Alex felt the plane go into a dive. He always thought he’d pray at a time like this. In reality there just wasn’t time. His mind saw Doreen’s face as the Spitfire bit the sea, bursting a window eye, drinking air then water.
It spat engine oil and fumes and buckled like a drunk. Alex’s fingers fluttered on the harness. Under the water even panic looks graceful. He slid out of the cockpit like a newborn from its mother, one leg kicking.
The air was cold and full of night. He looked around him, bits of metal reflecting the moon’s face
shaky, silver light.
‘Anybody there?’ The shout sounded thin, weedy
‘Anybody there?’ Louder now, ‘Anybody alive? It’s Al!
The only sound was the slap of water against his wreckage. He lay on his back holding a slice of aircraft wing. The moon lit his face like a spotlight. What was Doreen doing now? He thought of her and that knack of putting on lipstick without a mirror.
The boys of 41 Squadron would be back at Hawkinge by now. They’d send someone to find him. He was a member of the Goldfish Club now, he would wear the little winged fish on his coat. In his mind he saw his mother’s farm, chickens nestling around her slippers. How she’d shoe Barney his dog away and he’d sulk in the shadow of the chicken shed. Watching herons pluck shellfish from the sand on the Norfolk flats. He kicked his right leg, the left one wasn’t much help. As the tide lapped and fell, he dosed and woke as it covered his head.
Nora Morgan sat up in bed before the birds woke up. She felt fingers of ice around her throat, downstairs Barney was barking. She padded to the kitchen squinting at the dog. ‘It’s alright boy,’ she said, though something in her told her it wasn’t. A mother can always hear her son. It’s primeval, a knowing.
Something sharp jolted him awake. Pebbles, he’d reached the shore. He rolled over and stood blinking at the beach. The stones rattled with the in and out of the tide. His progress over the shifting stones was slow. The world was in bed. He followed the path through the woods of the lower leas, smiling about surprising Doreen.
He could find his way blindfolded and he laughed in the dark at the thought of her Aunty June catching him climbing the drain pipe.
The last time he’d done that, Doreen’s window got jammed and he was left dangling like a spider. The noise flattened his smile. The wailing yawn of the siren. Searchlights pierced the sky and he started to run. People in the street in nightclothes, children holding hands. Doreen’s front door was open.
‘Doreen? June?’
A louder noise now like a thousand angry bees. He bounded up the stairs.
‘Doreen?’
There she was kneeling on the floor to reach a shoe under the bed.
‘Come on! I’ll buy you more shoes!’
His eye caught a piece of paper on her bedside table. It was headed ‘Ministry of Defence’.
‘We are sorry to inform you that Alexander Tom Morgan was shot down presumed dead.’
It was dated two days ago. What? ‘No, I’m here! Dotty!’
She found the shoe and turned to leave. He held out his arms. When the bomb hit the house, no-one three houses either side had any chance. Aunty June and her neighbours in the shelter covered their ears and prayed to God. Dust rose and dust fell. And Alex and Doreen walked out together hand in hand.
THE END
Meet the author: Sallyann Fellowes
Sallyann is an actor and comedian who often visits the area for gigs and performances. She had the idea for Silverlight when she discovered Hawkinge Community Centre, a venue she’s performed comedy in many times, used to be a RAF base during the Second World War. She is fascinated by World War II history, particularly Britain’s air warfare and the pilots who took to the skies, sacrificing their lives for their country.
Sally’s story is read by Sarah Thurston, a Folkestone actor, who has appeared in Coronation Street, Emmerdale, and EastEnders, and many popular TV shows such as Casualty and Mrs Browns Boys. Sarah also runs her own coaching business.
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