‘No they won’t. Dalesmen are experts in minding their own business.’
‘I mean it, Charlie.’
‘If you weren’t so conscientious, you’d let me into that rotten little ARP hut so we could have a kiss and a cuddle while you’re on duty.’
Bobby laughed. ‘And if Hitler invades Silverdale while I’m letting you distract me with your wandering hands, what then?’
‘Oh, then he’d really be in trouble. It’s very bad form to interrupt an Englishman when he’s courting.’ He nodded to her drink. ‘It’s high time I had you all to myself. Finish that and I’ll let you take advantage of me on the walk back to Moorside.’
‘All right. I mean, you can walk me home – my dad will worry if I’m out too much longer. But I’m far too much of a lady to take advantage of young men in the blackout.’
Charlie sighed with mock tragedy. ‘I know, more’s the pity. Sup up then.’
Bobby finished her drink while Charlie put his cigarette out, then she stood up and let him help her put her coat on.
Chapter 2
It was nine o’clock and the sun was sinking beneath the ridge of the mossy limestone crags that surrounded them, casting a pink glow over the rolling landscape. Bobby breathed deeply as she and Charlie sauntered at a leisurely pace back towards Moorside Farm. For a little while there was a comfortable silence between them while they drank in the late-April evening.
Bobby had soon learned that seasons worked differently out here in the Dales than they did in the city. Rather than the traditional four of winter, spring, summer and autumn, Dalesfolk tied the weather to the changes in the landscape around them, and to the jobs that needed to be done on the farms where they earned their livelihood. Hay time in the summer often crossed over with clipping time, when hired men appeared on the farms to shear the hardy sheep that roamed the fields and fells. At ‘backend’, as the autumn months were known, root crops and oats were gathered in, ready for the inclement weather of winter. Rather than having a specific start or finish, seasons began and ended whenever the weather or the tasks to be done dictated they should begin and end.
Currently, they were seeing out the season known as lambing time. This had begun with the appearance of the first lamb of spring in March and would soon give way to the most beautiful of Dales seasons, which they now approached as April tiptoed towards May: cuckoo time. This was when wild primroses clustered together on the banks of the village beck, the woods were redolent with the scent of kingcups and lilies of the valley, and the cuckoo called out from every tree. Charlie’s lyrical descriptions of the season had not been wasted on Bobby, who looked forward to experiencing her first spring and summer in the countryside.
‘I’m glad I shall get to see the cuckoo time one last time before I go,’ Charlie said quietly, as if reading her thoughts.
Bobby shook her head. ‘Don’t say that.’
‘Why?’
‘Because it’s bad luck. You make it sound like you believe you won’t come home to see another.’
Charlie looked at her. ‘You’re very superstitious today. A chap might feel quite morbid if he had to listen to this sort of thing all the evening.’
She sighed. ‘Sorry. It all just seems more real suddenly, after the news about Billy.’ Bobby stopped walking to observe a vibrant cluster of bluebells on the roadside, highlighted in the pink-gold light of the setting sun. ‘It can feel so safe and protected in the countryside. The war feels like a story here. Then someone you know gets the telegram and it reminds you it could come to any one of us. I hate to think of it. I hate to think of what might happen if we lose.’
‘It’ll be all right.’
‘You don’t know that. No one does.’ Bobby looked up, her expression unguarded for once as she let her concern for him show through. ‘Do you have to go, Charlie? After all, vets are reserved. Maybe it’s not too late to change your mind.’
He looked away. ‘And what sort of man would that make me?’
‘You’re entitled. Vets do valuable work for the war effort too, helping to keep the farms running and people fed. I’m sure everyone would still respect you.’
‘But I wouldn’t.’
‘You might at least have volunteered for ground crew. You didn’t have to fly.’
‘It’s too late, Bobby. I’ve made a commitment and I know it’s the right one for me.’ He pointed to the bank of the beck, where a mallard and his mate were snuggled contentedly among the weeds. ‘Mr and Mrs Duck seem to have the right idea. I’d like to try a little of that myself. Will you sit with me a while?’
‘My dad…’
‘He won’t miss you for ten minutes more. It isn’t quite dark yet.’
Relenting, Bobby allowed him to guide her to the bank. Charlie took off his overcoat and laid it down so they could sit.
‘You’re not going to propose again, are you?’ she said, trying to lighten an atmosphere that seemed to have become rather sombre. ‘Remember what we agreed. Only once a week and a bonus proposal on bank holidays.’
Charlie didn’t smile, however.
