The Forget-Me-Not Summer (45 page)

In fact, however, she had no opportunity to write letters, for she was called to the small bay to service the engine of a car which the driver was having trouble starting, and by the time she finished she was ready for a meal, so she searched out Miranda and the two joined the cookhouse queue together. They reached the counter and had just had corned beef hash, cabbage and gravy slapped on to their plates when Miranda turned to her friend. ‘I forgot to ask if you ever write to Pete Huxtable?' she said airily. ‘Steve says he's out in Malaya now; but I guess you know that, don't you?'

Despite her best efforts, Avril's mouth hung open for quite ten seconds before she pulled herself together. ‘What makes you think that?' she asked belligerently. A sudden thought struck her. ‘You looked at the letters on the board and saw the one I got from him! Miranda Lovage, you are a thoroughly sneaky person! And why shouldn't I write to Pete, anyway? He were real nice to me after Gary and Timmy died. Besides, what are you trying to make of it? I've gorra grosh of fellers what I
write to and I dare say there's chaps here what'll want me to go to the flicks or to a dance with them. What's wrong wi' that?'

Miranda laughed. ‘Nothing, you fool,' she said, ‘so why be so secretive? Why not admit you write to Pete and actually rather like him? As you'd be the first to point out, liking someone is no sin.' As she spoke they had managed to find an unoccupied table and put their plates on it, so now they pulled up two chairs and sat down.

Avril shrugged. ‘I dunno; I guess I just wanted to keep it to myself. That Pete and I are going to go steady when he comes home, I mean,' she said sulkily. ‘I always swore I wouldn't get involved because it was just a pathway to pain, and so it is. I worry about Pete all the time, but I tell myself he means no more to me than the other fellers. You see, while I pretend he's not important . . . oh, I don't know, I can't explain. It's got something to do with the fact that I knew him before either of us had joined the RAF. I'm afraid I can't explain better than that, because I don't understand it myself. Only on my last balloon site we had this lovely flight sergeant. Gosh, she was beautiful, and tremendously efficient too. She'd been in the WAAF from the very beginning and a couple of months after she joined she got married to a tail gunner. He was killed six weeks after their wedding; she was devastated, but went on with the job. Her dead husband's best pal began to take her about. He was a fighter pilot trying to defend the troops when the Dunkirk evacuation began. He ditched and was presumed dead. After that she kept herself to herself for a couple of years, but then she had an affair with the boy next door who was a bomb
aimer. He was killed over Cologne. Fellers started looking at her funny, and no one would take her out, though she was so beautiful! They thought she were a jinx, you see. Nothing's ever happened to none of my fellers, and I reckon that was because I didn't really love any of 'em. Only – only Pete is a bit different, so I won't risk him. He's no beauty – plain as a boot, in fact – but he means a lot to me. So he's stayin' under hatches until the war's over, understand?'

‘Oh, poor Avril,' Miranda said softly. ‘But I do understand, in a way. You thought you lost everything when Gary died and you're afraid of losing everything again. And I think I can imagine how that feels – even though my Steve is in England and I know he doesn't mean to worry me, some of the things he says keep me awake at nights. So don't think I don't sympathise, because I do.' She pushed her empty plate to one side as she spoke and stood up, fastened the buttons on her tunic and slapped her cap on her head. ‘Are you coming to the NAAFI? And just think – there's one good thing about having your feller abroad: you don't have to join the queue for the telephone, which seems to get longer with every passing day!'

MIRANDA HAD BECOME
Group Captain Llewellyn's personal driver whenever he needed to be taken on a long journey, and these were happening rather frequently now, because Operation Overlord, which had started the previous June, meant a great many meetings of the top brass. Avril, on the other hand, drove whatever she was given – the blood wagon, the liberty truck, convoys carrying heavy weapons from one place to another – just about anything. Which was why, when the letter arrived, she was called in from her post as ambulance driver for the day to receive it.

Avril's forehead wrinkled into a frown. What had she done to receive an official letter? But the Waaf who had come to fetch her scowled up at her and jerked an impatient thumb. ‘Come along, Donovan, you're wanted in Flight's office,' she said impatiently. ‘Letters ain't always bad news . . . maybe it's a perishin' postin', or you're bein' made up to corporal, ha ha!'

But at the mere mention of a posting Avril jumped down from her seat in the ambulance and hared off across the grass to their flight officer's small room. She shot through the doorway, her heart hammering in her throat, but at a glance from the officer's chilly blue eyes she pulled herself together. She came stiffly to attention and saluted with such force that her right temple tingled.
Then she said, as coolly as she could, ‘LACW Donovan reporting, ma'am.'

‘Official letter, Donovan,' the flight officer said, and she must have seen the shock which Avril was trying so hard to hide, for she unbent a little. She handed it over, advising, as Avril's hand closed on the flimsy paper, ‘Take it to your hut and read it in there. They won't miss you on the blood wagon for several hours yet. It passes my comprehension why we have to man the ambulance all through the day when our planes only attack by night.'

Avril could have told her; enemy planes did not work by the same rules as the British ones, which meant that the airfield could be attacked at any hour of day or night, but she realised that Flight Officer Adams was only making conversation to give her support, for she must have already guessed what the letter contained. So Avril answered accordingly. ‘It's something we all query, ma'am,' she said, hoping her voice was not wobbling. She threw off another smart salute, turned with a click of her heels and strode out of the room.

She pushed open the door of their hut, glad to find it empty, and went over to her bed, slumping on to it and unfolding the sheet of paper. She found she was trembling so much that the words on the page blurred. For a moment she simply sat there, staring at the paper before her, then she took a deep breath and held it for a count of ten, releasing it slowly in a low whistle. She did this twice and then the words on the page were clear, could be calmly read.

Her eyes went first to the signature: a known name, occasionally mentioned in Pete's letters, and of course it said what she dreaded to hear, that Corporal Peter
Huxtable had not returned from a raid and was accordingly posted as missing. Since Corporal Huxtable had given her name as his next of kin it was his duty to inform her that Lancaster BT 308 had been shot down, but that the pilot of the aircraft following it in the formation had seen several parachutes open and thought that some of these had reached the ground safely.

Avril took another deep breath and expelled it even more slowly than she had the first. She thought of the dangers which Pete must face even if he had managed to get out of the plane; landing behind enemy lines in an area his aircraft had recently been bombing could mean that a trigger-happy air raid warden – if they had such things in Malaya – might blast off a round of deadly bullets without a moment's consideration. But on the other hand, there was that thing called the third Geneva convention . . .

The hut door burst open, stopping Avril's thoughts in mid-flow. The little Waaf who had instructed her to go to the flight officer came into the hut. Her face was pink, concerned, but Avril met her gaze blandly. ‘In a hurry, Ellis? If you've come to find out what was in my letter . . .'

The other girl's face turned from pink to crimson and her eyes sparkled indignantly. ‘Flight told me to make sure you were all right,' she said stiffly. ‘But I can see there was no need for concern. God, you're a hard nut, Donovan; don't nothin' crack your shell?'

Avril made a great play of putting her letter away in her locker, so that the other girl could not see her face. When she was in full command once more, she swung round and spoke, her voice even and unemotional. ‘Not
while I've got nothing to moan about,' she said quietly. ‘My feller's missing, but the aircraft behind his in the formation saw 'chutes opening. My feller will come out of it all right; he's like a cat, always lands on his feet.' She hesitated, then gave her fellow Waaf a tight little grin. ‘But thanks for coming over, Mary; it were real good of you.'

Together the two girls left the hut and Avril began to chat of other things, the work in which she was engaged, the meal they would presently eat in the cookhouse and how she missed her best friend Lovage, who was now seldom on the airfield, but taking the top brass wherever it wanted to go. She missed her, of course she did, but Miranda would be back, probably before dark . . . The two girls chatted on, as though neither had a worry in the world.

Miranda had a perfectly dreadful day. Some senior officers were a positive joy to transport from one place to another, but Air Commodore Bailey was not one of them. He made no secret of the fact that he did not like women, did not trust women drivers and had no intention of placing his valuable life in the hands of someone he described as ‘a chit of a girl'. In normal circumstances, therefore, Miranda would never have been told to drive the commodore, in his beautifully polished staff car, from the station he had been inspecting the previous day to what was described as an unknown destination in the north of England. But when the orderly officer went to wake the commodore's driver he found him writhing in his bed, sweat standing out on his forehead, obviously burning up with fever. The man had to be hospitalised
at once, and within the hour was on the operating table having a burst appendix removed, and poor Miranda, looking forward to a quiet day for once, was given her new orders, reminded of the air commodore's feelings regarding women drivers and sent round to the Commodore's quarters to be given details of her destination.

Dismayed, for everyone knew Air Commodore Bailey, Miranda begged to be excused, suggesting that almost any man in the MT section might take her place. But men were at a premium and the officer who had given her her instructions raised a quizzical eyebrow. ‘What do you mean, Lovage? Oh, I dare say he can be a bit difficult, and women don't like that, but I'm sure you'll charm the pants off him, if you'll forgive the expression. Just do your best and don't get lost, and we'll see you back here before dark.'

Not at this point knowing her eventual destination, Miranda could only assure the orderly officer that she would do her best, but when she read her instructions and realised she was going up to Northumberland she gave a soft whistle of dismay. She thought it extremely unlikely that she would be back at the airfield before dark, for the days were getting shorter and, though the main roads would probably be quite clear, if one came across a convoy heading in the same direction it could add hours to any journey.

However, orders were orders and Miranda nipped into the ablutions to damp her curly hair into submission, though it was cut short and little could be seen beneath her cap. Then she checked her appearance, which was as immaculate as a clothes brush and Brasso could make
it, and she drove to the meeting point, where she had her first unpleasant experience of the day. The air commodore, deep in conversation with the group captain, crossed the concrete apron and paused to allow his driver to wriggle out from behind the wheel and come round to open the rear passenger door for him. He began to thank her, but then the words seemed to shrivel in his throat. ‘What – what – what?' he barked. ‘Where's Jones?' He put a hand out to rest on the roof of the car, but made no attempt to climb inside. Instead he swung round to face the group captain. ‘I remember you telling me Jones had been carted off with a pain in his innards, but you never said . . .'

The group captain hastily cut across what he must have guessed would be an offensive sentence. ‘LACW Lovage is one of the best drivers we have, so you'll be in good hands,' he said soothingly. ‘She has her instructions and understands that you must reach Northumberland before the weapons trials can begin.' He turned to Miranda, still holding the passenger door open. ‘You can get the air commodore to his destination without trouble, can't you, Aircraftwoman?'

‘I'll do my best, sir,' Miranda said. ‘So long as we don't find ourselves held up by a convoy or by closed roads . . . but I've got a map which the orderly officer assured me is up to date, so we'll hope for the best.'

The air commodore, a large man who probably weighed in at over fifteen stone, had climbed into the car and leaned back against the leather, but at her words he jerked forward, waving a sausage-like forefinger almost in her face. ‘Hoping for the best is not good enough, young woman,' he growled. ‘If one route is
closed to us by heavy traffic or convoys we must find an alternative one.' He might have gone on at some length but Miranda closed the door smartly and got back behind the wheel. Giving her a wink, the groupie stood back and saluted smartly as Miranda put the big car into gear and drove forward, trying to take no notice of the muttered imprecations coming from the rear seat.

She had hoped that the air commodore might unbend when he realised the quality of her driving, but she hoped in vain. He criticised constantly, accused her of taking wrong turnings, complained if she drove too fast but disliked it even more when she had to slow to a crawl. He refused to leave the road for so much as a cup of coffee or what the troops called a ‘comfort break', and by the time they reached the airfield where the trials were taking place Miranda was as tired as though she had driven to Scotland and back. However, she did not mean to let it show, and when the guards at the gate of their destination waved her down and examined her papers and those of her illustrious passenger she put a brave face on it. The guards told her where to go and said a trifle reproachfully that she was early, so the commodore would have to kill half an hour before a meal was served in the officers' Mess. Miranda could not help shooting a triumphant glance at her reluctant passenger as she drew to a halt and got out to open the rear door. ‘There you are, sir, with thirty whole minutes in hand,' she said chirpily. ‘I've been told to go to the Mess and await further instructions from you, but first I have to go to the cookhouse. I'm sure they'll find me bangers and mash, or a plateful of . . .' She stopped speaking as her passenger, ignoring her completely, marched
stiff-backed into the officers' mess, slamming the door behind him with enough force to take it off its hinges.