-1-
York, May 1944
It was time to go. She shouldn’t linger, but the bed was warm, the pillow soft. Just one or two minutes more wouldn’t matter.
Settling back against the pillow, Vee blew out cigarette smoke, aiming it away from the sleeping man alongside her. The plume twisted towards the cracked ceiling of the hotel room in a satisfying curl.
A check of her wristwatch. Just after nine in the morning, and already the day’s one cigarette smoked. More, if she counted the one they’d shared in the early hours.
She closed her eyes, savouring the snapshots from the night before that flashed through her mind. Fingers seeking buttons, clothes shed over the hotel room floor, the haste to reach the bed, limbs entwined as they’d moved together, without words, each aware of the other’s urgency. A mutual, unspoken need for gratification. Entirely unconditional. Beneficial to them both.
The only sound in the room was his low breathing and the faint crackle as she took another puff on her cigarette.
“Never smoke in front of a man, darling. Such a vulgar habit. You’ll never find a husband that way.”
She stubbed it out in the ashtray. Really, right now? Mother had such a terrible habit of piping up at precisely the wrong time to spoil everything. Was this normal at the age of thirty-six? Probably not, but it was hardly something Vee could ask anyone else.
And anyway, she wasn’t smoking in front of him. He remained sound asleep, turned from her, one arm under his head and the other trailing off the side of the bed. And she certainly didn’t want to marry. Love only brought heartache and pain. And Mother, of all people, should know all about that.
Easing the covers off, Vee slipped from the bed, careful not to wake him, and nudged aside the blackout blind. Enough shafts of light filtered through the taped-up window from the pale blue May sky for her to retrieve her scattered uniform from around the bed. Hovering in one corner of the room, she dressed as silently as she was able.
Then, shoes in one hand, cap in the other, she crept to the door, pausing to glance back at the room, the dark blue naval uniform – which hours before had been so neat, so shipshape – now crumpled on the floor, the half-empty bottle of whisky liberated from the dance hall, and finally, the pale, sleeping figure in the disordered bed.
He’d mentioned something about a train south, to Portsmouth, a new ship. She sent him silent good wishes. It was better this way.
Sliding her feet into her shoes, she opened the door and tiptoed out into the corridor. At the top of the stairs, she halted, bending to tie her shoelaces and arrange her hair into its familiar tight coil at the back of her head.
She pinched her cheeks in an attempt to camouflage her few hours of sleep.
“I suppose you could call your skin tone porcelain. Such a pity to have inherited your father’s wan complexion.”
With a dip of her hand into her bag, Vee retrieved her tube of Tangee lipstick – For Beauty on Duty! – and applied a thin layer, the top of the metallic lipstick tube acting as a makeshift mirror. A far cry from the WAAF handbook’s insistence that they always be presentable, neatly dressed, and looking their best. It would have to do, although she likely looked far from composed.
She adjusted her blue-grey cap on her head, feeling to ensure the gold Air Force insignia was front and centre. After straightening her skirt, she tightened the knot in her tie and tucked it into her tunic-jacket. Hopefully something resembling her usual appearance: spruce, businesslike, formal.
Down in the lobby, a large crowd was milling at the reception, enquiring about rooms, train timetables, whether it was possible to visit the Minster. She squeezed through the throng, halting only at a touch on her back from behind.
Laughter. A gleeful voice. ‘Oh, Section Officer Blyth. It is you!’
Moira. And right behind her, cap askew on his head, that red silk handkerchief tucked jauntily in his breast pocket, was Johnny.
‘Aircraftwoman Tarr.’ Her voice clicked into those crisp tones that the WAAFs – and the aircrew, too – were so familiar with. ‘And Flight Officer Melrose.’ She nodded at Johnny, who returned her greeting with a grin as he flicked a matchstick from one side of his mouth to the other. A quirk picked up from some Hollywood film, no doubt.
Moira’s face was aglow. She chewed on her lip, glancing at Johnny, who gave a small shake of the head. But her attention was again on Vee. ‘Oh, I am so glad we’ve bumped into someone we know.’
‘Moira, no…’ Johnny reached out, but Moira shook his hand from her arm.
She faced Vee squarely, her back to Johnny. ‘You wouldn’t mind helping us, would you, Section Officer Blyth?’
Pursing her lips, Vee consulted her wristwatch. Better to make it appear that she had somewhere to be, that she hadn’t just crept down from a room upstairs. They couldn’t have seen her. But perhaps last night showed in her demeanour somehow, something written on her face that spoke of that abandon she’d felt? She had her reputation on the air station to uphold: fastidious, reserved. Chaste.
‘I know it’s an imposition, but would you have an hour or so to spare? Please, say you do!’ There was a giddiness to Moira’s tone, and her eyes sparkled brighter than the jewelled brooch newly pinned to the collar of her tunic – in contravention of all the regulations.
Out of the corner of Vee’s eye, a glimpse of a deep blue naval uniform descending the stairs to her right.
‘It would mean the world to me. To us.’ Moira’s persuasion continued, her words growing indistinct as Vee slid her gaze back to the staircase. They’d agreed there was nothing more to it than a night of fun. They’d both said that. Vee squeezed her hands tight. They had, hadn’t they?
But he was heading in her direction now. Her stomach jittered, a jagged spike of alarm racing up the back of her neck, as he drew closer.
She should never have come into York, should have taken this 48 hours’ leave more than a bus ride from the air station, or even further afield – Liverpool, perhaps, or Manchester – where she knew no one. Before, it had been enough to stick to her simple rules – no one from the village and immediate area and never anyone from the RAF. But now even that appeared insufficient.
‘Yes. Yes, of course.’ She kept her eyes on him as she answered Moira. He was only a few metres from them now.
‘Oh, I am so glad! Johnny has fixed it with Ted already, and I’d much prefer it wasn’t some stranger.’ Moira clutched Vee’s arm, then pulled her hand away as if realising the boundary she was overstepping.
He was just a few steps from her now. She could pretend he was family, an old friend who was visiting. But that wouldn’t work, would only lead to more questions she didn’t want to answer. She wrenched her gaze away as his eyes met hers.
Moira linked her arm in Johnny’s, but he appeared distracted, his eyes scanning the lobby, as if ascertaining what Vee had been looking at. A sly smile played across his lips as he switched his gaze to her, eyes roaming her face.
The jagged alarm accelerated along her spine.
‘We’re ever so grateful. Truly.’ Moira beamed at Vee and then Johnny. ‘I know it’s an imposition, but for you it’s just a signature, really, isn’t it?’
‘A signature?’ He would reach them at any moment. But she couldn’t look, not with Johnny observing her.
‘On the marriage register.’ Moira shot her a quizzical look as she tucked herself in closer to Johnny. ‘It’s only a short walk from here.’
The marriage register. A chill cast over her. What had she just agreed to? Vee gripped her handbag strap, fighting for the words. The words to withdraw her offer, to deny them. Because if the station commander found out about this transgressing of his rules, he’d read Squadron Leader Verney the riot act, and then she’d be hauled over the coals for aiding them. This was beyond the fraternisation the station commander so abominated, beyond a simple relationship. And she was the senior WAAF officer on the station. She could simply say no to Moira, say she wouldn’t be part of it. But Moira’s face was alight with expectation.
Vee glanced up. The dark blue uniformed man sauntered past, towards the street door, pulling it open with a backward glance. A trace of a smile crossed his lips as he looked in her direction. A slight touch of his cap and he was gone.
In front of her, Moira bounced on her toes as she whispered in Johnny’s ear, her tone low but eager. Eager and happy.
She couldn’t back out now, couldn’t deny them this. Neither Moira nor Johnny would let slip. They knew what was at stake as much as she did. Of course they wouldn’t tell.
-2-
July 1944
Vee would be to blame if they didn’t come back.
She peered into her mug of tea, as if that would conjure the telltale ripples heralding an aircraft’s arrival. Yet its surface remained still, slick with the unappetising, oily film that dwelled after each mouthful, courtesy of the diesel fuel lingering over the air station.
She wound the red silk handkerchief around one hand, numbing her fingers, as her stomach coiled and recoiled.
The clock on the Intelligence Room wall ticked on another minute: 5:27 am.
Three-and-a-half long hours since the other planes had returned and Squadron Leader Verney had sent Wilkins off to bed, requesting Vee alone remain with him. Well, that was for the best. Wilkins wasn’t popular with the crews. Too keen to befriend them, too chummy, trying to be one of them.
And she had to be here when the last two planes came back. When – not if.
She shifted in her chair, until Lucy grumbled, lifting her bristly snout from Vee’s lap with a small whine.
‘I know, old girl, I know. But he’ll be back soon.’ She ran a hand down Lucy’s wiry coat, whispering encouraging sounds to the fox terrier as she ignored Verney’s frown. He was mistaken about Lucy. Far from being a distraction who threatened to upset the knife-edge balance on which the station operated, Lucy was part and parcel of the strictly maintained routines, the superstitions followed to the letter, the good-luck charms and talismans never forsaken.
Fate, kismet, destiny.
Or roulette.
She’d promised Johnny to locate the handkerchief and deliver it to Dispersals before they took off. But she’d needed to tidy the hut following the briefing, before being called to deliver some paperwork to the higher-ups. Back and forth between pillar and post. By the time she’d reached the officers’ mess and located his lucky handkerchief – wedged down the side of his regular armchair – they were airborne. Without it.
If Johnny and his crew didn’t come back, she’d be to blame.
Outside, a spirited summer wind gusted across the flat, open farmland around the station, the draughts stealing in through every little crevice and opening, around every ill-fitting window frame of the hastily constructed premises.
For hours, the hut had been a flurry of activity. Mugs of tea – or something stronger – pressed into shaking hands while they collected the specifics of the raid from the four returned aircrew struggling to keep their eyes open, their adrenaline spent.
All details from the interrogation – a grotesque name for the task – dutifully noted and ready for the opsum to be typed up later, the operational summary then sent on to Bomber Command.
A routine op, or so the higher-ups had briefed the six crews. An eight-hour round trip, or thereabouts. Drop the loads and return home. It didn’t always pan out that way, though. Light to medium flak. Numerous searchlights. (Far more than they’d been led to expect.) Pretty dicey. Multiple small fires seen. Large explosion in centre of target area. Enemy fighters spotted on return. Two Ju 88s, neither of which engaged.
Wilkins had asked straight out one time: “Did you see York’s Revenge go down?” And, rising as one, the crew had left.
The Air Force’s unwritten commandments: never ask directly, never push too hard. But always the questions lingered, unspoken.
No, the truth lay between the lines of what she scrawled in the notepad that rested on the maps strewn across the table in front of her. In what the crews didn’t say. In the pauses, the glances that passed between the airmen as they sat around her table. A minute shake of the head, a momentary lack of eye contact with her at a crucial moment, the stubbing-out of a cigarette not fully smoked, the butt joining others in the overflowing ashtray.
And now nothing left but the quiet of the final wait. For confirmation from the Ops Room, the thrumming of engines, wheels touching down. For any contact from the last two planes. Or for Squadron Leader Verney to make the decision and report them missing, for her to add that to the operations log: Aircraft failed to return to base and was reported missing.
A chill ran along her spine.
No, they’d make it back soon. If not limping home, then landing elsewhere, a telephone call from another base to inform of the crews’ safe arrival.
Because if not – if Johnny didn’t return – she’d be the one to tell Moira.
She should have known, standing there in the registry office, that it would end this way. She should have refused to be part of any of it. With that swipe of the pen, she’d broken not just the station commander’s rules but her own, too.
But if she was a fool, then Johnny was a bloody idiot. He should have known better. Lucky 13? It was laughing in Providence’s face to have that painted so starkly onto the Halifax. And the six others in his crew had assented, hauling themselves up into that plane every few days, making their wagers with destiny.
‘Section Officer Blyth?’ A shadow fell across her. Squadron Leader Verney planted both hands on her desk, leaning in, his voice low through his bushy moustache. ‘I think it’s time to file the reports. I doubt we’ll get any more news now.’
A sour taste rose to her mouth, her heartbeat tripping over itself. There it was. He’d made the judgement about Lucky 13 and Aircraft P – its crew so fresh they’d not had the time to name their plane.
Her hand hovered over the notebook. Closing it now would be like shutting the door on their return, admitting they weren’t coming back. Verney had already done so. She must do the same. Her hand trembled. She sucked in a breath through her nose and closed the notebook, pressing her palm down flat on it. Her hand refused to stop trembling.
The Squadron Leader’s gaze dropped to the red handkerchief still coiled around her other hand and Lucy, now curled at Vee’s feet. ‘No need to inform the families – or his wife – yet.’
‘Sir?’ The hairs lifted on the back of her neck. It had been reckless not to tell him. He’d learned the truth anyway. Her stomach lurched. What penalty would the station commander impose on her for this violation of his rules? Restricted privileges, perhaps. Worse, he and Verney might settle on the forfeiture of her rank and relegation to another role. That would be too much to bear, the scuppering of her ambitions, those extra tasks – and the promotion implicit in them – melting from her grasp, slipping between her fingers.
She glanced down at her sleeve, at the stripes sewn onto the blue twill wool. Verney knew how much it meant, this role, this work. And how good she was at it. One of the best, he’d admitted, his voice higher than usual, as if fighting to keep the surprise from his tone. Most importantly, the airmen liked her, trusted and confided in her. Sometimes, evidently, too much.
“Hoisted with your own petard, eh, Ginnie?” Law would have said, that familiar wry smile on his lips as he mussed her hair with a brotherly ruffle. She blinked hard, dissolving his image.
There were the missing crews to think about. And Moira. That’s what she should be concentrating on. Not herself. Balling up the handkerchief, she focused on the tabletop, on Verney’s hands still pressed to it, on the veins snaking under his skin and under his sleeves.
And now, unless she could pre-empt him, it would come. The reprimand, the punishment. She squeezed the silk tighter in her fist and, lifting her chin, fixed her gaze on him. ‘It’s not what it—’
‘Now’s not the time.’ He held up a palm, his voice gruff. As if he could surmise what she was about to say. ‘Don’t tell Aircraftwoman Tarr until we’re certain.’ Verney straightened up. ‘We wouldn’t want to upset her unnecessarily. They could have rerouted.’ He waved a hand towards the small window of the hut, towards the empty runway. ‘Landed over Hull way, perhaps, or somewhere further south…’ The crack in his voice belied his words.
And there it was, writ plainly: the reason why she shouldn’t have kept their marriage a secret, shouldn’t have aided it. Why Moira and Johnny should never even have started their relationship. And why she’d never to make the same mistake. The risks were too great, the odds too high when letting the heart rule.
Love only ever ended in grief.
