Heartwarming and emotional story of one girl's courage in WW2 by Fenella Miller (top 10 ebook reader txt) 📗

Jack’s laughing comment almost caused her to fall headfirst. ‘Thank goodness you’re here. I’ve been lurking in my bedroom as I don’t know anyone else apart from my brother and he’s far too busy being the centre of attention to want me anywhere near him.’

She left the window open and headed for the garden. For the first time since she met him she was actually pleased to see Jack.

Six

Jack waited by the front door, which was propped open for the occasion, for what he supposed could be considered his date. Ellie wouldn’t be a boring companion. In fact, if they managed to spend more than an hour together without arguing he’d reckon the evening a success.

He had his back to the house but heard the tip tap of evening shoes behind him, so turned. Bloody hell! What a difference a pretty dress made – coming towards him was a lovely young woman with curves in all the right places.

‘I know – I feel like Cinderella going to meet Prince Charming.’

She must have seen his look of astonishment but didn’t seem bothered by it. ‘You look swell, Ellie, that gown is perfect on you.’

‘Do you mind if I hang on to your arm, I’m terrified I’m going to trip over my skirt or fall off my heels?’

Obediently he held out his arm and she slipped hers though it. ‘Where to? I’m parched – you promised me there’d be plenty to drink so lead me to the bar.’

‘I want to introduce you to George on the way. He’s the one on the left with a silly moustache, in case you’re wondering.’

Her brother was talking to a couple of other RAF guys who had their backs to them. He smiled. ‘You’ve got to pick up the front of your gown or you’ll put your foot through it.’

She snatched up a handful of material. ‘Stupid thing – believe me I wouldn’t be wearing this if I had any other option.’

‘I’m glad you did. I’d no idea there was a pretty girl under all the baggy clothes.’

Instead of being pleased by his compliment she snorted in disgust. ‘I’m not looking for a boyfriend, so there’s no need to flirt with me. My priority is flying and I can’t see that changing any time soon.’

He couldn’t prevent his chuckle. ‘Believe me, sweetheart, you’re just not my type. Too young and too skinny – I prefer my birds with a bit more meat on them.’

Again, she surprised him. ‘Well that’s a relief, I should hate to hurt your feelings by turning you down.’

One of the RAF guys spun round as if poked in the butt by a sharp object. ‘Ellie – as I live and breathe. What are you doing here?’

‘Michael isn’t it? I live here. Your invitation was from Mr and Mrs Simpson. I’d have thought you might have made the connection.’

‘Actually, old bean, I’m staying with Bertie here, just came along for the ride.’ He guffawed and beamed at all them.

The man was an idiot. The RAF would take anyone as long as they came from the right family. So much for one of the criteria being that the applicant must be highly educated and intelligent.

He must have been scowling as Ellie dug him sharply in the ribs. ‘I taught Michael to fly. He was my first pupil to go solo.’

‘Hi, pleased to meet you. Excuse us, guys, we need a drink.’ He deliberately emphasised the American twang in his accent and was amused to hear them muttering about "uncivilised colonials" behind his back.

‘What do you want to drink, honey?’

She giggled and pinched his arm. ‘You can stop that now, I’m not impressed. I don’t drink alcohol, it doesn’t agree with me. I’ll have lemonade, please.’

He ordered a pint of beer, picked up a glass for her, and took them back to her. He would have had to be blind not to notice the attention Ellie was getting from the men. A couple of old goats were heading her way and he hastily stepped in front of them.

‘Excuse me, gents, the lady’s spoken for.’ They backed off muttering to each other.

‘I wish I’d worn my dungarees. I don’t like being stared at like a prize heifer in a sale ring. You should have let them come – I could flatten them easily even dressed in this silly outfit.’

‘Here, Ellie, drink your lemonade and behave yourself. Shall we go and find ourselves a quiet spot where we can sit and laugh at the other guests?’

She pointed to a couple of chairs that hadn’t been positioned around the tables ready for people to sit and eat their supper. ‘Pinch those. Give me your drink and I’ll carry it for you. Don’t frown at me, Jack Reynolds, I’m perfectly capable of holding up my dress and transporting two drinks without falling flat on my face now that I've got used to them.’

He wasn’t so sure but handed his beer over anyway. ‘Right – where are we going with these?’

‘Follow me, I know the perfect place.’

She led him away from the party and into the rose garden. ‘We can sit under that tree, the sun’s still hot and you must be suffocating in that suit.’ She smiled at him. ‘I should have said, you scrub up really well too. Even though it’s not a dinner jacket, it’s a very smart suit.’

‘Thank you, ma’am, I aim to please.’

‘And I, sir, am the Queen of Sheba.’ Her laughter filled the garden and he joined in.

He positioned the chairs in the shade and then reclaimed his beer. Somehow, she’d managed to carry it without spilling a drop. Maybe she wasn’t as clumsy as he thought.

From their position they could see what was going on in the marquee but wouldn’t be seen themselves. An ideal place for two people who didn’t enjoy parties. He took an appreciative swallow of his warm beer. ‘British beer is an acquired taste, but I much prefer it to the