Authors: Alan Judd
She shook her head. ‘Quicker to write, time it takes people to get through to London from here. Cheaper, too. I did give you your change, didn’t
I?’
He wrote that night, before standby, but it was a fortnight before he had a reply. Those two
weeks were the most intense period of the V1 bombardment, which ended when the Allied armies overran the launch sites. Each
time Frank shot one down or flipped one, he thought of the manor. He still didn’t know whether it was his first flipper
that had hit it or the one flipped by someone else at about the same time, or simply a rocket that had fallen short as they sometimes did. It might
have been possible to narrow the options, given time he didn’t have, but he preferred not to know. The colonel, meanwhile, occupied almost as much of his interior space as did Vanessa, in an intermittent interior dialogue in which the
colonel’s walnut voice was ever present. He didn’t miss him because it was as if he was still there.
Vanessa’s reply coincided with the temporary withdrawal of the squadron’s Tempests for improvements and re-adaptation to the roles they were designed for, fighter
escort and long-range intruder. There was also a shortage of spares because of strikes at factories in Preston. It meant he at last had some leave.
Her reply was brief but encouraging. She was pleased to hear, had not known how to get in touch, was doing war work while camping with her friend Margaret, suggested they met in Lyons
Corner House opposite Charing Cross station. She had no phone but if he wrote with a date, giving a few days’ notice, she could probably do it. What
had happened was a great shock and sadness.
They met on a wet Thursday. His train was late because the V2 rockets had begun to bombard London. Unlike the V1s, they fell without warning
and couldn’t be shot down or deflected. One had exploded in Woolwich that morning, killing dozens of munitions girls. More were anticipated and the
trains reverted to air-raid drill, creeping along the track at 5–10 mph so that drivers had time to spot broken or missing rails.
The V2s were much feared.
Frank pushed his way through the crowd outside Charing Cross station without noticing Nelson’s column to his
left. He was unused to crowds and the press of people made the solitude of his cockpit in the sky suddenly more attractive than
frightening. The Corner House was thronged with uniforms, mainly Army, and the noise was oppressive. Every table was taken and the spaces between were
cluttered with kitbags, gas masks, greatcoats and helmets. He could see no other officers. A pair of Redcaps – military police
who patrolled every major station – eyed diners through the windows from the Strand.
He waited inside the door, where he had thought she would be. Perhaps she was late as well. It was too hot, too thick with
smoke, too crowded, they wouldn’t be able to hear themselves speak. He would suggest somewhere else when she came. Then he saw her wave from a
table by one of the Strand windows. Suffused with relief, he couldn’t help smiling as he squeezed his way over to her.
She wore a tightly belted fawn raincoat with a matching hat, her hair tied in a bun. The table was for two, with
two teas and two buns.
‘I’m sorry, the tea’s cold and there’s only a bun because I had to order something without
knowing what you’d want in order to be allowed to keep the place. I should have realised how crowded it would be at lunchtime.
I’ve only twenty minutes left, I’m afraid. Tell me everything, what you’re doing, how you are. I’m so pleased we could meet.’
He didn’t mind anything as long as she was there. He drank his cold tea and ate the stale buttered bun without noticing. She smiled all the time, as he did. Her crooked
teeth were attractive to him now, whiter than most people’s. The smiling stopped when he mentioned the colonel.
‘At least it was quick,’ he said.
‘That’s what we always say. We have to, I suppose.’
She looked through the window at the crowd outside the station. He felt he had blundered, reminding her of her husband. ‘He wouldn’t have
known anything about it.’
She shrugged and looked back at him. ‘He was very fond of you.’
‘I didn’t realise that Johnny was his son, that you were his daughter-in-law.’
‘Did you not? Really?’
‘He never mentioned him. Nobody did until I saw those photos.’
‘But the fishing rods he gave you, those were Johnny’s. Did you not realise?’
‘How could I? No one said anything. I wouldn’t have accepted them.’ He had raised his voice and perhaps sounded
annoyed, but couldn’t help it. ‘Is it an English thing, not mentioning people when they’re dead? It’s the same on the squadron but it’s more understandable there because you’ve got to go on.’
‘So has everyone. It’s the same for all of us.’ She spoke quietly.
‘He said, “They’re yours now,” like he was anointing me, making me his son.’
‘Yes.’
‘But I didn’t even know.’
‘That was the point. He didn’t want to burden you with the obligation of sympathy. He wanted to spare you that. He probably thought you had
enough on your plate.’
‘He told me all about how my father was killed in the last war, as a result of saving him. Just
like with me and Patrick.’
‘That too.’
It was not going as he’d wanted. He felt exasperated and at the same time that
he was being unreasonable. The smiling intimacy of the first few minutes had evaporated and there was
a distance between them now. He held up his hands. ‘I’m sorry, I didn’t mean it to be like this.’
‘It’s quite all right, Frank.’
That made it worse, that impossible-to-read social tone again. ‘Another thing, I – that V1 that hit the manor. It might have been
mine, might have been me that tipped it. Maybe that was my fault too.’
She reached across the table and took his hand. ‘No, Frank, not you, don’t blame everything on yourself. It’s the Germans’ fault, Hitler’s fault, it’s not you. Stop thinking about
yourself.’ She let go. ‘Now, I have to go. I have to be back at my office by two. Will you walk with me?’
It was a quaint way to put it but he could have wept with relief. He had thought she was about to leave him
and that that would be it, no more talk. They had a brief, good-natured argument about the bill, which she let him win, and
then walked down Whitehall to the War Office where she worked. ‘What do you do there?’
‘I’m afraid I can’t say.’ She smiled. ‘I’m not just being mysterious. I’m not allowed to talk
about it. But it’s nothing like as exciting or important as what you’re doing, I promise.’
Walking in uniform along Whitehall proved a minefield strewn with military top brass. He found himself saluting every ten yards and she soon started to laugh. She slowed as they approached the
War Office. ‘You’d better not come to the door or they’ll think you’re official.’
‘I am official, just not officially with you.’ They stopped. ‘May I see you again?’
‘Of course.’
It was awkward. Standing on the pavement outside the War Office in uniform, he couldn’t touch or kiss her as he wanted. ‘It’s – I – I can’t say what I’d like to say, here. I’m sorry.’
Her expression was solemn, which made him feel more awkward. ‘What time do you have to be back?’
‘No time. I’m on leave.’
‘Come to my flat at six-thirty. You have the address.’
It was a basement flat in one of Pimlico’s stucco-fronted nineteenth-century streets. Frank had spent the afternoon wandering around central London, looking for
famous sights but recognising only Big Ben and Buckingham Palace. The rest, though busy, was tired, drab and colourless apart from the willow herb
that colonised the bomb sites and the uniformed servicemen of various nationalities without whom no street scene seemed complete. The civilians looked pale, preoccupied and
indifferent.
Later, he took himself to a cinema in Leicester Square and watched a film about eighteenth-century pirates,
smoking four cigarettes and paying attention only when Pathé news came on with scenes of jubilant French civilians greeting Allied forces in Europe and
reports of heavy fighting in Holland. Most of the time he fantasised about what was going to happen in her flat but without being able to imagine anything convincing, or even specific.
The flat was small and shabbily furnished but the dim yellow light bulbs and the smell of cooking lent it the illusion of
homeliness. She wore a dark skirt and white blouse and began apologising before he was properly through the door. ‘Margaret’s away in Portsmouth yet again
– she works for the Navy and is up and down like a yo-yo – and since I arrived
there hasn’t been time to sort anything out, hence the mess, I’m afraid. It’s also damp – can you smell it? – but the landlady
lives in Worcester and isn’t interested so long as she gets her rent. Dinner will be pretty awful, too – just a morsel of ancient mince
and even older potatoes with, if they haven’t rotted, some runner beans I brought up from Kent. Rationing bites – if that’s the
word – harder in London than elsewhere.’ She laughed. ‘And no wine or beer. Well, there is a bottle of red in the
kitchen but it’s Margaret’s and I think she’s saving it for some special occasion like the end of the war or marrying her
admiral.’
‘I should have got one. I saw a – an off-licence, is that what they’re called? It was quite near, I’ll go back
and—’
‘No you won’t, it won’t be open yet and anything they’ve got is bound to be hideously expensive and bad. That’s if they’ve
got it at all. We’ll make do with tea. There’s masses of that because Margaret doesn’t drink it so she just saves up her rations and gives it away.’
‘I didn’t know anyone in England didn’t drink tea.’
‘You don’t know the English yet.’ She smiled. ‘You can put your cap and gas mask down, you know,
we’re not about to be inspected.’
The kitchen was a narrow galley with barely enough room for two. Beyond it was an equally narrow bathroom that felt and smelt damp. There was one bedroom
– Margaret’s – which he didn’t see. She cooked on an oven with two gas rings, both of which were feeble.
‘Pressure must be down,’ she said. ‘This may take some time.’
They ate at the table in the living room. ‘Where do you sleep?’ he asked.
‘There.’ She nodded at the sofa. ‘It unfolds into a bed. It’s not bad, quite comfortable. I thought about using Margaret’s, which
is a proper double, but I don’t think we should. I couldn’t relax.’ She smiled. ‘If you want to stay, that is.’
He looked at her. ‘I thought you – no more pilots, you said—’
‘I know. And I meant it when I said it. And it’s no good falling in love with me, I still mean that. But—’
‘You think I need it? You’re taking pity on me?’
‘Doing my bit for the war effort.’ Her eyes were still smiling. ‘But only if you really want to.’
Frank felt suddenly nervous, almost like a take-off, but he smiled. ‘I do want to, I really do.’
Later, in the early hours, he lay awake while she dozed. It was done; he was qualified, part of wider mankind at last.
But he didn’t feel any different. There was none of the euphoria he had felt on getting his wings or completing his Spitfire training. Only
this woman by his side who had accepted him, generously, mysteriously. He sensed already that he might never really know why, but he was grateful.
At about three o’clock they got up and made tea. She showed him how. ‘It’s so important to warm the pot first, then one spoonful
for each drinker and one for the pot. Then you must – must – let it make.’
‘Let it make?’
‘Leave it to stew for a few minutes.’ She held up her hand. ‘Mind – careful with the kettle, it’s spitting boiling
water.’ They were both naked.
‘I’m learning a lot tonight.’
She kissed his neck. ‘You’re learning fast.’
‘Did you know I’d never—’
‘I guessed.’
Breakfast was more tea accompanied by stale bread toasted under the grill. ‘Only margarine, I’m afraid,’ she said. ‘Nothing else here. You live
better in your mess.’
They talked about practicalities – what would become of the ruined manor, the colonel’s will,
her prospect of another job in the War Office which would make greater use of her French. He walked back
to Whitehall with her in a thin rain, the pavements teeming with people doing the same. Big Ben was showing ten to nine as they
crossed Parliament Square. He slowed. ‘Thank you for doing your bit for the war effort.’ He wanted to say more but
didn’t know how to put it. It was easier, less embarrassing, to affect an off-handedness which she would recognise as affected, therefore not meant. He must be catching
the English disease, he thought, playing the English game.
‘It was my pleasure too, you know.’
‘May I come up and see you again?’
‘I hope you will.’
‘Even though I’m a pilot?’
‘Especially.’ She stopped, raised her hand to his cheek and kissed him briefly on the lips. ‘Goodbye,
Frank.’
He levelled off at 150 feet, having just led his flight of three in a wide descending turn away from the train. They had
spotted it through a gap in the cloud and, with luck, it might not realise it had been seen. Even if it had, their leisurely turn out of sight
from 10,000 feet might tempt it to assume the marauding Tempests had other business. But such trains were very much their business. Briefed
primarily to sweep for German fighters, they had been told that targets of opportunity such as goods trains were just as important, especially trains such as this with mysterious long canvas-covered loads that might be rockets or rocket parts. There were anti-aircraft guns mounted on every other truck.
He called to his flight, ‘Going down in ten seconds,’ and led them on a gentle descent through the cloud until they came out over
flat, featureless heathland. Since his unexpected promotion to flight lieutenant, every mission seemed busier. Having to think of and for others left no time for
daydreaming nor even for his old familiar, his fear. It was still there but feeling it, indulging it, had become a luxury he no longer
had time for. Reckoning they must be six or seven miles from the train, he called out, ‘Target
ahead. Going down. Form echelon to starboard behind me.’ He tightened his harness straps, lowered his seat a notch for gunsight
vision and switched on the sight. He would take the engine end, which had the most flak, and force the German gunners
to divide their fire to cover them all.