The bomber jacket, p.6
The Bomber Jacket, page 6
“Would you like a soft drink? I even have some Iron Bru,” she said, referring to the intensely sweet orange soft drink that was Scotland’s best-selling nonalcoholic beverage. “Or coffee? I can make some. Anja provided these lovely amenities.” She nodded to a coffee pot on top of the mini refrigerator and waved at the chair. “Have a seat.”
He stood with his back almost touching the door, watching her puzzled expression. Probably shouldn’t risk any additional breach of professional conduct. Still, he was pleased that she was warming up. He wondered again if helping her pinpoint the original owner of her bomber jacket was the right thing to do.
“I have something for you,” he finally said and thrust a piece of folded computer paper into her hand. “You won’t believe what my friend James found.”
He watched as she unfolded the paper. “He wasn’t able to sort out Scottish pilots from the others, but he did come up with a list of pilots with the name of Colin. My mate was thorough. He even included anyone whose middle name was Colin, just in case he went by his middle name. A very common practice here in the U.K.”
Beth looked down at the paper, her long hair shielding her expression.
He continued, speaking rapidly. “I know it’s a rather long list, with twenty-seven. But it’s a start. If you want, we can make a formal request for a copy of each record. Costs a little, since you’re not a relative.”
When he paused for breath, she looked up. He was stunned by her expression. Her face was pale, her eyes wide and unfocused, her breath suspended.
“Beth?” he asked, concerned, taking a half-step toward her. She blinked several times, then shook her head as if to clear her thoughts, folded the paper, and stuffed it in the pocket of her sweatshirt. To his astonishment, she reached past him to open the door.
“Ah, thanks, Robbie. I have to be somewhere. I’ll see you Saturday.” Her voice was clipped, almost as if she couldn’t catch her breath.
He stared at her, his head spinning at her sudden change of mood. His usual glib tongue failed him. Managing to mumble, “Yeah,” he left the dormitory as quickly as he could.
As he scampered back to his office, a passing student called in a jovial voice, “Are ye runnin’ to something or from something, Professor McLeod?”
Good question, Robbie thought, merely nodding an acknowledgment of the student’s jibe. He thought about his interactions with Beth. They seemed to have a pattern. She was often slightly startled at first as if pulled out of some deep place. Then came a smile and a welcoming demeanor, which gave him an odd wrench in his stomach, followed by a bit of bantering. Finally, when he overstepped some inexplicable, invisible boundary, she would suddenly retreat into wariness or retreat physically.
He contemplated this pattern until by Saturday morning waiting outside the coffee shop on Nicholson Street, he had figured out a “safe” approach. He would be strictly “professorial”—friendly, but not friends.
“Nice car,” Beth said, once again friendly and smiling, when he helped her into the passenger seat of the Austin Healy.
“It’s my roommate’s. Andrew’s.”
“Expensive, isn’t it?” Beth replied as they headed east out of Edinburgh into the bright day. The morning was the typical unpredictable Scottish weather: sunny with scarcely a cloud in sight, but conceivably raining some kilometers away.
“Uh-huh,” he replied, his attention on the traffic.
“What does your roommate do for a living that he can afford a car like this?”
“He’s a professor, like me. Ancient history, though. Mesopotamia. Persia.”
“Wow, I didn’t realize being a college professor paid so well.”
Robbie snorted. “Andrew comes from the upper crust of English society. His family probably earned their money on the backs of the peasants centuries ago.”
“You don’t much like your roommate, then?” Her tone was charmingly innocent.
He chuckled. “Oh, no. We’re great mates. Met at Cambridge.”
“So… you don’t own a car?”
He sighed. “Doesn’t fit in the budget yet, not with the massive school loans.” But fortunately for me, Andrew is not just thoroughly rich, coming from some ancient stock of English landed gentry; he’s also thoroughly generous with his material possessions.”
“Lucky you.”
He heard the smile in her voice and relaxed. It was going to be a good day. “Let me tell you about Traprain Law,” he said in his best professorial tone.
“Could I stop you?” Beth replied with a chuckle, which relaxed Robbie even more. He launched into his explanation.
“Laws are volcanic hills formed three hundred and twenty million years ago and eventually worn down to rocky promontories. They stand out starkly against the flat farmland in the area known as East Lothian that runs from Edinburgh along the Firth of Forth and to the North Sea. At one time they served as prehistoric hill forts.”
He continued talking, filling the hour-long drive with details about the geography and history of the surrounding countryside. After some time, she interrupted his discourse. “You’re very good at presenting what could be boring information in an entertaining and amusing way.”
“I’m flattered,” he grunted, then added as an afterthought, “I guess that was a compliment. Actually, I earned my way through much of college by being a tour guide for the wives and kids of rich American golfers.”
At Traprain Law he helped her over the wooden stile at the car park and led the way up the steeply ascending, narrow dirt path. He pointed out various birds as they climbed—jackdaws, green woodpeckers, wrens, finches, crows—laughing at her amused comment, “So you know more than just history.”
Thirty minutes later, as they reached the top, Robbie caught Beth’s hand and helped her up onto the plateau. Her ungloved fingers were cold in his warm ones, but she pulled her hand away the moment she was safely on the level surface, then caught her breath when she took in the vista.
After a moment, she turned in a full circle, slowly, like a figurine on a music box dancing to a melody he could not hear, taking in the sky above and the earth below.
The land spread out like a patchwork quilt on a Scottish bed: the roads were the ribbons connecting the squares of faded green, winter brown, and washed-out yellow; the farm buildings were the knots at the intersections of each square. In the distance to the north, another plateau broke the flat fertile farmland, looking like a frosted cake with a sprinkling of icing sugar.
Robbie stood silently, observing. What caught his eye weren’t the low, pale wisps of cloud that scurried across the sky toward them, nor the undulating surface of this plateau, pockmarked with a hundred rabbit warrens, nor the car speeding past on the country road below. It was Beth that captivated him.
He observed the way the wind blew the strands of her long, straight, brown hair into her face; noticed how she kept her hands tucked inside the pockets of the faded bomber jacket; saw the manner in which her eyes took in the stunning sight before her, a sight he had seen many times. But he’d never seen a young woman so enthralled with this ancient Scottish countryside.
The climb to the top of the plateau had been exhilarating and exhausting, though Robbie didn’t seem to be winded at all. Now that she had caught her breath, Beth looked at the lovely view, musing that everything on this piece of grass-covered rock was reduced to three colors—grass green, earth brown, and mist gray. The air was damp from the gauzy clouds, which seemed close enough to touch. Impulsively, she reached up to see if she could, then put her hand down, concerned Robbie would think she was being silly.
She continued to look at the vista before her, trying to ignore his observing eyes and his amused smile. He stood, one hand in his windbreaker pocket, the other smoothing his beard.
As Beth stood in the silence of the deserted plateau, she began to hear the sounds that only stillness brought out: birds twittering in the grass, wind sighing through patches of bracken, her heart drumming in her chest. She closed her eyes. Without visual stimuli, her heartbeat seemed louder, deeper, as if it came from a cavernous space within the earth, penetrating her feet, rising through her legs, filling her chest, entering her arteries, and at last sounding in her ears.
She understood then why ancient peoples felt mountains and hills and heights were sacred places, dwellings of the spirits. Opening her eyes, she noticed a shallow pool of water caught in a circle of concave rocks. Could she see within it the reflection of the past, present, and future, as some ancient Druid princess might have done, standing right here?
At that moment, she sensed the bomber pilot.
If she looked out of the corner of her eye, he was there, in the way that you can see some stars only by looking at them obliquely. When she felt the blast of chill air that came with the thickening clouds, Beth wasn’t sure who said, “The sky looks a wee bit threatening.”
“I love the way the weather changes so quickly here.” A female voice sounded dreamy. “At home, it’s a long time in coming. You know hours ahead that it’s going to rain or snow.”
“Well, it’s what they say about Scottish weather.” The man’s voice, her pilot’s voice, seemed to come from inside her own head. “Wait a wee minute, and it’ll change.”
“Oh, yes.” The girl laughed, but shivered slightly in the dress that he thought wasn’t warm enough for a Scottish summer day, even in the lowlands, then smiled the brilliant smile that made her face glow, the smile that penetrated his heart like a long, thin blade, with a pain so real he put his palm against his chest.
She stepped closer and put a hand over his, saying, “Colin, what is it?” Her voice, filled with concern, wrapped itself around his mind like warm arms, the way her arms felt when they danced, that one time he had allowed himself that delicious agony.
“What is it?” the woman repeated when he didn’t answer.
Beth sensed his inability to respond as instead, he looked ahead, out over the farmland that lay like a quilt of green and brown and yellow below the ancient plateau.
“Tell me what you see,” the girl said in her charming American accent.
“I see a storm coming. You’re likely to get wet if we stay. We’d best be going.”
The wind sighed. Or was it the girl?
“I’m used to wet weather, Beth. I’ve got my rain slicker on. It’s waterproof.”
Beth blinked, confused, disoriented.
“Are you all right? You’re verra pale, all of a sudden.” She heard the soft Scots accent, but this one with an American overlay; felt a hand on her arm, pulling her back from the edge of the cliff. She didn’t know when she had gotten so close.
“Vertigo,” Colin warned. “It can come on suddenly.”
Beth turned. Robbie stood there looking at her, his face a study of concern. She looked over his shoulder, but the flat, undulating highland was empty, just dried grass stirring, tiny birds flitting, and misty clouds descending. She felt a cold quiver move through her body that had nothing to do with the chilly February day. It was becoming alarmingly easy to lose herself in that other place, to drop into that other time in just the blink of an eye.
“The ware started en finished hair o’ this area o’ Scotland,” the gray-haired male guide's Scottish accent was so thick, Beth had to strain to catch each word, interpret each phrase. They were at the Museum of Flight on the former East Fortune Airbase not far from Traprain Law.
“The fairst plane shot dune in th’ war was a Junker 88, t’was shot dune by a fighter fraim Drem. I remember I was a wee boy, hidin’ in the cella’ wit me aunt in Haddintin when the Jerries let go thay bombs. Thay dropped two land mines on Traprain Law t’as well.”
Beth tapped one foot impatiently. The guide went on and on, supplying far more historical facts and personal anecdotes than she was interested in. She managed to ask him about Drem when he came up for air.
“Drem t’is wair the 603 Squadron was stationed fer a beet, but it’s nair but an overgron field en a few tumble down buildins,” the guide said. Then he went on with his spiel about the last battle of the war which took place over the Firth of Forth.
“A Jerrie U-boot got through the antisoobmarin nettin’ at the mooth o’ the Fairth and it sourficed aftair the saise fire agreemint t’was signed. Seems his rajio t’wasn’t cooperatin’. Wane it sourficed, it faired ouf a volley of torpadoes and the locals thoug’ t’was fairworks a celebratin’ the en’ o’ the wahr.”
It took Beth about two minutes to digest what the guide said and when she realized it was a funny story, it was too late to laugh without appearing “a bit taiched in th’ haid.”
“I had hoped there would be more of an airbase remaining,” she said to Robbie as they explored the museum on their own.
“The biggest draw here is the Concorde,” he answered.
“I don’t want the 1990s; I want the 1940s,” she replied, knowing she sounded petty and regretting it when a flash of hurt feelings crossed Robbie’s face. She hadn’t been sure she wanted to spend more time with him, after that conversation at Holyrood. She had been too forthcoming, too revealing, and was sure he had thought she was “mental” as the Scots kids would say. Yet there was something about him that made her want to take him into her confidence, ask him to help sort out this increasingly unnerving ability to hear the bomber pilot’s thoughts.
That day at Holyrood was the first time she had clearly heard the bomber pilot’s voice outside her dreams, and the first time she had sensed him while she was awake. Not only that, listening in on a snippet of conversation in which an American girl called him “Colin” and then was interrupted suddenly by the friendly Scots professor she had met on the train.
At any other time, she would have been delighted to see Robbie, but she had been so disoriented and overwhelmed by her “waking dream,” as she came to call it. And just earlier this morning to sense Colin’s presence at the top of Traprain Law. And that American girl again.
She had a difficult time paying attention despite Robbie’s enthusiastic explanations of the endless exhibits at the Museum of Flight. Robbie was apparently a museum-a-holic; he read every sign, then relayed the meaning of each exhibit, layering her resistant mind with facts. She liked museums and history, but this wasn’t what she expected of this visit, especially after her second waking dream. Her mind and heart were still back on that ancient plateau.
Over an hour later, she roused herself to joke, “That sign says exit,” but he’d been oblivious to her growing impatience. Beth was exhausted and disgruntled by the time they left.
Even though the day was growing grayer, it felt good to be outside. The cornflower-blue doors, set between narrow eight-paned windows, contrasted jarringly with the ugly, faded-brown, one-story cement buildings. But the only evidence of the former East Fortune Airbase was one tumble-down hangar and several deserted barracks.
She was anxious to move on. To Drem. Colin’s presence had appeared on Traprain Law, but not at East Fortune. If he had visited Traprain Law, maybe he had been stationed at Drem.
Robbie must have felt her impatience. “Shall we move along to our next stop?”
On the drive from the Museum of Flight to Drem, she was lost in thought. When Robbie came to her dorm room earlier in the week, she had been shocked but pleased to see him. He was, after all, a genuinely likable guy.
“A gentleman to see you,” Anja had said with her Scandinavian accent. Beth couldn’t imagine any gentleman coming to visit. She hadn’t talked to a single guy in any of her lectures, preferring to sit in the front row where she could hear the professor. She was older than many of the students in her classes and felt out of place. Even in the small, weekly tutorials of ten to fifteen students, she kept to herself, talking only about the assigned reading, too uncertain to strike up a conversation. The other students, especially the other Americans, probably found her stuck up.
Robbie had seemed extremely pleased with himself when he handed her a piece of paper and explained the reason for his visit, but Beth quickly lost track of what he was saying when she looked at the list. Her vision went fuzzy, realizing that one of these names typed in New Times Roman must be her Colin. Touching that piece of paper made Colin real.
Her lungs felt as if someone had squeezed all the air out, and her trembling legs were near collapsing. She couldn’t put together a coherent thought. All she could manage to do was thank him for the info and open the door for him. He had looked stunned and more than a little hurt. Yes, she had been abrupt, but he was just helping her with research.
“I’m sorry the Museum wasn’t what you hoped for.” The apology in Robbie’s voice brought her back to the present. She hated that he was apologizing.
“No, it’s not that at all, Robbie. You’re being great. It’s just… well, it wasn’t on my grandfather’s list, and I didn’t want to waste any of our day going somewhere my grandfather hadn’t suggested… oh, not that you don’t have good ideas… I mean…” She mentally kicked herself for sounding so ungrateful.
“Aye, it’s fine Beth. Really. I’m enjoying this. It’s been years since I’ve been to Traprain, and the Museum of Flight is just that, a museum. I kind of get carried away in museums.”
Beth snorted.
“Aye, you noticed, did you? Well, maybe Drem will be a wee bit more authentic, but I believe there’s not much left other than a field. Some say they’re planning some restoration, but it hasn’t begun yet.”
“Yes, fine.”
“It’s not likely your bomber pilot was stationed at Drem.”
“Why’s that?” It was interesting that Robbie called him her bomber pilot, when she thought of Colin the same way.
“Well, there were no bombers that flew out of Drem. Just coastal defense. He would have had to be stationed further south in England when the bombing began in earnest. And, honestly, though they call it a bomber jacket, it’s really a flight jacket. Unless he was here for training. There was a training school at one time, but I don’t remember the years. We should have asked the guide. I can do some more research… that is… I mean, if you want me to.”
