Wish Me Luck (14 page)

Robbie’s face creased as he chuckled. ‘Yeah, but he’s got a lot more laughter lines on his face than I’ve got at the moment.’

‘At the moment’. How poignant that simple phrase was. In these dangerous days how many handsome young men would never grow old enough to have a wrinkled face like Harry’s?

Fleur deliberately tried to lighten their thoughts. ‘Laughter lines, you call them?’ she quipped. ‘Nothing’s that funny!’

Returning to the comparison between Robbie and her father, she went on, ‘You’ve got a much squarer jaw than my dad and …’ Suddenly, her voice faded away as she stared across the table at Robbie.

‘What? What is it? Grown another nose, have I?’

Fleur shook her head, but she was still staring at him. ‘You know, you do remind me of someone. Not my dad,’ she added hastily, ‘but someone … But for the life of me, I can’t think who.’

Robbie grinned. ‘Some handsome film star, I’ve no doubt.’

Fleur laughed out loud so that one or two folk at nearby tables smiled fondly. It was good to see two young people in uniform enjoying themselves.

‘Of course,’ Fleur teased. ‘That must be it.’

They rose from the table, put a tip beneath the plate for the waitress and left the cafe, their arms about each other, suddenly a little freer to let their feelings show. And yet, they wouldn’t be certain, not absolutely certain, until Robbie had spoken to his mother. Not until then would they allow themselves to be real girlfriend and boyfriend. Until then, they must act like the brother and sister that – God forbid – they might really be.

‘You really are a grand pair of lasses to be helping us old folk like you are,’ Mrs Jackson said as she shuffled across the room to set the table in time for an early tea. Both Ruth and Fleur were due to report back to camp for the evening shift. The lads – including Robbie – were flying tonight.

‘It keeps us out of mischief,’ Ruth laughed. ‘I mean, if we weren’t doing that we’d only be down the pub—’

‘Or dancing—’

‘Or shopping—’

They glanced at each other in mock horror.

‘What
are
we thinking of?’ Ruth said and Fleur giggled.

Ruth put her arm round the old lady’s ample waist. ‘Don’t you fret, Mrs Jackson. I’m one of these strange people who actually enjoy housework. And – if I’m not mistaken – Fleur is going to get a lot of satisfaction when she sees leeks and potatoes and whatever else she’s going to grow in that garden of yours.’

Fleur nodded. ‘I’ve got it all planned out. I was asking my dad for advice when I was home at the weekend and he’s given me a list of what to plant and when to plant it. I’ve written it all down in an old diary. I’m going to plant carrots, potatoes and cauliflowers, maybe leeks and onions too. And that rhubarb patch we unearthed when we cut the grass needs looking at. And I’ll start a compost heap in the far corner. And in the other corner, I’m going to build you an Anderson shelter, Mrs Jackson.’

‘Oh, don’t worry about that, love. I don’t think I could get there quick enough anyway. Someone did come a while back, but I told ’em I’d go round to Harry’s if we got a bad raid.’

The two girls stared at the old lady. ‘But … but Harry hasn’t got a shelter either,’ Ruth said.

Now Mrs Jackson looked suddenly sheepish. ‘No, I know. He wouldn’t accept any help from anyone and he promised the authorities he’d build one himself.’

‘But he never did.’

Mrs Jackson shook her head. ‘I don’t think he ever intended to, the awkward ol’ devil!’ She smiled fondly.

‘Well, you really ought to have one,’ Fleur said firmly, ‘especially living so close to the airfield, so we’ll build one for the two of you. We’ll put it in the corner of your garden nearest his and cut a hole in the fence for him to get through and you can share it. All right?’

Mary Jackson smiled. ‘If you say so, dear.’

‘Right – that’s settled then,’ Fleur said firmly. ‘I’ll make enquiries as to how to get hold of what we need to make one.’

‘The local ARP people might know,’ Ruth suggested.

‘That’s a good idea. Only thing now is – I could do to find a farmer nearby with a lot of pigs, and maybe cows and chickens as well.’

‘Pigs!’ Ruth exclaimed. ‘You’re not thinking of keeping pigs at the bottom of the garden, are you?’

‘Mr Clegg at Top End Farm keeps pigs,’ Mrs Jackson put in. She was smiling as if she’d already guessed what Fleur was talking about. ‘All the villagers keep their scraps for pigswill for him. He collects two or three times a week.’

Fleur’s face lit up. ‘Great!’

‘But what do you want them for?’ Ruth persisted. ‘You’re not seriously thinking of having some here, are you?’

‘I dont actually want the
pigs,
I just want what they produce. For the garden.’

‘What they—?’ Ruth’s face was a picture as realization dawned. ‘Oh my! Well, now I’ve heard it all!’

The bombing mission that night was a difficult one and the planes encountered heavy flak both over the target and along the route home, especially near the enemy coast. Fleur was careful to hide her anxiety as the bombers limped home, some with aircraft so badly damaged that it was a miracle they got back at all.

Anxiously, she waited for the call sign of D-Doggo. At last, she heard, ‘Hello, Woody, this is Lindum D-Doggo. One engine u/s and wounded on board . . .’

At once, Bob Watson was standing behind the operators. ‘Kay, call up number four and tell him to overshoot. Fleur, tell D-Doggo he has straight in approach. Corporal—’ Bob called to the airman who manned the internal telephone. ‘Call up the ambulance and fire tender.’

Fleur took a deep breath. ‘Hello, D-Doggo, you are number five to land, straight in approach, runway two-zero . . . switch to channel B.’

Calmly, her instructions were repeated and then they heard the drone of the aircraft as it approached the runway.

‘His other engine doesn’t sound too healthy,’ Bob said. Everyone was holding their breath, trying to see out into the darkness. The aircraft touched down, the noise fading as it ran towards the end of the runway.

The radio crackled again. ‘Hello, Woody, this is number five. Turned left off runway, but second engine now u/s. Over.’

From the clipped message, Fleur knew that the aircraft had been able to turn off the runway, but now it seemed that the second engine had given up on them and the plane could taxi no further under its own power.

‘Help is on its way, number five,’ she said into her microphone. ‘Well done. Out.’

Now Fleur could breathe easily again and at once began to call up the aircraft waiting to land. It had been a close call for Tommy Laughton and his crew. The rear gunner was injured, but at least they were all home. Five planes failed to come back. Debriefing revealed that one had been seen to crash in enemy territory.

‘I did see parachutes, though,’ one of the pilots told Ruth.

Three aircraft had ditched in the sea, though the fate of the crews was unknown and one plane couldn’t be accounted for at all.

D-Doggo was badly damaged and would be out of commission yet again for two or three days whilst the mechanics worked on it frantically. Several more planes in the same squadron needed extensive repairs before they would be airworthy.

‘I’ve got a seventy-two, so I’m going home. And this time, I really will speak to Ma,’ Robbie promised Fleur. ‘What about you? Can you get any leave?’

She shook her head. ‘No. Sounds like there’s a big op on for tomorrow night. We’re on duty.’

A fleeting look of regret crossed Robbie’s face. ‘And I’ll miss it,’ he murmured. Fleur looked at him incredulously, shaking her head slowly. She said nothing, but she was wondering just what it was about these young men that made them want to be in the thick of danger. Was it the excitement? And was that excitement all the more thrilling because it was dangerous? She didn’t know. All she knew was that Kenny craved that same kick.

Robbie put his arm about her waist. ‘I’m sorry you can’t get leave too. We could have met up. Spent some time together.’

‘I know,’ she said softly, anguished at the thought of not being able to spend every precious minute with him. ‘But maybe it’ll be worth it if you do get a chance to talk to your mother.’

‘I’ll make sure I do this time. I promise.’

Fleur attacked the gardening work with a vigour born of anxiety and frustration. Anything, to keep her mind from wandering to Robbie and what was being said between him and his mother.

She double dug an area down one side of the garden ready for planting potatoes, then levelled an area nearby to plant carrots and cauliflowers. After that she carefully weeded the rhubarb patch. Then she marked out the oblong shape for the Anderson shelter and began to dig out the hole. The ground was hard and the effort back-breaking.

Taking a break about mid morning, she went into the house to find Mrs Jackson standing at the kitchen table rolling out pastry. Beside her was a container of shrivelled-looking rings.

‘What on earth are those?’ Fleur asked.

Mrs Jackson chuckled. ‘Dried apple rings.’

‘Dried? I’ve never heard of doing that.’

‘Oh, they come out quite well if you soak them and then use them in a pie.’

‘My mum always bottles all her fruit. She’s got a cooker as well as the old range and she uses a huge metal container. A big box-like thing . . .’ Fleur demonstrated its size with her hands. ‘It holds about eight bottles at once. And she packs all the fruit into them with syrup and then boils them for – oh, I don’t know how long.’

Mrs Jackson was nodding. ‘Yes, I used to do something similar in the oven with Kilner jars, but since Arthur went I haven’t had the heart. Truth is, I found it too hard to get the fruit picked.’

Fleur put her arm around the old lady’s shoulders. ‘Well, this year we’ll harvest it all and we’ll see what we can do then, eh?’

Mary Jackson smiled. ‘That’d be lovely, dear. My Arthur would be so thrilled to think all his hard work hadn’t been wasted. He planted those fruit trees, y’know, when we was first married. There’s two apple trees and a Victoria plum as well as raspberry canes and gooseberry bushes. Just before our Eddie was born, it was. And he built that bench under the apple tree so’s I could sit down there with the pram.’

‘Eddie? Who’s Eddie.’

The old lady’s face fell into lines of sorrow. ‘Our boy. Our son. Our
only
son.’

‘And – er – where is Eddie now?’ Fleur held her breath. For some reason she feared the answer.

‘He was killed in the last war. On the Somme.’

‘Oh, Mrs Jackson, I am sorry.’ She paused, before asking tentatively, ‘Have – have you any other children?’

‘Two daughters. Phyllis and Joyce.’

Fleur waited for Mrs Jackson to volunteer the information herself. ‘Phyllis is married and lives down south. She . . . she doesn’t get home much, but she writes every week.’

Fleur nodded. She had seen the letters arriving regularly and had posted replies for the old lady, although she hadn’t known they were addressed to Mary’s daughter.

‘And . . . and Joyce?’

Mrs Jackson was silent for a moment, concentrating on rolling out the pastry for the apple pie. Her voice was husky with sadness when she did answer. ‘Joyce was only seventeen when she started courting a lad from the village. She . . . she got herself into trouble.’

Fleur said nothing, knowing that in such a small community the gossips would’ve had a field day.

‘They got married but . . . but she died having the bairn. She was only just eighteen.’

Fleur’s eyes filled with tears. ‘Oh, Mrs Jackson, how sad. I’m so sorry. And . . . and what happened to her baby?’

‘A little boy, it was, but his daddy – the whole family, in fact – moved away. They’ve kept in touch and I’ve seen him a few times while he’s been growing up. I’ve always sent him a little something at Christmas and on his birthday.’

How sad that must be for the old lady, Fleur thought. The boy’s birthday would also be the anniversary of his mother’s death.

‘He . . . he’s seventeen now.’ Mrs Jackson’s expression was suddenly anxious. ‘I expect he’ll be called up when he’s old enough. If . . . if it’s not over by then.’

‘Same age as Kenny.’

‘That’s right. Your Kenny reminds me of Simon in some ways. Same cheeky grin.’ Now she smiled fondly.

‘Do you mind Kenny coming here? I mean, I wouldn’t want it to upset you if he reminds you—’

‘Mind? Heavens, no, dear. I like him to come. He’s a lovely lad.’

‘Has Phyllis any children?’

Mary laughed fondly. ‘Oh yes. Four. Two boys and two girls. Clever, wasn’t she?’

Fleur laughed too, glad to move on to a happier note. But still, even with her other grandchildren, it seemed Mary had worries.

‘One of the girls is in the WAAFs like you and the other is in the Land Army. The eldest boy is a fighter pilot. We were very worried last year when the Battle of Britain was going on. He was in the thick of it. But he’s all right, thank the Good Lord. And the youngest boy, well, he’s only thirteen. I hope it’ll all be over by the time he reaches call-up age.’