were on the ball, he reckoned he should just about stay ahead of the late-season
snow.
He began singing softly to himself. It was one of his mother’s favourites. ‘Moonlight Becomes You . . .’
He was experiencing a sensation that had become familiar to him over the years, and he welcomed it as an old friend. An unmistakable, satisfying feeling.
Everything falling smoothly into place.
But it
had
been a tricky few months, he had to admit. That phone call to Diana last autumn when she was back at Girton had turned out to be somewhat premature, to say the least. It was
meant to be the opening move in his campaign to have an engagement ring on her finger by Christmas, but infuriatingly the war mucked all that up. Without notice, all leave was cancelled, and the
squadron flew endless training exercises and boring patrols up and down the Channel. Then January plunged the whole country into blizzards and the coldest winter anyone could remember. Driving all
the way to Cambridge was out of the question. He’d have needed a battle tank to get through. The big freeze lasted for weeks and weeks.
One bright spot was that Diana had returned his phone call (that very same evening, in fact – an encouraging sign) and they’d had a most agreeable chat. James had long ago discovered
that girls were flattered to be asked questions about themselves and he had shown great interest in Diana’s life in the university town. He’d managed to make her laugh, too, and
she’d ended up happily accepting his suggestion that he motor up to Cambridge the very next weekend, to take her to dinner.
Cancelled leave had put paid to that. He’d had to telephone another message, explaining. Then came the atrocious weather. He’d never known such a run of bad luck. Of course,
he’d written some letters to Diana to keep the pot boiling, as it were, and her replies were friendly enough, but he could hardly move matters forward in any significant way until he saw her
again.
He had thought he might get his chance at Christmas – the Arnolds had invited him to spend it with them at the Dower House – but the squadron ‘leave lottery’ scuppered
that, too. To his fury he drew one of the short straws. So he’d been stuck in Upminster with the other saps and losers while John Arnold went down to Kent alone. Another lousy break. It was
maddening. If he hadn’t had the delightful distraction of that shop-girl over the last couple of months, he’d have gone up the wall.
But now it was the first week of April 1940, and finally, he’d got his leave. He was back in control. Doing what he did best.
James Blackwell always made his own luck.
18
As the MG spluttered its way towards Cambridge, John Arnold was on his motor bike going in the opposite direction, headed for the Dower House. He had a two-day pass too, his
first leave since Christmas. Gwen was longing to see her son again, and although her husband affected nonchalance, secretly he was too. When they’d spoken over the phone a day or so earlier,
Oliver casually asked if John might be able to get off camp and come down to Kent – ‘your mother’s missing you rather badly, you know, old son’ – and his heart had
leaped at the reply: ‘Actually, yes, I think I can. Tell Mum I’ll try and get there for the weekend.’
John’s parents had gradually become reconciled to his role as a fighter pilot. He didn’t seem to be in any immediate danger. In fact, this war was developing into more of an
inconvenience than a desperate struggle for survival. A few days after New Year, butter, bacon and sugar had been rationed, but that was an irritant, not a cause for despair. Now petrol was
‘on points’, but that seemed manageable enough too.
There had been a few skirmishes in the air, none of them involving John or James’s squadron, and some incidents at sea, but neither side had attempted a lethal thrust. The old battlefields
of France and Belgium were dormant and safely
snow.
He began singing softly to himself. It was one of his mother’s favourites. ‘Moonlight Becomes You . . .’
He was experiencing a sensation that had become familiar to him over the years, and he welcomed it as an old friend. An unmistakable, satisfying feeling.
Everything falling smoothly into place.
But it
had
been a tricky few months, he had to admit. That phone call to Diana last autumn when she was back at Girton had turned out to be somewhat premature, to say the least. It was
meant to be the opening move in his campaign to have an engagement ring on her finger by Christmas, but infuriatingly the war mucked all that up. Without notice, all leave was cancelled, and the
squadron flew endless training exercises and boring patrols up and down the Channel. Then January plunged the whole country into blizzards and the coldest winter anyone could remember. Driving all
the way to Cambridge was out of the question. He’d have needed a battle tank to get through. The big freeze lasted for weeks and weeks.
One bright spot was that Diana had returned his phone call (that very same evening, in fact – an encouraging sign) and they’d had a most agreeable chat. James had long ago discovered
that girls were flattered to be asked questions about themselves and he had shown great interest in Diana’s life in the university town. He’d managed to make her laugh, too, and
she’d ended up happily accepting his suggestion that he motor up to Cambridge the very next weekend, to take her to dinner.
Cancelled leave had put paid to that. He’d had to telephone another message, explaining. Then came the atrocious weather. He’d never known such a run of bad luck. Of course,
he’d written some letters to Diana to keep the pot boiling, as it were, and her replies were friendly enough, but he could hardly move matters forward in any significant way until he saw her
again.
He had thought he might get his chance at Christmas – the Arnolds had invited him to spend it with them at the Dower House – but the squadron ‘leave lottery’ scuppered
that, too. To his fury he drew one of the short straws. So he’d been stuck in Upminster with the other saps and losers while John Arnold went down to Kent alone. Another lousy break. It was
maddening. If he hadn’t had the delightful distraction of that shop-girl over the last couple of months, he’d have gone up the wall.
But now it was the first week of April 1940, and finally, he’d got his leave. He was back in control. Doing what he did best.
James Blackwell always made his own luck.
18
As the MG spluttered its way towards Cambridge, John Arnold was on his motor bike going in the opposite direction, headed for the Dower House. He had a two-day pass too, his
first leave since Christmas. Gwen was longing to see her son again, and although her husband affected nonchalance, secretly he was too. When they’d spoken over the phone a day or so earlier,
Oliver casually asked if John might be able to get off camp and come down to Kent – ‘your mother’s missing you rather badly, you know, old son’ – and his heart had
leaped at the reply: ‘Actually, yes, I think I can. Tell Mum I’ll try and get there for the weekend.’
John’s parents had gradually become reconciled to his role as a fighter pilot. He didn’t seem to be in any immediate danger. In fact, this war was developing into more of an
inconvenience than a desperate struggle for survival. A few days after New Year, butter, bacon and sugar had been rationed, but that was an irritant, not a cause for despair. Now petrol was
‘on points’, but that seemed manageable enough too.
There had been a few skirmishes in the air, none of them involving John or James’s squadron, and some incidents at sea, but neither side had attempted a lethal thrust. The old battlefields
of France and Belgium were dormant and safely
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