‘I – I don’t think I’m any class, really. I’m a Wren and I wear the same uniform and get exactly the same pay as all the other Wrens. And as for the way I speak –’
‘Kind of clipped, and brittle. I’m getting real good at picking out accents now. Mind, the further north I get the harder it is.’
‘You’d have fun with Vi, then. She’s from Liverpool. “Ar, hey, Loocinda, yer don’t arf talk luv’ly. Just like a frewt.” Fruit, you know. She’s a darling. But tell me about you? Just what is an American doing in our air force? How did you manage it? And why?’
‘How is easy. I crossed the border into Canada, walked into a recruiting office, told them I wanted in on their war and they said, “Okay, buster, sign here!” Then I did my training in Canada, got my wings, got a commission and came over here. They posted me to a fighter squadron in Digby.’
‘But that’s in Lincolnshire!’
‘Sure is.’
‘You make it sound very simple. Now tell me why, Mike. You didn’t have to come. This is our war, not America’s.’
‘I came, I guess’ – embarrassed, he looked down at his glass – ‘because I don’t like people being pushed around. That, and because I have an English granny. And because I’m a bloody fool …’
‘But a very nice bloody fool. It makes me feel all warm inside when someone cares about us.’ Her fingertips traced the length of his scar. ‘How did you get that?’
‘I got posted south with the squadron last June after Dunkirk. Me and my Hurricane had a tangle with a Messerschmitt. He won, I bailed out. Haven’t flown since, though I reckon they’ll pass me fit again before long. Y’know, Lucy, I felt real bad about this scar. I’d take a look at myself and think, “Jesus. What a mess!” I thought everyone must be looking at it. But then you touch it and talk about it like it’s not all that important. Sure it doesn’t turn you off?’
‘Why should it? I’ve seen a whole lot worse.’ No need to tell him about her airmen and their poor, burned faces. ‘But we were talking about this crazy American who flies a fighter for the British.’
‘I’d rather talk about you, Lucy.’ He picked up her left hand. ‘No rings?’
‘No rings, Mike.’ Sorry, Charlie, but I don’t have a ring, do I, though that isn’t strictly what he means.
‘Tell me, Lucy Bainbridge, why didn’t we meet when I was stationed at Digby?’
‘Because Lincolnshire’s a big county and anyway, my family left to live in London.’
‘Where, in London?’
‘Bruton Street. It’s near Berkeley Square.’
‘Say, that’s where the nightingales sing!’
‘Do they? Well, I suppose they might, sometimes,’ she teased.
‘Ever heard them, Lucy?’
‘Never. Only sparrows.’
‘Okay. Tell you what, why don’t we give it a try? Next time I’ve got some leave, you and me can meet in London and we’ll sit real quiet in the blackout and listen for those nightingales, uh?’
‘Idiot! And I don’t have leave due until September.’
‘Okay. I’ll take mine in September, too. I’m only stooging around at training bases till they pass me fit for flying again. I’ll be able to fix it.’
‘September’s a long time away. We live day to day in this war, but I don’t have to tell you that, do I? You’re wearing a medal ribbon so you probably know more about it than I do. Let’s just talk about now.’
‘Suits me.’ He took her other hand. ‘We’ll talk about a guy called Nick who didn’t show and who has my heartfelt thanks. And we’ll talk about you and me, honey, who were meant to meet.’
‘Ships meet, Mike, and pass …’
‘Not you and me, Lucy.’ Hell, but it couldn’t end here, tonight. There was so much to say, so much he needed to know about her. He’d always figured he’d take the war in his stride, stay heart-whole till it was over, then go home and find himself a good New England girl like everyone expected he would. But this Lucy Bainbridge was different. Right now he wanted more than anything to dance with her, feel her closeness. And as they danced, he reckoned, those ridiculous blonde curls would be just about level with his chin. ‘Say, is there any place we can dance tonight?’
‘In Scotland? On a Sunday?’
‘But you do like dancing?’ Hell, she’d just got to!
‘I love it.’ She always had, but now she accepted that one of the crosses she must for ever bear was the problem of Charlie’s feet, both of which gave him trouble the instant he placed them upon a dance floor. Charlie danced in beelines and did a marching turn whenever it was necessary to change direction. Nor did the turns and beelines ever vary. Quicksteps, rumbas and waltzes were all alike. Poor, dear Charlie. She should be feeling guilty sitting here like this, holding hands with a stranger, but she didn’t, because having a drink with a man who had come from America to fight for us and got himself wounded for his pains and been given a Distinguished Flying Cross was no more than her bounden duty.
‘You do, Lucy? Then what say we make a date right now? How about tomorrow? There’s a dance hall here in Craigiebur, isn’t there? Half-past seven suit you?’
‘Half-past seven will be fine.’
‘At the jetty – same place.’
He was still holding her hands and she didn’t care. She didn’t give a damn, in fact. One, just one night spent dancing with an American from Vermont, New England, was little to ask in return for a lifetime of beelines and marching turns.
‘Lovely. I’ll look forward to it, Mike. But what about your date? What if you were to meet Mavis at the dance, I mean?’
‘We-e-ll.’ He rubbed his chin ruefully and his smile, she thought, was sheer bliss. ‘Truth is, there isn’t a Mavis – not here, that is.’
‘She’s your girl, back home?’
‘My girl?’ He threw back his head and laughed. ‘Y’see, Lucy, it’s like this. When you said about Nick not turning up, I came out with the first name that came into my head. I wasn’t waiting for anyone. I’d been killing time watching a submarine go out – and watching you waiting there. When you came up to me I couldn’t believe my luck.’
‘Then who is Mavis?’
‘Mavis,’ the smile widened, ‘is my aunt Adeline’s parrot.’
‘A parrot! Called Mavis? Oh, Mike!’ Laughing with him, she held up her glass. ‘Here’s to Mavis.’
‘And to Nick. God bless ’em both!’
‘You awake, Vi?’ Wren Bainbridge, shoes in hand and two hours adrift, pushed open the door of cabin 9.
‘Lucinda! Where the ’ell have you been?’
‘Sorry, Vi. I tried not to waken you.’
‘Waken my flamin’ foot! D’you know what time it is?’
‘Actually – er – yes. Is the blackout all right? Can I switch the light on?’
‘Go ahead.’ Jane’s bedsprings creaked. ‘We weren’t asleep, either of us. Vi was certain you’d suffered a fate worse than