I push the letter under the door, a bit more roughly than I intended. Well, I did apologize! How many times can I say I’m sorry before she believes me? Enough to do my head in.
The door nudges open.
I look up, startled. I didn’t push the letter that hard, and why isn’t the door locked anyway? Oakes locks everything around here, even in his current gloomy mood. Before I can stop myself, I have creaked it open and wandered inside.
It is Anna’s room, just as she left it. The books, the small bed. Even the smell. That’s the soap I got her, I’ll wager. I walk towards the books by the window and blink when I see the notebook I gave her. Not that I’d expect her to take it to WAAF training. Of course not.
I stare at the notebook for a moment, thinking. I have no intention of reading it – I just want to be certain it is the book I gave her. Picking it up, I gingerly turn the first page.
‘You’re not who I expected.’
I stumble and almost fall at the voice behind me. I whip around, willing in that instant to trade all the world for my training rifle.
A man rises from the chair in the corner. Calmly, almost casually, he crosses the room and presses the door closed. I cannot move an inch. He is dressed in a suit and tie, somewhat worn. He removes his hat, a dark trilby. Does he have a weapon? I can’t see. Of course he has a bloody weapon.
‘Well,’ the German says. ‘I believe we’ve met before.’
‘How did you get in? Why are you here?’
‘I am here for Anna.’
‘Anna?’ I manage to say. ‘She hates you.’
He laughs, a low sound without any humour in it. Despite his composure, one thing is terribly clear – this is a desperate man.
‘Anna is my daughter. I am not leaving without her.’
I try to meet his gaze, but my eyes slide away. ‘I think the Warders might have something to say about that.’
The Warders and the Scots Guard. How did no one spot a Nazi wandering the castle grounds – there is a whole bleeding garrison of them drilling in front of White Tower?
‘Oh, yes. They can chase me out of their little castle. But I am not leaving this city. I am not leaving without Anna Esser.’
‘Anna Cooper lives here now. Why don’t you just leave her alone? Christ, you did it once already. That was easy enough, wasn’t it?’
My whole body is filled with anger. He is almost as shocked as I am, but quicker to recover. He looks down at his feet, then back at me.
‘How would it feel to never see your family again? If someone took them from you?’ He steps closer, holds out a tightly folded piece of paper. ‘Since you are her friend, give her this for me. This is where she can find me.’
‘No.’
It’s all I can say.
He nods to himself, strides out of the door, leaving it open. It creaks in the cold air. A full minute passes in stillness. I unfold the paper.
78 Catesby Street.
4
Wednesday, 10 February 1943
Queen Bee hates me. I know, as I reach the door, that nothing good waits for me on the other side. When you’re called to see the Commanding Officer, you’re either getting a medal or a kick in the arse.
And I’m not getting any medals.
I knock, wait for the call, take a shallow breath, and enter. Giving a swift salute, I stand to attention. Queen Bee stares at me. Stares and stares, for minutes at least. I fold my hands behind my back. I will not let her see them trembling.
Oh God, is she going to send me home?
‘You don’t know why you’re here, do you, Miss Cooper?’
I almost stagger at the ‘Miss’ – I am Aircraftwoman 2nd Class. Unless it is already too late. Oh, God, don’t let it be too late. Transfer me to Equipment Branch, or make me an orderly or a cook, transfer me far away, just don’t send me back to the Tower as a failure.
‘No, Sergeant.’
‘Why are you here at all, Miss Cooper?’
‘Here?’ I say, stupidly.
‘Here, yes, here. The WAAF. Why are you here?’
Perhaps this is a great horrible dream and at any moment I will awake screaming in my billet. After Oakes agreed to sign my birth certificate – after he gave me permission to come here – what will he think? And Timothy Squire, a proper sapper helping win the war – he will know I am weak.
Don’t send me back to Flo as a failure.
‘I am here because I want to help the war effort.’ I am here because I can do anything I set my mind to.
Queen Bee sighs. ‘Miss Cooper, your skills are not only below par, they are frankly non-existent. I can’t imagine what you possibly thought would come of your time here. You have proven yourself something beyond a disaster.’
‘I know, Sergeant. I know you are right and I am sorry, but I didn’t mess up the RT—’
‘For goodness’ sake, be quiet, Miss Cooper. You are exactly the type of girl who makes the rest of us look bad. Because of people like you, we must all work harder, harder than you can even fathom. You have done nothing but waste our time and resources, in a time of war, when our future as a country, as a people, hangs in the balance. Yes, you do well to cry, Miss Cooper. This is absolutely your final warning. If you wish to remain here in your training, you will endeavour to make yourself worthy of the WAAF.
‘That is all. Now go.’
*
Cecil is coming out of the all-male Mess, his hair slicked back and shining. Not now. Oh, God. Head down, I try to wipe away the tears but the buttons on the cuff of the uniform stab my eye.
‘Heavens, are you all right?’
‘Oh, yes.’ I keep my head down, wishing him away, but knowing I will at some point have to look up. And he will still be standing there.
‘Are you certain? I can call for a medic—’
‘No, I am fine. Truly.’
I look up, realizing there is no way he’ll remember who I am. I doubt he even remembers who Nell is. I arrange a smile on my face, my eyes red and streaming, and meet his eyes. His deep brown eyes.
‘Allergies,’ I offer weakly.
‘Yes,’ he says with a nod to the closed office door. ‘Sergeant MacKay has that effect on people. I suffer from it a bit myself.’
I manage a laugh though it sounds more like a sob.
‘You are at the watch office, isn’t that right? An excellent place to resume your studies. Aircraftwoman...?’
I swallow, hard. He does remember me. And he won’t forget me now. The girl who wept in the hall.
‘Cooper. You may as well just call me Anna. And I don’t need to learn about planes any more.’
‘Leaving us so soon?’
What do you care? Unless you’re planning on giving me a ring, too?
‘Sergeant MacKay just kept saying the same thing over and over again, Why are you here, why are you here?’
‘Not a completely absurd question, given the nature of this place. It’s something we all have to ask ourselves every now and then.’ He smiles. ‘So. Why are you here, Miss Cooper?’
I make a noise suspiciously like a growl, but Cecil keeps looking at me, his brown eyes wide and sincere.
‘I don’t know, I think I’m in the wrong place. I thought I would fly planes. But all I do is scrub toilets and fold parachutes.’
‘Well, perhaps you are in the wrong place. The WAAF does not pilot aircraft. You want the ATA.’
‘What?’
‘Air Transport Auxiliary. They recruit all sorts of pilots, men and women. Mind you, you won’t be locked in dog-fights with German Messerschmitts. The work is mainly taxiing planes from one airfield to the next, wherever they’re needed most. It’s a civilian role, but a vital one.’
The thought floods into my mind. Anna Neagle. No, she was the actress – Amy Johnson was the pilot. She ferried planes back and forth to help the war effort.
‘Miss Cooper, may I go so far as to make a bold suggestion? The new Lancaster has to be seen to be fully appreciated. Would it b
e excruciatingly dull if I asked you to join me?’
‘What? What do you mean?’ I am shocked into blathering.
‘If you don’t mind me saying, you can read every book and flight manual in the world, but nothing can replace the real thing. And I am so very sorry that Sergeant MacKay has come down so hard on you.
‘Let me take you up. Tomorrow morning, just a quick loop around the countryside, before I’m off abroad. The old man’ll give me the green, don’t worry,’ he says, misunderstanding my silence. ‘I need to check on the equipment anyway, ahead of the mission. Not that I’d tell any of the WAAFs, and certainly not Sergeant MacKay. She’ll come down on both of us, then.’
He gives another one of those smiles.
‘Well, what do you say, Miss Cooper?’
*
Meeting Anna’s dad has shaken me up. What do I do? What can I do? I can’t go and tell Oakes. Not until I’ve told Anna first. But can I tell Anna? She doesn’t want to know.
Is she safe? And what about Mum and Dad? Bloody hell, I should tell Oakes right away. Get the Warders on high alert, make sure no one gets in the Tower.
Oakes’ll be no help in his current state. Who then, Sparks? The bloke’s a hundred years old, but I’d wager he’s tougher than he looks. And Yeoman Brodie could pick the Nazi up by his neck and fling him back over the walls.
No, I mustn’t tell the Warders. They will turn him in, likely after Brodie tosses him over the wall. And he will be executed.
And it will be my fault. No, I have to talk to Anna first. But I can’t. I can’t tell her. That black feeling is back. In truth, it never really goes away – sometimes it is less strong, but it is always there. I look out through the wooden slats above the gate to the crashing waves beyond.
Luck is a ration, too, and I used up all mine in the Blitz.
Thursday, 11 February 1943
Of course it is a joke; no one will be there. I am a fool, and a silly girl pretending to be sixteen. But Cecil is standing there, in his flight suit, smiling as I approach. His breath puffs in the air like Nell with her cigarettes. What will Nell say to this?
‘I must apologize, as there were no suits in your size. But here’s an umbrella just in case.’ He hands me a parachute pack.
Umbrella? Is that supposed to be funny?
He hands me a life vest. ‘And you’ll need a Mae West.’
‘Mae West?’
‘Ah.’ He holds it up to his chest. ‘The chaps think it reminds them of her... you know.’
‘Oh.’
‘Sorry,’ he says, turning a little red. ‘That was hardly proper of me.’
‘No. It’s funny.’ Well, Timothy Squire would think it’s funny, at any rate.
A salvaged smile, and he says, ‘Let’s go up then, shall we?’
He feels bad for me – I cried in front of him. He thinks I’m a child. This is why I’m here.
‘Don’t worry about anything,’ he says. ‘Like I promised. You and I are both coming back.’
‘Right,’ I say stupidly. Right?
‘Here she is,’ he says, approaching the giant Lancaster bomber. It is soot-black; the colour of a raven. Up close, it really is the size of a house.
‘Can you really fly this alone?’
‘Takes a seven-man crew, but you only need one pilot. This here is Harris. He’s going to help us take off, aren’t you, Harris?’
I turn to see a flight engineer watching us with a stone-faced expression. Will he report me? He doesn’t seem too concerned.
‘After you.’ Cecil pulls the door open. I step up and inside the Lancaster.
I sit in the low seat beside him, on the right side. So many buttons and switches, some with red on them, but everything else, the sides, the ceiling – is green. The world has shrunk to the size of this cockpit, with only the smell of metal, petrol, and the leather of the helmet and gloves. I breathe it all in deeply. I push Nell and her reactions out of my mind.
Cecil gestures to Harris, who pulls the chocks from the wheels. Huge propellers fire up.
‘Four engines,’ he says, switching them on one at a time.
Noise and vibration rumble through me until my teeth start shaking.
‘What are those?’ I say, weakly, as I stare at the terrifying leather contraptions.
‘Oxygen masks. No need for that, we’ll keep it well under 10,000 feet. Might still be cold, though, so do bundle up.’
I am still fussing with my wool coat over my uniform as we rumble forward. I look at the side of his face – serious, handsome – and go back to fumbling with my coat. Cecil Bleeding Rafferty.
The power swells behind me, the great machine roaring to life. We are moving across the tarmac, the world humming. I am pressed sharply back against the seat as we gather speed, the humming growing louder, the huge plane heading straight for the road beyond.
With a great roar the ground lunges away. The plane slides into the air, shooting into the morning sky. And stays there.
We climb, higher and higher. There is nothing underneath us, only air. No, the world is underneath us. And I can see all of it. It is so small.
‘Go on,’ he yells out as we level off. ‘Have a look around. Best view is from the top gunner’s turret.’
What? Get up? Part of me – a large part of me – wants to stay right where I am. But another voice, Timothy Squire’s voice, pops into my head. The view, Anna. It’ll be kicks. Timothy Squire has a knack for appearing at the worst possible times.
I unbuckle the belt, and make my stumbling way across the plane. It is not so bumpy – more like an Underground train than anything. I look at the window across the wing, seeing two huge propellers roaring and England below. It barely feels like we’re moving at all. It feels – unreal. The ground does not seem like the ground I know. Surely that is not where we just stood. Surely that is impossible.
All around us, the sky. Bright blue, blindingly bright.
I make my way – terrified of touching anything, even to keep my balance – to the top gunner’s turret.
Timothy Squire will be so jealous.
The view is amazing, yet I still hurry back to my seat.
‘So what do you think?’
‘Brilliant,’ I say, breathless from it all.
Friday, 12 February 1943
‘You told Queen Bee?’
I can only stare at Nell in wonder. She has her arms crossed and looks decidedly less beautiful than normal.
‘Flying an RAF aircraft is not a joke, Cooper. Pilots risk their lives up there.’
‘Nell – I—’
‘It’s not some little game, right?’
She turns and marches off. Well, I imagined many angry reactions, but not this. I do actually feel horrible for not telling her myself – especially after that whole business with Isabella Pomeroy – but did she have to sell me down the river?
She could have yelled at me in private – she didn’t need to bring Queen Bee into it. Nell never did know when to keep her mouth shut.
Just because she fancies Cecil. I didn’t fail to notice that she isn’t wearing her ring any more. I should have known she’d be jealous. It doesn’t matter; it’s too late now. I’m in for it.
I will just wait for the call into Sergeant’s office. And I won’t have to wait for long.
Monday, 15 February 1943
‘Get up, Miss Cooper,’ she says. ‘Pack your things. You’re out.’
‘Out?’ I say, still not quite awake.
It is not a raid. No bombs have come for me.
I blink into the blackness. Sergeant MacKay is leaning over me. Of course she comes in the middle of the night. Of course she can barely hold back a grin.
‘Your distinguished career as a WAAF is over.’
I sit up, stunned and silent. My skin burns with the humiliation. Murmurs and squeaking bunks tell me other cadets are stirring. Oh, please let Isabella Pomeroy stay asleep.
‘The air force life does not appear to agree with you, Miss Coop
er,’ Queen Bee continues, her voice definitely loud enough to wake the entire hut.
‘It seems not, Sergeant.’
‘You’re being transferred to a civilian post.’ A distant intake of breath; a barely concealed snigger of laughter. ‘Now pack your things.’
I am awake. ‘Transferred...?’
And in the same tone of voice that she says everything, she says, ‘That’s right, Miss Cooper. You’re headed to the ATA. Some fool thinks you can be a pilot.’
Wednesday, 24 February 1943
At first glance, dinner in the Stone Kitchen appears to be in my honour. Even Yeoman Stackhouse has joined the table. But soon it is confirmed that dinner is merely an opportunity for me to take on some advice.
‘But have you seen all the photographs of the women pilots, modelling in their uniforms?’ Stackhouse asks. ‘Flying aircraft when there are so many men qualified to do the work...’
He lets the thought hang in the air.
‘Actually, Yeoman Stackhouse, the Air Transport Auxiliary is in great need of pilots,’ I say. ‘They selected me because I was in the WAAF, I passed the medical, I’m under thirty, and I’m happy to be sent anywhere, at any time.’
In truth, I’m not sure how this possibly happened – I was certain I was getting sacked. But there’s no reason for the Warders to know that. There’s no reason for anyone to know.
A loud crack as the logs settle in the fireplace. I turn towards the heat, absorb as much as I can.
‘Well under thirty, I’d say,’ Stackhouse replies. ‘I’m not sure I can trust an organization with such recruitment standards.’
‘Oh, now it’s considered quite glamorous. First they had to have motor cars, now they need aircraft.’ Yeoman Sparks laughs into his wine glass.
I say nothing. There is nothing to say. Half of them think it is a glamorous tea party, and the other that it is a ‘perversion of decency’. I take a small sip of wine, wishing against hope that it will be both.
Oakes clears his throat loudly. ‘Well, Anna. We are all proud of you. It is a real honour to join the ATA.’
‘Thanks, Mr Oakes.’
He is holding a tall glass of whisky. ‘You are off to Gloucester then? To White Waltham?’
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