Whisper on the Wind. Elizabeth Elgin

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СКАЧАТЬ the ploughing, though likely you’ll know.’

      ‘Yes, and I’m relieved it’s under way. Will it be finished in time?’

      ‘I think so, but the War Ag. isn’t going to quibble over a few days. Why don’t you come over tomorrow and take a look at it?’

      Sooner or later she must come face to face with Marco Roselli; best she got it over with.

      ‘And watch him, Jonty, strutting over Martin’s land?’

      ‘He doesn’t strut, Mrs Fairchild.’ The reply was firm, yet without offence. ‘He’s called Marco and he’s my age – a good man with a horse-plough, too.’

      ‘He was fighting for them; with them.’

      She fixed him with a stare, leaving him in no doubt that further conversation about the prisoner was at an end.

      ‘I’m sorry you feel as you do, Mrs Fairchild.’ His voice held a hint of the fatigue he felt. ‘Think I’d best be off. One of the heifers was a bit restless when I looked in on her; she’s due to drop her calf any time.’ A first-calving it would be, that could be tricky. Best he shouldn’t be too long away.

      ‘Goodnight then, Jonty. I hope you won’t be up all night. Thank you for coming, and for the milk.’ Her voice was more gentle, apologetic almost.

      ‘’Night. Tell Roz to have a good time.’

      A good time! Hands in pockets he kicked out at the tussocky grass of the orchard. Roz had no time for civilians, now. No one had. Even in York, where a different assistant had served him when he called for the tractor spares, he’d come up against the antagonism. Foolishly he’d remarked on it to the middle-aged woman who stood behind the counter.

      ‘What do you mean, where is she?’ The reply was acid-sharp. ‘She’s gone to join the Air Force, that’s what. They’re calling-up women, now – or hadn’t you noticed, young man?’

      Yes, he damn-well had noticed! He noticed it all the time and if he’d had any choice at all in the matter, he’d have joined the Air Force, too.

      He hoped Roz didn’t get too deeply involved. Rumour had it that Peddlesbury had lost three bombers in as many weeks. Roz never did things by half. When she fell in love it would be deeply and completely and her grief would be terrible – if she’d fallen for one of the aircrew – if one night he didn’t come back.

      There had been a lessening of Luftwaffe raids over England, he brooded, yet Bomber Command had doubled its raids over Germany. Stood to reason there’d be heavy losses.

       Take care, Roz – don’t get hurt, love.

      Roz swept into Ridings kitchen like a small whirlwind, scooped up her coat then placed a kiss on her grandmother’s cheek. ‘Bye. Got to rush. Don’t wait up for me,’ and was gone before Hester could even begin to warn her not to be too late back.

      She made for the gap in the hedge, walking carefully through the orchard to the small, straight lane that led to the Black Horse inn at the top end of Alderby village. She and Paul often met at the back of the pub, though never inside it; she had no wish for her grandmother to learn about him by way of village gossip. Truth known, she admitted reluctantly, she wanted to keep their affair a secret for as long as she could, knowing as she did that this was not the time to take Paul home or even admit she was ‘going out with aircrew’ as Alderby gossip succinctly put it.

      It was best, she was sure, that for just a little while longer their love should remain their own, if only to save herself from Gran’s gentle reminders of her lack of years and the folly of loving too deeply in time of war.

      He was waiting beside the back entrance. She was able to pick him out in the faint glow from a starry sky and loving him as she did, the tallness of him, the slimness of his build, his very outline was as familiar to her as her own right hand.

      ‘Paul!’ She went straight to his arms, closing her eyes, lifting her face to his. ‘I’ve missed you.’ She always said that, but she did miss him. An hour apart was a day, and a day without him dragged into an agonized eternity. ‘Kiss me,’ she demanded.

      His mouth came down hard on her own and the fierceness of it startled her.

      ‘Darling, what is it?’

      ‘Nothing. Everything.’ His voice was rough. ‘God, I love you. You know that, don’t you, Roz?’

      ‘I know,’ she whispered, her lips on his. ‘I know, Paul. But something is wrong. What happened last night? Let’s walk, shall we?’ She linked her arm in his, guiding him toward the lane. ‘Tell me.’

      ‘Sorry, darling. It’s – it’s Jock.’

      Jock Ferguson, air-gunner. The tail-end Charlie who flew with Paul.

      ‘Where did you go last night?’

      ‘Stuttgart. It should have been a milk run, a piece of cake, but they were waiting for us: fighters, flack, the lot. We went in with the first wave and that’s why we got away with it, but the second wave really copped it.’

      ‘And Jock?’ Her mouth was dry. Paul’s tension was hers now.

      ‘A searchlight picked us up and Jock yelled over the intercom that there was a fighter on to us. Then he said something like, “Christ! It’s jammed. The bloody thing’s jammed!” Then nothing.’

      ‘Yes?’ She squeezed his hand tightly.

      ‘Skip told me to go to the tail and find out what was up – see if I could sort it.’

      ‘Jock was hurt?’ She pulled him to her, holding him tightly, feeling the jerking of his shoulders and the bitter dragging out of each word.

      ‘The turret was smashed – a great, gaping hole and Jock – hell, Roz, his face was – he was – Jock’s dead.’

      ‘Ssssh.’ She covered his mouth with her own, stilling his anger and grief. ‘I love you. I love you, Paul.’ It was all she could think of to say.

      ‘His gun must’ve jammed. He certainly didn’t fire it. He wasn’t eighteen, Roz. Not till next week. We were planning a booze-up for him. A kid, that’s all he was. A kid on his thirteenth op. It makes you want to jack it all in. He hadn’t lived, poor sod.’

      ‘I’m sorry, darling. I’m sorry.’ Not yet eighteen. Younger, even, than herself. ‘His mother?’ It was important to think of her, too.

      ‘She’s a widow, I believe, but they’ll give her a pension, I shouldn’t wonder. And they’ll have sent her a telegram by now then follow it up with the usual letter – full of platitudes it’ll be, and bloody cant. They’ve already packed his kit and stripped his bed. In a couple of days’ time there’ll be someone else in it and hoo-bloody-ray for Jock Ferguson.’

      ‘Was there a lot of damage?’

      ‘The rear turret’s gone for a burton; they’ll have to fit a new one, that’s for sure. Don’t know what other damage there was. We were last crew home and how Skip managed to get the thing down I’ll never know. We were all СКАЧАТЬ