The Way Home Read online

  The

  Way Home

  Nhys Glover

  This novel is entirely a work of fiction. With the exception of historical events and people used as background for the story, and those in the public domain, the names, characters and incidents portrayed in this work come wholly from the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental

  Published by Belisama Press

  © Nhys Glover 2013

  This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please delete it and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

  About the Author

  Nhys Glover is an Australian teacher, historian, international presenter and author, who now lives and writes in the beautiful Yorkshire Dales of England. Here she looks out over Bronte Country, and is inspired to write romantic (and a little bit hot) tales of adventure that feed her Soul and inspire her readers.

  Please visit www.nhysglover.com to find out more about Nhys and her many books.

  PROLOGUE

  October 1940, Leconfield, Yorkshire, ENGLAND

  What it was about the large farmhouse Hawk did not know, but from the first moment he crossed its threshold, he felt at home. Its thick stone walls embraced him; its low beams protected him.

  Homesickness or nostalgia couldn’t account for his feelings because the place was very different from its counterparts at home. Nothing in England reminded him of Poland.

  ‘Come in, come in, don’t stand there like statue,’ the farmer demanded, his gruff Yorkshire accent softened by his friendly tone. He looked to be in his fifties, although there was the fragility of old age about him, too, as if his body had worn out earlier than it should.

  ‘You do understand me, don’t ye? I know ye’re foreign an’ all…’

  Hawk grinned and nodded. Although the man’s accent was strong, he understood it well enough. ‘I speak English. We had to learn before they would let us up in their planes.’

  The farmer nodded sagely, still waiting for him to move into the house more fully. Hawk wanted to savour the moment like a fine liqueur, letting the taste remain on his tongue, breathing it in through his nose.

  There was mustiness in the air of a damp space kept closed up for too long. He could smell furniture polish and wet dog. There was also the odour of manure that had accompanied them in from the farmyard. None of the individual scents he identified gave him sensations of pleasure, but in combination, they affected him pleasantly.

  He’d grown up in the city. Rural life was alien to him. Mostly, it worried him with its isolation, but not here, not in this farmhouse. Here, the rural setting suited him. Here, the isolation felt comfortable, as if he could be wholly himself for the first time without the intrusion of others. The sound of aircraft landing and taking off nearby only added to the feeling of home.

  ‘Is it shell shock ye’re sufferin’?’ The farmer was staring at him now, his deeply lined brow puckered with concern.

  Hawk gave himself a mental shake and smiled at the man again. ‘Sorry, no. It is just this house. I feel like I know it… or it knows me. I sound like a crazy person, I know. Would you prefer I left?’

  He didn’t want to leave – not now. Not ever, a little voice in his head said. If the man began to worry about Hawk’s sanity, however, it might be better. They didn’t want to get a bad reputation with the locals. Already, the man might see him as an intruder. After all, Hawk had wandered up his long drive to the farmhouse for no reason other than he wanted to know what was at the end of the road. He hadn’t been invited onto the property until the farmer had seen him and offered him welcome.

  ‘Nah then, lad, don’t be daft. I invited thee, didn’t I? And our Mildred’ll give me a right say-so if I let thee go before tha’ve had a cup o’ tea. We’ve heard about thee lads, the 303 Squadron?’

  The man had turned and had begun walking down the dark hallway, talking all the while. Hawk couldn’t draw the moment out any longer. He had to follow along behind the farmer or be considered rude.

  He took several long, striding steps to catch up with the Yorkshireman. ‘Yes. We were rotated out to Leconfield from Northolt for a break. Six weeks we have been in the air.’

  ‘One hundred and twenty-six kills in six weeks, they’re sayin’. Impressive, and we aren’t impressed by foreigners easy in these parts.’

  ‘We lost eighteen Hurricanes, seven pilots and we have five more badly wounded. That is not so impressive.’

  ‘If I told thee the losses we took at the Somme, thee’d think twice about that.’ The man’s voice was hollow, as if it came from a long way away, a lifetime away.

  ‘You survived the Great War?’

  ‘Aye. Lucky’s what I was, nowt but lucky. The mustard gas got ta ma lungs, but nowt bad. Now ‘ere’s our Mildred…’

  They’d made it to the back of the house by now and entered the big country kitchen with its wooden table in the centre and flagstones on the floor. A big black range burned hot against the far wall. He could feel its heat from where he stood. A small window over the sink was open, as was the back door, probably because it was midday and the sun was shining. The cool air from outside also balanced the heat inside a little.

  He could see autumn leaves, golden and beautiful, on the oak tree just outside the window. They seemed to glow in the sunlight.

  Mildred was a matronly woman with grey, straggly hair and a friendly smile. Her face was flushed red from the heat of the stove. She wiped a strand of hair away from her face with the back of a floury arm.

  ‘Ayap, who’s tha wi’ ye then, our Alf? A ‘andsome airman fromt’ looks of ‘im.’

  ‘Aye, that’s what ‘e’ll be, right enough. One of them Poles who’ve made theirselves a name shootin’ down the huns. What d’ ye call yeself, lad?’

  ‘Andrezej Drzewiecki, but they call me Hawk.’ He grinned at his nickname. He’d like to think it was because his eyesight was superior or his courage outstanding, but the real reason for the nickname his comrades had assigned him was more likely his nose, which was prominent and bent in the shape of a beak. He’d been mistaken for an aristocrat in his younger days because of that nose.

  ‘Hawk… hmmm. Aye, I can see it an’ all. Fierce fliers them birds. Seen one swoop down from nowtwhere, take newborn lamb an’ carry’t off. As heavy as t’ bird, it were, but that hawk darsen’t miss a beat. Impressive killers.’ Alf’s voice was filled with awe as he nodded at his own description.

  Hawk dropped his head and shrugged his shoulders. The comparison made him uncomfortable. Although Air Command talked about ‘kills’, it still didn’t feel like what they did. Not like when a soldier fired a gun at another man and saw him drop. In his own eyes, his goal was to bounce enemy planes from the sky, and that often meant, as often as not, that the pilots escaped alive. It was the planes that needed to be destroyed. Pilots were not harmless without them, he couldn’t say that, but they were hobbled, limited in the harm they could inflict, and that was enough for him.

  The other men in his squad didn’t feel like he did, of course. Most of them felt a savage fury toward the Germans who had invaded their homeland. That fury drove them to feats of audacity that were already marking them as heroes. What else could they be called when men like Karubin did stunts like flying on top of an enemy aircraft when he’d run out of ammunition so his prey became disoriented and dived into the ground to escape him? Craziness. Brave, outrageous craziness.

  ‘You’r
e embarrassing the lad, Alf, give over. Come on now, Hawk, take a seat at t’ table an’ I’ll make thee a nice cup o’ tea. Tha look tired.’

  Grateful to the woman, Hawk took the closest seat to where he was standing. He lowered his long body onto the rough chair with some relief. He still had a leg injury that troubled him if he stayed on his feet too long.

  As Mildred fussed over him, Hawk tested his feelings in the warm kitchen. Yes, just the same in here as at the door, it still felt welcoming. The fact that the middle-aged couple were making so much of him only added to that sense of belonging.

  ‘Do you have sons in the service?’ he asked Alf, who had pulled up a chair at his side and was watching his wife moving about her domain with such confident pleasure.

  ‘Aye, our lads are both int’ army and were evacuated off Dunkirk. Both injured and only returned t’ front line a few weeks gone. Now Mildred’s worried about ‘em again. Especially our Harold, because of our Marnie, ye see. She’s our granddaughter. Little firecracker, that un. Mother died givin’ birth to ‘er, so all that child’s got is ‘er Dah, poor mite.’

  ‘She’s got us, man. Don’t go making it wors’n it is. I’m that lass’ Mah. Have been from t’ moment she were born.’

  ‘Course you are, dearie. Course you are.’

  ‘Does this little girl live with you?’ Hawk had a younger sister who he missed badly. She’d be twelve now. He hadn’t seen her since his training group had been evacuated at the end of ‘39. He hadn’t heard how his family fared since then.

  ‘Aye, young Marnie lives with us. She’s at school now, o’ course, but she’ll be back anon. She’ll be steamin’ she missed meeting thee. Living this close t’ airfield she’s quite taken with planes and pilots. Wants to be a pilot ‘erself one day, but, o’ course, that’ll ne’er be. Girls might be doing some men’s work now but they’ll ne’er become pilots. Too dangerous.’ Alf nodded sagely.

  ‘She’s talkin’ about being a radio operator or that RADAR whatsit now,’ Mildred corrected.

  ‘The war will be well ov’r nigh she’d be old enough for such things. She’s only eight an’ all.’

  ‘Well over by the time she is old enough…’ Hawk agreed, nodding. Then he took up the china cup Mildred had placed in front of him and sipped at the milky tea. It was strong. These Yorkshiremen liked their tea strong. Not like in the south. Its tart taste mellowed him even more.

  ‘Where’re ye from then? Before the war, I mean,’ Mildred asked, sitting down on the other side of the table, her hands wrapped around a warm cup of her own. She’d placed a plate of fresh scones with melted butter on them in front of him. He couldn’t resist. The savoury taste melted in his mouth and he couldn’t contain his groan of pleasure.

  Mildred smiled again and nodded, as if well pleased with his reaction. She took a scone herself and bit into it with relish.

  ‘Warsaw. I was raised in Warsaw. But I lived in Dęblin while I was training.’

  ‘Did thee fight the huns when they invaded?’

  ‘No. We were evacuated out shortly after we graduated. Then we were interned in Romania briefly before we escaped and made our way here. Some of us fought in France, but I was not one of them. I only saw combat in the last six weeks.’

  ‘How many kills?’

  ‘One. Only one confirmed.’ He still felt ambivalent about that. He felt he should have been more successful, especially in light of the brilliant kill rate of many of his fellow pilots. It seemed wrong to want to take life, however, so even his one kill felt bad. He still hoped the pilot had managed to get out of the plane he downed before it hit the water.

  He hadn’t learned to fly to join the air force and fight; he’d learned to fly because he loved to fly. It had fascinated him ever since he was a boy. His greatest hero was von Richthofen, the ‘Red Baron’, but that wasn’t something he owned up to with the men. Neither was the fact that his mother had been German. She’d died only a few years before the war.

  ‘Nowt wrong with one for only six weeks int’ air. There’ll be more.’ Alf pounded him gently on the back.

  ‘Yes. There will be more. But for now, I am happy just to take a break while we regroup. We have new recruits joining us and more training to do.’

  ‘Well lad, ye’re welcome ‘ere any time ye ‘ave time off base. Any lad fighting to keep huns fromt’ door is welcome ‘ere,’ Alf said, pounding him on the back a little harder this time.

  The English were a strange people he was finding. In some ways, they were excessively insular and fanatically suspicious of anyone from the mainland. In other ways, they were the most hospitable people he’d ever come across. He quite liked the kindly Alf and his warm-hearted Mildred, and he certainly liked their house.

  He was already determined to take up the generous offer whenever he had a free moment. His soul already felt nourished by this short stay within the farmhouse walls. In the next weeks, he knew it would give him more.

  He’d need what it had to offer for what was to come. Because, although they spoke optimistically about ending the war before Christmas, they all knew that wasn’t going to happen. Hitler was too powerful. It would take more than this little island to bring his war machine to its knees.

  CHAPTER ONE

  Present Day, Leconfield, Yorkshire, ENGLAND

  Cassie Grant stared down into the back garden from her upstairs bedroom window. It was dusk on an Indian summer evening in September. The heat hung heavy in the air and the scent of night blooming jasmine was overwhelming. Such a plant was as out of place in the English countryside as the hot, humid air.

  She rested her bare head against the cool wood of the window frame. It still felt strange to have nothing separating her bare skin from the environment, but her baldness would soon be a thing of the past. She’d finally completed the last of the six rounds of chemo, and from all reports, her hair should start to grow back soon. In a way, she was grateful that she’d gone through her treatment during the warmer months of the year. Her head would have really felt the cold in winter, although, she would have gotten away with a beanie then to disguise her baldness more easily. There were pluses and minuses for everything, she guessed.

  At least she was still alive. At least she had a roof over her head and no worries about how she’d support herself during her treatment and recuperation. It was funny how such simple concerns had become so important, as important as survival itself.

  If Fran’s grandmother hadn’t offered her a home, she didn’t know what would have happened to her. With no real family of her own and no money coming in to pay the rent, Cassie had been in a bad way after she was diagnosed with breast cancer. She’d even played with the idea of trying to work through the surgery and follow-up chemo to make ends meet.

  However, her boss had been firm. No one needed to see a receptionist at a high-priced spa looking sick and bald, even if she did get a wig that looked natural. Better to leave quietly. No, she hadn’t been with them long enough to accrue sick leave, and they couldn’t promise her she’d have a job when she was ready to come back to work, but they’d try. She was popular with the staff and clients she was told. They wished her well and would miss her.

  Cassie still didn’t know exactly how Marnie had found out about her situation. She hadn’t been in touch with the old lady, except for Christmas cards, since Fran had died over two years ago.

  The pain in the centre of her chest started up again. It always did that when she thought of her childhood friend. They’d been close for so many years. She’d spent every school holiday at Grange End from the time she was eight. That was when her parents and older brother had died in a car crash. Her aunt Beth had taken her in, but with three kids of her own and no real familial interest, it had been a relief to have Cassie gone for half term and term breaks.

  And Marnie had always made her feel welcome because she knew what it was like not to have parents. Her mother had died in childbirth, her father in World War II and the man she’d married straight out
of University hadn’t hung around long, either. Marnie knew how important extended families could be.

  Something drew Cassie’s attention down to the garden.

  There was someone there – a man, a uniformed man, leaning against the big oak tree that stood in the middle of the small, walled garden. She could see his relaxed body quite clearly through the leafy branches, as the bough closest to the house had been cut short years ago to protect the windows. There was a thin trail of smoke rising from the end of the cigarette in his hand.

  Who could it be? It wasn’t unusual to see uniformed men around the area. The Defence School of Transport was located just across at the old RAF base. They trained all branches of the armed forces in driving skills there.

  But no one would ever think to come this far off base and climb the high wall that surrounded the garden just to smoke a cigarette against that tree. Maybe the gate was left open. Marnie was getting forgetful these days.

  Why would anyone come into their garden uninvited even if the gate were open? It wasn’t like the heritage-listed farmhouse was close to civilisation. The farm and its outbuildings, all converted into private residences these days, were the only habitation for a half mile in any direction.

  Could he be visiting one of the barn conversions on the development and just wandered into their private garden unknowingly?

  She looked at him more closely. His uniform looked odd. Almost old fashioned. Like something from the Second World War. His officer’s cap sat jauntily on his dark head. Maybe it was a foreign uniform. Other nationalities often had uniforms that looked old fashioned to Brits. It seemed to be dark blue-grey in the growing shadows. He wore a scarf at his neck that was scarlet.

  The officer was looking away from her, so she saw his face in profile. It was a strong face; harsh, with cheekbones cut high and sharp, eyes sockets deep and cavernous, chin prominent in a powerful jaw and a nose that was shaped like the beak of a bird of prey. The mouth was the only soft feature. It had a full lower lip that curved gently into the v-shaped upper lip.