Love and the Luftstreitkrafte

Part 3: The Plan

The first week I often thought about going to see Emmaline. Saturday I went to a musical with a few of the new trainees, telling myself I might run into her, but of course I didn't.

Sunday I had a lot of time to think about how I could keep my word without coming off a complete ass, and in the end I went to Rosalind's.

Maybe I should explain. Rosalind is actually an old Wellingtonian friend as well. She didn't go by Rosalind when we were in school, but even back then the other boys called her a lot of flower names rather than her given one—Daisy, Pansy, Petunia, that sort of thing. She put up with the ragging as graciously as she could, and I stood up for her every so often, though looking back I wish I had done more of that.

Things got better after our class did a performance of The Scottish Play. My utterly wooden acting skills relegated me to playing one of the Birnam trees, but Rosalind volunteered to play Lady Macbeth. She was absolutely riveting—alternately shrieking and whispering, sneering and cajoling the poor sap who played her husband. I was delightfully terrified, and I think many others felt the same. Usually the boys who got stuck playing female roles used a simpering falsetto, as if they considered it their duty to play it badly. Rosalind's performance was a revelation. Everyone tried to keep up with her, and it made our class play far better than anyone expected it to be.

Being the best actor in school isn't quite the same as being the best footballer, but she gained some supporters, and I think she was more sure of herself after that.

Anyway, she could be a bit of a mystery—particularly the whole bit about talking to the dead—but I was more comfortable with her than I was around most women. And to say she could act was an understatement.

In short, she was the natural choice for a co-conspirator.

"Would you come with me out to Hackney Wick on Thursday night?" I asked, standing in the entryway of her flat.

"Why and what for?" Rosalind scooped up her grey cat, Pinkerton, to stop him darting out the door.

"To check in on Archie's girl. He asked me to."

Rosalind gave me an incredulous look over Pinkerton's ears. "He didn't, did he? What a booby."

I wasn't totally sure if she was insulting me or Archie. "He said working at the hospital gets her down."

"She's a grown woman, isn't she?" Rosalind said irritably. "It's not like she's been conscripted."

I was torn between agreeing with her and defending them, and ended up just shrugging. "You don't want to come, then?"

Rosalind narrowed her eyes at me. "I didn't say that... Come in, don't just stand there. I have wine."

"I—" It wasn't that late, so I didn't have a particular reason to leave immediately. It just felt a little improper. "I have work tomorrow morning," I said.

"You can get an early start on your chums, then. Someone was telling me half the pilots have a whiskey flask in their jackets."

"I wouldn't say half," I protested, but I could think of three off the top of my head. At least one of whom was still alive.

I explained the plan over a glass of sherry. Emmaline had Thursdays off—I knew because Archie was always meeting her then. Rosalind recommended sending a brief note to the Whittles that we were going to stop by. I thought that was a great idea. Perhaps Emmaline would avoid me, which would be for the best. We penned it there in Rosalind's flat. It took far more effort (and sherry) than I had imagined to write that single line.