for you, Miss Arnold. No, I can manage this all right, thanks very much. There’s a message for you, miss.’ He nodded to a table by the door.
‘It’s on that slip of paper there. Gentleman telephoned about an hour ago. Wants you to call him back. Drat this thing, I can’t get it to close properly . . .’
While the porter grumbled, Diana picked up the piece of paper with her name and a telephone number neatly written on it and, underneath, the briefest of scripts.
Flt Cmndr Blackwell. C/O Officers’ Mess, Upminster. Please call back.
16
The battered MG Midget pulled up at the camp gate so its driver could show his pass to the guard. James Blackwell had managed to wangle two days’ leave, which he reckoned
would be enough to take care of everything, for now anyway.
He’d saved up as many petrol coupons as he could for this trip – tricky, as they expired soon after issue to discourage hoarding – but he’d had to shell out for a couple
of black-market jerry cans of fuel, all the same. He calculated he’d have just about enough to get him to Cambridge and back, if he went easy on the throttle. Not that the 1932 convertible
could do much more than forty without feeling like it was going to shake itself to pieces. It had been a long time since the car had come anywhere close to the 78mph top speed it was originally
capable of. Black smoke from leaking cylinder gaskets billowed behind the two-seater every time he pulled away from traffic lights. It was embarrassing.
Christmas was long gone and the little car’s canvas top had been up since October. But the fit was poor and it was freezing inside, with a constant forced draught of cold air rushing
underneath the tatty, patched-up hood.
James loathed his car. It symbolised everything he wanted to leave behind him. That included the girl who was about to receive an unexpected visit.
Jane Timming worked in the dress shop in Upminster High Street. She had a flair for designing and making women’s clothes. Even now, barely seven months into the war, material was becoming
scarce, but Jane could work wonders with the bits and pieces she picked up cheap from jumble sales. She had a good ‘eye’ – she’d even taken a sewing needle to her new
boyfriend’s already exquisitely tailored RAF uniform, telling him that one side of the expensively cinched-in waist didn’t quite match the other. She’d been right. The jacket now
fitted perfectly.
Jane had met her flight commander at a dance at the aerodrome. She’d seen him notice her the moment she walked into the hall, and he went straight up to her, just like that. Normally, boys
were shy to begin with. They eyed her up from a safe distance, intimidated by her beauty: the glossy, dark brunette hair and the large saucer-shaped hazel eyes. Even the most confident lads
stuttered and blushed when they finally got up the nerve to speak to her.
James Blackwell hadn’t been like that at all. He’d taken her hand – without so much as a by-your-leave – and bowed, ever so slightly.
‘There’s something I’ve got to tell you straight away.’ He’d spoken so quietly that she had to lean in close to him to catch the words. ‘You must be the
prettiest girl I’ve ever seen in my whole life. You simply
have
to dance with me.’
He’d led her to the centre of the floor, introducing himself when they got there. ‘I’m James, by the way. James Blackwell.’ And then he had kissed the back of her hand,
just like in the films. No one had ever done that to her before. You’d think it might be a bit – well,
corny,
as the Yanks said, but it wasn’t at all. It was lovely. She
felt as if she’d been asked to dance by a prince, really she did.
Since then, she’d seen him at least twice a week. He took her to the pictures, or drove her out into the Essex countryside in his sweet little sports car. None of her previous boyfriends
had had a car. They’d had to catch the bus or walk to wherever they were
‘It’s on that slip of paper there. Gentleman telephoned about an hour ago. Wants you to call him back. Drat this thing, I can’t get it to close properly . . .’
While the porter grumbled, Diana picked up the piece of paper with her name and a telephone number neatly written on it and, underneath, the briefest of scripts.
Flt Cmndr Blackwell. C/O Officers’ Mess, Upminster. Please call back.
16
The battered MG Midget pulled up at the camp gate so its driver could show his pass to the guard. James Blackwell had managed to wangle two days’ leave, which he reckoned
would be enough to take care of everything, for now anyway.
He’d saved up as many petrol coupons as he could for this trip – tricky, as they expired soon after issue to discourage hoarding – but he’d had to shell out for a couple
of black-market jerry cans of fuel, all the same. He calculated he’d have just about enough to get him to Cambridge and back, if he went easy on the throttle. Not that the 1932 convertible
could do much more than forty without feeling like it was going to shake itself to pieces. It had been a long time since the car had come anywhere close to the 78mph top speed it was originally
capable of. Black smoke from leaking cylinder gaskets billowed behind the two-seater every time he pulled away from traffic lights. It was embarrassing.
Christmas was long gone and the little car’s canvas top had been up since October. But the fit was poor and it was freezing inside, with a constant forced draught of cold air rushing
underneath the tatty, patched-up hood.
James loathed his car. It symbolised everything he wanted to leave behind him. That included the girl who was about to receive an unexpected visit.
Jane Timming worked in the dress shop in Upminster High Street. She had a flair for designing and making women’s clothes. Even now, barely seven months into the war, material was becoming
scarce, but Jane could work wonders with the bits and pieces she picked up cheap from jumble sales. She had a good ‘eye’ – she’d even taken a sewing needle to her new
boyfriend’s already exquisitely tailored RAF uniform, telling him that one side of the expensively cinched-in waist didn’t quite match the other. She’d been right. The jacket now
fitted perfectly.
Jane had met her flight commander at a dance at the aerodrome. She’d seen him notice her the moment she walked into the hall, and he went straight up to her, just like that. Normally, boys
were shy to begin with. They eyed her up from a safe distance, intimidated by her beauty: the glossy, dark brunette hair and the large saucer-shaped hazel eyes. Even the most confident lads
stuttered and blushed when they finally got up the nerve to speak to her.
James Blackwell hadn’t been like that at all. He’d taken her hand – without so much as a by-your-leave – and bowed, ever so slightly.
‘There’s something I’ve got to tell you straight away.’ He’d spoken so quietly that she had to lean in close to him to catch the words. ‘You must be the
prettiest girl I’ve ever seen in my whole life. You simply
have
to dance with me.’
He’d led her to the centre of the floor, introducing himself when they got there. ‘I’m James, by the way. James Blackwell.’ And then he had kissed the back of her hand,
just like in the films. No one had ever done that to her before. You’d think it might be a bit – well,
corny,
as the Yanks said, but it wasn’t at all. It was lovely. She
felt as if she’d been asked to dance by a prince, really she did.
Since then, she’d seen him at least twice a week. He took her to the pictures, or drove her out into the Essex countryside in his sweet little sports car. None of her previous boyfriends
had had a car. They’d had to catch the bus or walk to wherever they were
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