Bluebirds Page 12

  ‘No foreign grandparents, or great-grandparents. No foreign blood anywhere?’

  ‘Not as far as I know.’

  He grunted. It was the WAAF officer’s turn again. She had leaned forward a little in her chair. Her grey hair was tightly permed and her eyes matched the tone of her voice.

  ‘What would you do if there was a raid on the station?’

  Virginia hesitated. It seemed an odd question. Perhaps there was a catch to it.

  ‘I’d go to the public shelter and wait until the All Clear sounded and then I’d catch the next train.’

  To her utter astonishment they both burst out laughing.

  ‘I meant on an RAF station, not a railway station,’ the WAAF officer said, smiling. ‘What would you do if you were on duty there and the Germans came over and dropped bombs on it?’

  ‘I’d carry on with my duties.’

  ‘Good for you!’

  When she got back to the office, Miss Parkes, in whom she had confided, looked up from her desk.

  ‘How did you get on, my dear?’

  ‘They accepted me.’

  Miss Parkes looked quietly satisfied. ‘I knew they would. I should tell your mother when you next have the opportunity.’

  And when I next have the courage, Virginia thought. Some time later it occurred to her that she still had no idea what Special Duties actually were.

  The Station Commander’s house was set apart from the main buildings and stood in its own garden, surrounded by a high beech hedge. The front door was opened to Felicity by a batman and she was shown into a large drawing-room where a group of people in evening clothes stood round the fireside. Wing Commander Palmer detached himself from the semi-circle.

  ‘Good evening, Assistant Section Officer.’

  ‘Good evening, sir.’

  She shook hands with him – the first time she had not saluted him. Even off-duty, though, she could not bring herself to drop the ‘sir’.

  ‘I don’t think you’ve met my wife.’

  Mrs Palmer’s handshake was limp and cool. She was wearing a long wine-red gown and her blond hair was caught back in a smooth chignon. She looked at Felicity without welcome or interest. More introductions were made: there were two officers new to Colston, with their wives, two couples from London, a Sir Reginald and Lady Howard who lived a few miles away, and a single young man, also from London, by the name of Charles Savage. Felicity could not imagine why she had been asked to this dinner party which she had not had the slightest wish to attend, but which she had interpreted as a command rather than an invitation. Charles Savage drifted languidly to her side.

  ‘Did I hear right? You’re in the Women’s Air Force?’

  ‘Yes, you did.’

  ‘You don’t look a bit as though you are.’

  He was smoking a cigarette through an ivory holder and his hands flapped loosely from his wrists.

  ‘What should I look like?’

  He waved the holder. ‘Not like you, anyway. I pictured something absolutely fearsome . . . cropped hair, hideous, possibly a moustache . . . that sort of thing, you know.’

  ‘We’re quite normal, really.’

  ‘I’d’ve said you were actually rather special . . .’

  To Felicity’s relief, Mrs Cutler, another of those from London, moved to join them. She had a cupid’s bow mouth painted scarlet.

  ‘Do tell me what you’re talking about, Charles.’

  ‘I’m talking about the Women’s Royal Air Force, Amy, since you ask.’

  ‘Women’s Auxiliary Air Force,’ Felicity corrected.

  ‘Whatever it is. And this is an officer in it.’

  Mrs Cutler’s eyes widened. ‘Are you really? How extraordinary. Do you have to wear uniform?’

  ‘Normally, yes.’

  ‘Poor you! I should simply hate that. I think uniform is super on a man, but I don’t think women should wear it, do you, Charles?’

  ‘That all depends, Amy darling.’

  The red mouth pouted. ‘Everybody seems to be joining something – except you, Charles. This beastly war’s spoiling everything. Do you know, Gerald wants me and the children to go to Canada but I simply refuse to. I’d be bored to death there. All that awful snow and people wearing tartan hats with ear flaps and cutting down trees . . .’

  ‘They’re not all lumberjacks, darling.’

  ‘Well, anyway, I’m not going. The war will soon be over in any case, won’t it?’

  ‘How should I know? Ask our officer here. Perhaps she knows.’

  Mrs Cutler turned round blue eyes towards Felicity. ‘Do you?’

  ‘I’m afraid not.’

  ‘Well, nothing much has happened for ages, has it? And I mean who cares about Poland and those other places? I’ve never met a Pole in my life, have you? I don’t see why we have to go on fighting for them . . .’

  Later they went into the dining-room and sat at a polished table lit with candles and set with silver and crystal. The dinner was served by white-coated batmen and a waitress in a starched cap and apron. They began with turtle soup and proceeded to sole crêpes, roast pheasant and orange soufflé. Felicity, listening patiently to Charles Savage’s long account of a weekend spent hunting in Hampshire, kept reminding herself that there was a war on. The scene at the dinner table gave no clues. Even Wing Commander Palmer, out of uniform, appeared to have undergone some kind of transformation – and for the better. He was actually smiling at something that Lady Howard was saying to him. Not exactly the life and soul of the party that Speedy had talked of, but a definite improvement on the grim and frightening figure she was accustomed to encountering. If he laughs, she thought, I shall know I’m dreaming.

  ‘Do you hunt?’ Charles Savage asked in his loud and irritating drawl.

  ‘No, I don’t.’

  ‘Pity. I was going to suggest that you came out some time . . .’

  She said coldly: ‘There is a war on, you know, Mr Savage. We don’t have a lot of time for that sort of thing in the services at the moment. I’m surprised that you do.’

  He was unabashed. ‘You’re looking frightfully disapproving . . . Actually, I was turned down for military service. Had a mastoid infection as a child and it left me deaf in one ear. I’m happy to say that my good ear is on your side and my bad one on Amy’s so that I don’t have to listen to all her bêtises. Between you and me I wish she’d go off to Canada on the next boat and stay there permanently. I can’t imagine what Caroline sees in her. They were at school together, or something . . . Of course, the husband is worth a million . . . trade, though. Not really dear Caro’s style, even though all her loot came from beer. She has expensive tastes, our hostess. Just as well she doesn’t have to make do on a Wing Commander’s pay. Odd that she married someone like him, don’t you think? Not her type at all, I’d have said.’

  ‘I really don’t know, and I don’t think we should discuss it.’

  ‘Now you’re looking even more disapproving. Very well, let’s talk about what you’re doing in the Air Force instead. Amy’s quite wrong about women in uniform, you know . . .’

  Mr Cutler was sitting on Felicity’s other side. He had scarcely said a word throughout the soup and fish course, but over the pheasant he began to talk morosely about his business which, she gathered, was something to do with tins. The war, he told her in glum tones, was bound to affect it.

  ‘There’ll be a shortage of raw materials, you see. Shortage of everything, come to that. They’ll have to ration it all in the end. I tell you, this war hasn’t got started properly yet. Things are going to get a lot worse before we’re through. I wish I could persuade Amy to take the children to Canada, but she won’t. I keep telling her that it’d be a damn sight better being bored over there than living here under the Nazis, but she won’t listen.’

  ‘Surely it won’t come to us being invaded?’

  ‘I’m very much afraid that it will. The Huns have got to if they want to beat us.’

  ‘But the Frenc
h –’

  ‘Oh, they’ll let us down. The Germans will attack them first and they’ll give up, you’ll see. No stomach when it comes to a real fight. And once the Huns have taken over France they’ll be all set to invade us.’

  ‘They’d have to cross the Channel.’

  He gestured tiredly. ‘They’ve got a Navy, haven’t they? Not to mention an Army and an Air Force – bigger and better than ours.’

  She thought of Speedy’s casual words. Come the spring and they’ll be ready for the off . . . Down the far end of the dinner table, Wing Commander Palmer was talking to the officer’s wife seated next to him, his head bent towards her. This is an operational fighter station in wartime and you and your recruits will be under my command. If gloomy Mr Cutler was right then it might no longer be a question of the WAAFS taking the men’s places to release them for active service. They would soon be in the front line themselves and RAF Colston would certainly come under attack from the enemy. How would they stand up to it? They were all young girls, born in peacetime, whose only experience of gunfire, like hers, had been to hear it safely in the distance in the station butts. Supposing some of them panicked? A girl like Potter, for instance, could easily have hysterics, or at least become a serious liability. Who could say how any of them would behave? She watched the Station Commander thoughtfully for a moment. For the first time she could appreciate some of his reservations – at least in that respect. In every other she was convinced that he was completely wrong. The WAAFS could, and would, cope with most trades just as well as the men. In the end he would have to eat his words. Cooking, cleaning and clerical work . . . He’d soon have to change his tune. More recruits were due to arrive after Christmas, and there would be more after that. And more, and more . . . As she thought about this, the Wing Commander turned his head in her direction and she looked quickly away.

  After dinner, while the ladies sat in the drawing-room waiting for the men to finish their port, Lady Howard complained stridently about her servant problem. Her cook had given notice and gone to work in a munitions factory, their head gardener had joined the Army, the under gardener had just been called up, and one of the housemaids had insisted on going off to be a Land Girl.

  ‘Left us in the lurch to go and work for some farmer! I told Reginald, I don’t know how we’re going to manage. We shall just have to shut up both wings and let the garden run to seed.’

  Felicity listened to her and to the sympathetic murmurings from some of the other women. All over England, she thought, there must be people who perceive the war only as an inconvenience to themselves. Lady Howard deplores the loss of her servants, Mr Cutler moans about a tin shortage while his wife grumbles that her fun is being spoiled and admits frankly that she doesn’t care a fig about the fate of the Poles, nor, presumably, that of the Czechs, Finns, persecuted Jews, or for anyone else whose life and liberty is threatened and for whom we are supposed to be fighting. She doesn’t understand, as any Pole or Czech could tell her, and even her husband has tried to, that it’s not her entertainment that’s at stake but her freedom and very existence.

  She was glad when the men came into the room and put a stop to the conversation though this was short-lived when Wing Commander Palmer paused by her chair.

  ‘I hope you’re enjoying the evening?’

  ‘Yes, thank you, sir.’

  ‘Good . . . good.’ He cleared his throat. ‘One of the drawbacks of Service life can be having to be away from one’s family at Christmas and so on . . . Does your family live far away?’

  ‘Norfolk, sir. At least my father lives there. My mother died some years ago.’

  ‘I’m sorry to hear that. Brothers or sisters?’

  ‘No, sir.’

  He cleared his throat again. ‘I believe you were at Cambridge?’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  ‘Beautiful place. Which college?’

  ‘Girton, sir.’

  ‘Bit out of town, isn’t it?’

  Mrs Palmer called from across the room. ‘David! Lady Howard has something to ask you . . .’

  ‘Excuse me.’

  He left her side, to her great relief. The stilted, unnatural exchange had flustered her. She was even thankful to resume a conversation with Mr Cutler who was now talking pessimistically about the inadequacy of the Royal Air Force.

  ‘The German Luftwaffe’s twice the size, did you know? I’ve been told that on good authority. And their pilots have had combat experience . . . Spain, Poland . . . those chaps already know a thing or two. Ours are still wet behind the ears. Haven’t a clue most of them, I’ll bet.’

  At the end of the evening, she walked back to her quarters under a glittering, starry sky. It was very cold and felt and smelled as though it would soon snow. She had not enjoyed the dinner party in the least and it was good to be out of the house and in the clean air. It had tired and depressed her, and she still could not understand why she had been asked. Perhaps all Station Commanders considered it their duty to show some sort of bogus Christmas spirit. Mercifully she had only had to exchange a few words with Wing Commander Palmer, and even fewer with his wife. She walked quickly, not needing a torch to see her way, her high heels ringing against the paving. As she passed by the Sergeants’ Mess she could hear someone playing ‘Hark The Herald Angels Sing’ on the piano – strumming it out loudly. In a few days it would be Christmas; the first Christmas of the war.

  While his WAAF officer was walking back beneath the stars, Wing Commander Palmer stood in front of the dying fire, finishing his brandy. To his annoyance, Charles Savage had lingered after the other guests and now Caroline was saying a prolonged good night to him at the door. He was very familiar with the situation and it had been a long time since he had cared. They had been married for eight years and for six of those she had been unfaithful with a variety of men. Savage had been only one in a long line.

  He drank more brandy and stared into the embers. He had tried his hardest to make the marriage work, but he had failed. He blamed himself entirely for having been foolish enough to marry her in the first place. He was ten years her senior and it was he who had pursued her and not the other way round. He had fallen in love with her the moment he had seen her at a dinner party when he had been on leave in London years ago. She had sat opposite him and he had been almost unable to take his eyes off her throughout the whole meal. He supposed now that it must have been infatuation – the blind infatuation of a long-time bachelor, dazzled by a very beautiful woman. It was several years since he had felt any love for her and doubted that she had ever felt any for him. It remained a mystery to him why she had ever accepted his proposal unless perhaps she had been impressed by the uniform and the medals, and had somehow imagined Service life to be glamorous. He realized now what a disappointment he must have proved – how stuffy and dull he must quickly have seemed to her, and how boring and constricting her life as an RAF wife. He should have foreseen that it could never have made her happy.

  Palmer drained his glass and helped himself to more brandy from the decanter on the side table. He sat down in an armchair and rubbed his hand over his eyes. He was very tired and the dinner party had been a strain. He had not felt in the least in a social mood and he had found the effort exhausting. Lady Howard had been particularly tiresome, asking endless questions and complaining about noise from the aerodrome in the early mornings. He had done his best to be placatory. Squadron Leader Forrester’s wife, new to the station and sitting on his other side, had, by contrast, been so withdrawn and shy that conversation with her had been equally hard work. On reflection, he thought that he should perhaps have taken the time to talk more to Assistant Section Officer Newman, but somehow the opportunity had not presented itself. She had been deep in conversation with that ass Savage or that fellow Cutler and when he had tried to have a word with her after dinner Lady Howard had intervened with yet more infuriating questions. Pity. He had asked the WAAF officer with the idea that it might help put their relationship on a better foo
ting. Not that he had changed his mind about the folly of having women serving on the station, but because he had accepted that they were here to stay, whether he liked it or not. And he’d been pretty hard on ASO Newman, one way and another.

  He heard Savage’s flashy sports car start up outside with a low growl. Caroline had taken her time saying good night, as he had expected. He was fairly sure that Savage had been her lover at some point but it was no longer of any interest to him with whom she slept so long as she observed certain basic rules of behaviour and put in a reasonable number of official appearances as his wife. The hot and terrible jealousy and anger that he had first experienced had long since been replaced by a cold indifference. He had even managed to face the fact that her infidelity was common knowledge on the station. He had immersed himself in his work and career and kept up the outward pretence of a normal marriage, so far as it was possible. As he saw it, the only alternative was to divorce her and to him that was unthinkable.

  The sports car revved noisily and he heard it drive away, the sound fading into the distance. Thank God Savage had gone! There was a bang as the front door shut and the sharp click of his wife’s heels as she crossed the parquet floor in the hall. She came into the drawing-room and he could tell at once that she was in a vile mood. She flung herself into the armchair opposite him.

  ‘Get me a drink, will you, David. A large one.’

  He got up to pour her a brandy and handed her the glass. She took a swallow and closed her eyes.

  ‘God, what a boring evening! Those ghastly RAF and their dreary little wives . . . do we have to have people like that?’

  ‘You know we do.’

  ‘I don’t see why. Surely you see enough of the men during the day and the wives have nothing to say for themselves. Christ, what a stuffed shirt that Squadron Leader Forrester is! And his wife hardly uttered all evening.’

  ‘She was very shy.’

  ‘Shy! She seemed positively moronic. Can I have a light please?’

  He lit her cigarette for her and stayed standing by the mantelpiece. She looked up at him, blowing a thin stream of smoke.