into the gentle landscape with angular obscenity, begging silently that when she turned the corner he would be there.
The early evening sun was warm on her face and the sky so clear and calm that it seemed impossible so beautiful a world could be at war; that small, beautiful world that was Yeoman’s Lane, and Tingle’s Wood, through which it ran. The beech tree was a part of it too, and the stile beneath it where they always met, at seven.
She sucked in a steadying gulp of air, letting it go with little huffing sounds before she walked on and turned into the lane.
Rob wasn’t there. It was seven o’clock, and he hadn’t come. Her suddenly cold hands clenched tightly as she walked on, past the stile and the beech tree, into the green cool of the wood. The path was narrow and rough with tussocky grass and she trod carefully, eyes straining ahead to where the path ended abruptly at the outer limits of the aerodrome, blocked by a high steel-mesh fence – a cruel fence to keep lovers apart – and no one else had discovered the break in it through which Rob always came.
She saw him then, running swiftly towards her, and she pulled aside the fence, squeezing through the gap. He had come! For another night at least, he was safe.
She didn’t run to meet him but stood there loving him, stretching out the seconds. Then he held out his arms and she went into them, laughing, wiping out the days they had been apart in that one eager meeting.
‘Rob, oh Rob.’ She spoke his name softly, her lips gentling his cheek. Then, pulling a little way from him, she closed her eyes, lifting her lips to his.
But he did not kiss her. Instead he took her face in his hands, forcing her eyes to his.
‘Jenny, I can’t stay.’
‘Darling, no! Why not?’
‘They’ve just told us we’re on standby.’
‘Which means you’ll be flying,’ she whispered dully.
She traced the outline of his face with her eyes, loving the dear, untidy hair, the mouth that smiled widely and often, the eyes that were old in a young man’s face.
She reached out for him again, and his arms felt lean and hard through the sleeves of his tunic. He was too thin. Flying was feeding off him, draining him, leaving him taut as an overwound spring.
‘You’ll be flying,’ she whispered again. ‘That’ll be three nights out of five. It’s madness.’
She disliked herself for what she was saying, for she knew the risk he had taken to be with her. When the bombers at Fenton Bishop were under orders, a blanket of security covered the aerodrome and to breach that security was the most serious thing. If there should be a call to briefing and Rob wasn’t there …
‘Have you been briefed yet?’
‘No, but there’s a call out for pilots and navigators in –’ He glanced at his watch. ‘In fifteen minutes.’
‘That makes it pretty certain then, doesn’t it? And if anyone finds you here, you’ll be in terrible trouble. I love you for coming, darling,’ she whispered, ‘but you mustn’t stay.’
‘I’m all right for a couple of minutes.’ He shook two cigarettes from a paper packet, lit them, and placed one gently between her lips.
She pressed closer. Last night, perhaps, the bombs that fell from Rob’s plane had killed women and children and old, helpless men, but for all that he was a tender lover. She wished the dead ones could have known that.
‘Any news, Jenny?’
‘No.’ She smiled up at him, knowing what he meant. ‘I had a fright this morning, though. There was a long buff envelope in the post with OHMS on it and I thought, “Oh, my God.” But it was only something for Dad.’
‘They’ve forgotten you. How long is it now since your medical?’
‘Oh, ages.’ She didn’t want to talk about it or even think about it. Before they met she had accepted her call-up into the armed forces because it was one of the things that happened in wartime; accepted it because it was a moral necessity. There was a war on, so you didn’t question anything; and if she was completely honest, there had even been times when she had looked forward to leaving home with a kind of guilty relief. But not any longer. Now there was Rob, and even to think of being parted from him left her sick inside.
She turned to him and closed her eyes, reaching for the back of his head, pulling his face closer.
‘Forget it.’ She shivered, without knowing why, and he took off his tunic and wrapped it around her shoulders. Longing flamed in her again at the smell and feel of it.
She was not ashamed of the need that screamed inside her. Sometimes she wanted to shout, ‘Listen, world, Rob and I are lovers!’ But their loving was a secret thing and their meetings furtive because of her parents.
‘How was it, last night?’
‘Like it always is,’ he said quietly.
She felt the shrugging of his shoulders as if he were trying to forget for a little while the fear that never seemed quite to leave him. Fear of a bad take-off, of night fighters, of flak and searchlights. Fear of cracking up; fear of fear itself. Rob did not subscribe to the popular image of a bomber pilot, didn’t talk about wizard prangs or pieces of cake, or sport a handlebar moustache. Rob flew with calculated care, mindful of the lives of his crew and the need to get them back to the safety of the debriefing room and steaming mugs of rum-laced tea.
‘Rob, let’s go to York on Saturday and stay the night.’
The words came out in a rush and she felt her face flame. But she had no pride now where Rob was concerned, and what had pride to do with loving?
‘The night?’ He asked it quietly but she felt a tensing of his body. ‘Could you make it?’
‘I know I could.’ She nodded confidently. ‘My cousin will say I was with her. You want us to, don’t you?’
‘I love you, Jenny.’ His voice was rough and his arms tightened around her. ‘Remember that, always.’
Always. She recalled the time of their first coupling. It had been gentle, a sweet, surprised discovering, and they had looked at each other shyly afterwards, unable to speak. But now her need of him was desperate and unashamed, and their clandestine meetings were not enough. She wanted something to keep secret inside her; something to balance the loneliness of life without him if one night he shouldn’t come back.
‘If I start a baby, will you marry me?’
‘You won’t.’ He kissed her harshly, as if to add strength to his denial.
‘But I might. I could easily –’
‘You won’t, Jenny.’ He drew deeply on his cigarette then sent it spinning away with a flick of his fingers. ‘And we’ll talk about York tomorrow, sweetheart.’
‘All right, then.’ She shivered again. ‘If you’re flying tonight, Rob, what time will take-off be?’
‘I don’t know. They haven’t
