Chapter One
Early May 1940
A bird, that’s what I should have been, a bird, Bryony Miller thought as she sat at the controls of Combe Lodge Airline’s de Havilland Dragon Rapide, high above the whitecapped sea. She was outbound from her home, Combe Lodge, near Exmouth, heading for Jersey, her leather jacket undone, overalls stained with engine oil. She loved the sense of escaping the earth, and the soft purr of this particular twinengine biplane, though her business partner, Uncle Eddie, called it an infernal drumming, and said she was not to be such a silly sod.
She laughed out loud, hearing his voice as though he was next to her, and she patted the control panel. ‘Purr away, my little Dragonette. Uncle’s a nasty horrid man who’s left me running our little airline and home, while he prances about in a wartime uniform. Quite frankly, he’s more than old enough to know better.’
That too would have made him groan. She searched the early summer sky wondering if he or any other Air Transport Auxiliary pilots were flying
replacement aircraft towards the French coast where British forces were fighting the Nazis. Usually the Ancient and Tattered Airmen, as the civilian ATA force was commonly called, flew military aircraft from factories to maintenance units for arming. But perhaps they were now replacing lost planes on the front line?
Certainly things must be desperate, because they had started to admit a thimbleful of women, but only a tiny few. Bryony searched the sky again. There was only one other aircraft and that was heading north, probably bound for Exeter Airport.
She peered down, seeing what looked like a mass of toy boats heading to and from the Channel Islands. They would be carrying holidaymakers, or returning islanders, and of course potatoes to the mainland of France or Britain. There were some fishing smacks too that would return to harbour at day’s end.
She continued and before long Jersey was in sight. It was then that she turned her head, raising her voice, calling to the six passengers sitting behind her in the three rows of double seats separated by a narrow aisle, ‘If you peer out of the lefthand windows, you can see in the distance the coast of France and ahead is Jersey. But stay seated please, and no dancing in the aisle or you’ll tip us, and we’ll head down to Jersey, all in a spin, literally. What’s worse, Old Davy who’s sitting next to Adam Cottrall won’t get back to tend his pigs. The
pigs, however, won’t go short, because if we hit the deck someone will just feed us to them.’
Above the laughter, and just behind her, a hand shifted her leather helmet, and Adam, leaning forward, said, ‘You could land us whatever the conditions, Bee. Uncle Eddie taught you well.’
Adam was the man she loved, but having grown up with Bryony he treated her as some sort of scruffy little brother in overalls, just as all her male friends did. Well, hardly surprising, as she was usually bum up and head down deep in the bowels of an aircraft engine. Or so her mother seldom failed to remind her, in that voice.
Old Davy called, ‘I can hear you buttering up our Bee, young Adam. Ain’t she looking after you proper while you’re home at Combe Lodge on sick leave? Tell you what, our Bee’s not getting any younger you know, twentythree if she’s a day, and you’re the right age for her, twentysix, ain’t you? It’s time someone took her off the shelf. You could call her Eve and the two of you could walk off into the sunset.’ He paused, then said slowly and loudly as though the other passengers were deaf, daft or just asleep, ‘Adam and Eve, got it?’
Bee knew, as she drew ever closer to the coast, that Old Davy would be looking round the cabin for appreciation, and receiving it, more’s the pity. Not getting any younger, indeed. All the time she was thinking these thoughts she was alert to the wind, to the engine sounds, to the Dragonette’s feel:
to be complacent could mean disaster. She looked around, up and down, then glanced at the control panel. All was well.
Buoyed by the laughter, Old Davy continued with gusto behind her. ‘Well Adam, my old lad, you with the fishing smack, or is it a pleasure boat, never know which . . .’
‘The Sunflower serves as both,’ Adam said.
‘Well, whatever it is, what with your boat and Bee’s half share of the airline, the pair of you could have a right good business when this darned war is over and you could call it . . .’ He paused as though waiting for someone to guess, but no one did. Please, please, thought Bryony, let them have gone to sleep. She crossed from sea to land and followed the road leading to her Uncle Thomas’s farm and the landing strip
‘You could call it Adam and Eve’s Juicy Apple.’ His cackle almost choked him but didn’t.
Lieutenant Manders laughed, but without amusement. ‘Lord knows when it will be over. Our expeditionary force to Norway couldn’t do a thing to help when the Germans occupied them, we just got our bottoms smacked.’
His wife hushed him. ‘We’re here for a holiday darling, just as that nice Mr Churchill advised us all to do. Besides, it will help your leg. Well, your nonexistent leg.’ Her voice held breathtaking bitterness. ‘Some people call this the phoney war, but we know different.’ The bitterness had deepened.
Adam muttered in Bryony’s ear, ‘The lifting of
some air travel restrictions got us back in the air and earning a few pounds but Manders is right, I doubt it will last. The Nazis are just steamrolling over everyone, and . . .’
She looked around again, then up and down. In Jersey, as in the countryside near Exmouth, the trees were in full leaf, the daffodils long finished, the potatoes being transported in trucks to the port of St Helier. She had knotted the daffodil leaves at home, and her dianthus were blooming, the digitalis too. What’s more, the box hedges she and April, Adam’s mother, the housekeeper at Combe Lodge, had planted had all survived the winter. It was easier to think of things growing, of nature continuing unabated, than the uncertain state of their world. Adam was waiting for a reply. She said, ‘Quite the little ray of sunshine aren’t you, Adam Cottrall. You’re clearly getting better and back to your positive self.’
He touched her shoulder. ‘Indigestion, I expect, thanks to your revolting hardboiled eggs for our breakfast this morning. But I have to say, the toast was good.’
Soon he’d be telling her she had earned a trip to the pub for a quick one with the rest of the lads. She made herself laugh. ‘I know you’d rather have your mum’s fluffy scrambled eggs but she’s too busy cooking meals for the hotel to pander to hypochondriacs like you. Just be grateful I keep some sort of an eye on you and let’s not pretend I enjoy it.’
What else could she say, with Old Davy’s idiocy
hanging in the air? Well, she could say: yes, let’s stick together, not for the sake of the company but because I’m a woman and adore the earth you walk upon, and always have.
She glanced all around and below, then at her instruments, and gradually eased back on her speed and height once they passed Haven Farm Bridge, which marked the extent of her Uncle Thomas’s land. She called, ‘Make sure you’re all strapped in, please, as we’ll be landing very shortly. Adam, I can hear you wheezing even over the Dragonette’s purring, so keep that jacket on when we land, or I’ll have your guts for garters.’
Adam groaned, ‘Ever the lady.’
The Dragonette’s shadow flashed over fields. ‘Everyone – Adam will have a quick look around to check your straps.’ Behind her, Adam coughed, and then again and again. Soon he was gasping for breath. When at last he could speak his voice was weaker and she could hear the strain in it as he checked the straps and kept up small talk.
He returned to his seat and squeezed her shoulder once more before settling back. She straightened her helmet, descending into the wind, checking and rechecking her instruments, her height, her speed, easing the yoke, gently, gently. She saw Uncle Thomas and Aunt Olive arrive at the field, with Rosie, Hannah’s mongrel. The doc’s Land Rover skidded in through the gate. He always came if there was a landing, just in case of trouble.
Hannah, her seventeenyearold sister, was not amongst the welcoming party and Bryony felt thankful, though relaxed when she remembered that there would be no histrionics just for once. After all, it was Hannah who had telephoned her, requesting a return flight to Combe Lodge, so she could start at art college.
The Dragonette landed, featherlight, holding steady as it rumbled along the grass with no yawing until it finally stopped. Bryony switched off, and eased her shoulders in the silence. It was always a relief to be safely down. She stretched and removed her helmet, her dark auburn hair falling free. Sweat had dampened her temples. She returned the waves of the doc, and her aunt and uncle before hanging up her helmet. Only then did she slip back through the cabin, where the passengers were undoing their straps.
Adam had the cabin door open. He slipped on to the wing and then the ground, settling the footstool he’d been carrying firmly on the mown grass. Bryony followed, feeling the warm breeze and the soft Jersey air. She held up a hand to Lieutenant Manders, who was sitting on the wing. He slid down, and his wife followed with his crutches, then Old Davy, and finally the last passengers, Mr and Mrs Devonshire. Adam handed Bryony a couple of suitcases while he took the rest. Old Davy toted his own carpet bag.
Lieutenant Manders and his wife struggled over the grass towards the welcoming party with Bryony
alongside. Adam had been in Norway too, or almost. A shell had landed near his armed trawler just off the coast and blasted him off the deck into the cold sea, hence the double pneumonia and sick leave.
Bryony heard the doc drive off, saluting her with a couple of hoots. Aunt Olive met them, hugging Mrs Manders as though she was an old friend, patting her shoulder. ‘There there, this week will build you both up.’ She smiled at Bryony, took the cases, whispering, ‘Darling Bee, I’ll take over here, you wait for Mr and Mrs Devonshire.’
Rosie was sitting at Bryony’s feet, her tongue lolling to one side, her tail wagging. Bryony laughed, and squatted to stroke her while Aunt Olive led the Manders to the gate where Clive, the conscientious objector, was waiting with the trap. He had been sent to Jersey with the other CO s to work the potato fields, and earned unofficial pocket money by acting as a taxi service for Uncle Thomas’s holiday cottages.
Old Davy caught up. He lived in a cottage not far from Haven Farm and would walk. He pulled Rosie’s ears, and as Bryony rose, Adam called, ‘You walk on, Bee.’ She and Old Davy reached the gate, where he gave her a smacking kiss and slapped her bum. ‘You’re a great girl, Bryony. If I was younger . . .’ Bryony grinned. ‘Or if I was even older and more dusty from the shelf . . .’ He cackled and left.
Mrs Devonshire reached her, holding on to her hat to prevent it reaching St Helier ahead of them. She and her husband were heading for a hotel there.
Mr Devonshire arrived, and took his case from Adam saying, ‘Thank you, Miss Miller, we will use you again, if, please God, things go well in France. I gather that’s our taxi?’ He pointed to Jack Blanchet’s Morris parked on the side of the road.
Bryony nodded. ‘Now remember, I’ll be here this time next week to return you to the mainland. Have a lovely holiday.’ The couple hurried away. Adam stood with her, waving until the transport was out of sight. She could hear that his chest was worse, and wished she hadn’t agreed to let him come. They began to tramp back to the landing strip, where Uncle Thomas was chocking the Dragonette’s wheels. Though the wind was strong the sun was hot and halfway there Bryony stopped, lifting her face. ‘You need to sit on Aunt Olive’s terrace, Adam. It’s sheltered and you can breathe in the clean air. You’re not even half recovered. Your chest is still bad, and your arm’s not healed from the shrapnel.’
He said, ‘Never mind me, you need to brace yourself. Hannah’s just slouched in the gate and looks as though she has something on her mind.’
‘What? But we’re doing her bidding.’
Uncle Thomas finished chocking and came to them, hugging Bryony. ‘Bee, my lovely lass, all well? Good to see you, Adam – feeling more the ticket, are you? Don’t look it, I have to say, but brace for a choppy landing, both of you. Hannah’s attacking from the rear. Been in a foul mood these last two days, but what’s new?’ He grimaced and fled back
to the aircraft to lock the doors and check this, that and the other; clearly anything to avoid his youngest niece.
Bryony sighed, raising her eyebrows at Adam. ‘I’m getting too old for this.’
Adam laughed. ‘Old Davy would agree.’
Bryony wagged a finger. He laughed again, saying, ‘It’s her age, I imagine, though she does seem to summon up a storm with monotonous regularity. Remember when you shipped her and your mother out here in the first place?’
Bryony snapped, ‘Mum needed to spend some time here with Aunt Olive, for her health and––’
‘I know,’ he soothed her. ‘You thought it would put distance between Hannah and Sid the Spiv if she accompanied her. Now you’re bringing her home, just as she wanted, so what’s the problem with her now?’
‘Exactly. On the telephone she sounded cheerful, and just look at her, for heaven’s sake.’
Adam whispered, ‘Would you have said yes if she’d said she was returning to Sid?’
Bryony glared at him. ‘Shut up.’
He nodded. ‘Exactly. So do you really think she’s going to college, or have you been manipulated and reeled in like a gasping fish?’
‘Shut up,’ Bryony snapped again.
She watched Hannah approaching. Her sister slopped along, kicking at tufts of grass, then stopped, scowled and examined the sole of her
sandal, probably because she’d trodden in sheep poo. Hannah wore a suitably arty dress she would have made herself, and a long striped cardigan with a vivid red shawl, and was so beautiful she could have walked out of a painting. Too beautiful, too clever and talented to be wasting her time on the Sids of this world.
Bryony touched her jacket pocket. Yes, the present Sid had given her for Hannah last evening when he arrived at Combe Lodge was still there. It was a welcomehome gift, he had told Bryony, smirking.
‘I don’t want to give it to her, Adam.’
‘But you must, Bee.’ He had turned to her, a light sheen of sweat coating his forehead, his pallor deeper.
She said, ‘Look at you. I should never have agreed to you coming. Let’s get you to the terrace and you can have a doze or you’ll never be a hundred per cent and your mum will chase me round the kitchen with a frying pan.’
He shrugged, ‘Maybe, just maybe I have a mind of my own and I decided to come. But now we have other things to deal with.’ Hannah had run out of tufts to murder and had halted on the edge of the runway, looking at them, her long dark hair streaming out behind her.
Bryony buttoned up her leather jacket against the wind, but also against her sister. Adam murmured, ‘Don’t worry, I’m here beside you.’
She wished he meant that in another way.
Chapter Two
Bryony straightened her flying jacket and looked at Adam, who smiled at her. ‘Go on, scaredy cat. You can throw an aircraft around the sky, so what’s so difficult about a sulky sister who’s been kicking hell out of a few tussocks. And let’s face it, you’ve had a lifetime to get used to it.’
Bryony held out her arms to Hannah, who was walking towards them again with Aunt Olive a few yards behind. ‘Hello, Hannah, it’s such good news about art college.’
Her sister stopped a yard from her, her arms akimbo, her chin in the air, saying, ‘Where’s the lightweight easel? You know I wanted to paint on the spot.’
Bryony let her arms drop. Aunt Olive had skirted them, eyes to the ground, and was with Uncle Thomas by the aeroplane in no time at all. She helped him fiddle with something that did not need attention. Rosie bounded over to Hannah, who waved her off so the dog came to Bryony and Adam again.
Bryony said, ‘Well, I’m very well, Hannah, thank you for not asking, and hope you are, too . . .’ Then
she cursed herself, knowing she’d just stoked whatever fire was burning today.
She took a deep breath and tried again, smiling at her sister. ‘I thought that, as you telephoned to say you were coming back to build up a portfolio for art college, you would want the easel at Combe Lodge.’ She stooped and pulled Rosie’s ears, while the dog whined her pleasure.
Hannah sighed and looked at Adam. ‘Well, Adam, you’re looking better. I would have thought you’d be back doing your bit, not joyriding.’
Adam flushed. ‘I’m almost there, Hannah. Won’t be long.’ His eyes were cold.
Aunt Olive had joined them, and Uncle Thomas was approaching, dusting off his hands. His farm overalls were even dirtier than Bryony’s.
‘Time for lunch, I think,’ he said into the silence.
Aunt Olive said, ‘Not so fast, Tommy m’lad. We girls will head for the kitchen and sort out the final bits, but Clive will be carting in the potatoes, vegetables, some salad and onions any minute now. You can help Adam load them on to the Dragonette. The onions will smell, Bee, but what’s a bit of a pong amongst passengers? Bribe them with a few, and all will be well.’
She put an arm around both sisters, and headed for the gateway, calling over her shoulder, ‘You boys take Rosie with you.’
‘Yes, sir,’ shouted Adam, saluting.
Aunt Olive laughed, ‘That’s enough of your cheek, Adam Cottrall.’ She shook Bryony slightly. ‘Oh Bee, how pleased your mother will be to see you. She’s torn to think that Hannah is going home, but thrilled she’s off to college. She will miss you both, but wants to stay here for longer. The doctor is pleased her consumption seems to be responding to rest and sunshine, and is still in remission.’
Hannah made Bryony jump, as she shouted, ‘She’s not just in remission, she’s completely better, whatever you or that old fuddyduddy Doctor Clements think. And anyway, I didn’t actually promise I was going to college. Why does everyone keep on about it?’
Bryony stared at her, but Aunt Olive’s desperate chatter built a bulwark between the two sisters, and for now, that was a blessing. Bryony was aghast. So, it was a lie to get back to Sid, was it? What on earth was she going to do about this girl? She’d refused to go back to school to matriculate, she refused to understand that their mother had TB , she chose boyfriends who were no good. She had said she wanted to come back, but now she wanted her easel here, so was she going to rush off a few sketches within the next couple of hours?
She touched Sid’s present. Should she chuck it into the hedge they were passing? Was it some sort of message between the two of them? What the hell was going on?
They turned into Haven Farmhouse, using the
front path rather than tiptoeing around the edge of the farmyard muck to the back door. Bryony said, ‘How posh, the front door.’
‘I wanted you to see and smell the garden. Isn’t it glorious? I’ve been trying to persuade Hannah to paint it for me. I could hang her picture on the wall, but she prefers to go out and find “intriguing views”, don’t you, darling, which is probably much better for her portfolio.’
Either side of the crazypaving path the lavender was getting into its stride, and despite the wind the bees were collecting pollen. As Bryony watched, one almost staggered on takeoff because it carried so much baggage on its legs. The pinks were flowering, a few tulips were hanging on, and the groups of polyanthus were doing well. Forgetmenots cascaded down a bank. ‘Glorious,’ Bryony murmured, running her hand along the tops of the lavender, releasing the scent. Aunt Olive led the way into the house, and Bryony turned to Hannah. ‘I don’t understand. Why do you still need the easel if you’re coming home?’
‘Oh stop going on and on all the time, Bryony. You’re not my mother. Just let me alone.’ She stalked up the stairs. ‘Call me when lunch is ready, Aunt Olive.’
Bryony called after her. ‘That’s no way to talk to your aunt, and what’s more, you haven’t answered my question.’
Hannah yelled, ‘All right, all right, please, please, please, Aunt Olive.’
There was the slam of a bedroom door. As Bryony started up the stairs in hot pursuit her mother called from the sitting room, ‘Bryony, stop thundering about and come and say hello. You do wind poor Hannah up so.’ Bryony stopped and slowly returned to the hall. At the doorway to the kitchen Aunt Olive raised her eyebrows, and shook her head.
Bryony mouthed, I’m sorry.
Aunt Olive hurried to hug her, saying into her hair, ‘You have nothing to be sorry for. One day Hannah will grow up, and my sister, your poor fragile mother, will see sense. She feels sorry for the girl for losing her father so young, and for being there when he fell off that damned horse and died. She puts all this behavioural nonsense of Hannah’s down to that, and perhaps it is partly that, along with a dollop of spoiling from an early age. I wonder sometimes if Hannah is frightened because one parent has already died and the other is fragile and there is the prospect that she could be alone.’
‘But she wouldn’t be alone, I’ve always been here for her, and would continue to be.’ For a moment Bryony let herself be held by this lovely woman, who smelt of the rosemary she had used on the roast potatoes. ‘If only she’d let me.’
Her aunt kissed her cheek. ‘Perhaps she sees you as providing stability so she has to test you, again and again, to prove that you will in fact never let her down. Oh, I don’t know. I’ve not had children,
so what do I know? I just nurture beasts, and then eat them.’
Both women laughed, loud and long. Aunt Olive dusted her apron down. ‘I think you need to prepare yourself for the fact that she might not return after all. She met Peter Andrews a few days ago. He paints too, I gather, but only as a hobby. His dad owns Netherby Farm and he’s very handsome. A nice, wholesome lad.’
The two women looked at one another. Bryony sighed. Yet another man, but at least it wasn’t Sid – at least it was someone her aunt knew.
Bryony’s mother called from the sitting room, ‘Come and give me a hug, Bryony. For all I know you’ve had your hair shaped and you’ve smartened yourself up since I saw you last week. Miracles do happen.’
Aunt Olive whispered, ‘She doesn’t mean to be like this. She loves you.’ She led the way into the beamed room. Bryony knew that indeed her mother loved her, but also that she did mean what she’d said. There was a glowing fire in the grate, even in this weather. ‘Your mother feels the cold, my dear. Don’t you, Mary?’ Aunt Olive left.
Sitting to the right of the fireplace, her mother smiled and lifted her hand in a wave, then grew serious. ‘Oh dear, Bryony, must you always look such a scruff? Just look at those overalls. Is that oil?’
Bryony smiled. ‘Yes, as it so often is, and has been, and always will be, I fear. Uncle Eddie’s away,
Adam isn’t well enough to help with the aircraft maintenance, his friend Eric is working on a boat engine for someone so can’t, therefore I have to in order to earn a crust for us all. It will be even worse soon, because I have to paint the hangar roof with camouflage. Just imagine me then, with spots of paint to add to the picture.’ She thought her mother would faint. Bryony crossed the threadbare carpet and kissed her mother’s upturned face, then knelt by her chair, taking her hand. ‘How are you, Mum? I wanted to talk to the doc but he scooted off.’
‘I’m fine, just tired. He seems pleased, and I am absolutely no worse. Jersey is good for me. How is April? And what about Eddie?’
From the kitchen Aunt Olive called, ‘Get her to eat more, please, Bee. Doctor Clements says she needs butter, milk and all good things, and rest, all of which we should be able to manage, even when the rationing bites more deeply.’
Her mother’s skin was almost translucent, and Bryony felt fear clutch at her as it usually did where this woman was concerned. Her mother said, ‘The doctor left you a note. I’ve read it, and he says what he always says, and what Olive has just said: rest, food and fresh air are the ticket. So I’m obeying. After lunch I will sit out on the terrace in the sun. It’s what my mother used to do. I can see her sitting there now. Sometimes your father did too, when we came on holidays and before he . . .’ She laughed.
‘Well, obviously before he died, or it would be daft, wouldn’t it? A corpse sitting there, enjoying the sun.’
Bryony had heard all this before. It was her mother’s way of showing that she was over her husband’s death. She wasn’t. Her mother said, stroking Bryony’s hair back behind her ears, ‘There, that’s more tidy. Now, my dear, listen to the good news. Hannah might be staying here with us after all. She has found herself a nice young man, the son of Tommy’s farmer friend. He so much better than that Sid, who was too old of course, but on the other hand, Sid has money, which is in his favour, don’t you think?’
Bryony did not, but said nothing and neither did she sigh, though she ached to do so.
During lunch Hannah was silent, and no one brought up the return journey; not even Bryony’s mother, who wasn’t known for her tact. Instead she picked at her gammon. The talk was desultory, with Adam seemingly struggling to stay awake. There was an apple pie for pudding, and cream. Aunt Olive poured some on Mary’s plate despite her protestations and she ate a little.
After lunch, Adam took Mary’s arm. ‘Let the two of us pale and interesting beings totter to the terrace and sleep off this feast, shall we, Mrs Miller?’
She laughed slightly. ‘Indeed, why not.’
Uncle Thomas beckoned to Bryony. ‘Come and
see Jemima. She’s done us proud with a grand litter of piglets.’
Hannah followed Aunt Olive into the kitchen to help with the washing up, smiling slightly at Bryony. ‘Mum told you that my plans might have changed?’
Again Bryony stopped herself from sighing and smiled instead. ‘Yes. Just let me know before we take off. Well, obviously.’
Uncle Thomas left the house almost at a run, and ploughed through the middle of the farmyard, though Bryony made her way around on the concrete slabs which ran around the edge, mindful of treading muck into the cockpit. At the old and worn out sty within the barn, which housed piglets scuttling about, Uncle Thomas hustled her past without a sideways glance and only stopped when he reached the far end. Bryony said, ‘I thought you’d have her out in the pig area on the other side of the house?’
He just stared ahead. She followed his line of sight. There appeared to be a new wall smeared with cow dung behind a pile of hay bales. ‘You see, the dung ages brickwork, makes it look as though it’s been here for bloody years,’ he said, looking around. ‘I’ll brush it off in due course, when it’s done its job.’ He found a niche in one of the bricks and pulled. It opened and proved to be a brick facing on a door leading into a large area. She hadn’t noticed that the barn had lost some space, and said so.
Uncle Thomas grinned. ‘Good, that’s as it should be.’ He looked round again, then pulled her into the new space, which was lit by a skylight. There was a sty and a grazing area. ‘It’s to pop in a pig in case things go wrong in France. We’re so close, the Nazis might come here, and if they do, rationing will tighten, and I want to be able to feed friends and family. Not to make money, you understand. I can hide a young ’un when authorities nose about. Now, don’t you be telling anyone, not even young Hannah. She blabs, you see. Don’t mean anything by it, but she does.’
He was pulling her out again, and shutting the door. Bryony thought of Sid the Spiv, but then shook her head. Her uncle was not a black marketeer – he would share his bounty with those in need.
He was hurrying out now, and back into the rear porch while she took the path around the yard. He flopped off his boots, while she wiped hers on the doormat. Without waiting for her he trotted down the corridor into his study, his stockinged feet leaving sweaty footprints on the tiles.
The study was cool. He rushed to the inglenook, where he stooped, peering up the chimney and calling her over. ‘See here.’
She joined him and looked up. There was a patch of deeper darkness on the lefthand side. ‘It’s a hideyhole for the wireless. If the Nazis come there’ll be a time when they won’t want us knowing what’s going on in the world. I’ll put a wireless up there,
brick it up part way, and leave room for the leads. I can listen on my headset. Now, tell no one, you understand. It’s safer that way.’
They withdrew and stood, looking at one another. She saw the determination in her uncle’s eyes, and the fear. Bryony’s mouth was dry, her heart was dithering, her back ran with cold sweat. ‘Do you think they will come? Really? Should you come back with me, all of you? Now, this minute? I can make another run when I take the passengers home.’
Her uncle shook his head. ‘No, I think our lads will fight and beat ’em back so it’s just in case. You know how I like to think ahead. Either way, there’ll be time for you to fetch your mother and Hannah, but your aunt and I will never be chased out of Jersey, you mark my words. They can come and tear it down, but when they’re gone – and they will go – we’ll just build it back up.’
They smiled at one another, though Bryony felt sure the smile hadn’t reached her eyes. Hannah said from the doorway, ‘I’ve come to tell you, Bee, that I won’t be coming back with you. Sorry to mess you about, so next time you come, bring the easel, would you? Please.’
Beside her, Uncle Thomas tensed. Bryony asked the question he didn’t. ‘Have you been there long? You should have joined us. There’s a bird’s nest in the chimney and we think it’s in use. So no one should light a fire.’
Hannah shrugged. ‘All right. But I never set the
fires, do I? Uncle Thomas likes to do it. So, just bring the easel, would you? You’re taking people back in a week, aren’t you, and I can manage until then.’
They were over the coast of Devon by four that afternoon, and by now the smell of onions was so pungent the cabin had fallen silent. The Smiths and Bennetts who had holidayed together in the second of Uncle Thomas’s holiday houses were on their way home, pleased at the thought of a couple of pounds of onions each and some potatoes. Her Aunt Olive was a wise woman.
Adam was quiet, exhausted, but he had insisted the day had saved him from terminal boredom. Bryony kept rigidly on course so that the ackack on the coast at Exmouth wouldn’t think she was hostile, but they were so used to her Dragonette on its regular route that they waved. She waggled her wings. Soon she was on the approach to the Combe Lodge landing strip and yet again she felt her helmet being lifted, and Adam saying, ‘I’m not sure I will be able to face onions ever again.’
Those in the cabin laughed. ‘You’re not the only one, mate,’ called Mr Smith. Bryony instructed them: ‘Straps on please, Adam will check.’ He did and gave her the thumbs up. She adjusted her helmet and brought the Dragonette into the wind to begin her approach, easing down. The wind was buffeting but not too much. Gently now, gently – but as she was about to touch down she saw a child, a
girl, rushing from the bushes to the left, across the strip, her hair streaming out like Hannah’s. Adam saw too. ‘Christ, Bee. Yank the nose up.’
Ignoring him, she pushed the throttle levers forward and pulled steadily back on the yoke. Climbing out she eased back the throttle, banked left to go round again, checking the runway, which was now clear. ‘Sorry about that, everyone, bit of a problem on the landing strip.’
She focused, although her whole body longed to go into shock. She came round into the wind again, always looking, but the child had completely disappeared, almost as though she had been an apparition. Gently gently, and down we go, and again it was a featherlight landing. Her hands were shaking, and as she removed her helmet and hung it up, she said quietly to Adam, ‘If I’d yanked the nose up immediately we could have stalled, and then what would have happened to the blessed onions?’
He squeezed her shoulder. ‘I wasn’t thinking, too tired. Sorry, Bee, and thank God for you.’
‘How did she get in the field? Is the fence broken somewhere? Everyone knows not to come on to the airfield, for heaven’s sake. I’ll check it.’ She undid her straps with shaking fingers.
Adam said, ‘We’ll check the fence, and what’s more, find the little idiot. She’s got to be told off, Bee, and afterwards we’ll go down to the pub with the rest of the lads. Someone might know who she is, but I didn’t recognise her, did you?’
Bryony shook her head, ‘No. Perhaps she’s an evacuee?’ She raised her voice. ‘Let’s get your straps undone, everyone, and your bags off. Your holidays are over, and to make up for that, in a moment Adam will open the door and you can escape the onion fumes.’
A cheer greeted the announcement, and Adam squeezed her shoulder again.
In Jersey, Hannah strolled along the lane towards Netherby Farm, her sketch pad under her arm. She had watched the Dragon Rapide lifting into the sky, hating to see Bee go but glad too. Bee was always pushing her to make something of herself, and yes, college might be nice, but Peter was nicer, so she wasn’t going to go anywhere without him.
She hurried. Bee had said she’d have the money for art college after next week’s runs, so if Peter went to England to sign up, as he had muttered yesterday, she’d say she was going to college but instead use it to find digs near him. But why on earth Bryony had to make such a martyr of herself and work so hard was stupid. She should just ask Eddie, like Mum said. After all, he thought the sun shone out of Bee’s backside and it was nonsense to say there was no cash, because they could just sell a plane. Dad had been his friend in the Royal Flying Corps in the war, and they had been partners and Eddie had bought into Combe Lodge, so why shouldn’t
Eddie support them all? If he did, then Bee would have more time for her.
Hannah climbed over the stile, and took the footpath leading across the sheep field and into the bluebell woods, which she had painted in oils in the spring. She had hung it in the local art gallery but no one had bought it. Once in the woods it was more sheltered from the wind and out of the glare of the sun. She remembered Sid’s present, and sat on the fallen tree that was slowly rotting, with fungi growing out of it. Was that what smelt so acrid?
She took the present from her pocket, smiling because he had even wrapped it. If it didn’t work out with Peter there was always Sid as a fallback. She could go to England and to college, and he could visit on his motorbike.
She unwrapped the gift. It was a jewellery box and inside was a brooch. She took it out, and examined the back. There was no hallmark, and it was light to hold. It was clearly tin. Hannah threw it into the undergrowth where it belonged. How cheap. He could have done better, for God’s sake. She’d keep the jewellery box, though. It was pretty.
The branches above rustled and a magpie headed for the light. She remembered Uncle Thomas and Bee looking up the chimney. She had heard what Uncle Thomas said, so why did Bryony tell a stupid story about a bird’s nest? Probably because Uncle Thomas liked Bryony more than her, and it wasn’t fair.
Chapter Three
27 May 1940
Bryony was in the midst of a recurring dream in which a child ran across the landing strip. She had just reached the point where the aircraft crashed instead of powering out of danger. She could feel the heat of the flames, hear the scream which rocked her body, the screams too, of the passengers, and of the child, when she jerked awake. For a moment she didn’t know where she was, and then, as she stared around her bedroom in the darkness of the night, feeling her sheets, the weight of the blankets, she relaxed and drifted off again.
Now she was chasing the girl, who was always just ahead and whose face she never saw until she reached the woods and then she turned, and it was Hannah. She started awake again, alarmed, but not at the dream – it was something else, as though . . . She sat up, but there was no one there. She checked the alarm clock: it was only three in the morning. Her heart was beating in her throat, too fast.
She heard the cry then, ‘Adam!’ It was more a shriek than a cry. It was April
Cottrall. ‘Adam!’ she was calling. ‘For God’s sake, will someone wake up?’ Bryony heard the panic, the utter terror. She threw off her bedclothes.
‘Bryony, Eddie, someone.’ April was panting through the words. She must have run from Combe Cottage, seventy yards from the Lodge. There was light streaming in beneath Bryony’s bedroom door from the landing.
‘Morgan’s on the telephone at the cottage, oh, it’s awful. Quick, quick.’ Bryony heard the Blue Room door slam open and Adam call, ‘Mum?’ His voice was confused. He called again, ‘Mu—?’ but ended on a hacking cough.
Bryony hurtled from her room to the landing. ‘What? What?’
She yanked up her pyjama trousers, and met April at the top of the stairs. The woman was in her nightgown, with bare feet, hair dishevelled, panting. Now Uncle Eddie, who had arrived home for his regular twoday leave from the ATA , was in his doorway, hopping on one foot, struggling to put on a slipper, his threadbare red tartan dressing gown undone, his belt dragging on the floorboards. Adam was still coughing at the entrance to his bedroom door.
April gripped Bryony. ‘It’s Morgan.’ She was panting so fast she could hardly speak.
Adam hurried to them now, wiping his mouth, his coughing fit subsiding. ‘What, my Morgan?’
‘Of course your bloody Morgan, who else would I mean?’
Adam gripped his mother’s arm. ‘Is he hurt, has his trawler gone down?’ he asked.
‘The Sunflower is needed in Weymouth, he says. We’ve lost, you see.’ April, on the verge of tears, stopped abruptly. Eddie took her hands. ‘It’s all right, April, love. Just tell us slowly. Come along.’ He led her to the sofa below the landing window. It was overstuffed, and had burst its seams, but it had been like this for as long as Bryony could remember. Adam coughed again and stood with Bryony as April and Uncle Eddie sat. ‘Now,’ Eddie said. ‘Someone is lost? Or has Morgan broken down somewhere? Was he on his way here? Why does he need the Sunflower?’
April glared at them all. ‘Oh, for goodness’ sake, why don’t you listen? Not Morgan, we – I mean Britain has lost. Morgan says we need shallow boats to take the troops from the beaches of France to the big ships to save as much of the army as we can. Perhaps then we can fight another day. Perhaps. The Germans are nearly at Dunkirk, you see. The bloody Germans have beaten us.’
Bryony felt everything slow. It was almost as though she was floating, as though the floorboards were no longer cool beneath her bare feet. She had seen the coast of France when she had collected the holidaymakers, and all had seemed as usual. Had there been the faint sound of guns? It had been such a quick turnaround, and none of the passengers had mentioned anything, neither had her family, but the
Channel Islands were miles from Dunkirk. All she had read recently was that Holland was in peril, and the British forces were busy in France . . . She’d been more interested to hear that Churchill had taken the place of Chamberlain.
Eddie was gripping April’s hand in both of his, his dressing gown still gaping open, his striped pyjamas faded. His dressing gown was torn beneath the arm. His belt was collecting dust balls from the floor now. ‘Tell me again, dearest April, just what Morgan said. Then Adam can phone him back. He obviously thought Adam had moved in with you at the cottage.’
April reached her free hand to Adam and pulled him down on her other side. ‘No, he tried here, but you were all asleep.’
Though her eyes were full, April was clearly not about to cry, and her look dared Bryony to do so. Her lips were quivering though, and her voice was high as she said, ‘He telephoned because his trawler skipper is setting off from Weymouth, with some others to help. Most are embarking from Ramsgate but everyone who can do something is needed.’
‘What, he’s going in his armed trawler?’ Adam’s voice was incredulous, ‘But that’s up in––’
‘No.’ April’s voice was almost a wail. ‘His own trawler, the Maid of Torin, the one he has a share in. Morgan is on leave and they’re setting off for Dunkirk, that’s where the troops are. Fuel is being sorted, he says, and he’ll tow you there to save
yours, but only if you’re well enough. He says to bring the dinghy too, because someone can take that in to the beach and transport a few back to the Sunflower and from there to the big ships.’
Before she had finished, Adam was rushing down the stairs. ‘I’ll telephone him back.’
April called after him, ‘He’s at the skipper’s house.’
Eddie was on his feet. ‘Don’t go to the cottage, lad. Call from the study. We can’t waste time. April, can you get some sandwiches sorted, and you too, Bee. Adam and I will need them. I’ll go to Weymouth with the lad, but then he’s on his own. I have to get back on duty.’
He hurried to his bedroom. April was already heading down to the kitchen. Bryony looked from one to the other, and thought – sandwiches, you must be joking. She washed, dressed in her overalls, flinging on a jumper and tying another around her waist. She grabbed her waterproofs then took the stairs two at a time. Halfway down, Adam came from the study and began to climb towards her. She shouted, ‘No, go back. It’s bad luck to cross on the stairs and we’re going to need every bit we can find.’
He backed down, staring up at her. His pyjamas were checked and old, and his feet were bare. He could catch his death on the flagstones. She half smiled: well, they’d be facing more than cold floors soon. He shouted up, ‘We? Oh no, there’s no we
about this, Bee. Morgan’s just told me what to expect, and it’s too bloody dangerous.’ He began to cough again, bending over. She continued down, sweeping past him. ‘You think I don’t realise that? I’m not a fool. I’ll be in the kitchen. Hurry up or we’ll go without you, which might not be a bad idea. This is bound to set you back.’
Uncle Eddie was following on behind her, fully dressed, and as she swept into the kitchen she heard him laughing quietly. ‘Now, why am I not surprised, Bryony Miller, that not only are you coming but that you’ve taken over. You are indeed your father’s daughter.’
April was banging about on the hotplates, frying bacon that Uncle Thomas had included in his produce. Now April threw in some mushrooms she and Bryony had picked yesterday. There was fried bread, fried potatoes, sausage. Adam came in behind them as Bryony started to cut bread for sandwiches. ‘I hope you’ve written your will, Bee,’ he said. ‘If Dunkirk doesn’t get you, the fryup will.’
His mother swung round. ‘Don’t you joke about it, ever, do you hear?’
Adam slipped past Bryony to his mum, putting his arms around her as she stood in her nightgown. ‘We have to, Mum. It’s how we did it on the trawlers around Norway. Don’t worry, we’ll come back, no shell would dare hit Bee.’
April’s eyes met Bryony’s. What was unsaid was that one had most certainly hit Adam’s father, at
Ypres. ‘Of course I’ve written a will,’ Bryony said. ‘Everyone who flies does, if they have a grain of sense.’
Bryony had inherited her share of Combe Lodge and the airline along with her mother and sister. She had nothing else except the art college money she had saved. In her will everything she had was left to her sister.
Down at the harbour they stripped out all that was superfluous in the Sunflower, to allow as many men as possible to be taken off the beach. They even removed the mast to give them a few extra inches of space. April, standing on the dock, said she’d make sure the benches, table and cupboards were kept safely in the boathouse for their return. They hitched up the dinghy, and loaded the Sunflower with containers full of water and tin mugs April had somehow found. Morgan had said the troops that made it through would be gagging with thirst.
They worked alongside another smack, The Saucy Lass, belonging to Barry Maudsley and his son Eric, who had been a classmate of Adam and Morgan’s and often helped with the maintenance of the aircraft. They too had received a telephone call. The Saucy Lass was used, as was Adam’s, as a pleasureboatcumfishing smack. It too had been stripped, made mastless and loaded with water in doublequick time. April put down her basket, took packets from it and threw them to Bryony. ‘They’re cheese,
they should keep you going.’ Finally she threw a haversack. ‘Put them in here. When they’re finished, throw the haversack overboard. Every inch is needed, Morgan said.’
Bryony muttered, ‘He was always a bossyboots.’
The men laughed and Eric called from the nearby boat, ‘Disruptive influence, an’ all, according to Miss Staines. D’you remember that, Adam?’
Adam waved, nodding, then he and Eddie yanked out the last cupboard. Eddie asked, ‘Got a half share in the Maid, has he? It was a quarter, wasn’t it?’
Adam carried the cupboard to the edge of the Sunflower and Timmie, who ran the nearby paint shop, took it from him. It was all hands to the pump this morning. ‘Yes, he’s done well and had the sense to keep his share. Bright lad. Exmouth was always too small for him, and the armed trawlers are just right, not too many fuddyduddy rules, he said. That’s why I chose ’em, on his recommendation.’
Above them the gulls were wheeling, and the sun was hotting up.
At last they were done. They’d worked through the dawn, and now it was 9 a.m. April waved them off, calling after them, ‘I’ll look out for that child while you’re gone, Bee. Just because you’re not here, doesn’t mean we give up.’
There was no word about being safe. Just about life going on, life that would be picked up on their return. Bryony blew her a kiss. ‘I love you, April.
We’ll see you very soon. Look after Dragonette for me, and Hannah if . . .’
With Adam at the controls, Eddie and she stood and waved as they left the calm of the harbour for the choppy waters of the sea, and Eddie put his arm around her. ‘Dragonette, indeed. It’s a Dragon, little Bee, a ruddy dragon that drums infernally.’
She leaned into her uncle who wasn’t an uncle but her father’s dearest friend, one who acted like a parent to them all. ‘No, she purrs.’ He had slipped into his dark blue ATA uniform so he could hurry to Weymouth Station and pick up a train to his ferry pool. The argument continued as the wind tore at her hair and they watched the redness of the cliffs of Devon fade and become the yellow of west Dorset, and then the grey of east Dorset. ‘Where will the buggers go now,’ she murmured. ‘The Channel Islands or us? Jersey’s only fifteen miles from France.’
Eddie hugged her, ‘One problem at a time, Bee. Let’s just get through the moment, shall we?’
She knew he was right. As he left the boat in Weymouth harbour he called, ‘I’m setting you up with a test for the ATA . We’ll need all the help we can get, because we will fight on. So you get back here, Bryony Miller. You’re needed, darling, darling girl.’ His voice broke, and he hurried away.
Chapter Four
28 May 1940
From Weymouth the Sunflower was towed like a camp follower through what was left of the evening, and then the night. Bryony and Adam had done twohour shifts at the wheel ever since they’d left Exmouth. Once at Weymouth they hitched up the towline and continued the shifts. Who knew if they’d come adrift as they were towed through the waves?
During the journey they said little to begin with, for what was there to talk about – life, death, the universe? None of that, so it came down to the smell of fish which permeated the boat and drew a laugh from Adam, who told Bryony that if he took people mackerel fishing for a living, what did she expect, and before he took trippers for a pleasure cruise he scrubbed it out, good and proper. Not content to leave it at that, he’d said the smell of fuel in her cockpit was nothing to write home about either. He’d added that Eddie was right, the Dragon engines made an infernal drumming. They bickered and laughed over a packet of April’s cheese sandwiches,
