January 1943

Embarkation Leave

As soon as he heard that the squadron was to get embarkation leave before flying out to Gibraltar en route to Malta, Ginger wasted no time seizing the first opportunity to travel to London and see Jeanette. He knocked on the door of her flat and waited, thinking that perhaps he should have let her know he was on his way. The door opened a crack and Jeanette looked out. Ginger thought she was even lovelier than when he had first seen her in her home in Monaco. At least this time he was not about to pass out on the floor, he thought thankfully.

Jeanette's mouth opened in surprise when she saw him. For a moment she wondered if he was a figment of her imagination; he had been so often in her thoughts, perhaps her mind had conjured up his image, but with a flood of relief she realised he was flesh and blood. "Ginger!" she gasped. "C'est bien toi?"

He smiled and nodded. "I've got ten days' leave," he told her. "I hoped we could spend it together," he suggested shyly.

"Oh yes, yes," exclaimed Jeanette happily, taking his hand and drawing him into the hall. "I am so 'appy to see you." She closed the door and hastened into his embrace. Ginger kissed her hungrily and then more tenderly.

"I 'ad not expected you," Jeanette told him when they drew back. "I thought that I 'ad imagined you when I saw you waiting at the door. That is why I am surprise."

Ginger laughed softly. "I'm real," he assured her, stroking her hair.

"I 'ave not seen you for so long," she sighed, gazing longingly into his eyes.

Ginger looked rueful. "After my leave ends, we shan't see each other for a while," he told her sadly. "It's embarkation leave."

Jeanette looked puzzled. "Embark - ?" Then realisation hit her. "Embarquement? You are going away?"

Ginger nodded. "My squadron has been posted overseas," he told her unhappily.

"I do not want that you go," murmured Jeanette, reaching out to him.

Ginger smiled ruefully, holding her close. "I don't want to go, either," he admitted, "but I have to. You will wait for me, won't you?" he asked anxiously.

Before she could answer him, her mother called out, "Qui est-ce, Jeanette?"

"C'est Ginger, maman," replied Jeanette. "Il a congé."

" Fais-le entrer dans le salon. Ne restez pas dans le vestibule."

Jeanette slipped her arm through his and led him through to the sitting room. Madame kissed him on both cheeks and told him to sit down. She bustled around, preparing coffee for them all.

Ginger sat next to Jeanette and held her hand. "You didn't answer me," he murmured quietly as her mother rattled cups in the tiny kitchen.

"What question did you ask?"

"If you would be prepared to wait for me to come back?"

Jeanette looked puzzled. "I 'ave to wait for your return," she replied. "I cannot go with you."

Ginger reddened. "I mean, you won't go out with anyone else, another man, while I'm away," he clarified.

Jeanette blushed prettily. "I cannot promise that," she replied.

When Ginger looked crestfallen and started to murmur that he understood, she added teasingly. "I will go out with Henri if he does not go with you."

Ginger laughed with relief. "Henri is alright," he acknowledged. "I meant someone who wasn't a member of your family." He hesitated briefly before he expressed his real anxiety. "I mean, you won't go to dances or the cinema with another man, the way you will with me."

She looked at him lovingly and touched the brooch he had given her which was pinned to the left breast of her blouse. "You are the only, Ginger," she reassured him earnestly. "I do not want to be with anyone else." Her blush deepened becomingly before she set his mind at rest by affirming, "I would not let another man kiss me."

Ginger's heart felt as though it would burst with emotion. He looked into Jeanette's eyes and it seemed as if time stood still. Madame broke the spell by coming back with the coffee on a tray.

"What will you do in London?" she asked as she poured the liquid.

"There are lunchtime concerts at the National Gallery," answered Ginger. "I thought we might go and listen to them. Then in the evening we could go to the cinema or dancing at the Hammersmith Palais?" He glanced at Jeanette, who nodded approvingly.

"I would like that, very much," she told him.

"Or we could go to the theatre," he added, accepting his cup with murmured thanks. "I've got ten days and I've been saving my pay for months because there isn't much to spend it on except drink when I'm off duty. I'm not that keen on boozing," he confessed.

Madame nodded approvingly. The young man had been brought up to be thrifty yet generous, she thought, and he was clearly not a drunkard. Her daughter had indeed been fortunate in the object of her affections.

"You will 'ave lunch with us before the concert?" invited Madame. "I 'ave made some soup."

Ginger accepted gratefully. He enjoyed Madame's cooking almost as much as Mrs Symes'.

The time seemed to fly. For possibly the first time in his life Ginger felt he had a real home. Madame had accepted him into her family and Jeanette – he looked at her lovingly, feeling he scarcely deserved such luck – made him feel that the missing element he had been trying to ignore for so long had at last been supplied. Jeanette met his gaze and smiled, sending a warm glow through his body.

The lunchtime concert

Ginger suggested they walk to Trafalgar Square. Transport was crowded and unreliable and he welcomed the time it gave them together. Jeanette was nothing loath, only too happy to be at his side. It was a cold, dry day with the dull light usual at that time of year making everything seem drab and grey. They walked briskly to keep warm, Jeanette's arm through his. From time to time they would turn and smile at each other as if by instinct.

Ginger led Jeanette up the steps of the National Gallery and paid their one shilling entrance fees. A few minutes before 1 pm, they found themselves seats in one of the middle rows surrounding the dais on which a huge Steinway grand stood resplendent. The wall behind was bare, the pictures long since removed to a disused slate quarry in North Wales for safety, only the ornate plasterwork outline of a frame and cornice remained affixed to the surface to tell of past glories. The gallery was rapidly filling up and they were lucky to be able to find two seats next to each other. By the time the pianist appeared, it was standing room only.

Dame Myra Hess settled herself at the piano. Ginger looked at her curiously; he saw a rather matronly woman with deep jowls and a square, almost masculine, face across which two straight, dark eyebrows lay horizontally over her deep set eyes. She was dressed in unrelieved black, lightened only by a narrow string of pearls around her neck. Her dark hair was parted in the middle and swept into coils over each ear, rather like the headphones on his flying helmet he thought incongruously.

The audience settled itself collectively into its seat and the opening notes of the first movement of Beethoven's Appassionata Sonata rolled around the gallery. It was, Ginger found, a curiously uplifting experience. The war seemed a very long way away as German music throbbed and swelled among the four walls of a very British institution. Hard to believe, he told himself, that this composer's countrymen had been trying to kill him not so very long ago. Maybe that was what set us apart from the Nazis, he mused. Somehow he could not imagine any German sitting listening to a performance of Pomp and Circumstance in Berlin.

Beside him, Jeanette observed him covertly. He was so English, she thought, acknowledging that as part of his charm and one of the reasons she loved him so much. She slipped her hand unobtrusively into his and smiled when he looked surprised. He responded by returning her smile and giving her hand a gentle squeeze.

The contact made the concert more exciting, he thought. Whatever he did with Jeanette had extra spice. He desperately wanted to make progress in his relationship with her, but was unsure how to go about it. Fervently he wished he had more experience with the opposite sex and wondered whom he could approach to seek advice. Algy seemed to be fairly relaxed with women, he thought. Perhaps he should broach the subject of how best to proceed with him? Algy's counsel had been very vague when he had asked what he should do on his first date with Fiona, reflected Ginger. Briefly he considered asking Biggles, but then dismissed the thought. Somehow he couldn't imagine Biggles being able to help with practical advice on courting. In all the time he had been with his mentor, Ginger had never known him entertain a woman to dinner, let alone take one to the theatre. Biggles wouldn't be able to advise him how to cope with the feelings Jeanette was arousing in him either, reasoned Ginger; Biggles, he reckoned, would just say that he shouldn't give way to them, which would not be much help as he already knew that.

Watching him tenderly, Jeanette acknowledged that she thrilled at his touch. Being with him was not enough; she wanted to hold him all the time. She only felt truly alive when she was in his arms or they were hand in hand. As he had helped her on with her coat his fingers had accidentally brushed against her breast. She blushed hotly at the memory of the pleasure it had given her. He had snatched his hand away as though the contact had scalded him and blushed scarlet with embarrassment, mumbling an apology, but the delightful sensation it had produced remained with her still. Her natural modesty struggled to overcome the desire it had aroused and the longing that it might happen again. It was a new and confusing emotion. If only he weren't so bashful, she thought. He seemed so reluctant to press his suit, although she was sure that he wanted to. She admitted to herself that she faced a dilemma; it was not seemly for her to make the running in their relationship, yet she knew she had to find ways of encouraging him that would not be too forward. She decided that perhaps it was time to consult her mother as to the best way to proceed.

The music rolled to its conclusion and appreciative applause rippled round the gallery. Once Dame Myra had acknowledged the plaudits and retired, Ginger and Jeanette stood up and made their way back out through the crowds on to Trafalgar Square.

They had no particular plan to pass the afternoon, so wandered arm in arm aimlessly but happily through the shopping thoroughfares, gazing at the sparsely furnished shop windows.

Ginger took Jeanette back to the Mayfair flat he shared with the others for tea. Mrs Symes was delighted to see the young woman again. It must be serious, she told herself, if they are still seeing each other.

"The major has just gone out," the housekeeper informed Ginger, sticking to Biggles' pre-war rank, "and Captain Lacey hasn't arrived yet." She ushered the pair of them into the sitting room.

Ginger blushed. "I didn't wait for them, I'm afraid, Mrs Symes," he confessed. "I wanted to get up to London as quickly as I could."

Mrs Symes looked fondly from him to Jeanette, even more convinced that wedding bells would soon be ringing out. She began to make plans for saving coupons in order to cater for the event properly and started to think which of her friends she could enlist to help in the preparations.

Blissfully unaware of the housekeeper's thoughts, Ginger asked if they could have some tea and Mrs Symes bustled away to her kitchen to stretch the rations to the best of her ability in order to prepare a celebration spread.

"Mrs Symes, you're a wizard!" exclaimed Ginger when he saw the result. "I don't know how you manage it!"

Mrs Symes blushed at the compliment. "It's getting harder all the time, master Ginger," she told him sadly. "This points system makes housekeeping very difficult. Still," she reprimanded herself, "mustn't grumble. There is a war on."

She put the tea tray on the table and pointedly left them alone together as she retreated into her kitchen, where Ginger could hear her rattling pots and pans and humming quietly to herself. He looked at Jeanette and half laughed. "Good old Mrs Symes," he murmured, "she's a treasure."

"She is …" Jeanette hesitated, searching for the appropriate word, "… fund of you?" she suggested.

"Fond," corrected Ginger gently. "Yes, I think she is. She's known me since I was 15 and I first came to live with Biggles."

Jeanette poured out the tea and Ginger offered her the plate of scones.

She giggled, remembering their trip to the zoo. "We are not going to feed the ducks today?" she suggested impishly.

"Shhh!" whispered Ginger conspiratorially, putting his finger to his lips. "Don't tell anybody about that, we could be prosecuted." He spoke lightly but there was truth behind his words. "It's a crime to waste food," he warned.

"I 'ave seen the affiches," admitted Jeanette. "There is an 'orrible insect, the Skonder bug."

"Squander, you mean," laughed Ginger. "The Squander Bug."

Jeanette nodded and tried to imitate his pronunciation. Ginger thought her accent charming. He could listen to her for hours and never have enough.

Jeanette clapped her hands to her cheeks. "Oh, la, la," she exclaimed as she failed to produce a credible w, "English is a terrible language to speak!"

Ginger thought her efforts to speak English were adorable, but he tried to help by repeating the word slowly with exaggerated lip movements.

Jeanette tried again. "Skoo-ander."

"Nearly," encouraged Ginger. He found Jeanette's lips very attractive.

The next time Jeanette tried Ginger could not resist the temptation any longer; as she pouted to pronounce the 'oo', he kissed her gently on the lips.

Surprised, but delighted, by his unexpected boldness, Jeanette responded willingly.

"Ahem!"

At the sound of the quiet cough the pair sprang apart guiltily.

"Sorry to interrupt," murmured Algy apologetically from the doorway, but his eyes were twinkling mischievously. "Is there any tea left?"

Ginger turned scarlet. "I'll get another cup," he gabbled, leaping up and heading precipitously to the kitchen.

Algy chuckled and sat down on the sofa next to the blushing Jeanette.

"I can see you've been having a good time," he remarked cheerfully.

A deeper blush suffused Jeanette's cheeks. Algy appreciated why Ginger was so captivated.

"Ginger was trying to teach me 'ow to speak English with a good accent," she told him shyly.

Algy stifled the facetious comment that came immediately to his mind and murmured instead, "I'm sure you'll make excellent progress under his guidance."

Ginger came back with another cup and saucer and put it on the tray, his cheeks still flaming.

"I was trying to improve Jeanette's pronunciation," he excused himself.

Algy laughed. "That's a new name for it," he observed dryly as he poured himself a cup of tea. "I always thought it was called canoodling," he added teasingly.

Ginger's blush deepened.

"Don't worry," Algy reassured him, "I won't tell anybody I saw you kissing without the benefit of mistletoe." He paused and took a sip of tea. "Have you finally found out the true meaning of Platonic?" he enquired with a smile.

"What do you mean?" asked Ginger.

"Platonic friendships don't involve physical desire," murmured Algy quietly with a wink.

He thought it was not possible for Ginger to get any redder, but the young man's cheeks glowed brighter still. Ginger did not dare look at Jeanette, who, he was certain, would be blushing as much as he was. He felt so embarrassed he wished the floor would open and swallow him up. Much to his relief, Biggles' arrival brought a change of subject.

If Biggles was surprised to see Jeanette taking tea in his flat, he made no comment other than a greeting.

Ginger itched to be alone with Jeanette, but he felt obliged to stay and make polite conversation for the sake of propriety. As soon as he decently could, he suggested they return to Jeanette's home so that she could change before they went dancing. From the alacrity with which Jeanette agreed with his suggestion, he realised she must be feeling the same.

As soon as the young couple had left, Biggles cocked an eye at Algy. "Ginger didn't waste any time," he commented.

"He certainly didn't," agreed Algy dryly, blowing a smoke ring. "I'd call it very quick work."

Biggles looked at him sharply, alerted by his cousin's tone. "He hasn't been misbehaving, has he?"

Algy laughed. "No, he's been a perfect gentleman, but I think the penny has finally dropped that what he feels for Jeanette is not a Platonic friendship."

Ginger was thinking much the same as he escorted Jeanette back to her flat. Algy's mention of physical desire had embarrassed him, but he was at last coming to terms with the realisation that lust was exactly what he was feeling.

The ten days of his embarkation leave flashed past in a whirl of dancing, concerts, films and walking. On Sunday he seized the opportunity of escorting Jeanette and her mother to Mass in the Church of the Immaculate Conception Farm Street, situated behind the Mount Street flat he shared with Biggles and Algy. When they emerged, Madame Ducoste sympathetically suggested he take his time coming home with Jeanette while she hurried back to prepare their lunch. Ginger accepted gratefully. The last of the congregation scurried away seeking the warmth of their homes, leaving Mount Street Gardens empty. The cold weather had kept the usual occupants indoors, so he was able to sit on one of the benches and talk undisturbed with Jeanette, his arm tenderly around her shoulders, aware of how little time they had left together.

On his last evening, Madame cooked dinner for them and solicitously left Ginger and Jeanette alone while she busied herself in the kitchen so that they could sit close and talk intimately.

When the time came for Ginger to take his leave, Jeanette helped him on with his greatcoat. Before he could fasten it, she slipped her arms inside the heavy garment and clasped him around his waist. She clung to him, reluctant to let him go.

"I don't want to go, darling," he admitted, stroking her hair gently, "but I must. Be brave. Remember," he smiled, "not all the Axis armies shall keep me from you."

Jeanette smiled too, although her eyes sparkled with unshed tears. "I remember. You said that when you went to save Henri."

"And I kept my word," Ginger reassured her.

"Yes," she breathed. "You do not desert your friends."

"I hope," murmured Ginger shyly, "that we are more than friends?"

Jeanette pressed herself against him, running her hands over his slim figure as if to imprint the feel of his body on her memory. She wanted him to kiss her, caress her and assuage the desire she felt when she was with him.

"Yes," she whispered into his shoulder. "Much more than friends." She blushed as she said it, but he was going away and she did not want to lose him. She had to be bold and let him know something of what she felt for him. She stifled the impulse to throw caution to the winds and confess that she wanted him to share her life – and her bed. She felt her cheeks burn more hotly. She loved him passionately, but she did not want him to think she was no better than a street walker.

Ginger, greatly heartened by her response, was forced to swallow hard as he struggled to control his reaction to her caresses. The last thing he wanted as they were about to part for several months was to upset Jeanette by seeking more than was honourable, he told himself sternly, innocently unaware of her desires. The time he spent in Malta was going to be a trial, he realised, whatever the Germans decided to throw at him.

The last of his uncertainty left him. Jeanette had admitted she felt more for him than friendship. He hoped that meant she felt as committed to him as he did to her. Sure that he wanted her to be his wife, Ginger would have liked to propose to her there and then, but he felt it would be unfair. It was a decision that should not be undertaken lightly and certainly not on the eve of enforced absence when he might not even survive. Best to see how they both felt when he got back home and they saw each other again, but he intended to ask her the moment he got the opportunity.

"You will write to me, won't you?" he asked. "I may not get the letters for some time, but it will make me feel as though we are not completely cut off from each other."

Jeanette nodded vigorously. "I promise," she vowed. "Every day. And I will pray for you. That you will be safe."

"And I will write when I get the opportunity," he responded. "I can't promise every day," he admitted, "but whenever my duties allow."

"I understand," murmured Jeanette, nestling against his chest.

He put his fingers under her chin and lifted her face to his. "I'll think of you every day, though," he told her earnestly before their lips met in a last, long goodbye kiss.

Reluctantly Ginger drew away. "I'll miss my train if I don't hurry," he said ruefully.

Jeanette reached for her coat. "I will come with you to the station," she offered, wanting to put off the moment when she would be without him as long as possible.

Despite his longing to postpone their parting, Ginger shook his head. "I don't want you coming back alone in the blackout, darling," he told her firmly, gazing at her lovingly to fix the image of her in his mind. "Besides," he added, "I want to remember you here, in the hall of your home. I'll imagine you waiting for me to arrive once I'm back in England. It'll give me something to look forward to coming home to." Before his resolve could weaken, he gave her a quick peck on the cheek and left.

As the door closed behind him, Jeanette dissolved in tears.