Some light clouds, but not worth manoeuvring around. I steer directly into the cloud bank. For a moment, there is nothing but white. I am still holding my breath as we burst through the other side, our green plane flashing in the sun. I give out a great whoop, the smile wide on my face.
‘Feeling pretty good back there, Coop?’
We follow a rail line, then the bright reflection of a river, all the while I inhale the familiar smells of the cockpit: wood and petrol, the leather of the helmet, the scouring freshness of the sky. I pull back on the stick, warm from the sun.
A black speck on the horizon grows, becomes familiar. A returning Moth. She passes us and tips her wings – a hello – and as I tip mine back, I am laughing. I feel like the RAF fighters, flying out to repel the German bombers.
We fly over the chequered green fields, follow the London to Edinburgh train line. Sheep and cattle graze below. After a time, the landscape starts to look different, a thick haze over the Midlands; then the Trent River below, a thin cut of blue. The air gets colder as we move north. I can see cars, too, curving along roads.
I think of Flo’s dad, how he drove past me on my bike. What is she doing now? Probably stuck in some clammy classroom, studying Latin or trigonometry. I open the throttle, shooting through the broken clouds at fantastic speed, veering west. The first two hours pass swiftly.
We are approaching the north, where people came to be safe from the Blitz. Kate was sent here; even Timothy Squire, who spent weeks in some village near Manchester before he sneaked back to London. Where is he sneaking off to now?
Petrol gauge is soon low, and we land at Ternhill, where we refuel. We take off again and follow the railway line past Oxenholme, the mountains of the Lake District on our left, the Yorkshire Dales on our right. A Moth has only two hours in the tank, so we are forced to stop in Carlisle to change over fuel tanks before setting off once again.
Perhaps Joy is right; there is something to flying. More than just doing ‘my bit’ – some escaping from the world, narrowing life to the one moment. To this. Chasing the sun across the sky. It is also the future.
The hollow feeling in my stomach has not gone away long enough for me to be hungry. But if it does, I am prepared. Wrapped in newspaper in my kit are a sandwich and a flask of tea, as well as a slab of chocolate and boiled sweets.
There it is, just like it says on the map: Hadrian’s Wall. We are passing into Scotland. Uncle told me all about this ancient wall, once the limit of the Roman Empire. The wall itself looks more like a farm wall, extending east to west. Did that really keep the Scots out of England?
This is a different country; I can see that already as we cross the Solway Firth, up the Nith valley and the hard Ayrshire hills rising into regal mountains, rolling off into the north. Below, the landscape looks prehistoric. I’m sure that’s heather down there; heather and thistles. England has nothing like this.
We are alone, silent, motionless, hovering above the earth. The grey sky robs you of height, of distance. This is freedom. Suddenly I remember Mabel, how I brought her back only to watch her fly away again. I can see them, right now, the two mated birds, Mabel and Grip, vanishing into the sky above London.
Things soon become rather drab, and definitely freezing. The temperature says minus 12.
With a great bark, the engine coughs and spits.
There is something wrong. The exact sensation as when Gower cut the throttle. What is going on? The cold?
We are losing height. What the hell is going on? Why doesn’t Joy take control?
With a bang the throttle kicks in, and we jump up wildly, hurtling through the sky. I right us, test the throttle. All seems fine again. My whole body is tensed like a coil.
Seeing the coast and the bright water below, I don’t need to confirm with the map. Turnberry lighthouse. We turn, descending towards the aerodrome. The runway is lit. We have managed to beat the sunset, but the light is failing. Small glowing lights show the landing path.
The wind offers some trouble, but I descend as fast as the cross-winds will let me – correct the drift – and at the last moment the wind dies away.
With a sudden jolt of speed, we land.
*
Two female engineers rush out to lift me from the open cockpit. I am almost frozen, my fingers struggling to undo the straps. The same is happening to Joy in front.
‘Tiger Moths,’ says one of the voices. ‘You’ll be all right in a second, my loves.’
We are helped to a large, shabby bus, where a heater is on. Shivering, laughing, in the dirty seats, Joy and I rub our arms. I wish I’d brought another jumper in my kit.
‘What happened back there?’ Joy asks.
‘Nothing,’ I say, without a thought. ‘Just got a bit mixed up.’
She laughs, pats me on the shoulder. ‘Knew you had it. See, you’ve got a knack for it, Coop.’
Why did I lie to Joy? Because I don’t want to believe in her bloody conspiracy. It’s enough having the Germans coming here to try and kill us without our own men doing it, too.
The engine was likely frozen. I practically was. Besides, here I am, safe and sound and on the ground. I will mention it in the snag report, used to make note of any faults incurred during delivery, but that’s it.
My face aches, a dull, satisfied ache, red from the wind and firmed from sun. After twenty cold minutes, someone comes with soup and tea. She also hands me tickets for the train. Of course it was clear enough on the chit. Delivery only. Nothing here to collect.
‘It’s the sleeper. You’ll be at St Pancras by breakfast.’ She smiles again, taking away the soup bowl. ‘In time to do it all again.’
*
The next week will be filled with flights, but none will be as far or as cold as Prestwick. With no berths in the sleeper carriage, we have to lie on our parachutes in the frozen corridor. Even Joy stopped laughing after an hour.
‘You have a sweetheart out there?’
‘What?’ I say, shifting uncomfortably.
She looks at me from across the train floor. ‘Anyone you write to? I always see you writing stuff down.’
‘Not really. I just like to write, that’s all.’
I am silent. Timothy Squire and Flo. Timothy, racing around in the mud and dirt, stealing food like a bloody street urchin. What would Flo think of that? I can see him now, cursing and smoking with his buddies down at the docks. Mr Swift would be thrilled to meet him. Is he even going off for training this time? Or is it just another lie?
Laughing with Joy earlier reminds me of laughing with Flo, that time on Speech Day – I worried I was going to choke, I couldn’t stop. Flo was laughing too, tears streaming down her face. And now she is off laughing with Timothy Squire.
She was always so competitive. Getting mad at me when I couldn’t figure out games she wanted to play – mad because she wouldn’t have the chance to beat me. If I didn’t know the rules, if I wasn’t properly trying, then it didn’t count. For some reason I also remember Flo complaining about how that annoying boy Dudley fell madly in love with her – how he was always trying to kiss her. ‘I swear, Anna, all he wants to do is kiss me.’
Joy doesn’t say anything else, but an image hangs in my thoughts: Timothy Squire at the dinner table with Flo’s family.
‘What about you, Joy? Someone back home, in New York?’
She shakes her head. ‘Nah. Not any more. It’s a long way.’
I see, just as she turns, the glimmer of tears in her eyes.
‘What about that pilot at the Lansdowne?’
Joy laughs, and I look down not to notice her wiping her eyes. Again we fall silent, the heavy clattering of the tracks the only sound. It is clear that, if something is upsetting her, she doesn’t want to talk about it. Even Americans don’t want to talk about everything.
The train stops at Darlington. I remember all these towns, I realize, from memorizing the cross-country routes. And I know just where we are. How close we are.
I have
a sudden thought, a mad thought. A mad, mad thought.
Joy may be on leave now, but I’m not. Still, I could be home by 10 a.m. for first chits. It’s possible, risky – mad – but it’s possible. It’s midsummer and we are practically in his neighbourhood. How could we not?
‘Get up. Get ready.’
Joy blinks in confusion, but moves to stand. ‘Ready for what?’
My smile feels more like a frown. I am standing. This is madness. ‘We’re getting off at the next stop.’
*
Joy leans towards me as the train begins to slow. ‘Are you sure?’ she asks for the hundredth time.
‘I’m sure.’
‘As long as you’re not doing this for me. I’m happy to travel alone, been doing it my whole life. Do you even have a leave coming up?’
‘I am not doing it for you, Joy. I am doing it with you. You are a visitor to this country after all, and it is only right for me to show you around.’
She gives me her annoying, knowing smile. I glance towards the door, the trees blurring past. Warm air streams through the open window.
‘I’ve never seen the Tower of London, either,’ she says.
‘Plenty of time to see that,’ I answer quickly. ‘And that’s home for me, Joy. I think I need a holiday. A real one. And you should see a proper English midsummer.’
‘So this has nothing to do with the party at the handsome pilot’s estate?’
She is grinning now, but I am not. The trees have slowed, become real. The train is pulling in to the station. And we are getting off.
Cecil is kind, and good and noble. He says ridiculous things like ‘Good show’ and ‘quite right’, and he does think rather a lot of himself. But he doesn’t lie to me. And he’d never give Flo a second look.
Maybe some of the others will be in uniform. Is it that sort of party? What am I doing?
I don’t even have the invitation with me. It is in the drawer next to my bed in Mrs Wells’s house. Proof I did not plan for this to happen.
The train lurches, then settles in the station. Swiftly, without time for another thought, I lean out of the window, reach outside, and pull the handle. The door swings open and I step on to the platform. Joy steps down beside me, her eyes wide in disbelief.
‘Don’t go getting yourself in any trouble.’
Too late now. I try to give her my best smile.‘Sometimes, Joy, you gotta live like your hair’s on fire.’
*
Music and laughter fill the night air, and tiny lights bloom in the trees. It’s all a bit of a dream. I simply asked the taxi driver to take us to Oakley Manor – ‘you mean Oakley Park?’ – and we were met at the door and guided down to the celebrations.
I feel none of my earlier exhaustion. The glittering trees, the cool wind and warm flames, the comforting smell of burning wood. Just wood. I’d forgotten how good fire can smell. A stand of tall green trees – poplars? – and bushes and benches down the rolling valley to the pond. Nothing looks as though it could be any other way.
A perfect country garden, even grander in its way than Hyde Park. The ravens would love it here. Instead of the narrow stone passages, the stumpy plane trees, the single patch of green grass – Yeoman Brodie still insisting it is not to be walked over! – and the high walls, they could preen and cache in this paradise.
Joy is standing under the branches, happily chatting with a grinning officer. She seems to have come around. And we fit in perfectly in our uniforms. Though I can’t say I feel like I belong. I half turn towards Cecil, who is standing at my side. He is even taller than I remember.
‘Is this your home? We are so sorry, by the way, for just showing up like this – I mean, I am sorry, the whole thing was my idea...’
Cecil smiles. He has been smiling ever since we appeared – unannounced – in his back garden. ‘I am so glad you were able to come, Anna. This is the family home, yes. I grew up here, and come back as often as I can. Under no circumstances would Mother and Father allow me to miss a midsummer.’
‘Oh, are they here now? Your parents?’
‘Sadly, they had to retire early. They are up at the house, though it wouldn’t be entirely out of character for Father to wander back down for a goodnight tipple. I shall introduce you.’
‘Oh, thank you.’ I offer a big smile of my own. ‘I just can’t believe you live here. I mean... it is incredible.’
‘You approve?’
A man in a white uniform brings over a tray of wine glasses. I accept one with a smile. ‘I could get used to this.’
It’s the wrong thing to say and I know it instantly. His face grows serious, strange. What do I say now? I take a long drink of the wine but all sensible thoughts seem to have abandoned me.
‘Westin!’ I call out. I’ve never been more glad to see the dour man, who comes reluctantly closer. ‘How are you? Westin got us off the ground today, as usual. Did you take the train up, Westin?’
He does not look at me. ‘I did.’
‘Feels a bit boring after aeroplanes, doesn’t it? Do you ever want to fly yourself, Westin?’
‘I’m an engineer, not a pilot.’
‘I’m sorry – I didn’t mean any offence—’
‘None taken,’ Cecil interrupts. ‘Westin’s happy on the ground, aren’t you, West? And we’re all happy to have him there. He’s one of the best engineers Britain’s got.’
This could hardly go any worse. At least Isabella Pomeroy isn’t here. But I do see, smoking a cigarette over by the poplars, a very familiar figure. Nell. Of course. Wearing the sleek blue dress again. Does she have no other dresses? I will simply ignore her.
After another awkward moment of silence, Westin makes an excuse, wanders off towards the pond.
‘I don’t think he likes me much.’
Cecil laughs. ‘Oh, that’s just West. Sour as a lemon, but a heart of gold.’
‘He never shows it to the female pilots.’
‘He never shows it to any pilots, Anna. I suspect he took his failure at flight school somewhat harder than most.’
I should have guessed. How would I feel if I was kicked out, and everyone around got to fly planes? It’s almost enough to make me feel sorry for him.
Cecil takes a drink, moves a little closer to the fire. His sleeves are rolled up; I notice his strong, bare arms. I remember his hands, steady, sure – not the fumbling hands of Timothy Squire. I try to stare, like him, into the flames.
‘“Setting the watch”, it’s called,’ he says. ‘Fire to keep away evil spirits. Not sure it will work with the Germans. Getting more fires over there would be more effective.’
He laughs, a low chuckle. I stiffen at the words, but say nothing. Not here, not now. Flo and her wild rumours of firestorms.
‘I apologize,’ he says. ‘I am being unforgiveably dull. I am very glad you were able to join us.’
‘You really wanted me to come?’
‘Truly.’ He does that thing where he holds my gaze for a little too long. My stomach does a somersault. ‘You more than anyone else, Anna Cooper.’
The white uniformed man appears, taking my empty glass and replacing it with a full one. I do not take a sip.
‘Have you had a chance to talk to Joy?’ I manage to ask.
‘Not yet. She appears preoccupied at the moment.’
Joy’s conversation with the other pilot has become more intimate. I stare for a moment in awe at her confidence. How does she do it? She didn’t even want to come.
‘She is a great pilot,’ I say, stupidly.
‘So are you, Anna, I am certain of it. I knew you had a head for it all along.’
I pause, my mind still buzzing. ‘What do you mean... “all along”?’
He smiles, turning a little red. ‘Well, I gave Gower some advance warning of you.’
‘“Advance warning”?’
‘Anna. They don’t let just anyone into the ATA, you know.’
Gower’s words come back to me. You come highly recommended. N
ot by Queen Bee; of course not.
‘So I put in a good word for you,’ he says with that smile. ‘I had to, after I’d got you in such hot water with that flight. Commander Gower is a considerable person in the ATA.’
I nod, confused.
‘It’s a good fit for you,’ he says. ‘Anna, are you OK? Let me get you a jumper.’
I am staring. Cecil put in a word for me? He’s the only reason I’m here. Because he felt guilty, because he thought he’d got me thrown out? No, like he said, I am a good pilot. And I have to take every chance I can get. But he’s looking at me again.
‘Some of our pilots crashed,’ I blurt out. I am too embarrassed to control my thoughts. What am I doing here?
‘There is no more dangerous position in this war.’
‘For technical reasons, I mean. Strange errors, which aren’t the fault of the pilots or the engineers.’
He looks at me for a long moment. ‘You mean sabotage. German spies in your midst. It’s possible,’ he adds after a moment. ‘Christ, anything’s possible from these villains. But don’t fear, Anna. Just keep your eyes open and tell your Commanding Officer if there’s anything strange at work.’
‘Joy said... she said it might be sabotage from within. Is that possible? From the RAF, she said. Because they resent women flying planes.’
I say the last words in a great rush. It is too late now, I’ve said them. But Cecil’s reaction is not at all what I ever imagined. Laughter at the whole notion of it, I half expected – outrage, I was nearly sure of. But not this.
He is smiling. A tiny, I’ve-got-a-secret smile.
‘Well?’ I say when he doesn’t answer. When he does nothing but stand there with his little smile. ‘Is it possible?’
‘Anna. The RAF is not the demon you girls have dreamed it. Far from it.’
There is something in his tone I do not like. ‘So it doesn’t bother you that we do the same job as you?’
‘Your job is quite different from mine, Anna.’
‘But we are pilots, too – more than capable of flying the same planes as the RAF, should anyone ever allow such a thing.’
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