Reading sample The Beauty Shop

Chapter 1

The boy lay swathed in bandages that masked third-degree burns to the face, neck, chest, arms, and legs, the aftermath of a skirmish with the Luftwaffe. It was a miracle he’d been able to bail out of his flaming Spitfire and pull the cord on his parachute with hands of molten wax, skin that hung in shards like ripped silk, and fingers melded together by the heat of the furnace. Archibald McIndoe inhaled as he hovered in the doorway of the side room and wrinkled his nose against the cloying stench of charred flesh that assaulted his nostrils. It was a nauseating odour he was used to and usually ignored, but tonight was different. Tonight, it was especially malodorous and reached into the back of his throat, and he cupped his nose with his hand as he tried not to gag.

He sauntered into the ward, where music flowed from a gramophone further down. The upbeat, familiar Glenn Miller sound swung out, a delightful blend of saxophones, trumpets, and strings. American Patrol. The volume was unusually low, a sign of respect that tugged at his heart. A haze of stale cigarette smoke mingled with the sweet aroma of beer, masking any clinical odours or otherwise. With the blackout curtains drawn, the bedside lighting cast a subdued glow around the ward. He stopped in front of the coke stove, holding his hands in the wave of heat streaming from the door. They were still numb from the frosty evening air, despite having been back inside for a while.

He glanced around. The place looked more like a barracks than a hospital. One airman lay stretched out on top of his bed, a newspaper draped over his chest and a smouldering cigarette perched between his fingers. He glanced up, his eyes dull and uninterested.

‘Evening, Maestro,’ he said, his tone lifeless and flat.

Archie nodded in greeting. Three others sat huddled around the table in the middle of the ward, playing cards. Suddenly, an airman in RAF blues sprang from his chair, grabbing the blonde VAD nurse with the ruby lips and twirling her around. The music shifted to a slower tune, and he drew her close, their steps matching the quivering notes. He glanced at Archie and grinned.

‘Hello, Maestro. Fancy a beer?’

‘No thanks, Dickie, not tonight.’

His upturned mouth sagged into a straight line, and he nodded, his hand slipping from the nurse’s waist as he moved away—thirty seconds of frivolity anaesthetised by the gathering dark clouds. As Archie ambled back towards the side room, the boys gazed at him with sombre faces, their eyes glazed. Amidst the clink of beer glasses, the chain smoking, and the banter, they all knew.

Back in the side room, another sound filtered in—a desperate, chilling rasp that made the hairs at the nape of Archie’s neck prickle. He sighed. He had told the boy exactly what he said to all of them when they first arrived. ‘Don’t worry. We’ll fix you up.’ His stomach sank. He’d tried his best; truly, he had.

He strode over to the bed. David’s breathing had worsened, each gasp more laboured than the last. He was in the period of transition, the final phase. Archie swallowed hard, feeling a lump in his throat. Dear God, why has it come to this? David lay motionless, his rattling breaths cutting through the hush. A thatch of golden hair peeked out from beneath the bandages. Did he have a girl, and did she ever thread her fingers through his hair? It was a random thought, plucked from nowhere, silly even, but then this whole event was bizarre and surreal. It shouldn’t be happening, just like this bloody war. The words of his cousin Harold Gillies sprang into his mind: This war will bring injuries never seen before. Archie nodded. ‘Right again, as usual,’ he muttered.

Why couldn’t he have saved him? Yes, the boy had severe injuries, albeit injuries he could have survived. However, the infection that had taken a serious hold several days ago had changed the course of David’s life. Sepsis had spread, his organs were failing, and there was nothing to be done. Nothing at all, except sit here and wait. David sucked in breaths through an open mouth. Archie glanced around and spotted the kidney dish on the bedside table with a mouth swab and water. He gently dabbed David’s dry lips and tongue. At least he could do that.

Archie was not familiar with death. Most of the time, his patients lived, so it was a dreadful blow when death came calling. This boy had suffered enough, and now, in a cruel twist, he would die after all, and he’d put up such a splendid fight. Archie heard Richard Hillary’s words loud and clear, as if the young fighter pilot were standing next to him: Tell me, Archie. Does a chap ever sense that death is waiting?

‘I don’t know,’ Archie murmured. ‘But I sense it.’ He sank down on the chair next to the bed and glanced at his watch. Eleven o’clock. He pinched the bridge of his nose and closed his eyes, stifling a yawn as fatigue closed around him like a warm, fuzzy blanket. He’d spent twelve hours in surgery and longed to return home, but he would wait. The boy was an American with the RAF, a stranger on foreign soil. No one should be alone at the end.

Sister Jamieson bustled into the room carrying a steaming, white enamel mug, her rubber-soled shoes squelching across the linoleum floor. ‘I saw you come in, and I thought you might like a cup of tea,’ she said in a hushed tone.

‘Thanks.’ He needed something a little stronger, in all honesty, but that would have to wait. He took a sip. At least it was warm.

‘I can ask one of the nurses to sit with him if you need to go. There’s no telling how long it will be.’ Her thin, pale lips flickered to form a faint, compassionate smile, revealing a dimple on her left cheek that he’d never noticed before, although the woman rarely ever smiled.

‘It’s all right. I’ll stay a while. Besides, there’s no one to rush home for.’ Home was but a mere shell now that his wife and daughters were in America. At least they were safe, thank God.

‘Such bad luck he came down behind enemy lines. If only they could have repatriated him sooner.’

‘Yes, well, I suppose he’s lucky they sent him back at all.’ Archie sipped the tea, and Sister Jamieson retreated. He liked to think that even German doctors would obey the Hippocratic Oath and do their best for their patients. The enemy. His elder brother’s face slipped into his mind. The Germans had captured Jack in Crete in 1941, and he was now in a camp somewhere in Germany. Two birthdays spent in captivity. Archie prayed he was well and wondered if he had received the Red Cross parcel yet. Why in heaven had Jack joined up? And he had lied about his age, given that he was forty-one at the time. Archie shook his head in frustration. Jack had inherited Mother’s artistic ability and studied art, but he had taken over the family printing business to keep their finances afloat after Father passed away. This also helped Archie get through medical school. He inhaled deeply as he considered his brother’s sacrifice. It was as if war had sought Jack out with the lure of one final fling. Jack had to hold on. He had to survive. If he didn’t, Archie wouldn’t be able to bear it. He gritted his teeth.

The music from the ward suddenly ceased, and a hush descended. Out in the corridor, the sluice door protested as it swung shut with its usual creaky groan, and water gushed as someone turned on a tap. The night nurse rattled past the door with a tray of steaming mugs, and he caught the comforting aroma of malt as it drifted in the air on a ribbon of steam. He glanced at the rise and fall of David’s chest as the boy sucked in shallow breaths, followed by the release of excruciating rasps that snarled over his lips.

He placed the cup down on the table and sat back, his eyes closing as thoughts hurtled around in his head. David was nineteen years old. Such a waste of a young life. Not even old enough to vote or drink alcohol in his own country, ­yet old enough to die for it. Archie sighed. He usually found the late nights to be a tranquil haven as the hospital’s beating heart slowed, but tonight there was no comfort to be found here amidst the rattling gasps and the persistent frustration burrowing deep into his soul. Dear God, he was trying to rehabilitate these boys, not stand back as they slipped away. He pursed his lips and swallowed, balling his hands into fists, his nails digging sharply into his palms. Failure cut deep, and he ruminated over the futility of war. A chill crept in through the half-open door and he shivered.

He dragged his glasses off and rubbed his weary eyes, then shuffled his chair closer to the bed. David’s chest rose and fell with a rattle and a gurgle of breath. Archie reached out and took the boy’s bandaged hand in his. ‘It’s all right, David. It’s Archie here. Don’t worry, my boy.’ The hearing was always the last to go.

David’s laboured breaths alternated between raspy and quiet as the hours ticked away, and Archie lost all sense of time as he waited in the dimness of night. Finally, the boy released a gentle hiss of breath, like a retreating tidal wave shushing out to sea. Archie sat still, partially relieved, partially stunned, then leaned forward and pressed his fingertips to David’s neck, locating the carotid artery. He reached for the stethoscope and listened to his heart. Nothing. His skin was already turning a sallow yellow as his body shut down, rapidly cooling.

Ten past two. Archie placed his hand gently on the boy’s chest. ‘Rest now, my boy, and God bless you.’ His eyes suddenly welled up, and he took a deep breath as he dragged the crisp sheet up over David’s head, then exhaled some of the tension away. At least it had been a peaceful end.

In a matter of days, a telegram would arrive at David’s home, and the boy’s parents would be distraught. Archie would write to them and assure them he’d sat with their son until the end. It was vital they knew their boy had not been alone. It was important to know something, no matter how small.

He hovered in the doorway for a moment before closing it, grasping the handle while he stood quietly in the shadows, surveying the ward. These boys were lucky to have a second chance, although few of them felt that way in the beginning. It’s not easy to count your blessings when you’ve had your entire face burned away or lost the use of your hands. Archie had seen outcasts after the last war and what had become of them. Well, that was not going to happen to these boys. He’d make sure of that.

He glanced at the door once more. His chest tightened, and he clenched his teeth as he wrenched his grip from the handle. The boy should have lived; he could have, perhaps, if he’d been brought here sooner. If. Always an if.

Archie strolled along London’s Bond Street beneath the cover of black, dense clouds, his breath escaping before him as white vapour. He pulled his coat tighter around him, glad of the scarf he had wrapped around his neck as the icy air nipped at his cheeks. His hands tingled, and numbness crept into his aching fingers. He thrust them into his pockets. The thick, acrid smell of smoke hung all around, smouldering from some bomb site after last night’s raid, lining his nostrils. London still breathed as she always did and retained an air of regal elegance as ladies picked their way through rubble-strewn streets, well-dressed in heels with coiffed hair and made-up faces, smiles painted on to boost morale, heads held high, defiant.

He crossed the road, and as he glanced left, a familiar face emerged from among the bustling crowd, his air-force blue prominent amid a sea of khaki. Richard Hillary, one of his first patients from the Battle of Britain. Archie grinned and stood stock-still as he waited to catch his eye.

‘Richard, of all the people to run into, it had to be you.’ Archie laughed and shook his hand, Richard’s brown leather glove ice-cold in his palm, a sheen of blond hair visible at the side of his blue cap. ‘I thought you were in Scotland.’

‘A spot of leave, Archie. How about you?’

‘Oh, just killing time before I head back to the ward. I had some business here this morning. How about a drink?’ Archie clapped him on the back and led the way. The lad was rather subdued, and there was no bravado, something he’d used as a shield on the ward. It was as if his spark had finally waned.

The mood in the Embassy Club was uplifting as swing music flowed out and people danced and laughed. The stifling air inside blended with stale smoke and beer. Archie ordered drinks, and they found seats at a table near the door. Richard opened his silver cigarette case and offered it to Archie. He plucked one and leaned in for a light, flicking a gaze at Richard’s eyes. They were dull and bloodshot, as if he had not slept properly in days. ‘Been working you hard up there?’

Richard drew on his cigarette and exhaled a series of smoke rings. ‘You know how it is. These Blenheims aren’t Spits, and night-flying is tougher than I’d imagined.’ He reached out to grab his glass, his hand trembling. ‘My left eye is troubling me now as well, which makes matters worse.’ He gulped a mouthful of whisky.

Archie honed his gaze on the lad’s eye, noting how the scar tissue tightened and contracted with each blink. The urgency of the issue was unmistakable.

‘When I’m up there, I can’t see properly.’ Richard pointed skyward with his gloved index finger. ‘How the bally hell do they think I can bomb accurately like this?’

A boisterous group barged in, laughing and shouting, and Richard jumped. Archie downed his whisky in one fiery gulp. ‘You’ll have to tell the MO. Perhaps he can put you on sick leave until we get you sorted out. I’ll look at it and get you booked in for surgery.’ An extra spot of leave would be beneficial too, by the look of him.

‘It’s not as simple as that.’ Richard downed the last of his whisky and sighed. ‘Besides, I’m not crying off at the first sign of trouble.’ He shifted his gaze to the couples dancing, a faraway look in his eyes.

And there it was. The underlying current that flowed through all these boys, crackling each time they wavered, reminding them of their duty; reminding them they were in the spotlight. Well, to hell with expectations. What good is that when you’re dead? The boy was asking for help, and by the look of him, he was desperate.

‘It’s the night-flying, you see. Daylight would be easier. To be honest, I’m not sure I can carry on for much longer.’ Richard’s tone was ominous, his gaze intense and screaming. He ran his tongue over his lips, then cast a nervous smile.

Archie drew on his cigarette, an uneasy feeling settling within him. Richard had hoped to return to flying Spitfires but had instead been assigned to a squadron in Scotland, flying Blenheims, light bomber aircraft. Archie couldn’t fathom the RAF mentality that deemed the boy fit to fly bombers.

‘I’ll write to your MO and tell him I’ve seen you. I expect you back here as soon as possible for further surgery.’

As they parted company, Richard shook Archie’s hand, grasping it firmly. ‘Thanks for everything, Archie. You’ve been a marvel. Take care of yourself.’ The corners of his mouth twitched to form a sombre smile.

Archie’s chest tightened as he watched him walk away, his blue-grey form melting into the ripple of people. He wished Richard had contacted him sooner, rather than struggling on.

The lead-grey sky deepened as dusk approached, and the first spots of rain began to fall, speckling the pavement. A veil of mist stole in from the east, draping over London. A faint rumble filtered in, and Archie turned his face toward the sky as a dark shape neared from the east. It was an American bomber, with a white star prominent on the fuselage. They were becoming a familiar sight now that the Americans had arrived. The cruciform shape slipped overhead and droned into the distance.

Archie shivered and drew his scarf closer to his chin. Flying aircraft was dangerous, so high risk, but bombers? He shook his head, a sense of foreboding gnawing at him as he hurried back to his car before the light faded.

Chapter 2

Lieutenant John ‘Mac’ Mackenzie glanced at the B-17 Flying Fortress on his port side. That had been Bill’s slot a couple of weeks ago, with Bill waving a thumbs up from the co-pilot’s window. Seconds later, flames had leapt from the engines, danced across the wings, licked the cockpit, and engulfed the fuselage. A whole Fort powdered. Their luck ran out when that Focke-Wulf sneaked in from out of the sun’s glare, rolled over, and came in head-on, gun ports blinking silver flashes. Then, in an instant, a bright glow and a bloody wound opened as chunks of flaming, twisted metal and tears of flame fell from the sky along with men blown to bits, caught in the slipstream.

Bill had lost his cross and chain that morning before take-off. Mac’s gloved fingers reached for the St. Christopher around his neck. There. He sucked in a breath, exhaling slowly into his mask. The muffled, thunderous roar of the four Cyclone engines cut in, the background thrum of four propellers spinning, constant and reassuring. He glanced again at the B-17 on his left. A rookie crew had that slot today. He didn’t know their names. It was better that way.

They had taken off from Bassingbourn at dawn, soaring into a veil of cumulus. Mist draped across the English Channel, but above the cloud at twenty thousand feet, the blood-orange sun peeked over the horizon, bleeding hues of amber into a cornflower sky. Sure is beautiful, Mac thought. As they approached the French coast at Longues-sur-Mer, the blue void gave way to brown-black puffs of smoke, which hung in the air like shrouds. He pulled the oxygen mask off his face for a few seconds and embraced the rush of the cockpit’s icy chill over his nose and mouth. He wondered if he’d ever adjust to the stench of rubber as he wiped beads of sweat from his brow. The mission, their tenth, bombing the U-boat pens at Saint-Nazaire, was hotting up fast. ‘Looks like they’re throwing everything they’ve got at us today.’ Mac glanced at his co-pilot, Dennis Wilson.

‘Can’t see a darn thing down there. It’s all closed in,’ Wilson said as he gazed out the side window.

A flash of red caught Mac’s eye, and their B-17, the Texas Rose, shook as a hail of flak peppered the fuselage. That was just the warm-up. They’d get the full greeting soon enough. He wrestled with the control wheel as he struggled to stay in formation, keeping his eyes focused on the bomber in front. He rapidly sucked in oxygen, and his pulse pounded as the Texas Rose bobbed around like a sailboat on a rough sea, but he held her tight, maintaining their place in the formation. ‘Pilot to crew. Keep sharp out there and remember to check your masks for ice. Spit freezes.’ Anoxia was a silent killer, and up here at twenty-seven thousand feet, oxygen was the crew’s lifeline.

As they neared Saint-Nazaire, the brown-black puffs sprang up once more.

‘Pilot to navigator. How long to the IP?’ Mac pictured William Stewart, hunched over his desk down in the nose behind the bombardier, plotting their course.

‘Navigator to pilot. Bomb run in five minutes.’

‘Bogey, nine o’clock!’ Bud, the waist gunner, yelled into the interphone.

The staccato sound of machine-gun fire from Tex, the flight engineer in the top turret, drilled through the cockpit. The flash of a black swastika flicked past their port side, and Mac’s stomach lurched as the Messerschmitt scythed through the group.

‘Tail, you got him?’ Bud’s voice crackled through the interphone, high-pitched and edged with excitement.

‘I got him.’ Birdie’s smooth, laid-back tone.

More machine-gun fire arced across the sky, and with a flash of yellow and silver-grey, the Messerschmitt peeled away swift as a minnow, diving through the formation. As they approached the target, a blend of hazy yellow, brown, and black smoke stretched out across the sky. Anti-aircraft shells exploded all around, some of them mighty close, with bursts of glowing orange. Red flak.

‘Here comes the coffin run.’ Wilson eased back on the throttles as they approached the bomb run, and the engines slowed in response. ‘Flak bursts ahead, heavy.’

‘Yeah, it’s flak city all right.’ Mac gripped the control wheel. The rookie pilot on his port side drifted a little too close for comfort, bobbing erratically, probably riding through prop wash. ‘Get on the ball, rookie. You’ve got to stay in there,’ Mac muttered under his breath. He gestured to the co-pilot, who peered back at him, and received a thumbs up in return. Within a minute, the rookies had hauled their Fortress back into line and Mac puffed out a breath of relief.

‘Bombardier to pilot. Bomb bay doors open,’ Danny drawled.

Mac switched on the autopilot. ‘She’s all yours, Danny.’ Five minutes of flying straight and slow to the target. Easy meat. But as Mac leaned back slightly, flexing his gloved fingers, he noticed a flash of red from the side of the Texas Rose. From the cockpit, he had a bird’s-eye view as one of the B-17s in formation juddered and bucked as flak rained down. He crossed his chest.

‘They got one.’ Bud’s voice. ‘Come on guys, jump.’

As the stricken ship spiralled towards the ground, Mac glimpsed white silk billowing between shrouds of black. He waited, breath paused, craning his neck to see as one chute after another blossomed into uncertainty. ‘Six,’ he murmured. He didn’t have time to dwell, as there was a sudden flash followed by the sound of hailstones peppering the Texas Rose.

‘What the heck was that?’ Beside him, Wilson spun around, looking frantically at the instruments on the control panel.

Mac glanced at the wings. Both intact, all four props spinning, not smoking. He peered at the formation below, and the breath caught in his throat.

‘A fighter just flew into Jackson’s ship. It’s a goddamn fireball!’ Wilson stared, eyes wide with shock.

Mac shook his head as he glanced at the space where Jackson’s B-17 had been; flaming chunks of aircraft and debris fell from the sky. Men plummeted towards the ground, limbs flailing as they tumbled. His stomach tightened, and his breaths became rapid and shallow as the dead weight of his flak suit bore down on his shoulders. He rubbed the back of his neck.

‘They weren’t wearing chutes.’ Wilson shook his head, and his eyes glazed over.

‘Pilot to crew. Make sure you’ve got your chutes on.’ Jeez. There was nothing they could do for them, and he had to block it out. As the group tightened up, Mac kept a close watch as Hutchinson sidled his B-17 across to fill the gap below. ‘The Colonel always said, keep ’em tucked in tight, and you’ll come home,’ Mac muttered. The rookie co-pilot on his left put his hand up, and Mac gestured with a nod. They were doing all right so far.

‘Here they come again!’ Tex bellowed into the interphone. ‘Fighter, six o’clock!’

The guns opened up, and short bursts of machine-gun fire hailed from all around the ship. The pungent waft of burned cordite drifted into the cockpit as the Texas Rose trembled from the recoil of the machine guns.

A flash of silver-grey and a swastika streaked by Mac’s window, slipping beneath the belly of the ship in front. As the Texas Rose flew on, flak pounded her aluminium body. A few pieces pierced her skin, and from inside, it sounded like a hail of spanners was showering the ship. She lurched, the right wing bucked, and black smoke belched from an engine. Christ, what now? ‘Number three’s smoking.’ Mac checked the engine dials. ‘Cut the fuel. Feather the prop. Shut it down,’ he ordered.

Wilson pulled the mixture lever back and hit the fire extinguisher button.

‘Pilot to crew. Check in.’ The fighters had fled, but reinforcements would be buzzing around them soon enough, and maybe they’d be the prime target. Mac’s heart pounded in his chest as he suddenly longed for home.

‘Radio operator checking in,’ Virg said over the interphone. ‘Are we on fire?’

‘No, we’re not on fire.’ Mac gritted his teeth.

‘Tail gunner checking in. Smoke means fire. I can’t see what’s happening back here.’

‘There’s no darn fire.’ Mac flicked a glance at Wilson. ‘What the hell’s going on back there?’

Angry voices filtered through the interphone, one of them Bud’s. Mac glanced out at the dead engine, the spinning disc of a prop now feathered into a still, upright Y, a trail of pencil-lead smoke streaming behind them. Swell. Might as well be towing a Stars and Stripes banner.

‘Christ! That almost took my head off.’ Bud’s voice.

‘It wouldn’t have made much difference if it had.’ Irv’s voice.

‘Say that again, and I’ll knock yours clean off!’

‘Pilot to waist. Quit messing around, boys. That’s an order. You know the rules for using the interphone.’

‘There’s a hole the size of a football in the waist, but nobody’s hurt,’ Bud said.

Mac tried to quell the irritation rising inside him. Fighting like kids when they ought to be pulling together. Through a break in the undercast, he glimpsed a streak of red eclipsed by billowing plumes of smoke, which shrouded the harbour town and obscured the mouth of the Loire River and the submarine base. The B-17s in the lead group had released their bombs over the target. The sight evoked memories of their last visit, two weeks ago. He’d flown in the high formation at a similar altitude, but the low formation flew in at ten thousand feet. Anti-aircraft gunners had a field day with those boys. Three flamers and twenty-three more had limped home on a wing and a prayer.

As they neared the target, the familiar tendrils of doubt began to gnaw at him, twisting and squeezing his gut. Most of the guys laughed it off once the bourbon got flowing. How did Carleton put it the other day? ‘Who gives a shit? They’re all Nazis anyway, so it’s a few less to worry about.’ But they’re people, women, and children, Mac thought.

‘Pilot to bombardier. How’s that target looking, Danny?’ Hunched over the Norden bombsight like a priest at an altar, Danny’s hand would be poised on the bomb release trigger, waiting. Mac sucked in a breath.

‘Almost there,’ Danny drawled. ‘Can’t see much through this smoke and cloud.’

Gripped by a familiar sickly feeling, Mac couldn’t shake the image of the people caught up amid this hell. He wasn’t releasing the bombs, but he was flying the ship, and somehow this war made less sense with every mission he flew. How the hell was he even alive? The clock was ticking louder than ever before.

‘I see it. Bombs gone.’ Danny’s words rang out. ‘Bomb bay doors closing. Pilot, she’s all yours.’

Mac felt the Texas Rose lift, free at last. He switched off the autopilot and applied more throttle to increase their speed. It was too early for relief, but he sensed it flowing through the ship like an undercurrent, easing the tension in his shoulders and the tightness in his chest. Teeth gritted in determination, he banked the Texas Rose in a sweeping turn out over the Atlantic Ocean and back around to the land. He flicked a glance at the water, where sunlight splintered on crested waves. As he pointed her nose towards the line of blue up ahead, a sudden flash on their port side caught his eye.

‘They got Smokin’ Sue,’ Wilson yelled, his voice cracking with a mix of shock and disbelief.

Smokin’ Sue took another hit, and Mac watched as a large hole blossomed in the wing and flames erupted, lashing the airframe. She hovered for a moment, as if suspended in the air. Then, with a graceful, slow half-roll, she flipped onto her back and fell away towards the icy waters of the Atlantic. Mac forced himself to focus as his heart raced. With one engine down, the last thing they needed was to fall behind the group. Just hold on, please God, he prayed. In an instant, he pictured his father and heard his calm words. Keep her steady. You could fly her blindfolded. Mac gritted his teeth, took a deep breath, and exhaled slowly as he pictured England, his heart easing into a steady rhythm.

‘Jump. Come on, you guys, get outta there.’ Wilson crossed his chest, his eyes widened in horror. ‘Hell, why don’t they jump?’

There was no getting out of a tight spin like that. The centrifugal force pins you against the side. Mac gripped the control wheel tight, but in his mind, he pictured the base. Ten beds stripped, made ready for a new crew. He shook the thought away. There was no room for errors on the home run, and he steeled himself as they ploughed through the blue, slipping through all the lost souls.

As they headed north to the English Channel, a surge of adrenaline flooded his veins. ‘Pilot to crew. Keep an eye out for Jerry. He’s just waiting, so we’d better be ready.’ He gazed around at the B-17s that flecked the sky. An armada winging its way home to England, except for three lost ships and thirty men. His eyes flicked over the dials on the instrument panel. At least the oil pressure was holding. A lone aircraft was easy prey.

At twenty-one thousand feet, cumulus clouds dotted the sky and as they flew over Loudeac, more flak bounced up, but it was light and merely rocked them on their way. Mac cast his eye over the fuel gauges. Halfway home. So close.

Then, what began as a tiny, dark smudge on the horizon multiplied and swelled into several larger specks, darting across the void like a pack of wolves. ‘Here they come again.’ Mac stared, transfixed, as the wolves separated up ahead, veering off left and right. Flashes of yellow noses and black crosses on silver-grey. ‘Bandits, twelve o’clock high. Don’t fire until they’re in range.’ He clutched at breaths, and the reek of rubber clung to his throat and nostrils. They had to make it, and he was damned if he was going to fail. He focused and offered a silent prayer to God.

‘Man, the sky’s swarming with Krauts. I’m gonna get one if it kills me.’ Bud’s voice edged with determination.

‘Yeah? You keep telling yourself that,’ Irv said.

A pair of Messerschmitt Bf 109s targeted a Fortress head-on, peppering it with cannon fire before moving on to the Texas Rose. Above the thrum of the engines and machine-gun fire, a terror-filled scream howled in Mac’s ear.

‘Jesus, I’m hit!’

‘Waist to pilot, Bud’s hurt. Send someone back here with the medical kit.’ Irv paused. ‘Hang in there, buddy.’

‘Okay, Irv. Man your gun. Pilot to bombardier. Waist gunner’s hit. Get back there and help him.’

‘Tail to waist. Fighter, six o’clock, coming around.’

‘I got him, Birdie. Come on, closer, closer,’ Irv said in a sing-song voice.

Mac pictured him, poised with his gun, waiting for the precise moment before spitting orange tracer fire into the belly of the enemy. As the fighter soared past their starboard side, Mac watched as the skilled hunter turned and headed back, weaving in and out of the bombers behind them.

‘Bombardier to pilot.’

‘Go ahead, Danny.’

‘Bud’s hit in the leg, but he’s okay. He’s darn lucky it missed the artery. I’ve bandaged him up and given him a shot of morphine.’

‘Okay. Thanks, Danny.’ Mac heaved a sigh of relief. It could have been so much worse. He pictured Bud sprawled out there in the waist with his rosary in his hand, praying. He carried it on every mission. They all carried something they treasured. Some guys had several lucky charms from a favourite jumper to a teddy or their bible – armour-plated, of course – kept in their breast pocket just in case. He glanced across at the rookies. They were still doing okay. He blew out a breath.

The rhythmic staccato of machine-gun fire punctuated the constant roar of the engines, and gunners on the surrounding ships spat tracer fire across the sky at a pair of marauding Messerschmitts. The fighters soon peeled away, heading off into the blue. ‘I think the wolves are low on fuel, boys.’ Mac blew out a breath.

‘About time. Let’s hope that’s the last,’ Wilson said.

‘Waist to pilot.’ Irv’s voice.

‘Pilot here. How’s Bud doing?’

‘He’s okay. Are we gonna make it home?’

‘Just hang in there. We’ll make it.’ Home. Montana and the ranch in the summer. His mom at the stove making meatloaf, Pop outside, breaking in a colt beneath the amber sun. Mac felt the soothing warm rays on his cold skin. The sweet scent of the pine trees that stagnated in the still air and flowed with the prairie breeze, and the drift of the horse’s sweat after a long ride. Suddenly, a frantic cry cut in over the radio and wrenched him back to the present, and the sharp, icy chill returned with the stench of rubber, oil, and cordite.

‘It’s Last Orders, from the low formation,’ Virg said over the interphone.

The breathless words of the pilot from Last Orders crackled through the radio, high-pitched and frantic. ‘We gotta go down. Oxygen’s almost gone. My bombardier’s shot to hell. I don’t think he’s gonna make it.’

Mac felt a chill creep over him. From the cockpit, he looked on as Last Orders peeled away from the formation, heading down into occupied France. As the desperate voice screamed through the intercom, Mac’s stomach tightened. A bombardier was stretchered off a Fort last week, so shot up his lungs were hanging out. His heart had pumped the life right out of him by the time they landed, and his body was so slick with blood that the medics dropped him twice. Mac heaved in a breath and tried to block out the image. Rivulets of sweat trickled down his back, and his mouth and throat ran dry.

‘He’s still going on about his bombardier dying. What good’s that gonna do?’ Wilson cussed under his breath.

Mac’s heart hammered against his ribs, and the blood pounded in his ears. He trembled and fought to suppress the swell of nausea in his gut as Bill’s face reared in his mind—that final glimpse. His wild eyes had said it all as he paused for a second to look over at Mac, seconds before he became a fireball in the sky.

‘Wilson, take over for me.’ Mac reached for his canteen and gulped down the water. He rested his head back and screwed his eyes shut. He was tired. They all were. Exhaustion. It spread like a disease, seeping into the mind, then to your limbs and nerves, making every movement feel like you were wading through treacle.

He pictured the girl he’d met at the dance a few weeks ago. Slim with hair the colour of platinum. She’d refused to dance with him because she was with some other guy, but her moment’s hesitation and that flicker in her emerald-green eyes had instilled hope and soothed the dent in his pride. So, she’s loyal and beautiful. Those eyes bore depth and soul, and as he’d leaned in close to speak to her, a scent like sweet prairie flowers soared to meet him. A voice in his head whispered that beautiful girl was his guiding light, and he harnessed the memory.

The English Channel shimmered up ahead, and a weak smattering of flak sprang up without a hope as the bombers punched their way through the clouds. As they left the French coast behind, Mac gazed at the sheet-metal surface of lead-grey, icy water. His toes were almost numb, and he wriggled them in his fur-lined overboots.

They’d almost done it. Another mission down, fifteen to go. They were old hands, the old men of the 324^th Squadron. A well-oiled machine, so in tune with one another. ‘Pilot to crew. We’re at ten thousand feet. You can come off oxygen.’ It was a relief to tear the mask from his face, which was sore from where it chafed his skin, and he nudged his cheek with his gloved hand.

‘Hey, smell that sea air, boys,’ Danny said over the interphone.

‘Pilot to crew. We’re landing at Exeter to refuel.’ A chorus of groans erupted over the interphone. ‘It’s not all bad. We might get a cup of coffee.’

‘Pilot, with respect, Limeys don’t know how to make good coffee,’ Irv said. ‘But if it’s served up by a good-looking dame, then I’ll drink it and more besides.’ Laughter and whistles erupted filling the cockpit with a brief moment of levity.

Mac craved something stronger than coffee and was looking forward to the evening back at Bassingbourn. Drinks, cards, catch-up on the mail, but first, they had to go through debriefing with a slug of bourbon thrown in as a sweetener. A tiny black dot up ahead caught his eye, or was it a smudge on the windshield? A smudge that moved, divided, and grew into several larger specks. His heart quickened, but with a closing speed of over four hundred miles an hour, the specks merged into P-47 fighters within seconds, and he exhaled. ‘Look, boys. Our little friends have arrived.’ The mid-afternoon sun glinted on silver as the fighter aircraft zipped through the sky.

‘Gee, now that’s one beautiful sight.’ Wilson whistled.

‘More beautiful than any girl on her wedding day,’ Danny drawled.

With a greeting waggle of wings, the P-47s turned and escorted them back to England. Before long, the horizon surrendered the terracotta-sandstone cliffs of the Jurassic Coast. Beyond them, the English tapestry stretched taut across the undulating land, a ripple of greens and browns. Home.

Chapter 3

Glen Miller’s ‘In the Mood’ drifted through the hangar doors, across the moonlit airfield, and bubbled out into the night. The passion wagons and American jeeps in olive-green glistened beneath a thin film of frost. Stella shivered, her cheeks smarting from the cold. She smoothed out her WAAF service dress tunic and skirt and tried to ignore the throbbing in her toes from the icy chill. Travelling for twenty minutes in an American Army truck, which only had a flimsy canvas canopy for cover, was no match for the winter’s eve.

Vera nudged her arm. ‘Here. Put some of this on, love.’ She held out her treasured lipstick. ‘Regimental red. Now remember, beauty is your duty.’ She smirked, casting Stella a knowing look, her eyebrows raised and one hand resting on her hip.

Stella dabbed a streak of red on her lips as Vera cast an approving look. ‘I hope Alex doesn’t find out.’ She gazed around as GIs helped girls down from the truck. A faint breeze teased out a platinum blonde curl, and she hastily tucked it back into place.

‘Come on. We’ll have a wizard time, and you can forget about Alex for the rest of the night, seeing as he’s forgotten you.’ Vera linked arms with her. ‘Besides, it beats spending the night in with your landlady, Miss Prim and Proper.’

‘Give over. She’s lovely.’ Stella took a deep breath and muttered, ‘Oh well, in for a penny…’

The music grew louder as they made their way across the frosted ground towards the hangar, their footsteps falling into time to the big-band music swinging out into the night. In the distance, the silhouettes of B-17s loomed all around the airfield, bathed in moonlight. Vera sang under her breath, releasing wispy, white vapour into the evening air.

As they passed through the hangar doors, the trumpet solo swung out, and the springy beat drew a crowd of eager dancers into a bouncing foxtrot. Bunting bearing the American flag decorated the vast space and adorned every wall. Stella stared, open-mouthed. ‘Did you ever see such a spread?’ A procession of wooden trestle tables stood along one side, laden with bowls of punch and bottles of Coca-Cola. Plates of towering sandwiches sat next to wobbly jellies and cakes and pastries that made Stella’s mouth water – such a feast they had not seen since the rationing began. ‘Come on. I’m famished,’ Stella said, making a beeline for the food.

Vera handed her a plate. ‘Get stuck in. See, I said you’d enjoy yourself.’

‘Well, anything’s better than beetroot sandwiches and carrot pie.’ Stella wrinkled her nose, then rolled her eyes as the other young women they had arrived with made a beeline for the GIs. Stockings, chocolate, and plenty of money.

Across the hangar, a B-17 Flying Fortress stood to attention, while in front of its mighty wings, the band played on a raised platform.

Vera popped the last piece of cake in her mouth and put her plate down. ‘I’m going in search of a real drink. Not be a tick, love.’

‘Looks as if there might be a bar on the other side.’ Stella looked on as her friend ploughed through a group of American servicemen, parting them like the Red Sea.

‘Oh, I love this tune,’ Vera said, snapping her fingers in time to the music, pouting at the GIs as she sashayed by. Men always noticed Vera. She was a slender brunette of medium height with blue eyes and plump lips. She really stood out.

Stella stayed where she was, nursing her plate as she devoured the most delicious, sweet doughnut. The sweet, gritty sugar coated her tongue and tantalised her taste buds, and for a moment, she forgot all about mundane life as the vibrant atmosphere bustled and fizzed throughout the hangar. The local girls gazed starry-eyed at their American partners, giggling at their smooth banter. They certainly had a way with words. No wonder girls swooned when they were so handsome, and they knew it. Overpaid, oversexed, and over here.

As she scanned the crowd, a tall American pilot caught her eye. He stood out with a smouldering cigarette hanging from his lips. When their eyes met, he paused, a warm smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. Stella was captivated by his striking blue eyes and dimpled chin. There was something familiar about him, but she couldn’t place it. Shrieks of laughter erupted behind her, making her spin around. When she turned back, the pilot had vanished, swallowed by the crowd.

Her mother’s warning rang shrill and sharp in her ears. Whatever happens, stay away from those Americans. It’s not decent all this carrying on you hear about nowadays. You’ll end up getting into trouble, my girl. One of them called the vicar’s wife ‘honey’ the other day. Oh, the nerve.

But Stella recalled the day the Americans arrived, and the excitement among the girls, buzzing through the town like an electric current. She sighed and turned to watch the band. Resplendent in their Army Air Force uniforms, the trumpeters stood to play their piece, swaying to ‘Sing, Sing, Sing.’ Brass instruments sparkled beneath the lights, and her skin tingled.

The floor bustled with dancers, packed in as tight as sardines. A GI twirled a brunette over his shoulders, her ruby dress billowing up to reveal pink cami-knickers. Stella gazed in awe. She had never danced like that, and it looked like such fun. As she searched the crowd for Vera, someone lunged at her, causing her to stagger forward, dropping her bag on the floor.

A man’s voice slurred close to her ear. ‘Hey, baby, wanna have a drink?’

Stella came face-to-face with two GIs wielding bottles of beer. The shorter man lit a cigarette, took a drag, and blew smoke in her face, leering at her with bloodshot eyes.

She coughed. ‘No, thank you.’ She turned to walk away, but the tall one grabbed her by the arm, and the breath hitched in her throat.

‘Just one drink, that’s all, baby,’ he said, draping his thick arm around her, pinning her to his side. He stank of beer, cigarettes, and sweat, and a menacing two-inch scar twisted ominously across his left cheek.

His grimy hand gripped her hard; her throat tightened, and she told herself to stay calm. ‘No, thank you,’ she said in a quavering voice. The man increased his grip, and her shoulder throbbed. ‘Please, let go; you’re hurting me.’ Stella struggled and broke free, and as she spun around, she slammed into another man whose muscular arms engulfed her. Out of instinct, she reached out, her fingertips brushing silver wings on his left olive-green breast pocket. It’s him.

‘You heard the lady; now beat it!’ The officer glared at them, his eyes narrow and piercing. He released Stella from his arms and stepped between her and the drunken, disorderly men.

‘Sorry, lieutenant, we were just…’

‘I saw what you were doing, private. Now beat it, unless you want to be on KP duty for the next two weeks.’

His olive skin was flawless, and when he turned his gaze on Stella, she was drawn into deep sapphire depths. The eyes are the window to the soul. He cut a dashing figure in his dress uniform, igniting a kaleidoscope of butterflies within her.

‘Thank you,’ she managed.

He ran a hand through his wavy ebony hair, which bore a note of defiance as it refused to lie flat, charting its own course.

‘Sorry about that, ma’am. I believe this belongs to you,’ he said, picking up her bag. ‘First Lieutenant John Mackenzie.’ He extended his hand.

‘Thank you, lieutenant.’ She said it in the American way. ‘Stella Charlton.’ His grip was firm and warm, his touch electric, and the heat bloomed beneath her skin.

‘My friends call me Mac.’ With a hint of mischief in his smouldering eyes, he smirked, studying her for a moment. ‘Well, now, if I didn’t know any better, I’d say you’ve fallen for me, throwing yourself into my arms like that.’ His face creased into a wide smile, flashing straight white teeth, while his velvet voice carried a southern drawl, as she’d heard in Western films and newsreels.

Stella blushed. He was tall and broad-shouldered, with a crooked half-smile that made his eyes crinkle at the corners. She chided herself for not knowing what to say, and a silence stretched out between them, a river of opportunity and uncertainty. She bit her lower lip as she gazed around for any sign of Vera.

‘Looking for someone?’

‘Yes, my friend, Vera. Here she is now.’ Relief washed over her as she spotted a determined Vera pushing through the throng, a drink in each hand. Triumphant, she shimmied her way over, accompanied by wolf whistles, admiring stares, and propositions, all met with a confident smile and not a hint of a blush.

‘Here you go,’ Vera said in a sing-song voice, passing Stella a glass of fruit punch as she studied her with narrowed eyes. ‘Someone’s been a busy bee.’ She glanced at Mac. ‘Nice to meet you.’ She flashed him a warm smile.

‘This is Lieutenant John Mackenzie.’ Stella sipped her drink, savouring the fruity tang on her tongue, but the silken scarlet liquid had fiery depths that seared her throat.

‘Go steady with that stuff.’ Mac pointed to the fruit punch. ‘I saw a corporal tip a gallon of bourbon in there earlier.’

Vera laughed. ‘Stella, you’re a dark horse.’ She raised her eyebrows, lips pursed, and scanned the room, eyes like radar, homing in on a young airman taking to the dance floor with a land girl. ‘Didn’t I say we’d have a great night? That one over there’s mine.’ Vera winked, and Stella laughed when she saw the steely look in her eye.

‘Stella, would you like to dance?’ Mac held out his hand.

Her heart lifted with an unexpected buoyancy, only to fall like a bomb when she remembered Alex. ‘I can’t.’ Mac looked crestfallen for a moment, and her chest tightened. She sighed. Not a single letter for weeks. No whisperings of love, no promises made. Her heart squeezed as she recalled Alex’s last words: ‘I’d be lost without you.’ Two months had passed since he’d been posted to Lincoln.

‘Can’t or won’t?’ Mac’s gentle voice broke her reverie, and he gazed at her with one eyebrow raised.

‘Is there a difference?’

‘Sure. The former implies that something or someone is stopping you, whereas the latter means you don’t want to dance with me.’ His eyes flickered.

Stella’s heartbeat pounded in her ears. Lord help her, he was so handsome—the epitome of sophistication—and there was something about him that drew her close. As his intense eyes searched hers, the blood pulsed through her veins.

‘Go on.’ Vera laughed and gave her a gentle shove.

He held his hand out again. ‘Stella, I promise to take good care of you.’

Her name on his lips was a sweet melody, and the notes ricocheted down her spine. ‘I’m afraid I’m a little out of practice.’ As she took his hand, a spark zipped through her.

‘Well, the trick is to pretend you know what you’re doing.’ Mac’s gaze held hers, and he grinned as he led her to the dance floor.

The band struck up the next tune, ‘Moonlight Serenade’, and a female singer in a flowing white evening gown approached the microphone. Then, in a single fluid movement, Mac slipped his arm around Stella’s waist, and she tingled, catching her breath as his hand settled on the small of her back, his fingers outstretched as he guided her across the floor. The clarinet and saxophones resonated in harmony.

‘You don’t remember me, do you?’

She raised her chin and gazed into his eyes.

‘It was at the dance in Meldreth last month.’

The penny dropped. He’d asked her to dance, but she was there with Alex, so she’d turned him down. ‘I remember now.’ The singer’s voice, soft as silk, flowed throughout the hangar. Mac’s firm body pressed close to hers as they danced, and she welcomed his warmth as the throng of people around them faded into the distance. She glided like silk in his arms, and for the first time in a while, she felt alive and joyous, and the war faded into the background. The clarinettist rose to play a solo, and soft, velvety notes punctuated the air.

Stella raised her chin, and her eyes met Mac’s, and as the band played the final bars, musical notes soared to dizzy heights, then melted away as she lost herself in his gaze. Mac lifted her hand and pressed it to his lips before leading her to a seated area. No one had ever done that before or looked at her in that way, and all her nerve endings fizzed with anticipation.

Stella sank onto a chair and took a small sip of fruit punch, aware that Mac was watching her. She took a deep breath as she fought to steady her racing heart.

‘So, Stella, where are you based?’ He dragged his chair closer.

‘RAF Bourn, about seven miles north of here.’

‘Oh, yeah. I know it. So, what do you do when you’re not on duty?’ He leaned forward, and his eyes twinkled as they caught the light.

‘Nothing much, apart from shopping or walking, Lieutenant.’

‘Call me Mac,’ he said with a smile to soften his accent before draining his glass. ‘Sometimes I go walking or take a trip to the village here, but I still manage to get lost. It doesn’t help that there aren’t any signs.’ He laughed. ‘Maybe you could show me around sometime?’

Stella, caught unaware, paused. She longed to say yes, but then Alex’s grieving face flashed in her mind. The last time they met had filled her with dread, and she hoped he hadn’t done anything stupid. She swallowed as a hollowness opened up within her. The rumours. Vera was always right and had told her all about Alex’s little indiscretions months ago, but Stella couldn’t leave him. Not yet. He needed her.

‘I’m afraid there’s not much to see.’ As she spoke, Mac’s eyes never left hers, and she felt the heat rise in her cheeks. She swirled the drink in her glass and sipped the last of the punch, aware of him hanging on her every word.

His face lit up, a wicked smile playing on his lips. ‘I wouldn’t mind being lost with you.’

The air whooshed from her lungs as she desperately thought of what to say. To her relief, Mac took a silver cigarette case from his breast pocket and offered it to her. ‘Thanks.’ She leant in close for a light, their hands brushing. His skin was soft and warm, and a spark soared through her veins.

‘I’ve just realised that you talk different.’ He shot her an amused glance.

His gentle voice jolted her from her reverie. ‘So do you.’ She blew a cloud of smoke into the air.

‘What I mean is, you don’t sound like the locals.’

‘No, I live in the north of England.’ Stella was proud of her accent. Even when her parents had insisted on sending her to Durham High School for Girls, she had excelled in education but failed in elocution, much to her mother’s dismay. Her accent, perhaps subtle now, retained a gentle north-east lilt. ‘Whereabouts in America do you live?’

‘Montana. My folks have a cattle ranch, but I guess you’d call it a farm.’

‘It makes me think of cowboy films and John Wayne.’ It all sounded so far away, yet so exciting. She turned to face him more and crossed her legs in his direction.

Mac laughed. ‘Well, now, I don’t know any movie stars, but cowboys, that’s different.’ He drew on his cigarette. ‘My mother calls it God’s own country, and the mountains when they’re snowcapped—oh man, they’re beautiful. And vast, green plains all around.’ He leant back in his chair and stretched out his long legs. ‘A river winds through our land. My grandfather taught me to fish there when I was a boy. I swear he could catch anything.’ As Stella hung on every word, she glimpsed the emerging cowboy beneath the warrior and forgot all about her mother’s warning as his voice melted away her reservations.

‘Now, how about you tell me more about you?’ His piercing eyes held her gaze, asking, prompting.

‘There’s nothing much to say. I live in a rural town. No siblings. After dad passed away, my mother bought a shop, and I worked there before I joined up.’ She stubbed out her cigarette. In truth, there was a lot more to say, such as her mother hoping to hear wedding bells imminently as she pushed Stella closer to Alex.

Mac leaned forward and rested his elbow on the table. ‘Well, I’m mighty glad you came here tonight. I hoped I’d run into you again.’ A soft smile tugged at his mouth.

A warm glow rose from Stella’s neck to her cheeks, and the brief silence that followed made her feel even more self-conscious. ‘Do you enjoy flying, Mac?’ she asked, breaking the quiet.

His face lit up, and his eyes twinkled. ‘Well, now, I’ve loved it from the first time my father flew me up into the blue.’ He took a swig of his beer. ‘Dad was one of the first American pilots to see combat in the last war. When you consider the aircraft they had back then, he’s darn lucky to be alive.’ Mac gazed around the room with a faraway look in his eyes. ‘Yeah, real fortunate. Hey, listen to me yakking away.’

‘No, it’s fascinating, really. How old were you when you learned to fly?’ Stella sipped her punch.

‘Nine, and I remember it as if it were yesterday. Dad keeps a Curtiss Jenny out in one of the barns. It’s a light trainer aircraft, and man, she can fly. There’s nothing like it. My younger brother’s learning right now. He’s all set on joining the Air Force, but he’s only fifteen. I’d like to think this crazy war’s over before he gets a crack at it.’ He stubbed his cigarette out in the ashtray and began fidgeting with the brown watch strap on his wrist. ‘You should see it up there, the land shrinking as you climb, endless blue all around, and, at the right time, the sunrise or sunset dancing on the horizon. It sure is one vast ocean.’

‘It sounds lovely, but I’m afraid of heights. I don’t think I could do it.’ Stella shook her head. ‘I’d be terrified.’

‘You can’t say until you try. Clouds floating in the blue, like cotton candy.’ He grinned. ‘I’ll take you flying and prove it once this war’s over.’ He gave her a tentative glance. ‘And I promise you’ll love it. You’ll be safe with me.’ He winked.

He wasn’t going to take her anywhere. It was all talk, and after tonight she’d probably never see him again, but a part of her ached for it to be true while another part chided her for daring to want more.

‘How about another dance?’ Mac stood up and held out his hand.

The band struck up the first notes of We’ll Meet Again. Stella took his hand as he slipped his arm around her, guiding her towards him, his piercing blue eyes on hers as they fell into step once more. Her hand rested on his firm shoulder, and as they danced, her chin brushed his olive-green jacket, the fabric soft against her skin. The singer’s dulcet tones pierced all conversation, lulling them into silence.

Stella gazed up at Mac and lost herself for a moment, sinking into pools of blue. Only the present mattered as they moved to the music, close and swaying, their bodies utterly in tune.

His hold tightened, and she nestled her head against him, drinking in undertones of beer and cedarwood cologne. As the song ended and the final notes ebbed away, they stood, caught in the moment, as all around them, couples drifted away. Her skin prickled, and her heart fluttered as Mac took her hand and led her back to their table.

‘How about I get us another drink?’ His face broke into that killer smile as he touched her arm.

Stella nodded as a fresh tingle coursed through her as she watched him walk away. Everything was happening so fast, and her mind was in a whirl. It was wrong, and yet so right.

‘Room for one more?’ Vera sank into a chair, her cheeks as red as her lipstick, gasping for breath. ‘Penny for them.’

Stella sighed. ‘Sorry, I was miles away.’

‘Reckon he’s a keeper.’

Stella looked over at Mac, who met her gaze and winked. It was a certain smile, and she felt little flips in her tummy. ‘Vera, what am I going to do? What about Alex?’ She couldn’t lie to Mac.

‘It’ll be all right, Stell, you’ll see. Just go along with it for now. Have some fun for a change. Besides, Alex isn’t right for you.’

‘I know, you’re right. But he’s going through a difficult time.’

‘You already said, and I told you that Jenkins ran into him last week in a pub in Cambridge. It doesn’t matter how you dress it up; he doesn’t treat you right, and you know it.’

Vera’s words stung true. Why shouldn’t she have some fun? It was only one night. After all, who knew what tomorrow would bring? Her tummy flipped again as Mac strode towards her.

‘Here you go.’ He passed her a glass of punch.

‘Thank you.’ She took a small sip, the glass cool against her palm.

‘Say, Stella, would you like to take a walk?’

She paused. ‘All right.’ She took his outstretched hand, which enveloped hers in warmth.

Outside, their breath hung in the crisp, icy air. A light covering of snow had fallen, and a sparse sprinkling dusted the ground and the trucks. The creamy moon loomed large, and clouds were silhouetted against the glowing beacon as they sailed through the star-filled sky. Mac offered her a cigarette, and she leaned in for a light, raising her eyes to his. The music ceased, and a man’s voice drifted out over the microphone as he shushed the crowd and began the countdown. ‘Ten, nine, eight… Happy New Year!’ A cheer erupted, and ‘Auld Lang Syne’ bubbled out into the night.

‘Happy New Year, Stella.’

Mac’s eyes captured the soft glow of the moon as he took her hands and drew her towards him. Tentatively, he kissed her brow, and even though she knew it was wrong, it felt right.

‘You’re so beautiful,’ he murmured before kissing her on the lips, a soft, lingering kiss as he held her close, and when their lips finally parted, he brushed her cheek with his fingertips. ‘I’ve been waiting to do that all evening.’ He took her hands in his. ‘There’s something special about you, Stella.’

Was there? Alex never said so. A wave of tingling warmth coursed through her, and she longed to stay in his arms. But Alex. ‘We shouldn’t. I can’t.’ She stepped away, her hands slipping from his hold.

‘There’s that word again.’ Mac sighed. ‘We’re not doing any harm.’ He took a drag on his cigarette. ‘Don’t you like me? I sure like you. Knew it from the first moment I saw you.’

‘It’s not that. There’s someone else. He’s in the RAF.’ She watched as Mac’s face fell and the sparkle in his eyes dimmed.

‘Oh, I get it. The guy you were with at the other dance.’

‘Yes, Alex.’ Stella’s heart sank.

Since his friend’s bomber had crashed, Alex hadn’t been the same, and when she’d tried to persuade him to visit David at the burn’s unit, Alex had yelled at her and told her to mind her own business. It was as if he couldn’t deal with it. Then David died, and Alex begged her to stay with him. What sort of person would she be to give up on him so easily? Alex’s hands shook now when he tried to light a cigarette, and his eyes were like those of a hunted fox, wild and frantic. A forlorn tide swept through her. She was trapped, lost in a spiralling darkness.

‘Is it serious?’ Mac looked down at his feet. ‘From where I was standing, it didn’t look like anything much, seeing how he left you alone for most of the night.’

Stella stiffened. ‘You know nothing about it.’

Mac took a step towards her, his eyes widening. Those beguiling eyes had depths she could almost sink into. An ache gripped her chest as she tore her gaze away.

‘I should get back. It’s late.’

Mac threw his cigarette like a dart to the ground, grinding it beneath his shoe, but on the snow-covered ground, faint orange continued to glow.

Once they were back inside, Vera came rushing towards them through a sea of coloured balloons and a smoky haze. ‘I’m worn out. Any chance of a lift home, Mac? I don’t think I could bear the passion wagons a second time.’ She giggled.

‘I’d be happy to take you home.’ He glanced at Stella with a look that sought approval.

‘Vera, aren’t we supposed to go back with the others?’ Stella cast her friend a wide-eyed stare, but Vera took no notice.

‘I’ll take care of it. It’s not a problem.’ Mac met Stella’s glance; his lips pressed tight.

She felt the heat prick her cheeks. If only the ground could open up now and swallow her whole.

Outside, Mac turned his face to the midnight sky. ‘It’s a beautiful night for stargazing. You can see the Milky Way up there.’ He pointed to a hazy, large cluster of glowing, tiny white specks that flowed through the night sky. ‘When I was a kid, I spent night after night laying out on the grass, waiting for a glimpse of a shooting star.’

‘A stargazer?’ Vera arched an eyebrow and clambered into the front seat. ‘The only stars that interest me are on the screen. Lord, it’s freezing.’ She shivered, pulled her coat tighter, and stamped her feet in the footwell. ‘Bloomin’ winter, I hate it.’

‘I sure hope you ladies are good navigators. I make it a rule never to travel without one.’

‘Oh, you’ll be all right with us, won’t he, Stell?’ Vera winked at him.

Mac held his seat forward as Stella clambered into the back, then sprang into the driver’s seat. The jeep inched along the inky-black tree-lined lane. The dipped headlights, with their slotted covers and narrow beams of light, made little difference in visibility. ‘Jeez, I can hardly tell where the road is.’ Patches of silvery white flecked the hedgerows and verges and shimmered in the moonlight.

‘Some nights it’s so dark you’re bumping into people. Mind you, that’s not always a bad thing; it all depends on who you bump into.’ Vera flashed a wicked grin.

Mac laughed, his breath escaping as silver vapour.

‘This is my stop here.’ Vera pointed to a row of cottages on the left. ‘Ta for the lift.’ She paused and glanced at Stella. ‘See you tomorrow, love.’ She winked at Mac. ‘And don’t do anything I wouldn’t do, kid.’ She shimmied away.

‘What?’ Mac laughed. ‘You Brits sure talk funny. Say, Stella, hop in the front, and you can show me the way to your place.’

He held the passenger seat forward as she clambered out, and then, tentatively, she climbed into the front.

‘Carry on along here. It’s just a little further.’ Stella looked straight ahead, trying to avoid Mac’s gaze, but she sensed his sideways glances. When she caught a whisper of cedarwood in the night breeze, she drank it hungrily, desire flaring through her veins like a flame.

They crawled along the winding road, the wheels skidding on patches of ice when Mac took a corner too fast. ‘Lord knows how anyone can drive in this ink. Give me night-flying any day.’

When they reached the village of Bourn, Stella pointed to a row of houses on the left. ‘It’s just here. Lilac Cottage.’

‘Quaint name.’ He pulled up outside a small, detached, whitewashed house with a thatched roof.

Stella faced him. ‘Thanks for the lift.’ She tried to avoid his smouldering eyes as he edged closer. She shifted further away, her heart beating fast.

‘I had a good time tonight.’ Mac rested his arm on the back of her seat, his eyes meeting hers. The moon slipped behind the clouds, casting a shadow. ‘I sure wish things were different.’ He took her hand and brushed it with his lips. ‘Life’s what we make it.’

His touch was soft, with a rush of warm breath, and his thigh nudged Stella’s as he edged closer, setting her nerve endings aglow. She longed for his lips pressed against hers. Those soft, parted lips she now realised were closer as he leaned in towards her, and her breaths became more rapid, but she had to do what was right. She stiffened and turned away. ‘I should go. Thanks again for the lift and drive safe.’ She jumped out of the jeep and hurried up the path, aware of his eyes boring into her back. As she reached the front door, she turned. He was waiting, casually resting his arms on the steering wheel.

With his charismatic smile and a wave, he called out, ‘Don’t forget you said you’d take me sightseeing. I’m holding you to it.’

‘Wait. I never actually said…’

‘I’ll swing by two weeks today, say around eleven o’clock.’

The moon peeked out from behind the clouds as Stella met his gaze, her mouth open, poised to speak, but the breath caught in her throat as she fought for words.

‘See you next week, beautiful.’ With a mock salute and a broad grin, Mac drove away, and olive green melted into the darkness.

‘Sightseeing?’ Stella muttered. She closed the door and turned the black wrought-iron key in the lock. If only she hadn’t rushed off, then he would have kissed her. His soft lips on hers. She groaned as a wave of nervous excitement rippled through her, and her mouth curled up into a smile. There was nothing wrong with being friends. What harm could it do? The grandfather clock stood at the end of the hall, its brass pendulum swinging in rhythm like a metronome.

A doubting voice niggled at the back of her mind. It whispered she was dancing with temptation. Her mother had a saying for that. If you play with fire, you’ll get burned. Yet Mac had awoken something inside her. It existed as constant as the moon and the stars. As constant as the thin strip of blood-red ribbon on the briefing map that stretched from Cambridge to somewhere in occupied Europe.