Fly Away Home

By Terry R Barca

An Australian flyer home on leave in Melbourne meets a mysterious young woman at a dance. Captain Smith is determined to enjoy his brief time away from the war in England and Molly, the girl he meets that first night has almost given up on finding a man to spend her life with. Time moves rapidly in wartime, and so it does for William and Molly. After a whirlwind romance, the two young people resolve to wait for each other but will fate see them together. The life expectancy of a flyer in World War Two was measured in weeks, so Captain William Smith and his crew will have to continue their run of luck if William is to make it home to Molly.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Terry R Barca
• Release date: Jun 19, 2019
• ISBN: 9780463120644

Terry R Barca

I’m an author who lives and works in the Dandenong Ranges, on the eastern edge of Melbourne Australia.I take one day at a time but occasionally I’m attacked by several days at once.My amazing wife and I have lived in The Hills for forty-three years.My favourite colour is green and so is my favourite car.I started my working life as a Primary School Teacher in the early 1970s.Since then I have been a stained glass craftsman, furniture restorer, restorer of Player Pianos and music rolls, author (twenty one books so far, seventeen audiobooks, another on the way), photographer, basketball trading card manufacturer, basketball coach, basketball player, basketball referee, part-time shop assistant, newspaper columnist, homeschool dad, husband, father, grandfather, and a few other bits and pieces, and not in this order.I’m fascinated by people, but I prefer the company of dogs.I’m not frightened of dying, but sometimes life scares the hell out of me.I think that birds are cool but I don’t believe that they spend any time thinking about me, even though I give them lots of stale bread, and the occasional pizza crust........ ungrateful bastards!

Book preview

Other Books By Terry R Barca

Schoome

The Long Weekend

Passerby

Loyal and True

Trust

Slightly Spooky Stories

Red Wheelbarrow

Rufus

Keeper of Secrets

Bullet To The Heart — Sam Bennett’s Case Files

Dot, Dot, Dot …

Secrets Kept

No Through Road

The Road Leads Home

Slightly Spooky Stories Too

BORIS: and the Rising Sun Hotel

You Must Remember This

Fly Away Home

A Novella

Terry R Barca

© 2019

Published by WRITTEN WITH A PENCIL

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.

Acknowledgement

For Molly

Feet, what do I need you for when I have wings to fly?

Frida Kahlo

Fly Away Home

Terry R Barca

Acknowledgement

Tea For Two In A Coffee Shop

Don’t Make That Mistake Again

A Walk In The Treasury Gardens

Quick On Her Feet

I’ve Been To Weddings

Sitting On Clouds

Under The Clocks

Flagstaff Gardens

Warm Black Velvet

Handsome You Shall Be

Kitchen Table

Think Of Me Sometimes

The Heart Is A Wonderful Thing

Tea For Two In A Coffee Shop

    I work until 1 pm on Saturdays, she wouldn’t tell me where I can meet you at Gibby’s at 2 pm. You know where that is?

    I grew up in Melbourne. Everyone knows where Gibby’s Coffee Lounge is. She smiled at me. Not too big a smile and definitely not a come hither smile, she was too classy for that.

    We had danced together since I walked into the hall.

    Fitzroy town council had allowed a women’s auxiliary to put on a dance to entertain the soldiers who were home on leave. I’ll bet that the councillors felt that it was better to have the servicemen all in one place instead of roaming around looking for an excuse to defile their daughters.

    During our second dance (I had to give the glare to some Army sergeant to get him from cutting in) I told her that I only had a couple of days’ leave before I was due back in England.

    My dark blue uniform and the gold wings on my breast pocket didn’t hurt my chances with the ladies. All girls love a uniform, but she wasn’t a girl, and I think that she looked past the uniform which made me nervous — I don’t reveal myself to people easily, especially not women.

    She was a few years older than most of the young women at the dance. I could see it in her eyes.

    Before the War, there were groups of men and women who would come early to the dance because they wanted the floor to themselves. They were there to dance, and anything else that might happen was secondary.

    Molly was an unofficial member of this informal association of lovers of dance.

    The hall was beginning to get crowded, and Molly’s friends were tugging at her sleeve.

    Come on Mont, it’s getting past that time.

    I must have looked quizzical because she said to me, Friends call me Mont. My little brother couldn’t pronounce Molly, and it stuck.

    I don’t care what they call you as long as you meet me tomorrow. Don’t forget that I’m due back at the front. I placed my hand over my heart in an exaggerated silent movie pose. She smiled again. She understood my World War One jest. A beautiful face, not frightened to laugh, well dressed on a shop girl’s wages and she has a sense of humour. I’m going to enjoy this leave.

    During our brief encounter, I did manage to find out that she worked in a ‘Sweets Shop’ somewhere in the City, but when I pressed her, she said, Those details are boring. A person needs to eat, so a person works. It’s better than working in a Knitting Mill and not as good as working as a nanny, but it pays the bills. Well, half of the bills. My sister pays the other half.

    Her friends whisked her away, and they were soon absorbed into the ever-increasing crowd, leaving me to ponder how to fill up the rest of my evening.

    I wandered around looking for a drink and maybe a little trouble, but in the end, my heart wasn’t in it. I found a place that was selling sly grog. Other than that, trouble wasn’t looking for me. I didn’t really mind. My senses were still reeling. I could hear her voice, and I could smell her perfume. She had style and taste. Her scent must have cost more than a week’s wages.

    The RAAF had me billeted at a small hotel on Lt Collins Street. I could have travelled to Ferntree Gully and caught a bus to Belgrave, but I knew how my mother would react. She would have invited all the neighbours and any relatives within a hundred-mile radius. I couldn’t face the fuss. I’ll visit them on Friday and be on my flight on Saturday night. This is precious time, and I don’t want to spend it travelling around. One day of having my father look at me with those sad eyes is about all I can take. He was in the trenches during The First World War, and he saw what happened to flyers. He’s convinced that the same thing is going to happen to me.

    I’m somewhat ambivalent about death — my own that is. I have to stay alive, or my crew don’t make it home. Bombers don’t fly themselves, and every time we go up, they expect the crazy Australian to bring them back alive.

    The other crews are starting to look at us strangely. We have never had a crew member injured, let alone killed. We refused to paint a naked woman on the side of our ship, and we don’t have a name for her.

    Half of the other crews think we