US Fighter Command,
St Eval Airbase,
Cornwall,
June 2nd, 1944
Darling Tilly,
The sight of us all going left a kind of tingling in my bloodas we drive slowly to the harbour. The men are all cheerful and cracking jokesbecause thedays to come are going to put an end to the long suspense.
I want you to know how much I love you. You mean everything to me andthis gives me the courage to continue. When, if, I return we’ll bemarried and head home to West Virginia with our baby.
My dreams for our future even outnumber yours and your plansare made of so many dreams! I think of every minor detail a hundred times. Themoney enclosed is for emergencies. Ipray I live to make you happy my darling.
For always,
Jack
Somerway Rehabilitation Unit,
Padstow, Cornwall, May 2015
A scent of tobaccolingered outside Tilly’s door, on which an arresting black-and-white photograph was taped of her. Aged 19, tall, angular andpoured into a skin-tight scarlet-tinted swimming costume. Lustrous blonde hairspilled over shoulders and framed a confident facewith a direct, full-lipped smile. Arms loosely held behind her back highlightedthe tiny waist and endless, slim legs. Beyond the grassy dunes she posed on were cloudlessskies and white-tipped waves.
Morphine uncoiled in Tilly. It softened and dissolved thesearing pain along each vertebra until her spine felt like a string of warmedpearls. She wanted to go home. Never to leave it again. Tilly closed her eyes,circled the rough nylon arms of the chair with the flat, creased pads of herfingertips and hummed along to Nat King Cole’s Unforgettable playing onthe radio.
She recalled the first time she’d kissed Jack Turner; 7th May1943. He might have arrived from another planet. The warm sun was on her faceand gulls wheeled like ribbons of light. Greedy gulls that nobody fed becausethere was so little food. She’d stood arm-in-arm with Rose Sinclair atLiverpool’s Pier Head, facing the river, waiting for a ferry to take themdancing in New Brighton, when she heard a long, low whistle and deep Americanvoice. Slow and sweet as hot treacle.
‘If she looks as good from the front, she’s mine,’ he’d said.Brimming with confidence, just the kind of man Tilly wanted. There was theother American though. The one with a nasal, whiny voice, who never took toher.
‘C’mon, Jack,’ he’d drawled, ‘this ain’t time for blindflying.’
A pointed comment, an insult. Tilly hadn’t turned; instead,she’d watched Rose’s eyes widen, and reflected in her dark irises, two malefigures.
‘He’s effing gorgeous,’ whispered Rose, unlinking her arm,straightening her green dress. Her thin-lipped mouth opened, revealing wonkyteeth. ‘A dreamboat.’ Tilly focused on the turbulent expanse of river as cloudsparted and sunlight flooded through. She’d checked her clean nails with theirhalf-moon crescents and plucked a stray blonde hair off the grey pencil skirtAunty Vi had made. It traced Tilly’s hips along with a thin navy belt tohighlight her waist. She’d pointed one navy shoe at forty-five degrees, becauseAunty Vi stated it accentuated long legs. The ferry hooted; its metal sidesground harshly against dock walls. The Yank stepped closer to her left.
‘First Lieutenant Jack Turner, ma’am. US 8th Air Force. Pleasedto meet you.’ Tilly saw his wide, white smile. Nothing like the mouths ofnative tombstone teeth she’d explored with curiosity and little pleasure. She’dsmiled back, trying to hide her own sharp little canines. He introduced theother man, Second Lieutenant Danny Pierce. Short, blond and sturdy. He’d givena cursory nod, checked his watch and strode off with both hands jiggling intaut trouser pockets. He had a fleshy bottom.
‘He’s a busy guy,’ Jack said. He smiled and blew a smoke ringover Tilly’s head. The halo gusted away.
‘She looks better from the front, doesn’t she?’ Rose said,smarmily.
‘Truly.’ He didn’t return Rose’s look.
‘I’m Rose and she’s Tilly,’ stated Rose, trying to keep in withthem. He smiled, but only at Tilly.
She remembered how like a movie star he’d appeared; aprescription for English womanhood, at six foot, broad-shouldered andslim-hipped. His fawn trousers were tucked into polished black, calf-lengthboots and beneath the olive cap his oiled, auburn hair shone. His speckled,pear-green eyes appraised and invited her blatantly and Tilly appraised himright back. There were his high cheekbones and a spill of freckles over thebridge of his tanned nose. Aunty Vi stated freckles were Angels’ kissesand a face without them was A sky without stars. A leather bag hungacross his shoulder; the same deep walnut colour of her mother’s best churchshoes.
Memories seeped into Tilly; the wash of tide, creaking ferry,shrill gulls, scent of tobacco and engine oil. Rose hadn’t wanted to remaininvisible but she’d been side-lined. Jack pulled a chunky, embossed lighter andpack of Lucky Strike from the pocket of his flying jacket and offered themcigarettes. He flicked the lighter and as Tilly leant forward the breeze nippedout the flame. He pulled open his jacket lapel; smiled an invitation. Tillystepped into the shelter of his body like it was a bedroom. He smelt ofLifebuoy soap and the faint musk of fresh sweat. Shaving nicks scratched thepaler skin beneath his chin. Tilly inhaled deeply to make sure the cigarettelit, and coughed. She wasn’t an expert smoker then. Jack grinned and shiftedback. Yards off, Danny kicked a stone as Rose took hold of Tilly’s cigarette tolight her own. Jack hadn’t offered his body to her. A serpentine coil of smokespilled from the American’s curved lips. She blushed, and he grinned at therising flush.
‘Tilly’s a lovely name,’ said Jack, eyebrows raised a fraction.
‘It’s Matilda and means Battle Maid.’ Snippy, challenging.Tilly couldn’t help herself, then or now.
‘I’d better watch out then. Do you waltz, Matilda? Could Ipersuade a Battle Maid to dance?’ The way he looked. Full of it, she’d thought,and exactly the kind of man she’d longed for.
‘What’s yours mean?’ she asked, as he’d taken a black diaryfrom his trouser pocket, tore a sheet, licked the end of a pencil andscribbled.
‘Turner? Supposed to be a carpenter but I make pictures.’ Heshrugged. ‘Here’s a number you can get me on at Burtonwood but only if youcan’t make it here next Saturday at 8pm.’ He folded the paper and handed itover. Their fingers touched. She slipped the precious note deep into her navyhandbag, closing the clasp with a snap. Danny sauntered off, his right handperforming a cutting motion over his head.
‘Suit yourself, short-arsed Yank,’ hissed Rose and turning,walked quickly to the ferry, expecting her best friend to follow.
Jack looked beyond Tilly and pointed out parallel shafts oflight splitting clouds as dusk deepened to violet.
‘The blue hour and they’re God’s fingers, crepuscular.’
‘Sounds like something dug out of sand,’ said Tilly, and Jacklaughed. A deep, warm laugh. He asked to take her picture, telling her it mightappear in the Force’s magazine.
Like a shot, thought Tilly, and smoothed her hair as Jackopened the leather bag and pulled out a camera embossed with Leica. He removedthe lens cover, blew on the glass and lifted it to his eyes, focusing entirelyon her. Exactly what she wanted.
‘There’s best,’ he said, thumbing at the Pier Head’s sandstonewall. Tilly obeyed and leant against it. She glanced at Rose on the ferry,watching with eyes like slits.
‘Turn a little to the right. Nope, that’s left. Better. Look atme and don’t smile.’ An order. Another thrill. A gull landed beyond Tilly’soutstretched arm and she caught a whiff of burning coal from the churningferry. Her lips parted but she didn’t smile as she looked directly at Jack. Anold man in a greasy mackintosh walked past and spat in the gutter as thecamera’s flash popped and dazzled. Jack put it carefully away, walked to herand kissed her so deeply their teeth grated. She tasted a peppery tang ofcigarettes, mint gum and whisky.
‘Tilly!’ yelped Rose from the ferry. Long seconds passed beforeTilly pulled away. Jack pressed his lips together. The cat that got the cream,she thought.
‘For Christ’s sake!’ Danny shouted, shaking his head.
Jack took out a bar of Hershey’s milk chocolate from his jacketpocket and, pressed it in Tilly’s palm.
‘Payment?’ asked Tilly, challenging.
‘Not for all the tea in China. Good day, ma’am. Be seeing youSaturday.’ He strode away with an easy lope and looked back three times beforereaching Danny. They exchanged words with angry faces. Tilly hid the Hershey inher handbag and boarded the ferry. She wasn’t going to share.
‘I’ve never been kissed like that,’ she told Rose brightly.
‘It’s not for the want of trying,’ she’d answered, buttoningher coat fiercely. Tilly ignored the catty remark and tucked her arm throughRose’s, who shook herself free. A bald ferryman in a washed-out uniform winkedat Tilly from the quayside as the ferry cast off. Rain blanketed the boat andeveryone but Tilly flocked inside. She sheltered by a wooden cover and snuckpieces of chocolate, enjoying the sweet melt of it. Darkness fell, with fewstars. The blacked-out city disappeared and the ferry became a juddering,churning shadow. Behind the steaming funnel someone cleared their throat. Afake sound, to draw her attention. Tilly turned and there was the man in theraincoat who’d spat in the gutter. He gripped his flaccid penis and jerked hishand.
‘I’ve seen better cigarettes than that,’ snapped Tilly, withmore bravado than she felt. He’d scuttled away and Tilly’s hands shook as shelit a cigarette. Only when the ferry docked did Rose come out, saying shedidn’t feel well and wanted to go home. It was a lie Tilly agreed to and they’dreturned in silence and parted. In a newspaper shop near bomb-blasted ElliotStreet, Tilly spotted a postcard. Drawn on its front was a voluptuous womanpaddling in the sea, wearing a red swimming costume, posing to a photographer.It stated: When there’s something good about, the Pressalways spots it; Look out for my picture in the Sunday papers! Tillybought it from an old woman behind the counter, whose whiskery mouth turneddown. She retraced her steps home through the derelict city centre, softlysinging Dick Haymes’ You’ll never know untilshe reached sodden, deserted Watford Road and the door of her red-brickedterrace. In the blacked-out kitchen her mother knelt, scouring the oven. Acold, depressing home that smelt of mutton and cabbage. Elizabeth barely lookedup as she asked why her daughter was back so early. Tilly told the same lieRose had slipped her.
‘Sulky girl, that Rose,’ said Elizabeth, sighing and sitting onher haunches, cheeks flaming. Her mother had retained the harsh Northern Irishaccent she’d mostly failed to remove from her daughters’ Mersey-mouths withcostly elocution lessons. ‘And a shop-worn face. But Rose is a Yes girlwho’ll be married before the likes of you, who only ever says No.’ Tillyran upstairs, stamping the threadbare runner. She wouldn’t mention Jack.Elizabeth stated Yanks were, For common sluts and couldn’t be trusted as faras they’d like to throw you. Tilly took out the postcard and crossed out ThePress swapping it for, A handsome GI, and inserted Hollywoodfor Sunday papers. On the back, in her very best handwriting, she wrote:
Dear Jack, I can’t wait to dance on Saturday and see mypicture, with best wishes, a British Battle Maid.
She added one small x and addressed it to Flight LieutenantJack Turner, care of Burtonwood Airbase, Warrington, licked a gummy stamp andsnuck past her mother to the post box at the bottom of Watford Road, kissingthe address before she let it drop.
Nat King Cole’s lyrics floated back to her, only now it was hermother singing. Elizabeth’s creped skin looming close; dead-eyed,bitter-mouthed, hissing about secrets better left buried.
‘Tilly, wake up.’ Not her mother. Nurse Evangeline’s almondeyes slid into focus as Tilly came to, pain-free, but not where she wanted tobe.
‘I hope you’re not giving me those painkillers again because Ican’t shit without crying.’ Tilly Barwise’s bracing Liverpool accent slicedthrough the air.
‘I’ll give you something for that,’ came a murmured response asthe dark-haired nurse bent over her. Tilly had successfully avoidedprescription drugs, until the brandy she’d smuggled into a lemonade bottle wasdiscovered, confiscated, and poured away.
‘And I don’t want to go out there and see any of them,’ shehissed. Tilly had remained resolutely self-confined from all other inmates, asshe labelled patients, since the eighty-nine-year-old was admitted with three spinal fracturesseven weeks before. She was now in the final three days allowed for her toshape up, or ship out to a nursing home.
‘Tilly, your daughter’s been on the phone,’ said Evangeline.‘She’ll call again after dinner. It seems she’s found another carer. Now, it’snearly time to put some fat on those bones.’ She patted the wheelchair.
‘I’m not talking to her,’ said Tilly, groggily. No point. Vickyhad decided, and Tilly couldn’t argue until she was steady on her feet again.Evangeline was silent.
‘Can’t you look after me?’ asked Tilly, fractious, eyes shut.
‘No, I’m happy working here but if there’s an emergency I’llhelp.’ She looked flustered.
‘You mean I might die at any minute and you’d be jobless?’
‘No. Anyway, let’s go to the dining room and see how muchsunshine you spread around today.’
‘I’m not hungry, and I’m not having some stranger moving in andtaking over,’ snapped Tilly. She lit a cigarette, blowing smoke out of hernostrils. ‘There’s no way I’m doing what I’m told.’
Evangeline reached over, removed the cigarette from Tilly’shand, eased her bird-like body into a wheelchair, and paused.