The Forbidden Promise. Lorna Cook
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had been left as if the ghillie had simply popped out for a few minutes. Other than the presence of damp and dust, items of furniture, ornaments and books had been left in the places that they had presumably sat for the past few years. From the back of a battered armchair the pilot pulled a tartan blanket and handed it to her.
Constance wriggled out of her dress as she wrapped the blanket around her. Her wet underwear was uncomfortable and she realised she was going to have to shake that off as well if she was going to warm up. Although it was August, the air was cold inside the stone cottage.
‘I’ll light a fire,’ the pilot said. He moved around the room, fixing the stiff fabric wood-framed blackout blinds into place.
‘You’re still wearing your wet trousers,’ Constance said. ‘Look upstairs. The ghillie might have left some clothes behind.’
The pilot nodded and assembled the fire in the grate, forming a tripod out of a few logs of wood and balling up some newspaper from the basket, throwing it into the middle. He found matches in a pot on the mantel above, struck one against the wall and started a small fire in the grate.
‘Warm yourself up while I find us some things,’ he instructed.
Constance sat on the thinning rug by the fire and pulled the blanket tight around herself. The fire worked its magic and she stretched her bare legs out in front of her, wriggling her toes as the heat from the flames licked them gently. She marvelled at how she could be in the middle of her birthday party and then, only an hour later, soaked to the skin and alone in a cottage with an RAF officer whose plane had crashed into her loch. After a few minutes the pilot came downstairs wearing a pair of dry trousers and a thick blue woollen pullover.
‘They smell of mothballs but they’re dry,’ he said as he stood next to her, offering her a pair of men’s trousers and a thick white jumper that he’d found. He held out his hand and she grasped it as she stood. She said her thanks, took the clothes and went upstairs to put the trousers and shirt on. She rolled the waistband of the trousers over a few times but they were far too big and she kept her hand on them as she descended the staircase for fear they might drop to the floor.
Constance sat back down in front of the fire and tucked her wet hair behind her ears. The pilot sat next to her, the firelight casting him in an orange glow.
‘What’s your name?’ he asked.
She told him. ‘What’s yours?’
‘Matthew.’
‘What happened?’ she asked. ‘I watched you crash; it was awful. It must have been so frightening for you. I thought you must surely be dead.’
When he replied his voice was quiet. ‘I thought I was going to die. I couldn’t see a bloody thing. I kept trying to restart the engine but I knew it was no good. In hindsight I should have thrown open the hatch and bailed out much earlier on but I thought, one more turn of the engine should do it, she’ll start up on one more turn. Goes against everything I was ever taught, given the old thing had been completely shot up. It’s nothing short of a miracle she glided like she did. Full of bullet holes. I had no idea I was landing on water. If the moon had been out I’d have seen. Bit of a shock when I bounced and the cockpit started filling up.’
Constance exhaled. ‘I can imagine.’
‘Can you?’ Matthew enquired, his eyebrows raised. ‘Ever been shot at by the enemy, falling down to the ground with no idea where the ground actually is?’
She felt chastised. ‘No.’ She was quiet.
A log shifted in the grate sending sparks high up the chimney.
‘Sorry,’ he said quietly. ‘I should be thanking you. Instead I’m being abominably rude.’
‘It’s all right,’ Constance replied.
‘No. No it’s not. My mother would turn in her grave if she knew how easily my manners had failed me.’
Constance smiled. She wanted to say it was all right again. Why couldn’t she think of anything else to say?
They sat in silence for a few minutes, both focused on the fire that lit the otherwise darkened room. She wondered if anyone would be missing her back at the house and whether the pilot was in any condition to trudge through the forest in the middle of the night. Perhaps, given his ordeal, it would be best to wait until morning before they set off so no one caught her in men’s clothing.
‘What will you do?’ he asked, pulling her from her thoughts.
‘Do? About what?’ Constance turned to look at him.
‘About me?’ Matthew looked at her. In the light of the fire she could see his eyes were a pale green. She’d never seen eyes that shade before. They shone brightly and contrasted curiously against his dark brown hair.
‘Well I rather thought, if you preferred, we should sit it out here and you could rest for a while and then in the morning—’
‘Constance, can I trust you?’ he interrupted her.
She swallowed as he said her name. ‘Yes, I think so.’
Matthew laughed. ‘Well if you don’t know, then how do I?’
‘Yes, yes you can trust me.’
‘I need you to help me,’ he said. ‘I need you to … hide me. Just for a short while, I swear to you. Just long enough for them to think I’m dead. Will you do that?’
Constance’s mouth dropped open. He had been so brave. He had been shot down and now, clearly, he was addled by his trauma.
‘Who do you want to think you’re dead?’ she squeaked in disbelief.
‘All of them. The whole bloody lot of them.’
‘But …’ she started. ‘Your squadron? You don’t want me to telephone someone, have them pick you up, have them look after you?’
‘No, I do not,’ he said. ‘Tonight is the last night I participate in this god-awful war. And if I have to pretend I’m dead in order to achieve that then so be it.’
He was mad. He had to be. Constance didn’t know what to say. She stared at him. He looked back at her, a wary expression on his face. As if he half expected her to jump up, to begin scrambling away from him and back towards the house. She didn’t think she needed to run from him but she half-wondered what would happen if she did. Would he spring up behind her and force her back to the cottage now that she knew his intentions to … what exactly? He looked far stronger than her and although he was clearly not handling the ordeal of his crash at all well, he looked as if he would be more than capable of stopping her if she bolted.
‘Why?’ she asked. ‘Why don’t you want to fight anymore?’
‘That’s the stupidest question I’ve ever heard,’ he replied. ‘Why do you think?’
She tried not to be offended but looked at him and waited.
‘Only a madman actually enjoys it – the killing,’ he replied.
Constance blinked. ‘No one enjoys it. But it’s war. It’s your duty.’
His eyes widened. ‘It’s my duty to shoot other men out of the sky?’ His voice was loud. ‘To watch their planes fall away as I slam bullets into their engines?’
Constance thought about that for a moment. ‘Well, yes. It is. I’m sorry but you must. My brother Douglas is a pilot,’ she added.
‘Good for him. Does he enjoy it? The killing?’
‘I don’t think he thinks of it like that.’ Her brother had never talked about it. She wondered if she should ask Douglas. Constance wasn’t at all sure she wanted to know. She thought of Henry with his wandering