The Buried Circle - Jenni Mills [121]
‘Heartbreaker! A sight for sore eyes,’ said Mr K, as I came in. ‘You’ve put your glad rags on. I’m sure these young chaps will appreciate it. Help yourself to a scone.’ There was a teapot and crockery laid out on the dining-table, and two platters of scones, with dishes of jam. I filled a cup and plate for myself and sat down on the edge of one of the settees next to a young man who was biting his lip nervously.
‘Aren’t you having a scone?’ I said cheerfully to him. He shook his head. I glanced down, and saw metal gleaming below his trouser turn-up: an artificial foot. ‘Let me bring you one. They’re delicious.’
‘Honest, I don’t want one,’ he said, in a Glaswegian accent. He was a tall, solid lad, with strong features and thick dark hair swept back from a widow’s peak. ‘But you could fetch one for my pal.’ Beyond him sat a blond boy with bandaged hands. He leaned forward and smiled at me.
‘Jam?’ I asked, putting my cup down on the side table–the tea was almost cold anyway.
‘Just a bit o’ marg.’
It was butter, of course, from one of the local farms. I halved two scones and spread a good thick layer on them. The dark-haired Glaswegian mouthed knife, and mimed cutting something up with a knife and fork, so I divided each of the halves again and took them back to the boys on the sofa. The Glaswegian fed his friend, a mouthful at a time, while the blond boy raised his eyebrows and winked at me. My own scone sat unfinished on the plate. Something in my throat was choking me, and I couldn’t have swallowed to save my life. I could have asked what had happened to them, but their stories would have been like the others I heard on the wards: hands burned trying to heave a friend from a blazing cockpit, legs lost when the impact of a crash landing shunted a red-hot engine onto a lap.
The door swung open under its massive carved pediment. The latecomer sauntered into the room, another young man in air-force blue, this one the picture of health, wearing a pilot officer’s chevrons.
It was Mr Cromley.
He caught up with me in the passage when I went to ask for another pot of tea. ‘Hello, Heartbreaker.’
‘I can manage,’ I said. ‘No need…’
‘Every need.’ He was laughing at me again. ‘You were playing lady of the Manor so nicely. Doing good works. But you haven’t quite the hang of it, have you? You shouldn’t go yourself to tell Cook to put the kettle on.’
‘I don’t see what business…’
‘Oh, and another thing. That dress. Lovely, I admit, but not the thing for tea-time.’ Before I could stop him he’d run a finger over the curve of my breast. ‘Nor the shoes.’
‘Take your hands off me.’ I was trembling.
‘Don’t be too proud, Heartbreaker. You might be grateful one of these days for what I can do for you.’
‘Fuck off’ The men on the wards sometimes forgot themselves and used it, but I’d never said that word before.
‘Well, well,’ said Mr Cromley. ‘Aren’t you spirited, these days, Fran? But remember who and what made you that way.’
I was too angry to speak. I turned and clacked on my second-hand platforms down the passageway, tears leaking from my eyes. Mr Cromley didn’t follow, and I told Cook it was the young men, so brave, poor things, so hurt, that made me cry.
What was he doing in Avebury? Last I’d heard he was in Kent, on a fighter base. I spent the rest of the afternoon talking as brightly as I could to the boy with burned hands and his pal, avoiding Mr Cromley’s eye. But he was watching, all right. I could feel it in the prickle of my skin.
I wanted to leave, but he might follow, so I was determined to stick it out. I heard every story those boys could tell; I laughed at every one that needed a laugh; I touched their arms when they told me how they’d been hurt. They were bomber crew, both of them, one a gunner, the other a wireless op. I told them my feller was training in navigation, up in Scotland; maybe one day he’d be posted to their squadron. Did they have sweethearts? The blond boy shook his head, and raised an eyebrow hopefully. The tall tin-footed