Spitfire Girls

by Carol Gould

  His engines now stopped, Josef’s instructor was barking at him and a group of WAAFs were standing beneath his window like the crowds who had awaited him when in his previous life he had been greeted as an ace. He waved, half listening to the instructor, whose words suggested Ratusz was now qualified to fly any single- or twin-engined war machine to which the Ministry cared to assign ATA fliers.

  When the WAAFs returned to their desks the only person left on the airfield was the Polish ace who had requested three days’ leave for the sake of a fictitious funeral, but whose real intention had been to conquer staggering feelings of dread that, for some inexplicable reason, and for the first time in his life, had overwhelmed all his other emotions.

  56

  Harold Balfour could hardly contain himself.

  Events in Europe were catastrophic, but all he could do was quake at the prospect of the dark-haired vision crossing the threshold of his elegant London residence. During the months following the fall of France, the vision’s frequent visits had cheered him and now he awaited another magical meeting. She had always been in uniform and an aide had always been nearby – his fear of accusations of improper behaviour were acute – but now that her condition was beginning to show he knew this would be their last contact.

  Fingering the rim of a particularly fragile piece of crystal from his town collection, Balfour wondered if this was one visit too many – should he have stopped the meetings last month, when the Kranz affair had broken? There was a tinkling in a corner of the house and he came alive, striding to the door and smoothing down his own uniform.

  ‘It won’t improve you, Harold,’ chirped Angelique as she bounced in from the corridor. ‘All the medals in the world would make no difference. To your friends you’re always Dear Old H.’

  Balfour could see the butler peering in and focusing on the girl’s ample midriff.

  ‘Please leave us, Denison,’ he said, his voice stiff with tension.

  Angelique turned and grinned at the butler, but he had vanished. ‘They do move so fast,’ she said.

  ‘Who do?’

  ‘Butlers.’

  ‘So do babies grow,’ murmured Balfour, smiling and motioning for her to sit. ‘How are you feeling, Angelique?’

  ‘I feel horrid – rotten in fact. You will be amazed to hear the reason is not the wretched baby at all.’ She moved to a sofa upholstered in a vivid floral pattern and for the first time in all her visits noticed that each bloom on the fabric had a bee nosing into its heart. Balfour watched her with fascination, the endless thoughts he harboured away from her company now a mass of confused sparks circulating within his being.

  ‘You’re unbelievably agitated,’ he said, remaining standing at the far end of the room.

  ‘In one day I’ve given coaching and moral support to the latest group for Upavon, and I’ve been to see the Toland brothers, who are on four trips a day, and finally I’ve been to see Cal March, our ATA cadet, who as you know is earmarked for destiny.’

  ‘Have you been to see Valerie?’

  ‘No, Harold. Please let me speak.’

  Balfour watched her carefully as her eyes roved round the drawing room.

  ‘Has the war got to you?’ he asked quietly.

  ‘Good God, Harold – one would have to be living on the moon for the war not to be “getting” to one. But what’s really getting to me is the message I have been receiving from my Ouija board.’

  Balfour sat down stiffly on the sofa, leaving as much space as possible between himself and Angelique. ‘Are you joking?’ he asked seriously.

  ‘Listen to me,’ she continued. ‘My brothers are in a dreadful bind in Spain. The board says Annabel Cobb and Sarah Truman are there as well.’

  Balfour rose and moved behind the sofa. ‘Surely you haven’t become a spiritualist?’ he demanded.

  She turned around and looked up at him, her face drained of colour and stark against the blue ATA uniform.

  ‘It also told me what Cal March is up to,’ she said. ‘I want to go on his mission. It would mean I can seek out my brothers and secure the return of the two girls. Honestly, Harold, Franco is so disorganized compared with Hitler! The Spanish are like the Italians – offer them some good wine and food and they let you do anything.’

  ‘You know nothing,’ Balfour muttered.

  ‘I’m just an ignorant woman, am I?’

  Balfour leaned back against the sideboard. ‘In all of our little meetings, Angelique, you’ve told me about the problems ATA has been having, and you’ve told me the gossip. I’ve heard about Noel Slater pushing you around, and Amy and Jim’s divorce. I know that Martin Toland fathered your child and that Marion Harborne wants some credit for the concentration camp pictures. Everything you say, and the way you say it, enchants me. None of it leaves this room except to dazzle me in my dreams at night. Something you have never grasped, however, is that my sort of mind will not accept voodoo of any sort.’

  ‘Why have you never made love to me?’ she demanded.

  Balfour was stunned.

  ‘It’s something that bothers me intensely, Harold.’

  ‘Ask me again, only more loudly, so Denison will know the child isn’t mine,’ he said, smiling.

  Angelique had become more comfortable on the large sofa, but her face remained a pallid mask.

  ‘Your duties will be expanding within ATA,’ he continued, seating himself on the sofa and reaching for her hand, ‘and I don’t want any of you going off on tangents with black magic, or with peculiar habits.’

  ‘You must help me get to Zack and Paul,’ she blurted suddenly, fighting back tears.

  ‘Not possible,’ he asserted, squeezing her hand, its clammy lifelessness making him shudder. Cutting into his palm was a ring that had not been there before – its stone a sharp gem giving him a physical pain that hovered in his abdomen and made him feel ashamed because he was jealous.

  ‘Two things, Harold. You must help me get an aircraft across the Channel, and you must get Valerie reinstated.’

  ‘What about the child?’ he asked, still squeezing and letting the stone dig into his heart.

  ‘You can’t do anything about that, my dear,’ she said, a bit too loudly.

  ‘Dammit, woman – how can you fly to Spain pregnant?’

  Angelique leapt up from her seat. ‘The mere fact that you’ve suggested I might fly to Spain means we’re there. Do it. Now.’

  At once Balfour was set alight by the fire she had ignited within his bloodstream, a red-hot maelstrom he had known from the moment he had first spied her in the locker room at Maylands. Angelique’s blazing eyes put his thoughts into disarray and he felt he might give her his house and all his worldly goods at this moment for the sake of one much longed-for coupling.

  ‘You were talking about reality, Harold?’

  She was speaking, but he was travelling at breakneck speed over a giant mountain that had left his chest pounding and his loins urging him not to think but to do.

  ‘Will we ever make love, do you suppose?’ he whispered.

  ‘We might,’ she replied. ‘for the time being I suggest you keep your mind on serious matters at hand, Captain Balfour.’

  But Balfour was devouring her with his eyes, and she could not move.

  ‘I love you,’ he murmured. ‘It too is unforgivable, but I love you, Angelique, bastard child and all.’

  ‘Martin’s baby will be born in Spain,’ she asserted, grinning at Balfour.

  ‘Did you hear what I said?’

  As they stood facing each other the only sound was the occasional shout from a newspaper vendor, motorcars now a rare presence in the dark times of the London siege.

  ‘Go to the airfield where Cal March will be commencing his journey,’ he said slowly, ‘and there will be help provided for your escapade.’

  Angelique’s colour had returned. ‘You would do this for a first generation Armenian who communes with Ouija boards?’ she piped.

  ‘I would do this for a
face that God must promise will come back to me.’

  ‘God isn’t doing much currently for those poor people in the death camps.’

  Balfour held her hands and kissed them, the maelstrom returning to his flesh and the veins all round his body.

  But Angelique was already miles away, wanting to depart for a terrible land of which she knew nothing. Balfour was holding her now, and she let him embrace her with a kind of desperation she knew could only be spawned by war. As her breath came in spurts and he held her to him the voices inside her head announced that she would be embracing her brothers within the week and that Valerie would be free when the time came to welcome Angelique back from the fascists.

  57

  ‘I’ve a priceless cutting for you,’ Alec Harborne announced, his presence inspiring a group of ATA women to look up from their chess board in the common room at White Waltham.

  Shirley Bryce excused herself and went over to him. ‘You are a noisy bugger,’ she said, ushering him into a corner.

  ‘Speak for yourself – this place was quiet until they started letting females fly with us.’ He unfolded a piece of newsprint as they sat on a bench attached to the faded wall.

  ‘What on earth have you got there?’ she asked, reaching for the cutting.

  ‘Blood Libels are alive and well in Norfolk. Have a read.’ Alec sat back and rested his head against the plaster.

  Shirley quickly became engrossed in the piece, her hand tightly gripping the paper. ‘Where did you find this?’ she asked.

  ‘Sam Hardwick’s old lady collects newspaper cuttings. Keep it.’

  Shirley folded the clipping. ‘How is Marion?’ she asked.

  Alec’s expression changed instantly, his cheerful bounci-ness now smothered by a frown:

  ‘We thought she was to have a wee baby but it was something else.’

  ‘Something else! Why haven’t any of us heard about this? She’s been trooping back and forth on Hurricanes and Masters every bloody day, Alec. She never said there was anything wrong.’

  ‘Her dizzy spells and all that – did she never mention them?’

  ‘Never, Alec.’

  ‘It was her female system – she had a horrendous session with a quack doctor – he did cure it, though.’

  Shirley felt a wave of anger rising inside. ‘Does that mean – no babies for you?’

  ‘Most likely, lass.’ He looked at the chess group, who had begun chattering over cups of coffee. Shirley’s voice broke in:

  ‘Never mind – that new CO at Weston Longville says our job is going to be doubly taxing this coming year.’

  ‘What new CO?’ Alec asked sharply.

  ‘Charlie Buxton – in fact he’s the first airman in the family. They’ve all been adventurers and clergymen through the centuries.’

  ‘We’ve all been adventurers in the Harborne line, and I’m no CO as yet.’

  ‘Your day will come.’ Shirley knew Alec had resented the promotions being heaped upon other men. Though he had run his own business and his own life against unspeakable odds before the war, his flamboyant personality had never pleased the brass since the outbreak of world conflict and even Valerie had found him hard to take at times.

  ‘So what does the illustrious Commander Buxton say?’ he asked.

  ‘He made a special point of coming down to tell the girls based at Hamble and Hatfield that our ranks would swell.’

  ‘You must miss ground engineering,’ Alec commented quietly.

  ‘That’s my other news. The RAF has come around full circle and appointed me its first full-time woman Ground Engineer.’

  ‘Well, I’m dashed – this is historic.’ Alec put his arm around Shirley and she did not have enough time to shy away. He kissed her on her temple and her thick hair felt delicious next to his rough skin.

  ‘Give my love to Marion!’ she spluttered, pulling away from him and jumping up from the wall bench.

  ‘We haven’t finished talking,’ he said.

  ‘I have.’

  ‘We all love you, Shirley, and we’re proud of your achievements.’

  She was watching her colleagues at play. They had taken no notice of the pair’s meeting.

  ‘None of it means anything without Val,’ she mumbled.

  ‘What does your mum think?’ asked Alec.

  Shirley turned to face him. ‘Valerie is my life!’ she shouted.

  The others looked up.

  ‘Calm down,’ murmured Alec, his hand close enough to hers to take it in his own.

  ‘I’ve not seen her for three months, Alec.’

  ‘I’ve not seen my wife for three nights – that’s dangerous, lass.’

  ‘Be serious,’ she pleaded, standing over him, her hand still in his. She was perspiring and the wetness of her palm seemed to flow into Alec’s cool skin like pain departing a dying body. ‘Who can I talk to? My mother thinks I’m sick, and the world around me says so as well.’

  ‘It’s not incurable, Shirley.’ He held her hand tightly and she felt her focus swim. ‘Let go of me, Harborne!’

  Alec released her and she felt her equilibrium return.

  ‘This article would interest Stella,’ she said, unfolding the newsprint and motioning to the chess players. Stella was amongst them, and Alec smiled as she approached.

  ‘Hello, ballerina,’ he sang, rising from the bench.

  ‘My God – Alec Harborne being chivalrous!’ Stella exulted. Her tiny figure was clad in the newest winter uniform and the dark ATA blue was startling next to her rosy cheeks.

  ‘He’s brought me this piece from the newspaper,’ Shirley said. ‘It’s all about the Blood Libel. This chap says here he is directly descended from one of the Jews converted in the twelfth century in Norwich. If I were him, I wouldn’t be waving a flag about it.’

  ‘Why? Are you afraid Hitler is going to make it here after all?’ Stella demanded.

  ‘I can’t imagine why this man would want the whole world to know that his ancestors were Jewish.’

  ‘Are you ashamed?’ Alec asked, sitting on the bench.

  ‘Not at all,’ Shirley responded, ‘but as soon as people know this one particular fact about someone, they start treating you differently.’

  ‘Right!’ exclaimed Alec. ‘Now I shall treat you differently by taking you off into an office I happen to know is unoccupied, and ravishing you mercilessly.’

  ‘Three nights away from Marion and all he can talk about is his libido,’ Shirley said.

  ‘His what?’ Stella asked, looking up from the newspaper article.

  ‘It is a new word for romance – I read it in a medical journal.’

  ‘You are peculiar, Bryce,’ Stella said, tapping her with the cutting. ‘May I send this to Grunberg?’

  ‘You know where he is?’ they both shouted in unison.

  ‘I’ve only just heard from him,’ she replied.

  ‘Where?’ Alec demanded, suddenly alert.

  ‘They’ve put him in an Internment Camp. I ‘d written to him months ago, care of Cambridge U, but heard nothing. Now he appears – out of the blue, florid handwriting and all – full of news and names and anecdotes. It sounds more fun than this place.’

  There was a commotion in the main reception area, and all three pilots did an about-face.

  ‘Bottoms up!’ shouted Sean Vine, escorting a group of men into the common room. Bobbing alongside the crowd, which included Bill Howes, Noel and Sam, and Hamilton Slade, was little Cal.

  ‘That’s what I’m here for,’ boomed Alec, grabbing Cal and lifting him off the ground.

  ‘This is Cal March’s last day with ATA,’ Bill said, placing a bottle of black-market vintage champagne on the chess table, where Delia had lingered.

  ‘He’s going off to an undisclosed location, to be groomed for an Air Defence Cadet Corps that’s due to start up in February,’ Bill continued.

  ‘Where do you get all this top-secret gen, Yank?’ shouted Noel, who was not smiling.

  Bill cast
him a withering glare and pressed on:

  ‘Cal has in fact been sworn to secrecy about the exact details of his attachment to the new squad, but we all wish him well. During the first year of ATA we boys and girls of all ages, and of all nationalities, have ferried thousands of aircraft around this country for delivery to the RAF. Now you are about to become one of us. Fly safely, boy.’ Bill opened the champagne and with the bang of the cork an air of levity engulfed White Waltham as another punishing ATA workday, overshadowed by appalling weather, came to an end.

  Cal was surrounded by ebullient colleagues but his thoughts were hovering some distance above the din, as he suffered the absence of Jo Howes on this crucial day. Because Jo was still at Upavon she would not see him again before he was taken away from ATA. He had not had time to send a message to Upavon and, even if he had, Cal wondered if news of his sudden departure might not have ruined her chances of passing the course.

  ‘I’ll tell Jo you said goodbye,’ one of the girls was whispering.

  Cal emerged from his torment to see Stella Teague standing beside him. ‘You’re all so kind,’ he said, not knowing where to put his spindly arms. Champagne was being thrust at him and he grasped the glass by its neck.

  ‘It’s not a chicken,’ Noel said, taking the boy’s hand and manoeuvring his fingers up the crystal. Cal felt a curious tingling down his spine as Noel’s eyes met his momentarily and he could sense himself reddening.

  ‘Where did all this posh crockery come from, then?’ asked Alec.

  ‘We raided the local manor and raped the women,’ Sean shouted.

  ‘Does that mean we are so undesirable that you need to seek satisfaction elsewhere?’ piped Delia.

  Laughter filled the room but Cal could not rid his mind of Jo, and Shirley fought a temptation to scream:

  Why was Valerie not here?

  How could people be frivolous when the greatest woman of their generation was under armed guard for loving a man?

  Shirley looked at Cal, whose emaciated physique mirrored the condition of her soul. She wanted to protect him from love, and from obsessions, be they aeroplanes, comics or American girls. Watching him daydream while the others revelled, she decided she would take the leave days to which she was entitled and try to renew her own faltering will to live.