Whisper on the Wind (40 page)

‘Want me to read it, Kath?’

‘Be my guest. Nothing there the vicar couldn’t see.’

‘
“Managed to get a look at the Pyramids. They are big. Yrs.
B.” Nothing there the Censor couldn’t see, either. But which pyramids, and where?’ Roz frowned.

‘Probably the Cairo ones. Maybe Barney’s been on another of his long convoys.’

‘And is that all? One postcard in over three weeks? He isn’t exactly inviting writer’s cramp, is he?’

‘I don’t know. I just don’t know what to think, any more.’

‘Neither do I, old love. But you didn’t come all the way up here to show me
that
?’

‘No. Want a cigarette?’ Kath settled her back against the trunk of a silver birch tree and offered her packet. ‘It – it’s Marco. He kissed me.’

‘My word!’ Roz grinned.

‘All right! If you think it’s funny, there’s no point in saying any more!’ Kath drew deeply on her cigarette.

‘Okay. So he kissed you – again? That makes it twice.’

‘Yes, but this time I asked him to. Stupid of me, wasn’t it?’

‘Dunno, lovey. Depends how far you went.’

‘What on earth do you mean!’ Kath’s cheeks blazed pink.

‘I mean did he or didn’t he – try it on? And if he didn’t, what is there to get so het up about?’

‘Of course he didn’t try it on. Nothing happened – honestly. But it could have …’

‘You reckon?’ Roz watched the rising of a smoke ring with studied concentration. ‘There you both were, in full view of Grace’s kitchen window –’

‘We were in the poultry field.’

‘All right – there you were in the poultry field and you in your dungarees – not what you’d call quick-release gear, exactly. You’d have had plenty of time to count to ten, wriggling yourself out of
those
things. Nothing could have happened unless you wanted it to. Grow up, love.’

‘Roz! Well! I must say you’ve a knack for being very – very
blunt
at times,’ Kath gasped, embarrassed. ‘I ask you for advice, and you –’

‘Oh, come off it, Kath. I can’t tell you what to do, and you know it. Just think it out for yourself, will you? Things aren’t so good between you and Barney, then along comes Marco who’s a decent bloke, in spite of the fact that he’s one of
their
lot –’

‘That’s it! An
Italian
!’ Kath threw down her cigarette then jumped to her feet to stamp it out. ‘I ought to have my head examined. What could it lead to? And imagine the scandal? What would Grace think if she knew I liked him. And as for your Gran!’

‘And Barney. Don’t forget him. Don’t think he’d be over-pleased about it.’

‘Don’t, Roz. I don’t know what’s got into me. I
don’t …
’

‘No more do I, Kath, but I understand. Marco’s supposed to be a greasy Wop, and we shouldn’t fraternize. But he’s a nice guy, who’d have been at university reading law if this war hadn’t happened; a man your mother would have been glad to make welcome if you’d taken him home – well, you know what I mean?’ she finished, lamely.

‘I know.’ Kath sat down again, accepting with a shrugging of her shoulders that what had happened was her problem, and hers alone. ‘It’s just that all of a sudden, life’s become so unreal.’

‘You’re right. And, Kath – you’re not the only woman on her own who’s finding it difficult, you know,’ Roz murmured, eyes fixed on the activity below them. ‘Oh, they give us our orders; do this – don’t do that.
They.
The faceless ones. They should come out of their ivory castles once in a while and see what it’s like in the real world!’

‘Ha!’

‘And I can’t sort your love life for you, Kath – I wouldn’t dare try. But I do sympathize and I think you’ll have to take it one day at a time. I mean – tomorrow they could send you down to Devon or up to Scotland. Had you thought of that?’

Kath had not, and the thought dismayed her. ‘They couldn’t. They wouldn’t – would they?’

‘I doubt it.’ Roz shrugged. ‘They’re more likely to move Marco on.’

‘
Marco?
’ Not once had she envisaged such a thing. She’d been so pleased with her new life, she thought it would go on for ever.

‘Makes you think, doesn’t it?’ Roz said softly. ‘Losing Marco, I mean …’

‘It does. We’d never see him again, would we? We couldn’t write to him; he couldn’t write to us. That would be it, wouldn’t it?’ she said, flatly.

‘Suppose it would. Just one thing, though. It isn’t
we
, but
you.
Marco’s
your
problem, not mine. Though what you could do about it, I don’t know. There’s a war on, isn’t there?’ A war on. A trite, useless phrase. Everybody said it these days. It explained a lot; it explained nothing. ‘And, Kath – I don’t think I’ll wait for very much longer. Seems take-off won’t be just yet. Wish I could ring Paul, but they wouldn’t accept the call; not when they’re flying.

‘Think I’ll go home and wash my hair. I can hear them go from home. Will you count them out, too, Kath – wish them luck? All of them?’

‘I will. I’m nearer to Peddlesbury than you are. I’ll count.’

‘Has it helped – saying it out loud, I mean,’ Roz asked as they stood at the top of Peddlesbury Lane.

‘I think it has. That bit about Marco or me being moved on tomorrow. Put things into perspective all right.’

‘Be my guest. Love lives sorted, confessions heard any time. Goodnight, Kath. Sleep well …’

Kath did not sleep well. She lay awake until the bombers began their take-off; roaring and thrashing overhead; a fearsome mixing of full fuel tanks, spiked guns and bombs, ready primed. And four great engines, at full throttle. All that, hurtling over the chimney pots at Peacock Hey once, twice, ten times. Ten crews whose average age was twenty-and-a-bit; all of them wanting to get there and get back. Get back safely.

Where would it be tonight? Skip knew. Already Paul would have begun his calculations. They’d be all right. Sugar would make it. They would all make it. They’d probably not be back until well into the morning, either. She and Roz could count them down together.

‘Thanks, Roz,’ she whispered to the ceiling. ‘It helped. More than you know.’

Having to accept that They could part them – that had really clinched it; made her face the situation for what it really was; that in truth it would be near-unbearable to leave Home Farm and any of the people who lived or worked there. Marco most of all. She’d had to admit she would be devastated were he to leave.

Tomorrow they could send her down to Devon or up to Scotland, Roz had said.
Tomorrow
, that was, and everyone knew that tomorrow never came.

Oh, please, it didn’t?

Last night Bomber Command had hit the Third Reich again, the early news bulletin gave out triumphantly. Yet another one-thousand bomber raid had dropped a massive bomb-load on Essen, inflicting heavy damage, leaving fires raging behind them that could be seen for miles. As yet, no indication of our own casualties had been released, the announcer said in his one-tone voice, but it was thought that our losses in men and aircraft had been light.

This morning, his words did not send fear tearing through Roz, for she knew already that Paul was safely back. The last of the Peddlesbury Lancasters had thundered overhead as she and Kath returned to Home Farm, walking either side of Daisy’s head.

‘That’s him! That’s Paul!’

The last aircraft home was always S-Sugar. It had to be because not until all had returned could she be certain that Paul was back. It was the same with take-off. When all were safely airborne, then Paul was safely airborne. It was the way her anxious mind worked and lately, Kath frowned, the strain was beginning to show in the tightness of her mouth, her paler than usual face.

‘There was a queen,’ Roz murmured, ‘who said that when she died they would find Calais written on her heart, and when I die there’ll be
thirty
written on mine.’

‘Getting bad, is it?’

‘Mm. I try to think how much worse it must be for Skip’s wife but it doesn’t help any. The baby’s due in about a month, I believe.’

‘Yes, but think how it’ll be for her when Skip goes on leave; the baby there all safe and sound, Skip safe and sound, too; well, for a year at least. And think how pleased your gran’s going to be to meet Paul. Don’t think about five more ops to go, Roz; think about the day you take Paul home. Your gran’ll fall for him – she won’t be able to help herself, bet you anything you like.’

‘Kath?’ Roz reached for a bottle from the crate. ‘It’s awful having a baby, isn’t it – really bad?’

‘Now how would I know, will you tell me? But I know women who’ve had babies.’

‘And what did they say it was like?’

‘They were all a bit apprehensive, I suppose, but every one of them said that the moment they held their baby they forgot every pain they’d ever had. And if having a baby is so awful, women would stop at one, now wouldn’t they, so go and give Polly her milk and less of your worrying. Skip’s wife is going to be just fine – and so is Skip, and Paul!’

‘Bless you, Kath. What would I do without you?’ Roz pushed open the gate, happy again. Mercurial Roz. In a state of bliss one minute and deep in despair the next.

‘Do without me?’ Kath whispered. ‘But you won’t have to. I’m not going anywhere – Scotland
or
Devon.’

She crossed her fingers, though, as she said it. Just to be sure.

Arnie Bagley walked slowly to school, thinking about life in general and its unfairness to one boy in particular.

He desperately needed sixpence, though fivepence would do, really. Fourpence for the card and a penny for the stamp, because birthday cards were better if the postman brought them.

Soon, it would be Aunty Poll’s birthday. He had seen the very card for her in the paper shop in Helpsley and it was important that he should buy it as soon as possible. There’d be no more cards like that one, said the shopkeeper; no more cards with red roses and gold writing on them till the war was over. Pre-war stock that birthday card was, and a pre-war price, too. Soon you wouldn’t be able to buy a card like that for love nor money, he said, never mind fourpence.

It wasn’t, Arnie frowned, as if he were poor. He was good at adding up and Mam had sent two pounds since Christmas – could Aunty Poll let him have sixpence out of that, he’d enquired. But indeed she could
not
! The money from Hull was staying in the Penny Bank where she’d put it until such time as it was needed for Grammar School uniform.

There was nothing else for it, Arnie accepted. He could earn the money, though how he wasn’t at all sure, or he could borrow it, but since Aunty Poll said never a lender nor a borrower be, it looked as if he would have to win it.

He waved to Mrs Fairchild who was picking roses in the ruins, then returned his thoughts to the matter of the money and the War Weapons Week, to be held on the fourth of July.

War Weapons Weeks had become a way of life in wartime Britain. Once a year, every hamlet, village and city held its money-raising week for the war effort, urging every man, woman and child to place every penny they could spare into national savings. It was amazing, Polly Appleby had said only last year, the amount of money Helpsley had saved, though it wasn’t all that much of a nine-day wonder since no one could buy anything in the shops these days, and what they could was rationed to the point of severity.

This year, the people of Helpsley and those who lived in the villages around had voted unanimously to save enough money to purchase an armoured gun-carrier as their particular contribution to Victory – though the Savings Committee had no idea at all how much an armoured gun-carrier cost and some, though they declined to admit it, had never even seen one. So they had set their target at one thousand pounds and hoped for the best, trusting that local people would save enough money during War Weapons Week to buy this magnificent weapon of war.

‘
Buy
it? What if the Germans drop a bomb on it – what happens to our money, then?’ Arnie had demanded anxiously.

‘Happens, lad? Nothing happens to our money. We don’t actually
buy
the dratted thing; we buy saving stamps and saving certificates on the understanding that we’ll leave the money where it is till the war’s over, that’s all.’

‘So what about the armoured gun-carrier, Aunty Poll?’

‘Well, the Government buys it on the
strength
of what we all save. It’s too complicated to explain proper. High finance, it’s called. The banks know more about it than I do.’

It was then, exactly, that Arnie began seriously to consider working in a bank. High finance sounded interesting. Buying something on a kind of understanding and not actually paying the money for it was
very
interesting. If he worked in a bank, fourpence for a birthday card would be no problem at all! But that wouldn’t be until he was sixteen and Aunty Poll’s birthday was next month, so it was the War Weapons Week, or nothing.

Not that he wasn’t looking forward to it. There would be the roll-the-penny and the bran tub at a ha’penny a go, though last year nobody had found the prize till the very end and then it was only a bar of chocolate wrapped in fancy paper. Arnie was looking forward most to guessing the weight of the pig – especially if the pig got away like it did last year. The commotion that followed had been magnificent, with all the ladies screaming something awful and the vicar damning and blasting, not caring who heard him since the animal had made a terrible mess of his rose beds. The Air Force band from Peddlesbury would be playing for the parade and then they would give what the programme said was a selection of melodies throughout the afternoon, outside the committee tent.