Free Fall

Mary,

          Do you remember your favourite story from your mother’s library? I have been pondering the first line as of late. Blindfold I should to Myra run. You used to like that. I called you Myra for a time. Do you remember that?

          I was around yours a lot in the months after father hanged himself. Did you know that was my first memory? Father ruined it. He had to die in November. The funeral was cold. The spitting rain dug into the cracks of his grave, turning them a darker grey. The clouds were a crooked grey-blue, and mother’s hand gripped my own tightly. His stone was surrounded by mud that coated the soles of my new shoes and the grass there soaked my socks and dress and scratched me every time another droplet struck them. Do you remember that? Were you there?

Mother tried to be there for me, but she was far too cross with him. I believe the main words she used to describe him were useless, drunken coward or something to that effect. She often claimed he was no better than the deserters. She often claimed that him fighting in the great war was the best thing he did because it gave her three long years all to herself.

          You never made me feel like I was intruding when I was around yours. You often made excuses for me to come hang out with you, and we would read books about fairies and adventure and planes. You liked the ones with magic in and the poems, but I was always a stubborn child. I suppose I never quite grew out of that. At some point, we compromised and played pretend as planes and pilots. You were never strong enough to lift me, and I always ended up the plane.

          Do you remember when we played that game on one of the hills near the Finningly base? Mother and I used to catch the train there and sunbathe and watch the planes. You had come with us. It was a warm day and the sun was striking. Mother was wearing the hat father got her: the one with the dark blue bow.

          The train we caught back was extremely similar to the one that we caught from Eccles to Wilmslow all those years later. The carriage was a yellowy brown and smelt of cigarettes. The seats were dark red and uncomfortable. We sat down together, but I don’t think either of us said a word the entire journey. I don’t think we had spoken for a while at that point because of the rumours from school.

Mother and I arrived at the train station, and you were alone in your light green skirt and button up coat. I bid my mother goodbye, and she squeezed me tight. I think she cried a little, but I couldn’t make it out through the rain.

Your parents didn’t want you joining the war efforts either, so you also had to wait until you turned 18 to sign up. Father joined the war at 17. It wasn’t fair. When your birthday came and went, I was sure that was the last I would hear of you for a while. You wrote to me and told me that you would wait for my birthday to sign up to the WAAF. You told me that it only made sense that we stuck together.

          We arrived late to the training camp in Wilmslow. We had to stop twice on account of the air raid sirens as we passed through Manchester. We were still soaked through from the rain earlier, and when we left the carriage, we had left a damp imprint in the seats. The lady we soon learnt to be Fiona was so cross with us for our tardiness. After giving us our uniform, she sent us to change and march two laps around the field. We both collapsed into bed that night, but it wasn’t long before we were awoken by Fiona’s hollering. I didn’t understand how she never ran out of breath. She was always shouting and red in the face.

          I was thankful when we got a few days break after the inoculations. You almost fainted, so I stayed with you the rest of the day. You had never been good with needles. Was that evening the first night we spent together? You led me through the dormitory doors after lights out and brought me to a tree stump. You seemed pleased with yourself. We whispered and giggled for hours.

          But then you kissed me.

          Like a boy would.

          Why did I kiss you back?

          I was foolish. I must have been exhausted from all that exercise.

          What was even more foolish was that I allowed myself to enjoy it.

          I apologise for yelling at you when you got that job as a mechanic. I had worked so hard, and I got assigned as a cook. Meanwhile, there you were–face beaming–as you told me you were to work with planes.

          I could cook all I wanted after the war, and I told them as much. Nevertheless, they assigned me to one of the RAF bases. I was only there for a couple of weeks before being sent back to Fiona with accusations of insubordination by some very angry, very hungry RAF soldiers. I knew I was overplaying my hand, but I would rather cook for my mother than for soldiers. Anyone could cook for soldiers. I wanted to do something important. I was there to help the war efforts and work around planes. That’s why I signed up–not to get some early experience in playing housewife.

          I suppose one of the perks of being in the women’s segments is that your superiors understood what it was like to be pushed around and commanded by men. Fiona assigned me back to a longer and more arduous training course under the guise of a punishment. The course was for flight mechanics. I’m sure Fiona knew what she was doing. She stared me down and yelled at me to get out of her sight, and I grumbled and kept my head down and apologised, but I am still convinced that I saw the trace of a smile as she commanded me to march past her.

          After the training, I was stationed at Ringway. Do you remember that? We both had a somewhat constant location, so we wrote to one another. Writing letters to you filled me with so much joy, even if I didn’t know what we were. I still don’t know what we were. I wish you would tell me. I hope you are well.

          Best,

          Annie

Dear Mary,

          I dreamt of the ATA last night. Do you remember how they used to call me an atta girl? I miss that nickname. All Billy calls me is sweetheart and dollface. I miss the nickname you gave me more. You called me your beloved. Do you remember that? Was that what we were? Beloveds?

          Do you remember when I found you again? I had sent you a final letter from Ringway explaining that I was leaving for ATA training. I couldn’t be a flight mechanic any longer. It hurt being so close to planes but unable to fly them. I would rather be a cook.

I wasn’t supposed to be at your base, but there was an issue with my equipment. Do you remember that?

          In my dream, I was back in that Fairey Barracuda. The guns bumped and rattled against the innards of the plane. There was an awful acidic smell rising in the cockpit. It was too hot, and I couldn’t breathe, and I was gasping for air, but it was only worsening the stinging at the back of my throat.

          I found your base and landed the plane, but in the dream, it crashed. The impact had killed you. I awoke in a cold sweat with only the sound of Billy’s snores to keep me company.

I clung to the real memory like a lifeline. You didn’t recognise me at first. I had cut my hair short.           Your hair was tied into a rough bun, but there were some loose strands that got caught in your mouth as there always had been. You were so gentle. I felt a little jealous as I realised you would have treated anyone in my situation that way.

          But then you recognised my voice. I spoke my brief thanks, and your eyes watered and snapped to mine. You pulled me away from watching eyes and hugged me tight, knocking out what shaky air I had left in me. Your skin was tougher than I remembered, and you had gotten stronger.           You smelt like oil and grass instead of books and old paper.

          After that, every time I spotted a plane headed to you, I fought for it. I travelled all over Britain, yet my stomach flipped every time I saw Woodvale.

          Do you miss me? I hope you do. What a dreadful thing to wish upon someone. If you miss me, I meant something to you. I must have done. Otherwise, you would not have smiled when you saw me fly in. You would not have lit up when I waved to you. You would not have called me your beloved.

          I hope you move back to Monton soon. This house is too quiet.

          I fear we wouldn’t be able to do anything too fun.

          We wouldn’t want to upset the baby.

          Yours,

          Annie

          Dearest Myra,

          We found out that the baby is going to be a beautiful boy. Billy is going to name him Oscar after his father. If we have another boy, I would quite like to call him Phillip, although that might upset mother.

          His name doesn’t matter. Oscar will be a darling boy. He will be everything mother had–everything father ruined. He will be a miracle. There will finally be some noise in this house.

          He has been quite a nuisance as of late. I have found myself becoming unbearably hot far easier. The morning sickness has been getting worse. He always leaves me with a distinct burning feeling in the back of my throat.

          In the quiets of the night, I wonder what could have happened had that uptight officer with the moustache you always hated not dismissed us for inappropriate behaviour. Fiona fought for you, but I was out of her jurisdiction. I hope you were able to stay. I was given a two year break away from all I loved.

          It was 1945 when I returned to the ATA.

          I didn’t know at the time, but I only flew one last time before the victory in Europe, but you wouldn’t remember that. The moment my hands settled on the controls I was back. I didn’t even need to think about it. It was like I was part of it. I left all conscious thought on the runway.

          I took off. The rumbling of the ground vanished. It was just me, the controls, and the sky, and I could finally breathe–in a way I hadn’t since I last flew over to you, like I was trapped in a box slowly losing air. The buzz of the engine vibrated my entire body. I could see nothing but blue all around me. There were no angry superiors, no mother, no fiancée. It was just me and the air beneath my wings. I levelled it out and the entire world revealed itself. It was real. I was truly up. Nothing tethered me to the ground anymore. Everything was under my control. Every dip. Every tilt. Every shift.

          I had to land eventually. All that weightlessness fled as my wheels hit Woodvale’s runway. It smelt like fuel and sweat, and the ridges in my palms grew sore from my tight grip.

          You weren’t there.

          With the full usage of my eyes, I her despise.

          Do you remember that? The line from that story you always liked.

          I miss being near you. I miss knowing you. If the war had not ended, would we still be together? Would I have found you? I am sure I would have eventually. I am sure I will eventually. I cannot fathom a lifetime without you. I do not wish the war to return. How selfish and foolish must a person be to wish something like that? I did what I signed up to do. I did what my father could not, and I made my mother proud.

          The little one is certainly on his way. He bumps against this womb at ungodly times in the night and rattles against my innards and he hurts, and he is festering inside of me.

          And I am afraid.

          Of him; of Billy; of you.

          How do you hold so much power over me? Why do I let you? We could have been sent to jail. I have a life to live. I have a death to die.

          I still know not where you are nor what we were.

          I suppose this should be another for the fireplace.