Perhaps she’d closed her eyes in shock, just for a moment, but when she opened them again, he’d gone. She was reminded of a magic trick she’d seen at the theatre, last
Christmas. One minute the magician was standing right there in front of them all; the next, he’d vanished in a puff of smoke, just like that.
James had disappeared as quickly as the magician. She couldn’t believe it. After a few moments, she found she was able to move. She rushed to the door, opened it and looked up and down the
street. James was nowhere to be seen.
She closed the door again. A high-pitched tone began to hum inside her head.
Alone in the shop, she swayed slightly and then, very slowly, crumpled to the floor.
James Blackwell never acted on impulse. He always thought things through before coming to a decision. Afterwards, he rarely analysed what he’d done. He couldn’t see
the point, unless it was to congratulate himself, as he did now.
He’d timed it and reckoned the whole business of dumping the girl had taken no more than forty-five seconds, if that. A personal best; had to be.
He dismissed the scene from his mind as he looked out for signs to the A11, the road that would take him straight up to Cambridge, and Diana. She was expecting him. With luck he’d be there
before dark. One headlight wasn’t working; it never bloody had – but if the RAF’s Met boys were on the ball, he reckoned he should just about stay ahead of the late-season
snow.
He began singing softly to himself. It was one of his mother’s favourites. ‘Moonlight Becomes You . . .’
He was experiencing a sensation that had become familiar to him over the years, and he welcomed it as an old friend. An unmistakable, satisfying feeling.
Everything falling smoothly into place.
But it
had
been a tricky few months, he had to admit. That phone call to Diana last autumn when she was back at Girton had turned out to be somewhat premature, to say the least. It was
meant to be the opening move in his campaign to have an engagement ring on her finger by Christmas, but infuriatingly the war mucked all that up. Without notice, all leave was cancelled, and the
squadron flew endless training exercises and boring patrols up and down the Channel. Then January plunged the whole country into blizzards and the coldest winter anyone could remember. Driving all
the way to Cambridge was out of the question. He’d have needed a battle tank to get through. The big freeze lasted for weeks and weeks.
One bright spot was that Diana had returned his phone call (that very same evening, in fact – an encouraging sign) and they’d had a most agreeable chat. James had long ago discovered
that girls were flattered to be asked questions about themselves and he had shown great interest in Diana’s life in the university town. He’d managed to make her laugh, too, and
she’d ended up happily accepting his suggestion that he motor up to Cambridge the very next weekend, to take her to dinner.
Cancelled leave had put paid to that. He’d had to telephone another message, explaining. Then came the atrocious weather. He’d never known such a run of bad luck. Of course,
he’d written some letters to Diana to keep the pot boiling, as it were, and her replies were friendly enough, but he could hardly move matters forward in any significant way until he saw her
again.
He had thought he might get his chance at Christmas – the Arnolds had invited him to spend it with them at the Dower House – but the squadron ‘leave lottery’ scuppered
that, too. To his fury he drew one of the short straws. So he’d been stuck in Upminster with the other saps and losers while John Arnold went down to Kent alone. Another lousy break. It was
maddening. If he hadn’t had the delightful distraction of that shop-girl over the last couple of months, he’d have gone up the wall.
But now it was the first week of April 1940, and finally, he’d got his leave. He was back in control. Doing what he did best.
James Blackwell always made his own luck.
As the MG spluttered its way towards Cambridge, John Arnold was on his motor bike going in the opposite direction, headed for the Dower House. He had a two-day pass too, his
first leave since Christmas. Gwen was longing to see her son again, and although her husband affected nonchalance, secretly he was too. When they’d spoken over the phone a day or so earlier,
Oliver casually asked if John might be able to get off camp and come down to Kent – ‘your mother’s missing you rather badly, you know, old son’ – and his heart had
leaped at the reply: ‘Actually, yes, I think I can. Tell Mum I’ll try and get there for the weekend.’
John’s parents had gradually become reconciled to his role as a fighter pilot. He didn’t seem to be in any immediate danger. In fact, this war was developing into more of an
inconvenience than a desperate struggle for survival. A few days after New Year, butter, bacon and sugar had been rationed, but that was an irritant, not a cause for despair. Now petrol was
‘on points’, but that seemed manageable enough too.
There had been a few skirmishes in the air, none of them involving John or James’s squadron, and some incidents at sea, but neither side had attempted a lethal thrust. The old battlefields
of France and Belgium were dormant and safely under Allied control. Perhaps all the squaring-up of the previous autumn had been a lot of bluster and Herr Hitler would see sense.
‘As Diana always says,’ Gwen said comfortably to her son over breakfast on his first morning home, ‘the French have a huge army and, anyway, our men are there with them too,
now. Look at this.’ She showed him the headline on the front page of the morning paper:
HITLER’S MISSED THE BUS
! ‘It’s too bad, darling. I know you
wanted an adventure but your father and I think it’s all going to fizzle out.’
Mr Arnold looked up from his own newspaper. ‘Hey, I didn’t quite say that.’
His son smiled at him ruefully. ‘Mum’s probably right, Dad. And truly, I’ll be glad if you are, Mum, although I’ll also feel a bit let down, in a completely selfish sort
of way. We’ve all trained so hard and for so long – and it’s so exciting, in the most primitive sense, when you’re barrelling along through the air at three hundred miles an
hour and you flick open the firing-ring and press the button and eight machine-guns simultaneously burst into life . . . It’s pretty indescribable. The noise is
incredible,
I can
tell you. Like eight great canvas sails being violently ripped in half. The whole aircraft shudders and you feel like – I don’t know . . . like an avenging angel.’
His father stared at him. ‘My word. And what does the inestimable Flight Commander Blackwell make of it all?’
John shrugged. ‘He feels like I do. That it’d be a real shame to have done all these rehearsals and not put on at least one show.’
The breakfast-room door opened and Lucy came in. ‘Please, ma’am, it’s almost eight o’clock and I’ve put the wireless on. It should have warmed up by now.’
Listening to the first main BBC news of the day had become an institution at the Dower House since the war began. Lucy was allowed to stay and listen. She had a brother in France with the
British Expeditionary Force.
The four of them moved into the drawing room. The radio’s speaker issued a promising hiss, and then a deep voice boomed out. ‘
This is the BBC in London. Please stand by for an
important announcement
.’
‘Hello,’ said Mr Arnold, as John whistled. ‘This is new.’
More static. Oliver and Gwen stared at their son, who was pressing a forefinger against his lips. Gwen reached for her husband’s hand. The wireless seemed to briefly whisper something they
could not quite catch, and then the deep voice was back.
‘
This morning, powerful German forces invaded Denmark and Norway. It is understood that Denmark is seeking an immediate surrender, but that Norway is fighting on. The Prime Minister,
in a statement, said that
. . .’
‘This is it, everyone,’ Mr Arnold said, when the news bulletin was over. He jumped up and began to pace the room. ‘This is most definitely
IT
. A classic spring
offensive. Hitler is guarding his northern flank and grabbing some extra ports; then he’ll attack in the west.’ He turned to his son. ‘You’d better call your unit. I’d
imagine they’ll want to—’
He was interrupted by the telephone in the hall.
‘That’ll be them, pound to a penny. You take it, John.’
As their son strode from the room, followed by Lucy, Mr Arnold and his wife stared at each other. There were tears in Gwen’s eyes, and she took a deep, shuddering breath.
‘I didn’t expect it would feel quite like this, Oliver, when it came to it,’ she said.
‘What do you mean, dear?’
‘That I would feel – well, so enormously proud of him. I’m actually not afraid at all. I’m just proud.’
John rushed back into the room. ‘Yup, that was Upminster all right. Immediate recall, as of yesterday! I’m off. I’ll ring you as soon as I know what’s happening. Bye,
Mum. Bye, Dad.’
‘Goodbye, darling,’ said Gwen, hugging him tight. ‘You’ll be all right. I know you will.’
‘Of course I will. We all will. I keep telling you.’
His father had found his keys. ‘I’ll open the garage for your bike. Do you have enough petrol to get back? I’ve a couple of jerry cans you can have.’
‘I’ve plenty. But thanks, Dad.’ John hesitated, and then looked steadily at them both.
‘Look, you’re not to worry, either of you. Practice makes perfect, and I’ve had heaps of it. Everything’s going to be fine.’
The silence that followed this was broken by Lucy, who almost ran into the room.
‘Excuse me, sir,’ she panted, ‘but I’ve brought your bag downstairs. You’d only unpacked a few things and I think I’ve put them all back.’
The three of them came to the door to see him off. There was a light dusting of snow on the gravel drive and Mr Arnold called to his son as he wheeled his motor bike out from the garage:
‘Mind you don’t skid!’
John grinned, eyes shielded behind goggles. ‘Dad, if I can manage not to prang a Spitfire, I can manage this thing, trust me. Bye, everyone!’
And with a deafening roar and a back-spray of snow and gravel, he was gone.
Over a hundred miles north, Cambridge was under three inches of snow. It had begun falling in earnest as James Blackwell swung his little car under Girton’s gate-house,
and pulled up, looking for somewhere to park. A porter came puffing up behind him and rapped on the driver’s window.
‘Excuse me, sir, you can’t come in here,’ he said. ‘No visitors after dark, without a pass. I must ask you to leave the college precincts immediately.’
‘That’s all right,’ said James. He enjoyed this kind of confrontation with functionaries. All one had to do was speak complete nonsense in a confident tone to assert
control.
‘I’m here on RAF business,’ he said pleasantly, briefly showing his leave-pass. ‘The Dean asked me to pop up here personally to discuss the forces’ mentoring scheme
for quasi-undergrads. It’s all covered under section six of the putative war dispensation procedures. Now, where can I park? I’m already late, thanks to this bloody snow.’
The porter blinked. ‘Well, if it’s like that, sir, I suppose you can take one of the faculty spaces up there to the right – but I’m surprised no one told me you were
coming.’
‘Not a problem, old chap. There’s a war on. Everything’s fouled up. You’ll get the paperwork tomorrow, rest easy. Park over there, d’you say? Thanks.’ The MG
chugged away.
Christ, it was just too bloody easy, sometimes.
He pulled up next to a large grey Wolseley –
God
, what were these poncey lecturers
on
to afford cars like this? – and stepped out of his tiny two-seater. The
freshly falling snow had an antiseptic aroma and gave the college buildings an added lustre. Even his mother’s grimy Whitechapel garret looked better under a fresh covering of snow –
until London coal-smoke turned it a dirty grey.
Here at Girton, the transformation was safe from metropolitan grime. Diana’s college looked like the illustration on a Christmas card. But where was he to find her? He noticed a figure
walking diagonally across the quadrangle, head down against the strengthening blizzard.
‘Hello there! Excuse me!’
The figure turned towards him, uncertainly. ‘Hello yourself!’ came a faint voice. ‘Can I help? Sorry, I can’t see you too well – my eyelashes are full of
snowflakes.’
James laughed. ‘Mine too . . . I’m looking for Diana Arnold . . . well, her rooms, at any rate.’
‘Then you’ve come to the right shop.’ The figure materialised out of the snow and dusk. She was blonde, rosy-cheeked, short and dumpy, wrapped up thickly in coat and scarf. She
looked exactly like a Russian doll, James thought.
‘I’m Sally, Diana’s friend. Who are you? How did you get past our fearsome gatekeeper?’
James shrugged. ‘I lied through my teeth,’ he admitted, putting out his hand. ‘James Blackwell. Flight Commander Blackwell, actually. I’m here to take Diana out to
dinner.’
Sally gaped. ‘You’re
him
? Good grief, I was beginning to wonder if you were a figment of Diana’s imagination. She’s been prattling on about you since last
autumn, but every time you were supposed to put in an appearance . . .’
‘I flunked it, I know,’ said James. ‘Not my fault, I swear. Entirely Adolf’s. Well, the Air Ministry’s, actually. Anyway – can you take me to her before you
and I both turn into snowmen?’
Sally squinted at him through the drifting flakes. ‘I won’t take you to her. I wouldn’t want to spoil the moment. I’ll tell you the way, though.’ She pointed to an
arch. ‘Through there, left, and left again at the first corridor. All the rooms at Girton are laid out along horizontal passages. You can’t go wrong. Diana’s is the first door on
the right after that second turn.’
She brushed away the snow from her hair and forehead and stepped forward, looking at him properly in the face for the first time.
‘You’re . . . well, you’re
all right
, aren’t you?’ she asked, in a flatter tone. ‘Diana isn’t just my friend; she’s damn special.
She’s special to all of us here, actually. And we all take care of each other. You should know that. You’ve been a long time coming, Mr Blackwell.’