Staring at the Sun Read Online Free PDF

it. There wasn’t. Father increasingly confided his views on military affairs only to Mother, while he would occasionally hint to Jean that just because someone was living under your roof it didn’t mean you had to be friendly. Civil was all that was required.
    Tommy Prosser came downstairs one afternoon at four. Jean was making a pot of tea.
    “Something to eat?” she said, still uncertain about the billeting regulations.
    “How about an All Clear sandwich?”
    “What’s that?”
    “Never heard of an All Clear sandwich? And you surrounded by all the necessaries?” She shook her head. “You stir the pot and I’ll rustle one up.”
    After a little banging of doors and some whistling with his back turned to her, Prosser produced two sandwiches on a plate. The bread did not look as if it had been cut with an entirely steady hand. Jean had tasted many better sandwiches, she had to admit; she tried to sound fair but encouraging.
    “Why’s mine got dandelion leaves in?”
    “Because it’s an All Clear sandwich.” Prosser grinned at herand looked sharply away. “Fish paste, marge and dandelion leaves. Of course, the quality of the local dandelions may not be up to scratch. You can send it back to the kitchen if you don’t like it.”
    “It’s … lovely. I’m sure it’ll grow on me.”
    “I’m sure I’ll fly again,” he replied, as if giving the second half of a joke.
    “Oh, I’m sure you will.”
    “I’m sure I will,” he repeated with sudden sarcasm, as if what he really wanted to do was slap her. Oh dear. Jean felt stupid and ashamed. She looked down at her plate. There was a silence.
    “Did you know,” she said, “that when Lindbergh flew the Atlantic he took five sandwiches with him?”
    Prosser grunted.
    “And that he only ate one and a half?”
    Prosser grunted again. With no obvious interest in his voice, he asked, “What happened to the rest?”
    “That’s what I always wanted to know. Perhaps they’re in a sandwich museum somewhere.”
    There was a silence. Jean felt she had wasted the story. It was one of her best, and she had wasted it. She wouldn’t ever be able to tell him that story again. She should have kept it for when he was in a better mood. It was all her fault. The silence continued.
    “I suppose you know where Lindbergh’s plane is,” she finally said in the bright tone of one who has taken conversation lessons. “I mean, that must be in a museum.”
    “It’s not a plane,” said Prosser. “It’s never a plane. It’s an aero -plane. Aero plane. All right?”
    “Yes,” she replied. He might as well have slapped her. Aeroplane, aeroplane, aeroplane.
    Eventually, Prosser gave a short cough, the noise of one moving from anger or embarrassment to some other focus of emotion.
    “I’ll tell you the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen,” he said in a tense, almost grumpy voice. Jean, half expecting some arch compliment, kept her head ducked down. She still hadn’t eaten her other piece of sandwich.
    “I was on night ops. In the summer—June. Flying with the hood back, everything black and quiet. Well, quiet as you get.” Jean lifted her head. “It’s …” He stopped. “You wouldn’t know about night vision, would you?” This time, his tone was kindly. It was all right if she didn’t know; it wasn’t like calling an aeroplane a plane.
    “You eat all those carrots,” she said, and heard him chuckle.
    “Yes, we do. That’s what we get called sometimes, the carrot eaters. But it’s not to do with that really. It’s technical. It’s the colour of your instrument lights. They have to be red, you see. Normally they’re green and white, but green and white kills your night vision. Can’t see a thing. They have to be red—red’s the only colour that works.
    “So you see, it’s all black and red up there. The night’s black, the aeroplane’s black, it’s all red in the cockpit—it even turns your hands and face red—and you’re looking out