by Carol Gould
Dame Dazzle stood in a corner of the ward, and at this sad moment was motioning for Alec to come to her. He stroked the side of Hamilton’s face and moved from the bedside, walking gingerly on the hard floor. Now he stood alongside the Matron. ‘Get our Hamilton back in the air,’ he said.
‘Hamilton is past caring – about living,’ she said. ‘We all know why, of course. Grief is recuperation’s most fiendish enemy, but if you can help us get him to the Canadian Hospital, he might just have a chance.’
‘That could happen tomorrow if he could only cheer up,’ said Alec.
‘Mr Harborne,’ she murmured, ‘Hamilton is gravely ill. Nonetheless he could possibly be saved by this new cure.’ She paused, the dazzle in her eyes dimming. ‘Has he any next of kin?’
‘He has no family we know of,’ Alec said, subdued. ‘I will arrange for him to be taken to Taplow – I’m Commanding Officer Air Ambulances and if I have to I’ll fly him there myself.’
‘That would be wonderful,’ she said. ‘You and I can make it our personal mission. I’ve often thought Mrs Mollison is looking down from above and willing him to live.’ She smiled at Alec, and he thought he could discern an unprofessional moistness in her eyes. ‘What has happened to Jim Mollison?’
‘Who knows? Who cares?’ Alec retorted, straightening up. ‘I’m off now, and I’ll get you an Anson straight away if I have to stop the whole bloody war for ten minutes. God bless.’
Turning her back on Alec, Matron appeared to vanish as she slipped along the corridor, leaving Alec alone amongst hastily stacked crutches and wheelchairs.
How he yearned to go back and drag Hamilton Slade from the white bed. Standing in the middle of the passageway, Dame Dazzle’s words reverberating in his head, he remembered his wife and his child and the life that would be there to live after this war. For the sake of Hamilton and Amy, Alec knew he would have to throw himself into ATA as never before, and he stormed out of the hospital thinking only of Wellington bombers and of the German tyrant still striving to conquer the world, and of the most important ferry trip he would ever undertake.
70
Making history, and performing exceptional deeds, had been the job of circus acts, Delia told herself as the press tormented Commanding Officer Flint on this bright afternoon. April snow gone, and mammoth ferrying tasks now dominating the whole of ATA, Nora had wanted as little attention as possible given to her top girl’s latest assignment in a four-engined bomber. Having been recommended for the Class 5 conversion course by Commanding Officer Sean Vine, Delia had been etched into aviation annals, the magic of this recommendation being the fact that it had come from a man.
Delia, however, was unconcerned and felt a keen sense of irritation that her full-time job was becoming a source of publicity. Amongst the near one hundred girls who now flew for Valerie Cobb’s organization, there was a common feeling that this was a form of employment, not a showcase for women’s rights.
‘Oh, let’s get on with it, for God’s sake,’ shouted Delia as a photographer insisted on her posing next to the giant Wellington bomber before she took it on an urgent delivery flight to Number One Pool, White Waltham. Already on this day she had ferried two Spitfires and a Hornet Moth sandwiched between a Mustang and a Mosquito, and now, as the exhausting day drew to a close, her big moment had come: she was to take Wellington X9707 from Castle Bromwich to White Waltham.
‘History is made at Castle Brom-witch,’ sang the photog- rapher, his assistant fussing with film and dropping a plate on the muddy tarmac.
Delia laughed. ‘Are you American?’ she asked, still smiling.
‘Burt Malone,’ replied the photographer. ‘This is Stan Bialik.’
‘What would make you want to spend your teatime at Castle Bromwich?’ she asked, preparing to enter the massive aircraft.
‘We were offered on-the-spot jobs in war-torn England, so here we are,’ Burt replied.
Stan fretted.
‘Asshole,’ Burt whispered, tearing the plates from Stan’s unsteady hands.
‘Don’t you think your colleague ought to be doing something else for a living?’ Delia asked, her tired spirits lifting.
‘He ain’t used to gals dressed up like guys,’ Burt replied.
‘Can he not speak for himself?’ she demanded, staring at Stan.
There was a pause.
‘I believe they call this the European Theatre of War,’ drawled Stan.
‘Well done – it talks,’ Delia exclaimed, climbing into the cockpit.
‘Idiot – this isn’t Europe, and it sure as hell ain’t no theatre,’ Burt growled, collecting up his equipment.
‘Do you think what we heard is the truth?’ Stan asked, his thin figure a pinprick next to the majestic Wellington.
‘Why wouldn’t it be? I gather anybody named Buxton in Norfolk doesn’t tell lies. They say three families own the county – and they’re all Catholics, too!’
‘I’ll be damned,’ Stan said, his face brightening.
‘That’s not exactly how I ’d put it,’ Burt mused.
‘Does being Catholic make them more truthful?’
‘Ask the Pope,’ Burt replied. ‘You think up the dumbest questions, Bialik,’ he added, watching Delia in the cockpit. ‘I wish I had my telephoto lens – wish those goddammed shitasses hadn’t confiscated it for the war effort when we arrived. Some Limey squaddie will break it his first time out.’
With a great roar Delia had the engines alive and the huge bomber taxied away from the Americans. Looking down at the men she waved: their manner had disarmed her. As she manoeuvred her enormous aeroplane along the runway she was surprised that nerves had not entered into the task: Sally Met had bombarded her with weather information, and some of the other girls had shown a rare apprehension when hearing of her assignment. She had not even bothered to tell Marion Harborne that she was tackling Wellingtons: Marion had become edgy in her pregnancy, and Delia had dreaded the thought of upsetting Alec’s beloved.
Her Wellington had a wing span of eighty-six feet and was virtually double the measurements of a Blenheim, yet much less responsive on the controls. Delia had been told this was another case of reading one’s notes and getting on with it, and having done some homework amid her parents’ nonstop chatter the night before, she felt comfortable in the flying machine that had a geodetic basket-weave infrastructure. This bomber had been designed with the shape of the airship R 100 in mind, and was so flexible the pilot could feel the fuselage flexing when he or she pulled on the controls. Now, as Delia took her very own Wellington into the air, the gusty weather Sally Met had predicted took hold, and she could see the wingtips moving up and down. Too much strain, she knew, would break the elevator trim.
Delia prayed for no mishaps, and as she roared along the magnitude of the occasion began to creep into her psyche. It was just a job, she kept telling herself as her tiny figure commandeered the powerful monster through the heavens, but it was thrilling.
Before departing for London and her long-suffering mother, Shirley Bryce had told Delia that the first girl on four-engined things might be landed with any one of a number of types of Wellingtons: some tended to swing to the left on take-off, she had warned Delia, and some to the right. Some told the pilot the undercarriage was up when red lights flashed, while others had red lights to say the monster was airborne. Delia had marvelled at Shirley’s instant expertise – she had a photographic memory and in recent months, had been seconded to the RAF enough times to make Nora and Valerie apoplectic with frustration, but all the girls were aware that awe was at the heart of their exasperation.
For Shirley was indeed the pride of ATA.
Every lady pilot had been amused when Shirley emphasized the importance of brute strength when explaining manual lowering of the undercarriage. It was perhaps for this reason, the girls theorized, that the RAF had been reluctant to allow ATA women on to the largest bomber in the force. As she roared on towards White Waltham, Delia recalled the ground engineer�
�s comments about the port engine: if its hydraulic pumps failed, one might have to land with the wheels retracted, there being no time to perform the umpteen strokes of the hand pump required to lower the undercarriage manually. Delia was pleased this aircraft had searchlights and radar for communication with ships. Now, as the minutes ticked by and she felt at one with the raging quartet of engines, she yearned to operate the Wellington that had aerials for detecting submarines, or the version that could explode mines from the air.
Cruising steadily, Delia was acutely aware of the need to concentrate, but her mind had begun to review the extraordinary events of the past fortnight. After twenty-nine years she had met her half-brother for the first time. Anthony had kept her father’s name, but the astonishing facts about her mother’s liaison with Lord Truman had so confused Delia as to make her ill for a week. When her mind had assembled the story, she realized Anthony had a claim to one of the ten largest estates in England. Anthony had told her that their mother had nursed Truman upon his return from the First War and, though already married to Seifert, had tasted passion for the first time and from this had come a son.
How had he discovered the truth?
Delia had been suspicious of Anthony’s story, but she had to admit that their physical resemblance was uncanny. She had pressed him for evidence and he had told her the even more remarkable story of his birth: their mother had been compelled to leave the family home when Seifert had become insane with alcoholism. Lord and Lady Newman had taken her in on a Friday, the eve of their most sacred holiday, Yom Kippur, and had told her a child born on Sabbath Kol Nidre would have good fortune all his life.
And Anthony had indeed arrived during that night, after hours of agony for his mother. Certain of her impending death, the Brigadier’s wife had confessed her transgression and begged them to tell Truman he had a son. She survived, however, and with the passage of a day was beseeching the kindly couple to keep her secret intact. Life with Seifert became intolerable, and the baby boy became wild and uncontrollable. Without money, and her mind a shambles, Anthony’s mother had surrendered him to a children’s home, her psyche too filled with shame and uncertainty to have considered the possibility of the childless Newmans adopting the boy. He would have been raised in the Jewish faith, and that would have damaged his future, she told herself. Late in life, the Newmans had a child of their own, a daughter, and when Barbara had come of age her mother had related the story of the baby Anthony, who had been born in their home on the Holiest of Holy Days.
Delia’s Wellington surged on.
She hoped her brother would keep his story to himself. He had a propensity for animated and effusive narrative and she had asked him to exercise discretion. They had agreed it would do their parents little good to discuss the matter, and now, as the weather cleared and her bomber sailed along with glorious power, she vowed to swear Barbara Newman to secrecy. Life as a champion athlete had made the girl over-confident, and Delia wanted her family story silenced for ever. Brigadier Seifert had become benign in direct relation to the number of flights Delia had completed for ATA, and she did not wish to disturb his quietude. She was glad mothering and romance never entered her train of thought. After all, Angelique’s life had become painfully complicated due to her desires. Marion had had to leave ATA at the height of war, and Delia could see this as a result of silly desires.
Why did people marry?
She herself would be satisfied in the pilot’s seat until she died.
Out of the corner of her eye Delia was startled by the approach of another Wellington. For a moment she thought it was a mirage or a weird optical illusion reflecting her own X9707 through one of the windows. Gradually the image grew more distinct and she remembered Alec Harborne having threatened to provide an escort, his chits requiring Wellingtons to and from various Maintenance Units all day. Delia was delighted and waved excitedly, but she could not be sure it was Alec or if in fact the pilot could see her happy gesture. Heavy weather was closing in, and following one of Shirley’s thousand pointers, she veered away from the other bomber, only to see him in hot pursuit seconds later.
Delia’s relaxation melted into a sweaty unease but she pressed on towards White Waltham and begged the Almighty to prevent womankind’s first major four-engined-bomber assignment from ending in disaster.
71
‘By any stretch of the imagination, the whole thing is monstrous,’ fumed Brigadier Seifert, his wife cowering on the edge of the dreary grey fabric that covered a well-worn sofa.
‘My darling, you were not meant to know – but the boy is on his way, and I want you to love him as I do,’ she said, shaking within.
‘I would never be able to find love for human filth.’
‘He is a beautiful boy – so Delia tells me,’ she said. ‘This is wartime. For God’s sake – people reveal all their secrets when whole cities are burning before midnight. What does it matter, anyway? This was thirty years ago.’
He moved to the whisky decanter. ‘You were always an unloving slut and you bred me an unnatural daughter who behaves like a boy.’
‘Delia is your reason for living – you adore her!’
‘Could I ever be seen at my club, I ask you?’ he boomed. ‘Dare I present myself at the Parish Council as Fleet Street’s favourite cuckold?’
Listening at the door leading to the drawing-room of the Seiferts’ sparse residence, Marion Harborne had heard the saga of Anthony unfolding and wondered if Delia had been exposed to any portion of the story. She had wanted to sleep, but the sounds of shouting awakened the heavily pregnant pilot, her stamina decreasing with each passing week of April 1942. She wanted the new life inside her to eclipse even the fever of war.
She thought of Delia in the Wellington. Alec had told her of the girl’s historic first, and she was baffled by Delia’s secrecy. Perhaps she had not wanted anyone to worry; Marion knew the four-engined bomber could be a daunting prospect and in unfamiliar circumstances could place the flier in great peril. Marion had moved down the stairs one by one and stopped outside the room in which Delia’s parents raged: she could grasp a scenario about an affair on which Marion knew this withered woman had had every right to embark, her withering having started long years ago. Brief but unbridled, this affair had produced fruit equally volatile: talkative and violently energetic, Anthony had set sparks alight amongst all of women’s ATA.
Passion, Marion theorized, was passion’s inevitable product.
Had Hitler been conceived in rapture, she wondered?
Now the beauty and prolonged ecstasy of the Brigadier’s wife had been putrefied by the newspapers during a war in which scholars were being hung on meat-hooks to die.
There was a sudden loud knocking and Marion stirred. She hadn’t time to mount the stairs, and she watched wearily as her hostess moved slowly to the front door as if walking to her beheading. Anthony entered the hallway briskly, holding his cap and projecting an earthy, intensely masculine presence as his purple eyes surveyed the staircase.
‘Marion Harborne,’ he exclaimed, striding to the figure crouching along the wooden banister.
‘I wasn’t eavesdropping, Mrs Seifert, if that’s what you were thinking,’ she said pleadingly.
‘It’s all in the press anyway,’ the older woman said, turning away.
‘The woman’s a slut!’ Delia’s father shouted from the drawing-room.
Marion looked on quietly as the boy and his mother, meeting for the first time in thirty years, embraced – her thin figure engulfed by his tall, robust newness. They remained in each other’s arms for what seemed several minutes, and Marion feared the Brigadier’s temper, which growled aimlessly a few feet away.
‘There is something I need to tell you, Mother,’ he said, holding her face and studying it, his colourful expression bringing a pulse to her deadened veins. ‘Would you excuse us, Marion?’
Lifting her heavy abdomen with her hands, Marion rose from the steps and Anthony moved to help.
; ‘I’ll be fine,’ she said, mounting the stairs.
Mother and son entered the drawing-room and Marion stopped once more, settling on a middle step. There was an eerie silence – no explosion from the Brigadier, just a strange stillness. She could barely hear Anthony’s voice, and the urge to eavesdrop compelled her to move without standing, sliding down on her bottom until she had reached the base of the staircase.
‘Two ATA Wellingtons collided – it was all very quick, and there was little suffering,’ she could hear him murmuring. Her heart began to race with blind alacrity and she could no longer hear the unbelievable because Mrs Seifert’s hideous sobs were drowning out her own as she cried out for:
‘Alec, Alec …’
72
‘This is going to ruin our word games,’ said Friedrich Kranz, packing a large suitcase full of books.
Watching his movements, Raine Fischtal focused and snapped a photograph. ‘I think it is very unjust,’ she said, winding the film to the next exposure.
‘You just hate the idea of Jews being freed and real Deutsch being kept imprisoned,’ he asserted, grinning.
‘May I keep your old neckties?’ Zuki asked, rummaging through Kranz’s detritus.
‘Of course,’ Kranz replied. ‘Just think: someday you will be offered British citizenship and on the day you are sworn in you will be seen wearing a Cambridge tie. Mark my words that this will happen.’
‘Nonsense,’ Zuki said glumly, ‘we are to be exterminated very soon.’
‘The British would not be so stupid,’ Raine said, still snapping from different angles. ‘We will be given important jobs and perhaps the Americans will buy our freedom.’
Grunberg listened in silence, ecstatic that the day had finally come. His gargantuan project on the Blood Libel was nearing completion, and he was hopeful of a publisher. His months interned had passed without trauma because he had been allowed to exercise his brain. This had not been the case for Hartmut Weiss, whose internment had been a nightmare of boredom; he had fought daily for permission to be freed to fly for the RAF, or at the very least for ATA, but the authorities had scoffed. His brawn had been assigned to haulage duty, and he had begun keeping a record of the number of bags of camp garbage his arms had lifted in thirteen months of captivity.