Windflower Wedding

‘Not too badly. He asked prayers for them all at early Communion and for the two aircrews who died. He’s over Creesby way tonight. A young wife six months pregnant in need of comfort, he said. She got a telegram this morning. Husband killed in the Middle East. Should have gone myself. I know what the poor woman is going through,’ she said flatly.

‘Of course, love,’ Alice said gently. ‘I went through it as well, ’cept that Tom came back. I took flowers to the graves this morning – had a little weep. And I won’t forget Lady Helen, either.’

‘It was a swine of a week, wasn’t it? Four deaths and two of our bombers, then Mother died too, just days after. It was as if the old ones had had enough. Two wars in anyone’s lifetime is cruel.’

‘I’ll be there if you want me, Julia, like always – if Nathan won’t think I’m interfering, that is.’

‘He won’t. You and me have always remembered things together. Mother’s first anniversary isn’t the time to stop. And I’ve booked a call to Montpelier Mews; told the exchange that if no one answers at Rowangarth I’d be here – that’s okay, isn’t it? Don’t want to block your line or anything.’

‘You won’t be. Daisy got through half an hour ago to let me know she hadn’t forgotten – sent her love to you, too. And I’m glad you’re ringing London. Folk are inclined to forget Tatty and her airman. She’ll be a long time getting over that night. By the by, Daisy met Drew and Kitty; briefly, she said. They were both fine, though Drew will be back at sea now.’

‘And Kitty away to London. Well, at least she’ll be good for Tatty, and Sparrow will have two of them to fuss over.’ Julia pushed back her chair as the phone in the passage outside began to ring. ‘That’ll be my call.’

‘Then remember me to them all – and say special love from me to Tatty, won’t you?’

Alice filled the kettle and set it to boil, wondering how many times she and Julia had shared a comforting cup.

Too many to count, she thought sadly. Far, far too many.

9 (#ulink_0c28bdf0-c106-56e9-95ee-49468362da5c)

‘There now, lovely girl!’ Lyn Carmichael was kissed and hugged. ‘Home for a week this time, is it?’

‘A week and a day, Auntie Blod. Am I welcome?’

‘As a pound of black-market butter! Of course you’re welcome, cariad. There’s foolish to ask!’

‘No butter, I’m afraid, but I’ve got a card for a week’s rations with me. Oh, it’s good to be home!’ Lyn hung up her raincoat. ‘I’ve brought some dirty shirts and collars, if you don’t mind …’

‘I’ll do all your stuff on washday. Get yourself upstairs and out of that uniform. And where on earth did you get that hat?’

‘It’s a cap, not a hat – our new, official-issue Wren-type headgear. Like it?’

‘No, I can’t say I do. The old hats were more ladylike to my way of thinking.’

‘And very fuddy-duddy. We all think the new ones are cute, sort of.’

‘Saucy! But I’ll bring you up a jug of water for a wash. Want it out of the tap, or the butt?’

‘The butt, please.’ Lyn liked to wash her face in rainwater.

‘I’m out of toilet soap, cariad. Mine’s down to a sliver.’

‘I’ve brought my own and there’s a soap coupon with the ration card. Oooh, Auntie Blod – let’s pretend the war is a million miles away? Let’s shut it out for eight nights and seven days, shall we? Let’s you and me just talk and talk?’

‘We’ll do that, merchi. Talk about everything under the sun.’

And about Kenya, too, she thought grimly, because ever since she had known the truth about, well – things, Lyn had clammed up when Kenya was mentioned, just as she went all poker-faced when Drew Sutton’s name came into the conversation.

Talk, because there were things to be brought into the open whether the stubborn little miss liked it or not. And before so very much longer, too!

Keth sat in the back of the camouflaged army staff car feeling distinctly uncomfortable. Beside him was a fresh-faced lieutenant and driving them, a staff sergeant who looked as if he’d be a good sort to have beside you in a backs-to-the-wall situation, Keth decided.

The man at his side he wasn’t so sure about. A youngster, really, who would doubtless report back to the stone house that Gaston Martin had been safely delivered to the 15th Submarine Flotilla.

Keth studied the passing scenery. It was especially beautiful to one who was to leave it. Bracken and heather were taking on their autumnal colours; the hills shaded from grey to purple to black, with slants of sunlight slicing between them to glint on the little loch to his right.

He was no longer afraid. He had asked for a posting home and was given it, with conditions attached. This was where the pay-off started, and after his first wave of terrified disbelief, Daisy was still worth it.

The car slowed and pulled over to let a farm tractor pass. It was driven by a land girl and she smiled and raised her hand. Not unlike Gracie, he thought, wondering at the normality of the encounter; trying to imagine what the girl would think could she have known that inside that car was a man who was on his way to occupied France. But everything about this morning was precious and normal save Gaston Martin.

Last night, instead of sleeping, he had carefully calculated Daisy’s watches and was almost sure that until Friday she would be working a week of nights. Which meant, of course, that on Friday morning, instead of sleeping, she would be on the train, heading home on one of her unofficial weekends.

They all did it, it would seem, after a week of night duties. Authority turned a blind eye to an entire watch disappearing without trace and without a leave pass, too. Perhaps they accepted that it was only a matter of time until one of the miscreants was stopped by a naval patrol, and that would be that. In the rattle, Daisy said, for going absent without leave and AWOL usually merited at least one week’s stoppage of privileges and extra duties in quarters. But until someone was caught, then what the heck, she had laughed. Live dangerously! And for the coming weeks, Keth Purvis would be living dangerously, though if he were caught it would be something altogether different.

Yet why should he be caught? He had worked out the odds against it and they were in his favour. He had also accepted there were millions of men and women doing military service with all its attendant dangers: young girls on gun sites, or manhandling barrage balloons, and men and women of the fire service and rescue teams, who put out fires or dug with bare hands to free women and children from shattered houses even though bombs were still falling.

It was all a question of which way the dice fell and your name and number. It had been the same in his father’s war. ‘If your name and number was on a bullet, lad,’ he’d once said, ‘it would find you sooner or later. No use worrying meantime.’

Keth smiled inside him as a clump of late-flowering foxgloves slipped past the window to remind him of Brattocks Wood. They comforted him, too; made him think that Someone up there was wishing him luck – Godspeed, he supposed.

Yet did God exist? Most times, his father had said, you didn’t believe – especially when you’d had near on four years in the trenches and blamed God for letting it happen. Yet there came a time to believe, Dickon Purvis had conceded gravely, and that was when you were in a foxhole in the middle of No-Man’s-Land with shells screaming over your head. God was a good sort then to have beside you.

So now that Gaston Martin was on his way Keth felt calm and glad, almost, that from here on every passing day was one day nearer to lifting the phone and whispering, ‘Hullo, you. Guess who loves you?’ And now he had accepted that he was just as brave and every bit as afraid as millions of other men and women, he would do his best – better than his best – to get back safely with the Enigma machine our merchant seamen were so desperately in need of.

‘Nearly there, sir.’ The driver put an end to Keth’s broodings.

‘Where is there, Sergeant?’

‘Am I allowed to say?’ The question to the young lieutenant.

‘Don’t see why not. We’re about two miles from Loch Ardneavie. Once there was a thriving yacht club there – sailing boats and dinghies – but it’s all changed now. No more pretty little yachts nor weekend sailors messing about in boats since the Admiralty collared the entire loch. It’s bursting with submarines, now. HMS Omega. The Fifteenth Flotilla, and to which Staff and I are to deliver you.’

‘You seem well informed,’ Keth observed drily.

‘I’m not telling you anything Gerry doesn’t already know – sir.’ He emphasized Keth’s rank after the mild reprimand. ‘Anyway, that’s just about it. What happens when you get to Omega – well, your guess is as good as mine. And I’m well informed because I’ve been here before. The last time was with a woman – a WAAF officer.’

‘And a real good-looker, wasn’t she, sir?’ the staff sergeant offered.

‘They send women!’ Keth was shocked.

‘Why not, if they volunteer? But look over there.’ He pointed in the direction of a shimmer of water below them. ‘We’re missing the town. Coming in the top way. That’s the head of the loch you can see. Saw some smashing Wrens at Omega last time we came.’

‘Surely they don’t have Wrens on submarines?’ Keth was becoming uneasy.

‘No! They have them on the mother ship, though,’ the lieutenant laughed. ‘And they crew the dinghies and launches. Lovely little bottoms …’

‘My fiancée is a Wren,’ Keth said stiffly, ending the conversation abruptly as they dropped speed to drive through a small village, then on to the loch where the car drew up at the head of a long jetty.