‘Diana Gaines didn’t.’
‘She had a faulty engine. Something even male pilots can have.’ I glance down at Timothy Squire’s watch. ‘Fine. I will look into it as soon I’ve passed my May the first test. Once I have my wings – once I’m a real pilot – I will study the instruments. OK?’
She gives an irritated sigh, which I am meant to hear, before collecting her books and leaving me to mine.
I have too much to do; too much to learn, too much that I already can’t figure out, to try to master a far more difficult set of skills which I will never need. And the constant ringing in my ears – planes are loud – is horribly distracting.
For this to even conceivably happen, I must study the map, carefully marked up and measured, committing the landscape to memory until I see the rivers and steeples as clear in my mind as the room around me. The pinpoints. I must know them all and memorize each and every turning point.
No more beer-ups in the crew room, and no more of Joy’s ridiculous lectures about the instrument panel, or gauges and levels – none of that is needed for my exam. I may as well be spending an hour a day learning the periodic table or memorizing all of King Lear. There are real things I have to know.
I unroll the map across the blankets.
And if I don’t know them, I will be sent home.
Friday, 23 April 1943
Malcolm visits the crew room, his gaze wandering from the pilots and back to his feet. It is strange to check the board in the Met Office, and to see him at the corner desk, hard at work with his charts. It is far stranger to see him here.
He has, he manages to say, come to talk to me. He’s very curious as to why I’ve joined the ATA.
‘Is it because of the ravens?’
Why does everyone ask that?
Sinking lower in my chair, I try to hide from the sharp eyes of the other pilots. If Bella and the others actually think me capable of... attracting... Cecil Rafferty, how quickly they will change their minds when they see me chatting with Malcolm.
‘Why are you here, Malcolm? I didn’t know you were interested in... Meteorological Centres.’
No need to be mean. He’s doing what he can, same as me. I should be helping him, encouraging him. Just not in the crew room.
‘It is quite fascinating, truly,’ he says, leaning forward and speaking far too loud. ‘Did you know that nine out of ten lightning bolts strike land rather than the sea?’
His wide eyes are too much, and I crack under his eagerness. Sitting up straight, I lean forward, meeting him halfway.
‘Well, I’m glad you found something you’re good at, Malcolm. I’m not so sure I did, to be honest. I find the whole thing slightly terrifying, as it turns out.’
It feels good to say it out loud. To say it to someone I – sort of – know. I remember with a smile how Yeoman Brodie used to claim Malcolm and I were best mates at school, and he never once looked in my direction. He’s still the same odd boy.
And I’m the same odd girl.
I notice now that he is smiling, too. Positively grinning, in fact. ‘Well, that’s the real reason why I’m here, Anna.’
‘What do you mean?’ I ask, suddenly wary. That look on his face is not comforting. Maybe I should have kept my distance. Maybe I should have learned from these snobby pilots and simply ignored him. What have I got myself into?
‘This is why I wanted to become a meteorological adviser,’ he says. ‘Why I came to White Waltham.’
‘Malcolm, what are you talking about?’
He lowers his eyes, his grin fading. ‘I thought about it, for weeks I couldn’t really sleep, and when I did, I dreamed about it. The bomb, it was so close. It was two years ago but I can feel the heat, right now, if I think about it. It was petrifying. You saved my life, Anna. That is why I am here.’
My voice falters. ‘I don’t understand.’ I search my mind for something to say – Malcolm, do you have the weather for tomorrow? – but nothing comes out.
‘I heard you were becoming a pilot, and I knew how important weather is. I thought, if I studied hard and learned enough, I could come here – come here and help. Come to White Waltham and keep you safe.’
Friday, 30 April 1943
My last landing was awful. Memorably awful. Joy had to take over or neither of us would be here. I couldn’t keep the swerve under control, and I kept thinking that I had no idea what I was doing and that I could never possibly learn how to do this, and I cursed Oakes for signing the forms, and I cursed Nell for convincing me to join the WAAF; I’m too young and too inexperienced, and I should just be at school, what am I even doing here...
That only made it worse. Even Joy couldn’t muster a smile after she saved us and bought the plane down.
‘You’ll get there,’ she said.
Her face said something else: I made a mistake with this girl. She’ll never be a pilot. She’s only a child.
I cannot give up. I would miss it all too much – the noise of the hangar, the smell of the petrol as you taxi out, the feel of the wind as you lift into the sky. The rush of life. The terrifying thump as the plane returns to earth.
I can’t go back to the Tower, to Oakes and the Warders, as just a regular civilian. I would be no different from Flo, no more useful – a spoiled conchie. The prospect is too disturbing to even consider. And now Timothy Squire is off with the Sappers.
Timothy Squire and Flo. I can’t believe it. He’s probably dreaming about her right now, chewing on his fingernails. It is disgusting. Forget them both. My final test is tomorrow, and then I am a proper pilot.
I must go home and get some sleep.
On the way through the corridor I reach a hand into my pigeonhole and stiffen with shock. A letter. I yank it free.
Miss Anna Cooper.
‘Miss?’ Not Timothy Squire. I tear it open there and then:
You are no doubt very busy showing those society girls just how suited you are to becoming a pilot. But if you can spare one evening, why not show them that you belong equally in their society.
It is my deepest wish that you could join us.
Cecil Rafferty
Enclosed please find an invitation to the Midsummer party at Oakley Park.
*
I know the route. I know it in my sleep. Still, I fold open the map one more time, staring at the names of villages and rivers in very small letters. Instead of tomorrow’s route, my eyes turn to the south-west, find the Channel coast, then Dorset. My finger traces the route from Dorset to London; from Dorset to White Waltham.
Lately I have been thinking of Timothy Squire. He’ll come back the same old boy who left. The Royal Engineers can’t change a boy that stubborn.
Sliding open the small drawer at the bedside table, I reach for the letter inside. The party invitation from Cecil Rafferty. He must have sent one of these to every girl on the base. ‘It is my deepest wish that you could join us...’
I snatch my hand away as the bedroom door creaks open. Joy is holding two cups. With a sigh, she sits on the bed, pushes a tea towards me. I nudge the drawer closed with my elbow.
‘Thanks,’ I say, taking a sip; I won’t be able to sleep tonight anyway. My throat fills with a horrible burn. ‘Oh, God, what’s wrong with it?’
‘Rum.’
‘Rum?’
‘Had to make it drinkable somehow, didn’t I?’ She smiles. ‘Go on, Coop. You need something to calm you down.’
I brave another sip. Coop? That’s the first time anyone’s called me that since my games teacher in second form. I like it. Maybe the rum will help me sleep – if it doesn’t keep me up all night being sick.
Americans have a bad reputation, mainly for doing whatever they please and looking down on everyone. But in their minds they’ve come to help us, so why wouldn’t they expect to be treated as saviours? Most people are simply too knackered to bother, but others get pretty wound up about it.
I used to think of Joy as someone almost impossible – a black American femal
e pilot – but she is even more impossible than all that. She is just a regular girl, relaxed and carefree. And my only real friend.
‘I’m not like you, Joy,’ I say. ‘I’m... scared something might go wrong up there.’
Twice in a row I’ve made a heavy landing. Heavy, but in one piece, I remind myself.
‘Flying is scary, Coop, no two ways about it. But it’s also the future, and women can have a part in it, same as men. Black or white, old or young. And this is your deciding moment. So drink your rum.’
10
Saturday, 1 May 1943
It is a hot day, so I am in my summer flying uniform – white shirt, dark tie, sleeves rolled over elbows, the reassuring weight of the shoulder straps, brown suede leather flying boots, leather gloves with white silk liners – as I take my final walk around the plane.
My eyes latch on to a figure in the distance by the hangar. Who is that?
Since that day my father appeared at Traitors’ Gate, I have seen him everywhere – down corridors, atop the battlements. Even now, in the middle of the countryside, surrounded by RAF pilots and security, I still see someone, in the corner of the hangar, hiding, waiting...
I blink my eyes and he is gone. It is only Westin, on his way off to lunch perhaps. Father is not here. Under threat from Oakes and Timothy Squire he has returned to Germany, never to set foot on British shores again.
It would have been better if he really had drowned.
The thought thuds in my mind like a weight. I take a long breath and circle the plane a final time. Commander Gower appears not to have noticed my very painstaking inspection. She sits, composed, in the front cockpit seat. I step up on to the wing, hoist myself into the rear seat. I watch as she plugs in her speaking tube. But no sound comes.
I wave to the flight engineer to spin the propeller. Westin could have at least stayed to see our plane off. He must think himself too distinguished to waste his time on Moths.
The engine throbs to life. A glance at the map spread across my knees, steady my breath. I have the route memorized – the sequence of roads, the church, the railway, the low hills, the edge of the forest. Looking now will only confuse me. I fold it away and clear my thoughts of strange men watching me from the shadows.
The Moth ahead takes off. Turning into the wind, I follow, opening the throttle and easing forward the stick to lift the tail: 40 mph. My fingers gripping through the gloves, I pull back on the stick: 50 mph.
It rained overnight, and we splash across the runway until we are climbing, up to 1,800 feet, levelling off just before the bank of low clouds. I’d like to climb higher, but given all that Gower has warned us of clouds, I move into a low cruising position.
Straight away I see the steeple. One of the pinpoints.
No. That is a different steeple – they all look the same. One country church is the same as any other. Is that Shottesbrooke? Is it possible that I am already off course?
Looks it, by seven miles south at least. First turning point is coming up and I am off track. Glancing down at the map, I confirm my position. Checking the map constantly means looking away from where I’m flying.
The plane flies itself, Cooper.
Unless I mess it up, and we stall or spin. I adjust my course, make for the first turning point: the railway. Now the landmarks come up as and when they should. The road; the wood, glinting green in a flash of sun; the long hedge. In my head I tick them off on the map. I see other things, too, not on the map – bright spots of colour are clothes in the garden, hanging on the line to dry. Gower is silent in front. Like a great old stone in the cockpit.
I look down at my watch – at Timothy Squire’s watch. Twenty minutes and I am exactly where I should be. Just as I relax and take pleasure in the smoke climbing from chimneys below, a stern voice crackles through the headphones.
‘What is the name of that village?’
She is testing me – my navigation skills. What is the name of that village? Woolworth? Instantly I can’t see. The world is gone. Thank God.
‘Sorry, Commander,’ I yell into the mouthpiece. ‘Clouds have rolled in.’ What is the name of that village? Wheatworth?
Gower says nothing. Will she take over the controls? I will fail the moment she does. The scud becomes a sudden, instant thick wall of cloud. Greyness presses down and I feel the seriousness of it. I make a shallow turn, peering to the left, to the right. Nothing. A fogbank, unforecast. Thanks, Malcolm.
For a moment I can only see directly beneath me, then that too is swallowed up. The map is now useless. How can I pick my way along roads and rail tracks if I can see nothing? A wall of cloud and rain and I don’t know what to do. Does the whiter cloud beneath mean land is close? If only I could recognize something from the map.
This is madness. Up and down are meaningless, there is nothing but white. If only I could use the instruments. Why isn’t she taking the controls?
I stand the Moth on its wingtip, peer into the smallest gap of cloud. Something – there – that could be the rail tracks. If it is, four and a half minutes on a course of 240 degrees should put me down over base. I right the aircraft, adjust the course, and start counting down.
Silence from in front of me. For a moment I had forgotten all about her. She has to be well impressed. Time to climb to lose some speed. I open the throttle.
Nothing happens. I try again – nothing. It is closed.
‘I’m afraid you’ve had an engine failure,’ comes the voice. ‘You will have to make a forced landing.’
Oh, come on.
Gower has cut the throttle on me. She wants to see how I react to an emergency. And if I mess up? Will she just sit up there, holding the throttle closed? At 6,000 feet, I put the plane into a shallow dive. At 1,000, we are still in cloud, so I settle into a glide and turn my nose towards the runway. We break out of the thin clouds at 100 mph and 800 feet, into a curtain of rain.
Keep your nose up.
My final turn is into the wind, wheels down for extra drag, and I enter the circuit at 60 mph, the exact speed recommended in the Notes. The ship rolls to a stop.
I start to climb out but stop, balancing on the wing, grey light falling through the break in the clouds. Gower is calling to me, congratulating me, but I don’t turn around. I keep standing, on the wing, staring up at the white clouds.
*
‘Sorry, Commander Gower. Ran into that cloud just over Datchworth.’
There is a smile in her eyes. She knows I’ve only just remembered the name.
‘Here,’ says Gower. ‘Your passport to the skies.’
I take the Flight Authorization Card, slipping it into my pocket, trying to control my giant grin. ‘Class I’ ferrying, of light, single-engined aircraft.
‘Any operative tries to tell you a thing or two,’ Gower says sternly, ‘show him that. And take this to the store before you leave.’
Nothing in her voice betrays the excitement of the moment. But I know what the note is. I march to the store. The worry that has gnawed at my stomach for weeks – for months – is gone.
‘This,’ I slide the paper across to the staring woman, ‘is for my wings.’
Monday, 21 June 1943
I drop the half-burned cigarette, stomp it out. Some day I will enjoy the taste, maybe, but not now. Straightening my uniform, I wonder how bloody Lightwood does it. By the afternoon his uniform is still perfect and untouched – like he only just buttoned it a moment before. Face like a horse, but a horse in a perfect trim jacket. I adjust my shirt again, muttering a curse: 7:30 a.m. parade, and the company second-in-command is about to inspect the lines.
‘Well, second time’s a charm.’ Lightwood is smiling.
Yes, we both passed the training, received our uniforms, earned our titles. Real sappers, pinch me if it isn’t true. But there’s no time to celebrate. We’re being trained for a bigger task. Once again I am sharing a barracks with Lightwood, just off the cookhouse at the far end of the camp. He doesn’t get any less annoying
. And our day’s ration is still pitiful.
I straighten up as Captain Pascoe, the second-in-command with his combed-back hair, marches up the path from his fancy hut. Well, a sight more fancy than our huts at any rate.
Anna is furious with me. She reckons I’ve got fond of Flo.
Have you? comes a quiet voice from somewhere. I don’t have time to think about girls, not here in Dorset surrounded by bloody eager soldiers. Two months in this windy valley under fat grey skies.
This is my last chance. I can’t ever go back to Quarter and the docks. What would Anna think?
It’s an important job, so they’ve taken all the sappers – boys under-age, raw recruits – to see how many will be ready for action. How long will it be? Another two months? Six months? How long can we wait?
I risk a last glance at the thin smoke drifting from the cookhouse before snapping to attention and bringing up my palm in salute.
‘All right, lads,’ booms Captain Pascoe. ‘Let’s hope none of you are afraid of heights.’
Wednesday, 23 June 1943
‘Local skies look good.’
That was the last thing Malcolm said before Joy and I entered the hangar. In his voice was some hesitation, an unsaid warning.
We are leaving local skies.
We will be fine, Malcolm, thank you very much. I survived your ‘perfect conditions’ for my flight test, I can handle this. Joy has the map; she will help with the navigation. We may not be like Cecil and his dashing bomber crew, but I am the captain of this ship and I trust my co-pilot.
Another measly lunch at the Mess hall. But that’s not the only cause for the hollow feeling in my stomach. It’s almost 1 p.m. White Waltham to Preswick: 400 miles, one of the longest flights we do. In the west of Scotland the sun doesn’t set until 10 p.m., and we may need that extra light.
Westin is here, for some reason deigning to help the take-off of a lowly Moth. Of course, with him watching, my take-off is not great. The ship staggers into the air, unwilling – Gower will have some words for me when she hears about it – but I am up in the sky now. Flying by myself. Let Westin snigger.
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