Lover (31 page)

Then I heard Corky's voice: ‘Blue One to Leader, Bandits at three o'clock.'

I saw them, a swarm of insects. Had they seen us? My brain was jammed. All I wanted was to turn tail and flee. I knew I couldn't claim engine trouble—as soon as I landed they'd spot that nothing was wrong. What was I supposed to be doing? Reflector sight…range… What then?

They were above us. We climbed. More instructions. Gibberish—couldn't seem to understand it—all going too fast— even the first time wasn't like that, the stark, raw, petrifying
fear
. I was straying out of formation, but my hands were shaking, and they wouldn't let me correct it. I could hear Gervase's voice over the R/T, anxious, ‘Yellow One, Yellow One…' Tracer seemed to float towards me like a silent firework display, only it wasn't fireworks, it picked up speed and whipped past my starboard wing, and suddenly, a 109 was slap in front of me, sparks coming out of it. He was shooting at me, I knew that, but I just sat there, my brain racing but my hands wouldn't move, and then I threw the stick forward and put the plane into a dive to get away because that's all I could think of
: Get out of here, just get out…

I don't remember much about getting home, just tumbling out of the kite and sitting on the grass, soaked in sweat, thinking I'd never be able to get up again. I got across to the mess somehow and got a cup of tea. Then Flint was there, standing in front of me.

‘What the bloody hell happened up there?'

I couldn't answer him. I couldn't even look at him.

‘Well, whatever it was, you'd be at the bottom of the sea by now, if Sinclair hadn't taken care of that Hun!'

‘Gervase?'

‘Yes, Gervase. Your wingman, remember? The one you're always binding about. And then you just buggered off and left us to it. The CO wants to see you.'

‘Now?'

‘Yes.'

Webster ushered me into the office. ‘Flying Officer Rushton to see you, sir.'

The CO told me to sit down, then said, ‘Flight Lieutenant Flint tells me you packed up and pissed off in the middle of a dogfight. Is that correct?'

‘Yes, sir.'

‘What happened?'

‘I…I don't know, sir.'

‘Well, try.'

‘I just couldn't. I couldn't…' It was no good, I couldn't get the words out. The worst thing was knowing I'd failed myself—him, Flint, all of them. And then finding I couldn't even explain.

‘Look, Goldilocks, you're a bloody good pilot, and what's more you're one of the only decent shots we've got, and I don't want to lose you. I'm sending you to the MO. Perhaps he can give you something to pep you up. And I'm taking you off Ops for the time being. Can't risk any more stunts like that one.'

I went back to my room and lay down on the bed. I've got to sort myself out—if I can't fly, it's hopeless. I might as well not be alive. If they take me off ops permanently, there's no point to anything. It's that woman. She's a jinx, that's what it is. I'm not coming off ops for some bloody popsy, and, what's more, if I'm going to die I'll do it on my terms, not because of some bitch sticking her oar in, I'll make damn sure of that.

There was a knock on the door. Webster was standing there.

‘I've come to sort out Ginger's bits and pieces.'

‘Ginger bought it?'

‘I'm afraid so. Now then…' He started making an inventory of Ginger's things, laying out brushes and photographs and clothes on the bed. I rolled over and stared at the wall.

‘Five pairs of socks, black wallet with two photos. Pretty girl… Letter from his mother…another letter…Mona…I say, this is a bit spicy, better get rid of it, I think…two pairs of shoes, one tennis racket—'

‘I'm going for a walk, Adj.'

Poor old Ginger. Still, at least it gave me an idea about what to say to the MO. I wondered if I'd get the room to myself. Ginger's girl, Mona, and that letter Webster picked up…she was that other one's pal, the one with the funny name. Still, I suppose if she was going to say anything, she'd have done it by now, wouldn't she? Anyway, it's only her word against mine.

It was all pretty clear-cut with the MO. One of those sympathetic types. ‘The CO told me what happened. Well, in so far as he could. I'd like you to put me in the picture.'

‘I don't know if I can, sir.'

‘Take your time.'

‘Well, I just sort of…froze. Couldn't do it any more. Couldn't think straight. I was bloody terrified, sir.'

‘This freezing—is this the first time it's happened?'

‘Yes, sir.'

‘You've been at it for quite a while now, haven't you?'

‘Yes, sir.'

‘Have you been sleeping?'

‘Not very much, sir, no.'

‘Is there anything bothering you?'

‘To be honest, I'm beginning to think I might be a bit of a jinx. I keep losing my wingmen, and I've had three roommates in two weeks. I know that doesn't sound… I mean, we're all in the same boat, aren't we? But I keep wondering if it's me that's doing it, and I can't…well, I don't really know how to put it into words, sir.'

‘I see. The CO's taken you off Ops, hasn't he?'

‘Yes, sir.'

‘Good. What about a spot of leave? Would that do the trick?'

‘Well, perhaps… If I could go next weekend. I'd like to see my mother and sister, you see. My father's dead, and I've been worried about them. My sister's crippled, sir, and with things the way they are, it hasn't been easy for them.'

‘I see. Well, I'll recommend you for a forty-eight-hour pass, and you'll be knocking around here for the next week… These things are bound to happen, on and off. I'm sure you'll be fine after a bit of a break.'

So there it was—piece of cake. A few days off Ops and forty-eight hours to sort that bitch out then I'll be fine. That's what it comes down to: her or me, and there's only one way to fix it. Need to see Uncle for the pass, and as soon as I've done that, I'll write her a nice little letter… Get rid of those clothes, too.

I'm starting to feel better already.

I
‘m in a quandary. Despite the fact I've spent the whole week floating on air, I have managed to pull my head out of the clouds for long enough to realise that my erstwhile fellow-typist, Phyllis, who has been sent upstairs in place of me—for which I'm profoundly grateful—is utterly smitten with Mr Bridges, and he, apparently, with her. They've been carrying on dreadfully—even Miss H has noticed! It's too awful for words. I'm sure I was never that silly. At least, I jolly well hope not. I'd hate to think anyone was talking about me like that.

Yesterday, I caught them canoodling—that's the only word for it—in the store room. I pretended I hadn't noticed what they were doing, which isn't easy when two people are standing quite so close and one of them is scarlet with blushes. I said, ‘Good morning,' very politely, and disappeared back upstairs as fast as I could. When Miss H asked me why I hadn't got the fresh carbons, I told her I'd forgotten to take the key with me. She wasn't pleased, but honestly, I couldn't have stayed down there a moment longer. Phyll came into our office about ten minutes later on some pretext, wearing a look on her face that I can only describe as defiant triumph. She hovered about my desk, obviously hoping that I'd make some remark, but I'm afraid she was disappointed, because I bent over my typewriter and affected not to notice her at all.

I found myself wondering, on the train home, if Phyll has conveniently forgotten, as I did, that Mr Bridges is married. She certainly knows it, because she was there when Miss H told us. I've been wondering if I should warn her about him, but she'd probably think it was jealousy. I don't know what, if anything, Mr Bridges has said about me, but obviously she knows we didn't ‘click'. I wonder if he's fed her that line about his wife being a chronic invalid and all the rest of it. But then the truth is, I might have swallowed all that myself, if it hadn't been for that awful business in the restaurant, and what happened after…

I feel rather sorry for Phyll, but I'm pretty sure she wouldn't listen to me if I did say anything. But then, if I hadn't met Tom, perhaps I wouldn't be able to see the difference between something real and meaningful and a sordid little intrigue, either. What she's up to seems so tawdry by comparison, and I simply can't believe Mr Bridges could ever be capable of the kind of raw
honesty
of the conversation I had with Tom, which really was a meeting of minds. All Mr Bridges' talk about virginity and so on is simply a veneer of sophistication, done with an intent to shock, and would only impress somebody who didn't know better—as I didn't, not then.

It sounds as if I think I know everything. I don't, it's just a matter of seeing things from a different viewpoint. But I don't think it's something which can be
learned
—not without experience, anyway.

I should like to put some of this in my letter to Tom, but it's jolly difficult, and I'd hate to give him the impression that I'm foolish, or weak. I've spent the last few nights under the kitchen table, trying to write something, but I keep tearing it up in disgust. I found one of my school exercise books which wasn't used up and took pages out of the back of that to scribble on. I'd decided that using up our whole stock of notepaper would make me even less popular with Mums than I am already.

I thought that perhaps I ought to write a nice, gossipy letter about Mums and Dad and Minnie, and what happens at the office, but it seems so inadequate, after our conversation. Tom would be bound to despise it, and rightly so! But I mustn't descend into purple patchiness, either. I suppose that's why there are poets who can say these things for the rest of us, and then we can point to this or that verse and say, that's how I feel, or, that's what I think. But this seems rather lazy, and in any case, I don't know any poems, apart from the ones I had to learn at school, and verses like
The boy stood on the burning deck
and
How Horatius kept the bridge
don't fit the bill at all. I asked Minnie on Sunday evening if she could think of any poetry, and she immediately screwed up her face and recited, like a child doing a party piece:
Glad days, sad days; Are all the brighter made; In the happy knowledge; That our friendship will never fade
. This made us both giggle, because it's painted on a hideous plate that Aunt Norma sent Mums from Eastbourne. It's probably the only poem in our entire house, and it's
awful
.

When we'd stopped laughing, Minnie asked if I was writing to Frank, and I said yes, and immediately felt bad for lying about it.

She said, ‘You haven't written to him since he went, have you?'

‘No.'

‘Are you going to make it up with him?'

‘What do you mean?'

‘Well, I know you had a quarrel, that's all. Before he left. I'm sorry, I wasn't spying or anything, but I saw you at the gate, and he didn't come in to say goodbye. You didn't seem to want to talk about it, so…' She made a face. ‘Well, anyway, it's none of my business.'

‘No,' I said, ‘it isn't.'

‘I've said I'm sorry, Lucy. Look, I'll leave you in peace. I ought to see how Mums is doing, anyway.' Part of me wanted to call Minnie back and to say that I was the one who ought to be sorry, and explain everything, because we
have
always talked about things. But I just couldn't. Minnie'd be upset—she did like Frank a great deal—and also, I suppose I was rather ashamed of how I'd behaved, and no one likes to say things that reflect badly on them. And if I'm honest, there is a certain guilty pleasure about all this secrecy. That ‘special' feeling, inside… I can't pretend I'm not enjoying it.

I came home on Wednesday determined to complete my letter to Tom. The house was empty except for Minnie, who was making supper. When I asked her where Mums was, she said, ‘She's with Mrs Dorn.'