Lover Read Free Page B

else—paper—came along with it and fluttered onto the rug. A pound note.
    How…? Then she remembered: the man, he’d put something in her hand. She sat down again, in front of the mirror, and stared at herself.
    He’d tried to kill her. Then he’d given her a pound. For the brooch? She could buy another one now, a replacement, so she wouldn’t have to lie about that, at least. But the bicycle, first thing—she mustn’t forget.
    He’d given her a pound.
    That other pilot, who’d walked her home…she hadn’t said thank you. Rude, when he’d helped her like that. Too late now, she’d never see him again. Hoped she wouldn’t, anyway.
    He’d tried to have his way with her, then he’d tried to kill her. He’d tried to kill her .
    She knew she’d never be able to tell anyone. Her reflection, with its dull eyes and smudged, forbidden lipstick, confirmed what her mother would think: it was her fault. She inspected her hands—grazed and dirty—and picked a bit of grit out of her knee. She’d asked for it, hadn’t she?
    He’d tried to kill her, and it was her fault.

Monday 16 th September
RAF Hornchurch, Essex
Flying Officer Jim Rushton
    L ook up. Blue, blue sky. Light breeze. It’s a perfect day for flying, and here we are all sprawled on armchairs, baking in full kit.
    Look down. Scuffed grass beside the trench. You can see the earth. Feet in flying boots, parachute harnesses dangling. Metal catches the sun. Funny how you always notice details, before …
    Look out, over the airfield. Airmen filling in craters by the runway. The grass is still dotted with red flags marking unexploded bombs from the last few raids. Huts—what’s left of them—hangars. I remember filling the sandbags when we first came here, making pens to protect the Spitfires. After we came back from France. It seems like years ago. Teddy Norton was still here then, and Stuffy—I was at RAF College with him—Felix Marshall…Bimbo Tanner… All gone, now.
    Let’s see. What’s in the paper? The Queen’s private apartments were badly damaged when Buckingham Palace was bombed again yesterday . Won’t be too many more nice days like this one. It’ll be cold, soon. We’ll have to wait inside…whoever’s left, that is. The RAF had one of its greatest days in smashing the mass attacks on London. Thirty of our machines were lost, but ten pilots are safe.
    I see Corky and Mathy are still arguing about tactics. Funny to see those two together—Corky’s almost taller sitting down than standing up, and Mathy’s over six feet, far too tall for a fighter pilot. God knows how he ended up inside a Spitfire. Davy with his rugger nose and ruddy cheeks, reading a book. He looks calm enough, but he hasn’t turned a page for at least twenty minutes. Czeslaw staring up at the sky. Lined face—he’s older than the rest of us, like most of the Poles: twenty-seven. Flint’s asleep—must be dreaming about flying because his eyebrows are wiggling up and down. Balchin’s next to him. He’s dozing, too, cap tipped over his eyes, arm dangling down by his side, hand very white. That’s how it’ll look when he’s dead—unless he’s burnt, of course. There’s Ginger Mannin off to the latrine, again. Miss Air Force is a blonde and only 18 years old…the Boys in Sky Blue like ‘em young!
    The newspaper is plunged into shade now and I can’t see the picture. A bulky shape—Flight Lieutenant Webster, the adjutant—is blocking out the sun.
    â€˜ Adj… ‘
    â€˜Sorry.’ He moves round to stand behind me and jabs at the paper with his pipe. ‘She’s a bit of all right, isn’t she?’
    I shrug. ‘I suppose so.’
    Balchin pushes back his cap and blinks at him. ‘How’s… you know?’
    â€˜Tinker?’ offers