we did,” said Mr Turner. “Then we started going out together, evenings, ’n after a bit we got married. October 1939, that was; just before I joined up.”
“Really?” The boy stared at him in wonder. “It must have been funny working in the office with her.”
“I dunno. It was darned distracting.”
“Most people meet girls at a party, don’t they?” said the pilot. “That’s how I met Joyce. And what a party! At the Bull, in Stevenage, it was. We were all as blind as bloody bats.”
“Are you married, then?” asked Mr Turner. The boy seemed so young.
“I’m married,” he replied. “I got married just over a year ago, at the beginning of my second tour.” There was a faint tone of pride in his voice.
“Fine,” said Mr Turner. “Got any kids yet?”
“Oh no,” the boy said. “Joyce isn’t one of those. She’s got her work, you see. She’s on the stage. She’s awfully good, really.”
Mr Turner said, “Got her photograph?”
Morgan was very pleased. He went hobbling across the ward and fetched his wallet from the drawer of the bed table, and brought it back with him, and showed Mr Turner the photograph beneath a sheet of cellophane. Mr Turner took it in his hand and held it sideways to thelight, and looked at it with his sound eye. It showed a very luscious and provocative young woman, with downcast eyes and long hair flowing around her bare shoulders.
He gave it back to Morgan. “I think you’re a very lucky chap,” he said. “She’s perfectly lovely.”
The boy was pleased. He took the photograph back and studied it himself. “She is, isn’t she?” he said. “She’s more beautiful than that, really—it doesn’t do her justice. Everybody goes mad about her.” He hesitated, and then said, “Of course, she’s been married before.”
Mr Turner was amazed. “She has?” The girl seemed so young.
Morgan nodded. “She was married to an awfully good friend of mine, Jack Stratton. He went for a Burton over France last year. Joyce was frightfully cut up about it, of course—it was terrible for her, poor kid. She was only twenty then, and she’s had an awfully rough deal in her life. Jack was a jolly good friend of mine, and we knew he’d want me to look after her, so we got married two months later before I went out to Egypt.”
Captain Turner thought enviously that it was grand when duty to a friend turned out like that. “So you’re her second husband,” he said. “Well, I never!”
The boy seemed a little confused. “Well, as a matter of fact, she was married before that,” he said. “I’m her third husband, really. She was married first of all to a chap in 73 Squadron who bought it when they were operating in France back in 1940. She’s had frightfully bad luck. It’s always the best people get the worst luck, isn’t it? I wonder why that is?”
He was worried about an illegal package that he hadconcealed in the rear fuselage of the Hudson. “There’s a stowage rack for parachute flares up in the roof, just above the little hatch in the bulkhead, aft of the gun bay, right in the rear fuselage,” he said. “I put it there. But it’ll be gone by now. Some wretched Ack Emma will have got it. It’s too bad.”
“What was it?”
“Perfume that I got in Algiers, and some lipsticks, and powder, and four pairs of silk stockings, and some silk.” He hesitated, and then said, “With a girl like Joyce, you’ve got to treat them right, you know. I mean, she’s accustomed to pretty things, and she feels awful if she can’t get them. I mean, she can make herself look so stunning, she’s just got to have the things.” He brooded for a minute, and then said, “I wish I hadn’t told her I was bringing her some stuff. Now I’ve got nothing to bring.”
“You’re bringing yourself back alive. That’s something.”
“Oh—yes. But she wanted some Coty.”
Turner learned that they had only lived together for a fortnight, in the Piccadilly Hotel,
“Really?” The boy stared at him in wonder. “It must have been funny working in the office with her.”
“I dunno. It was darned distracting.”
“Most people meet girls at a party, don’t they?” said the pilot. “That’s how I met Joyce. And what a party! At the Bull, in Stevenage, it was. We were all as blind as bloody bats.”
“Are you married, then?” asked Mr Turner. The boy seemed so young.
“I’m married,” he replied. “I got married just over a year ago, at the beginning of my second tour.” There was a faint tone of pride in his voice.
“Fine,” said Mr Turner. “Got any kids yet?”
“Oh no,” the boy said. “Joyce isn’t one of those. She’s got her work, you see. She’s on the stage. She’s awfully good, really.”
Mr Turner said, “Got her photograph?”
Morgan was very pleased. He went hobbling across the ward and fetched his wallet from the drawer of the bed table, and brought it back with him, and showed Mr Turner the photograph beneath a sheet of cellophane. Mr Turner took it in his hand and held it sideways to thelight, and looked at it with his sound eye. It showed a very luscious and provocative young woman, with downcast eyes and long hair flowing around her bare shoulders.
He gave it back to Morgan. “I think you’re a very lucky chap,” he said. “She’s perfectly lovely.”
The boy was pleased. He took the photograph back and studied it himself. “She is, isn’t she?” he said. “She’s more beautiful than that, really—it doesn’t do her justice. Everybody goes mad about her.” He hesitated, and then said, “Of course, she’s been married before.”
Mr Turner was amazed. “She has?” The girl seemed so young.
Morgan nodded. “She was married to an awfully good friend of mine, Jack Stratton. He went for a Burton over France last year. Joyce was frightfully cut up about it, of course—it was terrible for her, poor kid. She was only twenty then, and she’s had an awfully rough deal in her life. Jack was a jolly good friend of mine, and we knew he’d want me to look after her, so we got married two months later before I went out to Egypt.”
Captain Turner thought enviously that it was grand when duty to a friend turned out like that. “So you’re her second husband,” he said. “Well, I never!”
The boy seemed a little confused. “Well, as a matter of fact, she was married before that,” he said. “I’m her third husband, really. She was married first of all to a chap in 73 Squadron who bought it when they were operating in France back in 1940. She’s had frightfully bad luck. It’s always the best people get the worst luck, isn’t it? I wonder why that is?”
He was worried about an illegal package that he hadconcealed in the rear fuselage of the Hudson. “There’s a stowage rack for parachute flares up in the roof, just above the little hatch in the bulkhead, aft of the gun bay, right in the rear fuselage,” he said. “I put it there. But it’ll be gone by now. Some wretched Ack Emma will have got it. It’s too bad.”
“What was it?”
“Perfume that I got in Algiers, and some lipsticks, and powder, and four pairs of silk stockings, and some silk.” He hesitated, and then said, “With a girl like Joyce, you’ve got to treat them right, you know. I mean, she’s accustomed to pretty things, and she feels awful if she can’t get them. I mean, she can make herself look so stunning, she’s just got to have the things.” He brooded for a minute, and then said, “I wish I hadn’t told her I was bringing her some stuff. Now I’ve got nothing to bring.”
“You’re bringing yourself back alive. That’s something.”
“Oh—yes. But she wanted some Coty.”
Turner learned that they had only lived together for a fortnight, in the Piccadilly Hotel,
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