Ae Fond Kiss

By Alice Dale

Craig Stebbings is no longer a strikingly handsome young pilot due to facial burns when his spitfire was shot down. Suffering loss of speech due to PTSD   he becomes unsociable, even towards the beautiful nurse who has fallen in love with him. He takes his problems home with him to a loving mother who is coping with her own problems, unable to marry the man she loves. 

• Language: English
• Publisher: Warandale Publishing
• Release date: Apr 7, 2021
• ISBN: 9798201998868

Alice Dale

Born Alice Baxter in Scotland, she spent her working life in professional theatre. Too proud to cash in on the name of her famous brother, Stanley Baxter, she changed her name to Alice Dale. She performed in straight plays, pantomimes with Howard and Wyndham, variety and musicals as well as her own TV show ‘At Home With Alice Dale’ During a ten year stay in Nairobi she appeared in, and wrote scripts for, her TV programme ‘Shop Window’. Moving to Perth, Western Australia, she appeared in most of the major theatres in plays, two  of which she wrote. She also wrote scripts for variety shows she appeared in. Retired from theatre she turned her talents to full time writing, having three plays published and performed in Perth. ‘Ae Fond Kiss’ is her first novel.

Book preview

Ae Fond Kiss

Alice Dale

Published by Warandale Publishing, 2021.

While every precaution has been taken in the preparation of this book, the publisher assumes no responsibility for errors or omissions, or for damages resulting from the use of the information contained herein.

AE FOND KISS

First edition. April 7, 2021.

Copyright © 2021 Alice Dale.

ISBN: 979-8201998868

Written by Alice Dale.

Table of Contents

Title Page

Copyright Page

AE FOND KISS | BY ALICE DALE

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AE FOND KISS

BY ALICE DALE

CHAPTER 1  (1940) 

‘Come on Craigie, give us a song,’ shouted a voice from the bar of the mess.

‘Not on your Nellie. Give me peace to enjoy my drink.’

‘O.K fellas, fill him up. He needs a couple more before we’ll get any entertainment.’

‘What do you call this?’ complained the airman at the piano.

‘You’ll do till Ailsa’s ready.’ And other Scots pilots, who were in on the joke, laughed.

Craig Stebbings was a strikingly handsome nineteen year old fighter pilot of 92 Squadron. His six foot two slim figure, capped by wavy black hair contrasted with his startlingly blue eyes. A perfect mixture of Spanish and Nordic good looks in this proud Scotsman. Already a Flight Lieutenant, his skills as a pilot ensured he would eventually become a squadron leader. Fortunately, his happy-go-lucky nature ensured popularity: rather than jealousy. And, as often happens with popular people, he had a nickname. English and overseas pilots simply settled for Craigie. But because of his first name being Craig, other Scots pilots couldn’t resist the temptation of  calling him ‘Ailsa’, after the tiny Scottish island of Ailsa Craig. Such a feminine-sounding name could not have been less appropriate for Craig which was the reason it gave them a laugh, almost as pay-back for him being such serious competition for the best looking WAAF’s.  Whenever there was a dance in the mess, other airmen were relieved if the popular ‘Craigie’ or ‘Ailsa’ happened to be on leave in his native Scotland. But, if he were present, all his mates accepted that they’d have to settle for the girls who hadn’t succeeded with Craig. Their other payback was to make him ‘sing for his supper’ by filling him with enough booze to overcome his shyness, and making him use his lovely tenor voice to render some of Scotland’s best loved songs – ‘Bonnie Mary of Argyle’ ‘My Love is Like a Red, Red Rose’ or ‘Annie Laurie’. But, ironically, the night before his plane was shot down over the English Channel, during the Battle of Britain, he chose instead to sing ‘Ae Fond Kiss,    and then we sever.’ Little knowing how prophetic that would be.

As soon as his Mk IIa Spitfire reached the Channel he found himself in the middle of a dog fight: Messerschmitts everywhere. The initial fear that always gripped his stomach on sighting the enemy only subsided when he made his first hit. This time he made the fatal mistake of watching in triumph as the enemy plane he’d hit spiralled down. And, in that split second of inattention, he felt the explosion behind him. He had seen it happen to others and they had managed to limp home safely. But, when he turned and saw flames leaping behind the cockpit, his well-trained instincts commanded, ‘BAIL OUT! NOW!’

Craig had never worn gloves: said they interfered with the sensitivity of touch on the stick. Today he paid the price. He ripped off his straps, twisted round and pulled open the hood of the cockpit.. He managed to stand on the seat and, using his foot to hit the joystick, threw the plane upside down. Gripping the red hot hood with his bare hands, he pulled himself through and immediately smelled burning flesh. He knew it was his own. The flames had travelled. With no time to think about that, he let himself fall from the burning inferno only seconds before it exploded.   Much later, he thanked God for his goggles that had saved his eyes. 

What happened next was a complete blur. He knew he must have pulled the rip cord automatically and he vaguely remembered praying over and over again as he hurtled towards the black water below. He had no idea which prayer he had been saying, as he slipped into unconsciousness.

Craig came to with a sensation of rising and falling, up and down, up and down and his first thought was, ‘I’m dead and floating towards heaven. I can hear God speaking to me.’

‘You all right mate?  Nearly went for a bloody Burton, you did.’

GOD WAS A COCKNEY??

‘Can you tell us your name?’  Same Cockney voice.

God wouldn’t have to ask that question. He had to think very hard, trying to pull his thoughts together. Then he heard a strange voice saying ‘C..C...Curr...aig St...St...Stebb...bb. He couldn’t get any further but – and this always puzzled him later – he suddenly reeled off his rank and serial number. As the merchant ship made its way to Dover he kept losing and regaining consciousness, gradually becoming aware of agonising pain in his hands, upper chest and lower face.

In 1940, although medicine had made great advances, knowledge of psychiatric problems   was in its early stages. And, due to a shortage of manpower, only physical problems tended to be dealt with and servicemen seldom sought, or received, the psychological help they needed in order to make a full recovery from their traumatic experiences. Craig Stebbings was only one of the many who developed psychological problems that, in many cases, plagued them the rest of their lives: nightmares, total loss of self confidence, agoraphobia, chronic anxiety and, above all, depression, sometimes leading to suicide. Craig’s psychological disturbance took the form of an uncontrollable stutter and inability to form words that he knew clearly in his head. At first this was overlooked due to the severity of his burns.  As a result, he ceased to talk at all.

Unlike his usual affable self, Dr Roberts dismissed Nurse Walters rather abruptly when, over a morning tea break in the canteen, she had cornered him, hoping to discuss her  interest in speech defects due to trauma. He was half way through a cup of coffee with only minutes to spare before having to return to surgery and he cut her short by saying, ‘Pamela, I spend all my time dealing with bullet wounds, disfiguring burns, amputations, trying to save eyesight and, frankly, I don’t have time to deal with their psychological problems as well. I know they’re important but not nearly as urgent. You might like to know that I’ve already sent a letter to the next of kin of that one with the terrible burns who’s suffering speech defects. The first thing we need to know is whether he had any speech defects before the war. I admit it was for my own purposes. There are things I’ll have to discuss with  him later: things that will need answers. But, if this is a condition that has always existed then there’s no point in you, or anyone else, wasting time trying to cure him.  I’ll let you know what they  say when I get a reply. And now, I really must go,’  he said putting his cup down abruptly She felt guilty that he’d had to leave without finishing his coffee.

PHILIPPA STEBBINGS picked up the mail from the hall carpet, calling to her husband who was eating his breakfast in the kitchen. ‘There’s a letter here marked from Dover. That’s where Craig’s in hospital.’ Opening the envelope as she re-entered the kitchen, she said, ‘I hope it’s good news.’ In spite of being eager to read the contents she couldn’t help noticing that Stan’s wispy hair, with his scalp peaking through, matched, almost exactly, the colour of the marmalade he was eating. It was a blessing that, although his daughter, Irene, had inherited his colouring, hers was a thick, shining strawberry blonde. Philippa sat in silence reading the contents while Stan poured himself another cup of tea and added more marmalade to his second piece of toast.

‘What a cheek!’ she suddenly exploded.

Stan looked up for a second before biting into his toast. Mouth full, he said, ‘What’s a cheek?’

‘They’re asking whether Craig has always suffered speech defects. Can you imagine them thinking that! If they’d seen him playing Oberon in the school production of..........’

‘A Midsummer Night’s Dream,’ he finished for her. ‘Yes we know that. But they don’t!’

‘And if they’d ever heard his beautiful singing voice with every word as clear as a bell....’

‘This has nothing to do with his singing. And there’s no point in going over what we already know.’

‘Well, they’ll soon know too!’ she fired back, grabbed her cup and downed the last of her now cold tea.

‘That’s right. You just reply telling them these things. You could do it during one of your free periods. Do you have you any today?’

‘Yes, two, but I’m not answering this by letter.’

‘A telegram might be costly for all you want to say.’ He was on his feet, removing his jacket from the back of his chair and swinging it on.

‘Stan, I have no intention of writing a letter or sending a telegram. I’m going down there to put them right about this. And, of course I’ll see Craig at the same time. He won’t have any speech defects when he’s talking to me.’

‘What will your headmaster say about you going off when the school’s just gone back after the summer holidays?’

‘I won’t ask Mr Duffy. I’ll go to  Mr Mackie.’

‘The second head.’

‘Yes. He’s much more understanding.’ She rose to her feet and started putting the papers she had been marking the night before into her brief case.

Stan gripped her arm. ‘Philippa, stop right there. That’s a ridiculous idea. Going all the way to Dover? On your own. In war time? With all the trains so unreliable? You must be mad. And think of the cost from Glasgow to Dover. If you ever got there you’d have to stay overnight. Where would that be? You’ve never been in that area.’ His anger was rising with every question which only made his wife more determined.

‘I don’t know! But I’m going anyway! I’ll find a B and B or something.’

‘You’re going where?’ Irene’s voice of reason came from the doorway.

‘Oh Irene, how nice to see you.’ And Philippa’s voice changed to one of welcome.

‘Just thought I’d pop in on my way to work.’

‘How’s Jon?’ her mother asked.

‘He’s fine. Working late again tonight so I thought I’d have time for a wee visit this evening if you’re going to be in.’

‘We’re never out.  You’re always most welcome, you know that.’

‘So where are you going?’ Irene persisted.

Philippa was delighted to see her daughter but, instead of answering her, she grabbed the offending letter from the table and thrust it towards her. ‘Did he have any speech defects before the war!’ she said in disgust.

It only took a brief glance at the letter before Irene said, in her usual calm voice, ‘Is that where you’re thinking of going? To Dover?’ And, before her mother could answer, ‘Why not just reply and say, ‘No he didn’t.’ You could add some details, if you like, to make it clear that, in fact, he had excellent speech.’

‘That’s what I said!’ Stan agreed, with a relieved nod towards his daughter.

‘And that letter could end up in a waste paper basket,’ Philippa retorted. ‘They must be run off their feet in that hospital. They’re bound to be coping with a lot of the wounded from Dunkirk. They’ll see it as a healthy boy with a temporary speech problem and it won’t rank high on their list of patients.’

‘Mum, what difference would you actually make by going there?’ Irene asked in a kindly way.

Her mother was losing patience. ‘At least I can make sure they understand the answer they need. Anyway, we don’t even know if he’s received our get-well cards. We’ve never had anything from Craig himself. We’ve only had official notifications: first the telegram informing us he’d been shot down and was missing. Then the letter saying he was in the Casualty Hospital, suffering severe burns. Now this one today. And it’s pretty vague. Don’t you think  so? ‘He has developed a speech defect’ doesn’t tell us much. What kind of speech defect do they mean? They obviously expect us to supply that information,   without even telling us what it is! I also think the fact that Craig himself  has never contacted us suggests there’s something more serious we don’t know about, and I want to find out what that is. I must see my son!’ she exclaimed and plumped herself back down on the chair she’d been occupying, clutching her briefcase with white knuckles, her chin set in defiance.

Stan and Irene exchanged a what can we do about it? glance. Concerned to see her mother in such an unusually agitated condition, and hoping to calm her down, Irene moved behind her chair and gently rested her two hands on her  shoulders. ‘If that’s what you want, Mum, then you must go. I wish I could come with you. I’m just as worried about Craig as you are Mum, but I’m snowed under at work right now.’ She heaved a sigh. Then: ‘How long do you think you’ll be away?’

Calmer now, Philippa replied quietly, ‘ I’ve no idea. As long as it takes.’

‘And who’s going to look after me while you’re away?’ Stan wanted to know.

‘We’ll manage, Dad. I need more experience in cooking. Some of my efforts since I got married have been pretty poor. So you could volunteer to be my guinea pig,’ she giggled.   But her father was not amused. ‘Oh thanks very much! And if it’s a disaster you’ll run back to Jon and turn it into a lovely meal for him. And there’s another thing. Sometimes you two dine out.  I wouldn’t want to butt in on that. What would I do on those nights?’

His wife was fully in command now. She spoke calmly and without malice. ‘It might be a good thing if you started learning to do a bit of cooking for yourself, Stan. You’ve never as much as boiled an egg. Even when I was in hospital having our children you dumped yourself on your sister and her husband.’

‘And Margaret was only too happy to have me.’

‘Well she wouldn’t be so happy now, with rationing on. Surely you could manage beans on toast or a baked potato. Perhaps even both at the same time. You need a bit of fattening up. You’re far too thin.’ He remained stony faced. ‘Well, I think we’ve discussed this enough,’ she said, as she stood up, with her brief case and made for the door. In the hall she lifted her coat and hat from their peg and, as she opened the outside door, she found Irene behind her, speaking quietly into her ear. ‘Don’t worry Mum. I’ll take care of him. You just find out if you can get time off from school.’

‘Thank you, darling.’ She turned and smiled and planted a little kiss on her daughter’s cheek before making her exit.

Irene returned to the kitchen and, seeing her father’s angry face, decided not to prolong the argument. ‘Well, I’m off Dad. My boss said he’d have a lot of dictation for me today and I don’t want to be late. And you’d better not be late for your office either,’ she said pleasantly as she left, with sounds of a disgruntled man in her ears.

David Mackie, the second head, was the one who dealt with any staff problems. He was a kindly man who admired Philippa enormously, both as a teacher and a person of strong character and, especially, for her empathy with every student she taught. Secretly he was strongly attracted to her. But advances to a member of staff, let alone a married woman, were out of the question. He was busy with paper work when there was a tap on his door. He called ‘Come,’ without looking up. He heard the door open and close quietly.

‘I’m sorry to disturb you, Mr Mackie.’

‘Not at all,’ he said and the pen went down immediately he recognised the voice. ‘What can I do for you, Philippa?’

She couldn’t help noticing the use of her first name but she was not tempted to reciprocate. ‘Well, there is something I hope you can do for me Mr Mackie.’

Having been offered a seat with a gesture of his hand she sat down and continued. ‘It’s about my son,’ she said and handed over the letter she had received that morning. David knew Craig had been shot down but hadn’t dared to ask if there had been any other news. However, this letter came from Buckland Casualty Hospital, Devon and the first paragraph dealt with Craig’s injuries.

‘Well, it’s better than the telegram telling you he was missing. I suppose we should be grateful he survived and at least burns eventually heal.’

‘That’s not what I’m concerned about. Read the next paragraph.’

He did so. ‘It’s only a necessary question, Philippa.’ He would never have admitted to the pleasure he got from saying her name. ‘Has he had any speech defects previously?’

‘Certainly not,’ she retorted as though he had made an accusation

‘Well, that’s all they’re asking. Just reply in the negative.’

‘I want to do more than that. I want to see him. See how bad these burns are and make sure they know that his speech has always been as clear as a bell, like his singing.’

‘I remember you telling me what a good voice he has. But, if my memory serves me right, you couldn’t persuade him to sing for us at the school concert.’

‘He’s always been too shy to sing in public,’ she said fondly, now quite calm.

He was happy to keep her talking. She was such a lovely woman. Her dark hair always had a gloss that made him want to touch it and her pale grey eyes made a stunning contrast. She managed to look taller than her five foot three by wearing high heels and always holding herself erect, giving the appearance of calm self control. He also admired her low key voice. She wore a muted plaid skirt with a soft green sweater that emphasised her slim, but rounded, figure. To have a son in the forces she must have been married young, he thought. Her records showed her to be 42 but she looked younger than that.  He had to stop thinking about her and listen to what she was saying.

‘So would it be possible for me to take a few days off while I have this very good student on her teaching prac? I’ve been really impressed with the lessons she’s taken so far. Of course I’d set up all the necessary lessons for her. To be honest I did that this afternoon. Was that presumptuous of me?’ Now she looked even younger: quite unaware she was like a little girl asking for an ice cream. Her mission was almost accomplished.

‘When were you thinking of going?’

‘On the next available train, whenever that is. I’ll have to go down to the station and see if I can get a ticket to London. Or better still right through to Dover.’

Her courage made David Mackie admire her even more and, without hesitation, he gave her permission to go.  ‘And take as much time as you need,’ he added.

She made her way straight to Central Station the same day after school and purchased a return ticket from Glasgow to London. She was told there was a train the next morning at 10 a.m. but no specific seats could be booked and she’d have to take her chances with a Dover connection.

She made sure she arrived an hour before the time of departure. To her amazement and horror the queue stretched from Platform 1 to the station entrance on Gordon Street, mostly filled with servicemen returning from leave. She had no option but to join the queue and, during the long wait, it occurred to her that she should have packed some kind of picnic as a restaurant car, or even a snack bar, on the train was unlikely in these days of rationing. Her back and feet were aching by the time she reached the barrier.

‘Sorry, hen.’ Said far too cheerfully by the ticket collector before she even had a chance to show her ticket, ‘Ye’ll no be oan that yin the day. It’s full as a wilk.’

‘When’s the next one?’

‘Canny be sure, hen. The trains is awe tae buggery the noo.’

Philippa, filled with a mixture of anger and frustration, was about to turn away when she caught sight of a soldier on the platform, waving goodbye to someone behind her. She avoided turning to see the recipient of the wave. Instead, she cried out , ‘Oh look,’ feigning delight, ‘That’s my son waving me on. He must have found a seat for me.’ And she barged past the ticket collector, before he could stop her, pretending to wave to the complete stranger who was now opening a door. She had never run so fast since she had won the 100 yards sprint in the fifth year at school. The soldier politely held the door open and jumped in after her just as the guard blew his whistle, waved his flag and the train began to move.

‘By Jove you can fairly shift, for a woman of your age,’ he said.

‘I’d have preferred if you’d left out the second bit,’ she laughed back.

‘We’ll be lucky if we can find a seat,’ he said with a smile.  

‘I don’t care. I’m just glad I made it.’

But she did care three hours later, when she was still standing in the corridor, holding onto the brass bar across the window and swaying with the movement of the train. Holding out his hand, the soldier said, ‘I’m Steve by the way.’

‘Philippa,’ she returned as she