Johnson The Hidden Road Home

1. Auflage 2024
ISBN: 978-1-80381-825-2
Verlag: Grosvenor House Publishing
Format: EPUB
Kopierschutz: 6 - ePub Watermark

E-Book, Englisch, 87 Seiten

London 1939. With a global conflict on the horizon, 19-year-old waitress, Charlotte Reid meets 21-year-old fighter pilot Tom Hammond. They soon realise that they have something special and after a short engagement, they marry, just after war with Germany is declared. The fall of France puts the Luftwaffe within striking range, and Tom in the thick of the action during the Battle of Britain. Both he and his young wife are taken through every nerve-shredding emotion as the fight for air superiority intensifies. If the Germans achieve their goal of totally destroying the RAF, then invasion would be the likely outcome. With fighter pilot casualty rates so high will Tom Hammond be one of the lucky ones or will the future he has planned with Charlotte literally go up in smoke? If that were to happen, how would she cope with grief at such a young age? Could she cope? War asks some tough questions of love. Is it stronger than fear? Stronger than hate? Stronger than death even? As the bloodiest conflict in history got underway, millions of people, including Tom and Charlotte, didn't know the answers. But they were about to find out.

My name is Steve Johnson and I live in Watford with my son and Purdy, our rescue dog. ( I think we rescued each other). The Hidden Road Home is my debut novel, set in the Second World War, with all the drama and twists and turns of that fascinating era. Covid was obviously an awful time for many people but for me, it gave me the chance to put my business on hold and start writing the story that I conceived in lockdown. To my amazement a whole little world inhabited by living, breathing characters grew organically and here we are. My wife, who was more certain I could do it than I was, sadly passed away suddenly in May 2023 so the book is dedicated to her memory.

Autoren/Hrsg.

Johnson, Steve

Leseproben

CHAPTER TWO

Four hours previously, the shorter of those two airmen sighed at the mirror as, for the umpteenth time, he tried to get the correct sized knot in his tie. It was a skill that had eluded him even as a schoolboy. Back then his mother had always come to the rescue but now, at the age of twenty one, it probably wouldn’t do much for his standing with the other fighter pilots to ask Mum to jump in a taxi and help dress her baby boy.

How could someone drive a car and fly just about any sort of aircraft but not master a necktie? With the knot unfashionably large he gave up and did up his slate blue tunic which conveniently concealed the fact that the tie was also too short.

He was always immensely proud to wear that uniform but George, his best friend and roommate, had an ulterior motive, insisting that women loved a man in uniform so it ‘doubled the chances of pulling.’ Ah, the force of nature that was George Merriweather. In no set order, his passions were alcohol, flying and women, and if on any given day he could fit in all three there wasn’t a happier man on the planet. Twenty-two years old, six foot two, chiselled good looks and a permanent twinkle in his eye. Mischievous but never malicious. He viewed life as a party and wasn’t about to waste his invite. Tom had once questioned Merriweather about his hedonistic lifestyle and he’d simply fixed him with his infectious grin and replied, ‘We’re a long time in the ground Thomas, so let’s just enjoy the ride.’

Women adored him. The ones that didn’t want to bed him wanted to mother him, which was fine by him as he got fed and usually ended up bedding them anyway. Although nowhere near as extrovert as George, a shared sense of humour ensured they gravitated toward each other from the first day they met at flying school in 1937. That two years later they were now both qualified pilots based at RAF Northolt was a joyous piece of good fortune. Merriweather didn’t just embrace life, he held it in a bear hug and wrestled it to the ground.

Tom considered himself nothing special, but he had a natural likeability, a way of putting people at ease, and women, albeit different women to the ones interested in George, were attracted to him. With his thick, dark hair, deep blue intelligent eyes and slim frame, he had no shortage of female admirers, even if he didn’t seem to notice. There had been one or two romantic liaisons, but he was convinced that he’d already met the love of his life – flying. It was all he’d wanted to do since he was four years old and his dad had taken him to an air show. That was 1922 and they were all biplanes back then but what beautiful machines: the SPAD, the Bristol and his favourite, the Sopwith Camel, credited with shooting down nearly thirteen hundred enemy planes in the Great War. He could still remember looking up at the clouds and wondering, ‘What must it be like to actually be up there?’ There was a terrible tragedy that day, a French Nieuport 17 suffered engine failure doing a figure eight and plummeted into a nearby field, killing the pilot instantly. It should have put young Tom off, but it didn’t.

Just then the door flew open and Merriweather strode in and announced, ‘Right Thomas, fasten your seatbelt. I crave bright lights and ladies with tight blouses and loose morals.’

Tom grinned, ‘Are you sure you wouldn’t prefer Westminster Abbey and a spot of brass rubbing?’

‘Tempting, but leisure time should not be squandered on culture.’ replied his roommate, casually taking off his tunic and tossing it on his bed. ‘Not while the pubs are open. A quick wash and shave and a change of shirt and let the games begin.’

Tom wondered what he’d been thinking of when he’d agreed to a night out in London with Merriweather. Only two things were certain: it wouldn’t be dull and his head would hurt in the morning.

They boarded the tube train at Ruislip Gardens and hadn’t even sat down before Merriweather produced the ever-present deck of cards from his side pocket. The journey to Oxford Circus was only thirty-five minutes but in that time Tom found himself nearly a pound down, which at two shillings a game was some feat. As the train rumbled into their destination, he was silently thankful that the trip wasn’t longer as no doubt he’d have ended up in his vest and underpants. Not a dignified look for one of His Majesty’s knights of the sky. They’d no sooner exited the station into the bustling West End when Merriweather spotted a pub, ‘The Golden Lion’, and gravitated toward it as naturally as a honey bee to a flower.

For the next three hours of that warm May evening they chatted, laughed, played darts (at which Tom lost a further five shillings) and drank. Tom downed five pints of bitter and his friend the same with an added brandy chaser after each one. Maybe the rumour on base that he had hollow legs was true. It didn’t escape the younger man’s notice that every time George went to the bar, the landlady, a peroxide blonde who looked in her mid-thirties, made sure she was the one to serve him. He couldn’t hear their conversation, but the way the woman giggled like a schoolgirl told him all he needed to know. Her husband, who was at the other end of the bar, deep in conversation with two sharp-suited swarthy-looking men, either didn’t notice or didn’t care.

George arrived back at their table with their latest drinks, sat down, removed two cigarettes from his silver cigarette case, lit them and handed one to his drinking partner. Tom suddenly felt hungry and the realisation that they hadn’t eaten since breakfast hit him. He sipped his pint and said, ‘I think we should get something to eat after this one.’

George blew a smoke ring. ‘I concur, Thomas. Nothing too fancy though. How about the Lyons Corner House around the corner?’ Tom had always liked Lyons Corner Houses. The understated elegance of the old buildings with their classy interiors of gilt-edged mirrors, rubber plants and potted palms. At that moment he had absolutely no idea how much he’d like the one they were soon to visit.

Conveniently, a couple were leaving as the two airmen entered the busy eatery. Unless Tom was mistaken George was slurring his words slightly. Perhaps he didn’t have hollow legs after all. As they sat down at their table they both noticed the pretty blonde waitress dealing with the family of four glance at them. It was only a fleeting look but enough for them to see she was a striking girl. Like a younger version of Clark Gable’s wife, the Hollywood actress, Carole Lombard.

Merriweather spoke first, as much to himself as to Tom. ‘We thank thee Father for guiding us to this place.’ And then she approached them, pad and pencil at the ready. ‘Good evening gentlemen. What can I get you?’

It was her eyes that Tom noticed first. He’d never seen that shade of blue before. Then he realised, of course he had. Countless times. A summer sky. They were the colour of a cloudless summer sky. Predictably, George was first out of the blocks, gazing at the small letter L on her white cap and asking, ‘What does the L stand for – Lovely?’

Without missing a beat she replied ‘Yes,’ then gestured with her pencil at the winged emblem above his breast pocket, ‘and what does RAF stand for, Rubbish At Flirting?’ Tom heard himself laugh out loud. George laughed too, but not quite so much. The younger airman said, ‘I think she has the measure of you, George,’ and laughed again, determined to enjoy this rare moment.

Charlotte liked the way he laughed; it made her want to laugh too, but she didn’t, instead settling on a sweet smile. ‘Now, if you’re ready to order.’

Tom spoke. ‘Can we have a pot of tea please while we make our minds up?’

‘Of course.’

Merriweather piped up, ‘Are the cutting remarks extra?’

‘No, I throw those in for free,’ she answered, slipping her notepad into her apron pocket. Then she turned on her heel and headed for the service counter.

‘Never let it be said that I shirked a challenge,’ declared the wounded philanderer, but noticed Tom wasn’t really listening. ‘You haven’t taken your eyes off that girl since we came in here,’ he continued.

Tom didn’t deny it. ‘When there’s something more interesting to look at, I will.’

‘You’re not smitten, are you Thomas?’

‘Don’t be silly, I’ve only known her about a minute and a half,’ countered Tom.

‘Ah but how long does it take for Cupid to fire his arrow?’ teased his friend.

Tom conceded to himself that he was attracted to this girl, but it was still a bit too soon to be talking about Cupid’s bloody arrow.

The topic of their conversation approached with a pot of tea and two china cups and saucers which she put down on the tablecloth in front of them. Merriweather rose from his seat and announced, ‘Nothing for me, thank you. I’m off back to the pub.’ Tom almost tried to convince him that he really needed to eat but immediately thought better of it, as he realised that he wanted to be alone with this girl. If George could just take every other customer and member of staff to the pub with him, that would be perfect.

‘Young lady, I leave this noble defender of the realm in your capable hands. Be gentle with him.’ He patted his friend on the shoulder as he squeezed past him. Tom was grateful that George was perceptive enough to leave the field clear for him, but he still feared that an unsupervised George Merriweather could result in a worse outcome for London than the great fire of...