Damn. She was completely alone and the valley she had been following had almost disappeared.
Izzie peered ahead, hoping for a promising circle of daylight. A small beacon of hope. Unfortunately, the other end of the narrow valley was also blocked by a wall of cloud and the weather showed no signs of clearing. She was trapped, surrounded by mountains she couldn’t see.
For the first time in her flying career, Izzie was hit by a flash of real fear. Her responsibility weighed heavily and, like any of the ferry pilots, she was flying solo. This was expected of the ATA, even though the RAF flew similarly massive four-engined planes into combat with two pilots, a navigator and an engineer.
Now, getting out of this predicament rested on Izzie alone. Sweat broke out on her skin. A white-hot flare ripped through her stomach and chest. Izzie Oakshott was very close to panicking.
Her fear wasn’t so much for her own life. She was desperately conscious of the huge effort that the production of this magnificent machine had entailed. All the fundraising, the building of the massive engines, the armaments, the thousands and thousands of rivets set in place by rows of women in factories, the miles of electrical cabling.
How terrible if she was the cause of its loss.
But no. She mustn’t give in to such negative thinking. She had to stay calm, to concentrate on the task, on flying.
At the beginning of the war, her father had warned her and her siblings, ‘In a family as large as ours, we shan’t all come through this.’
Sobering as his words had been, Izzie, Jem and her sisters hadn’t panicked back then, and she wouldn’t panic now. It simply wasn’t done. She knew the danger, but she had to push it to the back of her mind.
She was an excellent pilot and she was also an Oakshott, and everyone in her family was pulling their weight. Jem had joined the RAF and Vera’s husband, Dave, had signed up for the Navy, while Betty and Jane had found themselves caring for ten evacuee children who’d arrived from London.
Her sisters had been rather wonderful, really, getting straight down to the business of giving all these children baths and washing their hair, letting them have the big bathroom, while the rest of the family used the tiny one. And they’d bought the children mackintoshes and wellington boots and had shown them how to help in the vegetable garden.
When the ATA had sent Izzie a letter, asking if she would help with ferrying planes from the factories to the RAF bases, her response had been fast.
Rather! Yes, please.
At the time, Izzie had been one of the small number of English women who already had their pilot’s licence and she’d been thrilled to sign up. Of course, the decision to add females to the ATA had raised plenty of eyebrows. Even at Whitehall, there’d been quite a strong feeling that women shouldn’t do this kind of job. They weren’t suitable for the task and should never be employed in it.
Izzie could remember the poor red-faced fellow at Austin Reed tailors and how terribly fumbling and nervous he’d been when he’d had to measure the ATA girls’ chests and waists for their smart navy blue uniforms. He’d only been used to male customers and he’d been incredibly careful not to touch the girls inappropriately. So they’d ended up with the crotch area in their trousers far too long and the chest area far too wide, and they’d had to make the necessary adjustments themselves.
Now, many more women had joined the service, offering their flying skills from all over the world. Like Izzie, they had proved their worth, flying everything from small, clever Spitfires that responded to the slightest touch, to whopping great Wellington bombers in which the tail seemed a mile away when you looked back. Despite the lack of navigation gear, the girls had mostly flown the planes safely, and in all kinds of weather.
Izzie certainly wasn’t the first to face the gamble of how best to deal with sudden thick cloud and murk while flying without radio or instruments. She tried not to think about Amy Johnson, England’s most famous female pilot, who’d lost her life in conditions very like this.
Today, Izzie had two choices: break the rules and fly higher in an attempt to get over the clouds, or fly lower and risk hitting the side of a mountain.
Really, there was no choice. Izzie rammed open the throttles, pulled the control column back and climbed steeply. Clouds swirled around the plane in a cold cocoon and forced her to climb even higher still.
At four thousand feet Izzie broke through, but all she could see was a carpet of cloud and bright sunshine. She was determined to remain calm, but she couldn’t help feeling lonely and frightened up there. Desperately, she searched for a gap in the clouds, but as she flew on, the white blanket remained thick and impenetrable.
Eventually, of course, the petrol gauge began to drop dangerously low. Izzie couldn’t stay up high forever, safe above the clouds. There was nothing for it but to throttle back and steer the Lancaster down. And hope and pray.
Descending slowly, Izzie’s plane pierced the white, wet mist of cloud. She dropped to two thousand feet. Fifteen hundred feet. One thousand.
Six hundred.
She could only hope that when she finally got though she would find herself free of bloody hills.
The clouds broke. Below, Izzie saw rolling green countryside. Flat. Hill-less. Countryside.
‘Thank you,’ she whispered, and she was sure that her mother was watching over her that day.
There was no time for lapses in concentration, though. She had twenty minutes of fuel left, so now she had to find an aerodrome. Fast.
No touchdown had ever felt sweeter.
It was late in the day and drizzling lightly by the time Izzie had refuelled and taken off again and finally reached her destination RAF base in Lincolnshire.
As she taxied along the tarmac, a ‘follow me’ car guided her to the dispersal area. She gathered up her parachute, bundled it under her arm with her logbook and, while clutching the small overnight holdall she carried everywhere, climbed down through the hatch.
The ground crew were there to greet her. A nuggety, grey-haired fellow in overalls peered at her through the misty rain. ‘Where’s the pilot?’ he asked.
Izzie used her free hand to brush an invisible speck of lint from her smart, navy blue uniform and she lifted her chin. ‘I’m the pilot,’ she told him.
The fellow stared at her, his mouth agape. ‘You’re one of them women we been hearing about.’ His gaze roved over the towering aircraft she had just brought into land. Almost seventy feet long, the Lancaster stood at nearly twenty feet high, with wheels as tall as a man and a wingspan of over one hundred feet.
The plane was destined for strategic bombing in Europe and its belly was painted black to make it harder to see from below, while the upper surfaces were painted in camouflage colours. It was a formidable war machine, but Izzie had assumed that, by this stage of the war, most RAF bases were used to having bombers delivered by female pilots.
Clearly not at RAF Kelstern, Lincolnshire. Between exchanging shocked glances and shaking their heads, the ground crew were gaping at her.
‘I’ll need to take my delivery chit to the Operations Room,’ Izzie said.
The grey-haired man blinked and seemed to snap to attention. ‘Yes, of course, madam.’ He shot a frantic glance to her left hand. ‘Er … miss.’ He pointed through the drizzle. ‘It’s the first of those Nissen huts.’
‘Thank you.’ Izzie favoured him with her sweetest smile before marching across the tarmac towards the row of ugly but practical half-cylindrical huts made of corrugated metal.
It was a relief to step out of the rain and into electric light and warmth.
‘Here you are,’ Izzie said, placing the chit in front of another surprised-looking man seated at the desk. ‘I had a problem with clouds and visibility in Wales, so I ended up having to land and refuel, but there’s nothing much else to report. No damage. No Luftwaffe sightings.’
Before the man at the desk could respond, the door behind Izzie burst open, letting in a gust of chilling rain.
<
br /> ‘Hello there,’ boomed a deeply cheerful masculine voice. ‘I was in the Control Tower watching you land that wizard kite just now. I must say you did a jolly fine job.’
Izzie turned. The voice belonged to a tall chap, very pleasant looking, with wavy brown hair that flopped onto his forehead and skimmed his smiling hazel eyes.
‘Thank you.’ She offered her hand. ‘How do you do, sir?’
‘I’m Ian Forsythe,’ he said. ‘Commanding officer of this squadron.’
‘Very pleased to meet you, sir.’ Izzie could see by the insignia on his uniform that he was a wing commander. As he shook her hand firmly, she said, ‘First Officer Isabella Oakshott, arriving somewhat later than expected.’
‘Welcome to Kelstern.’ Wing Commander Forsythe’s smile was charming. ‘But I’m afraid the taxi plane has already left for White Waltham without you.’
Izzie had half expected she might have to spend the night at this base. It wasn’t the first time and she had brought pyjamas and a toothbrush. But finding her accommodation in this all-male preserve might prove tricky.
The wing commander didn’t seem perturbed. ‘Don’t worry, we’ll sort out digs for you. And a few of us are going into town tonight. Supper at the pub. You’d be very welcome to join us.’
He smiled again, such a handsome smile, but Izzie had no intention of being charmed by a wing commander’s smile, or any other man’s for that matter. At the beginning of the war, she had vowed that she wouldn’t allow herself to fall in love, especially not with a serviceman. There was no point, surely?
So far, she’d gone out with several fellows in the RAF and she’d enjoyed plenty of good times, even a little ‘fooling around’, as they called it in American movies, but she’d kept her heart intact. It was timely to remind herself of this again now as she accepted yet another invitation.
Forty minutes later, Izzie was seated at a table in a corner of the Falconer & Frog, squashed between a pilot called Geoff Galbraith and an air gunner called Archie Bell. There were at least five airmen from Bomber Command dining with her, drinking beer and enjoying fish and chips, one of the few meal choices that hadn’t suffered from rationing.
In a far corner of the pub, a woman with flaming red hair and a plunging neckline was lustily thumping out tunes on the piano: ‘Run Rabbit Run’ and ‘Boogie Woogie Bugle Boy’ and the sentimental favourite, ‘The White Cliffs of Dover’.
Geoff Galbraith, a big shouldered, sandy-haired fellow with amazing blue eyes, seemed to be utterly intrigued by Izzie. Yes, he’d heard about the girls in the ATA, but he still found it hard to believe that she’d flown a Lancaster bomber all on her own.
‘Aren’t you too tiny?’ he asked, letting his breath-robbingly bright gaze travel from the top of Izzie’s dark hair to her toes. ‘Those cockpits are made for long-legged male pilots.’
This was true, and Izzie had been asked these questions before. She might have shrugged the question away this time, but she was intrigued by Geoff Galbraith’s strange accent, which wasn’t American or South African and certainly not British. Perhaps he was from New Zealand. ‘Where are you from?’ she demanded rather cheekily.
‘I’m an Aussie,’ he responded with a slow, lopsided smile.
‘An Australian?’
He nodded. ‘From Queensland.’
She didn’t need to ask how he’d ended up in the RAF’s Bomber Command. She knew the British Air Force had commandeered the best pilots possible from all over the Commonwealth.
‘You’re a long way from home,’ she said instead and she wished she didn’t find him so instantly attractive, even more so than his wing commander. Perhaps it was the proximity. They were squashed so close together that their elbows had touched several times. Their thighs were almost touching too, and she was awfully conscious of his long muscular body, his ocean-blue eyes and something else intangible about the way he looked at her that set her buzzing.
It was very unlike her to react to a man so quickly. Very unsettling. She turned her attention to Archie Bell on the other side of her, but he was terribly shy and, apart from learning that he came from Cornwall, she could get little out of him.
Geoff soon won her attention again. ‘Surely you must have trouble reaching the rudder pedals?’ he asked, clearly bothered by her diminutive stature. ‘Do the ground crew give you cushions?’
Izzie rolled her eyes. ‘You’ve got to be joking.’
‘So how do you manage?’
She shrugged. ‘I roll up my parachute bag and my jacket and logbook and wedge them behind me in the cockpit seat.’
‘Fair dinkum?’ He looked amazed.
Conscious of the frank admiration in his delicious eyes, Izzie felt compelled to be totally truthful. ‘I must admit I did run into trouble the first time I took off in a Hampden. The g-force was so powerful, it pushed me back and I lost control at the very worst moment.’
‘Christ,’ Geoff said irreverently. ‘How did you get out of that?’
‘I was jolly scared. The plane was wobbling badly, but somehow I wriggled into a hump and brought my left leg up and I was able to kick the throttle forward. The right engine roared back on full power, thank heavens.’
Geoff grinned and made a show of wiping his brow. ‘Phew.’
‘It was a tricky moment, all right. A very close call. I saw the windsock only inches below me.’
With another admiring grin, Geoff lifted his beer glass. ‘But you made it and you’re here now and I’m very honoured to meet you.’
‘Well, thank you.’ Izzie was sure she must be blushing. So much fuss over her small incident, when Bomber Command pilots faced the Luftwaffe and enemy flak on every mission.
‘When do you have to fly back?’ Geoff asked next.
‘I imagine there’ll be another delivery in the morning and then a taxi plane to take us back.’
‘So we need to make the most of tonight.’
Oh, dear. Izzie could feel her resolve to be sensible evaporating faster than fog on a summer’s morning. It was completely unwise. She’d only exchanged a handful of words with the man. More importantly, she’d been determined not to risk her heart until this beastly war was over. And falling for a Bomber Command pilot was about as risky as it got.
It was another month before Izzie saw Geoff again, when she ferried another Lancaster to Kelstern. She’d been warned there would be no taxi plane until the next day and she would need to stay overnight, but she hadn’t expected to be invited to a party.
She told herself there was no point in getting excited, but deep down she was longing to see Geoff again. When she arrived at the party, however, there was no sign of Geoff and it was Ian Forsythe who took her over. Good looking and charming, Ian was her partner for dance after dance.
A three-piece orchestra played and Ian was very good company, talking and laughing, shepherding her to the bar where the drinks and supper were served. Izzie desperately wanted to ask about Geoff. Was he away on a mission? Or worse, had he come in harm’s way? But the questions felt dangerous, as if she were tempting fate, or at the very least, giving her feelings away.
At around nine-thirty, as she struggled to conceal her disappointment, Geoff suddenly appeared at Ian’s side. Tall and suntanned, with those terrific blue eyes, he tapped the wing commander on the shoulder.
He looked so handsome. Indefinably different from Englishmen. Perhaps it was the suntan, or the way he held himself. Contained. Confident. At ease in his skin. Whatever the cause, the impact on Izzie was fierce.
‘Thanks, mate,’ he said to Ian with a smile.
‘My pleasure, old chap.’ With a very gentlemanly bow, Ian Forsythe excused himself. ‘Enjoy yourselves, won’t you?’
Izzie’s jaw was probably sagging now. Had this been planned? The exchange between the two men had almost felt rehearsed.
‘I knew I was going to be late and so Ian has been looking after you for me,’ Geoff said. ‘I’m sure he’s done a good job.’
‘Of co
urse,’ Izzie managed, after she’d regained her wits.
Geoff smiled down at her and took her in his arms and she was quite sure she shouldn’t feel so happy. Quite sure, too, that dancing with Geoff shouldn’t be so terribly different from dancing with Ian, who was also tall and handsome.
But from the moment Geoff took her hand in his and placed his other hand at her waist, Izzie’s evening changed from pleasant to electrifying.
Once again, she tried to tell herself to calm down, to be sensible, but she was very much afraid that her fascination for this man and the giddy, reckless feelings he roused were beyond her control. It had never happened before, this happy buzz, this helplessness, but no matter how much she tried to warn herself against such weakness, she knew she was falling fast and hard. And she had no idea how to stop.
CHAPTER NINETEEN
Friday
Dad and I are making great plans for the school holidays. Dad has another journalist working on the paper now and so he can take time off. I’m going to fly to Cairns by myself. So exciting. He will meet me at the airport and drive us up the Tablelands.
Woohoo! I can’t wait to see where he lives. At the moment when I try to imagine him living up in the mountains, the picture always goes fuzzy before I can see it properly.
His address is 15 Cedar Lane, Burralea, and I’ve tried to look it up on Street View on Google Maps, but there’s a hedge in front of the house, so I couldn’t see anything really. But now I’m actually going to stay there, so I’ll be able to take photos on my phone. And afterwards, I’ll still be able to picture Dad living there. In his lounge room, in his kitchen, in his yard.
I can’t believe I’m actually going to be there with Dad. And we are going to do all kinds of cool things together.
Dad says we can go kayaking on the lake and camping. Proper camping in a tent by the lake and cooking over a fire. I have fantasies about toasting marshmallows and eating sausages that have been cooked over a campfire. I’ve only ever read about sausages like that in books and they always sound so yummy – crunchy and a little black on the outside and juicy in the middle.
The Summer of Secrets Page 14