Elizabeth Elgin - Whisper on the Wind

‘That I have. Many a time. And I came to the conclusion that if our tea ration dried up we’d just have to throw up our hands and give in.’

‘But we won’t, Poll?’

‘We won’t, Mrs Fairchild, ma’am. We won’t.’

Tuesday, beautiful Tuesday and only five minutes more until he came. Five long, lovely minutes, then he’d be here.

Roz waited, hands in pockets, coat collar upturned. Today was cold, yesterday’s little April forgotten. But the days were lengthening. Soon they would have to find some other place to meet. Soon, it would no longer be possible to wait, hidden by darkness, until she heard his footstep, his whistle.

Today she had seen catkins; not yet fat and fluffy and golden with pollen but her heart had beaten more quickly at the sight of them nevertheless. Today, everything was beautiful and precious, touched with their love; the gentle-eyed calves, fat little Daisy, the rooks, lazy wings flapping on the wind, and the daffodil tips, pushing out of the cold, wet earth.

She heard his footstep, then saw him as he turned into the yard. The sight of him set her pulses racing and she ran, not caring who might see them, into his arms, closing her eyes against the sweet, silly tears that sprang to them, lifting her face for his kiss.

‘Darling, I’ve missed you so.’ His voice was deep, husky with love.

‘Hey!’ She pulled away from him. ‘That’s what I always say!’ She reached for his lips with her own, wishing she didn’t feel so dizzy, so giddily happy. ‘I love you, love you, and I’ve missed you, too.’

‘I’m mad, aren’t I?’ His laugh was deep, and indulgent. ‘Why did I go? Why did you let me?’

‘Because I’m mad, too. Did you tell your parents about us?’

‘No, Roz. Mum would have gone into a dither about it and Dad would have given me a lecture on why a fighting man shouldn’t get serious about girls till the war’s over. I told Pippa, though. She was glad for us, though she gave me a stern, sisterly warning.’

‘It’s all right. I’m not pregnant. I told you so, when you rang.’ She was glad Paul’s sister knew about them; that someone knew they’d been lovers. ‘And did I tell you I love you?’

‘You did, but say it again. Don’t ever stop saying it, Roz.’

‘I won’t. Not ever. Fifty years from now I’ll still be telling you.’

He held her tightly. Fifty years from now. She said it often, tilting at Fate, defying it to part them. Fifty years, my lovely love? Fifty weeks, fifty days he’d be grateful for. He closed his eyes, resting his cheek on her hair, grateful to a war that had brought them together, hating a war that could snatch them apart without a goodbye.

‘I want you, Roz.’

‘I want you, too. I can’t think about anything else but wanting you.’ ‘Where shall we go?’

‘To the haystack, again.’ Every day for the last week she and Kath had cut deep into that stack, carrying hay to the cows wintering in the foldyard. Soon, it would all be gone, but soon it would be summer and the earth warm beneath them, freezing rain and biting winds forgotten. Soon, they would have no need of it.

They walked, not speaking now, fingers entwined, thighs touching, pausing only to kiss. Now fear was forgotten, caution flung to the sky. Need was all they knew and all else mattered little. The world was them, and only them; only this moment was real.

They sank into the hay and he unbuttoned his greatcoat, wrapped her to him inside it.

‘Do you know something?’ she whispered, her lips on his. ‘Last time, when I got home, there was hay on the back of my coat. I saw it when I took it off and I thought, “Oh, my God!”’

‘I’ll brush you down this time.’

‘Mmm.’ He unfastened her coat and blouse, reached gently to slip the hook of her bra. She wanted him to kiss her until she was desperate with need for him; wanted this night never to end. She didn’t care. She wouldn’t care if the whole of Alderby knew. She wanted them to know.

‘I love you,’ she whispered, as he took her.

It was late when they left the shelter of the haystack. The wind had scattered the clouds and a half moon glinted down on them. Suddenly he said, ‘There was a buzz, when we got back, that our replacement came.’ They must talk, now, of real things, of the world they lived in. ‘It’s brand new, I believe. A woman ferry-pilot flew it up from the makers, they told us, and they diverted her to Linforth – told her to land it there. We’ll have to go over and pick it up, I suppose, when the runway’s in use again. Imagine – a woman, all alone in a plane that size?’

There would be no death on the new Lancaster bomber. A clean slate, another rear-gunner.

‘You won’t be collecting it yet,’ she whispered confidently.

‘No. Not for about a week. Two great holes in the runway to be seen to. We can meet every night.’

Every night, for a week. Seven tomorrows, sweet and safe. She didn’t care about the replacement. It was ten miles away, at another aerodrome. The whole world was ten miles away.

‘I don’t want you to leave me,’ he said as they stood close together at the orchard gate.

‘I don’t want to. I want you to stay with me all night. Could we make it, do you think – a night together?’

‘I can manage it, sweetheart, but what about you?’

‘I don’t know. I’ll talk to Kath about it. Kath can get sleeping-out passes so I could say I was with her. She’ll help me, I know she will.’

‘York? We could hide ourselves in York.’

‘Anywhere. Anywhere they’ll let us be together.’

‘You’re sure?’ He cupped her face in his hands, touching her mouth gently, kissing away her doubts, if doubts she had.

‘I’m sure.’ She had never been so sure of anything in the whole of her life – except perhaps of how much she loved him. ‘Let’s try to make it soon, Paul; as soon as we can?’

There were sixteen more operations to fly; fifteen, and the last one. It had to be soon.

Kath stood in the darkness at the attic window, Barney’s letter clenched in her hand. The reply to her Christmas Day letter, the one she had filled with love and concern, had come.

Well Kath, no need for me to say I’m still hurt by your behaviour but I hope you will give me no more cause for complaint. It is very hot here, sand everywhere. I would give a lot for a pint of good English bitter, pulled of course, in an English pub.

I’m glad you are looking to the future and saving all the Army allowance. More than a hundred pounds a year. Not bad, eh? I can see I shall have that car I’ve always wanted when I get back.

No more cause for complaint? Well, thanks, Barney!

Hot, is it? Well, it’s so damn cold here you wouldn’t believe it. Some of the girls at the hostel were picking sprouts today. You should have seen their hands, Barney. Blue and swollen, numb with frost. I’ll send you some frozen sprouts, shall I, to cool you down?

That car you’ve always wanted? But when rugs and curtains and wallpaper are back in the shops again, I’d thought my savings could be spent on things for our home and some nice easy chairs.

She stuffed the letter into the pocket of her coat, breathing hard in her dismay. Chin on hand, she gazed into the night.

The stillness was touched with moonglow, but it did nothing to soothe her. She pulled her coat to her, shivering not with cold but with an unexplained apprehension.

Was it that strange, just-around-the-corner feeling, the certainty that something was about to happen or was she ashamed, still, of confiding in a stranger in a way no married woman should talk to any man – except her husband. But Marco was her friend, had saved her life, though saving her life should not have made him the keeper of her conscience. What, then, was this feeling of malcontent? Was she, for the first time, finding fault with her marriage or could it be that she missed not her husband, but being a wife?