Lover (6 page)

I'm not wearing gloves—never do if I can help it—and the metal is smooth and sensitive under my hands…it's all about sensations, flying. I'd thought having a girl would be like that. I'd wanted it. Imagined it. But that first one, in the holidays before my last term at school…can't remember her name. Girl from the village. She'd done it before; something of a reputation, in fact. Knew the drill. I'd thought it would be easy, and it should have been, but it wasn't. She was pale, fleshy, big features—our noses bumped when I kissed her, she leant against me and tried to push her tongue into my mouth; it made a wet sound, slimy, it didn't feel right, it wasn't what I wanted…then, as I lay on top of her in the grass where she'd led me, she unbuttoned her blouse. Chilly, for July. Cloudy and dull. Slack, goose-pimpled breasts. She put my hands on them and they felt cold and lumpy and I could see blue veins between my fingers… I didn't know what to do—what she wanted, and she lay there staring at me, waiting…

Up here, none of that matters. She's perfect. You could fly her with your index finger and thumb.

I couldn't do it. She propped herself on her elbows, fumbled at my trousers, and lay down again. ‘Go on…' Waiting.

But it doesn't matter. Not here. She's happy. Exhilarated. Wants it as much as I do.

Two thick slabs of thighs. Clammy. Damp grass underneath. Useless object. And made me useless, too. I said, ‘What do you want?' Not what I'd meant to say, because I knew what she wanted, but she wasn't giving me anything, just lying there, waiting,
knowing
… I couldn't do it. I felt sick. She started laughing and suddenly I was in a rage, pummelling her, her bulging, ugly body and her stupid, grinning face. Big red lips and white teeth. I hit her until it was all a mess of smeared lipstick and blotches—'Shut—
up
! Shut—
up
! Shut—
up
!'

‘Leave me alone!'

‘I hate you!'

‘I hate you, too.' She scrambled to her feet and ran across the grass, lumbering from side to side as she tried to do up her buttons.

I adjust the trim; keep nice and level. I can still hear the girl laughing, but I know it's insignificant.
She's
insignificant. Let her think she got the better of me—she knows nothing, and never will. None of them do. Always wanting, pestering, teasing, with their stupid conversation, always at you, wanting
that
, all the same, lying there, holding out their arms, makes me furious… I don't even like them and they can't bloody see it. They don't understand anything. They don't know the joy of self-reliance, the elation of the chase and the kill, the extraordinary, exultant sense of triumph when the bullets hit home, the satisfaction of a job well done and the entire
rightness
of kill-or-be-killed—it could so easily be the other way about.

Corky cuts across my thoughts. ‘
When the moonlight flits
—'

‘Shut up, Corky, you're making me feel sick.' Prideaux.

‘
Across your tits—
'

Mathy's voice: ‘Blue One to Leader, Bandits below, three o'clock.'

‘Buster, buster!' Prideaux. Maximum speed, now. ‘Turning right, turning right, go!'

That's good. Half the time we get scrambled too late, vectored too low. Easier with the buggers underneath us, but I still can't see… Wait. A dot on the Perspex turns into a cross, a shape…shapes… And there they are: two dozen silver 109s, skating along at a leisurely pace. They haven't seen us. Prideaux shouts, ‘Tally ho!'

The taste of fear floods my mouth, my stomach is sick and hollow, my heart is pounding, my ring twitching, and then suddenly, a jolt of adrenalin like electricity snaps my body into the job and I can feel myself taut against the straps of the harness. My teeth clench, my thumb is on the gun button, there is nothing but the chase, the urge to kill, and we dive towards them, Prideaux leading. ‘Pick your own!'

Spots in front of my eyes for a moment, then clear as we hurtle nearer—choose one, and… Christ! Too fast, too fast, break right and bank—yellow underbelly on the left—flames, smoke—and the air breaks up, shot through with tracer belting straight towards me—haul on the stick… Height, need height… Planes dodging and diving everywhere, not yet, not yet…three-second burst with full deflection—she shakes, and jolts from the recoil—thumb slips—get a grip, get a grip…meaningless racket of voices over the R/T—‘Other way, you stupid bastard!'

‘Ten o'clock, ten o'clock!'

A 109 shoots past me, followed by a Spit—Ginger, I think—and a mouthful of Polish is spat into my ear. Balchin bellows, ‘Speak fucking English, can't you?'

I can't see Holden-Whatsit anywhere. ‘Yellow Two, where are you?'

A Spit streaks straight in front of me with a 109 behind, knocking chunks off it—‘Help me, somebody help me!' High, choir-boy voice…realise it's my wingman, whatever his fucking name is, trying to get himself killed.

‘You stupid bastard!' I charge after the 109—get right up his arse and let him have it, a four-second burst—
Bloody Kraut, I'll give you something to take home
—and again—he breaks left but not fast enough—leaking coolant—I give it another squirt and then all hell breaks loose behind me: an almighty thud and she lurches and bumps—tracer flashing over the starboard wing—
get out of here for Christ's sake get out
—feel my bladder emptying, sweat running into my eyes, and cut the throttle and shove everything into the corner for a sharp turn. For a second I think she's not going to respond and I've had it, but then—
clever girl
—she goes, it's working, and the giant hand pushes my guts to the base of my stomach and presses down on my head, forcing it into my chest, I can feel the blood rush from it, can't see but can feel my way round the turn, not yet…further, further…she judders—don't stall, don't stall…rudder pedals heavy as lead,
don't black out, don't bloody black out
…and…now! 180 degrees, straighten out and I can see again and two 109s are coming straight at me—hear myself scream and she screams too as I yank her into a half-roll to get out of their way—can't swallow so turn my head aside to get rid of the puke that's coming up my throat, everything vibrating like hell, grey spots in front of my eyes and for a moment I am as weak as a baby, hands and legs helpless and quivering, then the plane seems to right itself and I see that one of the machines is crippled and wallowing, trailing smoke, port aileron shot up, the pilot a red smear against the Perspex, and the other—definitely a 109—is shooting at it, so it must be one of ours. Get off a long-range shot at the Messerschmitt—tracer seems to bounce off his wing, then the Spit is on fire and falling, falling, and there's nothing I can do—out of ammo—I see the 109 start to turn and I pull the tit and shove the throttle through the gate to get away from it and she shrieks and shrieks and I'm trying to stay calm, think, be logical, and then I find myself, miraculously, in empty sky, clammy and shivering with cold sweat, and the smell of fuel and cordite and a wet left leg.

Strange how that happens. One minute all hell's breaking loose, and the next minute, the sky's empty and you're on your own. Quick, look round: row of holes in the starboard wing. Doesn't look too bad—there might be damage behind that I can't see, but she's flying all right. Now then, where's Holden-Whatsit?

‘Yellow Two, where are you?'

No response.

‘Yellow Two…'

Nothing. Silly sod must have been jumped.

Oh, well. Time to go home. God, that feels good: to be up here, all alone, the sun just beginning to set. Wonderful sense of contentment. She's happy, too, almost flying herself. I could stay up here for ever.

You couldn't get that from any woman.

M
iss Crombie told me, in a shocked voice, about a notice she'd seen on the train this morning—
Blinds must be kept down after dark
—only someone had crossed out the word ‘Blinds' and written ‘Knickers' instead. She was terrifically worked up about it. I agreed that people
shouldn't
write on notices, but secretly wanted to laugh. Thought afterwards that this is clearly what happens to spinsters who spend their lives toiling in offices and never do anything else—to be avoided at all costs. That started me thinking about Frank again, what it would be like if I were to marry him. I got as far as imagining what the children would look like before I realised that the whole business was absurd, embarrassing, and horribly typical of the sort of female turn of mind I thoroughly despise. In any case, the man hasn't proposed to me yet! I wondered how I shall feel if he
doesn't
, and realised with horror that I shall be rather put out… Heavens! Vanity, thy name is Lucy Armitage.

Great excitement when Mr Bridges came in to see Miss H, and on the way out stopped at
my
desk. He said he'd seen me in the shelter yesterday, and admired my frock. I managed to stammer out a thank-you, and he said, ‘I should thank
you
, Miss Armitage. Gazing at you was a delightful way of passing the time.'

In for a penny, I thought, and I said, ‘I saw you looking.'

‘Oh, you noticed. And I thought I was being so discreet. Ever thought of becoming a spy?'

I said I didn't think I'd be terribly good at it, and he said, ‘Well, aren't you at least curious about my knowing your name?' Because we don't have them on the desks—well, Miss Henderson does, but she's in charge. The rest of us don't. I said I was curious, and he said, ‘I asked La Belle Henderson.' He leaned forward. ‘She's a bit of a dragon, isn't she? But she didn't scare me, because I asked her something else, too—how'd you like to be borrowed for the day, tomorrow? We need a capable pair of hands upstairs, and it's much easier to bring Mohammet to the Mountain than t'other way round. Not that you're a mountain, of course…far from it. More of a reed, if I may say so. The old girl puts your price above rubies, you know—it took all my powers of persuasion. I had to bribe her with torch batteries.'

‘You didn't, did you?'

‘No, but I would have done, in order to secure your services. And I promised faithfully that we'd return you in one piece. What do you say?'

‘Well…yes.' As if I had any choice in the matter—but it was nice to be asked for a change, instead of ordered about.

‘Good. I knew you wouldn't let me down in my hour of need. See you tomorrow, then.'

I was flabbergasted! Afterwards, all the girls crowded round, wanting to know what he'd said to me. Vi and Phyllis are crazy over him, but Miss Henderson overheard and pulled us all up short by saying, ‘That's enough nonsense; he's a married man.' She sounded disappointed. Lord knows why—she must be forty-five if she's a day! But I felt a tiny prick of disappointment, too, and Vi and Phyll looked most downcast. Still, Mr Bridges chose
me
, and not them, which certainly says something, although I'm not quite sure what. Probably better not to speculate. Perhaps he's just a flirt. Some men are, and that's harmless enough. I heard Mums's voice in my head, telling me I'm sailing in dangerous waters, and some men go all out to spoil a girl. This expression irritates me no end because it seems to put the entire female species on a par with a fancy tablecloth. Mums managed, with no effort on her part, to needle me all afternoon, no matter how much I tried to ignore her.

Frank met me on the corner after work, and we had a cup of tea and some very forlorn-looking currant buns. At least, the waitress assured us that's what they were, but it was all bun and no currant. I broke mine in pieces and unearthed two tiny ones that looked very sorry for themselves. Probably the shape of things to come.

I found myself making a special effort to be nice to Frank because I felt guilty about having enjoyed the conversation with Mr Bridges quite so much. But I couldn't help comparing the two of them, and Frank seems such a boy, somehow. He's clever and funny and, on the whole, fairly sophisticated,
but
… There's something else, and it isn't just the age difference.

He asked me if I'd heard the one about the girl who gave her boyfriend a white feather because he was leaving London to join the army. I hadn't thought of it like that before, but I suppose they will be far safer when they're off doing their training than we are here.

Frank said, ‘I wish you were out of it,' and I said, ‘Well, I don't. I'm glad I'm here—right in the swim,' because it's true, I am. I tried to explain to Frank that I do get frightened, but I want to be part of it, not stuck out in the country somewhere, missing everything.

He said, ‘I didn't think women felt like that.'

I said, ‘Well, I don't want to fight anybody, it's just that I want to be on the spot. Anyway, it would feel like running away. Ever since the war started we've been retreating from everywhere in a great hurry…someone's got to stay put. And London is my
home
, Frank. I'm not going to be driven out of it by Hitler.'