The Missing Pilot

"Oh, Johnny," I said, blinking back tears again. "How awful, how perfectly awful." Just hearing his voice, listening to the rhythm of his words reminded me how much I'd missed him.

He patted my arm. "Well, that's just how my luck had turned. The freighter had a crew of Scottish boys, all fishermen from one of the islands who'd joined the merchant navy together. They were bound for Halifax in Canada, but they'd got separated from their convoy by engine trouble. The skipper decided their chances of getting back to Glasgow and then setting off again with a different convoy weren't as good as just going on alone. So, with me along for the ride we steamed straight for Canada and, wouldn't you know it, we didn't see another soul the whole way. As smooth a trip as you could ask for. Of course, we hadn't been making radio transmissions to avoid attracting attention, so it wasn't until we were safely in harbour that I could get in touch with the Admiralty and let them know I was okay after all."

"Why didn't they let your parents know?" I asked. "We all thought you were still missing."

Johnny grinned. "Well that's the strangest thing of the whole saga. Turns out there was another Johnny Young on the Swan, an engine stoker or something, who'd luckily been picked up by a destroyer and arrived in Halifax the day before I did. When my Scottish pals transmitted the good news of my safe arrival to the Navy, they forgot to include my rank and service number and the Admiralty just assumed it was the other Johnny Young. I waited in port for my orders, which never came, of course, and when the freighter was preparing to depart I thought to myself, you know what, I should just get back to Blighty and straighten everything out. Stuck over on the wrong side of the pond there's always a risk they'll assign you to a training job, anyway. So I jumped back on the freighter and in a flash, I'm in Glasgow again. Still without orders, I said to myself, why not have a few days of well-deserved leave before I let anyone in authority know I'm back. They'll hardly miss me, after all."

I couldn't help but laugh. That was so Johnny. Never a stickler for the rules and regulations. "How did you know I was here?" I asked, still reeling from his incredible story of survival.

He blushed slightly. "I kept your letters in my breast pocket when I was flying," he admitted, patting his tunic. "Couldn't bear to leave them in my cabin, for some reason. They got thoroughly drenched in the sea, of course, but you'd mentioned how charming Kelmingsdale Hall was, and when I asked around in Glasgow I found a Geordie chap who knew this area well. A train to Newcastle and a bit of hitchhiking, and, well, here I am. I'll admit I hadn't expected to do the last leg on a vicar's bicycle, but since we were both coming here I said I'd pedal and he could sit on the back. When I explained who I was, and who you were, though, he seemed to remember he didn't need to come here after all and walked back into town."

I giggled. "Reverend Hawkswell. He was supposed to be talking to me about the Easter flowers."

Johnny laughed. He'd always had a good laugh: he loved telling his stories, but he loved hearing them too, and he was the most appreciative audience around with his loud laugh and honest face. I felt like I loved him so much in that moment that I could have burst. I had thought I'd never hear that laugh again.

"I hadn't expected you to be out, though, so that was a bit of a spanner in the works. The woman from that desk, Mrs Lawton or something, said she'd fetch you, though," he said.

"Mrs Lawson," I corrected him automatically. "You've reminded me, though, I am supposed to be going back, I only have an hour."

"Oh, come on, Ava," Johnny said, grabbing my hand. "I've crossed the Atlantic twice to get here, surely I can have more than an hour?"

"I can request some leave, maybe," I started, lamely, but Johnny stood up suddenly.

"Ava Sandfield, I'm taking you into town for dinner tonight even if I have to kidnap you," he declared, pulling me to my feet. "Let's go now before anyone notices."

I shook my head vigorously. "I can't go looking like this," I told him, gesturing at my muddy work overalls. "And I'll get into trouble."

He didn't reply, he just stepped forwards, put his arms on my waist and kissed me. I was overwhelmed in an instant by his familiar smell, that mix of soap and cigarettes and masculinity which I hadn't known I'd been missing but suddenly realised I had. His stubble was hard and scratchy but his lips were soft and I melted into him, his body pressed hard against mine, right there in the middle of the drawing room at Kelmingsdale Hall.

"Go and get ready," he said when he pulled back from the kiss, still holding me. "Twenty minutes."

I nodded, and the instant he released me I kissed him again, on the cheek, getting another rush of his scent, then I fled upstairs to my room. I felt elated, like a schoolgirl on the day of the Sunday school treat, full of fizzy bubbles and excited squeals. What I really wanted was a bath, but there was no time, so as quickly as I could I made do with a splash from the handbasin. Again, doing my hair would take too long, so I had to make do with brushing it out and using a strategically placed ribbon, tied in a bow, to hide the kink where I'd tied it up.

Clothing was the hardest part to sort out. If we were going into town, then I needed to dress smartly, but I hadn't bothered bringing my smartest dresses with me from home, thinking I'd have no need of them. I had to resort to my Sunday dress that I'd worn that morning, but that also involved changing completely out of all of my clothes and starting again, with corset, girdle and stockings. It was a palaver, especially squeezing my disgustingly oversized breasts into the corset and trying to get my dress to sit properly on top without looking like I was smuggling turnips. What I would have given in that moment for a slim, petite figure like Tooley or Lucy.

There was no time for proper makeup and my mother had always said that hastily-applied makeup was worse than nothing at all, so I kept it to a minimum and checked my appearance in my pocket mirror. I'd brushed up well for a twenty minute rush, I thought. Johnny seemed to think so, too: when I reached the bottom of the stairs and met him in the hall, he looked at me with awe.

"You look even more beautiful than I remember," he said, wholly seriously, and I could feel tears coming again.

"Oh, hush," I said, and he held out his arm for me to take. "I'm wearing a coat, hat and gloves, don't tell me that gets your heart racing."

He laughed, squeezing my arm as I linked it with his. "I spent weeks at sea with a group of Scotch fishermen, just the sight of someone not wearing oilskins gets my heart racing," he joked. "Just steer clear of fishnets."

Mercifully there was no sign of Mrs Lawson as Johnny pedalled us away down the road towards town. Deliberately leaving without permission added a frisson of naughtiness to the proceedings, like playing truant from school. I couldn't stop myself from keeping a lookout in case we passed anyone who would know that I ought not to be leaving the Hall, but there was nobody out on the road and the further we got, the more relaxed I felt.

Johnny left the bicycle tied to the bus stop in the town, and was going to leave word with the landlord of the local pub to keep an eye on it until he realised that Reverend Hawkswell himself was propping up the bar. With that problem solved, and half a crown left behind the bar as thanks, Johnny paid for us to get the bus into the big town about ten miles away. It was a real thrill being on the arm of a man in uniform again. Crusty old men who wouldn't normally have looked up from their newspapers were giving Johnny appreciative nods, and housewives with baskets of knitting fussed to make sure we had two seats together.

By the time we got into the town it was already dusk, and being a Sunday what few places were open were already retreating behind the blackout. I began to wonder whether this had been such a good idea, and whether it might have been better to just stick to the rules and meet up properly when we both had leave. This was compounded when the only place that seemed to be open and serving dinner, the Royal Hotel, was fully booked.

"Sorry, sir," the maitre'd said, an older gentleman in a shabby suit. "We've absolutely no tables available. It is St. Valentine's Day, after all, we advised booking well in advance."

I tugged Johnny's elbow but he just stepped forwards, allowing the low, romantic candlelight that was lighting the hotel to illuminate his pilot's wings.

"I wouldn't normally ask, old chap, but I'm on twenty-four hour's leave and this time tomorrow I'll be back on board ship. Don't let me disappoint my lovely lady, here," he asked, and I spotted the glint of a shilling in his fingers.

The maitre'd took the coin without changing his expression at all. "Let me see what I can do, sir," he said, turning and walking through into the restaurant. I clung to Johnny, impressed by how smoothly he'd done it but feeling a little left behind by how he'd changed. The old Johnny would have given in and we'd probably have eaten in a dingy pub somewhere.

"This way, sir, madam," the maitre'd said when he returned. "We've had a cancellation." There was the slightest smile on his face as he led us to a small table in the window, and Johnny thanked him.

It seemed like an eternity since I'd been out to eat at a restaurant like this, and although the food was nothing particularly special, there was wine and a woman in an evening dress playing the piano and it just felt a world away from Mr Linton's ditches.

"Tell me all about what you've been up to," Johnny said when we'd finished dessert, both feeling satisfied and full. He lit a cigarette as a waiter poured coffee from a jug. "It's been so long since I had a letter from you."

"Oh, life is just the same dreary carry-on it's always been," I told him. "We're out every day in all weathers, and at this time of year it's all the mucky jobs, digging and doing fences and so on."

Johnny smiled. "I admire how hard you work with it all," he told me. "If I hadn't seen you this afternoon in those muddy overalls I don't think I'd believe you had it in you."

I giggled. "I don't think I really believe it, either. It's so much nicer in the spring, when there's the lambs to feed and crops to sow and summer to look forward to."

"I tell all the chaps about what you do, they're amazed," Johnny went on. "Their girlfriends are all WAAFs or something, and nice as they are, I tell them, give me a girl who's been mucking out a pigsty any day."

"You wouldn't tell them that if you'd smelt the pigsties," I told him with a smile. "You have to bathe twice to get the smell off you."

"You don't say," Johnny said, looking interested. "Maybe it's just me, but there's something so... attractive about a girl who can really work hard like that."

I felt my face getting hot. "We do our best," I said, modestly, meeting his eyes for a moment before staring furiously at my coffee cup.

"I missed you so much, Ava," Johnny said, reaching across the table and taking my hand. "I know it sounds cliché but it really does make everything so much easier to bear, knowing I can come back to you."

I squeezed his hand. "We were all so worried about you," I said, in little more than a whisper. "When I heard you were missing, I..."

Johnny looked pained. "It's such a bloody business," he said, taking a long drag on his cigarette. "Half of the boys they post as missing are boys they definitely know are dead, and the other half are safe and sound in German prisoner-of-war camps or something. You never know what to believe when you hear it, and then the government goes around trying to hush everything up and making it worse..."

I shushed him gently. "You don't know who might be listening," I reminded him.

Johnny nodded. "Yes, of course. It's hard to adjust to being back in the civilian world."

"Have you spoken to your parents?" I asked.

"Telephoned this morning. Mother was in floods of tears, of course."

I smiled. I could see the scene in my mind's eye.

"I expect they'll write to you to tell you I'm okay. I told them I would see them in a couple of days but that travel was difficult. I didn't say I was seeing you."

I felt my heart beat a little faster. "So nobody else knows you're here?" I asked.

"No, Ava, and that's how I want it, at least for tonight. Just the two of us."

We kissed again on the street at the corner of the hotel, hidden in the darkness of the blackout. I felt myself tense as someone walked past, almost close enough to reach out and touch, but in the gloom they never saw us and Johnny held me close.

"I don't want to leave," he murmured in my ear as we embraced.

"We must at least catch the last bus, otherwise we'll be stranded here," I said, trying to remain sensible considering the situation. He kissed me again and I wished I didn't have to.

"You're right," he conceded. "Come on. There's plenty more dark corners for us to hide in."

The bus was empty but for a woman who looked like a waitress, similar age to me, who sat at the very front, nearest the driver. She cast envious looks at Johnny and I as we boarded and walked past her, sitting at the back.

"You look divine tonight," Johnny whispered to me as the bus set off, his arm around me.

"You can barely see me," I replied, giggling, but he shifted in his seat slightly and I felt his fingers brushing my knee. He gently caught hold of the hem of my dress and held it for a moment, then his fingers slid underneath. Carefully, I reached down and pushed his hand back down and off my knee, but he was persistent and I felt his fingers on my stockings again, now simply sitting on top of my knee, but enough of his hand was underneath the fabric of my dress that the motivation was clear.

I could feel myself blushing. The bus was dark, the interior unlit, and there was no way anyone could possibly see us. But it still felt wrong to be doing this on a public bus, even though all Johnny was doing was holding my knee. The girl sitting at the front turned her head, just to look out of the window, but the movement spooked me and I pushed Johnny's hand away again.

We rode in silence for a few minutes, the bus following the winding country lane, disorientating in the dark. Self-consciously, I smoothed my dress over my leg again. I could feel Johnny next to me, sitting close, his arm still around me, his body's warmth welcome as the temperature fell. He took me by surprise when he leant in close and kissed my neck, the tiniest chink of which was exposed between the collar of my coat and my jawbone. I let out a tiny gasp and then looked around, expecting someone to react, but whatever noise I made was drowned out by the drone of the bus's engine.

"I adore you, Ava," Johnny whispered again, his hand brushing my leg. I stiffened, and he held me closer. "Just relax," he added.

"Not on the bus," I said, between my teeth, reaching down to knock his hand away.

"Darling, nobody can see," Johnny replied. "I want to make the most of every second I have with you."

I knew if I stopped pushing him away he would... begin to take liberties. We'd kissed, of course, many times before, and there had been a couple of lingering embraces and wandering fingers which hinted at more intimate adventures to come, but I felt that those adventures should be kept between a married couple. However, as the bus wound on through the darkness, I breathed in his smell, felt his chest rising and falling against my arm, and I wondered. I couldn't deny that I felt attracted to him, especially in his uniform and after six weeks apart, and when he'd been listed as missing I had felt a brief regret that we hadn't shared more intimacy together. After all, I'd sincerely wished that we had been married, and what was the difference, really?

In the morning Johnny would be gone, back down to Birmingham to see his parents, and I might not see him again for weeks or months. Or maybe ever: the story of his narrow escape had vividly illustrated to me just how fine the line was between survival and death for men like him. Would it really be so bad if we had one night together? They said that wartime meant adapting to new things, after all.

When Johnny's hand brushed my leg again, I didn't push him away. He noticed when he put his hand on my knee and still I did nothing. I looked stiffly out of the window, trying to count trees in the weak moonlight and keep my nerves under control. As if to test the waters, Johnny kissed my cheek gently and slid his fingers a few inches up under my skirt, sliding over my stocking, over the sensitive skin on my inner thigh and almost tickling me. But I made sure I didn't react.

Then his fingers reached the top of my stocking and he touched my bare skin. Almost instinctively, I pushed my thighs tight together, squeezing his hand between them, and he withdrew, taking this as a rebuke. I chastised myself. I had actually been enjoying it, willing his hand to move upwards, loving the sensations, but years of conditioning about what a nice girl did and did not let a boyfriend do had taken over at the last second.

Johnny kissed me again, lighter this time, but his hand didn't return. I knew he'd probably try again in a few minutes, but the bus journey wouldn't last forever. Steeling myself, I slid my hand over to him, and he responded by opening his hand and holding mine, thinking that was what I wanted. But I let go of him and took hold of his wrist, and, with a deep breath, I put his hand firmly back on my thigh.

He made a sharp intake of breath. I kept looking out of the window, too embarrassed to look at him. At first he didn't move, and I could feel my hand shaking slightly as I let go of him and returned my hand to my lap. Unexpectedly, instead of moving up my inner thigh again, his hand slid over and outwards, towards my hip, and I realised he was pushing my dress upwards. I didn't stop him, even when his hand ran over my bare thigh and up to my girdle. Unable to contain my curiosity, I stopped looking out of the window and glanced down. Even in the darkness, I could see that the tops of my stockings were exposed, now. With a flush of pleasure and shame I looked down the length of the bus, the public bus I was sitting on, exposed like this. Johnny's hand returned to my inner thigh, caressing now, moving ceaselessly, and with a careful movement I spread my thighs.

It was such a wanton act that I could have died of shame. But it had also lit a fire in me, a burning desire to do more. Johnny kissed me again, his hand moving firmly upwards from my soft inner thighs to my knickers. I let out an involuntary gasp as his fingers pressed into me, surprised to discover quite how good I suddenly felt. He was pressing slightly too hard and digging into me, though, so I used my new-found confidence and put my hand on his, guiding him to the right spot between my legs. His finger pressed down firmly onto my clit through my knickers and I gasped again.

At his touch I was irresistibly transported back to the long, hot June of 1940 and the house of a girl named Rosa Kingsley. I was standing in their narrow upstairs landing, shivering despite the warm weather, as I was wearing nothing at all except a towel wrapped around me. This was the house opposite ours in Castle Bromwich, and she and her parents were all dark-haired and dark-eyed, in contrast to my blonde family. We'd been to the same school and although we weren't necessarily close friends, we were friendly and we'd played in the street a lot as children. Rosa was very attractive and she'd had a string of boyfriends ever since leaving school, whereas I was more sheltered and something of a late bloomer when it came to boys and sex. My Methodist father had never even mentioned the topic in my presence. Rumours about Rosa were often scandalous, but on the occasions we met she was always nice and friendly and cheerful.