To the Stars

by Patricia Robins

Genres: Romance

Synopsis

A compelling classic romance from the inimitable Patricia Robins, first published in 1944 and now available for the first time in eBook. Jonquil Mathews had lived a sheltered life with her parents in their luxurious home, until the day her fiancé Simon, an RAF pilot, was killed at Dunkirk. Prompted by Simon's best friend, Adrian Hepworth, Jonquil was determined to do her bit for the war effort, and joined the WAAF. Adrian had fallen in love with Jonquil, and as she went through her training, made new friends and learned her trade, he kept a watchful eye on her, always hoping that despite the dangers of wartime, they would eventually be together...

Release date: April 23, 2015

Publisher: Hodder & Stoughton

Print pages: 400

Sample

Jonquil Mathews opened her white leather handbag and searched among the assorted jumble of vanity oddments for a cigarette. Presently she found one, and having lit it, lay back on the garden mattress and stared up at the clear blue sky, inhaling deeply.

Far away in the distance could be heard the dull rumble of guns or bombs – or both – over Dunkirk. It was hard to believe, lying here in the warm sunshine among the lilac bushes, that only a few miles away Englishmen were hiding in the sand dunes on the beaches being bombed incessantly, too weary, for the most part, even to care. The rumbling noise, thought Jonquil, was far more akin to the sound of an avalanche in Switzerland when the snow melts in summer time and slides down the mountainside into the valleys below.

For a few minutes, the girl allowed her thoughts to wander back into those lovely carefree days she had spent at the Swiss Pension near Lausanne, overlooking the Lake of Geneva. The only daughter of rich parents, no expense had been spared on anything connected with Jonquil, and her expensive English education had been ‘finished off’ with an even more costly school in Montreaux.

‘I’m lucky!’ she thought suddenly. ‘I just managed to see the Continent before it was too late.’

She smiled a little, mentally thanking the poor maligned Mr Chamberlain for holding the war up long enough to enable her to travel as she had done, for Switzerland had been followed up by Paris and the Riviera in the company of her mother who exercised no control over the daughter she had always pampered and spoiled. Eager for her company, Mrs Mathews had encouraged her to ‘grow up’ and had showered smart Paris gowns upon her seventeen-year-old child, and managed to smuggle her into the casinos.

For all this, however, Jonquil remained young for her years, and while looking twenty-five at least, at heart she was still ‘sweet seventeen’, and up until the time of her return to England and her meeting with Simon O’Dair, she had literally ‘never been kissed’!

Simon O’Dair was, therefore, the first man in her life, and right from the beginning of their affair Jonquil had decided he would be the only one. She met him at one of the dances given by the officers of the neighbouring Royal Air Force Station, and Simon had singled her out, falling at first for her chic appearance, and then, when he knew her better, loving her for herself, the unaffected, charming child that she was beneath her sophisticated exterior.

Within three months they were engaged to be married. Their love was gay and irresponsible, Simon being only twenty-two to her eighteen, but to each of them the other meant all that was happiest and most exciting in life, and when war broke out, like so many other young people, they decided to be married.

‘I’ll get fourteen days’ leave,’ Simon had promised. But somehow there had been training to be done first, and then when everything started to go so badly in France, leave was pushed aside for far more important things. The Royal Air Force was expanding rapidly and men with even as little flying experience as Simon, became invaluable. England was training her sons as fast as she could, but good pilots are not made overnight. The few Squadrons who were available to go to the help of the B.E.F. at Dunkirk fought tirelessly and heroically, and Simon was among them.

It was two days now since Jonquil had even so much as heard his voice on the telephone. Lying in the garden unable to settle to anything, she tried not to be afraid. She pushed aside the agonising, morbid ideas that kept worrying their way to the front of her mind, and thought instead of the fun Simon would be having. Because flying was fun to him – even in war time. It meant a great deal to him and she knew it, and jokingly spoke of it as ‘my biggest rival’. But even as she said it she knew it was not so much of a joke.

‘Darling,’ he had once told her, ‘up there is another world you know nothing about – two other worlds. One minute, billowy clouds and red sunsets, a haven of peace and beauty; the next minute an exciting inferno of death. When I’m up there I really come alive.’

‘Don’t you feel alive when you’re with me?’ Jonquil had asked a little jealously.

Simon had put his arms around her and given her a large bear hug.

‘Of course, darling,’ he said, laughing. ‘But that’s a different part of me. I can’t explain…’

But Jonquil had understood. Had she not been skiing? Felt the wind and snow sting her cheeks as she flew down the mountainside, her body twisting and bending lithely to the graceful rhythm of Christiania turns? Felt the exhilaration of speed, of sunlight, of new tracks in virgin snow? Was there not in her love for skiing some similarity to the emotion Simon had when flying?

Her mother’s voice broke into her thoughts.

‘Jonquil, telephone call for you!’

‘Simon!’ Jonquil thought, and like a streak of lightning she ran up the flagged garden path into the cool hallway where the telephone stood.

‘Hullo! Hullo! Jonquil here!’ she said breathlessly.

‘Darling, it’s me, Simon! Can I put the deep breathing down to excitement, or have you been hurrying?’

‘Stupid! I’ve been hurrying,’ Jonquil said with a laugh. ‘Darling, how are you?’

‘I’ve got half an hour’s breather while the old bus is being patched up.’

‘Patched up?’ echoed Jonquil. ‘You weren’t hit, Simon? You aren’t hurt?’

He laughed reassuringly.

‘No, I’m not hurt, but a bloody Jerry knocked one of my wings into pieces.’

‘Simon!’

‘All right, my sweet. Confounded Jerry! But I got him, and five others, too.’

‘Darling, that’s wonderful,’ Jonquil said admiringly. ‘I always knew you were going to be England’s big air ace.’

He laughed happily. Then his voice quietened and became serious.

‘Jonquil, if anything should happen to me…’ he began, but she interrupted him.

‘Nothing is going to happen,’ she said firmly.

‘No, but if it should,’ Simon persisted, remembering the six of his squadron who had not returned that afternoon, ‘I’ve asked Adrian Hepworth to let you know. He’s a grand chap and one of my greatest friends…’

‘Simon, I won’t listen to any more,’ Jonquil cried out. ‘It’s detrimental to my morale!’

To her relief he was laughing again.

‘O.K., sweetheart. You win!’ he said. ‘I’ve got to go now. I’m on my toes to get back. Jonquil, if you could see those chaps … I can’t tell you. They’re so confoundedly brave; so pathetically pleased to see us. Everytime we get anywhere near them, they raise a cheer. And it’s we who should be cheering them. They make me proud to be English.’

‘So do you me!’ Jonquil said softly.

‘Rose-coloured spectacles to you,’ came Simon’s voice, a little embarrassed as always by praise of himself.

‘I love you,’ Jonquil said irrelevantly.

‘I love you,’ Simon answered. ‘Now I’ll have to trot, darling. Keep your chin up! I’ll ring you later to-night.’

‘Happy landings!’

Jonquil replaced the receiver and walked back into the garden. She felt immeasurably happier now, and quite at peace with the world.

‘I’m going to weed the herbaceous border,’ she called to her mother who was sitting in the swing sofa under the large monkey-puzzle tree. She wanted to be active now.

‘Was it Simon, darling?’ her mother asked.

‘Yes! He’s all right!’ Jonquil called back happily. Oh, life was lovely, quite, quite lovely! she thought as she bent down and started to pull up the weeds. The B.E.F. was being successfully evacuated and Simon was winning great honours for himself.

With the thoughtlessness of the young, and in particular the young of the idle rich, she did not think of the great casualties emanating from an evacuation such as that from Dunkirk. She could not visualise the beach; the calm sea swarming with exhausted, starving, war-weary men; the bombs falling, falling, throwing up clouds of sand and water and human fragments. Not until many months later when the news films were released, did the tragedy of those days she spent so happily, really make an impression on her; and then, seeing the train loads of men, more than half asleep, more than half naked, tumble out on to the platforms and march bravely away to receiving depots, she knew she would never forget them, not as long as she lived.

Tea had been cleared away by a trim-looking parlour-maid and Mr Mathews was already back from work when the ’phone bell rang again.

‘I’ll answer it!’ Jonquil said swiftly. ‘I’m expecting a call from Simon.’

She left the drawing-room quickly, and her mother and father smiled at each other.

‘Simon’s a nice boy,’ Robert Mathews said.

His wife nodded. They both agreed that the children were still a bit young for marriage, but under the circumstances they were willing to waive their objections. They themselves had been married during the Great War.

Outside in the hallway, their only daughter was answering the telephone. She was so sure it was Simon that she didn’t bother to ask first.

‘Darling,’ she said. ‘How are you?’

‘Is that Miss Mathews?’

Jonquil held the receiver tightly to her ear.

‘Yes! Who is speaking, please?’

‘It’s Adrian Hepworth here,’ came the man’s voice. ‘I’m afraid I’ve got some bad news for you … Are you there, Miss Mathews?’

‘Yes, I’m listening!’

Jonquil forced the words from between her lips.

‘Simon – he – I promised him I’d tell you right away if anything happened. I wish I could see you, Miss Mathews. The telephone is so…’

His voice trailed away.

‘Is there any hope?’ Jonquil asked desperately. ‘Please tell me quickly.’

‘No, I’m afraid there isn’t,’ Adrian Hepworth said, his voice utterly wretched. ‘He was shot down over France … Is there anything I could do?’

‘No, nothing, thank you. Nothing!’ Jonquil told him, and she put the receiver back in its place.

Her hands were trembling and she curled her fingertips so that the nails dug into her palms. Then her whole body started to tremble and her legs felt so weak that she had to sit down on the oak chest. She didn’t know how long she was there before the shaking stopped, and she could think again. She found then, to her surprise, that she felt nothing, nothing at all. She walked into the drawing-room and faced her parents.

‘Simon’s dead!’ she said, and watched with detachment the look of surprise and horror that came into their faces.

‘That’s funny,’ she thought. ‘They feel something and I, who love him, feel nothing at all.’

They seemed to be speechless, able only to stare at her from large eyes in white, stricken faces. The silence became intolerable, so did their anxious, pitying gazes.

‘Well, what are you staring at?’ she shouted, hearing as if from a distance the hard, cracked voice, and recognising it with surprise as her own.

There seemed now to be two Jonquils, and the real her was watching her other self as it stood facing her parents. She felt sorry for this other person, but could do nothing to help.

‘Jonquil, it can’t be true!’ her mother was saying. ‘You’re joking dear, aren’t you?’

‘Jonquil, are you sure?’ her father said.

‘Yes, it’s quite true. It’s not a joke, and I am sure,’ she said. ‘Adrian Hepworth, Simon’s friend, just told me over the ’phone.’

And she turned and walked out of the room, her head held high, her large blue eyes vacant and tearless.

‘It’s so strange,’ she said to herself as she sat down on the bed, facing the large framed photograph of Simon that stood on the little table by the lamp. ‘I know he’s dead, and yet I don’t feel sorry. I don’t feel anything at all.’

Downstairs the front-door bell was ringing insistently. Mrs Mathews drew her hand away from her husband’s and stood up.

‘I wonder why Helen doesn’t answer the door,’ she said absently. The ringing continued and she added with an effort, ‘I suppose I had better answer it myself.’

She drew herself up straight as she went out to the hall and opened the heavy oak door.

‘I’m Adrian Hepworth,’ said the tall young man who was standing on the door-step. ‘I’m afraid you’ll think this awfully presumptuous, coming round without an invitation, but Simon – I promised him I’d look after your daughter, and on the ’phone…’

Mrs Mathews shut the door behind him, drawing him into the hall and helping him off with his respirator and greatcoat.

‘I’m so glad you’ve come,’ she said. ‘Jonquil was most peculiar – most. I really don’t understand the attitude she’s taking. She didn’t cry or anything. I’m very worried. Do you think I should go up and see her?’

It didn’t occur to her that she was asking the advice of a complete stranger. He was just one of those people everyone wanted to confide in – not handsome as Simon had been – but good-looking and strong-looking – a comfortable, sympathetic person. Such was her first impression of Adrian Hepworth.

‘I don’t think I would just yet,’ he said. ‘I imagine from what you tell me, that she is numbed by the shock. Perhaps, if you wouldn’t mind, I could go and speak to her first?’

‘Yes, yes, please do! It’s the first unpleasant thing that has ever happened to her and I’m so afraid she’ll take it badly. Her room is upstairs on the right. I’m sure conventions can’t matter in an occasion like this. Can you find the way, or shall I show you?’

Adrian smiled in spite of himself.

‘I think I can manage to find it,’ he said gently.

Of course he will, thought Mrs Mathews, as she went back to her husband. He’s the sort of person who would always do anything – find anything he wanted. A nice, reliable, dependable person. Relief brought the ready tears to her eyes and she relaxed against her husband’s strong shoulder to enjoy a really good cry!

Upstairs, Adrian Hepworth found Jonquil’s room and opened the door.

‘May I come in?’ he asked gently.

The girl nodded her head. Adrian sat down on the edge of the bed and took the photograph of Simon from her.

‘It’s good, isn’t it,’ he said. ‘Does justice to his good looks. He is good-looking, isn’t he?’

‘Is?’ Jonquil spoke for the first time.

‘We never speak of anyone in the past in the Air Force,’ Adrian explained. ‘Because nobody does die. They are always alive in our thoughts.’

‘It’s not enough,’ Jonquil cried suddenly. ‘I want him. He’s the man I was going to marry. I can’t marry a memory. Oh, it isn’t fair! It isn’t fair! I wish he’d never joined the Air Force. They’ve taken him away from me.’

‘No, the Air Force didn’t take him away,’ Adrian corrected her quietly. ‘Simon went of his own free will, and he went proudly. Flying meant everything to him, and to him, the Royal Air Force and flying were the same thing.’

‘He loved me,’ Jonquil cried wildly.

‘Yes, he loved you,’ Adrian agreed. ‘But you weren’t his only love. Oh, I’m not trying to take away from your memories. I want only to point out that he died happily, fulfilling himself in his other love, his duty.’

‘If I’d asked him to, he’d have left the Air Force,’ the girl said defiantly.

‘Yes, he’d have left,’ the man answered. ‘But in the first place, you wouldn’t have asked him, knowing how much it meant to him. It was part of him – part of his very being. Jonquil, suppose you could have these last weeks over again. Suppose you could ask Simon to leave the Air Force and thereby save his life, would you? Would you?’

He watched the struggle pictured in the haggard young face – the trembling lips, the large expressive eyes, and his whole being melted towards her. She was so young – so tragically unarmed against unhappiness.

He waited, not touching her, until at last as he had known she would, she turned towards him, her eyes now full of tears.

‘No, I wouldn’t. Of course I wouldn’t!’ she said, and buried her face in his shoulder, sobbing out the grief and pain that had swept away the first kind numbness of shock.

He let her cry, his fingers stroking her fair curly hair with clumsy tenderness, his voice saying comforting, unimportant things. His very sympathy only increased her tears, which was exactly what he had hoped. It would be so much easier for her if she could ‘cry it out’.

When at last she raised a tear-wet, swollen face and blew noisily into the large white handkerchief he had lent her, he once again took charge of the situation.

‘Sponge your face in cold water and powder your nose,’ he said. ‘You’ve no idea how much better you’ll feel afterwards. I’ll go down and tell your mother you’re all right. She was worried about you.’

Jonquil attempted a smile.

‘I suppose she thinks she ought to come and “mother” me,’ she said.

Adrian laughed.

‘That’s just about it,’ he said. ‘But I’ll tell her you’re resting and that’ll let you both out.’

She looked at him gratefully, realising for the first time, how good, how understanding this friend of Simon’s had been. She was suddenly aware, too, that he was a complete stranger to her and that she must be presenting a thoroughly unattractive picture, with her red, swollen eyes and shining nose.

As if realising her sudden embarrassment, Adrian turned to go.

‘If I may, I’d like to see you again,’ he said. ‘Can I give you a ring sometime?’

‘Yes, please do,’ Jonquil answered. ‘I – later, I would like to know more about – how it all happened.’

‘I’ll ring you up,’ Adrian said again, and with his quick smile he closed the door quietly behind him.

Jonquil went over to the wash-basin and bathed her face. She felt a little better afterwards, but her head ached and her eyes were still hot and inflamed. She took a couple of aspirins and lay down on the bed.

When Mrs Mathews came up with a dinner tray some little time later, she found her daughter fast asleep. She undressed her, pulled the bedclothes over the slight, still childish figure, and tiptoed quietly out of the room.

Jonquil slept exhausted until lunch time the following day.

‘That nice man, Adrian Hepworth, telephoned this morning, darling!’ Mrs Mathews said, looking anxiously at Jonquil’s white face and large, dark eyes.

‘Oh! What did he want?’

‘He wanted to talk to you, dear!’ her mother said. ‘I told him you were still asleep, so he promised to ring again this afternoon. He wants to see you.’

‘Well, I don’t want to see him,’ Jonquil retorted in a hard voice that made her mother throw another anxious look at her daughter.

‘Of course, darling, if you don’t want to … But you can hardly tell him that on the ’phone, can you?’

‘Why not?’ Jonquil asked, again in that new voice. ‘He was outspoken enough to me yesterday about – about Simon…’

She broke off as the tears rushed to her eyes.

‘I won’t cry. I won’t,’ she told herself fiercely, biting her lower lip hard as she fought for self-control. This morning, when she awoke, the thought of breaking down as she had done, in front of a complete stranger made her bitterly ashamed. She did not question the fact that her grief was justified, knowing only that she had lost control and cried like a child against Adrian Hepworth’s shoulder. She was afraid he would think her ‘terribly young’ which, incidentally he did, but without knowing she considered such an opinion to be detrimental. She hadn’t learned yet, that only the very young can afford wishing to be – and to be thought – older than they are.

‘I’ll harden myself,’ she had determined as she came down to lunch. ‘Then I shan’t make a fool of myself again.’

‘I was thinking, Jonquil dear, that I had better cancel the dance we’d arranged for your birthday next week,’ her mother was saying as she toyed with her fish.

‘But why?’ asked Jonquil.

Mrs Mathews stared at her in surprise.

‘Well, for one thing, the political situation hardly calls for celebrations,’ she blustered. She was trying to be tactful and kind to Jonquil, but somehow everything she was saying seemed to be wrong.

‘She has changed,’ she thought. ‘I don’t understand her at all.’

‘I don’t see that that matters,’ Jonquil was saying. ‘After all, the papers are treating Dunkirk as a major victory. We can celebrate the “return of the heroes”.’

‘Of course, if you wish, dear,’ Mrs Mathews assented weakly. ‘Somehow I thought under the circumstances you … we … well, I thought…’ she broke off, floundering out of her depth in a situation she didn’t know how to manage.

‘If you mean Simon’s death, why don’t you say so, Mummy?’ said Jonquil, gripping her hands together under the table.

‘But what will people think?’ protested the older woman, feeling thoroughly unhappy and shaken by now.

‘What does it matter what they think!’ Jonquil burst out angrily. ‘I don’t care, so why should you? After all, it’s my fiancé who has been killed, isn’t it? Not yours; not theirs, but mine, mine…’ Her voice rose to a shout. ‘And nothing you nor Daddy n. . .