The September Garden (11 page)

His grim face remained inexpressive. ‘We need the copy by four o’clock today, Mrs Challinor, if we are to anywhere near meet the deadline.’

‘Yes, Mr Collins. Copy. That’s Miss Garland’s department.’

Mr Collins threw Nell a begrudging look of approval.

Last week he had come over to her desk with a final page that needed proofreading before it went to press.

Nell had wondered why he wanted her to read it.

‘We’re desperate,’ he said. ‘We have thirty pages going to bed at the same time because of some mucking cock-up. We’re short-staffed here, hadn’t you noticed?’ 

Nell lay the proof before her and began to read. She used a type scale rule to focus her eyes on each line of type. She did her best to shut out Mr Collins pacing up and down by her desk and Mr Smith shouting that he needed the proof ten minutes ago, while Mr Flanagan lit yet another cigarette and the editor slammed his office door. The headline read:
Bucks Munitions Fund-Raising Supper a Success.

And the story underneath began:
On Thursday last, the Mayor and Mayoress of Buckingham entertained fiends, including Wing Commander Bevin and all the airmen of Bovingdon, to high tea and high jinks at the town hall.

She found just the one mistake, marked it up and handed it back. There was a frantic flurry of activity as Mr Collins dialled the typesetter’s telephone number and bellowed their mistake down the phone. ‘This has
got
to be amended. We have
got
to hit the press!’

Anthea peered over his shoulder.

‘Ooh, what an absolute howler,’ she said. ‘It’s a classic. We can’t call our lovely airforce ‘
fiends
’, now can we? Winco would have our guts for shoelaces. Well done, Nell.’

When he had finished berating the typesetter, Mr Collins replaced the telephone receiver, rested his forehead on the desk and shut his eyes.

Now, Anthea was putting on her coat and telling Mr Collins, ‘My film for today will be rushed through at the pharmacy on Station Road. But, as you know, you probably won’t get the pictures until first thing tomorrow.’

Mr Collins looked disgruntled. ‘As usual,’ he said. ‘These deadlines drive me to distraction. This will be the death of me, this newspaper.’ 

‘Well, at least we’re all stood here worrying about print deadlines, and not taking the flak from the Luftwaffe somewhere in France,’ snapped Anthea. ‘Come on, Nell,’ she cried, pulling her hat gingerly over her perfectly set chestnut hair. ‘We need to catch the nine-oh-nine.’

The bus bumped along through the Chiltern countryside thick with springtime, brushing the burgeoning hedges with its wing mirrors. The sun was out, warming everything. New leaves bounced merrily in the breeze and cow parsley frothed like lacy clouds along the verges. Through the bus window, Nell could smell air as intangibly sweet as butter icing. She scanned the unblemished sky for kites and warplanes.

‘My Syd always loves this time of year,’ said Anthea next to her. ‘There’s such a change in the light, change in the colour. Such fresh hope, he says. But this year, well. Everything is so dreadfully different. Sometimes, I wonder if it will ever be the same again.’

Nell turned up her coat collar and pushed her hands up her sleeve, thinking of her father. She shivered. If he was still at Lednor, he’d be out every day in his green rubber jacket with his field glasses now that the hedges were rustling with nesting birds. He knew their calls; he knew every note. How time was passing, she thought, how the year was rolling forward. The fledglings would soon be leaving their nests. And still no word.

‘Are you all right?’ Anthea asked her, pulling the camera out of its case to inspect the lens. ‘You’re looking rather pale. You coming down with something?’

Nell glanced at her companion. How could she tell Anthea about him? How could she tell her that her father 
had left home with another woman? Her shame simply had to remain a secret.

‘Can I have a look at the camera?’ she asked instead. ‘Show me how you work it.’

‘It weighs a ton,’ said Anthea. ‘Feel it. Government-issue Super Ikonta. My Syd tells me the photographers have them in the army. He says they’re sometimes braver than the ordinary Tommies; they never stop clicking even with grenades exploding around them. They have to record what’s going on, he says. They have to get the story back to us. Tell the world. I expect you could say, on an infinitely smaller scale, my dear, that this is what
we’re
doing.’

RAF Air Station 112 was in the perfect strategic spot, laid out on a flat, wide plateau between the Chiltern Hills. Nell and Anthea had to walk for ten minutes along the lane from where the bus dropped them off in the village.

‘We’re going to be cooked by the time we get there,’ commented Anthea, hitching her camera case over her shoulder. ‘I’m breaking a sweat here, lugging this thing. Nell, don’t be nervous. Just use that natural inquisitiveness of yours to get the story. It’s only a stupid damn dog. As long as I get a good shot, lots of smiling airmen, should keep Flanagan happy.’

The airfield stretched wide and open. Three runways formed a triangle, with a cluster of mess huts, offices and control room on one side. Lurking in an orderly line up on the apron were the dispersed Wellington bombers, battle grey, their wheels shrouded by canvas covers. Engineers, equipped with toolboxes and oilcans, worked around them like drones around hard-faced queens. Fuel tanks were 
parked on the hardstanding, the bomb loaders nearby. The windsock stood out from its pole.

‘Crikey, the wind blows hard here,’ said Anthea, clamping her hand on top of her hat. ‘Looks like we’re expected.’

She indicated an airman standing there in his fatigues outside the officers’ mess, with the Alsatian sitting alert and proud next to him on the lead.

‘Oh, what a lovely dog!’ Nell exclaimed, suddenly feeling the day grow brighter.

‘Smashing owner as well,’ Anthea said out of the corner of her mouth. ‘I know I’m a happily married woman, Nell, but heaven almighty, what a lovely looking fella.’

‘Anthea, really.’ Nell barely glanced at the airman but gazed instead at the dog, whose button eyes were quizzical, his pink tongue lolling and his expressive brow lifting at their approach. The airman saluted and stepped forward to shake their hands.

‘Flight Lieutenant Alex Hammond, at your service, ladies.’

‘So this here is Kit,’ said Nell, kneeling down to pat the dog’s shaggy ruff.

‘He’s a huge softy,’ the flight lieutenant said, hauling Kit back as he made an affectionate lunge for Nell. ‘He is a great morale booster for the boys. We wouldn’t be without him.’

‘And he replaced the previous mascot, I understand. How old is he?’ Nell asked, whipping out her spiral-bound notebook to start her interview. She glanced at the airman for his answer. He held his shoulders with a comfortable pride, exuding subtle energy and poise. She noticed sharp blue eyes under his cap and dark hair. 

‘No one knows how old he is,’ the airman told her with a rather handsome smile. ‘Just sort of rolled up here. We couldn’t turn him away. I say “we” but Kit was already here when I was transferred. In the two months I’ve been posted here, we’ve sort of become inseparable. He sleeps in my room.’

Nell watched the man embrace the scruff of Kit’s neck, mock wrestling. She glanced again at his face and suddenly saw what Anthea had meant.

‘I want to ask you about Kit’s day-to-day routine,’ said Nell, remaining professional. ‘I want to know what he eats and—’

‘Let’s get you ladies out of this breeze first,’ he said. ‘You can ask me as many questions as you like in the mess.’

Anthea said, ‘What a blisteringly good idea. So, where are your crew, sir? The rest of your squadron? Can you gather your mates together for a group photograph? I’m the pictures man today. That would be lovely.’

Mr Hammond told them to follow him, asking Nell if she’d like to walk Kit.

She held the dog’s lead with pleasure and followed the flight lieutenant towards the mess hut, realising how much she liked the unfamiliar tug of the heavy-pawed, graceful dog.

In the anteroom an orderly made them tea in enamel mugs and showed Nell the way to a seat at the end of one of the long tables. Within moments a group of well-turned-out, eager young men noisily pulled up their chairs, all vying for her attention. Kit barged his way under the table and settled himself down over her feet with a deep, languid sigh.

‘He’s better than any blanket, isn’t he?’ Nell said, adding 
milk from the jug proffered to her by a bright-eyed teenage pilot officer sitting across the table.

While Anthea sorted out her equipment and began clicking the shutter Nell sipped her tea, scribbled some notes and listened to the men chat.

‘You see that landing strip there, miss? Over a mile long, it is. But when you’re bringing one of our monsters home, and you’ve got your wheels down and you’re trying to keep your nose up, it looks about the size of a doormat.’

‘Has to be a mile long, miss, to take the big girls – our Wellingtons.’

‘We’re training every day. That’s what all this is, miss. Training flights, air operations. It never stops.’

‘Hope we don’t keep you awake at night. Do you live near here?’

‘Excuse me, miss, is your friend the one who looks like Scarlett O’Hara?’

Nell laughed and told him that he must be referring to her cousin.

‘We’ve seen her around the town. She’s quite a lady.’

‘Now, now, boys. Less of that,’ said the flight lieutenant. ‘Give Miss Garland a chance. She’s here to talk about the dog, not what you fellows get up to in your spare time. Let her ask the questions, and keep it zipped.’

His voice had a soft trace of a London accent. Nell thanked him with a smile for noticing that she was rather overwhelmed.

Anthea raised her voice. ‘We really do need a shot of Kit, Nell.’

‘He’s fast asleep, Mrs Challinor,’ called the flight lieutenant. 

Nell could feel the weight of Kit over her feet and, with it, pleasant solace settling in her stomach. She thought the flight lieutenant kind. He laughed and leant over to pluck the pencil from her hand and correct a spelling on her notebook.

‘It’s Hammond with two “m”s,’ he said.

She liked the way he sat easily with her, his elbow touching her arm as he wrote his name neatly across the page. Then she remembered with a crippling thump of distress that her father also had nice writing. That her father had gone. She took a sip of her tea and the sudden thought that he’d vanished rushed to her throat like acid. She tasted it and she felt an instant wash of tears behind her eyes.

‘Are you quite all right, miss?’ Alex Hammond’s face was near hers. His eyes narrowed, like two blue diamonds. He dipped his head to peer at her.

He was so kind, she thought, so very kind. ‘Feeling a bit hot,’ she managed. ‘Is it warm in here? I need to go outside, I need to—’

Nell pulled back her chair and raced out of the hut. She ducked around the corner and wept as briefly and as discreetly as she could. Wiping her eyes, her throat was sore and tight and yet out in the mild spring sunshine she began to feel better. The balmy breeze brightened her face and caressed her cheek. She sighed with shuddering relief as the last sob died away, then heard a step behind her.

‘It’s all right, Nell,’ said Anthea. ‘I got the shot. You rushing off like that roused Kit. He came out from under the table and the crew were all looking in the same direction at your departing back. A great picture. Flanagan’s going 
to love it. You can file your story through using Winco’s telephone. Dictate it to Flanagan. But go slow. His shorthand is crummy. What’s the matter, my love?’ Anthea Challinor put her hand on Nell’s arm. ‘Here, wipe your face.’ She fished in her handbag. ‘Here’s some cologne. I’ll get you a drink of water.’

‘Thank you. Oh dear … What must they think of me in there?’

‘They did wonder,’ Anthea told her. ‘But being gentlemen, didn’t like to ask. Are you quite unwell?’

‘I feel better now. It’s just that Mr Hammond was so … kind. I’ve had a little bit of trouble in my family recently. And you know what it’s like. One kind word and …’ She stared across the airfield, and watched the short clipped grass strain in the wind, the men in overalls bend to their work, the mighty machines of war resting, making ready for their next offensive. ‘What must they think of me?’

‘Oh, Number 23 Squadron in there are none the wiser. They’re all busy talking about your cousin.’

‘And I’ve told them to stop,’ said the flight lieutenant, coming round the corner. ‘I won’t tolerate any gossip like that on my wing.’ He looked at Nell. ‘If you are more disposed, I’ll show you to the wing commander’s office. And when you’ve done, I’ll give you both a lift back.’

Flight Lieutenant Hammond pulled up in the RAF staff car outside the pharmacy for Anthea to drop off her film and drove her to her semi-detached home on the outskirts of the town. Then he negotiated the lanes so quickly and expertly that, for Nell, it was like riding on a cloud. What a pleasant 
change it was, she mused, to be driven like this, instead of trekking home from the bus stop at Great Lednor.

The airman wasn’t chatty, which pleased her. She felt perfectly at ease sitting quietly. To amuse herself she watched his hand on the gear stick, the leather strap on his wristwatch, and decided that she liked him. The car turned a corner in the lane and she caught sight of Pudifoot Cottage – empty and in darkness. Only then did her troubles come back to her.

The airman peered through the windscreen. ‘I thought that was the sun setting over there – but it can’t be, it’s the wrong direction … It’s not the sun … Something’s on fire. There, behind those trees. Where we’re headed.’

Nell jumped with horror. ‘But that’s my home!’

‘Hold on tight.’ He put his foot down and took the last series of corners at speed. They roared through the gates and bumped over the gravel drive. The blackout was down and the house looked blind, sleeping.

The airman hit the brakes, and the doves, woken and startled, fluttered from their coop. Nell leapt from her seat before he had a chance to crank on the handbrake. The burning smell hit her immediately. A veil of smoke drifted serenely down from the darkening sky.