I dreamt about my dad again last night, him standing in the doorway with his Navy kit bag and me begging him not to go.
"It's been weeks," said Mum. "They've sent an official letter. He'll not be coming back."
He might, I thought. I pulled on my sweater and walked through the fields to where I could see ships come up the Channel. He might be on one of them.
I lay in the grass near the dropoff. Past the seafront rooftops, out beyond the breakwater, sat a flotilla of about a dozen ships. As I watched, black puffs of smoke suddenly blossomed over the harbour, then the sound of guns. Water spouts erupted and a ship exploded in a huge fireball. Moments later the shock of it pounded the shore and smacked against my ears. Bloody hell.
Behind me, I heard powerful engines. Three Spitfires in formation. I recognized them from the RAF's silhouette handouts. They fired short, rapid bursts and bright cartridges tumbled into the air beneath them, twinkling in the sunlight. The planes climbed away in a steep arc to join others circling above the ships.
A twisting dogfight raged across the sky for I don't know how long, dozens of planes caught up in it, snarling, looping, firing. Time seemed to stop. Then, as if a bell had rung, they broke apart and scattered, most of them toward the opposite shore. Plumes of smoke rose from two ships. A lone Spitfire skimmed across the water, looking like it would slam into the face of the cliff. But it struggled up, wobbled a bit, and just cleared the edge, its tail chewed, its fuselage full of holes. The pilot surprised me with a salute. I waved back and watched until he was out of sight.
I ran all the way home. Mum turned off the wireless and let me tell her everything I'd seen. Afterward, she hugged me and I inhaled her complex smell--bath powder, cooking grease, and something else, something hers alone. When the clock struck the hour, she put on the kettle, set out biscuits and the familiar cups. At the kitchen table we sipped hot tea. The world seemed larger, a more dangerous place. In the stillness Mum reached across the table for my hand. My dad was never going to come back. I knew that now and began to think about another way forward.
"It's been weeks," said Mum. "They've sent an official letter. He'll not be coming back."
He might, I thought. I pulled on my sweater and walked through the fields to where I could see ships come up the Channel. He might be on one of them.
I lay in the grass near the dropoff. Past the seafront rooftops, out beyond the breakwater, sat a flotilla of about a dozen ships. As I watched, black puffs of smoke suddenly blossomed over the harbour, then the sound of guns. Water spouts erupted and a ship exploded in a huge fireball. Moments later the shock of it pounded the shore and smacked against my ears. Bloody hell.
Behind me, I heard powerful engines. Three Spitfires in formation. I recognized them from the RAF's silhouette handouts. They fired short, rapid bursts and bright cartridges tumbled into the air beneath them, twinkling in the sunlight. The planes climbed away in a steep arc to join others circling above the ships.
A twisting dogfight raged across the sky for I don't know how long, dozens of planes caught up in it, snarling, looping, firing. Time seemed to stop. Then, as if a bell had rung, they broke apart and scattered, most of them toward the opposite shore. Plumes of smoke rose from two ships. A lone Spitfire skimmed across the water, looking like it would slam into the face of the cliff. But it struggled up, wobbled a bit, and just cleared the edge, its tail chewed, its fuselage full of holes. The pilot surprised me with a salute. I waved back and watched until he was out of sight.
I ran all the way home. Mum turned off the wireless and let me tell her everything I'd seen. Afterward, she hugged me and I inhaled her complex smell--bath powder, cooking grease, and something else, something hers alone. When the clock struck the hour, she put on the kettle, set out biscuits and the familiar cups. At the kitchen table we sipped hot tea. The world seemed larger, a more dangerous place. In the stillness Mum reached across the table for my hand. My dad was never going to come back. I knew that now and began to think about another way forward.
