‘It’ll do you good, though, all the same. Get you out and about again.’ Reg leaned back in his chair. ‘It’s got all the ingredients for a great little story, I reckon. We can include names of all the aircrew now the families have been informed, as long as the survivors consent. I know you’ve got the skill to capture all the suspense and emotion that must’ve been present when you were there in the thick of it, which is more than Don Sykes can do. For once, Bobby, this is a story only you can write.’
She grimaced. ‘I’m not sure I want to live it again. I see it often enough in my nightmares.’
‘It’ll help,’ Reg said as he picked up his blue pencil. ‘Trust me. Write me a piece and put everything into it. It’ll help you exorcise it.’
‘Do you do that?’
‘I have done. Keep it all in journals, so I don’t have to keep it up here,’ he said, tapping his temple with the pencil.
‘You mean your memories of what happened to you in the last war?’
‘And what happened to me after,’ he said quietly. Bobby knew he was talking about losing Nancy.
‘It really helped you?’
‘Didn’t make it disappear but it was a type of relief.’ He gave a dry laugh. ‘Mary keeps on at me to write them up into something for publication. My memoirs, if you please.Memories of a Yorkshire Nobody, I could call them.’
‘Why don’t you? I’m sure they’d be fascinating. You’ve got the skill.’
‘Because they’re mine, that’s why. Last thing I want is strangers picking through them, turning up their noses at this and that.’
‘Yet you want me to write about what happened on Bowside for strangers to read.’
‘That’s different. People need stories like that in a time of war; stories about working as a team, bravery, overcoming the odds. Shows them what’s best about people at a time when human nature can seem bleak and cruel.’ He looked at her. ‘But I’m not going to make you if you’re uncomfortable about it. Up to you one way or the other.’
Bobby thought about the two men who’d been brought down from the mountainside. Would they want their stories known? They were foreigners, and people could be funny about foreigners, even those on the Allied side. If they’d experienced prejudice in the past, they might just as soon prefer to keep themselves to themselves. They would still be grieving for their fellow airmen who hadn’t survived. On the other hand, Reg was right – a mountain dash to save lives against the odds was exactly the sort of morale-boosting story that it did people good to read.
‘I’ll go, since Topsy is expecting me,’ she told Reg. ‘I would like to visit the men and see how they’re getting along. But I’ll only write about it if they agree, all right?’
Reg smiled. ‘You know, lass, sometimes I wonder who’s editor around here.’
‘It’s only fair, isn’t it? It’s their story really, not ours.’
‘I suppose you’ve got a point. Go along and see them. Then, if they’re willing, you can write it up for the August number.’
Chapter 30
When Bobby called for Topsy at the cottage in the grounds of Sumner House, she discovered her friend wasn’t there. Mrs Hobbes answered the door, dressed up ready for her after-dinner pint at the Hart. She had her bright-red umbrella under her arm and her best cloche hat on her head: the one extravagantly decorated with assorted highly coloured feathers from exotic birds. The thing was quite notorious within the village. Norman was tucked under her arm, looking underwhelmed at the prospect of accompanying her. Mrs Hobbes’s plan to find him a wife from the female geese who frequented the beck by the pub had so far been unsuccessful, largely thanks to her spoiled pet’s selfish and cantankerous nature. Nevertheless, his mistress cooed over Norman like he was the fluffiest of lap-dog puppies.
‘Topsy’s yonder at the house,’ Mrs Hobbes told Bobby in her faint Scottish lilt when she enquired after her friend. ‘She’s up there every day now, helping them to nurse. Seems she’s a rare talent for it. I never would have believed she could have the patience, myself.’
‘But she hasn’t done her VAD training yet, has she?’
‘Aye, she’s managed to talk them into letting her do her training on the job, so to speak. I suppose they found it hard to say no, it being her house and all. I think a friend of her father’s who’s high up in the RAF might have had some words on her behalf too.’
‘How many friends did Topsy’s father have, Mrs Hobbes?’ Bobby asked. ‘They seem to be in positions of power all over the country.’
Mrs Hobbes smiled tightly. ‘Well, young lady, that’s Eton for you. Still, it’s doing her good, the nursing – you’ll see for yourself shortly. If you go up to the house and tell them she sent for you, I’m sure you’ll have no trouble getting in.’ She looked down at the goose under her arm. ‘Now say goodbye to your friend Miss Bancroft, Norman, and we’ll see if you can get along any better with your courting today.’
After Bobby had given Norman’s head a wary pat, much to his evident disgust – ‘friend’ was rather an overstatement of their relationship – she took the path up to the house. When she reached the front door, she pulled the bell rope. A middle-aged woman in a grey nurse’s dress and red cape soon appeared. This, Bobby assumed, must be the matron.
‘Um, good afternoon,’ Bobby said. ‘I’m looking for Lady Sumner-Walsh. She sent for me.’
The woman looked her up and down suspiciously. ‘Civilian, are you?’
‘Yes, but I was hoping I’d be allowed to visit the two patients you have here. I was part of the rescue party who brought them down.’
‘I understood all of the rescue party were men.’
