Lover (2 page)

It would be dark outside. She didn't want to walk by herself—she wasn't even sure she
could
walk by herself—but the thought of trying to find Mona in the crush, of disengaging her from a flirtation and of being told, afterwards, that she was a spoilsport or, worse, ‘just a kid', was disheartening. In any case, what better way to prove she wasn't than to leave with an airman—a pilot, no less! As long as he left her at the end of the road, of course. Impressing Mona was one thing, but if her mother were to see her coming back with a
man
, she'd never hear the last of it. But she could take care of that when the time came. As for the goodnight kiss, well, the book she'd got said you had to leave them wanting more—it hadn't quite put it that way, but that was what it meant. In any case, you couldn't just let a man kiss you, or goodness knows what he'd think. And she'd be seeing him again, wouldn't she? Surely she would. Imagine: a pilot! Woozily, she pictured her friends' faces when she told them. Jealous and greedy at the same time. She grinned to herself.

‘You're smiling,' he said.

‘It's just…nice. That's all. Talking to you.'

‘I think I've done most of the talking,' he said.

‘Listening, then. Nice listening. To you.'

She let him turn her round and steer her towards the door of the pub. It banged behind them, and suddenly they were alone in the darkness. ‘Whoo!' she said. ‘Fresh air.'

‘Over here,' he said. She took a few tipsy steps into the lane. The ground was uneven.
She
was uneven. She heard the pub door open again, and turned her head. Mistake. Now everything was uneven. She had to get home.

He took her arm and guided her towards the wall of the pub. ‘Lean against this for a minute. You'll be fine.'

She could feel the roughness of the bricks through the back of her frock. ‘I've had such a nice time,' she said, ‘such a lovely time. But—'

‘Just stay still. You'll be all right.'

‘My torch…' she fumbled in her pocket. He put his hand on top of hers and took it out again.

‘You don't need that,' he said. ‘Not now.'

‘No,' she said, ‘I want it.'

‘Leave it.' He crowded in on her, pinning her to the wall.

‘You're squashing me—'

‘You're all right,' he muttered. ‘You'll be all right.'

This wasn't how it was supposed to happen, she thought, muzzily. This was all wrong. ‘No…' she squirmed and raised her arms to push him away, but he grabbed hold of them, both wrists in one hand. Then he bent slightly, she felt the other hand push up her skirt, and then his knee was between her legs, prising them apart.

‘Don't do that,' she whimpered. ‘Please…'

‘You'll be all right.' His voice was thick now, urgent, and his hand was inside the leg of her knickers, touching…

‘No!'

‘Sorry, sorry,' he muttered. The hand was withdrawn.

She wrenched her own hands free and straightened up, smoothing her skirt, looking down, away, anywhere but at him. ‘Go away.'

‘It's all right,' he said, and raised his hands to her face. She tried to sidestep but lost her balance and went over on one ankle. The world seemed to tilt and spin, then he pulled her arm and jerked her upright, pushing himself against her, and before she could move his hands were at her throat. She tried to beat him away but it was no good, and her head was pounding, bursting…

Just as suddenly, he let go. She slumped to her knees, choking and gasping, doubled over, and felt his breath as he bent towards her. She flinched away from him, but he grabbed one of her wrists, ‘Here, take this, take it,' and pushed something into her palm. Then she heard him back away, scuffing gravel, and he turned and ran off towards the road, while she coughed and coughed and tried to get her breath.

When the racking and heaving eased up, leaving a dull pain in her neck and chest, her first thought was, they mustn't find me on my hands and knees. She scrambled upright, using the wall for support, glad of the darkness.

Footsteps. She cringed against the wall. Was he coming back? He couldn't be…
couldn't
… No, there was a torch. He didn't have a torch—he'd said they didn't need…but that didn't mean he didn't have one himself, did it? Oh, God, please… Her stomach churned and her legs felt as if they might give out at any minute. She put her hands over her face, hunched over, and slid down against the bricks, barely registering as her dress hitched, then ripped, on something sticking out. More footsteps, the torch swung in her direction, lighting the ground in front of her, and then—
A man's voice.
She opened her mouth, but no sound came out. She should make a run for it, do something, anything… Why doesn't someone come and help me? Please, she begged, silently.
Please
…

‘H-hello?'

It wasn't him. She knew it straight away. The voice was different. Lighter. More boyish. Hesitant.

‘Hello? Is anyone there?'

She tried to force some words out, but nothing came, only the panting of breath.

‘I thought I heard—'

‘Yes,' she gasped. ‘Yes. I'm here.'

The torch swung towards her, blinding her. ‘N-no. Don't.'

‘Sorry. I didn't mean to frighten you. You don't look…are you all right?'

‘Yes, fine.' Why had she said that? Of course she wasn't all right. ‘I'm fine,' she repeated. ‘Just tripped over, that's all. Wretched blackout.' She managed a little laugh.

‘May I help you up?'

‘No, really.' Blue uniform. Air force. Black hair. Pale face. She couldn't see properly. Not one of those from the car, or he'd recognise her—wouldn't he?

‘Holden-Browne. Guy Holden-Browne.'

A hand in front of her face. Her head jerked back involuntarily, banging against the wall. She blinked. The hand was still there. She took it, and it…shook. Up and down. He's shaking my hand, she thought, astonished. ‘Oh,' she said. ‘Megan.' Then, automatically, ‘My mother's Welsh.' Then, in a blurt, ‘AndIthinkI'mgoingtobesick.'

He stepped away while she turned her head and vomited, and when she turned back, he was holding out a handkerchief, neatly folded. ‘Take it,' he said. ‘Please.'

‘Thank you.'

When she'd wiped her face, he said, ‘Do you think…I mean…couldn't you stand up?'

‘I… Yes. I think so.'

Upright again, she held out the handkerchief, but he didn't take it. ‘You needn't worry about that,' he said.

Mortified—of course he wouldn't want it back, not with
that
on it—she balled it up and stuffed it in her pocket. ‘Sorry. I…I'll wash it for you.'

‘No, it's fine. Keep it. Or throw it away, if you like.'

‘I'm sorry,' she repeated.

It was awful. She wished he'd go away. She wished never to see him, or any of them, ever again. She wished she were home. She wished she were dead, or anywhere except where she was. His kindness made it worse, far worse.

‘Look,' he said. ‘You can't go home on your own, not when you're…you're…not well. I'll take you.'

‘No, honestly, I—'

‘It's all right, really. I won't…you know.' He sounded embarrassed. ‘You'll be quite safe. Please let me help you.'

‘Well, all right, then.'

She didn't take out her torch. One was enough, and besides, she didn't want any more light. The night was quiet, and they walked together, without touching or speaking, except for her brief directions. The vomiting and the cool air had sobered her; now all that remained was the bad taste in her mouth, the pain in her neck and chest, the memory and the horrible, mounting embarrassment of what he'd seen, what he must be thinking. By the time they reached the end of her road, her shame was overwhelming.

‘I'm fine now,' she said, grateful that he kept his torch low, and she couldn't see his face. ‘It's only just down there.'

‘Are you sure? Just…you did seem very frightened, back there.'

‘Really,' she said, impatiently. ‘It's fine.'

‘Well, if you're sure. You'd better take my torch.'

‘No, I've got one.' She brought it out of her pocket and switched it on.

‘Well, goodnight, then.'

‘Yes. Goodnight.'

The kitchen door was ajar. She paused in the passageway long enough to call out, ‘I'm going straight up, Mum.'

‘You stopping in your room?'

‘Yes. I'm really tired. I'll come down if there's planes.'

She sat in front of the scarred wooden desk that served as her dressing table and examined herself in the mirror: the remains of make-up on the blotchy face, hair half down, the marks, red and livid, on her neck. She clutched a hand to her chest. The brooch, Mum's green brooch that she'd filched from her bedroom: it was gone. Must have fallen off when… She fingered the place where she'd pinned it. No—there was a small rip in the material. As if it had been torn off. As if he'd pulled it off her dress when… But that was stupid. Why would he?

It wasn't an expensive one, only Woolworth's, but Mum was bound to notice. She'd have to say it had fallen off at the pictures. She stood up and took off the dress. The skirt was filthy, and there was a long rip down the back. She could say she'd had an accident with the bicycle. Fallen off. Damn. They'd left the bikes in the lane. She'd have to go back and get hers in the morning. She could say that was when she lost the brooch, too. Say she'd gone back to the place and looked, but it wasn't there. The handkerchief, though: she'd have to get rid of it. She pulled it out of the pocket, and something else—paper—came along with it and fluttered onto the rug. A pound note.

How…? Then she remembered: the man, he'd put something in her hand. She sat down again, in front of the mirror, and stared at herself.

He'd tried to kill her. Then he'd given her a pound. For the brooch? She could buy another one now, a replacement, so she wouldn't have to lie about that, at least. But the bicycle, first thing—she mustn't forget.

He'd given her a pound.

That other pilot, who'd walked her home…she hadn't said thank you. Rude, when he'd helped her like that. Too late now, she'd never see him again. Hoped she wouldn't, anyway.

He'd tried to have his way with her, then he'd tried to kill her.
He'd tried to kill her
.

She knew she'd never be able to tell anyone. Her reflection, with its dull eyes and smudged, forbidden lipstick, confirmed what her mother would think: it was her fault. She inspected her hands—grazed and dirty—and picked a bit of grit out of her knee. She'd asked for it, hadn't she?

He'd tried to kill her, and it was her fault.

L
ook up. Blue, blue sky. Light breeze. It's a perfect day for flying, and here we are all sprawled on armchairs, baking in full kit.

Look down. Scuffed grass beside the trench. You can see the earth. Feet in flying boots, parachute harnesses dangling. Metal catches the sun. Funny how you always notice details,
before
…

Look out, over the airfield. Airmen filling in craters by the runway. The grass is still dotted with red flags marking unexploded bombs from the last few raids. Huts—what's left of them—hangars. I remember filling the sandbags when we first came here, making pens to protect the Spitfires. After we came back from France. It seems like years ago. Teddy Norton was still here then, and Stuffy—I was at RAF College with him—Felix Marshall…Bimbo Tanner… All gone, now.

Let's see. What's in the paper?
The Queen's private apartments were badly damaged when Buckingham Palace was bombed again yesterday
. Won't be too many more nice days like this one. It'll be cold, soon. We'll have to wait inside…whoever's left, that is.
The RAF had one of its greatest days in smashing the mass attacks on London. Thirty of our machines were lost, but ten pilots are safe.

I see Corky and Mathy are still arguing about tactics. Funny to see those two together—Corky's almost taller sitting down than standing up, and Mathy's over six feet, far too tall for a fighter pilot. God knows how he ended up inside a Spitfire. Davy with his rugger nose and ruddy cheeks, reading a book. He looks calm enough, but he hasn't turned a page for at least twenty minutes. Czeslaw staring up at the sky. Lined face—he's older than the rest of us, like most of the Poles: twenty-seven. Flint's asleep—must be dreaming about flying because his eyebrows are wiggling up and down. Balchin's next to him. He's dozing, too, cap tipped over his eyes, arm dangling down by his side, hand very white. That's how it'll look when he's dead—unless he's burnt, of course. There's Ginger Mannin off to the latrine, again.
Miss Air Force is a blonde and only 18 years old…the Boys in Sky Blue like ‘em young!

The newspaper is plunged into shade now and I can't see the picture. A bulky shape—Flight Lieutenant Webster, the adjutant—is blocking out the sun.

‘
Adj…
‘

‘Sorry.' He moves round to stand behind me and jabs at the paper with his pipe. ‘She's a bit of all right, isn't she?'

I shrug. ‘I suppose so.'

Balchin pushes back his cap and blinks at him. ‘How's… you know?'

‘Tinker?' offers Mathy.

‘That's not his name… Taylor, wasn't it?'

Davy looks up from his paper and says, helpfully, ‘Soldier?'

‘Shut up, Davy,' says Corky.

‘Sailor, then.'

‘Shut
up
,' says Corky. ‘He means
Tucker
, Adj.'

‘
Do
I mean Tucker?' asks Davy, in mock surprise.