Bombers' Moon (23 page)

‘We’ll walk,’ Kate said firmly, ‘the last thing I want is the neighbours talking about your big posh car stopping outside our house.’

It was a fine autumn day and Hilda had just hung sheets on the line in the back garden. Kate could hear the snap of the sheets in the wind. ‘Adam has been sick again,’ she said.

Kate’s heart sank. The baby, born three weeks too early, had been sickly from the start. ‘I hoped he was growing out of that by now.’ Kate was weary, there was so much to think about, to worry about, and now Stephen was making demands, complicating matters even more for her.

‘Can I pick him up?’ Kate heard him move the covers from Adam’s crib.

‘Carefully then,’ she said, ‘we don’t want him to be sick again, do we?’ The chair creaked and Kate knew that Stephen had seated himself with the little baby in his arms. Suddenly Kate felt very ill. She leaned back against her chair and tried not to think.

The door opened and she could smell the scent of her husband. She heard the pause as Eddie took in the scene.

‘Eddie.’ She tried to stand but then she was falling, falling into a deep well and, thankfully, she let herself fall.

She was in bed, in hospital. She recognized the sounds from when she’d been in before. The rustle of starched aprons, the slap, slap of soft-soled shoes on the floor and the all-pervading, unmistakable smell of cleaning fluid.

‘What’s wrong with me?’ Her voice was thin, weak.

‘It’s all right, dear.’ A cool hand touched her forehead. ‘You’ve had an operation, that’s all. You’re going to be just fine.’

‘An operation – what sort of operation?’

‘You’ve had a hysterectomy. Your abdomen had split open, scars broken down – there were complications – but you’ve come through it very well, you’ll be fit again in a few weeks.’ The hand was removed, the sound of feet dying away, and Kate struggled to come to terms with what she’d been told.

There had been a danger all along that her old scars would open when the baby was born but that hadn’t happened. Why now?

She heard footsteps approaching once more. Her arm was lifted and a sharp prick of a needle pierced her arm.

‘There, rest now, have a good sleep and when you wake your loved ones will be here to see you.’

‘Loved ones . . . am I going to die then?’

‘There was no answer, the nurse had gone away and Kate was left alone to wonder if she would live to rear her firstborn and her poor, sickly Adam.

Forty-Eight

Hari drew up outside the farmhouse and Jessie appeared in the doorway, her brow furrowed but a hopeful smile on her face.

‘Any news, Hari?’ Her tone was eager. ‘Come in,
cariad
, come in and sit down.’ Hari sat in the living room, which was a mess. Dust had built up like clouds on the furniture and Jessie was looking gaunt and old. She coughed incessantly.

‘I’ve heard from Meryl in a roundabout sort of way,’ Hari said. ‘A message over air waves, a bit of Welsh, my name.’ She could say nothing more; the rest of the message was secret and might not even be correct.

‘And Michael?’

‘I don’t know.’ Hari’s voice was low with misery. ‘I assume he’s alive or Meryl would have found a way to let me know. But, and it’s a big but, he’s either in prison or on active service for the Germans.’

Jessie sighed heavily. ‘His father would have influence. I’m sure he’ll look after Michael. I’ll make us a cup of tea.’

Jessie’s answer to every crisis was a cup of tea. She was very affected by her son’s disappearance, her footsteps faltering as she made her way to the kitchen.

Hari followed her. The kitchen was in a terrible state and Hari took off her coat and washed the accumulation of dishes. Jessie made a faint protest but there was a look of relief on her face as Hari brushed up the debris on the kitchen floor.

Hari was silent for a long time but as she put away the brush she looked at Jessie.

‘I need your help,’ she said.

Jessie’s face brightened. ‘Anything girl, you’ve been so good to me since . . . well, you know.’

‘I want you to come and stay for a few weeks,’ she said. ‘Father is home for a break, he’ll be all alone while I’m at work and he’s not very good on his one leg.’

It wasn’t true; her father was well able to look after himself. Jessie obviously wasn’t, not just now.

‘Leave the farm? Oh, I don’t know, Hari, what about the cattle?’

‘I’m sure the man on the next farm would take them in, there’s so few of them now, anyway.’ She touched Jessie’s arm. ‘It would only be for a short while, in any case, and I do need your help, really I do.’

‘When?’ Jessie asked.

‘Father’s coming home Monday, what if I come for you next Sunday, would that suit you?’

‘
Duw
, I suppose so. It’s only for a while though, mind.’

‘I know.’ Hari smiled with relief. ‘I’ll expect a nice cooked meal for Father and me when I come home from the factory, though.’

‘So long as we put our rations together it will be all right. Could I bring a few chucks with me for eggs?’

‘We could manage chickens in the garden, I suppose,’ Hari said. ‘Just so long as you don’t bring a pig for bacon as well.’

Hari had the satisfaction of knowing the house looked tidier when she left and Jessie was busy washing clothes to bring to Swansea with her. A spell with company might just be what Jessie needed; she was all alone in that deserted farmhouse, alone and afraid.

As she drove along the farm road towards the main thoroughfare for Swansea, a figure suddenly stepped out in front of her car. She pulled up and saw George Dixon wave his arms at her frantically.

‘Help me, miss – it’s my mother, she’s taken really bad. I don’t know what to do; I don’t know how long she’s been sick. I’ve just come home on leave, see?’

George was in army uniform, he was a junior officer, commissioned no less. Mrs Dixon must be well connected. ‘Get in.’

Hari drove to the Dixon Farm and hurried across the yard into the house. Mrs Dixon was in bed; it was clear she had a fever. Her face was flushed, almost cyanosed, her eyes were puffy and she had strange red marks on her skin.

‘I’ve called the doctor,’ George said. ‘I ran to the post office in the village and used their phone but so far there’s no sign of anyone coming.’

‘She is very ill.’ Hari looked at her watch. ‘If the doctor doesn’t come soon we’ll take her to the hospital.’

As she finished speaking the doctor came plodding up the stairs. He was very old with a white moustache and a shock of white hair under his hat.

‘Doctor Merriman.’ He nodded briefly to Hari and went straight to the bed. After a moment he shook his head. ‘I’m too late,’ he said. ‘Mrs Dixon is dying, she’s had scarlet fever for at least a week. I’m sorry.’

‘How long?’ George’s voice was hoarse.

‘You’ll be lucky, son, if she lasts the night. I’ll give her something to ease her and then all you can do is sit with her, talk to her gently, help her slip away peacefully. I’m sorry.’ He repeated helplessly, ‘It’s just too late to help her.’

‘If only I’d been here,’ George said angrily. ‘This bastard war.’ He put his head in his hands and wept.

Forty-Nine

I became accustomed to the routine of going to work on the radio section in the big, sprawling building that stood out like a landmark on the flat countryside near Hamburg. I became so used to speaking German that sometimes, even in my thoughts, I used German words.

The girls around me became my firm friends, especially the flirtatious Eva, a fluffy blonde girl with a beautiful face and a clinical, clever brain. Even Frau Hoffman had warmed enough to smile occasionally. As one of the girls remarked, ‘She must be in love.’

And yet sometimes, feeling absurdly like a traitor to Germany, I would take my box of ‘sanitary products’ with me into the fields as far away from my home and my workplace as my bike would take me and send any potentially useful pieces of information back, I hoped, to Hari in Bridgend.

The winter of 1944 was long, spring seemed determined not to come. I spent my evenings mostly alone in the farmhouse, practising codes on pieces of paper.

One night, I was almost sleeping in my chair with the fire dying in the hearth when I heard the sound of a car outside. I sat up; it must be Herr Euler, who sometimes made a call home at odd times. I wondered if it was to check up on me but so far he’d caught me doing no more than reading or writing endless letters to Michael that he probably seldom received.

The door was opened by a lady driver. She stared at me and I stared back, wondering what the heck was going on now; Herr Euler had no time for lady drivers.

And then my mouth split from ear to ear as Michael came hopping into the room on crutches. He looked well in spite of the bandaged foot and his smile matched mine when he saw me.

‘
Liebling
!’ I went forward to meet him, elbowing aside the pretty lady driver jealously. ‘Thank you for your help but I will take charge of my husband from now on,’ I said pointedly.

‘Give the lady a cup of tea,’ Michael said, making an eye gesture at me, showing he’d read my feelings well. ‘She’s to meet her fiancé later but she surely has time for some refreshment.’

Fuming, I made the tea and then I sat as close to Michael as I could get in view of the fact his crutches were poking into my legs. ‘What’s happened my love?’ I touched his hair with wifely concern. He grinned, well aware of my jealousy.

‘I crash-landed; luckily I made it back to the airport but the Focke’s undercarriage came off and a bit of twisted metal caught my ankle. It’s nothing; a couple of stitches fixed it up and the plane’s not too badly damaged.’

‘A nasty gash though,’ the driver said knowingly. I gave her a piercing glance. ‘Well, thank you for driving my husband home I expect you’ll want to be on your way.’

She hastily finished her tea and smiled at Michael. ‘Take care sir, and good luck.’ She glanced at me defiantly as she rested her hand on Michael’s shoulder. I resisted the urge to kick her out of the house.

‘Goodbye.’ I shut the door before she got to her car. ‘Lights,’ I said to Michael, and he laughed.

‘Green ones in your eyes?’

‘Are you saying I’m jealous?’

‘I am.’

‘Well, what do you expect arriving home with a fluffy blonde? She was very familiar with you considering she has a fiancé.’

‘War has a strange effect on people.’

‘Not strange enough for you to flirt with her.’

He caught me in his arms and placed me on his knee. ‘Mind my ankle,’ he said and kissed me.

It was wonderful to wake in the morning and see Michael asleep beside me. He was so dear, so handsome, so mine – at least for now.

He opened his blue eyes fringed by long lashes and smiled his sweet smile. I turned into his warm body and he put his arms around me. ‘I do love you,’ I said softly. He said nothing though he planted a kiss on my forehead. ‘At least I’ve got you for a little while,’ I said, hoping he would say something like ‘forever’ but he did not speak at all and I wondered if I would ever know the truth of his feeling for me. Did he still love Hari or did he love me more now? I was too afraid to ask.

At first he did not make love to me and I was afraid it was over, that his conscience had stricken him when he thought of betraying my sister. But being together in a bed every night breaks down barriers and one night, I clung to him and deliberately pressed my full breasts against him.

I felt him respond; he groaned and then he was kissing my shoulders, my breasts, taking my hard nipple into his hot mouth. Was it just the lust of a man too long without a woman, facing death every time he took to the skies? I didn’t care, he was here and for now we were together, really together and nothing else mattered.

Fifty

Hari found herself with a house full of people: Jessie took charge of the kitchen and of Hari’s father – who liked the attention – and tried her best with George Dixon, who sat around like a lost soul. Hari’s small house seemed to bulge at the seams and yet soon, the disparate group of people became like a family.

Hari went into the small kitchen that was filled with the warmth of the fire and steamy with pots of vegetables boiling on the gas stove. ‘Jessie, how are you managing with all this work?’

‘It’s the breath of life to me.’ Jessie was serious. ‘I was dying a slow death in that farmhouse with no one to look after.’

She did look better, more alive, there was a light back in her pale blue eyes and her mouth turned up in a smile. ‘I feel in my gut that Michael is safe and you know Meryl is alive. She’s a fine, honest girl, whatever she’s doing it will be for the good of her country, mark my words.’

‘I know.’ Hari touched Jessie’s arm. ‘But why did they marry, Jessie? Michael said he loved me, he . . .’ Embarrassed, she stopped speaking.

‘They are meant for each other,’ Jessie said. ‘From the moment I saw them together I knew that much about them. They’re like two sides of the same coin. As for love –’ she shrugged – ‘I’m afraid you’ll learn that a man says he’s in love, perhaps even
believes
he’s in love, when he wants to bed a woman. They don’t mean it, Hari, it’s just their way. I’m sorry but you might as well learn that now as later.’

It was a long speech for Jessie to make and Hari knew she meant well but Michael was not the type to be ruled by the urges of his body. He was an honourable man. And yet he’d married her sister, hadn’t he?

Her mind kept running round the problem, eating away at it, trying to make sense of it. He’d meant it when he said he loved her, she was sure of it. Wasn’t she? And yet she woke each morning to a sense of foreboding, as if some tragedy had occurred, and then she realized it had. Michael was lost to her forever, there was no hope for her, he was married to Meryl and even if they all survived this awful war, what future was there for them?

Spring came and turned into summer and Hari had a few small messages from ‘Black Opal’. Nothing really of note but each was like a knife wound, fear tangled her entrails each time a message came because she might read that Michael was dead. Hari was never able to respond and the signal was soon lost, possibly swept away by the Bletchley Park’s impressive might. Worse, she could imagine Meryl packing everything quickly away in danger of being shot. Every time she sent a message she was risking discovery by the Germans.