupied countries, not too far to go, and referred to as a ‘milk run’, which gave them reasonable odds for returning in one piece. But just recently it had been deep inside Germany itself, places like Essen, Kiel, Duisberg, Schweinfurt and Hamburg, which was altogether different.

It meant spending long, cold hours being battered by flak and trying to avoid enemy fighters even before the target was reached. Over the target it was murderous because only the bombardier had anything to do and they felt like sitting ducks. After they had dropped their bombs, it was the same all the way back again. The fighter escort could only go so far to protect them. The longer the trip, the shorter the odds for survival. It churned everyone’s stomach and many a breakfast was lost even before they left the ground.

When the chatter had died down, they were given the details by other officers, shown maps, pictures and diagrams, told about
the route and where the heaviest concentration of flak was and the anticipated strength of the fighters. There wasn’t much talking as cigarettes were extinguished and they went to get into flying gear and were driven out to the aircraft on which the ground crew had been working all night.

The bombers were not called Flying Fortresses for nothing. They were big, well armed and could take a lot of punishment, often coming back to base riddled with holes and one or sometimes two engines not functioning. Even so, losses of aeroplanes and, more importantly, crews had been horrendously high. New crews came and went before they even had a chance to get to know them. It was up to him to maintain good morale among his own crew. At twenty-five, he was considered old compared to the others who were all two or three years his junior; they looked up to him and called him Pappy. He was aware that they relied on him to get them home safely after every mission; it was a huge responsibility which weighed heavily on him. So far they had been lucky.

They were all aware of the importance of luck and everyone had a talisman, taken with them on every mission. Others had a ritual they observed when preparing to go. He had a very small teddy bear, only six inches long, which he had had all his life. It had survived being sat on, kicked about, even drenched in the shower. It had sat on the dressing table in his bedroom all the years of his growing up; it waited for him when he went off to college; it came with him when he went to war. No one laughed. They all had similar lucky charms.

Towards Christmas someone suggested they give a Christmas party for the local kids and the idea was enthusiastically taken up. Johnnie was delegated to visit the school and put the suggestion to the headmistress.

The arrival of the tall American in the middle of a history
lesson set the children giggling. Miss Green frowned at them. ‘Get on with your reading, all of you, while I speak to our visitor. There will be questions afterwards.’

They bent to their books but they weren’t reading. Their ears were alert for what was being said, especially Ronnie who struggled with his reading anyway.

‘Ma’am,’ the American began. ‘We up at the base would like to share some of our Christmas with the children. We thought we’d give them a party.’

‘That’s very kind of you, Captain. How many of the children, where and when?’

‘All of them, ma’am. We’ll send a truck to pick them up and take them home again. We thought we would have it on the afternoon of Saturday the nineteenth. Would that suit?’

She turned to the children, who were grinning and laughing and talking excitedly. ‘Be quiet! Anyone behaving badly between now and then won’t go.’

They subsided immediately. ‘We break up on the eighteenth,’ she told Johnnie, ‘so that would be an ideal time from my point of view.’

‘OK, the nineteenth it is.’ He smiled at her. ‘You are included, ma’am, and the other teachers too. We are going to hold a dance too, for the New Year, and we need partners. It will be properly organised, I promise you, no funny stuff allowed. So will you come? And any other ladies you know. The more the merrier, isn’t that what you say?’

‘Why thank you. That will be lovely.’

‘Then will you spread the word? I will let you know the arrangements in good time.’ He touched his forehead, replaced his cap and left. He smiled at the noise behind him which all her shouting could not subdue.

Now all he had to do was survive the next few missions, each bringing him nearer to the twenty-five he needed to complete his tour and maybe, just maybe, Hitler and his commanders willing, he would be able to enjoy Christmas. It would be their first Christmas away from home and loved ones, but it would be the Limeys’ fourth. No wonder they were all looking washed-out. Folks at home had no idea what it was like. Nor could they understand what their menfolk were having to endure; the sheer terror, the long, cold flights deep into enemy territory, the fighters, the blinding searchlights and the flak, seeing your buddies killed and injured, the smell of hot oil, cordite, blood and guts spilling out onto the floor, aeroplanes flying beside you suddenly disappearing in flames. You couldn’t write home about that.

‘You’re coming home with me for the New Year,’ Prue told Sheila one Sunday in November. They both had the day off and were sitting over a late breakfast listening to the church bells. General Montgomery had won the Battle of El Alamein and was forcing General Rommel into retreat. For the first time since the war began, church bells were ringing out all over the country to mark the victory. Even Constance was seen to smile when she set off for morning service.

‘How do you know we’ll have leave?’

‘I saw the list in the office. We’re on duty over Christmas but we’ve both got seven days starting the Tuesday afterwards. So it’s off to Longfordham.’

‘I don’t want to put you to any trouble. I’ll be all right here.’

‘No, you will not. And you won’t be any trouble. Whatever gave you that idea? Anyway, I won’t go without you. You don’t want to condemn us both to a week with your aunt, do you?’

‘If you’re sure.’

‘Of course I’m sure, I wouldn’t have said it otherwise. There’s an American air base only a stone’s throw from our house and there’s to be a New Year dance up there and we’re invited. My parents often have some of the American officers to the house for tea or drinks or to have a bath, and they’ve got to know them, so they approve. It’ll be fun.’

‘What’ll I wear?’

‘Oh, we’ll soon find something to wear. I’ve loads of clothes.’

It was evident Prue was not going to take no for an answer, indeed had not even posed the invitation as a question. She smiled. ‘All right, if you insist.’

‘Good. I’m told the Yanks really know how to lay on a party, so we’ll say goodbye to the old year and all its troubles and hallo to the new in style.’

‘I shan’t be sorry to see the end of the old year, what with Chris dying and that boy not being Charlie after all.’

‘Yes, I’m sorry about that. Perhaps I shouldn’t have encouraged you.’

‘It’s just as well to know. Do you know where your brother is?’

‘No, not really. I’m just glad he wasn’t with his regiment in Singapore when it fell. He would be dead or a prisoner by now.’

‘Tim is a prisoner.’

‘In Germany, that’s not the same thing. I try not to think about him. He’s obviously not interested in me.’ He had replied to her letter, but he was not in a position to say much more than that he was well, that the parcel she had sent him had arrived and the socks and toothpaste were just the job, while the cake, which he had shared with his roommates, had been a welcome addition to their rations. He said nothing of what the camp was like, nor how they were being treated, which was understandable considering
the letters were censored. If she was hoping he might express affection or refer to that hurtful letter and tell her he was sorry, she was disappointed. He had simply ended, ‘Take care of yourself.’

‘How do you know that?’

‘He would have told me so instead of sending that cold letter as if I were someone he had just met in passing. Anyway, I’ve got enough on my plate at work, and so have you, without worrying about the men.’

Sheila laughed. ‘And the rationing and the shortage of hair grips and torch batteries …’

‘Safety pins and lipstick.’

‘I don’t suppose the Yanks are short of anything,’ Sheila said. ‘They are going to make a difference, aren’t they? To the war, I mean.’

‘Of course they are. The signs are good. Jerry bit off more than he could chew with the Russians. The tide has turned there.’

‘Helped by the stuff taken to Russia by the Arctic convoys. Chris died helping them.’

It was funny how they went from laughter to gloom in the space of a few seconds, Prue thought. ‘I know, try not to think about it. Let’s go out for a bike ride. We can stop at the Duncombe Arms on the way back.’

Sheila was involved in the Christmas entertainment at Bletchley Park, now part of the Bletchley Park Drama Group organised by Shaun Wylie, one of the very clever people who worked in Hut Eight, but who liked to relax with amateur dramatics. They were, for the most part, amateurs though there were a few peacetime professional performers among the diverse people working at Bletchley Park. Amateur or not, they were expected to put on a professional performance. What with rehearsals and the show
itself on Boxing Day, she had little time to think about her visit to Longfordham Hall.

‘You are getting too high and mighty for your own good,’ her aunt said, when she told her where she was going. ‘Hob-nobbing with the gentry won’t make you one. Pride comes before a fall and you will take a tumble, you mark my words.’

‘Take no notice,’ Prue told her later. ‘She’s only jealous.’

Nevertheless, she was a bundle of nerves by the time they left Longfordham station, where an elderly man met them with a pony and trap. ‘The Rolls is laid up, my lady,’ he said, opening the little door at the back to hand them in. ‘Beauty, here, don’t need petrol.’

It was only just over a mile to Longfordham Hall and they were soon trotting along the lanes between leafless hedges. It had been raining and the potholes were full of water, but their driver steered the outfit skilfully around them. Turning at the crossroads, they encountered Ronnie cycling towards them. He dismounted and grinned. ‘Watcha, Mr Tom,’ he called out.

Their driver, conscious of his passengers, ignored him, so the boy turned his attention to the ladies. They were very smart ladies with their felt hats and leather gloves. And then he stared at Sheila. She stared back, even screwing round in her seat to watch him after they had passed him. ‘I could swear that was Ronnie Barlow,’ she said.

‘So it is, miss,’ Thomas said. ‘He’s an evacuee.’

‘Is that the one who stole the vegetables, Mr Green?’ Prue asked.

‘Yes, m’lady.’

‘Any more trouble?’

‘No, m’lady.’

Sheila laughed. ‘I remember you telling me about him, Prue, but I didn’t realise I knew him. He lived in the next street to us. He
was always in trouble. Don’t tell me he’s turned over a new leaf.’

‘Seems like it, miss,’ Thomas said, as they turned in at the lodge gates and made their way up the drive flanked by leafless trees.

The pony was brought to a halt at the door of a large mansion in warm red brick. On either side rows of long windows gleamed in the winter sunshine. Sheila looked upwards. Another row of windows matched those of the ground floor and above that smaller ones. And above that a crenulated roof with a tower at each corner and a flagpole in the middle. ‘Welcome to Longfordham Hall,’ Prue said.

Tom came round to open the door and hand them down and then they were standing on the gravel and he was driving away. Someone had opened the front door. Prue raced up the steps, leaving Sheila to follow. She braced herself to meet the Earl and Countess.

Prue hugged her mother and kissed her father’s cheek, then drew Sheila forward and introduced her. ‘So this is our songbird,’ the Earl said. ‘You are very welcome, Miss Phipps. Prue has told us so much about you.’ He had a lovely smile and twinkling eyes and she quite forgot her terror.