Wish Me Luck (2 page)

Fleur pulled a comical face. ‘At least you know what we do. Most people just look blank when I tell them.’

‘Will you be in Control?’

‘I . . . I don’t know yet. Maybe.’

He smiled. ‘It’ll make a nice change to have a lovely girl to talk us down when we come back from a raid . . .’ He paused a moment and then added softly, ‘Or who waits up all night for us if . . . if we’re late?’

A lump came into her throat as she remembered how they’d all been warned during their training that that was exactly what they’d be expected to do. Wait and wait into the small hours until there was no more hope. ‘Are you fixed up with a crew?’

‘Oh yes. We met up at Operational Training Unit. They put us all together in a huge briefing room and left us to sort ourselves out. It’s a very informal way, but it seems to work.’ He laughed. ‘That way, it’s unlikely you end up flying with a chap you can’t stand the sight of.’

Fleur nodded. ‘I’d heard that’s what happens at OTU, but .. . but doesn’t it make it more difficult? Flying with people who become your friends?’

Robbie’s face sobered as he shook his head. ‘Strangely, no. I expect it’s a bit like the “pals’ regiments” they had in the last war. There’s just something about going into battle with a “brother” at your side.’ He paused and then added, ‘I’ve been lucky. Tommy Laughton, the skipper, is a great bloke. You can’t help but like him and the rest of the crew – well – I’ll soon be getting to know them a lot better. But they seemed OK. We’ll be flying Hampdens, we’ve been told. With a crew of four.’ Robbie grinned, trying to lift the mood that was getting all too serious for his liking. ‘We shouldn’t be talking like this.’

‘No.’ She forced herself to return his smile. ‘There’s more than likely a policeman hiding behind the counter over there ready to spring out and arrest us for careless talk.’

As the cafe was now otherwise deserted – even the girl behind the counter had disappeared – they laughed together at the likelihood of anyone overhearing them. That they perhaps should not trust each other never occurred to either of them for a moment.

‘What did you do? Before the war, I mean.’

‘Worked in a bank.’

‘Oh, very posh!’ she teased.

He grimaced. ‘It was a good job, I have to admit, but it was a bit too staid for me. I was always getting told off for cracking jokes or laughing with the customers. We’re supposed to be very polite and formal. I agree with the polite bit, but—’ He cast his eyes to the ceiling in mock despair. ‘The formality got to me in the end. I couldn’t wait to get out.’

‘But there’s lots of rules and regulations in the RAF surely. It can be very “formal”. All that saluting officers and calling them “sir”.’

‘True, but most of them have earned the right to be treated with that degree of respect.’ He leant forward. ‘And there’s always the compensation of nights out with the lads,
and
– best of all – flirting with a pretty WAAF.’

Fleur arched her eyebrows sardonically, but smiled nonetheless.

‘So? What are you doing for the night then?’ he asked.

‘Bed down in the station waiting room,’ she replied promptly. ‘It won’t be the first time I’ve done it.’

‘Oh no, I won’t hear of it. You’re coming home with me. You can have my bed. I’ll sleep on the sofa.’

Fleur suddenly remembered just how short a time she had known this rather nice young man. Her face sobered, but he read her thoughts at once. ‘Of course, I’ve got an ulterior motive.’ He pretended to leer at her, but then added, ‘But there’s not much a chap can do with his mother in the next bedroom. And my grandfather lives with us too. We’ll be well chaperoned.’ He pulled a comical expression, displaying mock disappointment. ‘More’s the pity.’

‘But it’s an awful imposition on your mother. Bringing a strange girl home in the middle of the night.’ Impishly, she added, ‘Or is she used to it?’

‘Sort of. One or two of the lads have bunked down at our place when they’ve been stranded, but this’ U be the first time I’ve taken a
girl
home. She’ll not mind a bit, though. She helps out at the WVS and she’s always picking up waifs and strays from the forces, taking them home and feeding them.’

‘Well, if you’re sure . . . ?’

‘I am,’ he said firmly as he got up and picked up her kitbag as well as his own. ‘We’ve got a bit of a walk, though. Hope you’re up for it?’

‘Now if my drill sergeant could hear you even asking me that – I’d be on a charge!’

Laughing together, they stepped into the blacked-out street.

‘Let’s get inside quickly,’ Robbie said as he unlocked the front door of the terraced house. ‘Our warden has got eyes like a hawk and if he sees the tiniest chink of light, he’s down on us like a ton of bricks.’

Fleur giggled. ‘That’s an unfortunate turn of phrase, isn’t it?’

Through the darkness, she heard his chuckle. ‘Yes, I see what you mean. We might get a ton of bricks on top of us literally if Jerry sees a light when he’s flying over.’

They were still laughing, his hand cupping her elbow as he guided her into the strange house in the darkness. ‘This is Ma’s best front room.’ The door from the street had opened directly into it. ‘Be careful, because she—’ he began when the inner door opened and a light streamed in.

‘Robbie? Is that you?’

‘Hope so, Ma,’ he called out cheerily, ‘else you’ve got burglars.’

‘Oh, you rogue! Come on in and let me see who you’ve brought home this time.’

Fleur drew in breath sharply and was about to kick his shins for having lied to her, but as he led her into the light of the next room, she saw the surprise on his mother’s face and knew it was genuine.

‘Oh! A WAAF!’ The woman smiled a welcome and held out her hands. ‘And what a pretty one too.’

‘I bumped into her in the blackout, Ma. Knocked her over getting off the train as a matter of fact.’ He put his arm about Fleur’s shoulders with an easy familiarity that she was amazed to realize she didn’t mind. ‘You could say she fell for me there and then.’

Now Fleur did retort, muttering beneath her breath so that only he could hear, ‘You should be so lucky!’

She heard – and felt – his laughter rising from deep within his chest. She glanced up to find him looking down at her, his face so close that she could feel his warm breath on her cheek. In just that brief moment she noticed the way his eyes crinkled at the corners when he laughed and the tiny, stray hairs at the end of his eyebrows. And his smile – oh, his smile – such white, even teeth with tiny spaces between them. She’d only to stretch just a tiny bit and she could’ve kissed his mouth . . . At the unbidden thought, she felt the blush rise in her face.

‘The least I could do was bring her home,’ Robbie went on smoothly as she felt him squeeze her shoulder. For one foolish moment she wondered if he could read what was in her mind. ‘She can’t get transport tonight to where she wants to be,’ he went on, explaining to his mother. ‘I couldn’t let her sleep in the station waiting room, now could I?’

‘Dear, dear,’ Meg Rodwell tutted. ‘Certainly not. Come in, love, and make yourself at home. You’re very welcome.’

Now that Fleur’s eyes were becoming used to the bright light after the darkness, she saw that Robbie’s mother was slim and youthful looking. Her shoulder-length red hair, showing not a trace of grey, was swept back over her ears in curls and waves. Her green eyes smiled a welcome. She was wearing a fashionable patterned cotton dress with short sleeves and padded shoulders, its hem only just covering the knees of her shapely legs. Fleur couldn’t help smiling at the contrast between this woman and her own mother, who, as a busy farmer’s wife, had little time for ‘titivating’, as she would have called it. Fleur’s mother wore her greying hair drawn back into a bun at the nape of her neck and dressed in plain blouses and skirts that were usually covered with a paisley overall. And sensible shoes were a must about the farm. At the thought, Fleur looked down at Mrs Rodwell’s dainty feet. It was no surprise to see the high-heeled shoes with a ribbon bow at the front.

But the woman was smiling so kindly at her, drawing her further into the room and towards a chair beside the warm fire burning in the grate of the old-fashioned kitchen range. Fleur gave a start as she suddenly noticed a bent old man with a crocheted shawl around his shoulders sitting on the opposite side of the hearth.

Robbie let his arm slip from about her and moved towards him, putting his hand on his shoulder. ‘Now, Pops. How are you?’

The old man looked up and reached out with a hand that was misshapen with arthritis, the knuckles swollen and painful. ‘Mustn’t grumble, lad, mustn’t grumble.’

‘You never do, Pops.’

To Fleur’s surprise, the old man’s eyes watered as his fond gaze followed Robbie’s mother while she bustled between kitchen and the back scullery, setting food on the table. ‘No,’ he said in a quavering voice. ‘Because I know how lucky I am.’

Meg came into the room carrying two laden plates. ‘Come and eat. You must be starving. I’ll just go and change the sheets on your bed, Robbie …’

Fleur roused herself. The warm fire was already making her drowsy. ‘Oh, please, don’t go to any trouble on my account. I can sleep on the sofa—’

‘I wouldn’t hear of it—’

‘Certainly not—’

Robbie and his mother spoke together and the old man laughed wheezily. ‘There you are, lass, outnumbered.’ He tapped the side of his nose. ‘And if you take my advice, you won’t argue with m’lady here. Rules the roost, she does.’

‘Now, Dad.’ Mrs Rodwell stepped towards the old man, tucked the shawl cosily around him and planted a kiss on his white hair. ‘You’ll have this nice young lady thinking I’m a regular tartar.’

Robbie pulled a comical face. ‘Well, you are.’ He winked at Fleur. ‘We’d better do as she says before I get my legs smacked.’

As Robbie towered over his mother by at least eight or ten inches, Fleur could not suppress a giggle at the picture that sprang into her mind of the grown-up young man hopping from one foot to another to avoid the chastising hand. They were all laughing now.

‘Come and eat.’ Robbie urged her to take a seat at the table. ‘And then it’s night-nights for you. You look as if you might fall asleep in the gravy.’

‘What did you say her name was?’ Meg Rodwell asked her son the following morning as she cooked breakfast.

‘Fleur,’ Robbie replied, his mouth full of fried bread. They had both been so tired the previous evening that, once they had eaten, Meg had shown Fleur to Robbie’s bedroom and he had headed for the sofa set against the wall in the cluttered front room which his mother used, working from her home as a dressmaker. Despite the austerity of the war – or more likely because of it – there were still many calls on Meg’s talents with her sewing machine. ‘Make do and mend’ was the order of the day. Whilst much of her work was now altering and re-styling second-hand clothes, it was a matter of pride to Meg that she was still able to support her family. And now that Robbie contributed some of his RAF pay whenever he came home on leave, she didn’t have to work long into the night these days. Though she would gladly have worked around the clock if it meant keeping her boy safe.

Smiling brightly as she determined not to spoil their few precious hours together with her darkest fears, Meg turned to greet the young WAAF her son had brought home as the girl appeared in the kitchen. She looked rested this morning, but still a little self-conscious and perhaps feeling awkward now at having allowed herself to be taken home by a complete stranger.

‘Come and sit down, love,’ Meg greeted her warmly. ‘What would you like to eat? I’m sorry I’ve no eggs—’

‘Please, don’t apologize. I don’t want you to go to any trouble. I feel very embarrassed, descending on you like that in the middle of the night and eating your rations.’

‘Don’t mention it. We were glad to help. Sit down, do.’

‘What about the old gentleman?’

Meg laughed. ‘Oh, he doesn’t get up until later. You’re not taking his place or his breakfast – I promise.’ She returned to the stove in the scullery, but left the door open so that she could talk to them as they sat at the table. Dropping a single rasher of bacon into the frying pan, she said, ‘Now, have your breakfast and then Robbie will walk you back to the station. Where is it you’re going?’

Fleur sat down at the table. ‘South Monkford.’

Meg was suddenly very still, staring at the girl. ‘South Monkford,’ she murmured, her eyes misting over. ‘Fancy.’

‘Robbie mentioned that you used to live there.’

Meg nodded slowly. ‘A long time ago,’ she whispered. ‘A long time ago now.’

‘My father had a tailoring business there, didn’t he?’ Robbie put in. ‘And didn’t you say someone called Pinkerton took the shop over from you? Well, Fleur says they’re still there. Two old dears – sisters – running it.’

‘Fancy,’ Meg murmured again, prodding absent-mindedly at the sizzling bacon.

‘Maybe you know Fleur’s family. Her surname’s Bosley—’ Robbie began, but he got no further as his mother turned sharply, catching the handle of the frying pan. It clattered to the floor, spilling hot fat and the precious piece of bacon over the tiles and splashing her legs. Meg’s hands flew to her face and her eyes were wide, staring at Fleur. She swayed as if she might fall.