The Greatcoat by Helen Dunmore Page B

the engines, she heard voices.
    The guardhouse roof was intact. Figures in uniform moved around it. Lorries were passing through the gate, one by one, stopping by the guardhouse for the driver to show his papers, and then moving on.
    She looked along the perimeter fence. It was perfect. The airfield’s buildings were complete. There it lay, a hastily built city with its temporary air hardened by use. She scanned the low curves of Nissen huts, the brick admin block, the control tower with tiny figures visible through the unbroken glass windows. Somewhere there would be a bomb store, camouflaged against air attack. Charlie knew all the names of the bombs, and how heavy a load the Lancaster could carry in its bomb bay. Tallboy, Wallis bouncing bomb, cookies and Grand Slams. As the bombers lumbered above their heads, climbing, Charlie would guess at where they were going and what they were carrying, just as if he’d been in the briefing with the crew who were now passing above them, and had seen the chart with its routes marked by tape.
    In the distance, a tractor hauled a long train of bomb trolleys. She shaded her eyes and stared into the hangar opposite her. Through the dazzle of winter light she thought she saw the shadow of a Lanc, with ground crew swarming over it. Must be serious damage, she thought, or they’d do the repairs out at dispersal.
    Isabel closed her eyes. Waves of sound beat against her ears: the noise of a hive, full of purpose, humming with its own life. Alec was in there somewhere. He would smell of Isabel, as she smelled of him. If she was real then he was real too.
    She and Charlie had both known the outlines of aircraft. They’d fought to be first to identify each one as it flew overhead. Once, only once, it had been a Junkers 88, in broad daylight, coming in so low that a ploughman had said in the pub, ‘I saw his dom face.’
    Now she opened her eyes and saw the face of the airfield. It was here. It was not a ghost, or if it was one, then she was too. It had imprinted itself too deep for time to wipe the landscape clean. The air crew cycling from mess to barracks would be glad of the dry weather. Even so, there was mud wherever she looked, and she saw how it would deepen and become a sea as winter wore on, and then it would freeze, and thaw, and freeze again. The mud would be there, churned by boots and wheels, until spring came. The mud would outlive the men.
    ‘Alec,’ she said under her breath. The sky was loud with the noise of Merlin engines. She moved forward until she was pressing her hands to the fence, but no one turned or appeared to see her. The wind blew harder, and the windsock by the taxiway closest to her filled with it and pointed at Isabel. It seemed to be the only thing that knew she was here.
    Her body ached from the wind. It was so cold; she couldn’t remember ever being so cold. Why had she told Alec she would be warm? The wind penetrated her. She was raw to the bone and yet she couldn’t leave. She had to watch them. A couple of ground crew walked past her, along the perimeter track. One of them whistled tunelessly in the teeth of the wind. The other talked animatedly, as if to himself, about a football game. His words trailed past Isabel in snatches. His boots, striking the concrete, were clodded with mud.
    They were gone. The fence dissolved and Isabel clutched at nothing. There was the control tower with its windows broken and obscenities scrawled on the brick. She saw that the corrugated iron roof of the guardhouse had rusted. Every soul had vanished, as if blown away by the wind. But they were still there, she knew that. It was only that, at this moment, she couldn’t see them.
    Alec was at her side.
    ‘I’ve been waiting for you,’ he said. ‘I had to see you.’
    ‘Waiting for me? But you can’t have been – you’ve only just this minute left me.’
    ‘Listen. Ops are on for tonight. Briefing’s at four. Nothing’s been said but the gen is we’re off to