But then she remembered the echo from his own past, how he’d started to speak of the woman left alone with a child who she-and then he’d broken off. Who she-what? Couldn’t cope with? Didn’t love? What would he have said if the bus hadn’t appeared at that moment? Would he tell her one day? Or would she be left to wonder all her life?
They managed a brief meeting over Christmas, but then time flashed by and it was 1940. As the months passed the prospect grew darker. Neville Chamberlain, a sick man, resigned in May to be replaced as Prime Minister by Winston Churchill.
Dee’s new job was demanding. She put in as much overtime as she could, preferring to work to exhaustion rather than have too many hours to brood.
‘Working long hours is praiseworthy, of course,’ Mr Royce said, placing a mug of tea in front of her in the canteen. ‘But if you’re too exhausted you’re useless to the patients.’
Dee opened her eyes and regarded him with a sleepy smile. She respected him greatly but her awe had been softened by liking. He was in his late forties, with hair already greying and a pleasant, gentle manner.
‘I know,’ she said, taking the mug thankfully. ‘I’m leaving in a minute.’
‘Do you manage to see much of your fiancé?’
‘Not for a couple of weeks, although I hope he’ll manage to visit us soon. The airfield isn’t so far away, but of course he’s mostly on call. I know I’m one of the lucky ones, because I do get to see him sometimes. The ones I feel sorry for are the women whose men are in the army, stationed in France, because they say Hitler is advancing.’
‘As a matter of fact,’ Mr Royce said casually, ‘I can give you some news of Mark. They say he’s making a name for himself, a brave and skilful pilot. You should be proud of him.’
‘Thank you for telling me,’ Dee said.
She didn’t ask how he knew. It was common knowledge in the hospital that he had friends in high places. One rumour even said he had a cousin in the government, although nobody knew for sure. It briefly occurred to Dee to wonder how his knowledge extended as far as this one airfield, but she was too tired to think much of it.
‘Mark’s very pleased with himself at the moment,’ she said, ‘because when Winston Churchill became Prime Minister he was able to say, “I told you so”.’
‘He actually predicted it?’
‘Not exactly, but he used to say that Churchill was the only one who knew what he was talking about.’
‘That’s true. Now, go home and get some sleep.’
At home she found Helen fuming, as she’d done for several weeks. There was a problem with food stocks, as ships bringing food to Britain were sunk by enemy submarines. To make supplies stretch, further ration books had been issued, directing how much could be eaten in a week.
‘Four ounces of bacon,’ Helen declared in disgust, ‘two ounces of cheese, three pints of milk. And I have to hand over the ration book and they tear out coupons showing I’ve had this week’s allowance and I can’t have any more until I hand over next week’s coupons.’
‘It’s to make sure everyone gets a fair share, Mum,’ Dee explained. ‘Otherwise, the folk with money would buy up the lot.’
‘That’s all very well, but Mark’s coming next weekend. How can we feed him properly?’
‘I think he’ll understand the problem.’
She was counting the minutes until she would see Mark, but the day before he was due to arrive the telephone rang.
‘I can’t come tomorrow,’ he said. ‘All leave has been cancelled.’
‘But why?’
‘I don’t know, and I couldn’t tell you if I did. But something big’s happening, take my word.’
That was the first she heard of Dunkirk.
CHAPTER EIGHT
DUNKIRK: May 1940, a name and a date that were to become inscribed in history, but in fact few details came out at the time. It was only in hindsight that it was possible to see the story as a whole, how British and French soldiers had been driven back through France until they reached the harbour of Dunkirk, where, over nine days, more than three hundred thousand of them were rescued by a fleet of ships that had crossed the channel from England. Some were Royal Navy destroyers, but many were small vessels, merchant ships, fishing boats, lifeboats, and these were the ones that passed into legend.
Enemy planes bombarded the evacuation, and were fought off by the Royal Air Force.
‘They saved thousands of lives,’ Mr Royce told her, ‘but their own losses were terrible, over four hundred planes. Do you have any news of Mark?’
‘Yes, he called me several times to say he was all right. I’m glad I knew that before I heard about those losses. Thank goodness it’s over now.’
‘Dee, it’s not over, it hasn’t begun. Who do you think will be attacked next?’
‘Us,’ she said slowly. ‘In this country.’
A few days later she, like many others, sat by the radio, listening to Churchill confirming their worst fears: ‘The battle of France is over. I expect that the Battle of Britain is about to begin… The whole fury and might of the enemy must very soon be turned on us.’
And the front line of defence would be the Air Force.
By day she threw herself into her work, seeing Mark in every patient, finding her only solace in devoting herself to their care. At night she lay in the darkness, whispering, ‘Come back to me,’ and holding the little bear he’d won for her at the fair.
Now their contact was almost nil. When he could manage to telephone, the call would come when she was at work. She would arrive home to hear Helen say, ‘He called. Says everything’s fine and he sends his love.’
‘Sends his love.’ It was a neutral phrase that anyone might have used, but she treasured it nonetheless.
Mr Royce had been right in his prediction. Three weeks after Dunkirk, the Channel Islands were invaded. Two weeks later, the enemy bombers arrived over England and the Air Force was in action against them, fighting them back so ferociously that Churchill paid a public tribute that went down in history.
‘Never in the field of human conflict,’ he said to a packed House of Commons, ‘was so much owed by so many to so few.’
The pilots were the heroes of the hour. Pictures appeared in the press showing young men, leaning casually against their planes, laughing as though danger was just something they took in their stride.
Mostly the pictures were groups, but occasionally one pilot was shown alone. That was how Dee first saw the photograph of Mark, perched on the wing of his Spitfire, relaxed and clearly exhilarated by the life he led.
‘You’d think they hadn’t a care in the world,’ Matron observed as they studied the papers during a hurried tea break.
‘Why are they all holding up their hands like that?’ Dee wondered, looking at a group picture.
‘That’s to tell you how many enemy aircraft they’ve just shot down. Look at him.’ She pointed to Mark, who had four fingers on display. ‘You can see he’s proud of himself.’
Then she gave a laugh. ‘I wonder if there are any plain middle-aged pilots. If you believe the press, they’re all young, handsome and dashing.’
‘Some of them are,’ Dee murmured.
Part of her was bursting with pride, although it was undermined by terror for his life. But she knew that this simply made her one of many, and so she was shy of speaking about it.
Even with Mr Royce she was reticent, although he’d now become a trusted confidant. If she’d had thoughts to spare for him, she might have wondered at how often they chanced to meet in the canteen, but she had no thoughts for anyone but Mark.
‘How long is it since you saw him?’ Mr. Royce asked one day.
‘Weeks, but of course he can’t get leave now.’
‘But didn’t you say he was at-?’ He named the airfield. ‘Surely there’s a café nearby where you could wait for him to get a few minutes off. Let him know you’re there, and that you’ll wait all day if necessary.’