Question

(A nonfiction story)

This seems familiar or is it different? My open palm motioned across the sun-drenched beer garden and towards the conservatory; she flashed me that oblique look. Our friends from London were yet to arrive at the gastro pub they had nominated, chosen for its mutually accessible location south of the city. * Tinned sponge-cake classy Paul, real classy. Like I didnt have enough stacked against me. Id met Elizabeths parents a couple of times on jaunts up to Scotland: lovely people. They had imbued in their daughter the old-fashioned values so rare in a fun-loving twenty-something Tommy Girl, yet so endearing. There, Elizabeth was at her most Scottish: her accent and vocabulary espoused her Aberdonian roots; her frankness won out over her passivity; her jocularity overshadowed her bookishness. And while not the stereotypical fiery Scot, the kindling was there - and best left unlit. Even her perfumed neck had the scent of Highland heather. Elizabeths yielding blue-grey eyes derived from her mother. Her patriarchal father appeared to have ner a care in the world save his mistrust of the English. Elizabeth, however, had no such misgivings concerning the auld enemy. Earlier in the week, I had asked her the question, What shall we do on Saturday? She replied in her softened accent, anglicised by Oxford and, perhaps, by Elizabeths quest for an almost mathematical precision in every aspect of her being. Well, theres an England Under21 game on we could go down the pub and watch that. Ah, what a girl! Shed already been with me twice to see Englands finest perform on Wembleys hallowed turf. Elizabeth crossed the Anglo-Celtic Rubicon as if it werent there, absorbing my interests as her own. I guess I absorbed one interest of hers, in a manner of speaking: she loved cooking good food, and I loved eating it. And here we were, sat side-by-side on a low bench-seat in a quiet corner of a characterful pub, our backs against the eighteenth century sandstone. Her fine, Botticellian hair cascaded down to the roughhewn oak table-top, where our hands rested alongside our uneaten lunch. Her smooth, bare fingers slid on top of mine as naturally as they had caressed the keys of her piano since childhood. It was Saturday and I had driven us from damp grey to muddy green, pulling off the motorway arbitrarily, meandering through the leafless countryside and chancing upon the Georgian pub one where, it transpired, the Sticky Toffee Pudding came with a serrated edge, fresh out of the tin. The lasagna had been ropey too - the dry, rubber-like pasta in stark contrast to Elizabeths homemade dishes. Even my Guinness had tasted a little uneasy that afternoon. While I hadnt known where I was going, I knew that we had to get out of the city, to get away from mankind, to a place where we would be the world. This pub was not that place. We strolled out into the overcast afternoon, the smell of wet grass clearing my mind. Her unexplained giggles punctured the autumn air. Neither of us was really at home in the countryside: she was brought up in the most northerly city in Britain, I came from the most southerly. But it wasnt that we didnt like the countryside - we just hadnt known what to do with it. Hence Elizabeth was both bemused and amused as I led us down the lane for our inaugural country walk as a couple.

Leaving the asphalt behind us, we clambered over a moss-covered stile and then trudged through a field of freshly churned mud, hand in hand. One of us was smiling the whole time, while the other grew increasingly queasy. Once out of sight from the pub and all other signs of humanity, I looked for my spot, not knowing what I was looking for. We were far away from it all now the city, the pub, even the dry-stone wall fringing the field. The exact spot was determined by the moment when my courage swelled. In the middle of the sea of earth, I stopped without warning, keeping a hold of Elizabeths hand as I muddied my knee and asked The Question. * Ten years later . . . Different was the spacious twenty-first century conservatory, the gastronomic menu, the finger no longer bare, the wood-chip childrens play area, the children particularly the baby dozing in her arms. Familiar was the saloon bar the low wooden beams, the cosy corner where once we sat. Outside not all had changed the childlike giggle was the same, as was her love of summer salmon, washed down with the wet grassy notes of a sunny sauvignon.

Note to readers who know us: Elizabeth is her middle name. Her first name is Joanne.

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60 years earlier
His first leave in months, Tom had scavenged some petrol rations and taken up Fionas kind offer. Dyta beside him, he drove Fionas Austin Seven indiscriminately from damp grey to muddy green, the cherry red box saloon trundling down the A3 in no particular hurry. Tom, where we are going? said Dyta, her flat accent rising above the pitch of the engine. Tom shrugged a grin. The truth is he had no idea. He could only hope that she had low expectations. She smiled and rested her hand upon his uniformed lap. The 38 saloon exhibited the traditional top hat mien but the suspension was kinder than the older models. Tom now remembered that these newer Sevens were four-speed; he belatedly scrunched up a gear and raised his voice above the clatter. Your letters are lovely, Dyta. Sustenance, if not salvation, through months of bitter anxiety; haunting memories of Bill and Jonny were displaced only by thoughts of tragedy befalling Dyta. She was someone worth dying for, but, more importantly, someone worth fighting for and perhaps a future worth surviving for. I practice my terrible English at you, said Dyta. I try to use all my new words, so thats why the letters are long! He was embarrassed that his letters to her in his native tongue conveyed so little in return. She had written that she was proud of him and she always asked about his work. What was there for him to say? As my squadron proved unable to cope with fighting the German aircraft attacking Britain, we now pop over to the Continent each day, with fighters in our wake, to lure the Luftwaffe into the skies so that proper squadrons - of Hurricanes and Spitfires - can do some proper fighting. They were called Circus operations and it certainly was. Dyta inclined her head towards hm. Do you know where you are going, Tom? In theory. He simpered across at her and caught her squinch her lips at him. His eyes were back on the road in a second with her reddened lips branded on his mind.

He thought of those lips on the steps of St Pauls, when they managed to steal a day together last September. He had taken the 0605 from Cambridge to Liverpool Street as he did again this very morning in order to live the day in full. There he stood, on the southern edge of the cathedrals steps, while the uniformed and city-dressed gathered for the 8.00am Eucharist. The Control of Noises Act had banished church bells, so the faithful now appeared to be called silently by God, not man. Tom had been reading her most recent letter when up behind him he heard her exotic pronunciation of You bizzy Mister? He turned, their height difference nulled by two steps, her life-affirming smile shone with the fire in her eyes. Tom lost himself there for a second or two, before he stepped up, clinched his arms around her and visualised the gentle curves beneath her caramel wool coat. She drew herself in tight and snuggled her brow into the side of his neck. Tom tautened, resenting the reverent presence of the cathedral and the tardy worshippers hurrying up the steps. Was this prolonged embrace breaking all sense of decorum? Would he be scorning the sensibilities of a good Catholic girl if he...Then she turned her mouth to his and he brushed up against her petalled lips. Only then, as his hats peak grooved her forehead, did Tom realise he had forgotten to remove his pilots cap for their first kiss. Tom was unfamiliar with Surrey, and the wartime removal of signage added to the sense of farce. He pulled off the main road arbitrarily, meandered through verdant spring countryside and chanced upon a Georgian pub. They sat side-by-side on a low bench-seat in a quiet corner of The Black Swan, their backs against the bare redbrick. Tom ducked each wooden beam as he returned from the bar with drinks. Her unfashionably long hair cascaded down the shouders of her blue polka dot dress and onto the roughhewn oak tabletop. Tom smiled to himself. Dytas flatmate, bob-haired Fiona and no doubt it was her had thickened and arched Dytas eyebrows la Joan Crawford, but she had lost the Battle for Dytas Hair as surely as the Nazis had lost their battle for Britain. Dyta had absorbed his interests as her own. She borrowed Graham Greene from the library and had persevered with her tennis lessons at Wimbledon Park. She was coached by their neighbour, a retired PE schoolmaster, who tomorrow would pair up with Fiona for a game against Dyta and Tom. Last October, Tom had hurriedly telephoned Fionas house when he overheard news that bombing had ripped through Centre Court, causing losses of 1200. Dytas voice reassured him: not only had she never visited the All England Lawn Tennis Club now a civil defence centre the bomb had destroyed 1200 seats, not lives. Tom had absorbed one interest of hers, in a manner of speaking: she loved cooking good food, and he loved eating it. In stark contrast to the fare Dyta cooked up at Fionas during his snatched visits, the pubs fish-pie was ropey short on fish and powder-dry. Even Toms Guinness tasted a little uneasy that afternoon. Tom pushed his plate aside. They had paid nine pence for the meal including afters, so Tom fetched two bowls of Sticky Toffee Pudding. They each spooned incursions, before they set down their spoons and rested their hands alongside their half-eaten puddings. Her smooth, bare fingers slid on top of his. Her head on his shoulder, she nestled her brow into his neck and he turned his chin onto her temple. His lips and nostrils luxuriated in the fineness of her hair and her dewy verdancy cleared through his head. Tom knew he had to get them out of the city, to get away from the war, to a place where they could be the world. He ran his spoon down the serrated exterior of his toffee-less sponge-cake: fresh out of the tin. This pub was not that place. They strolled out into the overcast afternoon, where a breeze funnelled through the shaking trees which leant over the lane. Tom snapped on his service hat and held up Dytas light raincoat for her to slip her arms into. Her unexplained giggles punctured the muggy air. Tom was not really at home in the countryside. Dyta had told him of her childhood holidays on her aunt and uncles farm. He felt like the foreigner here, while she seemed at ease anywhere. It wasnt that Tom didnt like the

countryside he just hadnt known what to do with it. Walking seemed to be what people did, so here he was leading them down the lane on their inaugural country walk together. Perhaps Dyta was as much bemused as she was amused. Leaving the lane behind them, they clambered over a moss-covered stile and stepped gingerly at first - into the freshly churned mud; Tom wished he had the foresight to wear boots not brogues. I think its corn, said Dyta, crouching by a precocious seedling. Harvest in autumn, sowing in spring, he knew that much. We plant it late in Poland too. Even shrouded daylight incited lustre in her midnight brown eyes; they drew him in and he hunkered down beside her. He would not care if it were a field of orchids, he just hoped her staccato enunciation which gathered strength when she spoke of home would endure, every word rooting her, and perhaps him. Hand-in-hand, they ambled up through the heart of the vast, gently sloping field. After a few minutes, Tom began looking for their spot. They were far away from it all now the city, the pub, even the dry-stone wall fringing the field. Tom, theres something I must talk to you about. But his mind was rehearsing a different scene. The exact spot was determined by the moment when Toms courage swelled. In the middle of the sea of earth, he stopped without warning. He squeezed Dytas hand and plucked the Bond Street ring from his pocket, muddied his knee and looked up at the energy radiating in her flushed face. Dyta, will you marry me? Dyta bit the air with a clench of her teeth and her face tensed. She took Toms hand and pulled him to his feet. Tom, I cannot.

(Abridged from Dytas War: A Chance Kill)