Mat had dropped to the ground beside the wrecked plane and was removing her flying helmet before she noticed the policeman rushing towards her pushing his bicycle over the rough pasture. ‘Christ’ she muttered ‘I hope this wig’s as fixed on as Miss Goldring said it would be’. Even from thirty yards she could see the look of surprise on the constable’s face as her hair fell to her shoulders and no farther.
Although had become accustomed to the sight of wounded men in service and in the streets of home she found it very difficult to look at squadron-leader Trent’s face. He had been famously handsome before the war, one of Britain’s most popular leading men, no great actor perhaps but his rugged good looks, easy aristocratic charm and tall, athletic build had ensured him a place in the pantheon of screen stars. The glamour of the Auxiliary Air Force had been the icing on the cake for the thousands, if not millions, of women who swooned in their cinema seats at every film he featured in. During the Battle of Britain he had increased his reputation further the press eager to report the latest victories of the one ace they had ready access to (the RAF guarded its heroes’ identities well seldom releasing the names of ‘star pilots’).
Marcus Trent had however slipped from the front pages these past few months, shunning publicity and with very good cause. He had walked away from a crash at the battle’s height otherwise uninjured but with a vicious facial wound that had badly broken his nose and left a livid scar from his right temple to his left jaw. ‘It’ll be pirates and henchmen for me from now on’ he had joked when his three new pilots arrived in his office. It was a line he had used many times since August, a few jokey words for the ill at ease.
Mat seldom felt as ease around him. Perry had never had a problem with his lack of height, if anything his small stature had made him even more determined to prove himself, but Mat was very conscious of the difference in their size, it added to the vulnerability wearing women’s clothing made her feel.
The two of them sat facing each other in a small study Marcus had taken as his office off the airfield. The walls were lined with empty bookcases, the Hall’s owners had removed much of the estate’s furnishings when it was commandeered, but had left two large leather armchairs which were obviously too much trouble to manoeuvre through the lodge’s narrow doors. Mat could comfortably sit in one without any part of her body touching the chair’s arms, and her legs even dangled an inch or so from the floor in a way she hadn’t experienced since the nursery.
‘We need more planes’ she said inching forward ‘those we have are relics which I doubt will ever fly again and everyone’s getting impatient stuck on the ground’. Marcus nodded he had his own problems with Mat. When Mal had outlined his idea of men dressed as WAAF officers Marcus had never thought the ruse would work half as well as it did. He had to remind himself constantly that Mat was not a woman.
‘We’re working on it Watson’ he could not bring himself to call her Polly, it was simply too strange ‘there is something else we need to talk about’. His expression became a shade more serious. Not too much he hoped but with his featured rearranged as they were he could never be sure without looking in a mirror. ‘It’s Carstairs and Crabtree’ he continued ‘they’re hardly ever to be found with the rest of the squadron. Carstairs it seems seldom leaves his room except to eat and Lord alone knows where the other one goes.’
Marcus had not meant that to sound as harsh as it had, he paused softening his voice ‘You’re senior Watson; you have a responsibility to your flight’.
Mat looked at the floor trying to compose herself. She had been reprimanded by far less considerate commanders; why it should it affect her so now she did not know. ‘Sorry Sir’ she started ‘I’ve had a lot on my plate with the…’
‘Nonsense’ Marcus interrupted ‘you’re first responsibility is to your subordinates, there are two other flight leaders to share the load’. What was wrong now, Mat had her face in her hands and her shoulders had just begun to heave. Was he crying, the man who had flown deathly slow bombers over Maastricht, through shellfire and Messerschmitts? Marcus leaned forward to look closer. There were definitely tears, and the small figure sat opposite him suddenly became impossible to think of as a man’
‘Polly’ Marcus said softly reaching out to touch her shoulder ‘this must be very hard for you; it’s not an acting role I would relish…’
‘It’s not that’ she said her lips trembling badly ‘you don’t understand. I was supposed to be alone, no one to worry about…’ Words tumbled from her, terrible words of fire and death, the longing to escape their screams, to be free of everyone’s pain but her own. Mat remembered the day Perry had broken his arm when he was five, how his father ordinarily stern had comforted the little boy, wiping away his tears… Was that why she was saying these things? Colour started rising in her cheeks, she felt so small, so ashamed but the tears wouldn’t stop.
Michael Trent was too much the gentleman to be unmoved by woman’s tears, a courtesy that ignored the fact that this was not a woman. He slid form his chair, squatting at Mat’s side an arm around her shoulder. In the normal course of things he would offer comforting platitudes, this was by no means normal. Mat’s words had touched a sadness that he had himself repressed, the guilt of surviving when so many had not, and he began to tell her how completely he understood, about the replacement pilots whose names he had never learned, about the gut wrenching terror of dogfighting and the shame of survival. Tears came unbidden, as they could never come in other circumstances. He pressed his forehead against hers, her sobbing breath warm on his face.
Mat pulled her hands from her face, and looked directly into his grey eyes. She had never known as deep an intimacy with anyone, never shared so much of herself. Without thinking she crossed one last barrier and pressed her lips to his, sealing a connection between two people who had been hurt in so many, similar ways