The Colours of Love by Rita Bradshaw Page B

to his feet – ‘I’d give you a medal.’
    A weak smile touched Monty’s face. ‘That’s all right then.’
    ‘You can’t afford yourself the luxury of remorse or regret or pity – it’s distracting and worthless. If that enemy plane could have taken you, it would have. Any of us who survive this war will have to put the feelings connected with it in a box and keep the lid shut down, and the way you’re feeling now is a perfect example. It doesn’t matter what you felt when you shot the plane down – only that you did it.’
    Monty was shocked. ‘Do you really mean that?’
    ‘I’m a medical officer, and I was a GP before the war. I’m no psychiatrist, I admit, but for what it’s worth, this navel-gazing isn’t an option. You can do all the forgiving – and whatnot – you want after we’ve won the war, for now you take the so-an’-sos down at every opportunity you get, and to hell with your motives. All right?’
    Strangely, it helped. Monty stood up, wiping his hand tiredly across his face before he said, ‘I could do with some of Lionel’s burnt sausages and overcooked eggs.’
    ‘Don’t forget his cindered toast. It’s an art form to get it that way.’ The SMO grinned and then his face sobered. ‘There’ll be those who come through this, Monty – believe you are one of them. You’re married, aren’t you? Any kids?’
    ‘No. We decided we’d wait until we knew what we were bringing them into.’
    ‘Well, for your future kids, believe you’re invincible, and that you are the good guy. And for what it’s worth, I think you are.’
    Esther’s letter came in that morning’s post. He was lying with some companions on the grass at the edge of the airfield, listening to the nearby song of birds as the drugging effects of sleep took hold. The sun was high in a cloudless blue sky, and on the perimeter of his consciousness he could hear the others talking about the morning’s raid, but he was deep in the pleasant land of inertia.
    The screeching brake-drums of the tea wagon intruded on his drowsiness, and he was dimly aware of willing figures jumping up to help unload the heavy thermos flasks of tea and plates of elevenses, courtesy of the much-maligned Lionel and his kitchen staff. Rolling over onto his stomach, Monty shielded his eyes from the sun as someone called, ‘Letters here for Croft, Lee and Grant.’ He and Esther had agreed that ‘Wynford-Grant’ was for civilian life rather than the RAF.
    Hoping the letter was from Esther rather than from his mother or friends, he raised his hand, shouting, ‘Grant.’
    It was her handwriting. He smiled, sitting up and slitting the envelope open as his heart raced. Just seeing the familiar, somewhat untidy scrawl was balm to his soul. As someone passed him a mug of tea he took it automatically, unfolding the contents of the envelope and smoothing the paper out:
    Dear Monty,
    I so wish I could tell you this in person, my darling, but needs must. Remember our first time on the moor, with the perfume of summer in the air and the birds and bees for company? Well, the birds and bees must have worked their magic, because I’m expecting our baby. I know it wasn’t what we had planned, and it will be a surprise – if not a shock – but I hope you will be pleased. Perhaps there is no right time to become parents, my beloved? Perhaps these things happen when they should, and are for a purpose. I love you and I already love our baby, so very much.
    I’m staying on at the farm, but Mrs Holden is seeing to it that I have light work; in fact she is clucking around me like a mother hen, which is rather nice, truth be told! The girls are being wonderful too, although Farmer Holden tutted a bit and would have had me shipped home, if it wasn’t for his wife. I would have hated that, Monty: months of my father being around, although I know I’ll have to go home before the baby is born. My mother would expect it, and it will be nice to be with her at such