Gower has taken her usual position standing at the front of the hall, a great map on the wall behind her. All ten of us sit forward in our seats, straining to catch and copy down her every softly spoken word.
I run my hand through my short – very short – hair. Well, almost every word. I look even younger, but if it shows how serious I am, I’m happy to have done it. The hairdresser was nice enough, though I waited for almost an hour for her to be ready. White Waltham is not like the Dorchester depot.
I remember during the Blitz, when Nell took me to get my hair cut near St Katharine Docks. ‘Looking snappy,’ she said afterwards.
‘If not, stay put. Never try to go over the top of clouds. Is that clear? Two pilots in the last week have met their end flying into a hillside. Bad visibility kills. You must develop a sound flying sense and take no chances whatsoever. Never fly over the top of cloud as a way out of trouble.’
It seems like she knows we’ve all seen They Flew Alone. Constantly she goes on about the dangers of a ‘washout’ and unflyable weather.
‘I don’t want to even hear the word “cloud”. Think of it as “the concrete”. You must never attempt to go over the top.’
The silence is loud. Gower, however, is not done. ‘The ATA flies every type of RAF aircraft – and there are over two hundred. All aircraft have the same six-instrument panel: air-speed indicator, altimeter, gyroscopic compass, altitude indicator, turn indicator, artificial horizon.
‘Now, knowledge of this equipment will save your life in bad weather. Which is why we won’t be teaching you how to use any of it,’ she says slowly, allowing another silence to fall. ‘Because you are not to fly in foul weather. If reference to the ground is lost for even an instant, you’re not likely to ever return to the earth alive. There is no purpose in teaching you how to fly blind, because you will never be flying blind. Is that clear?’
A weak cough from the back.
‘You will fly without radio. There will be no check-ins with the nearest RAF station or incoming weather alerts. You will be alone. What you ladies will need to master, and what you can do quite safely and responsibly from the ground, is the engine. You will learn to dissect and reassemble these engines in the swiftest time possible.’
*
The noise in the hangar is deafening. Engines being tested, hammers ringing off steel, the wind pushing heavily against the metal hangar. And the smells – oil, petrol – harsh but not entirely unpleasant. The whole atmosphere makes me dizzy.
I mean to find and speak to Cam Westin, a flight engineer. A man is hard at work, covered in grime and oil. He looks up as I approach.
‘Yes?’
‘I’m called Anna.’ I hurry closer. ‘Can I help with anything? I’ve read up and know all about—’
‘Tea,’ comes the voice. ‘Two sugars.’
‘Oh, sure.’
I find the tea and cups, and put the kettle to boil. I stare around the hangar, seeing planes I recognize from the Blue Bible – Tiger Moths and light Trainers and, in the far corner, a Spitfire. For months we have permission only to fly Trainers. Then, if we are granted permission to carry on, we move on to faster planes, all the way up to twin-engine fighters like Hurricanes and Spitfires. If I ever get that far.
I add a lump of sugar and some powdered milk. I hold the hot cup towards him, but he doesn’t look up from the engine.
‘Your tea is here, Mr Westin.’
He grunts. I set it down beside him.
At the RAF base, the ground crew respects the pilots. I may not be a pilot yet, but surely I am something above the mechanics in the ground crew. No, I am being awful. Treat everyone the same, that’s what Mum always said.
I struggle to imagine Mum having a chat with an engineer covered in grime.
The next hour is spent watching him, adjusting to the chaos of noise and smells, and trying not to think too much about Gower’s endless warnings. But it is impossible, and soon I am remembering Amy Johnson, caught in the clouds, stranded with no way down and her petrol almost gone. No idea where she was, she did the only thing she could, leaping from the plane and pulling her chute. It must have been several minutes of falling, tossed in the high winds, before she saw it – the Thames rushing towards her.
Amy Johnson drowned; and so did the officer of the warship, who, seeing her crash below the waves, dived in to try and save her. The waves, vicious from the storm, took them both to the bottom.
She should have stayed in the plane. Waited for an opening, some break in the cloud, and dived through. She should have waited, held her nerve.
Leap before you’re pushed.
‘Tea,’ Westin says again. ‘Sugar this time.’
Startled, I nod – he can’t see me – and hurry away. Surely Gower didn’t send me here to make tea? I heap sugar into the cup, adding less milk. How will any of this help me to fly?
‘Your tea is here,’ I say, steadying my breath. ‘But actually, Mr Westin, I wasn’t sent here to fetch your tea. I am to learn about engines from you. I already know all about engines from the Blue Bible, but I need to learn the basics of engine maintenance.’
The twisting wrench is still. He looks up at me. I am shocked for a moment by how young he is. Even coated in grime and oil, he could fit in with the kids at school.
‘What’s this then?’
‘What—?’
‘This, in my hands – what is it?’
I stare down at the engine, my mind turning furiously. Not a Merlin. Not a Vulture.
‘A Hercules?’
‘Didn’t think so.’ Westin smiles, the briefest twist of his lips. ‘You’ll only be on the Trainers, but it doesn’t matter if it’s a Moth or a Mosquito – a gummed-up spark plug will take it down. So it’s worth your time to learn about spark plugs at least. I have a sneaking suspicion you don’t know how to rivet either. That,’ he coughs, catching my look as it falls on the flashy plane in the corner of the hangar, ‘is a Spitfire. No need to worry about that, love.’
‘So it is.’ I force myself to meet his eyes. ‘Sixteen hundred horsepower. Rolls-Royce Merlin-powered Mark IX in the nose. Ninety-gallon tanks.’
‘That’s it.’ He blinks, half smiling. I breathe a silent sigh of relief. ‘Everybody knows about Spitfires, and certainly anyone who dreams of becoming a pilot. A fighter and a high-altitude reconnaissance aircraft, His Majesty’s deadliest warplane. And finally a match for the Messerschmitt 109. You don’t fly a Spitfire. You move, it moves.’
I stare, silent, too overwhelmed by the great plane to be insulted by his tone. ‘What’s it like?’
‘To sit in the cockpit of a Spit, with the power of the Merlin at your fingertips, is an exhilaration beyond anything else you can imagine. Controls so light you can manoeuvre with the slightest touch. This is the most exciting aeroplane ever built. At two hundred and fifty miles per hour, nowhere in England is more than an hour away.’
‘Where did you go?’
‘What?’
‘In your Spitfire.’ I try to imagine it, walking into the hangar with a chit for a Spitfire. ‘Where did you fly to?’
‘Me? I’m an engineer, love.’
I notice the sharpness of his tone, force myself to stop daydreaming. I’m supposed to be learning from him. ‘Right. I know, sorry. But the ATA flies them?’
He gives a grudging nod. ‘The RAF did not permit women to be attached to units. Physically and temperamentally unsound. Women were to fly only open-cockpit Trainers – Moths, Miles Magisters. All that’s changed now, of course.’
I force a laugh, but my eyes are drawn back to the stunning aircraft. I remind myself that Gower was there, that night in Leicester Square. I am meant to be here. One day, I will fly one.
Westin, head down and carrying on in the same grumbling tone, doesn’t seem to notice my new steely resolve.
‘Not as fire-prone as the Hurricane, as the petrol tank is in front of the pilot, not in the wings,’ he says. ‘Still, once it catches, you’re headed to t
hree thousand degrees Celsius. You’ve got less than four seconds to get out – man or woman, there’ll be nothing left of you. Now, love, some tea. With sugar this time.’
Wednesday, 10 March 1943
For weeks now I have not dreamed of Maida Vale, of Mum making cheese on toast, of the back garden and the soft grass under my toes. Even longer has passed since I last awoke, slick with sweat, certain I was back inside the shelter beneath the playing fields at school, or – worse – certain beyond doubt that I, too, was on the bus with Mum, and only I could hear the heavy whistle in the sky above...
I am not on a bus. Mum was never on that bus, either – still I cannot erase the image, the idea that Mum’s death was an accident. That she wanted to stay here with me.
I know the truth, of course. She wrote a letter to Uncle at the Tower, telling him to take me in. Then she killed herself, using the gas from the oven. Everyone running around in gas masks, terrified that Hitler might drop a gas bomb, and she kills herself with gas. She asked Uncle to lie, until I was old enough. Am I old enough now?
There is no pain, Timothy Squire promised me – it’s like falling asleep, he said.
She made a terrible mistake. She loved you.
I shake free of such thoughts – bloody Cam Westin and his talk of exploding engines – throwing aside the covers and shivering in the draught that courses through the window. Joy, as usual, is already downstairs, in uniform, her bed made up. I hurry to do the same. My short hair has freed me from hours of brushing, and I swiftly change into my uniform and slip out of the room.
After our morning toast and tea with Mrs Wells, Joy and I bike down the road, passing through the fence. The wind is cold.
‘Are there other black pilots?’ I ask her.
She nods, her face unreadable. ‘Sure. You guys have some Jamaicans, men from the West Indies – all the British colonies.’
‘Any other women?’
She smiles now. ‘Nope.’
‘I’m only fifteen,’ I blurt out. I don’t know why, but it’s too late anyway – the words are gone. ‘But my birthday is coming up. In October.’
Joy only laughs. ‘We’ll make a fine team, Cooper.’
We pass the giant hangars as we reach the main entrance. I take out my books for today – map-reading, navigation, mechanics. Mechanics is almost as bad as trig-onometry.
I need a break from all this studying. Now that I have to remember everything Westin grumbles at me, I feel like my head is going to burst. All around cadets bang their lockers shut. I squeeze my eyes closed, take a long breath.
‘Was it the birds then?’
I blink in surprise to see Joy still standing there. She should be off collecting her chits. And I should be in a quiet, dark room. ‘The birds?’
‘The ravens, at your Tower. Are they what made you want to fly?’
The idea should be enough to make me cackle with glee – like Joy did when I first told her about life in the Tower as the Ravenmaster. But I don’t; instead of the new birds, caged in their roost, flight wings clipped, I think of Mabel and Grip, who flew to their freedom. Or death.
‘Yes,’ I say. Joy is clearly worried about me – I must look as white as Mrs Morgan’s old terrier. I try to raise a smile.
‘Don’t give up, Cooper.’ Joy clasps my shoulder. ‘The war is changing things – here in England as well as back home. Women in men’s jobs, women in war. People are getting all bent out of shape – men and women both.’
‘I know.’ I nod, but I’ve said the wrong thing apparently, as Joy shakes her head.
‘If my mother could have stopped me... It’s all a bit overwhelming, it’s all a bit too much. Sometimes there’s nothing you can do to change people’s minds. But there’s something we can do, Cooper. The only thing we can do. Learn to fly.’
Everyone keeps telling me that.
‘If I can make do in a land without soda fountains or proper ice cream, you can do this.’ Joy smiles. Instinctively I clench my teeth at the mention of soda fountains. Flo’s endless bragging still rankles me.
Joy looks truly happy to be headed off to the hangars instead of the classroom. I’m not so sure, myself. I’m only sure of one thing as I cross the freezing tarmac to learn about mechanics.
I am being watched. I’ve known it for days, but I am certain of it now.
You are mad. Who is watching you? Gower? She doesn’t care. You think the German has returned and followed you here? Get a hold of yourself.
But I miss the presence of Joy as soon as she’s gone. Very few people are out among the hangars, the odd cadet racing off to navigation or mechanics. What I wouldn’t give for an hour alone in my old room. I shrug into my coat and keep walking, not looking right or left until I am safely inside the classroom.
*
Mrs Wells fills my hot bottle each night and, despite my resistance, even does my washing. It is a wonder to have a bath each night. And the curtains on the windows are black and heavy, but wide open at night.
Meals with Joy are a laugh. For a moment I let myself imagine this is my real life – this is my real family, my real home.
But kind as Mrs Wells is, she is not Mum.
Through the opened window I can hear blackbirds singing, low and sad. I miss the Tower, too. The new ravens barely know me. I think of how they acted around Timothy Squire after he came back from Aberdeen. Will they hop away from me, too?
Joy tells me about her delivery yesterday – a Corsair to the Isle of Man (nineteen minutes), and home in a Gauntlet (thirty-three minutes). I would be terrified of an old bi-plane like that over the Irish Sea, but Joy said it handled good as new. Likely she was bringing it home for the wrecker’s yard.
‘Have you ever seen an enemy plane?’
‘Nope. Saw some bad storms, though.’
‘No 109s?’
The entire route is within range of the Luftwaffe. But we are a civilian crew, so weapons are removed from the gun turrets. No one is permitted, not even Commander Gower, to fly armed aircraft, no matter how many Nazi fighters might swarm the route.
‘Why don’t they let us have radios?’
Joy shrugs. ‘Worried the Germans will intercept our lady signals.’
She laughs but there’s little humour in it.
We have cleared away the dishes after the boiled potatoes and peas. Mrs Wells has retired to the sitting room by the fire. The cat, Francis, watches us absently then waddles off to join her. He doesn’t seem to be on rations.
Hopefully the ravens are equally well fed.
‘Here,’ says Joy as we slump back into our chairs at the once again pristine kitchen. She pushes some candy across the table.
‘What’s this?’
‘Candy. American candy.’
The taste is almost worth the fuss. Still, after a long day at Ground School, I could use something more substantial. Some meat, perhaps.
The mere idea of meat makes me think of the ravens again. They are always hungry. And Stackhouse clearly isn’t up to the task of feeding them. Hopefully Timothy Squire is actually helping out at the roost. I can only imagine what it’s like there if he’s clean forgotten.
Timothy Squire, I hope you haven’t forgotten your promise.
Thursday, 11 March 1943
The White Tower looms over me, shutting out the sky. At least I’ll have something to tell Anna when she’s on her leave. Something she hasn’t seen – maybe even something Henry Reed had never seen.
The Tower ravens are nesting.
Well, two of them are, at any rate. Portia and Rogan have built a nest on the unused steps to the White Tower. Different from the straw nest inside their cage, this is a large stick nest made of mud and grass and bark – all sorts, even foil from cigarette packs.
It all started when I saw Rogan carrying two sticks in his beak. Portia followed him up the stairs. She watched as he left and came back with two more sticks, then a beak full. He was up to something. The next day he was at it again, lugging even more stic
ks – as many dropped as made it, but he kept at it. I must be the only man in war-time Britain who’s got the time to watch birds carry around sticks.
Why did I get off at Bethnal Green? Of all places? Death is having a laugh.
You didn’t die.
Not yet, but it’s clear as sodding crystal that I am cursed.
The birds continued their nesting. Rogan, holding small branches with his feet, scraped the bark free with his beak. Portia decided to help out. She tore up bark, helped carry it, and brought just as many beakfuls of grass as Rogan. Together they put in the lining. It was a nest.
And then Portia sat in it. After an hour, they switched, and Rogan sat, like he was frozen stiff, with Portia perched just next to him. Every few minutes, they swapped again. What were they up to? Then Rogan wandered off and Portia remained completely silent and still.
They can sense the coming spring. Anna said that they actually change with the new season, but I’ve no idea what that means. Maybe that’s why they keep jumping in and out of the nest? Of course they’d have wanted to build their nest as high up as possible – the oak tree in the Green, or the tops of the White Tower – but as they can’t reach more than a few feet with clipped wings, the back stairs will have to do. I’ve never seen a person use those steps.
I should have written to Anna to ask her advice. But it seemed like the two birds would only nest here – not inside their cage – so I got Stackhouse to agree not to lock them up again until the chicks have hatched. I made sure to clip their wings myself, to prevent any escape. Stackhouse can’t be trusted. The man is so lazy it’s a wonder he bothers to feed himself.
I remember Anna saying the ravens had never successfully bred at the Tower.
Well, won’t she be surprised. I may not know a lot about ravens, but I know that I can expect to see some baby birds come spring. Brushing aside the quartermaster’s mocking voice, I turn the corner towards the White Tower.
The steps are clear. Clearer than I’ve ever seen them in fact. My first thought is a fox. Easy enough for a fox to reach the nest – would Portia and Rogan scare it off? There’s been a crafty-looking red fox down by the docks, with a great bushy tail and snowy fur at his throat – a real beauty. Had he found his way into the Tower?
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