After leaving the others standing on the curb outside the Air Ministry, Ginger showed Jeanette most of the sights they were able to access, and pointed out others from a distance.
"And that's Big Ben," he pointed. They couldn't get too close to the major buildings, and many of the museums were closed for the duration. Madame Ducoste had followed them for a time, before claiming her feet were hurting and taking a taxi back to Mount Street, where Mrs. Symes had made up Biggles' and Algy's rooms, in addition to Ginger's own, for their visitors.
Jeanette smiled up at him, her large dark eyes twinkling. She had been holding his hand for the past half hour, pretending not to notice that she could feel his pulse racing. They found a park bench and sat down. He leaned over and kissed her chastely on the cheek. She blushed and half pulled away, but he held onto her hand and after a moment she leaned toward him and they kissed again – this time not-so-chastely.
"Right, you two, clear off," said a policeman a bit later. "Go find a room."
Blushing and laughing, they made their way back to Mount Street, where Mrs. Symes had prepared a light supper. Madame retired early, pleading exhaustion from the journey. Ginger and Jeanette sat talking by the fire together for a long time, but eventually even the young need to sleep, and Ginger showed Jeanette to the door of Algy's room.
Giving her a goodnight kiss, he told her to come and wake him if she needed anything. He promised that he wouldn't mind. He lay on his own small bed for a long time, his hands laced under his head, staring at the shadows on the ceiling before he finally fell asleep.
Some time passed, he wasn't sure how much, when he awoke to the gentle click of his bedroom door closing. He blinked. The moon, streaming through the window open in the summer heat, illuminated the room as clearly as a spotlight.
Jeanette stood just inside the door to his room, wrapped in Algy's dressing gown, her dark hair loose about her shoulders.
"Jeanette? Is something wrong?" he asked softly. "Did you need something?"
She shook her head and pressed a finger to her lips. "Shhh," she breathed.
She looked very small in Algy's dressing gown. He was a little confused and wondered fleetingly what Biggles would say if he ever learned he'd had a girl in his bedroom in the middle of the night. Then Jeanette let Algy's dressing gown slip to the floor and it was some hours before he thought of Biggles again.
Rawlham, the next day.
His leave over at last, Ginger swung down from the lorry to be greeted by Algy, who was sitting on the steps of the officer's mess smoking a cigarette.
"Welcome back," Algy said.
"Thanks," Ginger returned.
"Have fun?"
"It was alright."
"You're smirking," Algy said. "So you must have had a good time."
"I am not smirking," Ginger protested.
"Oh yes you are," Algy said.
"I'm telling you, nothing happened."
"You can't fool me," Algy said grinning. "I'm somewhat of an authority on the subject of post-leave smirks."
Ginger laughed. "Get out of the way," he said. "I need to go report."
Algy shifted so Ginger could go up the steps.
Later that evening, Ginger sat cross-legged on Algy's bed, waxing poetic at some length about Jeanette's beauty.
"Are you ever going to get to the good part?" Algy asked with some asperity.
"I told you, nothing happened."
"And I told you, I don't believe you."
Ginger looked around the room comically.
"What?" Algy asked.
"I'm looking for a bible."
"Whatever for?"
"To swear you to secrecy."
"Well, you shan't find a bible in here."
"Exactly."
"How about I swear on my copy of the Spitfire specifications?"
"Nice try," Ginger said sarcastically.
"Go to bed," Algy said, giving him shove.
A few weeks later, Ginger got a letter. He grinned when he saw the handwriting and ripped open the envelope.
Everyone in the mess smiled knowingly. Most of them turned away, but Biggles kept watching Ginger's face. He saw his grin fade and his face lose its color.
"Canada?" he cried incredulously, the hand holding the letter falling to his side.
"What's wrong?"
"Jeanette says her mother has a second cousin in Quebec. She wrote to them from Algiers and they've offered to take them in until the war is over. They're taking a ship from Liverpool tomorrow. She said she'll probably never see me again."
"Our destinies are not always in our own hands." The memory, nearly but not quite buried, bubbled to the surface and Biggles ruthlessly shoved it down again.
Biggles reached out and put his hand on Ginger's shoulder. "I'm sorry," he said simply.
One day out from Liverpool
"Mama, I don't feel so good."
"You're probably just nervous. It's natural. We've been through a lot in the last three weeks. Don't worry. We'll be in Quebec soon and we can start over," Madame said, stroking her daughter's hair reassuringly.
"I don't want to start over," Jeanette protested. "I want to go back to London and be with Ginger."
"You can't," her mother said practically. "Look forward, not back. There are other fish in the sea. Why, there's a nice young man named Peter Merryweather that I met at dinner last night. He's been in the army but is being sent home with a knee injury. He seems quite taken with you."
Jeanette made a face. "But…"
"Come on, let's go down to the dining room. I'll introduce you."
"I really don't feel good. I don't think I can eat anything. I really think I might be sick."
Madame paused with one hand on the doorknob of their cabin. She turned and looked at Jeanette and considered her carefully.
"I think we need to go see the ship's doctor," she said at last.
"What?" Jeanette cried.
The doctor smiled. "Congratulations."
"But…"
"You'll need to start taking better care of yourself," the doctor said, turning away and pulling some pamphlets from a drawer. "You'll find that eating a small snack before getting out of bed in the morning may help with the nausea."
Jeanette accepted the pamphlets and nodded absently, wondering how on earth she was going to explain this to her mother, and thinking about the letter she'd have to write to Ginger.
Now, Madame Ducoste was a practical woman. A widow with two children who'd come through two world wars had to be. And the handsome Captain Merryweather she'd met in the dining room the night before was quite taken with her daughter. All the talk of this freckled-faced redheaded Englishman would have to cease immediately, however.
If Captain Merryweather thought his "premature" daughter looked as plump and healthy as the other babies in the nursery window, he put it down to good fortune and the hearty Canadian food his new wife seemed quite fond of. But he really didn't think that much about it. The doctor and his wife both told him she was an early arrival but perfectly healthy and that's all that mattered. After all, what did he know of babies?
1963, Quebec
Clarissa Merryweather was quite giddy as she climbed the steps to the small house she shared with her grandmother when she wasn't away at university. She paused with her hand on the doorknob to admire the ring on her left hand and sighed with pleasure. Her grandmother was going to be so pleased! She'd been after Andrew to propose for quite a while now.
"Granny?" she called.
"In the kitchen," came the response.
She walked in, barely able to stop from bouncing on her toes in her excitement.
Madame Ducoste turned from putting the finishing touches on her roast, and regarded her eldest granddaughter affectionately.
"What is it?"
Clarissa tried to come up with some clever way to reveal her new status but in the end she just blurted "Andrew proposed!" and held out her left hand, squealing with delight.
"That's wonderful!" Madame exclaimed. She dutifully admired the ring and got two cups of tea and sat at the table, listening to Clarissa tell the story of his proposal in excruciating detail.
"I only wish Mother and Daddy were here," she said, her pretty face clouding for a moment. It had been five years since they'd been killed in a car crash. "Mother would love Andrew, I just know it. And he's got a good job with a good salary, so I know Daddy would approve."
She paused, thoughtful for a moment. "I suppose I'll have to ask Uncle Henri to walk me down the aisle," she said. "Since I don't have any other male relatives."
Madame pursed her lips thoughtfully. She'd been carrying a secret for twenty years, and now that Jeanette was long buried, she was the only one who knew. Perhaps the time had come. The world was a different place than it had been twenty years ago.
"Actually, my dear," she said slowly. "That's not entirely accurate."
London, six weeks later
Clutching two faded photos and a notebook with all the details her grandmother could recall, Clarissa stood on the pavement outside Heathrow Airport with her fiancé by her side.
"What now?" Andrew said. It had been a whirlwind six weeks since the bombshell revelation in her grandmother's kitchen, but a lot of things seemed to make more sense now – like why Clarissa didn't look a thing like her two younger brothers or why she was the only one in the family who wasn't allergic to cats.
"I suppose we should start at the Aero Club," she said. "Grandmother said he was in the RAF. They'd have files on everyone."
A short while later, having checked into a hotel and left their bags, they stood in the entry way of the Aero Club and were speaking with the club secretary.
"I'm very sorry, miss," he said. "But I can't give out anybody's home address, as I'm sure you understand."
"Yes, of course," she said, disappointed. "I understand."
Andrew, who of course had read all the details and listened to the same story that Madame had told Clarissa, tried bold-faced bluff.
"Is he still living at the Mount Street flat with Bigglesworth?" he asked, casually, as if he'd known Ginger for years.
The club secretary blinked. "Uh… yes," he said, somewhat taken aback. But then, he mused, everybody seemed to know Biggles, so this wasn't particularly unusual.
"What was the number again?" Andrew said. "Sixteen? Eighteen?" Here he was just guessing, as Madame hadn't remembered the actual address, if she'd ever known it.
"Twenty-two," the club secretary said automatically, then cursed himself for revealing member's personal details.
"Thanks," Andrew returned, taking his bemused fiancée by the arm and leading her out of the club.
The phone rang in the Mount Street flat and Algy answered, then held it out to Ginger saying "for you."
"For me?" Ginger said curiously, accepting the instrument. He listened.
"Ginger, it's Tommy over at the club. There were two kids here, a bloke and his girlfriend, asking for you. They talked like Americans."
Ginger cocked his head. "What did they want?"
"They know you, they said. They knew where you lived too. They're probably on their way to see you now. I thought I'd give you a heads up."
"Two American kids?"
"Well, in their twenties, for a guess. Maybe they were Canadians. I don't know."
"That's strange."
"I thought so too. Anyway, must dash. See you sometime."
Ginger replaced the receiver, shaking his head slightly. He turned to the others, who were regarding him curiously and repeated the conversation as near as he could recall.
"Looks like we're about to have visitors," Bertie said brightly.
"But what could they want with me?"
"You'll just have to wait and see," Biggles said with faint sarcasm. "Although knowing what you suffer from impatience, it could be an agonizing few minutes."
Shortly afterwards, the bell rang and the janitor showed the two young people into their sitting room.
Clarissa, who had planned this moment for the past six weeks, suddenly found herself speechless. Andrew introduced the two of them and they all shook hands. Then he nudged her.
"She's got something to say," he said.
"We gathered that," Biggles murmured.
Andrew took the faded black and white photos from Clarissa's trembling hands. One showed a young couple in swimwear smiling and squinting a little in bright sunlight on a beach; the other was a head and shoulders portrait of a freckled young RAF officer, cap tilted at a rakish angle. He held them out to Ginger.
"Is this you?" he asked simply.
Ginger gaped. He stared at the images in his hands for a solid minute before asking in a strained voice "Where did you get these?"
"They were my mother's," Clarissa said, finding her voice at last. "My grandmother found them in a shoebox in the back of her closet."
Ginger stared at Clarissa intently. Was it just his imagination, or did she look familiar? "Your mother's?" he repeated incredulously.
"My mother was Jeanette Ducoste," she intoned carefully, her knees shaking slightly with the gravity of the news she was imparting.
Ginger began to feel slightly lightheaded. This feeling intensified when Clarissa told him her birthday adding "I was born in Canada to my mother and her husband, Peter Merryweather, just seven and a half months after their wedding. I was always told that I was born prematurely." She paused before saying softly "But I wasn't, was I?"
Algy saw Ginger start to sway and scooped him into chair before he could faint. He handed him a glass of water, which Ginger drank from gratefully.
Ginger ran his hands through his sandy hair and sat with his elbows on the table, seemingly stunned into silence.
Biggles said sternly "Just what did the two of you get up to on that last day of leave, eh?"
"That, old boy," Algy said sarcastically, "should be quite obvious."
"Well blow me down," said Bertie cheerfully, nicely breaking the tension. "Ginger and Jeanette, eh? This certainly is a corker. I always thought it would be Algy that got news like this."
Algy shot Bertie a dirty look, but Bertie just laughed.
Biggles looked surprised for a second before breaking into a grin. "Indeed," he said simply. He turned to Clarissa, his grin broadening. "Where are my manners? Welcome to the family, my dear. Please, sit down everyone. I'll go see if we have any champagne. And maybe something stronger for poor Ginger, he's had rather a large shock just now."
Two hours and a stiff brandy later, Ginger was beginning to feel as if he had a handle on the situation. Clarissa and Andrew had shared their stories with the four airmen, who had shared theirs in turn. Dusty photo albums were pulled from shelves and poured over. Clarissa exclaimed over some pictures of her mother she'd never seen before – and finally understood why she was the only in her family who freckled instead of tanned when they went to the beach.
Just as they were getting chummy, the phone rang shrilly.
"Bigglesworth, here. Uh huh. Yes, yes, of course, sir. See you presently." Biggles hung up the phone.
"Sorry to be the one to bust up the party," he said, smiling apologetically at their guests. "But that was Raymond. We're needed at the Yard, chaps."
Clarissa and Andrew returned to their hotel room. Andrew was exhausted from the jet lag and moments after throwing himself on the bed he was promptly asleep, but Clarissa hummed with nervous energy and excitement. It had been a very emotional day. She tried to nap, but her mind was racing. Leaving Andrew snoring in their room, she decided to take a walk to quiet her mind.
She hadn't gone far when she saw the sign for Scotland Yard. She wondered if Ginger would mind if she bothered him at the office, but decided she'd at least pop in and say she was in the area. After all, even police officers took breaks and maybe they could get a coffee together, away from his friends. There were a lot of questions she still wanted to ask him.
Meanwhile, Biggles and the rest of his team were being briefed by Raymond and Gaskin regarding some stolen goods and a smuggling ring that Gaskin was about to break up.
After a short discussion, they decided that Ginger would take one of Gaskin's men out to Gatwick to reconnoiter and report back while the others went through the files and made some calls.
They'd been gone about two hours when the phone rang.
"I'm sorry to interrupt, inspector, but there's a young woman in the lobby who insists on seeing Mr. Hebblethwaite," the receptionist said over the intercom telephone. "She won't leave and she's quite insistent."
"Oh for Pete's sake," Biggles exclaimed in exasperation. "Can't she just go sightseeing like a normal person? Alright, fine, send her up."
Raymond, in discussion with Biggles over some details in a file he'd located, raised an eyebrow. "I take it you know this young lady?"
Biggles sighed. He hesitated but then decided that Raymond was going to find out sooner or later. "She's Ginger's daughter."
Raymond choked on his tea. He spluttered. Biggles passed him a handkerchief. "I'm sorry. Did you say Ginger's daughter? Why didn't I know about this?"
Biggles nodded. "Because we all just met her about four hours ago," he said. "Believe me, it was a shock to us too."
"Who is her mother?"
"The girl from Monaco. I don't know if you remember."
Raymond's eyebrows were so high they nearly left his face altogether. "The pilot's sister? What was their name? Ducoste?"
"The same."
"Well, well. Can't say I blame the lad. She was a looker, that one," Raymond smiled. "Bit late to do anything about it now, isn't it?" he chuckled and then added in a low undertone to Biggles "I always thought it would be Lacey that got this sort of surprise." It was Biggles' turn to choke on his tea.
A moment later and a uniformed constable showed Clarissa into the office. They introduced her quickly to Raymond, who expressed himself delighted to make her acquaintance.
No sooner had they poured Clarissa a cup of tea and sat back down again than a disheveled looking police officer burst into the room. He had a gash on one side of his face and his left eye was rapidly swelling shut.
He fired off his report to the men in the room.
"What do you mean, 'kidnapped'?" Biggles asked, stopping just short of shouting.
"We were watching a hangar on the very edge of the airfield," the man said, gasping. "Mr. Hebblethwaite went up to get a closer look and this big burly fellow grabbed him. I tried to get him back and barely escaped with my life." His appearance bore this out.
"Right," Biggles commanded crisply. "Get your guns, chaps. We're leaving."
"I'm coming with you," Clarissa said, picking up her handbag.
"No, you most certainly are not," Biggles returned curtly.
She wrinkled her nose and despite the seriousness of the situation, Biggles had to repress a smile. Ginger had made the same face on occasions when he'd been told he had to stay behind.
"Listen, Clarissa," Biggles said as gently as possible. "Leave this to us. We're professionals and we know what we're doing."
"No, you listen!" Clarissa snapped, fighting back tears. Biggles blinked, a little surprised at the vehemence in her tone. "I didn't cross an ocean to find my father only to have him snatched away from me after I'd barely got to know him," she said. "I'm coming with you whether you like it or not."
Biggles looked at the fierce look in her eyes and shrugged helplessly. "I suppose there's no stopping you, is there?"
"Huh," Algy muttered to Bertie, slipping his gun into his pocket and following her and Biggles to the door. "Wonder who she gets that from."
Bertie chuckled, pocketing his own weapon. "Ginger gets that same look in his eyes when Biggles tells him he can't come along. All too often he gets his way too."
In the back of a dingy aircraft hangar Ginger bowed his head. He normally wasn't much for prayer, but he silently said one now. It wasn't fair, he thought, that he should have had only two hours with his daughter. He needed more time.
His arms were bound behind him, his feet tied to the legs of the chair in which he sat. He looked up in surprise when he saw Bertie and Clarissa enter the room.
"How did you find me so quickly?" he inquired in a dazed voice.
"Gaskin's a usefully chappie to have on our side," Bertie answered brightly. "His man saw you get collared and he hoofed it back to the Yard to report."
"Why did you bring Clarissa here?" Ginger asked Bertie incredulously. "It isn't safe."
"She's your daughter, old boy. There's no doubt about it now," Bertie said briskly, pulling out a pocketknife. "She brought herself. Talked Biggles into it and everything, just like her old man. Apparently 'crazy' runs in your family."
Bertie began cutting the ropes holding Ginger to the chair.
"Stop right there," a harsh voice rasped from the shadows. "Or the girl gets it." A burly hand closed over Clarissa's arm, but she was no shrinking violet. She had two brothers and she knew how to fight dirty. She was also incredibly angry. How dare this man try to take her father away from her before she'd had the chance to get to know him properly?
She brought her left foot down on the instep of the man holding her. He howled, but did not release his grip on her arm until, with her free hand, she drove her fist with every ounce of her rage into his groin. He doubled over at that and she wrestled for the gun. He wasn't letting go, and the two of them tumbled over onto the ground.
She pulled the gun hand closer to her face and then sank her teeth into his knuckles until she tasted blood. He screamed and dropped the gun, which Bertie promptly picked up and trained on him until he raised his hands in surrender.
"Yup," Ginger said with a proud grin, tossing off the last of his bonds and helping Clarissa to her feet. He gave the man on the ground a kick for good measure before accepting a pair of handcuffs from Bertie and tightening them over the man's wrists. "That knuckle-biting clinches it. She's my kid all right."
Epilogue
Standing at the back of the little church, Clarissa adjusted Ginger's tie while he held her bouquet.
"Are you ready?" he asked her, a lump threatening to form in his throat. She took the flowers back from him and took a deep breath.
"Yep."
It was his turn to take a deep breath. He grinned. Of all the places he had been or seen or the things he had done, standing at the back of a church with his daughter on her wedding day ranked somewhere behind chasing a green horse around the desert and fighting off five-foot crabs with an ax in the list of things he thought likely to happen when he'd run away from home.
What a crazy world it is, he reflected. It doesn't seem all that long ago that I left Smettleworth behind and now look at me.
The organ music started and the doors opened. The congregation stood and turned to face them.
"Let's do this," he said simply.
The End.