Winnipeg,
Canada
22nd December, 1939
Dear Evelyn,
Thank you so much for your letter, it made me quite homesick for dear old Melstead. I found your account of Miss Gant and Miss Treadmill acquiring a pig and taking it out for a walk on a lead along with their geese hilariously funny. In fact I laughed so much I nearly choked on my supper. My landlady, the wonderful Mrs Medwin, had to thump me on my back!
The countryside here in Winnipeg with its vast prairie could not be more different to the softness of the Stour Valley that surrounds Melstead. It’s like nothing I’ve ever seen before. The landmarks of grain holders and the transcontinental railway line ensure that it’s just about impossible to get lost when up in the air.
Another huge difference is the weather – it’s freezing, far colder than I’ve experienced before. It gets deep, deep into your bones and sometimes, if I stand still for too long in the wind, it feels as if my eyeballs might actually freeze and become stuck in their sockets, never to move again! One of the instructors told me a story about a boyhood chum of his who nearly lost his ears to frostbite when he forgot to wear his hat. When he got to school, the teacher boxed his ears; apparently that was the best way to stop them dropping off. The boy never forgot his hat again!
Training continues well, both on the ground and in the air. When the weather’s too awful, we’re grounded and confined to the classroom at the flying school. The instructors are excellent, really know their stuff and put us through our paces. My group is only small, but I must confess to a glimmer of pride the other day when I came top in both a navigation and a night-time flying exam.
But the time I most enjoy is when I’m up in the air. The Tiger Moths we’ve been training in so far are old bone-shakers in every respect, but they’re sound enough and do the job. It might seem odd, but these single-engined bi-planes, which leave us exposed to the elements, are marvellous for making us trainee pilots at one with the aircraft.
Of course, this type of machine is a long way from the fighter planes I aim to fly. My first solo flight was one of the best experiences of my life and came after just ten hours of flying time. The sense of freedom when up in the sky on my own with the world beneath me is powerfully exhilarating – it’s all that I hoped it would be, and more. My only frustration is that I haven’t been able to fly as frequently as I’d like, but that’s down to the snow. Never have I shovelled so much of the stuff! We’re often called upon to help clear the runway – the exercise keeps me fit and warm, so it’s not all bad.
Outside of the flying school, my life is fairly quiet, but when I do go out it’s usually with some of the other trainee pilots. I’ve discovered the delights of eating out in the local diners. I’m now a connoisseur of egg, ham and chips – never has the humble potato tasted so good! I’ve also developed a fondness for dill pickle, as well as waffles with maple syrup, though not at the same time! I shall be spending Christmas Day with Mrs Medwin and some of her family who will be visiting – my landlady’s an excellent cook and spoils me rotten.
I hear from Romily that their evacuee, Stanley, is doing well under your expert tutelage. As a work in progress under your guiding hand – a distant guiding hand – I like to think I’m also doing well!
It’s funny, but I don’t miss London at all, but I think of Melstead St Mary often, probably because I think of you there. And before I say any more and make you roll your eyes, I shall sign off.
With fondest regards,
Kit
PS 23rd December now … Your letter and present arrived this morning – whatever it is, I know it will be perfect and I shall wear it always. I hope by now you’ve received my little Christmas parcel, which I sent in haste and without much of an accompanying letter, I’m afraid.
After a moment’s thought and scanning the letter once more, Kit added another postscript: PPS. I apologise for the excessive use of exclamation marks – seven in all. Then, looking at his watch and seeing the time – Charlie would be here any minute – he folded the pages and slid them inside the envelope with Evelyn’s address already written on it. He sealed it and put it ready to take with him to post on the way to the flying school.
They were a good crowd he was learning to fly with, and Charlie was the best of the bunch. Like Kit, he’d come over specially from England to gain his pilot’s licence. It was actually Charlie’s cousin Dickie, who had been at Oxford with Kit, who was responsible for Kit being here.
Quite by chance, Kit had run into Dickie in London, and over a drink he had explained how frustrated he was at being stuck as a reservist, even though the Royal Air Force was urgently in need of pilots. ‘The trouble is,’ Dickie had said – he was now a journalist, so had his finger on the pulse – ‘there aren’t enough instructors on hand, or sufficient equipment available to teach the numbers required.’ He had then gone on to explain about his cousin, who was hell-bent on speeding up the process of receiving his call-up papers. ‘I could ask him to get in touch with you if you like,’ he had said. ‘Canada isn’t the only place you can go, South Africa is another option.’
Kit had leapt at the idea, and within weeks, it was all arranged; he’d handed in his notice at the bank, shut up his flat and was crossing the Atlantic.
From the quiet street outside came the sound of a car horn. Gathering up his things, and the letter for Evelyn, Kit shot downstairs before Charlie beeped again and disturbed the peace of the neighbourhood. ‘A quiet and respectable neighbourhood,’ as the woman next door often liked to point out to Kit when their paths crossed.
‘See you this evening, Mrs Medwin,’ he called out to his landlady, pulling on his thick overcoat in the hallway. ‘Anything I can pick up from the grocery store for you on my way home?’
Mrs Medwin appeared in the doorway of what she called the front parlour, a duster in hand. She was a widow, a motherly sort of woman with the faint trace of a Scottish accent – she was originally from Edinburgh but had emigrated when she married a Canadian. Kit was always happy to help her when he could. ‘That’s all right,’ she said. ‘I’m going there myself later.’
‘Are you sure there isn’t anything heavy I can bring back for you? It’s no trouble.’
She smiled. ‘I’m very sure, thank you. Say hello to Charlie from me, and tell him he’s more than welcome to join us on Christmas Day. I know his landlady of old and she’ll be too mean to give him a decent Christmas lunch.’
‘He won’t need asking twice,’ Kit said with a laugh.
Then, hearing the car horn being pipped again, he opened the front door. The dry icy air hit him like a physical blow, but he stepped outside with a happy smile on his face. It might be freezing cold, but the sky was clear, which meant it would be a perfect day for flying.
Chapter Forty-One
‘I hope you’re not rushing off, darling.’
Already out of bed and pulling on his trousers, Arthur looked at Pamela standing in the doorway of the bedroom. Back from the bathroom, she was wearing the scarlet robe with fur trim she had asked him to buy her for Christmas, letting it gape at the front to reveal the fullness of her naked body. It was the first time she had asked him to buy her anything, and he hoped it would be the last. He’d felt such an idiot in the shop paying for the robe, convinced that the woman serving him knew that it wasn’t a gift for his wife.
