‘Yes.’
He thought about it.
‘I’m not sure,’ he said. ‘But perhaps there’s someone here who wants to let you visit their stage. And I really wouldn’t be scared of that, if I were you.’ He simply couldn’t stand the idea of her being scared any longer. ‘Because what a wonderful thing, to be wanted so much.’
Her fingers around his tightened.
‘Noah,’ called Belinda, gently, ‘John will be here soon.’
‘Yes,’ he said, but didn’t get up.
He didn’t want to move.
Didn’t want to let her go.
How could he keep her from going?
He couldn’t.
And since he couldn’t …
‘I’ll come with you,’ he told her, following another instinct. ‘Make sure you get safely home.’ He got to his feet. ‘Does that sound ok?’
She nodded, keeping a hold of his hand.
He looked down at her.
She stared up at him.
The emotion in his expression was too complex for her to unpick.
Later, in the years to come, she might learn to make more sense of it.
She might decode the sadness in his eyes, the surrender, and adoration, and wish she’d known enough to say much, much more to him.
She really might do that, if she could only remember.
But she never remembered.
Her life was about to be upended, and it wasn’t long before she forgot the brief minutes the two of them had just shared. Like she forgot about the dancers in Bettys, those boys she loved but couldn’t find, and every ever after that, here, in her first home, she’d been able to glimpse.
It would all remain within her, though: silent, invisible, butthere.
The last words she and he exchanged before they left the stage, remained within her.
‘Can I come back and see you again?’ she asked him.
‘Yes, Claudia,’ he said, pressing his lips to her head. ‘We’ll definitely do this again.’
Iris
1943
RAF Doverley, North Yorkshire
It was a moonless night, and the darkness blanketing the windswept base of 96 Squadron was almost complete. The only light came from the runway’s flare path, its burning torches shimmering in the gusty air. Iris, once so captivated by these torches’ sinister beauty, paid them scant attention as she came to a halt on the control tower’s external stairs. Rather, it was the squadron’s twenty-four Lancasters that stole her focus, all of them spewing exhaust fumes, taxiing into position for take-off: their cabins full of men,their bellies packed with flares and incendiary bombs. Pathfinders, they’d scatter as soon as they were in the air, off to lay their explosive markers for squadrons across the country to follow on yet another raid over occupied Europe.
At a fresh belt of wind, Iris reached up, holding her cap to her head. With her other hand, she gripped the stairs’ handrail, so tight her knuckles burnt. Down at the foot of the stairs, the station dog, Piper, strained to escape her leash. She was watching the planes too. Barking, Iris was sure. She couldn’t hear her. She heard nothing but the guttural roar of the Lancasters.
