Spitfire Girls
Page 40
She withdrew to her kitchen that evening, still numb from the job she had had to perform earlier in the day. Her first loss through fatality had left a large collection of ATA paraphernalia in her room and it had to be turned over to the Commanding Officer. Having received the unbelievable news that Jo Howes had departed this life through asphyxiation, her first impulse had been to run, apron flapping in the rainy wind, straight into the Hatfield Ops room and register a formal accusation of murder. Mrs Bennell had seen Noel Slater admiring the lean figure of Cal March, the boy’s unworldly clumsiness being a source of fascination for the very senior ground engineer. Some of the girls had told her of his unhappy life, but she was never one to value past histories and had informed them he had been born wicked.
It was time now to re-let Angelique Florian’s room, but Mrs Bennell had heard that a new women’s ferry pool was opening. Her ATA girls would be reporting to places other than Hatfield and White Waltham, and the empty rooms might not be filled. Carrying a large pile of Theatre World magazines out on to the landing, she looked back into Shirley’s room and smiled at the tidiness of the ground engineer, who was of late bringing her sex so much distinction as the RAF’s most-sought-after technician. Any aircraft could be placed under her jurisdiction and she would adapt to its specifications, remedying faults and rendering the machine airworthy in time for its next sojourn into death games.
‘Are those up for grabs?’
Dropping the magazines on the wooden floor, Mrs Bennell watched as they spilled across the landing, several copies slipping down the stairs as if the beautiful faces on their covers were propelled by some inner spirit.
‘They belonged to Angelique,’ she answered, the newcomer’s accent now familiar to the landlady’s ears. Kay Pelham’s bronzed beauty was disquieting, as she lingered on the landing and studied Mrs Bennell’s face.
‘Could I have them?’
‘If Angelique returns, you must give them back.’
‘Noel says she’s gone for a Burton.’
‘What a terrible expression that is,’ the landlady muttered, going to her knees to collect the scattered Theatre Worlds. ‘Why can’t flying people just say someone has passed on to their reward?’
‘Noel Slater tells all the good jokes, you know,’ Kay said, bending down to help.
‘I should steer clear of him, my girl,’ Mrs Bennell asserted, their faces close and Kay’s thick chestnut hair brushing the other woman’s cheek.
‘Our relationship is – intense,’ Kay said quietly.
Rising slowly, Mrs Bennell felt a tightness in her lungs that seemed to slow her train of thought. ‘Whatever “intense” means to an Australian, I expect you are implying he has made overtures.’
‘God almighty, Mrs B.’
‘I’ve never known him to like flying alongside a woman pilot.’
Kay looked up from the floor, where she had spread the magazines at the woman’s feet.
‘This has nothing to do with being up in the air,’ she chortled, giving Mrs Bennell one of the smirks the other girls so dreaded.
‘People do say things about actresses, Kay.’
‘Blow me – I don’t have to be an actress to get Noel going!’ Kay collected the magazines all at once and rose, her smirk fading as their eyes met. ‘Did you know I met him in Brisbane? He was over on a secret mission, out of uniform. I nearly died on the spot when I turned up here and there he was, all kitted out to be a flight engineer. Let me tell you, Mrs B: dressed like a businessman, he’s okay.’
‘Noel’s never been of interest to any woman from the day he materialized in flying circles,’ Mrs Bennell observed.
‘Bachelors are fun to disarm,’ Kay said. ‘Don’t you think men are fun when they’re under you and they’re like moaning puppies, in your control because you suck and drain away their power until they cry?’
Mrs Bennell glared at Kay.
‘Try going down on Noel and you’ll see a fiend become a pup.’
‘Thank you very much but the prospect leaves me cold,’ said Mrs Bennell. ‘In any case what you are suggesting is shameful for a respectable spinster.’
Kay reached to pinch her landlady’s cheek.
‘Pilots are poets, Mrs B! They have no shame – it’s a waste of time when you spend your life inside a tin deathtrap.’
A clatter on the stairs startled the pair.
‘That last bit was rich – why did you have to stop?’ shouted Stella, clumping up the stairs in ATA boots and trousers.
‘What is that you are wearing?’ Mrs Bennell demanded.
‘Valerie Cobb does it again – she’s arranged for trousers to be standard issue for flying,’ Stella announced.
‘Noel will just hate all that,’ Kay said, pushing past them as Stella and Mrs Bennell exchanged looks. Marvelling at the resilience of the young pilots, the landlady reflected on the rapidity with which her consignment of girls had sublimated grief. They had thrown themselves into ATA ferrying with redoubled vigour upon their return from the memorial ceremony. Though Mrs Bennell knew their lost fliers had not been forgotten, the girls had laughed and eaten and smoked for several days afterwards in between perilous flights across winter and balloons, while their landlady wept incessantly over the empty beds.
‘How’s your sex life, then?’ asked Kay, running long fingers through rich hair. Stella wondered how many men she had touched with that delicate, superbly manicured hand.
‘I’m afraid that has never entered into my realm,’ Stella said, blushing at her own fantasies. ‘Perhaps I shall steal Gordon Selfridge from old Nora,’ she continued. ‘Did I tell you I’ve finally had a letter from my old ballet master Grunberg? I’ve written him once a month for a year and this is the first reply. I wonder if any of my correspondence ever got through to him.’
‘Where is he, then?’ Kay asked, standing in the middle of the stairway.
‘Detained – the government arrested all the German-speaking people they could find and poor old André was one of them. It’s all so bloody stupid: when you think of what Hitler is doing to Jews over there, and here they are in Britain under suspicion.’
‘This is the craziest country!’ hooted Kay. ‘Men in red jackets howling their heads off because some frigging fox is running loose, and spending weekends in freezing cold houses because a couple of old geezers want to shoot birds – crazy!’
Following the Australian back down the stairs, Stella thrust her hands into the smartly designed pockets. ‘We’ve a busy day ahead because the WASP is still surviving off Malta and she wants a new supply of Spits,’ she said. Her minuscule figure seeming to swim in the flaring trousers.
‘God, I ’d love to do a Malta run,’ Kay said, still laden with the magazines. With her free hand she raided Mrs Bennell’s precious biscuit ration and headed for the front porch.
They marched briskly to the airfield, and as a timid sun began to spread a white halo upon the gleaming aircraft, the girls shared an unspoken thought: once more, fire from the sky had not fallen upon their beloved Hatfield.
‘We’re all moving into Hamble,’ Stella said. ‘Mrs B hardly sees any of us now, and after this week we’ll only be here for brief postings when we come up from Southampton.’
‘Is this because of Malta?’ asked Kay.
‘Absolutely,’ Stella responded. ‘Pilots at White Waltham are being despatched to collect those Spits from the Maintenance Units in Prestwick, and at some point the planes have got to end up on the WASP. Anthony Seifert tells me they had to abandon a plan to take the Spits by road to Glasgow because of a narrow bridge that got in the way! Now it seems our lot are flying them in to Renfrew.’
‘God Almighty!’ exclaimed Kay. ‘Renfrew’s got a teeny-weeny landing run, for Christ’s sake. The approaches are hell even when the wind is is on your side.’
They had reached the main building at Hatfield Ferry Pool and walked briskly into the common room. Lili Villiers and Marion Harborne were already kitted up for a flight.
‘Charming,’ Kay said, approaching Lili and slapping her on the back. ‘We’re talking about your magic family aeroplanes.’
‘My father’s artwork is being hammered in Malta,’ Lili said, not looking up from the chit she grasped in an already gloved hand.
A large collection of ATA women hovered near the Ops Room. The weather having lifted, they awaited their ferry chits eagerly. They had spent a series of interrupted days and were furious at being unable to get back to Hamble, which now served as their permanent base.
‘Hell’s bells – it’s charabanc time,’ Shirley Bryce shouted, as the group realized their brief was to board a taxi Anson and be transported back to Hamble.
The squadron raced to the runway and clambered into the trusted aircraft, their designated pilot Stella Teague. Lately she had become prone to mishaps and the girls had been wearing their parachutes at the ready when forced to fly as her passengers. On a recent ferry job in a Hurricane she had been forced to belly-land; convincing the Accidents Committee that she was not at fault had been more perilous than the flight itself. On another occasion she had trouble controlling a Boston and had only been saved from crashing by being caught in tennis court netting along the approach to the airfield runway …
‘It’s the witch again,’ muttered Marion, swinging her kit into the generous space behind the pilot’s seat. ‘For the benefit of anyone who hasn’t yet had the privilege of flying with Stella, she has a habit of landing in people’s fish-ponds.’
The early arrivals waited for Sally and Barbara but soon the Anson was full and the familiar sound of its twin engines drowned out conversation as Stella took it skilfully into the air. As the most senior officer now attached to this group, Shirley sat next to the pilot and Stella released one hand from the controls to give the ground engineer a friendly punch as they roared over the Hatfield perimeter. In the rear, Marion turned pale green as the aeroplane gained altitude, her expression one of dread.
‘Don’t you dare be sick on me,’ shouted Kay, facing her in the row of heavily-kitted lady pilots.
Marion looked away and shut her eyes.
‘Do you think we ought to turn back?’ Lili asked, her fingers pressing into the arm of Marion’s thick flying suit.
‘I’m pregnant,’ Marion said, turning her head to the side and wincing.
‘That’s good news!’ Kay exclaimed. ‘Let’s drink to it.’ She reached inside her kit and produced a half bottle of choice champagne. Five pairs of eyes gazed with astonishment at the contraband.
‘How the hell did you get hold of that, Pelham?’ asked Stella, turning around to see why her cargo had become so restless.
‘Mrs Harborne’s in the club,’ Delia Seifert replied. All at once the girls were rocked by turbulence and Marion covered her face with her hands, only to be jolted once more by the champagne cork popping.
‘You could cause a catastrophe doing that!’ yelled Stella, scowling.
‘Who gives a shit, mate?’ Kay bellowed beck. ‘We’ll have to drink straight from the bottle, chicks.’ She passed the magnificent nectar around, its cheerful foil neck losing its allure as Marion pushed it away with trembling fingers.
Levity was short-lived as Stella was forced to manoeuvre the Anson away from what she thought were enemy aircraft straying into outer London airspace. They had left Hertfordshire behind, and as she took her valuable cargo away from danger Stella wondered if this had been their last visit to Mrs Bennell’s for a very long stretch of time. She groaned to herself as Kay’s resonant voice broke the welcome silence:
‘Make room, you lot of Sheilas!’
Kay stood in the crowded Anson, and as the others watched she began to disrobe. Sally pinched Marion’s forearm and for the first time she opened her eyes, offering a vague smile at the sight of Kay’s striptease.
‘This is what’s known as taking emergency action,’ Kay said, now down to her brassière and panties.
‘What is she doing now?’ Stella demanded, turning quickly but straining to keep her aircraft on a safe course for Hamble.
‘I’ve got a big date at the other end,’ Kay announced, pulling a delicately stitched party dress from her kit. Stepping into it, she adjusted her bra straps. ‘I may have to do without this.’ She began to remove her brassière.
‘Look out!’ Shirley screamed, as a sudden, deafening roar of fighter engines shook the giant Anson like a peapod suspended over a maelstrom.
‘Dear God,’ Marion said, gripping her abdomen.
‘Hold tight!’ Stella shouted, as the roaring drowned their voices and made the heavily laden transport plane shudder.
‘I’m staying right where I am, Teague,’ warbled Kay, slipping into the dress as she struggled to maintain her footing.
‘You are being ordered to do so, Kay,’ Stella snapped.
Their voices were barely audible as Barbara Newman leaned forward to steal a look outside through the plane’s windows, which, unusually, had been cleaned to perfection before take-off by an Air Cadet.
‘We’ve an escort, for Christ’s sake,’ she screamed.
Outside, a squadron of RAF fighters had come alongside the Anson, its crew straining to get a better view of Kay’s striptease. Delia waved through her tiny window, her heart thumping at the sight of Britain’s foremost air warriors whose humanity, she reflected, had made them seek a brief moment of folly, but whose presence made her feel indestructible. She turned to Shirley and grinned. Looking out of her side window once more, Delia waved again and realized the men would stay by her side until Hamble, whatever their ultimate destination, including oblivion.
With a thumbs-up, the aviatrix wished them Godspeed.
64
An April snowfall had covered the British Isles and as Stella’s cargo tumbled out of her Anson she glanced angrily at the layer of grey cloud overhead. Her approach to Hamble had been harrowing as visibility deteriorated, and now she calculated it might be a day before the girls could move on with their ferrying allocations. Pilots were handed sandwiches and a flask and were expected to sit in draughty huts at factory airfields while the snow and ice melted, waiting for that moment when visibility might rise above twenty yards. Stella had delivered the longest-standing members of woman’s ATA and hoped Nora Flint would be able to manufacture some witchcraft to alleviate the weather wait.
‘We need Angelique’s Ouija board,’ Barbara said, walking with the others to the main headquarters of Hamble Ferry Pool.
‘Perhaps the weather is a blessing,’ said Sally. ‘I gather Anthony Seifert has come down from Number One Pool with a surprise for Delia. I don’t think she has yet registered the fact they share the same surname.’
‘There are loads of Seiferts in the world,’ Barbara said testily. Her image of Anthony, intoxicated beyond all recognition after the death of Cal March, came sweeping back and she wanted to alter the course of the conversation.
‘Delia knows him only as Anthony,’ Sally continued, her hair now cut short, accentuating her striking features that were covered in a reddish glow brought on by the cold mist. ‘After all this time she hasn’t twigged.’
‘What hasn’t she twigged?’ demanded Barbara.
‘Everybody has come to think that if he isn’t a long-lost relation, he must surely be in love with her, the way he follows her about the pools,’ Sally replied triumphantly as they walked on.
Barbara felt a sense of relief as the image of drunken Anthony, staggering around her father’s house on a Sunday afternoon, came in waves to her mind’s eye. He was invited to tea but Lord Newman had been called to an emergency meeting of Ministers and Anthony broke down in her lone presence. She had plied him with brandy and soo
n he began unravelling a story she found horrifying and at once attractive in its sordidness. After five stiff drinks he divulged a secret he must have kept bottled for nearly quarter of a century, and she had wondered ever since why he had chosen her as his confidante. Then a memory flooded back: just before her death her mother had told her about a little boy-child born in her house on Sabbath Yom Kippur …
An American accent broke her train of thought:
‘Ready for the long endurance test?’ asked Edith Allam, her small figure looking plump and bulky in the heavy winter flying suit.
‘What endurance test?’ queried Barbara.
‘I’m sure you know about the waiting time at the fac -tories,’ Edith replied.
‘Of course – I thought you had organized another round-the-world expedition and were expecting us to accompany you,’ Barbara said, smiling at Sally, who was walking alongside.
‘Sean Vine tells me that film you lost has been sold for thousands to Beaverbrook,’ Sally said, falling into step with the American.
‘Yes, well, I have an important visit to make soon,’ said Edith, ‘and I think it has something to do with taking pictures. Somebody very high up in the RAF – a real big shot – wants to see me and I bet he needs an aerial photographer extraordinaire.’
‘Your modesty would flatten the Luftwaffe,’ hissed Sally.
They entered the Ops Room and Nora Flint looked over her reading glasses at the aviatrix from Philadelphia.
‘Did I hear you say you had to visit someone?’ Nora asked, her voice resounding with its usual chill.
‘Yes, but it’s nothing important,’ Edith replied.
‘Is it ATA business?’ Nora pressed.
‘No, CO Flint, not that I know of.’ Edith smiled and wondered if Nora had forgotten her days as a meat-market girl. Since Cal March’s death, Nora had become even more cold and distant, her sexless gait causing collective giggles when Gordon Selfridge tagged along behind his beloved CO.
‘You look too happy for this mystery journey to be classified as business,’ Nora commented.