Reg was demobilized shortly after I left the nursing home and returned without equivocation to the family business. Following his urbane example I put away my uniform and log-books and, for the first few months, enjoyed painting and wallpapering, choosing utility furniture and uttering the absurd but enchanting goo-goos of mother-baby language. Her helpless dependence invoked a discipline that smothered revolt and nostalgia whenever dishes were damned with faint praise, the weekly wash – sans washing machine – overflowed the dirty-linen basket or aircraft passed overhead.
Once a viable routine was established it was not long before I succumbed to the temptation to scan through my flying log-books, and step back into memories of war. In the peace of the afternoon, the housewife’s armistice between lunch and dinner, I recalled the smell of hot oil and glycol, the thunder of the Lancaster, the lyrical Spitfire and a getting up in the morning with one eye on the sky. I knew there were many others with the same temptation, whose station in peace mocked their achievements in war. Most of them had the courage to turn back to the factory bench, the brief-case or the pen and recall the old days only over a mug of beer. I could not, or would not. I was happy with the trilogy that most women desire – a husband, a baby, a home – but the stimulant was lacking that would bring peaks to the foothills of dull content. Being a wife, a mother and a housewife was too constant an occupation. Even heaven must be dull without a brief relative glimpse of hell.
There is an abandoned aerodrome near Taunton. It was my opiate. When tears of maudlin self-pity welled I rode there on my bike and walked along the silent runways already crumbling at the edges and cracked with weeds. The gaunt wooden huts became filled with the potent bustle of aircrew, the runway trembled with the surge of accelerating bombers and the air was filled with the ghosts of those who did not return. For many hours I relived Hatfield, Hamble and Creek Cottage. But the drug was ephemeral. The trilogy insufficient.
‘Reg,’ I blurted one evening as he pored over plans and estimates for other people’s homes.
‘Uh-huh.’
‘I want to do some flying.’
He looked up and grinned ruefully. ‘I thought it would come sooner or later. How? You haven’t got a licence.’
‘I can get a ‘‘B’’ licence easily enough. My A.T.A. experience will exempt me from most of the examinations.’
‘Then what?’
‘Nothing much,’ I prevaricated. ‘Just to know I’ve got the licence and can fly if I want to. That’s all.’
‘All right,’ he sighed. ‘If that’s what you want, go ahead.’
Within a few weeks I received my first professional licence. I carried it with me everywhere, next to the ration books. It was not quite so bad then when an aircraft glinted sharply in the sun, or hummed overhead at night.
Once or twice a month I collected the small hoard of sixpences and shillings appropriated from the household budget, sneaked off to Exeter Flying Club and for an hour hired a Tiger Moth or Auster. It was enough at first. To hide behind a cloud, to have my fingers curled around a control column instead of kneading dough. To share solitude with the sky and sorrow for those who know it not. But, soon, the flimsy innocuous club aircraft, toys compared with the Tempests and Typhoons of the war, and the aimless circling of the aerodrome, began to pall.
‘Reg.’
‘Uh-huh.’
‘Do you mind if I get a job?’
‘What on earth for?’
‘Just a little flying job... you know... part-time.’
‘Oh, I see!’
‘It’s silly now that I’ve got a licence not to use it and the money would be useful for Jill’s schooling.’
‘What sort of flying?’
‘I don’t know yet. I thought of answering some of the jobs advertised in Flight and The Aeroplane.’
He frowned dubiously. I loved him for not saying where my place was. ‘What about Jill and the housekeeping?’ he asked.
‘It wouldn’t interfere with that. Mother could take care of Jill on the days when I’m flying.’
‘And I have lunch in town?’ he said wryly.
I nodded eagerly.
‘All right,’ he decided, unconsciously repeating himself. ‘If that’s what you want, go ahead.’
The aeronautical journals were crammed with vacancies for pilots. I wrote only to the illustrious firms and waited confidently for a flood of replies. I got the replies but they were monotonously identical in content: Dear Madam, We regret to inform you that, owing to passenger psychology, it is not our policy at present to employ women pilots. However we have placed your name on our files and will communicate with you if etc., etc.
In desperation I put an advertisement in one of the journals: Woman pilot ‘B’ licence, 2500 hours. 70 types including Single, Twin and Multi-engined. Seeks Flying Post.
I received one reply. It was from a company marketing a new type of flying overall who hoped I would be interested in the enclosed brochure.
‘So this is what I flew in the war for,’ I said bitterly. ‘To make the world free... if you’re a man.’
‘That’s nonsense and you know it,’ answered Reg. ‘You flew in the war because you love flying and,’ he added with a grin ‘either the passengers have freedom from fear or...’
‘Oh shut up. I suppose you agree with these stupid letters.’
‘Yes,’ he answered honestly. ‘More or less. I don’t know much about flying but I’d be frightened to death if I sat in a passenger’s seat and saw a luscious blonde mince up to the pilot’s seat.’
‘Prejudice,’ I shouted furiously.
‘Agreed,’ he admitted, ‘but the reaction of a normal passenger, male or female.’
‘You of all people,’ I spluttered. ‘Judas!’
He smiled at my fury. ‘Look, darling,’ he soothed. ‘I think I’ve been fair. I’ve let you try to get a flying job but, prejudice or not, passengers will never accept a woman up in front. You’ve got to face up to it. The war’s over. Give it up. You’ll only make yourself miserable.’
‘I won’t. I’ll get a flying job if it kills me.’
‘That’s all right. As long as it doesn’t kill anyone else.’
‘Pshaw!’
28
I continued answering advertisements but every flicker of hope died by return post. It was a disheartening period. Now I am partially reconciled to the rebuffs of prejudice but in those earlier days I felt sick with humiliation and envy whenever an aircraft droned by in the sky.
A few weeks later Reg passed a letter across the breakfast table. ‘Sorry,’ he apologized. ‘It was addressed to Mr Moggridge.’
‘It’s a job,’ I shouted triumphantly, passing the letter back to him.
‘Not quite,’ he corrected, scanning the letter. ‘It’s an invitation for lunch to discuss a job.’
‘Same thing,’ I asserted confidently.
He shook his head. ‘Not when the letter was addressed to me. They don’t realize you are a woman.’
‘I’m going anyway,’ I said. ‘What shall I wear?’
I boarded the express to London wearing a charcoal-grey costume and modest shoes. In accordance with the instructions in the letter I located a small luncheon club in London and asked for Mr... ‘He is expecting me,’ I added untruthfully. A few moments later a small middle-aged man with the paunchy loose look of a publican hesitantly approached me. ‘Mr...?’ I asked. He nodded warily. ‘I am Mrs Moggridge.’
‘Er. Howdoyoudo,’ he welcomed. ‘Your husband?’
‘There has been a misunderstanding,’ I explained. ‘I wrote to you for the flying post.’
‘But you are a woman,’ he frowned.
‘Yes,’ I said brightly. He cast a surreptitious glance at my legs. I wished I had worn high heels.
Over lunch I told him about myself. He was impressed though his lips still pursed. Then he told me about himself. I did not purse my lips though I was equally doubtful about him. There was something flushed about him as
though his heart or his conscience were working under pressure.
‘I operate a small freight run to the Continent,’ he explained over the mock-turtle soup. ‘Urgent aircraft spares and valuable small bulk cargo. Doing quite well,’ he added proudly, sipping his half-bottle of wine.
‘What type of aircraft?’
‘Austers and a Proctor,’ he answered.
I was surprised. ‘You can’t carry much freight on those,’ I said.
‘No,’ he agreed. ‘But it isn’t the bulk that matters. It’s the value and urgency of the cargo that justifies the expense of air-freight.’
‘Or perishables,’ I added trying to be sagacious.
‘That’s right,’ he nodded, pleased with my attention.
He ordered another bottle of wine with the cutlets and an orangeade for me. I could see he was in an ambiguous frame of mind, trying to balance my virtues as a woman against my potential as a pilot. To help him decide I slipped out to the Ladies’ Room and added a further layer of lipstick and a touch of mascara.
‘I want only a part-time pilot,’ he continued over the cheese and brandy, ‘to stand by and fly whenever required.’
‘But that suits me admirably,’ I replied with a beaming smile.
‘Do you think you can manage Austers?’ he asked tactlessly.
I refused to be insulted and passed him my flying log-books. He grinned sheepishly as he scanned through them. After three more Napoleon brandies he became jovial and offered me the job. ‘Seven pounds ten for each return trip, plus expenses. You should average about two flights a week.’
I accepted promptly.
‘Good,’ he smiled. ‘A toast,’ and touched his glass to mine. ‘You won’t have to worry about Income Tax,’ he said as we rose to go.
I danced in the empty train compartment back to Taunton. It was not the job I would have chosen. Austers were insipid aircraft but at last I had stepped on the professional ladder.
After a month during which I had completed six flights without incident I sat in the airport lounge waiting for minor repairs before setting out on another flight when in walked an ex-A.T.A. pilot now resplendent in the uniform of a well-known air charter company.
‘Hello, Jackie,’ he welcomed, ‘still flying?’
I nodded and we talked about old times.
‘What are you doing now?’ he asked later.
‘I’m with...’ I answered proudly.
The smile dropped from his face. ‘Crikey, Jackie!’ he ejaculated. ‘I hope you know what you are doing.’
‘What’s the matter with them?’ I protested. ‘They are treating me splendidly.’
‘I’m not surprised,’ he said with a cynical laugh. ‘But I’m surprised at you,’ he added.
‘What is it? What are you talking about?’ I asked irritably.
‘Smuggling.’
‘Nonsense.’
He shrugged his shoulders. ‘No proof of course, but it’s common knowledge.’
‘Holy Mother of Mary,’ I whispered. ‘I’ve done six trips already.’ There was silence at the awful implication.
‘You didn’t know?’
‘Please,’ I protested.
‘Then you had better get out quickly,’ he advised. ‘Or, better still, go and see the Customs.’
I shook my head.
‘Why not?’ he insisted.
‘It’s too much like Judas.’
He shrugged again. ‘It’s your funeral. The Customs won’t believe your story unless you tell them now.’
Like a criminal I glanced furtively at the uniformed airport police and sank deeply into the armchair until the tannoy announced the departure of his flight.
‘Here’s my card, Jackie,’ he said, getting up. ‘Maybe we can convince the Customs of your innocence if the whole thing blows up. But,’ he warned, ‘don’t fly for them again.’
I nodded feebly and shook hands from the depths of the armchair. Enviously I watched his confident, open stride past the uniformed officials and waited for the bustle of the departing flight to distract them before sneaking out of the passengers’ exit.
Retreating to Taunton I wrote a letter of resignation without giving any explanation, told Reg vaguely that the job had fallen through and waited in agonizing suspense for the imperious knock of authority at the door.
A week passed. Two. Three. Four, before the epilogue to my life of crime was rather sadly written. Picking up the evening paper I read a small news item that a plane had been lost over the Channel. The pilot was my ex-employer. As a result of his death the company was disbanded and I, I deduced, was safe.
29
‘Now what?’ asked Reg suspiciously some months later as I opened a large O.H.M.S. envelope.
‘I was thinking of joining the air force,’ I replied, meekly.
‘Oh. Is that all,’ he said heavily.
‘Yes, dear.’
‘Which?’
‘Which what?’
‘Which air force?’
‘The Royal Air Force Volunteer Reserve of course.’
‘What’s the matter, wouldn’t the Russians have you?’ he said, referring to my partisanship for the only air force in the world that has operational women pilots.
‘Don’t be silly, Reg. I’m serious.’
‘I’m sure you are,’ he brooded.
I left it at that for the time being, drove to R.A.F.V.R. Western Command headquarters, near Bristol and met the Commanding Officer of the Reserve Unit. He was intrigued by my suggestion that I should join his unit but was genuinely flummoxed what to do with me, an occupational disease with the R.A.F. as far as I am concerned. We had tea in the officers’ mess whilst he looked through the files and regulations to decide whether he could have a female in his unit and, if so, what sort of specimen she should be. He scratched his head, admitted defeat and suggested I return home until he had investigated further.
He wrote to me later stating that the Royal Air Force Volunteer Reserve would be delighted for me to join them under a new policy of recruiting experienced women pilots. I would hold a temporary non-commissioned rank of airwoman until I qualified as Pilot Class IV.
The R.A.F.V.R. consisted primarily of ex-R.A.F. personnel who had reserve commitments, voluntary or otherwise, and a small number of experienced pilots and ground crew voluntarily recruited direct from civilian life. They were, broadly speaking, civilians except when attending lectures and flying training. Thus being a member of the R.A.F.V.R. conferred many of the privileges of the R.A.F. with negligible sacrifice of civilian freedom.
Distributed throughout the country were a dozen or so flying schools where V.R. pilots during their spare time reported for flying training and lectures. Each pilot was expected to complete a minimum of forty hours’ flying annually, usually over the week-ends and to attend evening lectures twice a week.
In this way, and at comparatively little expense, a reserve of pilots was maintained in what may be described as the third line air force whose worth in an emergency would be incalculable.
The highlight of the year was the two weeks’ compulsory attendance at an annual summer camp. Each R.A.F.V.R. unit seconded its members in batches of six or so to a regular R.A.F. station where they received the full impact of service life. During this period they lived on the station, wore uniform and were expected to conceal civilian decadence.
I was pleasantly surprised to discover that I would also receive a salary, flying pay and out-of-pocket expenses totalling approximately one hundred pounds per annum for the privilege and pleasure of flying His Majesty’s aircraft.
I was all set.
‘Reg,’ I said as he sat at his desk.
‘No!’
I let fall a poignant tear. Just one in the brooding silence. I turned my face to the window so that he could see it, but he was oblivious. I sniffled loudly and squeezed out another tear from the other eye. ‘You go to the Territorials,’ I sniffed, as he looked up.
‘That’s different,’ he replied
with masculine logic. Contriving an avalanche of tears I made great play with a pathetic wisp of handkerchief. ‘All right; all right,’ he grunted as he got up to go to the Territorials. ‘Stop weeping. If you must, you must.’
The following week I ‘signed on’. There was little ceremony at my return to the fold but in the weeks that followed the administration of the week-end air force sagged dangerously with the stress of absorbing a female into masculine prerogatives. Inevitably I had trouble in getting a number. After considerable correspondence my old Waaf number was resurrected, found wanting and discarded. A brand-new one was triumphantly produced only to be snatched away when it proved to be of masculine gender. I am convinced there is a secret vault somewhere in the depths of the Air Ministry where millions of numbers stacked in silent rows are guarded by sinister, taciturn men determined to guard the sacrosanctity of their charges. Eventually I got a number so astronomical I had difficulty in memorizing it. My uniform – slacks and battle dress – was also of masculine gender. With buttons in the wrong place.
I was attached to the R.A.F.V.R. flying school at Filton aerodrome, near Bristol, for flying training and lectures based on a syllabus designed to fill in the gaps left by civil flying. It was a small unit with five ubiquitous Tiger Moths, a strength of fifty or sixty pilots, of which I was the only woman, and tiny administrative offices.
My first flight in the R.A.F.V.R. was not auspicious. Though there was no resentment at my presence with the V.R. school – on the contrary my new comrades thought I added a touch of piquancy – I was determined to be a paragon of tact. Thus, clad in inelegant Waaf battledress, I approached my first flight with the Royal Air Force with diffidence and humility.
The Chief Instructor sitting warily in the front seat of the Tiger Moth asked me to carry out a take-off, circuit and landing. I did so. His praise was effusive. ‘Very nice, very nice,’ he coaxed as I did a second. ‘Do another one like that and I‘ll let you go solo.’ I did so and went solo with the instructor wishing me a dramatic good luck. After I landed the instructor met me with my flying log-book in his hands. ‘You might have told me you had nearly three thousand hours,’ he commented irascibly. ‘Trying to make a fool of me?’
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