graduate in his nice red sash and they walked round a church.
‘My Harry flew Lysanders,’ she said to the others at the breakfast table. ‘I know that much. They were painted black to beat the radar. Nobody knew where the airstrip was.’
‘It’s nice nattering to you, Anne,’ said Jack from number 19. ‘Because you’re educated.’ Maureen came in with the news that Mr Obama was disliked by quite a lot of people. She said it as shecleared away the breakfast things, believing the TV news was private and that it was her choice to spread it about, after the toast. The others could always tell when Maureen had just been speaking to one of her children because the rims of her eyes were pink and she became efficient.
‘This is more than one load for the dishwasher,’ she said. It was obvious Maureen resented them all using a separate knife for the butter and the jam. Jack cast her a look as if to say, ‘Who gives a toss about cutlery?’ That calmed her down a bit and she sat down to listen, even though her hands were shaking.
‘So was your Harry in the RAF?’ Jack asked. When he asked that question it was Maureen who reacted first: she put down her cup and her eyes moistened again. At the same time, Anne looked a little flustered and flicked the edge of the tablecloth.
‘Not just that,’ she said.
When Maureen thought about Anne in the future, her mind would settle on this moment, when she saw Anne looking helpless about Harry and the Royal Air Force. It appeared to Jack that Anne simply couldn’t remember what it was her husband did. But there was some kind of notebook on top of the ottoman in Anne’s bedroom, and she asked Maureen, very precisely in that moment, if she would kindly bring a folded piece of paper from the front of the notebook. When Maureen returned with it, Jack had moved on from that part of the conversation. But Anne thanked Maureen and unfolded the paper, on which was typed a single-spaced biographical report. Harry must have typed it years ago. The paper had a heading across the top that said, ‘Manchester Polytechnic School of Photography’. Anne smiled, she had confidence in the evidence she was about to give, and her clear voice gave dignity to the stops and starts.
Harry Blake was born in 1920 at King’s Cross in London. His father was a train driver and his mother worked in a brush factory off Caledonian Road. He went to school locally and then into the RAF. He flew Blenheims and Lysanders doing solo reconnaissance work in World War II, mainly photographic work as part of the RAF’s special operations 161 Squadron. This was abysmal work flying a jet-black aircraft into enemy territory from RAF Winkleigh in Devon. Terrifying missions were also flown out of St Eval in Cornwall. Harry Blake would often photograph German installations using moonlight for navigation and many times he delivered agents to France, landing in fields lit with only three torches. After the war Mr Blake attended Guildford College – handily only a few miles from RAF Farnborough – where he helped found one of the first photographic schools in Britain. He was later decorated for his war service before taking up a teaching position in Manchester. He is credited with supporting a new generation of British documentary photographers.
Anne folded the piece of paper and placed it under her saucer.
‘He was some man,’ Jack said.
‘He was certainly that,’ Anne said. She looked over at Maureen as if daring her to say otherwise. ‘That’s what you call loyalty. Sticking with people. And loyalty’s just the same as courage.’
‘Well,’ Jack said. ‘You have plenty of words. I’ll say that for you, Anne. You have more words in you this morning than Heather’s had in sixty-odd years of marriage.’
Maureen frowned. ‘Now, Jack. What was that Anne was saying about loyalty? Don’t speak ill of Heather. You’ve got to stick by your family, haven’t you?’ Anne was staring into the plants. And after a few
‘My Harry flew Lysanders,’ she said to the others at the breakfast table. ‘I know that much. They were painted black to beat the radar. Nobody knew where the airstrip was.’
‘It’s nice nattering to you, Anne,’ said Jack from number 19. ‘Because you’re educated.’ Maureen came in with the news that Mr Obama was disliked by quite a lot of people. She said it as shecleared away the breakfast things, believing the TV news was private and that it was her choice to spread it about, after the toast. The others could always tell when Maureen had just been speaking to one of her children because the rims of her eyes were pink and she became efficient.
‘This is more than one load for the dishwasher,’ she said. It was obvious Maureen resented them all using a separate knife for the butter and the jam. Jack cast her a look as if to say, ‘Who gives a toss about cutlery?’ That calmed her down a bit and she sat down to listen, even though her hands were shaking.
‘So was your Harry in the RAF?’ Jack asked. When he asked that question it was Maureen who reacted first: she put down her cup and her eyes moistened again. At the same time, Anne looked a little flustered and flicked the edge of the tablecloth.
‘Not just that,’ she said.
When Maureen thought about Anne in the future, her mind would settle on this moment, when she saw Anne looking helpless about Harry and the Royal Air Force. It appeared to Jack that Anne simply couldn’t remember what it was her husband did. But there was some kind of notebook on top of the ottoman in Anne’s bedroom, and she asked Maureen, very precisely in that moment, if she would kindly bring a folded piece of paper from the front of the notebook. When Maureen returned with it, Jack had moved on from that part of the conversation. But Anne thanked Maureen and unfolded the paper, on which was typed a single-spaced biographical report. Harry must have typed it years ago. The paper had a heading across the top that said, ‘Manchester Polytechnic School of Photography’. Anne smiled, she had confidence in the evidence she was about to give, and her clear voice gave dignity to the stops and starts.
Harry Blake was born in 1920 at King’s Cross in London. His father was a train driver and his mother worked in a brush factory off Caledonian Road. He went to school locally and then into the RAF. He flew Blenheims and Lysanders doing solo reconnaissance work in World War II, mainly photographic work as part of the RAF’s special operations 161 Squadron. This was abysmal work flying a jet-black aircraft into enemy territory from RAF Winkleigh in Devon. Terrifying missions were also flown out of St Eval in Cornwall. Harry Blake would often photograph German installations using moonlight for navigation and many times he delivered agents to France, landing in fields lit with only three torches. After the war Mr Blake attended Guildford College – handily only a few miles from RAF Farnborough – where he helped found one of the first photographic schools in Britain. He was later decorated for his war service before taking up a teaching position in Manchester. He is credited with supporting a new generation of British documentary photographers.
Anne folded the piece of paper and placed it under her saucer.
‘He was some man,’ Jack said.
‘He was certainly that,’ Anne said. She looked over at Maureen as if daring her to say otherwise. ‘That’s what you call loyalty. Sticking with people. And loyalty’s just the same as courage.’
‘Well,’ Jack said. ‘You have plenty of words. I’ll say that for you, Anne. You have more words in you this morning than Heather’s had in sixty-odd years of marriage.’
Maureen frowned. ‘Now, Jack. What was that Anne was saying about loyalty? Don’t speak ill of Heather. You’ve got to stick by your family, haven’t you?’ Anne was staring into the plants. And after a few
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