“Spitfires,” he said, and for the rest of the way to London regaled her with tales of his flying exploits. But as they were coming into the city, he asked, “Where were you before Oxford?”
“I was in training. Were you in the Battle of Britain?”
“Yes, till I was shot down. You weren’t ever posted near Biggin Hill, were you?”
“No,” she said firmly. “I’m quite sure we’ve never met. I’m certain I’d remember someone as cheeky as you.”
“You’re quite right,” he said. “And I could never have forgotten meeting someone as beautiful as you.” He stretched his arm across the back of the seat, shifted so he was facing her, and edged closer. “Perhaps it’s deja vu.”
“Or perhaps you’ve flirted with so many girls you’ve got them mixed. That’s what you get for having a girl in every port.”
“Port?” he said. “I’m in the RAF, not the Navy.”
“A girl in every hangar, then. Tell me, does that ‘destined to be together forever’ line of chat work on other girls?”
He grinned at her. “As a matter of fact, it does.” Then he gave her a puzzled look. “Why didn’t it work on you?”
Because I’m a hundred years older than you, she thought. You died before I was ever born, and then regretted it. He was a pilot. He might very well die before the end of the war.
Or before they reached Whitehall. London had had eleven V-1 attacks between two and six. “Where in Whitehall is your meeting?” she asked.
“The Ministry of Health,” he said wryly. “In St. Charles Street. Take the Tottenham Court Road. It’s quickest.”
And it had had a V-1 hit at 1:52. “Turn left here,” he ordered, and as she turned right, “No, left.”
“Sorry,” she said, continuing to drive away from Tottenham Court Road. “It was fate.”
“That’s unkind,” he said. “Isolde would never have said something like that to Tristan.”
“Sorry,” she said, turning down Charing Cross Road.
“Why is it you’re completely immune to my charms?” he asked. “Oh, no, don’t tell me you’re engaged?”
She wished she could. It would be the simplest way to put a stop to his nonsense, but it might create complications if Talbot drove him again. She shook her head.
“Promised to someone?” he persisted. “Betrothed at birth?”
“No,” she said, laughing, which was the worst possible thing to do. He wouldn’t take her protests seriously now. But his determination and irrepressible spirits were utterly disarming. It was a good thing they’d arrived. “Here we are,” she said, and pulled up in front of the Ministry of Health.
“Bang on time,” he said, looking at his watch. “You’re wonderful, Isolde.” He got out of the Daimler and then leaned back in. “I’ve no idea how long this will take, an hour, perhaps two, but as soon as it’s done, I’ll take you to tea, and then we’ll go to the nearest church and post the banns.”
“I can’t,” she said. “Those stretchers, remember?”
“Stretchers be damned. This is destiny.” He gave her his crooked smile and loped off toward the building, and as he did, she had a sudden sense of deja vu, too, a feeling that she had met him before.
Which ruled out its having happened in the future. She couldn’t remember something which hadn’t happened yet. It had to have been here, on this assignment.
Could they have met when she was on her way to Dulwich—in the railway station as she attempted to buy a ticket? Or in Portsmouth? No, she wouldn’t have forgotten those rakish good looks or that crooked smile. And it wasn’t so much that he looked familiar as that he reminded her of someone.
forgotten those rakish good looks or that crooked smile. And it wasn’t so much that he looked familiar as that he reminded her of someone.
Who? Someone in Oxford? Or on a previous assignment? She squinted, trying to remember, but she couldn’t place him. Perhaps she’d only had the sensation of deja vu because of Stephen’s having suggested they’d met before.
She gave up, reached for the map, and began plotting the coordinates of the V-1s which had fallen between two and five o’clock so she could plan a route back to Hendon which would avoid them. As soon as she’d finished, she mapped out a safe route back to Dulwich from Hendon. If Flight Officer Lang returned by four, and it didn’t take too long to get the stretchers in Edgware, she should be able to return the way she’d come, except that she’d have to go around Maida Vale and then cut through Kilburn.
He wasn’t back by four. Or half past. Or five. He’d clearly underestimated the time the meeting would take. She made a mental list of the V-1s that had fallen between five and six—no, best make it seven—and redid the route back to Hendon and then the one home, which was far longer and more complicated. She hoped she could follow it. If he wasn’t here soon, she’d be driving home in the dark. And the blackout.
He finally emerged from Whitehall at a quarter past six, looking furious. “Do you know what those fools said? ‘You in the RAF need to come up with more effective defensive tactics against the rocket bombs,’ ” he fumed, getting in and slamming the door. She started up the car and edged into traffic. “Exactly what do they suggest?” he said angrily. “It’s not as though there’s a pilot we can shoot, or a way to defuse the bomb en route. It’s already triggered when it’s launched.”
She nodded absently from time to time and concentrated on getting them out of London and onto the road to Hendon. At least he’d abandoned the “Haven’t I met you somewhere?” topic.
“And if we shoot them down,” he raved on, “we can’t control where they’ll land and we may end up killing more people than would have been killed if we’d let them continue on to their target. But could I make them understand that? No.”
