Jemima has been cornered by a handlebar moustache of hypnotic bushiness; its owner was also a bottom pincher. Mike had hurriedly plotted an interception course that brought him to Jemima’ side before the pinching fingers could make a second pass at their target

“It was an error of judgement Winky that’s all. Pilot-officer Crabtree has been severely reprimanded.” He raised an eyebrow, warning Jemima to look suitably contrite.

“Cut a chap some slack”, the wing-commander’s eye twitched in irritation, “that was the funniest thing I’ve said in years. We’re not all film stars you know old boy.”

Damn Mal for his bright ideas. Winky Wilson had turned up at Helton with half Monksclere’s officers tripping after him like girl guides on a charabanc outing. Mike glanced across the room where Polly was fighting another fire, standing firmly on Hannah Rodriguez’s toes: they could do without another sermon tonight on the evils of capitalism. Mal, damn his eyes, was nowhere to be seen.

“The frame looks rotten, and it’s bound to be out of tune.” Anthea gingerly tapped the piano’s keys as if the slightest pressure would precipitate the instrument’s final collapse.

“Sounds fine to me ladies”, Mal grinning put his shoulder to the ancient upright’s side, “shall we?”

It had hardly been the most ladylike of entrances, but the decrepit piano did alter the tone of the evening. One of the Monksclere pilots had sat down at the keyboard, grimaced briefly, then began playing; and after Mike suggested that his initial choice of number was inappropriate for mixed company he switched to a selection of popular dance tunes. Furniture was cleared away, rugs rolled back, and the first invitations extended in short order.

“So last night was a wash out then”, Anthea said while doing her best to avoid both of Mal’s left feet.

“Perhaps”, Mal answered, “but I’ve still a few tricks up my sleeve. What’s that look for?”

“Your hand is supposed to be at my waist!”

“Sorry”, he whispered sheepishly, “it’s too easy to forget that you’re not a woman.”

“Well try at least to remember that you’re supposed to be a gentleman”, she hissed.

“Only ‘supposed to be’ my dear.” He was framing a suitably wolfish look for Anthea when he noticed Verity at his shoulder. “I don’t believe it’s an ‘excuse me’”, Mal said half-releasing Anthea, “but if you insist.”

“Oh but I do”, she said sweeping Anthea out of his arms and into her own, “that man’s a rogue for all his donnish ways.”

“Hey! You’re leading”, Anthea protested as they danced away from Mal.

“You didn’t seem to mind a minute ago”, she smiled, “you’re going to miss all this, admit it.”

“Some of it”, Anthea said quietly, “not being short for one, and having friends who aren’t just waiting for me to pull another stupid stunt.”

“And being a girl?”

“Still just another uniform”, her broad smile switched to a look of surprise, “did you just try to dip me?”

Jemima, who had been pinched, patted and fondled all through the evening, stood with her back to the wall declining drinks and dance invitations from a half dozen of the more persistent Monksclere pilots. Only when squadron-leader Trent broke up their formation could she persuaded to take to the floor again.

“You’re far too pretty to be a wallflower”, Mike said as they danced. Jemima looked up at him, fighting an urge to bat her lashes. This close it was easy to imagine where that wiggle in Polly’s walk came from.

“I’m black and blue”, she said shyly, her cheeks suddenly flushed with colour.

“It can’t be much fun”, he said, steering her effortlessly across the floor, “when the only person you really want at your party isn’t here.” Jemima bit her lip, where was this was going? “My office in the lodge is open, there’s a fire in the hearth, and I bet if you go to the front door right now”, he glanced at his wristwatch, “a certain aircraftswoman might happen to be waiting.”

“Oh thank you Sir!”, Jemima reached up on her tip toes, and kissed her commanding officer on the cheek, before rushing out at a dizzy pace.

“That was sweet of you”, Polly said from his side.
“There were three or four chaps over there ready to fight over her”, Mike looked at his shoes for an instant, “I don’t suppose you’d care to…”

Polly raised an eyebrow, quietly amused by how bashful he appeared. “Dare we?”, she asked, more than a hint of teasing in her voice.

“Probably not”, he answered, adding more loudly, “shall we step outside? There are a few things we need to discuss for tomorrow.” Hardly anyone noticed them leaving, and only Kate saw Polly’s hand slip into his as they walked out.

“How romantic”, was Polly’s only comment as Mike led her into what had been the Hall’s morning room, but was used solely as a place to dump 641’s kit.

“It’s not the place, it’s the company”, he said, wrapping an arm around her waist. Polly’s playful side had only recently emerged, coy and kittenish, reserved for him alone. Mike drew her close, but Polly stepped still deeper into his embrace, laying her cheek against his chest. Very gently, the two of them swayed to the faintly heard music coming from the other room.

“I’m in a spot of bother”, Mike murmured, “I’ve fallen in love with one of my flight-lieutenants.”

“I hope you’ll be very happy together”, Polly’s heart was beating faster than flak, “it’s dreadful Deirdre isn’t it?”