Wish Me Luck (8 page)

Ruth groaned and then sighed heavily, regarding her new-found friend with a hangdog expression. ‘I don’t suppose anything I say’s going to make any difference, is it?’

Fleur grinned. ‘Not a scrap.’

Ruth heaved herself up. ‘Well, my shoulder’s ready when you need it.’

‘Don’t you mean “if”?’

Ruth stared at her for a long moment before she said seriously, ‘No, love. I’m sorry, but I do mean “when”.’

As Fleur approached the control tower early the following morning, her heart was beating faster. Although she had been thoroughly trained and had been briefed on how to cope with every emergency possible, she was still a little apprehensive. This was her first posting as a fully fledged R/T operator and she knew that ‘the real thing’ would be very different. Mistakes in training hadn’t mattered. Now they did.

She stepped into the ground floor of the watch tower. The concrete steps leading to the upper floor were on her right, but first she was curious to see what else the building housed. The first room on the left was the met office, with maps spread out on the waist-high table against the wall. A WAAF sat at a telephone switchboard; another stood in front of a teleprinter, which was noisily chattering out a message. A nearby desk was cluttered with telephones, a black typewriter and papers. Next door to the met office was the duty pilots’ rest room. It was empty and silent, newspapers flung down untidily amongst the battered easy chairs. Dirty mugs, an overflowing ashtray and dog-eared books littered the table almost hiding the telephone. It seemed, even here, there was no escaping the call to duty. Near the door was the compulsory sand bucket – the ever-present reminder of the war and all its dangers.

Fleur climbed the stairs to the upper floor. The smell from the freshly painted cream and green walls reminded her that this was a new station, still in the process of being built. She peeped into the signals’ room with its wirelesses, typewriters and teleprinters. For a moment she stood listening to the morse code blips that filled the room, mentally translating a few words in her head. Directly opposite the signals’ room was the rest room, but Fleur ignored this for the moment and, taking a deep breath, moved to the end of the narrow passageway and opened the door into the watch office.

This was the largest room in the building. Directly in front of her was the long desk where the R/T operators sat. In one corner the duty officer sat at his desk, overseeing all that was happening. Flight Sergeant Bob Watson was in his mid forties, Fleur guessed. He was tall and thin and had dark, Bryl-creemed hair and the usual moustache that was fast becoming the trademark of the RAF. Fleur was to notice that he stroked it continuously when the tension mounted in the watch office and that he would pace up and down behind the operators as the aircraft took off one by one and again when they landed.

As she entered the room, Bob Watson greeted her informally with a friendly smile. ‘You must have made an impression already. Fullerton has already asked if you can work with her.’

Fleur smiled and felt a faint blush creep into her cheeks. ‘I’d like that, Flight, if it can be arranged. I think we’d work well together.’

He eyed her keenly. ‘You think so? Some of the younger girls find her – well – a bit abrasive. She doesn’t suffer fools at all – let alone gladly, as they say. Mind you,’ he said arching his eyebrows, ‘neither do I, but I suppose they expect it from me.’

Fleur remained silent. He stroked his moustache thoughtfully. ‘Well then, I’ll adjust the rotas so you work with Fullerton. And in that case, you’ll be on from tonight, but only if they’re flying. Come on duty a bit early and we’ll show you the ropes – how we do things in this watch office.’

‘Thank you, Flight.’

So, she thought, as she went down the steps, I’ve the rest of the day off. I wonder what Robbie’s doing.

Ruth brought her the news in the NAAFI at midday. ‘I don’t think you’ll see much of him for the next few days. The new crews are getting to know one another. They might even get a few practice flights in to make sure they gel before they’re sent on a mission. Mind you, they could be flying tonight if Tommy thinks they’re ready. He’s done quite a bit of flying on Hampdens already evidently and …’ But Fleur was no longer listening. She was far too wrapped up in her own disappointment that she wouldn’t be able to see Robbie and – worse still – there would be no chance for him to get home on leave for quite a while. No chance for him to ask his mother some very delicate – yet to them very important – questions.

With time on her hands, Fleur went back to the cottage and changed into civvies – a pair of old trousers and a thick sweater.

‘Are you hungry, dear?’ Mrs Jackson asked as Fleur came downstairs.

‘No, thanks. I ate in the NAAFI, but I wouldn’t mind a cup of tea, if you can spare one.’

‘Of course. I get extra rations with you two here.’

‘I’ll make it. You sit down.’

The old lady sank thankfully into her chair and took up her knitting. ‘Socks for the troops.’ She smiled. ‘A nice WVS lady brings me the wool and collects them. It gives me something to do and I feel I’m helping.’

‘You’re helping a lot already, putting up with us two.’

Mrs Jackson’s face creased into smiles and her spectacles wobbled. ‘Oh, that’s no hardship, dear. I enjoy the company.’

Fleur set a cup of tea on the small table beside the old lady. She was about to sit in the chair on the opposite side of the hearth when she paused and asked quietly, ‘Is it all right for me to sit here?’

There was the slightest hesitation before Mrs Jackson said, ‘Of course, dear. My Arthur would have been tickled pink to think that a lovely young WAAF was sitting in his chair.’

Fleur sat down, balancing her cup carefully. ‘When …’ she began tentatively, thinking that this was as good a time as any to broach the subject of the garden, ‘When did your Arthur … ?’

The old lady’s face dropped into lines of sadness. ‘Three years ago next month. Very sudden. Heart attack. Out there in the garden.’ She smiled fondly. ‘But it was just the way he’d’ve wanted to go. With a spade in his hand, doing what he loved best.’

‘And the … er … um … garden?’

Mrs Jackson sighed deeply. ‘It makes me so sad to see it like that. Poor Arthur. All his hard work overgrown and so quickly too. Who’d have thought it could’ve gone wild in only three years?’

‘Would you mind if I worked on it when I’m off duty? I mean, if you’d rather I didn’t,’ she began, fearing she might have upset the old lady, but Mrs Jackson’s face was alight with joy.

‘Oh, my dear, that would be wonderful. Really wonderful.’ Her face clouded. ‘But do you really want to? I mean surely a young lass like you wants to be out enjoying herself. And besides, I mean, do you know much about gardening?’

Fleur laughed. ‘Born and bred on a farm, Mrs Jackson. What I don’t know already my dad will tell me.’

The old lady laughed along with her. ‘Well, you won’t have to go very far for a bit of advice, love. Old Harry next door will be only too pleased to help. In fact’ – she smiled – ‘you’ll have a job to stop him.’

‘Right then,’ Fleur said jumping up, glad to have something physical to do. With her first duty looming and maybe with Robbie flying with his new crew for the first time, she needed something else to concentrate on. ‘No time like the present.’

Mrs Jackson’s garden shed in the back yard was cluttered; there was hardly room to step inside it.

‘Another job for a rainy day,’ Fleur murmured as she unearthed some rusty gardening tools. There was a sickle but no scythe, and cutting the grass at the front of the cottage and the overgrown kitchen garden would be a long and back-breaking task on her hands and knees.

‘Mrs Jackson?’ she said, going back into the house. ‘Do you know anyone who’s got a scythe?’

The old lady washing up at the deep sink in the small scullery turned in surprise. ‘Whatever do you want a scythe for?’

‘To cut all the overgrown grass back and front. If

I get it dug over there’s still time to plant some vegetables.’

Mrs Jackson’s eyes were filling with tears. ‘D’you know, when Arthur was alive I never ‘ad to buy vegetables all year round.’

‘You’ll have to tell me what he used to grow,’ Fleur said gently. ‘I’m sure he’d be pleased to think we’d got it like it used to be.’

‘Oh, he would, he would.’ Mrs Jackson wiped the corner of her eye with the back of her hand and sniffed, but she was smiling through her tears. ‘A scythe, you say? Harry next door might ’ave one or ’ee’d know someone who has.’

‘Right then.’ Fleur began to turn away but then paused to ask, ‘What’s his surname, Mrs Jackson? I can hardly call him “Harry”.’

The old lady chortled. ‘Oh, Harry wouldn’t mind. He’s a one for the pretty lasses.’ Her face fell into sad wrinkles. ‘He’s on his own like me now. His wife, Doris, died two years ago. His name’s Harry Chambers.’

Fleur went through the front gate and along the lane to the next-door cottage. She walked round to the back and as she turned the corner of the house, she gasped in surprised delight. The layout was the same as Mrs Jackson’s cottage and garden, but there the similarity ended: beyond Harry Chambers’ back yard lay a lovingly tended kitchen garden. But after her initial pleasure, Fleur frowned. If he could do his own garden, why didn’t he help the old lady next door? The way Mrs Jackson had spoken of her neighbour, they were friendly, so why …?

As she lifted her hand to knock tentatively on the back door, Fleur bit her lip, wondering, after what Mrs Jackson had said, just what she was going to have to deal with. But she needn’t have worried. When Harry Chambers opened the door, she saw that he was as old and bent as her landlady, yet there was a mischievous twinkle in his rheumy eyes and a wide, toothless smile.

‘By heck – have I died and gone to heaven? A pretty young lass knocking at my door. Come away in, lass.’ He turned away and shuffled back into the kitchen. Smiling inwardly, Fleur followed. Now, the question in her mind was not why he didn’t help his neighbour, but how on earth did he manage to keep his garden so immaculate? As she stepped into the kitchen, she saw the answer. The inside of his home was like a rubbish tip. The range was dirty, the floor filthy and every surface was littered with newspapers and unwashed pots. The old man swept aside a pile of clothes on a chair. ‘Sit down, sit down,’ he insisted, beckoning her forward.

Thankful that she was wearing her old trousers, Fleur sat in the rickety chair. The old man let himself down into the dusty armchair near the range and beamed at her. ‘A’ you one of them lasses at Mary’s?’

‘Yes. I only arrived yesterday. I’m just getting settled in, but I’d like to make a start on getting the garden in order for her.’

‘Aw lass …’ To Fleur’s horror, tears filled his eyes. But at his next words she realized they were tears of joy too, just like Mrs Jackson’s had been. ‘That’d be wonderful for ’er. I’d’ve liked to have kept it right but I’ve more than I can manage with me own bit.’ He wiped the back of his hand across his face. ‘Her ol’ man, Arthur – we was mates.’ He laughed wheezily.

‘ ’Cept when it came to the village show and we was both entered for the biggest marrow competition. Then it was “gloves off” time. Eee, lass, but I miss him. You don’t know how much I miss our little chats over the fence.’

Fleur smiled but didn’t know what to say so she let the old man ramble, reliving happier times. But he was laughing along with his tears. At last, he came back to the present.

‘So what can I do for you, lass?’

‘Mr Chambers, have you got a scythe I can borrow?’

He gaped at her. ‘A scythe, lass? Aw now, I don’t know if I should let a young lass like you loose with a scythe. Them’s dangerous things if you don’t know what you’re doing …’ He leant towards her, screwing up his eyes in an effort to see her better. Then he chuckled. ‘I can see by the look on your face – you
do
know, don’t you?’

Fleur nodded, her eyes brimming with mischief. ‘If my dad could hear you, Mr Chambers, he’d say, “No daughter of mine’s going to grow up without knowing how to use a scythe.” I was born and brought up on the farm.’

The old man blinked. ‘Then what are you doing here? In the WAAFs? I’d’ve thought they’d’ve needed you at home.’

Fleur sighed as she felt a sudden stab of guilt. ‘They do,’ she admitted, ‘but I wanted to get away. To see something of the world outside me dad’s stackyard. I still want to do my bit, but …’

The old man watched her for a moment as she bit her lip. ‘I can understand that,’ he said gently. ‘I volunteered for the last lot even though I could have stayed safely at home ’cos I was getting on a bit for service life. My Doris begged me not to go, but I would have me own way.’

‘So did my dad. I think he understands why I wanted to join up, but me mum …’

‘Aye well, she’s your mother, lass,’ was all he said as if it explained everything. There was a moment’s silence between them and then he began to chuckle. ‘And now here you are, wanting to dig up Mary’s garden. Seems you can’t get away from it, eh, lass?’

Fleur spluttered with laughter. ‘Just serves me right, doesn’t it?’ And they rocked with merriment.

‘Ee lass, you’ve done me a power of good. I don’t know when I last laughed so much. It’s the best medicine, they say. I’ll be throwing all me pills away if you’re staying long.’