Wish Me Luck
Authors: Margaret Dickinson
Tags: #Fiction, #Sagas, #Romance, #Historical, #20th Century, #Military, #General
Wish Me Luck
PAN BOOKS
CONTENTS
APRIL 1941
Fleur Bosley stepped down from the train, hitching her kitbag onto her back. The platform was in darkness, the blackout complete. She moved forward carefully. It was like stepping into the unknown. Behind her someone else jumped down from the train and cannoned into her, knocking her forward onto her knees. She let out a cry, startled rather than injured. At once, a man’s voice came out of the darkness. ‘Oh, I’m sorry, miss. I didn’t see you.’
His hands were reaching out, feeling for her to help her up, but she pushed him away. ‘I’m all right,’ she said, feeling foolish.
A thin beam of torchlight shone in her face. She blinked and put up her hand to shield her eyes. ‘D’you have to do that?’ she asked testily, but the only answer coming out of the darkness was a low chuckle. ‘I just wanted to see if whoever I knocked over was worth picking up.’ A young man’s voice, deep with a jovial, teasing note in it.
‘Well, you needn’t bother trying to pick me up.’ She emphasized the words, making sure he knew she understood his double meaning.
His only answer was to laugh out loud. ‘Come on, the least I can do is buy you a nice cuppa. Let’s see if there’s a cafe or a canteen open somewhere nearby.’
‘Shouldn’t think so at this time of night,’ she said, slightly mollified by his offer as she bent to feel around for her kitbag. Fleur hadn’t had anything to eat or drink since midday and her throat was parched. Travelling from the south of the country had taken all day. There’d been delays all along the line because of air raid warnings and now she was stranded in Nottingham with no promise of further transport for the last leg of her journey. Fleur was hungry, thirsty – and cross!
‘Here, let me . . .’ The man shone his torch and picked up her bag, then ran the beam of light up and down her.
‘Snap!’
‘What?’
‘You’re a WAAF.’ He turned the light on himself and she saw he was wearing RAF uniform. ‘Come on, you can’t refuse a cup of tea with me now, can you?’
In the darkness, she smiled. ‘Oh, go on then.’
Minutes later, as she was sitting at a table whilst he went to the counter to fetch two teas, she was able to study him. Tall, with fair, curly hair; bright, mischievous blue eyes; a firm, square jaw and the cheekiest grin she’d ever seen. As he came back, set the tea on the table and sat down opposite her, she knew that he, in turn, was appraising her.
She took off her cap and laid it on the chair beside her. Shaking out her soft brown curls, she returned his gaze steadily with a saucy sparkle in her dark brown eyes. ‘Will I do then?’
He took in her smooth skin, her small, neat nose and perfectly shaped mouth that was delicately enhanced with just a touch of pale pink lipstick. ‘Oh, you’ll do very well, miss. It’s usually little grey-haired old ladies I knock over, not pretty young ones. My luck must be changing.’ He held out his hand across the table. ‘Robert Rodwell, at your service. But my friends call me Robbie.’
She was about to answer tartly, ‘How do you do, Mr Rodwell.’ But something in his open face made her put her hand into his warm grasp and say instead, ‘Fleur Bosley. Pleased to meet you – Robbie.’
As they drank their tea, he asked, ‘So, where are you heading? Here in Nottingham?’
‘No. South Monkford. It’s a small town not far from Newark.’
Robbie nodded. ‘Yes, I know it.’ A slight frown line deepened between his eyebrows. ‘I think we used to live there years ago, but my mother never talks about it much and we came to live in the city when I was little. But I seem to think my father – he died before I was born – ran a tailor’s shop there.’
Fleur wrinkled her forehead. ‘Can’t think of a tailor’s shop there now. There’s old Miss Pinkerton’s; she’s a dressmaker and—’
‘That’s it. That’ll be the one. Mother said once that a woman who was a dressmaker had taken it over.’
‘Her and her sister run it. They sell women’s clothes.’ She giggled. ‘They call it “Pinkertons’ Emporium”, would you believe? They’re sweet old dears, but they’re both a bit doddery now. And their shop is so old-fashioned. It’s like stepping back in time when you walk in.’
‘All corsets, wool vests and big knickers, eh?’
Fleur laughed and pretended to be coy. ‘Really, sir, saying such things to a lady. And when we’ve only just met too. I do declare!’
They laughed together, feeling already as if they had known each other far longer than a few minutes.
‘So – were you hoping to get to South Monkford tonight?’ Robbie asked.
Fleur pulled a face. ‘I was, but it’s doubtful – there won’t be a train out of here now. I could ring up and get my dad to fetch me, but I don’t like to ask him to come all this way at this time of night. And using his precious petrol.’
‘You’ve got a car?
And
a telephone?’
Fleur grinned. ‘Yes. The car’s called Bertha. It’s a 1923 Ford and it’s seen more “active service” down dirt tracks and across fields than many a tank. As for the phone – we live on a farm in the middle of nowhere. My mum insisted it was essential.’ Her brown eyes twinkled. ‘But I think it’s just so that we’ve no excuse for not letting her know exactly where we are and what we’re doing.’
‘And do you?’
‘What?’
‘Let her know exactly where you are and what you’re doing?’
Fleur laughed. ‘Not likely!’
Trying to sound casual, but failing, Robbie asked, ‘Er – who’s “we”?’
‘My brother, Kenny, and me. And Dad too. She likes to keep us all close.’ There was an edge of resentment in her tone as she added, ‘ “Tied to her apron strings” is the phrase, I think.’ Her face clouded and a small frown puckered her smooth forehead. She didn’t know why, but for some reason she felt she could confide in him. The words were out before she’d even thought to stop them. ‘She . . . she didn’t want me to volunteer. It . . . it’s caused a lot of rows at home.’
‘That’s a shame,’ he said gently. ‘How long have you been in?’
‘Oh, right from the start. I volunteered as soon as I could.’
His blue eyes twinkled. ‘Me too. The day after Mr Chamberlain’s “we are at war” broadcast.’
They stared at each other and then smiled, amazed that they’d both felt the same.
‘Are they calling up women yet?’
‘Don’t know,’ Fleur replied cheerfully. ‘I didn’t wait to find out.’
‘And you live on a farm? You could’ve applied to be classed as a reserved occupation, couldn’t you?’
Fleur grimaced. ‘I know. That’s why my mother was so put out. I could quite legitimately have stayed at home for one reason or another, but I didn’t want to. I . . . I wanted to “do my bit” as they say.’
‘But you’re not regretting it, are you?’
‘Not for a minute.’ Her reply was swift and genuine. ‘But it’s still – well – difficult when I go home.’ She sighed. ‘But I’ll have to go. I’ve just been posted and I’ve got three days’ leave before I have to report there. It might be a while before I get any more.’
‘Where are you going?’
She opened her mouth to reply and then hesitated, her smile causing two deep dimples in her cheeks as she said impishly, ‘I’m not sure I should be telling you. Careless talk and all that.’
‘Well, I’ll be terribly careless and tell you exactly where I’m going. Wickerton Wood just south of Lincoln. It’s a new airfield. Parts of it are still being built, so they say, but it’s ready enough to start flying.’
Fleur’s eyes widened and she couldn’t prevent a little gasp of surprise. Chuckling, he leant forward to say softly, ‘Don’t ever volunteer for special operations, will you? Your face gives you away. That’s where you’re headed too, isn’t it? Wickerton?’
Feeling reprimanded, she nodded and murmured, ‘Oh dear.’
‘Don’t worry,’ he said cheerfully. ‘Your secret’s safe with me.’
‘Is . . . is that where you’re going now?’
‘Yes, the day after tomorrow, but first I’m going home to see Ma.’
‘What are you going to do at Wickerton Wood?’
‘Ah, now that
would
be telling.’
‘You’re right. I’m sorry,’ she said at once.
He laughed with a deep chuckle that was infectious and somehow endearing too. Don’t be silly, Fleur, she told herself firmly, you’ve only just met him. He could be anybody. But already, she realized he wasn’t just anybody. He was someone she’d like to get to know so much better. The thought surprised and shocked her.
Fleur regarded herself as a no-nonsense type of girl: down to earth and with no foolish romantic notions, especially now that they were plunged into war and all its uncertainties.
‘I was only teasing.’ The sound of his voice brought her back and she saw that his eyes were suddenly serious. ‘You know,’ he went on and now there was a note of surprise in his tone. ‘It might sound daft, but I feel I could tell you anything.’ Then, as if fearing he was sounding soppy, the mischievous twinkle was back and he leant towards her again. ‘You’re not a spy, are you?’
Now Fleur laughed. ‘No. Like you say, I’d give the game away all too easily. Too honest for my own good, that’s me.’
‘Mm, me too.’
She hesitated, but then asked, ‘Where’ve you been up till now?’
His face clouded. ‘Down south. It’s been pretty rough for the past few months, especially between July and October last year. The Battle of Britain, as Churchill called it.’
‘Is that what you are?’ she asked, filled with a sudden dread. ‘A fighter pilot?’ She knew all too well the average number of ops a fighter pilot was expected to survive and then . . .
But Robbie was shaking his head. ‘No – no. I’m on bombers.’ His smile crinkled his eyes. ‘I’m a wireless operator.’
But Fleur wasn’t comforted. She shuddered. ‘Don’t . . . don’t wireless operators have to – have to fill in for other crewmembers if . . .’ Her voice trailed away.
He was looking at her keenly. ‘If one of them gets injured?’
Wordlessly, she nodded.
‘I’m trained as an air gunner too. And yes, sometimes it happens, but not often.’ He paused and then asked, ‘How do you know so much?’
She took a deep breath. He’d know soon anyway if they were both going to be working on the same station. ‘I’ve just finished training as an R/T operator. That’s what I’m coming to Wickerton to do.’
‘Ah,’ he said, understanding. ‘A radio telephone operator? Yes, I’d heard a lot of WAAFs are being trained for that. One of the chaps was saying he thinks it’s because a woman’s voice is more high-pitched. Comes across the airwaves better.’
