Page 64 of Never Tear Us Apart
‘It’s so beautiful.’ I sigh. For a thousand reasons, none of which I can name, I feel calm. Tears roll down my cheeks. Embarrassed, I turn from Danny, wiping them away with the heels of my hands.
‘Sometimes it’s not until you take a breath,’ Danny says gently, ‘that you realise you’ve been up against it. It’s OK to cry – there’s a lot to cry about.’
‘Christina would say my stiff upper lip needs some reinforcing and blame my Maltese half for being overemotional. But that’s not right – my mum was English, and she’d cry at the drop of a hat. I once found her sobbing over a daisy she’d picked in a field, the mad old hippy.’
‘Hippy?’ Danny smiles. ‘That’s a new one on me.’
‘Oh, just a family joke,’ I say, brushing it away.
We begin to stroll slowly along the shoreline. The beach and front are busy: fishermen hauling in their catch, women gutting and salting the fish. Everything carries on as normal, at least in the snatches of time where there is space enough to pretend for a while.
‘Well, my ma is just the same as yours,’ Danny says. ‘When I told her I was running away to join the RAF, she cried for a week.’
‘It’s not exactly running away if you tell people in advance,’ I point out, with a small smile.
He laughs. ‘Well, you’d think, but the truth is: it was my second attempt, and I needed my birth certificate, so I had no choice but to tell her.’
‘Whatdoyou mean?’ I ask, glancing sideways at him.
He’s walking with his hands behind his back, holding his cap. His head is tipped forwards so that his curls fall over his eyes.
‘Well, I’d been trying be a fighter pilot since long before the war.’ He chuckles. ‘I don’t know – I was sixteen, and I justfigured that was my calling in life, you know? I tried to join up with the Chinese and the French, but I was too young, so it was back home for this kid and another few years spraying crops and hauling cargo. Then this shebang kicks off and I’m more than old enough to play a part. No way I was going to wait for the Canadian Air Force to get its act together. I wanted in with the RAF. I couldn’t figure how I’d get to England, though. The passage cost more than I earnt in a year. And then a pal of mine, he tells me that if I work on one of the merchant navy ships, I’ll get free passage and some wages. Course, I’m supposed to work the voyage out and back, but I don’t concern myself with that detail. My plan is, once we dock in Liverpool, to jump ship and make my way to the local airbase to sign up and save the world.’
‘Wouldn’t you be in trouble for running out on the ship?’
‘Only if they caught me.’ He grins and looks about a decade younger.
As I watch, he relaxes. His shoulders settle, and that now familiar smile creeps back into his expression. He’s himself again, or at least the young man he was before this war got hold of him, full of energy and certainty.
‘So, I get my logbook, right, showing all my hours of flying – more than enough to join the RAF – and I work my guts out on that goddamn ship, and in three months, I’m in Liverpool. Jump ship, easy as can be. Find a place to join up. Danny Beauchamp is finally on his way! The CO looks at my logbooks and all my hundreds of hours, and he’s pleased as punch. And he says, “Now all I need is your birth certificate.”’
‘You’d forgotten your birth certificate?’ I ask him, unable to stifle a laugh.
‘Sure had,’ he says. ‘I begged, I pleaded, but he was insistent we did things by the book. So, I turn on my tail and I runback to the ship, hoping like hell no one had noticed I’d gone, and luck was on my side for once. Worked my way all the way back to Canada. And that’s how I had to tell my ma that I was running away to join the RAF.’
I’m wide-eyed. ‘You made the whole trip again?’
‘You bet I did, except this time when I jumped ship, the captain saw me and a policeman got hold of me. The crew’s coming after me, and this fat old bobby had me by the arm, and I say to him, “Please, sir, let me go – I’ve come all this way to fight for England.” And you know what?’
‘You got coshed on the head and made the whole trip again?’ I laugh.
‘He let me go, that bobby. I’m running off as fast as these skinny legs will carry me, and he shouts after me, “Good on yer, son!”’
It’s impossible not to laugh at his attempt at a Liverpudlian accent. Lost for a moment in our mirth, our eyes meet, and the laughter falters to a stop. It’s like when we see one another, we remember.
‘You really, really wanted to be a fighter pilot,’ I say after a beat of silence.
‘Sure did, still do. Up there, it’s the only time I feel like I’m really being me, if you know what I mean. All the noise falls away and it’s just me, the Spit and the angles.’
‘Do you mean angels?’ I ask, confused.
‘No, ma’am, I mean angles,’ he says. ‘That’s what this whole business is about: figuring out the angles. I taught myself watching the birds floating on the updraught, watching them dive for fish and prey. I knew all about the angles even before I set foot in a plane.’
‘I don’t think I’ve ever really felt that way about anything,’ I say. ‘It must be nice to know you are born for something.’
Danny draws to a stop on an empty stretch of beach and kicks off his boots. He is still barefoot underneath.
‘If I could, I would knit you some socks,’ I tell him.
