‘Oh, thrilling. I black-leaded the fireplace, did the ironing, polished the brasses and then – and this was the really exciting bit – I got the Vim out and scrubbed the lav.’
‘You don’t need to do all that,’ Bobby said, with a twinge of guilt. ‘I could have done the lav tomorrow. I know it must hurt your arm.’
‘It’s fine, Bobby. No worse than being on fatigues.’
‘Still, remember what Dr Minchin told you. You need rest to heal.’
‘It’s you who needs rest, not me.’ He was kissing her collarbone now. ‘You know, I’m rather offended that my kisses aren’t distracting you from this endless stream of small talk. I mean, as brimming with sex appeal as the image of me scrubbing the outhouse in my pinny undoubtedly is.’
Bobby laughed. ‘You’re doing splendidly, I swear. I’m just a little too parched to enjoy it properly. Do you think you can bear the separation if I fetch a glass of water?’
He glanced up. ‘Only if you give me your solemn promise that you’ll come back immediately, and there’ll be none of this “making the tea” nonsense until I’ve kissed all the bits of you I’m minded to.’
She tilted his chin up to kiss him. ‘I promise.’
‘Then you have my permission to depart, Aircraftwoman.’
Smiling, Bobby put on her dressing gown before going to the kitchen to get a glass of water.
Her throat was very dry, and she gulped the water rather too quickly. She was pouring herself a second tumbler when she spotted a torn-up envelope in the salvage bin. The letters ‘OHMS’ caught her eye.
What could that be doing in the bin? It must be military with those initials.
The envelope was addressed to Charlie, and the postmark showed it had probably come that morning. Yet he had told her there’d been no post except her letter from Scarlet. Why would he tear up an official letter?
Too curious to mind her own business, Bobby fished the thing out of the bin, extracted the two halves of the letter and pieced them together.
It was from the Air Ministry.
Sir,
I am directed to inform you that His Majesty the King has graciously approved the award of the Distinguished Flying Cross in recognition of your gallant conduct during aerial action on the night of 30th August, 1942. The announcement of this award will appear in an early issue of theLondon Gazette. Details of the investiture ceremony at Buckingham Palace will follow in a future correspondence…
Bobby stared at it. The DFC!
She remembered that Wing Commander Butler, Charlie’s commanding officer at Wykeness, had talked of recommending him for the honour. Since nothing more had been said, however, she had assumed the CO hadn’t gone ahead – perhaps because of the circumstances under which Charlie had been invalided out, with what his doctors called ‘shattered nerves’. That could so easily have led to the ignominious classification of LMF – lack of moral fibre – if it hadn’t been for the intervention of a sympathetic RAF medical officer. But it looked as though Butler had recommended Charlie for the gong after all.
One of the most prestigious awards in the military, and more than deserved given Charlie had saved the lives of four men at great personal risk. And he had torn up the letter! Why on earth would he do that?
Bobby jumped at a knock on the door. She stuffed the fragments of Charlie’s letter into her pocket.
Who was calling? She could hardly answer the door wearing nothing but her dressing gown. Bobby was sure the neighbours were already gossiping about ‘those newlyweds at Number 4, who always put their blackouts up early every Saturday,if you take my meaning’. She and Charlie would just have to pretend to be out.
She was curious about who it was, though, and tiptoed to the parlour window to peep behind the blackout curtains.
This she quickly regretted when she found a face on the other side, trying to peep in just as Bobby was trying to peep out. It was her friend Topsy Nowak, who waved enthusiastically.
Oh well, so much for pretending to be out. Bobby raised her voice to speak to Charlie.
‘You’d better put some clothes on, darling. We have visitors.’
‘Damn all visitors to hell,’ he called back cheerfully. ‘Tell them we’re busy and come back to bed.’
‘I can’t, it’s Topsy – with Jolka, I think.’ Bobby had caught a glimpse of someone with silky black hair behind Topsy, and assumed it must be her Polish friend. ‘It would be rude when they’ve walked all the way here.’
‘Is a man never to have a moment’s peace to enjoy an afternoon in bed with his wife?’ He sighed. ‘Oh, all right.’
Bobby heard him swearing to himself as he got up.
