Wingate - The Skeleton Garden

J ULY 1944

The full moon washed all color from the landscape, rendering trees in shades of pale silver relieved only by the inky blackness on the ground beneath them. White lilies glowed in the middle of the border, their heavy perfume a sirens call as he passed. Mounds of geraniums and ladys mantle appeared as small contours in the landscape, distinguished from rocks only when a slight breeze stirred the summer air and the leaves danced silently in some midnight fairies rite.

Will gave only the briefest glance at the house. The old man would be away to the back, sitting in the kitchen over his hot cocoa, all the windows well covered. No witnesses for this meeting apart from the badger stealing across the lane. No temptation to violate blackout regulations and pull out a torchthe moon gave all the light needed. But bright moonlight meant they could be caught out by a night raid. Will glanced up into the sky and decided he didnt care. He had to have it out, and this was as good a place as any. Better, in fact. It meant something, thisat least it did to him.

He stepped up to the edge of the pit, his feet crunching on the chippings under his boots, and looked down at the jagged sheets of metal sticking up at awkward angles. The plane had come down right inside the old mans walls, and it had been the talk of the village for a fortnight. The German pilot had bailed out and was found with a broken leg in a wood a mile away, then afterward, shipped off to a far-flung prisoner-of-war camp in Cumbria. The pilot would heal and be put to work in the fields, Will thought, as he kneaded his own shoulder, still stiff months after being shot down over Malta. Theyd be wanting to send him back up in the air soon.

For a week, small groups of villagers had gathered in the lane at all times of day chatting among themselves, pointing to the sky and describing the imagined arc of the Messerschmitts path. The plane lay in a heap in the yard of the house, and no one seemed bothered to move it. The Home Guard out of Romsey had posted security for a few days, until it, the town, and the army lost interest. Worn down by four years of bombs, the villagers turned back to what really matteredthe day-to-day struggle of doing without. What had they expected, that Winnie Churchill would make a personal appearance to inspect the damage?

They all grew weary of this reminder of the Fhrer, but hauling it away involved too many logistics. Instead, the old man decided to bury it. Put it out of sight, he said. He had a mountain of gravel squirreled away behind the hedgerow as if he had feared theyd start rationing rock chippings along with the tea and bread. Using it to bury a German fighter plane seemed right enough. The plane, cut into several large pieces, lay only half coveredtheyd almost run out of the chippings and had started to mix in the soil that had been dug out.

Not thinking of jumping in there yourself, are you?

Will turned, saw who it was, and stuck his hands in his pockets. Youd be free and clear if I did, now wouldnt you? He shook his head. Who wouldve thought youd be a spiv?

The Ministry of Food made their own problems with this rationinga few tins of beef, a bit of sugarwhos going to miss that? Do you know how far four ounces of bacon goes every week? No, you wouldntRAF has all it wants, now doesnt it, Lieutenant?

Puts a few extra bob in your pocketthe both of you. Just how much do you make on the black market?

Its every man for himself in war.

No, it isnt. Had Will thought confrontation would work? Look, Im giving you fair warning. You were kind to me when I arrived here and youve been good to my girl, so I wont say anything this time. But youd better pull out of it while you can.

Or youll do what?

It was just a shovemeant to knock him down, nothing more, but it landed on his injured shoulder. Will recoiled from the pain that shot down his arm. It threw him off balance, but instead of slipping on the gravel at the edge of the pit, the blow sent him toppling in headfirst. His neck landed eight feet below on a ragged piece of the metal wing left uncovered.

Silence, apart from a few loose rocks as they rolled down and tapped against the propeller.

Will? He stepped closer to the edge and jumped in. Willyou all right? Will lay facedown in the black shadows, only his legs sticking out into the moonlight. He took hold of his hair to turn him overwouldnt it be just like Will to scare him on a larkbut Wills head came back too easily, a wide slit in his throat that cut deep. Blood poured out of his neck, soaking into the gravelly earth, creating an inky black shade of its own.

What do I care if my girl has dirt under her fingernails? That only shows the world that when Im back up there in the sky in my Spitfire that you are down on the land, growing the food that keeps me flying.

Letter from Ratley Airfield

The large terra-cotta pot, weathered from the seasons, sported an inch-wide crack that strained at the wire wrapped round its circumference. Roots of the bay tree, seeking to break free from their encircling confinement, had insinuated themselves through the crack, found open air, and dried up. The small tree itself seemed to slump, as if resigned to a second-class existence. Pru and her brother, Simon, stood gazing at it in silence.

We had a bad winter, Simon said at last. Rain wouldnt stop, and when it did, we froze. Thats when the crack started, he said, nodding to the gap in the pot. I wrapped it with a length of copper wirejust temporarily, until I could get round to mending it proper. That was, lets seeabout eight years ago. It seemed to hold all right until now. He fell silent, and they continued their vigil over the pot.

Pru wondered how long it would be before they could put the pot out of its misery. Time it got a new home, then, she said, giving an encouraging nod to the slightly larger empty container awaiting an occupant.

Well break the old pot up, Simon said, and put a layer of pieces at the bottom of the new one.

We dont really need to do that, Pru said, peering into the empty container. Its got a drainage hole, thats enough.

The soild wash away if we dont, Simon replied.

It doesnt, actually, Pru said, not looking at him and trying for a casual tone.

Simon acted as if he hadnt heard her. And the layer of broken pottery helps the pot drain.

It would just take up space that could be filled with soil. If it was just a pot of annuals, it wouldnt matter, but for long-term planting

I know what Im doing, he cut in.

She should keep quiet. I didnt say you dont know what youre doing. Its just that best practices suggest the plants root system needs