Bluebirds by Margaret Mayhew Page B

arm. ‘Not a real ship. A pub. First class little place down on the coast not far from here – right bang on the harbour. Very picturesque, as they say in guidebooks. I’ll take you there. You’ll love it. Jolly good grub and booze and cosy little corners . . .’ He gave a sudden groan. ‘Oh God, there’s old Whitters making faces at me. Wants to meet you. I suppose I’ll have to take you over and share you around a bit. Don’t let any of ’em fool you, though. Terrible line shooters.’
    Felicity allowed herself to be dragged across to the noisy group behind and to be introduced to Whitters, Dumbo, Sinbad and Moses. Flying Officer Whittaker was tall and gangling and his wide grin showed two badly chipped front teeth. He looked like an overgrown schoolboy, with an energetic eagerness to match. His hands wove patterns in the air as he resumed the story he had been recounting.
    â€˜So, there I was, screaming downhill, going full bore, when all of a sudden there’s one hell of a bang and the old kite starts bouncing around like a bucking bronco. I sit there, hand frozen on the stick, hardly a dicky birdleft on the clock, eyes tight shut, preparing to meet my Maker, when, blow me, she pulls out of it, meek as a lamb . . . and I open the old peepers just as I miss this church tower –’
    â€˜Norman or Early English Perpendicular?’
    â€˜Don’t know much about that sort of thing, Sinbad. I’m not an egghead like you. It was sort of square and looked as though it had been there a fairish time . . . where was I?’
    â€˜Missing the church tower.’
    â€˜Thank you, Speedy. And by a whisker, I can tell you. Knocked off the weather vane clean as a whistle. And there’s all these people running about in the graveyard and hiding behind tombstones . . . Sunday morning, you see, so I suppose it was matins. And there’s the parson shaking his fist up at me and flapping his cassock like an old hen –’
    â€˜Surplice, Whitters, old chum.’
    â€˜I must say I did rather get the impression that I was a bit, Moses.’
    â€˜No, you’ve got the wrong word, you clot. You mean his
surplice
, not his cassock. A cassock’s that long black job they wear underneath, so he couldn’t have been flapping that. Must have been his surplice – the white pinny thing with big sleeves.’
    â€˜That was it. Amazing what you know, Moses. Flapped them both like anything. Looked as though he was trying to take off.’
    â€˜I expect he was a bit upset about his weathervane, Whitters. Wanted to come up and tell you about it.’
    â€˜He may have been, I grant you, Dumbo. Actually, I think they thought I was a Jerry, or something. Anyway, I gave them all a wave to show I was friendly and waggled the old wings before I popped off. Damn close shave, though.’
    The short one called Sinbad said airily: ‘Reminds me of the time I had a rather close encounter with Lincoln Cathedral . . .’
    Speedy sighed deeply. He said in Felicity’s ear: ‘Don’t say I didn’t warn you about them.’
    She laughed. Their good humour and high spirits were very infectious and she felt better than she had felt at any time since she arrived at Colston – surrounded by these incorrigible young men with their absurd nicknames.
    Speedy was squeezing her arm again and whispering once more in her ear. ‘Don’t forget our date. The Old Ship. First evening we can manage it.’ He raised his voice. ‘I saw her first, Whitters, so you can buzz off!’
    Amid the laughter and Whitters’ protests, Felicity suddenly caught sight of Wing Commander Palmer’s cold eye upon her across the room.
    â€˜And this is a Marshal of the Royal Air Force.’
    The airwomen, sitting in a darkened lecture room, stared at the picture projected onto the screen of an RAF cap