Whisper on the Wind (39 page)

Kath sighed as she set a tray with cups and saucers in readiness for their return. She was glad Marco was working in the far cow pasture, checking the fences. Faintly she could hear the sound of the hammer as he beat a post secure. She didn’t want to be alone with him, today especially. She had lain awake last night as she had known she would and told herself it must never happen again. She had married Barney for better or for worse; been glad of his name and the respectability marriage gave her. She had made her bed, she would lie on it and anyway, only a fool expected marriage to be one long honeymoon.

It had all been fine, last night. She had accepted that from here on she would behave as a married woman was expected to behave; that loneliness and separation was no excuse for what she had done. But her resolve was gone by morning and her good intentions flew high and wide when Marco smiled his lovely smile and said, ‘
Ciao
, Kat.’ The churning was back inside her, and the longing she felt to touch him made it hard to remember all she had vowed that July Saturday almost three years ago. But when this day was over, she would tell Roz about it. Maybe talking would help, though knowing the state of mind Roz was in these days, maybe it wouldn’t.

She hoped Marco wouldn’t come to the house; that he’d have the sense not to. With luck he would stay in the field until it was time to bring the herd in for milking and by then Grace and Mat and Jonty would be back.

Lord! It was all such a mess and the war to blame for it all; the fault entirely of this war that women were alone, and men were prisoners and that people gathered now in sadness in Alderby.

Coldly, deliberately, she cleared her mind of such thoughts and made herself think instead of the little greystone church and a young woman called Peggy who wore the uniform of a soldier.

‘I’m so sorry,’ she whispered.

Hester was glad that the ringing of church bells had been forbidden for the duration of hostilities; grateful that today there could be no slow, mournful intoning of the calling bell. And it was good, too, that the passing bell could no longer be rung; the death bell, as they called it around Alderby.

They had rung the death bell in the last war for Martin; one sombre peal for each year of his life. She could hear it still; feel the cold, even yet, of that December day. At least Peggy’s parents had been spared that terrible tolling; could give back their daughter on a day bright with sunlight.

She lifted the latch of the church door and it sounded like the snapping of a whip in the hollowness inside. Heads turned automatically then turned back again to the altar and the studying of the Elizabethan glass window of Christ rising, illuminated to near-splendour by the brightness of the day outside.

Hester sank stiffly to her knees. She did not pray. Today there was too much hatred in her for that. Clasping her hands together she stared ahead to the coffin that lay at the foot of the altar. Peggy had come home to Alderby and had rested all night in the little church, covered by the flag of her country. On that coffin lay the khaki cap of a woman soldier, its brass badge brightly polished, and with it a rose; one pale pink rose, picked tenderly from a cottage garden and placed there with love. It was the kind of thing only a woman would do.

Martin.
Hester said his name in her heart. She had not seen his grave, nor picked a flower for him. His memorial stone was here, in St Mary’s churchyard and when the time came, Roz knew it was her wish to be laid there, beneath Martin’s stone.

But not just yet. Not until Roz was happily settled.
Oh, Roz, my dear, it’s a dreadful world we’ve wished upon you young things.

Roz closed her eyes, bowed her head and whispered the Lord’s prayer. She didn’t know what else to pray for, except that Peggy was at peace, now.

Were you in Alderby, Peg, on St Mark’s Eve? Did you wraith past the church porch when the rest of us were asleep, and if you did, was anyone there with you
?

She lifted her head to gaze at the flag-covered coffin, wondering where Peg was now. With her young man, she hoped. She ought to be with him; they deserved to be together. Closing her eyes again, she clasped her hands tightly together.

Please let there be a heaven? Like it says in the Bible, let there be one
?

There’d be no sense to all this killing, if there wasn’t. No sense at all …

Jonty Ramsden sat with his parents in the pew they usually occupied at the front of the church. He’d rather have been at the back, where no one could have seen him. It hurt to see that coffin, there. It didn’t seem right – her so still, now.

Peg Bailey. Margaret, really. They’d come in for their fair share of teasing over the years.

‘Now think what might have happened if that old stork had dropped his girl-bundle on Home Farm, eh? You’d have been Jonty Bailey, wouldn’t you, and our Peg’d have been called Ramsden.’

And they’d laughed and gone along with it, he and Peg, for country children learned soon about begettings and birthings and that storks had nothing at all to do with them.

I’m sorry, Peg, and ashamed. It’s awful being young, and a civvy – bloody awful
…

Grace reached for Mat’s hand. She wasn’t a bit brave. If they didn’t come soon, Peg’s parents, she’d be weeping again and making a fool of herself in front of the whole of Alderby. And they’d think, ‘Look at Grace Ramsden taking on so, and her with her son safe at home …’

Poor Jonty. He’d miss her, too. They’d shared a christening, with Peg making most of the noise; bawling the devil out of her like the good ‘un she was. And Jonty and Peg at their confirmation; Jonty in his first long trousers and Peg in her white dress and pretty little veil. Not so very long ago, the vicar had read the banns of marriage for Margaret Bailey, spinster of this parish, and the lass had planned a wedding that the war hadn’t allowed. Peg had not come here as a bride …

She felt Mat’s hand tighten on hers, saw Jonty turn, heard the small rustlings at the back of the church.

Peg’s family had come, were walking stiff and straight to the reserved pews at the front of the church; walking to where their daughter waited.

Please
, Grace prayed,
let me hold my head high and not make a fool of myself? I loved that lass. She was like my own
…

She took a deep breath, closing her eyes, grateful that the war had spared Jonty; angered that it had taken Peg. Either way, she couldn’t win.

Tears spilled from her eyes and she let them fall unchecked. You couldn’t fight grief. You had to let it take you, wring you dry and leave you spent.

God – be gentle with her parents
?

Roz waited beside the church gate as the congregation filed slowly away. Her grandmother had already left, slipping out by the side gate, making for Ridings where she might weep for all grieving mothers.

Roz waited until Grace and Mat had passed, then falling into step with Jonty she touched his arm briefly, smiling up at him.

‘Shall we walk home together – the back way?’

‘Thanks, Roz. I’d like that …’

‘Sure you didn’t want to go to the graveside?’ she asked as they passed the Black Horse and turned into Home Farm lane.

‘No. Mum’s staying, but I –’ His voice thickened and he looked down, unable to go on.

‘It’s all right. I know you cared for Peg and I know how you feel.’

‘Do you? Do you, Roz? How can you know what I’m feeling right now?’

‘Because I know
you
, Jonty Ramsden.’ Reaching for his hand she circled it in her own, holding it tightly. ‘Come on, you old dope, let’s get back. Bet you anything you like Kath’ll have the kettle on …’

Hands clasped, they walked away from the sadness. For a little while, the war that had separated them had never happened and he loved her still, as a boy loves his sister; young and innocent again.

‘Are you going out tonight?’ Kath asked of Roz after they had called a goodnight to Grace.

‘I’m going, but I don’t think he’ll come. They were stood down last night, so it’s almost certain they’ll be on tonight.’

‘You’ll be home then, later, if –’

‘No. Think I’ll go up to Tuckets Hill if Paul doesn’t show. You can see Peddlesbury from up there. Might watch the take-off, if they go early. Why do you ask?’

‘Because I want to talk to you. About
me
.’

‘You and who else, Kath?’

‘I’ll come to Tuckets about half-past eight – just in case?’ Kath begged the question.

‘If you want to. Sounds important.’

‘Not really – oh, I don’t know! I just need to talk, I suppose. Well – best be away,’ she murmured, eyes averted, as they reached the orchard gate. ‘It’s been a pig of a day. I’m glad to see the end of it. See you, then?’

‘Hope you don’t, but I’ve a feeling you will.’ Roz shrugged. ‘And if they’re operational, at least it’ll be –’

‘One less to go,’ Kath finished gravely.

‘One less.’ Nearly there, and it
was
going to be all right. She was certain of it, now.

Roz sat, arms hugging her knees, looking beyond the cluster of trees and rooftops that was Alderby to the little river, smudged yellow with wild irises and bordered by elders.

Roz had waited in Peddlesbury Lane until eight o’clock, but Paul had not come, so she had gone to Tuckets Hill to watch the Lancasters taking off. If by chance the bombers should be stood down and Paul could leave camp, he would know where to find her.

She would wait for a little while longer. It was pleasant here, and quiet. If she went home there would only be questions and she didn’t want to talk about Paul until that last op was over. She’d tell all, then; insist that maybe for a whole year Paul would be away from flying and time enough for them to marry, even though the law said she wasn’t old enough.

It would be wonderful, though, when it was all out in the open; when she and Paul need never again worry about being seen together. They were engaged, of course. He’d asked her to marry him that afternoon in York, but Gran’s permission would make it official and then she could call him her fiancé. Openly.

Paul. The man she would marry. He was down there now, probably eating a supper of bacon and eggs washed down with hot, sweet tea. It was almost always bacon and eggs before an op. Then he would put on his flying kit and draw his parachute; there would be the inevitable joke about him bringing it back and changing it for another one, if it didn’t open when he bailed out.

And after that they’d be driven to Sugar, out there beside the perimeter track; driven by an aircraftwoman called June who was lucky for them, Skip said. Some women drivers were chop-girls, bad to have around, but little Juney was okay and went through the rituals with them; the silly, childish things most crews did before take-off. Roz smiled. Paul had told her about the crew who always had a pee on the tail-wheel before take-off, another who wouldn’t fly without a copy of the New Testament stuffed into each left-hand top pocket, and one who flew with a one-eared teddy bear called Wilfred in the cockpit. Wouldn’t have dreamed of taking-off without Wilfred … But with Sugar’s crew it had to be the counting ritual. June would walk the full span of Sugar’s wings, solemnly counting, ‘One, two, three, four. They’re all there, Skip. Nobody’s nicked one of yer engines. The old crate’ll fly …’ Then she always stuck up a thumb and said, ‘So-long, lads. See you.’ Good old Juney.

People could be so amazing, Roz pondered. War brought out the best in some, the worst in others. Some people – just a few – were unkind. Jonty knew about people like that. Jonty had been hurt and upset today, in church. She was glad they had walked home together. They were friends again, now. Friends. That was all.

She saw Kath as she skirted the clump of rowan trees at the bottom of the rise. She had forgotten Kath was coming, and who she needed to talk about she had no idea. She hoped it would be about Marco. Barney was dull and pompous. What on earth had she been thinking about to marry a pudding like him? She raised her hand so Kath would see her, then rose to her feet to wait.

‘Hi,’ she said, sitting down again, patting the grass at her side. ‘He didn’t come, you see.’

‘No. There’s plenty going on, though.’ They studied the activity below them. ‘What are they doing?’

‘Looks as if the armourers are fitting the guns. They’ll be flying tonight. Nothing’s more certain.’

‘And those tractors, Roz? Is it bombs they’re pulling behind them?’

‘It is. They’ll be loading them into the planes. Bombing-up, it’s called. It’ll be a while yet before take-off, but best if it’s dark when they cross the coast. These light nights aren’t a lot of good to air-crews. But you haven’t come up here just to count them out …’

‘No, though I’ll stay with you, till they’ve gone.’

‘Tell me about Marco. What happened this afternoon when you were alone?’ It was Marco Kath wanted to talk about; Roz knew it.

‘
Nothing
happened! He was in the far field all the time – never came near.’ She had been glad he hadn’t; sad he hadn’t. ‘This was waiting for me when I got back. Take a look at it.’ She took an airmail envelope from her trouser pocket. ‘Where has he been, do you think?’

There was a postcard in the envelope; a picture of a river with a garish sunset reflected on its waters and palm trees beside it.
Sunset on the Nile.