The Forget-Me-Not Summer (43 page)

After that there was much talk and much persuasion on the part of Lynette and her friend, though Steve was far too sensible to join in. He stood back, well aware that Miranda would presently bow to the inevitable, as indeed she did, though it must have been almost midnight when the two couples climbed the winding wooden stair, exchanged goodnights and disappeared into their respective rooms. Once there, Miranda allowed her annoyance to show, actually accusing Steve of having planned the whole business, though she knew very well that he had done no such thing. However, they managed to undress discreetly and climbed into bed, pulling the bolster down between them. ‘A bit of a cuddle wouldn't hurt,' Steve said hopefully when they had blown out the candle and rolled up the blackout blind and were lying in the friendly summer dark. ‘I won't do anything you wouldn't like, honest to God, Miranda.'

‘Go to sleep!' Miranda replied smartly. ‘Go straight to sleep; do not pass Go, do not collect two hundred pounds.
And just remember, all Waafs have a scream like a train whistle, so if you put so much as one finger across that bolster . . .'

‘I wasn't considering a finger . . .' Steve said plaintively, and received a quick smack round the ear. ‘Oh, very well. I'm tired too, so we'd best get some shut-eye, or it'll be morning and that damned Yankee will have ate up all the bacon and eggs.'

Miranda and Steve, despite the best of intentions, woke late, and by the time they took their places opposite one another at the small table in the bar the American was paying the bill and thanking the landlady for a delightful visit. He hefted a large suitcase out to the waiting taxi and Lynette, with a cheery wave, was about to follow him when something seemed to occur to her and she turned back. ‘I take it you've seen your mam?' she bawled across the room. ‘You could ha' knocked me down with a feather when I walked slap bang into her on Lime Street. I could see she didn't remember me – well, I weren't always blonde and I've put on a bit more weight than I should over the past two or three years. She said she were with a concert party, come over from the States to entertain the doughboys, but before I could tell her how worried we'd all been someone shouted and she gave me a big smile, said “Excuse me, but I'm wanted” and disappeared into the crowd. You knew she were back, of course?'

Sheer astonishment had caused Miranda's throat to close up, making speech impossible, but Steve seized Lynette's arm, digging his fingers into the soft flesh until she squeaked. ‘Miranda don't know anything about her
mother, except that she might have been living in America. She's not seen her since the day she disappeared,' he said urgently. ‘Are you sure it was Arabella? Did the person who shouted use the name Arabella? Oh, Lynette, you can't just walk away, having told only half the story.'

But Lynette was shaking her head. ‘I dunno. I called her Arabella but she just looked straight through me as if I didn't exist. It were only when I grabbed her arm that she looked at me. At the time I would have sworn it was Arabella, but afterwards . . . oh, I don't know, I suppose it could have been one of them lookalikes. Which twin has the Toni, sort of thing. Still, it might be worth you havin' a word with whoever runs the Yankee ENSA; see if you can trace her through them.' A bellow from the yard outside made her turn hastily away from them. ‘I've gotta go,' she shouted over her shoulder. ‘See you again. Sorry I can't stay . . .'

Miranda jumped to her feet just as the landlady appeared with two plates full of bacon, eggs, fried bread and sausages. She would have run out of the room but Steve caught her arm and made her sit down. ‘The car went off the moment she climbed into the passenger seat,' he said cheerfully. ‘And anyway there was no point in asking any more questions, because she'd already told us everything she knew. But she's given you a very good clue, queen, the best you've had so far. Now I wonder whether anyone else in Liverpool recognised her?'

‘I've got to get back to Liverpool!' Miranda cried wildly, ignoring Steve's words. ‘I've simply got to find her. If she's lost her memory and doesn't know who she really is, then I can tell her she's my mother, say how sorry I
am that I wasn't a better daughter. And there's other things: she won't know she was kidnapped, or by whom. She won't know what happened to her in that storm, how she escaped drowning, I mean. Oh, once I've helped her to unlock her memory it will all come flooding back. I must go up to Liverpool at once!'

Steve, however, was shaking his head. ‘No you mustn't. You're a member of His Majesty's forces, and you can't possibly get up to Liverpool and back in the course of a forty-eight. Besides, Lynette never said
when
she bumped into Arabella. The Yanks have been in the war now for over two years; it could have happened way back. I'm afraid you're going to have to keep on being patient and sensible, because rushing your fences will only lead to a fall. And now, darling Miranda, do let's get on with what's left of our little holiday. Going AWOL will only get you court martialled and that won't help to find your mother. I'll tell you what, though: write to Lynette, care of ENSA, and ask all the questions which you didn't have time for just now. She might remember a bit more if you give her a few days.' He dug his fork into the egg yolk. ‘Aren't we lucky? This egg is cooked just as I like it with the yolk runny and the white firm. Oh, come on, Miranda, cheer up. You're on holiday and you've had a clue to your mother's whereabouts at last!'

AVRIL HAD WAVED
Miranda off, gone to the NAAFI for a cup of tea and a natter, and then repaired to their hut. She undressed slowly and climbed into bed, expecting to sleep at once for she had had a tiring day, but in fact she lay wakeful, suddenly aware that she was missing the younger girl. Avril wondered how she and Steve were getting on, and cast off her blankets, for it was a hot night. She hoped they were making the most of their leave and turned and twisted, trying to find a cool spot, but finally decided to stop courting sleep and instead think back over her time at RAF Scratby.

Miranda had made it easy for her, she thought now. There had been a great many girls to meet as well as a good few young men, for, one way or another, Miranda knew practically all the personnel on the airfield and introduced Avril to each one. Everyone was friendly, the men intrigued by the combination of her Liverpool accent and Nordic good looks and the girls fascinated to learn that she had spent the last few years on a balloon site and eager for details.

But now Avril let her mind go right back to the time when she had joined the air force to get away from the streets where she and Gary had once been happy . . . she had joined in fact to forget the pain which losing him had caused her. Before she had met Gary she had never
known what it was to love someone, for though she supposed she must have loved her parents she could scarcely remember them. Along with most of the children in the home, she had hated the place, the staff and a good few of the other occupants. When she had met Miranda she had been living in a hostel, working as hard as she could at her job and scarcely believing that she could ever escape from the treadmill of trying to earn enough money to be independent. Then Gary had entered her life.

Before then, Avril had had several boyfriends but had never taken them seriously. They had families – mums and dads, brothers and sisters – and whenever she was taken to a young man's home she felt panicked, like someone thrown into deep water before learning to swim. She floundered, unable to find the right attitude, always aware that she was different.

Knowing Miranda had helped, because Miranda, too, had no cosy home background. She had talked of her loving mother, but Avril secretly thought a good deal of what her friend said was wishful thinking. If Miranda's mother had truly loved her, why had she gone away and not come back? So, gradually, almost imperceptibly, Avril began to relax. And when she met Gary, and discovered that he, too, had been brought up in a children's home, she had begun to talk of her past, and to her delight had found Gary understood.

Very soon she realised she was deeply in love with him, so that the shock of his death had been almost unbearable. Running away, determined to make a career for herself in the air force, she had accepted the position of kitchen worker on an airfield in Lincolnshire, lowly
and disgusting though this was to her way of thinking, because she was determined to do well, to be the best C and B the air force had ever known.

She had reckoned without Corporal Greesby, of course. She had no idea whence his dislike had sprung, but she soon discovered that it was in his power to make or break her and that the best way to escape his malevolence was to keep her head down and do as she was told. ‘Never explain, never complain' was an old army saying, but apparently it also applied to the air force, and Avril and one or two other girls for whom Corporal Greesby had developed a dislike soon learned to follow its advice. So when the notice had appeared on the bulletin board in the Mess, asking for women volunteers who were strong, fit and healthy to take over from the men on balloon sites, Avril had been the first to put her name forward, and had been immediately accepted. She had been given a rail pass to Cardington, where she would be trained, along with several other girls from her hut, to fly the great unwieldy barrage balloons.

If the Royal Air Force wondered why so many girls from Corporal Greesby's kitchen applied for the balloon corps they didn't ask, and Avril suspected they didn't care, though she got a good deal of pleasure from a small revenge which she personally carried out upon the corporal, spiking his usual enormous helping of chocolate pudding with a bar of Ex-lax chocolate crumbled over the top. Grinning evilly, she told one of the other girls that the corporal would be spending the next few hours glued to the bog, and shouldered her kitbag with the feeling that honour had been satisfied.

Number One balloon training unit at Cardington was
like a breath of fresh air after the horrors of Corporal Greesby's kitchen. The course lasted ten weeks, during which Avril learned skills of which she had never previously heard. The sergeant who taught them to splice rope and wire, inflate the balloons with hydrogen and drive the winches which operated the winding gear was a sensible man in his forties, who had been a teacher in civvy street and knew exactly how to deal with his recruits. By the end of the course they appreciated not only his skills but also his kindness, and in Avril's eyes he had rescued the reputation of the air force.

After their initial training the girls spent a week at an old aerodrome actually working with a balloon. They were divided into teams of twelve Waafs and a flight sergeant, and, to their relief, when they got their posting at the end of the course they stayed with their team, though the flight sergeant would be allocated when they actually reached their balloon site.

From that moment on Avril was in her element. The work was hard, heavy and frequently dangerous, but she loved it. Most of the sites were on the outskirts of big cities or built-up areas which needed extra protection from the Luftwaffe raids. At first it was difficult to see what extra protection the balloons offered, but the girls had a talk from a flying officer who assured them that the blimps were best avoided, both by the enemy and by their own aircraft. ‘The Luftwaffe fly high when they come in for a bombing raid, and do their best to keep well clear of the balloons,' he assured them. ‘No doubt you've been taught that a plane which flies too near a balloon can be caught up in the cable, which moves with a sawing motion and can cut through wings, tail, even
fuselage. So never think your work isn't important, because it has saved countless lives.'

By the time the order came that Waafs were to leave the balloon sites Avril viewed the prospect of re-mustering with dismay. Only when she learned that, because she had volunteered for balloons, she might choose her new trade did she begin to see that this, in fact, might not be a bad thing. Balloons were all very well, but they weren't exactly a career move; if she re-mustered as, for instance, an MT driver, then they would teach her, not only to drive, but also to repair and maintain all the many and various vehicles used by the air force, and this would still be a useful skill even when the war was over. So off she went to Wheaton, and because she was bright and hard-working she emerged at the end of the training period a fully fledged MT driver.

Naturally enough she watched the bulletin board anxiously, hoping to get a posting soon, and was almost unbelieving when she learned that she was to go to RAF Scratby, the very airfield, had she been given the choice, which she would have chosen.

And now here she was actually lying on her hard little bed feeling a fresh breeze blowing in through the window with a touch of salt on its breath, for the airfield was only a couple of miles from the sea. I wonder whether the beach is mined, Avril found herself thinking sleepily. I know most of the beaches are, particularly along the south and east coasts, but I've read in the newspapers that they have to leave an area clear of mines so that lifeboats can be launched. Oh well, I expect we'd get court martialled if we tried to so much as paddle, and there are lots of other things to do when you're on a
proper RAF station. She snuggled her face into the pillow, remembering the meal they had been served that evening in the Scratby cookhouse, some sort of stew with not very much meat but an awful lot of carrots, and a syrup pudding. Tiddles Tidsworth, watching her, had laughed and asked if the food was up to balloon standards.

Avril had laughed too. On a balloon site one took turns at everything: guard duty, driving the winch, cooking the meals. When it was your turn to cook you were given the ingredients and told to go ahead; there were no such things as menus, or suggestions even. Some girls could cook naturally, others couldn't. Avril remembered Sandra, who didn't understand about boiling potatoes until they were soft, and Janette whose meals were so delicious that at first they had suspected she was buying extra grub from a restaurant somewhere. Avril had assured Tiddles that it was a treat to have food cooked for you and left it at that. No point in putting anyone's back up by saying that the stew could have benefited from some flour to thicken it or even a bit more meat. Smiling at the recollection, she fell asleep at last.