Chapter 8

Willington, County Durham

C rash! Something heavy rumbled and rolled along the pavement outside, then came a clatter followed by another crash. The sound of beer kegs being delivered to the pub further down the road was a daily ritual. Between the rumbles and crashes, birdsong sang out. The ring of a bicycle bell echoed from the main street below and a replying shout, ‘Morning, our Geoff,’ and then silence. It would only last for a minute or two now the old country town had stirred into life, but Stella welcomed it.

She lay in her old bed, feeling out of place in her childhood home, which now seemed so strange. For a time after leaving, she had suffered the worst homesickness and hankered for letters from home. In the beginning, the post had seemed to take forever, then after a while, it took no time at all. She smiled as she pictured the Valentine’s card Mac had sent last week. He’d turned up unexpectedly and presented her with a beautiful box of candy tied with a red silk bow. She’d never tasted anything so delicious in her whole life.

Next door’s hens clucked out in the yard. Stella glanced at the clock. ‘Half past seven,’ she muttered. In an hour, her mother would be opening the shop downstairs. She cast off the blankets, tumbled out of bed, and dressed quickly because of the chilled air, then drew back the curtains. The recent snow had long since thawed, though the rows of houses opposite stood shimmering in hats of silver-frosted slate. Once downstairs, she busied herself in the kitchen, made a pot of tea, and brought a cup through to her mother, who was in the shop counting out the cash float for the till.

Later that morning, Stella decided to take a walk through the churchyard, seizing the chance to visit her father’s grave and pay her respects. St Stephen’s Church always looked so peaceful and beautiful, with its stone walls and ornate stained-glass windows. She gazed at the bare cherry blossom trees that would soon flower, and later cast their silken blooms across the tombstones, shrouding the fallen. Golden rays trickled through the branches and danced like jewels upon the frosted ground.

Stella crouched in front of her father’s grave, the fresh flowers in the urn evidence of her mother’s latest visit. After the Great War, he’d ventured into business and following the depression, during the hard times of the 1920s, he’d paid for the poorest children in the town to have shoes on their feet. The church had overflowed with mourners. Stella blinked the tears away.

She found a bench and sat down, glad to be alone with her thoughts for a moment. She remembered sitting next to Mac in the churchyard at Bourn, and as she shivered in the bracing breeze, she longed for him to be by her side. She felt empty and yearned for the press of his thigh against hers, to drink in his smell, to fall into those strong arms because he’d made her feel safe and wanted. She sighed. Grey clouds eclipsed the sun, and the icy wind nipped her cheeks and nose.

When she returned home, she found her mother putting stock away in the storeroom while it was quiet. Since the rationing, many sweets had become scarce, and Mrs. Charlton had diversified, offering other items for sale when she could—biscuits, tinned food, even soap, shoelaces, and boot polish.

The bell chimed with a ding-a-ling, and the door swung open. A young boy plodded in across the wooden floor, dressed in dark grey shorts, red wellingtons, and a black coat. He gazed up at the shelves behind the counter, his wide blue eyes sailing across the bright-coloured jars of sweets, his mouth wide open. The rationing bit hard, restricting each person to twelve ounces of sweets each month, although a lot of adults handed in their coupons to local stores and Woolworths who then distributed extra to the children.

‘Stella, love, I almost forgot.’ Her mother carried on working as she spoke, her cheeks rosy red. She was always on the go; no wonder she was so slim. She reached for a floral-patterned apron, slipped it over her head, securing the ties at the waist, then tucked a stray grey curl behind her ear.

‘A letter came for you this morning. I’ve put it on the mantelpiece in the living room.’ She smiled as she swept past her daughter to serve the small boy, who was now slowly counting his money, placing coins on the counter.

‘Thanks, Mam.’ Stella wondered who it was from. No one knew where she was except for Mac and Mrs. Brown, and Mac didn’t have her address. She retreated to the living room at the back of the house and found the letter. The envelope was stamped RAF Coningsby. ‘Alex,’ she murmured, ripping it open as the smell of burning coke from the fire hung in the air.

Dearest Stella,

I’m so sorry for taking so long in writing to you. Things have been frantic here, and I’m afraid I’ve lost your billet address. What luck you gave me your home address that time otherwise I’d never have found you. My squadron’s rather busy. Lots of flying and training, but other than that, there’s nothing else to report from Lincolnshire. Hope everything’s going well for you. I miss Bourn, though most of all I miss you, my darling. I had a few days leave recently and went home as mother hasn’t been well. She’s much better now, of course. I wanted you to meet my parents, so they’ve invited you for the weekend next time we have leave together. What do you think?

I had some bad news a few weeks ago. My cousin, Peter, was shot down while on a sortie over France. There’s no trace of him, no chute seen. Damn this war. Sometimes it feels as if one can’t go on, and then I picture you and I know I must.

When I went home, it wasn’t the same. Even mother’s struggling. As for his parents, well, they’re bearing up, but Aunt Charlotte is lost without him. He was like a brother to me. Darling, please say you’ll come for a weekend soon. Everyone’s dying to meet you. I need you. If I get the chance, I’ll come down and see you, although it will probably be a last-minute thing and a flying visit. Write back when you get this.

All my love,

Alex xxx

Stella glanced at the letter once more. His cousin was dead. Peter might have been his best friend, yet he’d made no attempt to hide his disdain of Alex’s relationship with her. He’d often cast her sneering looks, and while she never liked him, she would never have wished this on him. She was sorry for Alex’s loss and knowing he was grieving again made her feel even more wretched. Thoughts whizzed through her mind, thick and fast, as a dark, stormy fog settled in her head.

‘Stella, I’ve closed the shop for lunch so I’ll make the tea, shall I?’ Mrs. Charlton looked at the letter in her lap. ‘Anything wrong, love?’

‘No. I’ll come and help.’ There was no point in elaborating right now, although her mother had a crafty way of weeding out the information regardless. Stella followed her out to the small kitchen and watched as she filled the kettle and set it on the stove to boil.

‘Well, was the letter from Alex?’

‘Yes. He’s settling in at his new base.’ Stella arranged the teacups and milk jug on a tray.

‘Oh, that’s good. He’s such a nice young man. He must have said more than that.’

Here we go. Stella sighed. ‘His cousin was killed in action recently, shot down over France.’

‘Oh, dear. The poor boy.’ Mrs. Charlton’s face fell and filled with compassion.

‘And he’s invited me to stay at his for the weekend. He wants me to meet his parents.’

‘Does he indeed?’ She pursed her lips.

Stella could tell she was thinking about it. ‘I’m not sure when I’ll next get leave, and his family lives near Exeter. I don’t know why he seems so keen for me to go. It’s all rather out of the blue.’

‘Don’t you? Well, it sounds clear enough to me.’

‘How do you mean?’

‘There’s only one reason a young man takes his young lady home to meet his parents.’

‘You don’t mean?’ Stella stood wide-eyed.

‘Yes, love, I do. He’s going to ask you to marry him.’ The kettle whistled, and Mrs. Charlton removed it from the hot plate. She measured out the tea, dropped it in the teapot, and poured the boiled water. ‘Take it to the living room, pet, and we’ll sit in there. It’s warmer than this draughty old kitchen.’

Stella did as she was told. Maybe she should never have gone to that dance at Bassingbourn, yet the thought of not knowing Mac filled her with a heavy ache. Alex had used all his charms on her in the beginning. Soon afterwards, the rumours began, and she had witnessed his roving eye for herself, but his charm and persistence paid off, despite the niggling voice at the back of her mind.

‘Oh, your father would be so proud of you, love.’ Mrs. Charlton beamed as she set the tray down on a small table and sank into the chair by the fire. Next, she balanced the strainer on top of the china cup and poured the tea. ‘And with that beautiful country estate. You’ll be lady of the manor.’

The words sliced through Stella with a jolt. She’d known Alex the longest, and yet it was like she barely knew him at all. One evening spent at The Red Lion had joined them together seven months ago. She’d been enjoying a quiet drink with Vera, although Vera was rarely ever quiet. Stella smiled to herself. It was August 1942, the day had been long and hot, and locals and RAF had filled the pub, spilling out onto the pavement to enjoy a drink while watching the setting sun. While Vera chatted to a pilot from their base, Stella noticed a tall young man in RAF blues watching her, a cigar in one hand, a pint in the other. He drew on his cigar and exhaled, his eyes smiling, fixed on her. She’d been twisting a stray curl around her finger and judging by the amused look on his face, he’d enjoyed the show. The pub was stale, sweaty, and humid, adding to her discomfort, so she stepped outside for a breath of fresh air. A man’s voice called out her name and she turned to face him, his dark brown eyes twinkling beneath a thatch of sandy hair.

When she asked how he knew her name, he said he’d asked her friend in the pub. And that was that. His relaxed manner, charm, and wit had teased her from her shell, and in the weeks that followed, he took her dancing or for quiet drinks. But then he went on leave with his cousin, and there were times he simply didn’t show up, offering excuses days later. When he left for his new posting to Coningsby in Lincolnshire, she’d been upset at first, then hurt and worried when he didn’t write. Once, she thought she was in love with him, but now, after spending time with Mac, everything had changed.

As she pictured Mac, the blood surged through her veins, then her heart sank. How could she abandon Alex at a time like this? He’d been close to Peter. They’d almost been inseparable, apart from the fact one was in Fighter Command, the other Bomber Command. She was trapped, and the idea of breaking it off with him raked her with guilt, while the thought of never seeing Mac again brought a crushing blow to her chest. Why did Alex want her to meet his parents? He’d never once said he loved her.

Of course, her mother was thrilled and had pushed her towards him, towards a better life, as she so often said. If she ended things now, her mother would be bitterly disappointed. If only her father were still alive. Her heart ached, and a lump rose in her throat. She swallowed. Her mother simply wanted the best for her, but her pushing and meddling had saddled her with an increasingly oppressive burden, and Stella was now obligated to make her proud. Would it be so bad if she shunned high society for an American? As soon as she drew Mac into her head with his smile and those deep blue eyes, a warmth flowed through her like silk. That way he had of doing everything, from sitting, to walking, to being with her. His American charm. She smiled as a warm, fuzzy haze settled within her.