He was teasing her, she knew.
As her friend?
Or something more?
She knew what she wanted him to be.
She was almost certain of him wanting it too.
She’d been almost certain of it from the first moment she’d seen him again, and had grown ever more so with each moment that had passed since.
But she still wasn’t quite certain enough to do anything about it.
And perhaps it was the same for him, because, in unison, they looked away from each other, and got on with collecting more sticks.
‘Have you always flown bombers?’ she asked, to distract herself, but also because she wanted to know.
‘No, I was in a spit at first.’
That made her look up. ‘You flew that summer?’
‘Yes,’ he said, and didn’t elaborate.
But, as he picked up then tossed a broken branch to the ground, Iris saw the sudden sobriety in him, and knew he was remembering those long cloudless days,eighteen months before, when Winston’s few had taken to the skies for the Battle of Britain, and fewer yet had survived to see autumn.
She, in a station in Sussex at the time, had watched them all, every day: their vapour trails, and frantic dodging; the sparks of their guns, then sudden plummets to earth.
Even knowing the danger Robbie was facing now, it turned her cold that he’d been part of that.
‘I wasn’t happy when I got reassigned to bombers,’ he said, moving the conversation along.
She didn’t try to stop him. In his shoes, seeing what he must have seen, losing the friends he must have lost, she’d want to change the subject too.
‘Reassigned?’ she said. ‘It wasn’t your choice?’
‘It was a choice I was strongly encouraged to make. They needed pilots.’
‘They always need pilots.’
He sighed. ‘True.’
‘You must have been glad to get in a crew with Tim, though.’
‘I was furious with Tim. You remember his uncle in Oxford?’
‘Yes.’
‘He’s high up in Bomber Command. Tim gave him my name … ’
‘What? Without talking to you?’
‘He claims he was drunk at the time. Don’tlaugh, it’s not funny … ’
‘I’m not laughing … ’
‘You actually are.’
She actually was.
