The Swallow and the Hummingbird(24)

Mrs Megalith smiled smugly. ‘Didn’t the good vicar say that we are all welcome in God’s house?’

‘But you don’t like church,’ she argued.

‘It’s important to ruffle the old goose’s feathers every once in a while, otherwise he gets too big for his boots.’ She snorted with laughter. ‘No, I came because I felt it was appropriate. George and all that.’

‘Really?’ Hannah was astounded.

‘Elwyn says that the way to Heaven is through suffering. Well, after today’s débâcle I’m one step closer.’ She smiled triumphantly. ‘Got him going, though, didn’t I? The fool!’

Reverend Hammond was barely able to conceal the trembling in his hands as he conversed politely with all the congregants. ‘It is also legend, Reverend,’ said Miss Hogmier darkly, ‘that after seven years cats become witches. Imagine the number of witches we’ll all have to deal with in the future if that is true.’

‘Really, Miss Hogmier, you don’t believe in all that nonsense, do you?’

‘I most certainly do, Reverend Hammond. Trust me, Mrs Megalith is an evil woman!’

That afternoon George and Rita sat on a blanket on the cliff top watching the birds as they had done since childhood. The storm had passed, leaving a perfect blue sky without a cloud in sight. It was still windy, especially up there on the cliffs, but it was a warm and pleasant wind. Rita had packed Marmite sandwiches and hot cocoa for tea. Her mother had made biscuits for them and added slices of cold ham for George.

‘Everyone’s talking about your homecoming,’ said Rita happily.

‘They can’t have much else to talk about if that’s the case,’ he replied, gazing out across the sea to where the horizon quivered enticingly with the promise of adventure.

‘They say you’re a hero.’

‘Do they,’ he replied flatly. ‘No, Rita, the heroes are the boys who gave their lives. I’m not a hero.’

‘And I don’t want to fly any more.’ His comment was unexpected. She didn’t know how to respond, so she said nothing. ‘I don’t want to remember the war. I want to forget it ever happened and lose myself in you.’

But George wasn’t able to forget the war. He could suppress the memories during his waking moments but at night, when his resistance lay dormant, images penetrated his psyche and plagued his dreams. So real, he could smell the petrol and cordite, feel the sweat forming on his forehead and nose, dripping into his eyes, misting up his oxygen mask. Back in his Spitfire he relived that sensation of immediacy, of living intensely, of cold, nerve-shattering fear . . .

The sky is dark with German bombers, Heinkels mostly, like a swarm of black wasps, moving towards him at great speed. Suddenly he’s in the thick of it. Planes coming out of nowhere, one hundred and fifty at least, not to mention the ME 109s covering them. Bloody Krauts! The sound of gunfire like tearing calico, the raw hiss of passing tracers, then a flash and a loud explosion. More gunfire. Spraying the sky with bullets. Black smoke, not me, not my Spitty? Not this time. Near miss. Some other poor sod. A Heinkel dives out of control. A man bales out but his parachute gets caught in the propellers, taking him down with it. What a horrific way to die. Then, gripped with an icy calm, his training takes over, fear freezes into concentration, it’s either them or me and I’ve got too much to live for. He presses the boost override, opens the throttle and narrows his eyes as he picks up speed. Take control for God’s sake. Don’t lose it, George, you fool. Blast the buggers out of the sky. Once again he’s fighting for his life. Again and again. How much longer can he go on like this? Oh, to sit up on those cliffs and watch the birds. Now he’s flying higher than any bird and into the ugly face of death. No one told him it would be like this.

To keep those images at bay George helped his father on the farm, slipping off to kiss Rita at every opportunity. Love was a sure way to forget. It burned away the guilt and the pain. If he didn’t keep busy he was apt to remember his dead friends: Jamie Cordell, shot down during a sweep over Northern France; Rat Bridges, killed in a sortie over Dunkirk; Lorrie Hampton, dead at the bottom of the sea and many many more. He had to block them out or he’d go mad.

Rita was patient. She indulged him and loved him and never pressurized him to marry her. She was sure he would when he settled down again. She instinctively understood that he had been through a great deal and needed to acclimatize. Faye discussed the future with her while they sculpted. The two women took it for granted that they’d be one big, happy family. They talked about doing up one of the farm cottages and the fun Johnnie and Jane would have with small cousins to play with. Faye recalled the old haunts that Alice and George had so enjoyed as children, chasing rabbits out of the stooks and feeding the livestock, and imagined the next generation in the same places, doing the same things. But at the back of her mind there were gnawing doubts that she tried to ignore. She watched her son. She watched him closely. When he wasn’t occupied his face looked much older; the face of a disillusioned old man.