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Part One: Changes

Saturday 15 August 1942

The sun dipped below the horizon, painting the late-summer sky with a gorgeous palette of coral and lavender, fuchsia and tangerine. It was breathtaking – even when viewed, as Andrew Foyle now did, through the scratched Perspex window of a Wellington bomber. Funny thing, he thought. When had he last taken the time to appreciate the simple beauty of a sunset from the air? Probably not since fighter training in Ross-shire back in 1940. A lifetime ago. He'd enjoyed some dazzling Highland sunsets that summer, but since them his focus had been on other things. No time for enjoying the scenery when there was a war on.

But this evening, for the first time in over two years, he didn't have to scan the skies for Jerry or make sure his student wasn't about to blunder into the side of a mountain. He was airborne, true, but in a decidedly off-duty capacity. His tour as a flight instructor at RAF Church Fenton concluded, he'd been granted a week's leave before reporting to his next assignment. Naturally he'd planned to spend the time in Hastings. He had expected to make the journey by train before picking up word on the 'drome grapevine of this bomber being returned to the South Coast after repairs. He'd jumped at the chance to hitch a ride and avoid the day-long rail journey. Not strictly within the rules, perhaps, but Maggie, the Air Transport Auxiliary pilot who'd been dispatched to shuttle the Wellington south, happened to be the elder sister of one of his mates. Andrew knew her slightly, having met her at a mess dance when her duties had brought her to Church Fenton. She'd seemed happy enough for his company on the flight from Yorkshire to Sussex.

The journey would take nearly two hours. Once they were aloft Andrew found himself at leisure, free not only to gaze at sky and land but also to contemplate the days ahead. He was looking forward to his leave, to taking a well-deserved break and spending time with Dad, but his anticipation was tempered by the realisation that his home wouldn't be the same. Number 31, Steep Lane no longer housed only Christopher Foyle. Three months ago it had also become home to Katherine, his new wife, and her young daughter.

Andrew's feelings toward his father's remarriage were mixed, something about which he was secretly rather ashamed. He was well aware that he'd been nudging the older man toward some sort of social life for years – had even been bold enough, once or twice, to suggest that Dad ought to consider marrying again. He knew he was lonely, especially since Andrew had gone up to Oxford. It bothered him to think of his father rattling round the house on his own, and how he would cope if Andrew were killed in combat didn't bear thinking about. But now that Dad had finally taken the hint and found someone new, the son found himself unable to take much pleasure in the circumstances.

The biggest problem, as he readily admitted to himself, was that he simply didn't know his father's new wife. He'd met her precisely twice – once the previous December, when an unexpected air-raid had forced her to seek shelter at the house, and then at their wedding in May. Both meetings had been brief and rather stilted; neither had afforded time for anything like a real conversation. He'd made a special effort to get down for the wedding on a three-day pass so he could stand up as best man for Dad, but the difficulties of wartime travel meant that he'd spent barely thirty-six hours of it in Hastings. On both occasions Katherine had struck him as poised and intelligent, but Andrew still had reservations. Would she understand Dad's introverted, reserved nature? Would she make him happy?

And what about the child – what was her name? Cecily, that was it, a sprightly seven-year-old with long golden hair and large brown eyes like her mother's. Andrew's experience with small girls dated back to his own primary-school days, his memories confined to rope-skipping, high-pitched giggles and dangling pigtails. What was it like for Dad, having a little girl in the house? And what on earth was Andrew meant to say to her?

And then, of course, there was the house itself. What changes would Katherine have made? Dad had already written that he'd moved Andrew's belongings up to the second storey in order to allocate his room to Cecily. Might Katherine have redecorated, discarded all his mother's beloved paintings and knickknacks in favour of her own things? Would he find the furniture moved round and all the familiar objects swept away? The idea of another woman living in his mother's home, cooking in her kitchen, sleeping in her bed – well, it was unsettling, to say the least. During all his time away, first at Oxford and then in the RAF, Andrew had unconsciously drawn comfort from the knowledge that home remained the same, with the same pictures on the walls, the same creaks on the stairs and Dad ensconced in his chair in the sitting room. Now that security was gone.

He told himself he was being unreasonable. Of course he was happy his father wasn't alone anymore. Katherine seemed like a perfectly nice woman, and he was in no doubt that Dad was smitten. An image rose to mind: the expression on his father's face at the wedding, lit up with a joy quite alien to his usually enigmatic features. He'd been gazing at his bride, who looked flushed and happy and undeniably lovely in a rose-coloured suit. Her small daughter stood beaming by her side, clad in a pale-pink dress trimmed with lace and clutching a bouquet of daisies, clearly delighted by her role as her mother's bridesmaid. The three of them looked somehow right together, as if they had already formed a new family. But if Dad had found a new family, well … where did that leave Andrew?

He sighed, shifting in his seat. The prospect of feeling like a stranger in his own home wasn't appealing, but there was nothing else for it. He'd have to make the best of it, whatever came.

Andrew watched in quiet admiration as ATA Second Officer Maggie Shaw touched the bomber smoothly down on the runway at RAF Lympne. The late summer twilight had given way to full darkness but she lined up the heavy craft neatly with the flare path and brought it in with skill and confidence. A Wellington normally flew with a crew of six – pilot, navigator, wireless op, bomb aimer and two gunners. While the latter four jobs were unnecessary on a transport flight, she managed the combined tasks of pilot and navigator as though it were the most natural thing in the world. What was even more impressive was that tomorrow she would accomplish the same feat in a completely different aircraft, for ATA pilots had to be prepared to fly many different types of aeroplane, often in damaged condition. It was dangerous work – not as hazardous as combat, of course, but risky enough. He'd heard that the Air Transport Auxiliary lost pilots, of whom one in eight was a woman, at the rate of about one a fortnight. Unsung heroes of this war, like so many others.

Maggie taxied the plane toward dispersal and flipped the switches to power down the twin engines. "Best hop out as soon as the props stop, Foyle, before someone sees you and I get a ticking-off." She nodded at the ground-crew lads approaching with chocks to secure the wheels. He shouldered his kit bag, thanked her again for the lift and ducked out of the hatch unnoticed.

Once he was well clear of the Wellington he stopped near the runway and looked round, drinking in the sights and sounds of an operational aerodrome on full alert. He'd spent the past year and a half in training units far from combat, but the memories of flying ops were indelibly etched in his mind. The acrid smells of rubber and aviation fuel and the constant roar of engines were the same at any airfield, but the sense of urgency conveyed by the hurrying mechanics in their grease-stained blue coveralls, the plumbers towing a trolley of bombs toward a cluster of Blenheims, the pungent cordite stench of ammunition, the speeding fuel trucks and the crackle of the tannoy – all these were unique to an operational station, as he remembered only too vividly.

Andrew had served some six months at this very 'drome, through the Battle of Britain and beyond. Now the memories came flooding back: the endless hours of waiting kitted out in the dispersal hut, the terror of those early ops, the thrill of his first kill. All the friends he'd flown with and lost – Rex, Douglas, Matthew, Jack … so many good men gone. So many memories.

He dragged himself back to the present and began to walk, skirting the busy areas and noticing how much things had changed over the past eighteen months. The grass runway had been paved and proper hangars constructed along with a control tower, new barracks and a headquarters building. Even the rickety old tea caravan had been replaced with a purpose-built structure, though it looked like little more than a glorified shack. Thinking something hot sounded just the ticket after his chilly high-altitude flight, Andrew headed for it. No doubt someone there could tell him what time he could catch a bus into Hastings. He'd written his father to expect him tomorrow evening, but no matter. Dad was used to him popping in unexpectedly.

He hung behind of the cluster of erks at the service window, waiting his turn. When the crowd thinned, he stepped forward. "Coffee or tea, Flight Lieutenant?" asked the tea lady in her smart green WVS uniform. Their eyes met. "Andrew!"

He did a double take. "Katherine?" He had completely forgotten that his father's new wife did volunteer work at Lympne.

She broke into a warm smile. "How wonderful to see you! We didn't expect you until tomorrow evening. How on earth did get here so quickly?"

"Cadged a lift on a transport," he told her. "I hope it's not a problem, my getting here early. I saw a chance to avoid a day on the train and jumped at it."

"Don't be silly! Your father will be delighted. He was just saying - "

"Oi, missus, any chance of a cuppa then?" interrupted a testy-looking sergeant mechanic at Andrew's shoulder.

Shooting her stepson an apologetic look, she poured the Geordie his tea. "So sorry, sergeant … Helen, I'm going to step out for a minute. Can you take over?" she called to another volunteer filling a tea urn behind her. She nodded Andrew to a spot a few yards away, removed from the press round the service counter. When she joined him there a minute later she was carrying a mug of tea and two shortbread biscuits on a tray. "As I was saying," she said, proffering it, "Christopher will be so glad to see you. A lovely surprise."

"Thanks," he told her, taking a grateful swallow. The warmth rippled through him, just what he wanted after the cold of the Wellington's cockpit. "Mmmmm, perfect. I feel daft – I completely forgot you work here. So how late are you on?"

"I usually finish around midnight." She glanced at her wristwatch. "The last bus left at ten; I'm afraid you've missed it."

"Then how will you get home?"

"One of the WAAFs from the motor pool gives me a lift into Hastings when I take a late shift. She'll take you too if you don't mind waiting a while."

"Not at all. I'll just wander round and try to stay out of everyone's way." He took a bite of biscuit, deliciously rich and crisp. "Look, don't let me keep you from – " He broke off, his attention diverted by the sound of an approaching engine. It was a Spitfire, he could tell, but something was seriously wrong – it was sputtering ominously. He stared into the sky, the hair on the back of his neck prickling. Seconds later it appeared, dropping out of darkness toward the runway. Black smoke was pouring from the engine, while the wings dipped and wobbled drunkenly and the tail plane – Christ, half the rudder was gone. It was nearly impossible to control a Spit in that condition, Andrew knew, especially upon landing. Chances were it would skitter sideways, quite possibly right at them –

His mug shattered on the concrete. "Clear the area!" he bellowed, his heart pounding. "Clear the area, NOW!" Katherine's tray flew from her hand as he jerked her round the back of the canteen, pushed her to the ground and threw himself on top of her.