Chapter 6

RAF Bourn

A s Stella cycled along the perimeter track, she spotted two ground crew on a scaffold outside the hangar, working on the engine of a Lancaster bomber. In the distance, a honeyed glow stretched across the horizon. RAF Bourn, hastily built at the beginning of the war, looked bleak and functional. The clusters of Nissen huts, connected by cinder paths, became quagmires when it rained, the water pooling into mud baths. The brick-built control tower stood as the heart of the base, housing Flying Control upstairs, with the Meteorological Office, Signals, and Intelligence below. Stella rarely had cause to venture inside.

She reported for duty at seven o’clock and made a beeline for the single coke stove in the hut where she worked. The two-mile bicycle ride had done little to warm her from the frosty air, and her face and fingers stung. She wondered how many bombers had returned from last night’s sortie as she brooded over Alex. If only he’d write to her. It was the not knowing that was difficult to cope with.

The office was barely warmer than outside, and the stove did little to thaw the chill that hung like an icy blanket, making her skin prickle. Stella’s hut was dull, with rows of brown wooden desks, side by side. WAAFs typed in harmony, working through the stack of papers that grew within their in-trays. There was little chatter, the main noise being the relentless tapping of keys ricocheting through the smoky smell of burning coke that mingled with the musty odour in the hut.

She sat down at her desk. A huge stack of paperwork leaned precariously on one side, and inwardly she groaned, wishing she could hurl the lot out of the window. Her thoughts drifted to the night of the dance. Swaying in Mac’s arms, carried away by the tone of his soft, velvet voice, but then the sound of a sudden thud shook her from her reverie, and she jumped.

Vera grinned mischievously having dropped a stack of papers onto Stella’s desk. “Wakey, wakey!”

‘Shh! What if the CO hears you?’

‘Needn’t worry about her, she’s in with top brass, so go on, tell me what happened with your Yank then.’

‘He’s not my Yank, and nothing happened. I showed him around, he took me home, and I said goodbye.’ Stella didn’t mention the kiss. She felt guilty enough without having to suffer a barrage of questions.

‘That’s all?’ Vera slumped in her chair, slipping a sheet of paper into her typewriter. ‘Ooh, so disappointing. I’ll have to take you in hand.’ She pursed her lips and glanced at the letter on her desk. ‘Well, he might be at the pub with Sam later.’ She began to type, hitting the keys with gusto.

‘Who’s Sam?’

Vera paused, a gleam in her eye. ‘That handsome GI who danced with me all night. He’s taking me out tonight.’ Her voice dropped to a conspiratorial whisper. ‘He’s from Texas, you know. His family owns a store. When the war’s over, he’s going back to run it.’ She raised her dark-pencilled eyebrows provocatively, displaying her pleased-with-herself look.

***

As they cycled home that evening, Vera was in full flow, recounting every detail about her date with Sam. Stella smiled, delighted that her friend was happy, but she sensed there was more to it than that, which for Vera was unusual. So far in the past two months, she’d had numerous dates, mainly British, some very attractive, though none who had tempted her.

‘He’s a real gent, you know, treated me like a lady all night, and he can’t half dance. Did you see him? He’s terrific. Oh, and he’s gorgeous.’

Stella nodded absently. The words floated around her, but she only caught fragments. Her mind kept circling back to Mac. His kiss, the touch of his skin—it lingered with her, even as her mind zipped back to Alex. There’d been no word. How could she move forward with Mac when Alex was still out there, somewhere? She pushed the thoughts away, but they seeped back through the cracks in her resolve.

Of course, her mother wouldn’t approve of Mac, but for now, that didn’t matter. She sighed. All that nonsense about taking her flying. GIs had the gift of charming the birds out from the trees. The thing was, she wanted it to be true, for him to be true. He exuded mystery and an exotic air which had stirred her curiosity and instilled a longing that could only be quenched by the touch of his skin on hers. A tingle zipped through her like electricity as she thought of their kisses.

When she reached her billet, Stella bid her friend goodbye and slipped inside, pausing for a moment as she wondered if she was alone. Mrs. Brown usually called out when she heard the door, but tonight all was quiet. Stella’s body ached, and she longed to change out of her uniform, so she headed straight up to her room.

She undressed quickly, tossing her uniform jacket over the back of the chair, and kicking off her shoes. The air was cold, the promise of frost lingering outside, but she resisted lighting the fire – coal was scarce. They’ll ration the air next! Stella closed the blackout curtains, lit the hurricane lamp, then settled down to read her book for a while until evening tea was ready. Pride and Prejudice was one of her favourites, and she had read it several times already. Who could resist Mr. Darcy?

A short while later, the front door slammed, and she ambled out onto the landing and peered downstairs.

‘How are you, dear?’ Barely drawing breath, Mrs. Brown continued. ‘Mrs. Stewart’s nephew is missing. His parents received the telegram this morning. He’s missing in action somewhere in Italy. Oh, it’s a terrible business. She’s in a dreadful state, so you can imagine what his poor parents are going through.’

Her usual rosy cheeks were scarlet, and she bustled away to the kitchen, where she placed her basket down upon the scrubbed wooden farmhouse table. She removed her WI hat and hung it with her coat on a wall hook in the rear porch, taking a moment to glance admiringly at the regimented rows of potatoes, leeks, and swede growing in the former bed of the green velvet lawn. The garden was her pride and joy. ‘Shall I make us some tea, dear? Oh, and I’ve got a nice bit of cake I put back yesterday – a jam sponge made with real eggs. Oh, it’s a blessing, keeping hens.’ She put a hand up to her dark brown, greying hair, to check the curls were still pinned, no doubt.

‘Thanks, Mrs. B.’ Stella sat down at the table, thinking of the surreal times they were living through. It was strange how quickly one could empathise with families of the missing and of the dead, and yet in the blink of an eye, set it all aside and carry on regardless. Of course, they’d sink if they didn’t.

Mrs. Brown tied her white lace-frilled apron around her thick waist. ‘I made this years ago when lace was easily acquired. Now it’s all rationing, queues, and squabbles, and barely any lace to be had and that butcher’s up to no good.’

Stella bit her lip to suppress a laugh. ‘How do you mean?’

‘I saw him hand over cuts of meat he shouldn’t have had in the shop. He thought I wasn’t looking, but now I know exactly what he’s up to. Black market I shouldn’t wonder. Well, he’d better be on his best behaviour from now on, and he can think twice about tricking me out of my ration, or I shall report him, make no mistake.’ She turned her hand to buttering bread, scraping on a thin, sparing layer, and then she filled the kettle, placing it on the range to boil. ‘Tea won’t be long, and then we can have a nice little catch-up, dear, and you can tell me all about your day.’

Stella wandered into the living room, and as she gazed around, her eyes fixed upon an old grainy picture of a young man in army uniform on the mantelpiece. There was another photo of the same man, standing next to a young woman whose eyes and smile seemed oddly familiar. As Mrs. Brown set the tea tray down by her armchair, the delicate china clinking softly, Stella couldn't shake the thought. She sank into the chair by the fire, her gaze drifting between the photo and Mrs. Brown. As the older woman poured the tea, Stella studied her face closely. Could it really be her?

Sipping her tea, she turned her gaze to the fire as it spat bright orange sparks up into the chimney, forked flames writhing in the grate. As she sat, mesmerised by the blaze, Mac slipped into her mind, while Mrs. Brown chatted about the WI and what Mrs. Bradshaw had been up to three doors down.

Mac had been so confident and charming at the dance, but the other day at the church he’d revealed his vulnerable side, as if he’d been laid bare before God. He was far from home, fighting a war, and, like Alex, he was struggling too. No doubt he was lonely, adrift in a strange country. The way he’d looked into her eyes before he kissed her had sent her heart soaring, and she smiled to herself.

The droning sound of engines filtered into earshot and grew into a roar. ‘Merlin engines,’ Stella muttered, excusing herself and slipping out into the garden. She looked up to see a group of Lancaster bombers against the backdrop of a half-moon, heading out towards the Channel.

‘Good luck, keep safe,’ she whispered, gentle words etched in silvery white, carried by the light breeze, dissipating into the night.

***

The next day, Stella awoke with a start. Rolling over, she glanced at the clock. Half past nine. She’d missed breakfast. Oh, Lord, she’d overslept, and Mac was calling at eleven. She jumped up, staggered across to the window, and drew back the curtains to reveal a milky blue sky. Buds and branches glistened beneath a cloak of silver. She dressed casually, pulling on trousers, a blouse, and jumper. Mrs. Brown would have gone shopping by now, which was a relief, as Stella had no wish for awkward questions.

After breakfast, she gathered her things: gas mask, money, coat, scarf, and gloves. That ought to do. A nagging doubt resurfaced, but she pushed it to one side. She was determined to enjoy her day out. At eleven o'clock sharp, Stella stood by the living room window when a flash of olive green caught her eye. Her heart quickened as she spotted the white star on the side of the vehicle. Grabbing her things, she hurried to the front door. Mac greeted her with that charming grin, and a flutter ran through her as warmth spread across her cheeks. She walked down the front path, her gaze locked with his until those dark eyes softened into a deep, sapphire blue.

‘Morning, ma’am.’ He cast a mischievous grin as he waited by the passenger door.

‘It’s a lovely day.’ She climbed in, and the hairs prickled at the nape of her neck as she met his gaze.

As they drove towards Bassingbourn, Mac seemed distracted, glancing up at the sky, then, without warning, he veered off the road and stopped. ‘One of our boys,’ he muttered.

A B-17 was coming in low, its engines sputtering. Red flares shot up, and Stella’s heart lurched. ‘They’ve only got one wheel down.’

Mac headed over to the boundary fence. Stella joined him, watching, waiting in silence. The descending aircraft shrouded them for a moment as its silhouette slipped overhead, the thunderous roar of the engines vibrating right through Stella as her hair blew back, fluttering in the slipstream. She looked up, noting its dented, silver belly, its skin ripped open in places, wounded, yet still she glided with grace. With clammy hands, Stella gripped the rough wooden fence and held her breath, waiting.

She recalled that day at Bourn some months ago when a Wellington bomber had crash-landed and burst into flames. Thick, black, acrid smoke had billowed out, engulfing the aircraft, and she’d watched while the firemen tried to douse the flames. Those poor souls trapped inside. Tears pricked her eyes, and she took a deep breath.

As the Fortress touched down, the lowered wheel struck the runway with a bounce and then landed with a squeal of rubber, staying level for a moment, running on one wheel, before tilting to the other side. The aircraft veered off onto the grass and came to rest at the far side of the airfield. Smoke billowed out from one of the engines, but there were no flames. The fire and ambulance trucks wailed their way to the scene as the breeze blew a waft of acrid smoke in her direction.

As she turned away, her gaze flicked over the vivid green of the surrounding fields, the white nodding snowdrops, and the trees gently bending in the breeze. It was surreal how life flowed while young men died in the skies, or died trying to reach home, and people all around simply carried on. Stella released her grip on the fence, then a sharp sting in her finger caused her to wince. ‘Ouch.’ She peered at it as a pin-prick spot of blood emerged and swelled into a ruby droplet.

‘What’s the matter?’

‘Oh, it’s nothing, really. I think I have a splinter.’

‘Let me see.’ Mac reached for her hand and lifted it close to his face. ‘I see it.’ With nimble fingers, he withdrew the splinter and put her finger to his mouth and kissed it.

Stella gasped as a tidal force of blood surged through her body. ‘Thank you.’

‘Are you okay?’ Mac put his hand on her shoulder. ‘You look a little pale.’

‘Yes, I thought, well, I’m glad they landed safely.’ She swallowed, sensing the lump swell in her throat.

‘Yeah, they’re not called Flying Fortresses for nothing. They take quite a beating and still bring you home.’ He took her arm in his as they walked back to the jeep. ‘Made a safe landing, all things considered.’

His flight jacket was soft and supple beneath her hand. A memory suddenly bobbed to the surface. In the queue at Mr. Thomas’s butcher’s shop weeks ago, she’d overheard two of the women speaking about a crash at Bassingbourn. The B-17 had belly-landed, with the ball turret gunner trapped inside, and the poor boy was crushed. They hosed his life right out of that mess of mangled metal. Not a bit of him left to bury. An icy chill seeped through her body, and she shivered. Why did she have to remember that? It was so awful. Dreadful things were happening all over and for what? All because of a tyrannical little man across the Channel, insistent upon ruling Europe and the world if he could capture her. She sucked in a breath.

‘Hey, we’ll go grab a cup of coffee. No, wait. You Brits drink tea,’ Mac said, grinning. He started up the jeep and headed off to the village.

Stella nodded, managing a weak smile, her mind still on that ball turret.

The tea shop was empty except for an elderly couple sitting at the rear. The friendly waitress brought tea and cake, and Stella soon warmed up.

Mac poked his tea with the spoon. ‘Looks kind of weak.’ He took a mouthful and grimaced, prompting her to laugh. ‘Now tasting that was worth it just to see you smile.’

Her cheeks blazed with heat as he grinned. ‘Mac, do you ever get scared when you’re flying?’

‘Scared? No, I don’t think so, maybe sometimes.’ He looked down at the floor. ‘It gets a little crazy up there with all those fighters milling around. Man, they can cut it all right, but you don’t have time to be scared. We’re too busy trying to stay in the air.’ He took out a cigarette case from his tunic pocket and offered it to her. She shook her head. ‘I always wanted to fly fighters, only the powers-that-be decided I had to fly bombers.’ He lit a cigarette, took a drag, and leant back in his chair. ‘I’ll say one thing, though. As much as it’s an abomination, if it weren’t for this war, I’d have missed out on the greatest opportunity in my life so far.’

‘What’s that?’

‘You.’ Mac’s eyes twinkled, and his face creased into that relaxed, broad grin he had.

Stella’s heart quickened, and she cast a brief smile and sipped her tea. A warm glow thawed her inside, and it was nothing to do with the tea. She was like a small child on Christmas morning: expectant, of what, she was not quite certain, but for something wonderful and exciting. She turned her gaze to the window and the street beyond. Patches of sky shone in puddles left by last night’s rain and GIs strolled by, stepping around the glossy sky, with their girls in tow.

Later, when Mac took her home, he turned to face her. ‘What are you up to tomorrow?’

‘Oh, I’m going home for two days to see my mam.’

His smile slipped away. ‘Oh, right. Well, I’ll sure miss you, Stella. Today’s been great.’ He took her hand and brushed it with a kiss, holding on to her while their eyes met.

She saw the hunger burning within his gaze, and butterflies fluttered in her stomach. But Alex was always there, in her mind, in the midst of everything and, like a sword, he severed the moment. ‘I’m sorry, but I must go.’ She pulled her hand from Mac’s and noted the disappointment on his face as she turned to get out of the jeep. ‘Thank you for today. I’ve had a lovely time.’

Mac sprang up and dashed around to her side, offering her his hand as she clambered out. ‘Maybe when you get back, we can meet up for a drink?’

‘Well, yes, all right.’

She felt his gaze upon her, and she dared not meet it, but then he reached for her hand again. The warm ruggedness enveloped her in a rush filled with longing, and a voice in her head screamed ‘No,’ while the blood coursed through her veins as she lifted her eyes to his. Transfixed by sparkling blue, she opened her mouth to speak, but Mac leant in and put his mouth on hers. His lips were soft, beguiling, and stirred up a swelling tide stronger than ever before. As he wrapped his arms around her waist, she revelled in undertones of shaving soap and cologne, his face soft and smooth against hers.

He nuzzled her ear as he whispered, ‘Stella, honey, promise me you’ll hurry back. I’m sure gonna miss you.’

‘It’s for two days. I’ll be back Friday afternoon, and I’m not back on duty until Sunday.’ She smiled as he brushed her cheek with his fingertips. ‘I’m sure you can cope,’ she said, raising her eyebrows and casting him a conciliatory smile. ‘Bye, Mac. Look after yourself.’ She pulled away and walked steadily up the garden path and turned to wave. He was watching, waiting for her to reach the front door, and then with a wave and a smile, he drove away. The insatiable rush of adrenaline flashed through Stella’s body and mingled with the bitter taste of guilt. Once inside, she hung up her coat on the stand in the hall, while the roar of the jeep’s engine faded into the distance.

She had been planning this leave for weeks, eager to see her mother, yet now she was torn. Ashamedly, she would rather stay with Mac, this stranger whom she was beginning to feel she had known all her life, even though it was disloyal to Alex. Oh, Lord, her mother would be so ashamed. She pressed her fingertips to her lips, the taste of him lingered, his scent swam around her, and her senses reeled.