Wish Me Luck (36 page)

At once, Ruth was running towards her, ‘Oh, Fleur – Fleur. I’ve just heard at the debriefing. I so hoped they’d just be late . . . But . . . I came as soon as I could . . .’ She almost threw herself against Fleur and wrapped her arms around her, holding her tightly. ‘It’s my fault. It’s all my fault,’ Ruth was babbling against her shoulder. ‘I didn’t wave them off like I always do. After final briefing, Serg wanted me to deal with some paperwork. I lost track of time and, by the time I got down to the edge of the runway, most of them had taken off. Oh, Fleur – I’m sorry. I’m so sorry . . .’

Fleur clung to her, unable to give her friend any comfort, unable to exonerate her. She was drained, trembling with shock and weak with anguish. Deep in her heart, she knew it would have made no difference if Ruth had waved them off. It was just another superstition, but at this moment she was incapable of voicing it.

Against her, she felt Ruth draw in a deep breath. Somehow, the other girl found the strength to say, ‘Come on, Fleur. You can’t stay out here in the cold. Let’s get you to the NAAFI . . .’

‘I can’t – I can’t face anyone.’

‘Don’t be daft, Fleur,’ Ruth said with brusque kindness. ‘Everyone knows. Everyone understands. Most of us have been there at one time or another. You need to be with people who understand.’ Ruth was saying almost the same as Kay, but somehow the words were not so harsh. She felt badly about Kay now. It was just her way. She must be hurting inside every bit as much as Fleur. For a moment, Fleur despised herself for her weakness. She wished she could be as strong as . . .

‘Kay? Have you seen Kay?’

Ruth nodded. ‘She came to find me. To tell me that you’d run off.’

‘I’m sorry. She was only trying to help . . .’

‘She understands. She was concerned for you, that’s all.’

‘She’s so strong,’ Fleur murmured. ‘Look at me. I’ve gone to pieces. I’m a wreck. I’m – weak!’

‘No, you’re not. And Kay’s not as tough underneath as she likes to make out. She’ll be sobbing her socks off in bed tonight, you mark my words.’ There was a pause before Ruth added shakily, ‘And she won’t be the only one. I feel so guilty. But we shouldn’t give up hope. Not just yet.’

Sadly, Fleur shook her head. ‘But someone saw a plane go down. It must have been them. And they didn’t see any parachutes . . .’

Now Ruth had no answer.

Fleur sniffed. ‘I . . . I want to go home. I want to see my dad.’

‘Course you do. Let’s go and see ma’am. I’m sure she . . .’

‘Squadron Leader Harris came into the control room. He said he’d see her. Ask her if I could have some leave.’

‘That’s OK then. Let’s go.’

‘I can’t. Looking like this.’ She brushed ineffectually at the front of her uniform, blotched with wet grass stains.

‘I’m sure she’ll overlook it for once. You’re usually the smartest of the lot of us.’ Ruth took Fleur’s arm firmly and urged her towards the buildings. ‘You can’t stop out here. You’ll catch your death.’

With a laugh that was bordering on hysteria, Fleur said, ‘You sound like my mum.’ And at the thought of her mother, Fleur’s tears flowed even harder.

‘Dad!
Dad!’

Two days later, Fleur went home. Despite his disapproval of wartime marriages and romances, Bob Watson had quietly rearranged the rotas so that both Fleur and Kay were not on duty for four days following T-Tommy’s failure to return. Kay went to her home down south, adding on a couple of days’ ordinary leave that she was entitled to, and Fleur travelled to Middleditch Farm. She could not yet face Robbie’s mother.

Dumping her bag near the back door, she ran round the yard, peering into the shadows of the cowshed then running into the barn, calling, ‘Dad, where are you?’ She didn’t want to see her own mother, either. Not yet. She had to find her father. Fleur wanted her dad.

But it was Betsy who appeared at the back door, drying her hands on a tea towel. ‘Whatever’s the matter? Fleur? Is that you?’

Fleur stood a moment amidst the straw on the floor of the barn, summoning up the courage to answer her mother. She moved slowly to the doorway but she did not cross the yard. The two women stared at each other across the space between them and then Fleur saw her mother’s hand flutter to her face to cover her mouth. Slowly, Fleur began to walk towards her.

‘Well, Mum,’ she said harshly as she neared her. ‘You got your wish. He’s gone. Robbie’s—’ She bit hard down on her lip to stop the tears. ‘Robbie’s missing, presumed killed.’

‘Oh, Fleur, how can you think that of me? I didn’t want you married to him. To have anything to do with him. But I wouldn’t have wished him any harm.’

Fleur’s eyes filled with the tears that were never far away. ‘I don’t know what to think. How can I when you won’t tell me anything? What on earth can possibly have happened in the past to make you so – so -vitriolic against him? You didn’t even know him.’

The bitterness of years was in Betsy’s eyes again. Then she sighed deeply and gave a little shake of her head. Flatly, she said, ‘Like I said before, it wasn’t against him personally. Just his mother.’

‘Why? What happened?’

Betsy’s mouth tightened. ‘She was a wicked woman. Devious, manipulating and utterly – utterly – selfish.’

‘How? What on earth did she do?’

Betsy turned away. ‘I don’t want to talk about it. I
won’t
talk about it.’

‘You really hate her, don’t you? Well, if you wanted some kind of . . . kind of revenge on her, then you’ve certainly got it now. She’s lost her son. Her only son.’

Betsy just stared at her, her face expressionless, saying nothing.

‘You really won’t tell me?’ Fleur tried again.

Betsy shook her head.

‘Then I’ll ask Dad. I’ll ask him this very minute.’

‘Perhaps it is time you knew,’ her mother murmured and nodded, as if answering an unspoken question she was asking herself. At last she dragged out the words reluctantly. ‘He’s . . . away up the . . . fields with . . . the sheep. You . . . you’ll find him in Buttercup Meadow.’

Fleur gave a brief nod and moved towards the back door. She picked up her bag and made to step into the house, but her mother didn’t move aside. It was as if she was almost barring Fleur’s way.

Fleur stared at her. ‘I’ll just change my clothes.’ Her uniform was still a mess from her spasm of weeping in the wet grass the night she had heard that Robbie was missing. It would need sponging and pressing before she went on parade again. She would change into her old clothes before she went tramping through the fields to find her dad.

Betsy blinked. ‘Can’t you go as you are?’

‘No, I can’t. I need to change.’

‘Well, you can’t. I mean – you can’t come in. There’s . . . there’s someone here that . . . that I don’t want you to see. That you didn’t ought to see.’

‘What on earth are you talking about, Mum? What’s going on?’

‘Nothing. Nothing. I just don’t want you to see her. Not just now. It’ll be – awkward.’

‘Who? Who is it you don’t want me to see?’

Betsy bit her lip. ‘You don’t understand. I mean – I don’t want
her
to see
you.
Not just this minute.’

‘Who?’

Fleur was getting angry now. What was all the mystery and why – when Fleur was suffering the worst moment in the whole of her young life – was her mother acting so strangely? ‘Mum – just tell me who it is you don’t want me to see?’

Betsy sighed. ‘Louisa. Your Aunt Louisa.’

‘Aunt Louisa? Why on earth shouldn’t I see her?’

‘It’s . . . it’s complicated. It’s all to do with . . . with Robbie and his mother. You don’t understand,’ she finished lamely.

‘No, I don’t.’ Now, Fleur pushed her mother aside. ‘But I’m jolly well going to find out.’

‘No, Fleur. Please don’t. You don’t understand – Fleur . . . !’ Betsy tried to grab her daughter’s arm, but Fleur shook her off and marched into the kitchen where Louisa was sitting at the table drinking tea.

‘Fleur, my dear, how lovely . . .’ Louisa began as she rose and held out her arms to hug Fleur, who submitted a little stiffly to the embrace. Then she stood back. ‘My dear girl. What is it? What’s wrong?’

Fleur stared into the older woman’s eyes for what seemed a long time but was in fact only seconds.

‘It’s Robbie,’ Fleur whispered at last. But before she could say more, Louisa took a step back. Her hand fluttered to cover her mouth and her eyes widened in horror. ‘Oh, no!’ she breathed. ‘Don’t say it – oh, don’t say it!’

Fleur was puzzled. Despite the sorrow that anyone might feel to hear of a young airman’s death and the sympathy Louisa, as a friend of the family, would naturally feel for the young bride so cruelly widowed, the woman’s reaction was extreme.

‘Aunt Louisa,’ Fleur began, reaching out to take Louisa’s hands. ‘What is it? Whatever’s the matter?’ But Louisa snatched her hands away.

‘No, no, don’t. I must go. I can’t stay . . .’ She cast a beseeching, almost frantic look at Betsy who had followed her daughter inside. Then she snatched up her handbag and scarf and fled from the room. As the back door slammed behind her, there was silence in the room until Fleur moved woodenly and sank down into her father’s chair by the range.

‘What is it, Mum? What’s it all about?’

Betsy sighed heavily and flopped down into the chair on the opposite side of the hearth, as if suddenly all the energy had drained out of her.

‘Go and find your father,’ she said flatly. ‘Ask him,’ was all she would say.

With sudden renewed vigour, determined to get to the bottom of the mystery, Fleur sprang to her feet. ‘Then I will. I’ll go now. This very minute.’ She stood a moment, staring down at her mother, willing her to say something – anything. But Betsy was silent, just staring into the fire. She didn’t move as Fleur hurried upstairs to change her clothes. When she returned, her mother had not moved. She was sitting just as Fleur had left her, staring silently and sadly into the flames.

‘Mum?’ Fleur said tentatively, but Betsy made no move, no sign that she had even heard her.

Fleur left the house and stood a moment outside the back door. She pulled in a deep breath. It helped to calm her, but nothing could assuage her terrible grief. She felt as if she would never smile or laugh ever again. The sun had gone out of her life. She thrust her hands deep into the pockets of her old coat and trudged across the yard, out of the gate and down the lane towards the field where she knew her father would be.

Even before Jake saw her, Bess, the black and white sheepdog, barked and came scampering across the field towards her.

‘Bess!’ Jake roared angrily, as the sheep scattered in fright. Then he saw Fleur and he grinned and began to walk towards her. But as he neared her, his smile faded. ‘Aw lass, don’t tell me. Is it Robbie?’

Tears choked her and all she could do was nod as he limped towards her and put his arms around her, holding her close. ‘Aw love,’ he said huskily.

They stood for a long time until he said gently, ‘Come on, let’s go back to the house. Let’s—’

‘No, Dad. No. I want to talk to you. I
need
to talk to you.’ She drew back, her eyes brimming with tears.

For a moment, he studied her face. Then he gave a deep sigh and nodded. ‘All right. But first, tell me what’s happened.’

‘He . . . he didn’t come back from a mission the night before last. It’s so ironic – so cruel. It was their thirtieth mission. A full tour, Dad. They’d done a full tour. At least, the four of them had.’

‘Those lovely boys at your wedding? They’re all missing?’

Fleur nodded. ‘They – some of the other pilots – told Ruth at debriefing that they’d seen a plane go down with two of its engines on fire just off the coast. Tommy’s a wonderful pilot, but . . .’

‘Was that the one who was the best man?’

‘Yes. But . . . but even he wouldn’t be able to do much if . . . if it was on fire.’

‘Was it near our coast?’

She nodded.

‘Then—’ Jake began, with a tiny hope, but Fleur shook her head sadly.

‘No one saw any parachutes. And there’s been no word. We’d’ve heard by now if they’d been picked up.’

‘Are you sure? There’s been some dreadful bombing down south again. They reckon it’s in retaliation for this round-the-clock bombing we’ve been doing.’

‘It’s no good having false hope, Dad. I’ve worked in the control room long enough, seen enough missions, to know that, nine times out of ten, when they don’t come back that night then – then they don’t come back at all. Oh, sometimes they do. The lucky ones. Their plane limps home late or lands at another airfield or they’ve parachuted out of the plane and been picked up. Even become prisoners of war, if it was over enemy territory. But . . . but this wasn’t. It was over the sea.’ She pulled in a deep breath. ‘I’ve got to face it, Dad. He’s gone. I’ve lost him.’

Jake shook his head, as if unable to believe the dreadful news, and yet it shouldn’t really have come as a shock. Every day young men were dying for their country. Young men just like Robbie, young men just like Kenny.