Chapter 6
He first met Sophie on a bus belonging to the quaintly named Hamilton Street Railway. It was crowded and, as she struggled to get on with a handful of parcels and a brief case, he got up, took several of the parcels from her and offered her his seat. She smiled and thanked him, before sitting down and arranging the parcels on her lap. From his position, standing directly in front of her, he looked down at her, trying to determine how old she was. In her late thirties or early forties he thought, but with a good figure and an attractive face. Her clothes were good quality and, although probably not the latest style, were fashionable enough to suggest, while she may not rich, she was probably the wife of a professional of some sort. He watched her throughout their journey and was disappointed when she got off before him, although he was mollified to some extent when, as she got off, she smiled and, once again, thanked him.
That night, as he lay in bed, he thought of her. He couldn't understand why as she was almost or even as old as his mother and, since she had worn a wedding ring, obviously married. Nevertheless, there was something about her which attracted him to her. He knew it wasn't just her body; even though she was wearing a coat he could tell her figure, while more womanly than Jane's - her hips and breasts were definitely those of a woman and not a girl -- it wasn't the body of Jane Russell. Her face was definitely attractive, with brown hair and eyes and a radiant smile which, when she smiled, had highlighted the little crease lines around her mouth and eyes. Perhaps it was the fact he hadn't had sex since he had made love to Jane a month ago which made him think about her. Whatever it was, it was enough to make him want to wank. He grasped his cock and started to rub it, picturing himself kissing and playing with her and, as he started to feel his climax approaching, picturing her with her legs around his thighs and with his cock driving into her. When he came the sensation was almost as intense as when Jane had wanked him for the first time.
Over the next two weeks he was subject to the usual red tape beloved by the RAF and then by the Link trainer. The red tape was to be expected. Everywhere he had been stationed he had filled out the same forms, been asked the same questions, given the same answers and had been given a physical -- in this instance the fifth since he had joined up.
When first confronted with the Link trainer, a device to train pilots to fly without taking to the air, he had described the experience, somewhat unkindly, as 'sitting in a box and pretending to be flying'. As a natural pilot with flying experience the trainer didn't feel anything like the real thing.
To Jack, flying was an adventure, a defiance of gravity and a journey into the unknown. The Link trainer was a box with instruments which looked, vaguely, like the real thing but offered none of the joys of flying. Sitting in the trainer he couldn't experience the joy of taking-off, of watching the trees and houses receding below him as his plane slipped the surly bonds of earth. When he banked, he couldn't see land appear under him and the clouds appear over his shoulder. If there was a silver lining it was that, sooner or later, he knew he would get to fly. At first it would be the reliable and sedate Tiger Moth but later, when he was posted to a Flying Training School, it would be a twin-engined aeroplane.
On the Friday of the second week of training both he and many of his fellow British airmen were invited to a reception at the Royal Connaught hotel in downtown Hamilton. Hosted by the Imperial Order of the Daughters of the Empire, the reception was designed to attract the local worthies and induce them to support a fund which provided comforts for air-crew. It wasn't an invitation with an opt-out clause. He and his fellow trainees were ordered to go by their C.O. and so, along with the rest of his contingent, he put on his best uniform and took the bus into the city.
When he arrived at the hotel, it was apparent the reception was seen by the locals as an important affair. They were greeted by the Mayor, the committee of the Order and then by a line of local dignitaries, including judges, politicians and businessmen. By the time he had finished nodding, shaking hands and conducting desultory conversations with the reception committee - mostly about the progress of the war and about which they probably knew more than he did - he needed a drink. He looked around and spotted the bar at the far end of the ballroom. Making his way through the crowd, he reached it and ordered what passed in Canada as beer. A pale, fizzy and tasteless concoction, he wondered how the locals managed to drink it. Still, it was free and, since the alternative was fruit juice or something fizzy and sweet the locals referred to as 'coke' but wasn't a patch on dandelion and burdock, he didn't want to look this particular gift horse in the mouth.
Turning away from the bar with his glass in his hand, he bumped into someone -- a woman - with sufficient force that his beer spilled out of his glass and onto the front of her dress. He pulled his handkerchief from his pocket and started to mop it up before realising the area he was mopping was her breasts.
"I'm sorry. I didn't mean to" he stuttered, before his excuses were broken by a laugh.
"That's all right it's a long time since I've had someone pay attention to me like that. Think of it as a reward for services rendered."
He looked at the speaker and, as recognition dawned, realised he had been pawing the breasts of his friend from the bus. He smiled at her - she really was very attractive -- and passed her his handkerchief. She dabbed at her dress, soaking up the beer but leaving a wet mark where it had been.
"Hello," she said, "I believe we've met before. My name's Sophie."
"Mine's Jack ... John Robert Lindsey if you want to be formal."
"Well, mine is Sophie Alexandra McLeod if I'm being formal."
"I'm pleased to meet you once again Mrs. McLeod. What brings you here?"
"Sophie, please; the only Mrs. McLeod I know is my mother-in-law. I'm here because I'm a McLeod, even if only by marriage, and, in Hamilton, the McLeods are always at the important functions."
"Well Sophie, I'm here because the C.O. issued a command. It was the reception or the guardhouse; so I suppose you can say we are both pressed men -- or women."
For the rest of the evening they talked. He told her about his life in England, his family and, briefly, about his life in the RAF and she told him about herself.
She had been brought up in Dundas, a small town on the western boundary of the city, had gone to school locally and had studied history, followed by law, at Toronto University where she had met her future husband. She had two children; a nineteen year old son, Andrew, who was in Alberta, training to become a navigator in the RCAF, and a twenty-one year old daughter, Catherine, who was at university, but was talking of joining the forces. She worked part-time as a lawyer in her uncle's law firm, handling mainly real estate transactions and divorce cases. She talked fluently, smiling and laughing and, on occasion, touching his arm to emphasis a point. By the time the evening was over she had told him a lot about herself but very little about her husband. Curious, but not wanting to be seen to pry, he asked,
"You said you met your husband at university - were you in the same course?"
She looked at him, as if sizing him up, and, having made her decision, told him,
"I did, but he was two years ahead of me and in engineering; mainly I think, because his family owns a foundry in Hamilton. We met in my first year and married while I was in law school. He joined the army in 1916, after he had finished university, and served in France. When he came home in 1919, he returned to the family firm and we got married the same year. In 1934 his father died and he took the over the business. He ran it until 1940 when he turned it over to his brother and rejoined the army. He was posted to Canadian forces' H.Q. in London. He was killed in 1941 during a bombing raid."
To Jack her description of her husband sounded almost dispassionate, as if repeating, by rote, a story she had told many times before. But it was more than that. There was something she wasn't telling him, probably had no reason to tell him and, furthermore, was unlikely to tell him. Why, he thought, had a man in his late forties abandoned a successful career and joined the forces?
As the witching hour approached he knew he wanted to see her again and, if he didn't do something about it before she left, he was unlikely to get the chance in the future. As he escorted her to the cloakroom he asked politely and almost formally,
