by Shirley Mann
It was early August and although the war in Europe had ended, the battle for the East was still raging. Edward was not privy to the information that Hiroshima and Nagasaki were about to be subjected to the most devastating weapon the world had ever seen, so he was able to look forward to the day’s celebrations in ignorance.
Bobby had been delivering military aircraft without much enthusiasm since VE Day and without the urgency of getting planes to pilots for important missions, the days seemed long and tedious. So when Harriet’s letter had arrived pronouncing that she was chief bridesmaid along with two full pages of things she needed to organise, Bobby almost welcomed it. Two months later, she wearily restricted herself to only reading one of Harriet’s relentless letters every day.
Finally, the day had arrived and Bobby was in her bedroom, brushing her hair. She took a long, hard look at herself in the mirror and put the brush down on the walnut dressing table to consider her own future. The last Spitfire flight had left her feeling bereft and the tedious military aircraft deliveries that had followed meant that her days had lost any real purpose. Hamble was closing and many of the girls were wondering what their future held. Bobby picked up the brush again and rigorously carried on brushing and gave herself a good talking to. She was going to see Edward’s father in the morning to discuss her role at the airfield in the future and her own father had promised to go through the farm’s accounts with her. As long as she could still fly, life would be bearable, she thought, and then there was Edward . . .
She was wearing an old, pretty, floral dress that she hated, but Harriet had insisted she should wear to match the one Rachel and Rebecca had made for Elizé. Harriet also wanted to ensure that there was nothing grey, plain or war-like about her wedding. After VE Day, Harriet had issued Gus with an ultimatum that either he married her or she would confiscate his crutches. He had paused for a split second, taking in the pretty face in front of him. She had been at his side for months now, alternately shouting at him and giving him encouragement. She knew him like no other, understood him and loved him like no other and he realised he was about to make the best decision of his life. He reached out from his wheelchair to take her in his arms, but she jumped onto his lap and planted a huge kiss on his lips.
‘See, I always knew you loved me,’ she said triumphantly. ‘It just took you a bit longer to get there.’
He hugged her closer. From that moment, Gus Prince could not wait to make Harriet Marcham his wife.
*
Michel and Raoul were due to go back to France but had delayed their departure until after the wedding. Michel was keen to get back to Claudette and get the answer to the question his last letter had posed. Until last night, they had assumed Elizé and Rebecca would be going back to France with them so it had taken them by surprise when, at the dinner table, Elizé announced to the Hollis family that she and her mother would like to stay, if the family would have them, as the only memories her mother had of France were very, very bad ones. Elizé’s mother stared down at her clasped hands in her lap. Andrew Hollis immediately unearthed some homemade marrow brandy from the back of the cupboard, overwhelmed with joy. He handed glasses to the little gathering in front of him and proposed a toast.
‘I want to welcome Madame Waters . . . Rebecca . . . to our family. This has been Elizé’s home for some time now and we are all delighted that you both want to stay. We would have been devastated to lose you both.’ Rebecca looked up and for a brief moment, a wan smile lit up her face.
Andrew looked round with irritation to establish where the sniffing was coming from but then realised that all the women . . . and Raoul . . . were in tears. He gave up and put the glass to his lips. He put his head down and then gave a little sniff himself.
*
As the hour of the wedding approached, the party gathered outside the church, chattering excitedly. Archie was fiddling with his tie but Agnes pushed his hand out of the way and straightened it for him. He grinned at her. Mrs Hill and Rachel were exhausted after helping Mrs Marcham prepare the wedding breakfast and there was little time for them to get ready before the pies came out of the oven. The flustered cook grabbed her hat at the last minute and raced to the church, red-faced but content that the potato pastry was the best she had done in years.
Andrew Hollis looked proudly at his wife, whose own dimpled cheeks were a soft shade of pink. She was dressed in a re-made blue dress and hat that he remembered from when he had first met her. He put his arm around her shoulders and she beamed up at him, also glimpsing the young man she had fallen in love with so many years before. She, Andrew and Bobby had taken a little posy of late summer flowers to the family graveyard early that morning. It was Mathilda who had, in a poignant moment, ceremoniously placed them on Michael’s grave. It was the first time she had been able to visit the grave since that grey day in 1915 when Archie had almost carried her collapsed frame away from the freshly dug mound of soil, but on this day, she stood up straight, held her head high and insisted on being the one to place the flowers gently next to the headstone. As her parents walked slowly away, arm-in-arm, Bobby stepped up to the cross and, like always, put her hand on it to feel a connection with the spirit of her dead twin.
‘Oh Michael, what a family we have!’ she whispered. ‘I’m so proud of them, they’ve come a long way. We miss you every day but, Michael, you need to know – I finally feel a whole person. I know you’ll always be in here,’ she pointed to her heart, ‘and I will carry you within me.’ She paused and wiped her eyes then started again.
‘Now, I’m going to live your future for you, for both of us. And do you know, Michael, we might finally have a future. It’s been a tough few years. Oh, and one more thing, Michael, I think I have found someone to share my life with. You’d like him. He’s not easy to read but that’s what makes him interesting and I think, a partner for me. As you know, I’m not easy but I think he’ll cope with that.’ She laughed in the sunshine and patted the cross.
‘And now, my lovely brother, I have to go to my daffy friend’s wedding. I love you’ she added, blowing a kiss to the sky.
*
A cart arrived with Gus on the back. His mother moved forward to pass him his crutches but while his parents anxiously looked on, he reached for just one of them and hauled himself off the duckboard at the back to stand unsteadily. Raoul burst out clapping and everyone else followed his lead. Gus moved forward gingerly into the church. Mr Prince handed his wife a handkerchief and told her to keep it.
Michel went back to lead the dance to church, as he had done for Agnes, but Harriet was already coming down the path, running from side to side to cut through the children’s ribbons one after the other. He laughed and struck up a jig. Harriet started to dance her way to the church, with Bobby shaking her head in despair after her.
Waiting at the side of the aisle, behind the first pew, was Edward. He looked so tall and handsome, Bobby thought. She suspected so much about his role in, firstly, Michel and Raoul’s rescue, and then in Rebecca’s journey back to her daughter, but there would be years to wheedle the truth out of him – or maybe she would never know. To have her suspicions was enough. She looked down at the third finger on her left hand. It suddenly looked empty.
She smiled to herself. She had never thought she could feel as much love as she felt for that first Spitfire but Edward Turner came a very close second and she realised she probably would say yes – if he ever did get round to asking her properly.
Acknowledgements
This is my second novel and I have been in a bit of an appropriate tailspin over the research! My experience of flying is limited to sitting in the rear of an aircraft, looking sternly towards the cockpit door, daring them to do anything other than take me up into that scary airspace and back down again safely. That meant that when I decided I just had to write a story about the Air Transport Auxiliary and those wonderful women who flew dozens of different types of aircraft, I panicked, and could not have manag
ed without so many people who, hopefully, helped me to get all the techie stuff right.
I visited the wonderful Maidenhead Heritage Centre with its inspiring ATA exhibition. Richard Poad from the museum was extremely kind in pointing me towards Mary Ellis, the famous ATA pilot, who was unbelievably generous in inviting me to her home on the Isle of Wight and patiently answering all of my questions about what it was like to be an ATA pilot. It was moments like those that have made writing this book so very special and I want to particularly thank Rosemarie Martin, her niece-in-law, who organised the visit and was so welcoming to me, an unknown author. I will treasure the memories of that lovely afternoon in Mary’s conservatory. I certainly could not have written this book without spending that time with Mary. I felt so privileged to meet her and hope she would have approved of Bobby’s War.
I also want to mention Bernie Kuflik, who is a volunteer at the Maidenhead Heritage Centre. He took all my queries to a group of other pilots and sent me amendments and suggestions to make sure I was writing authentically.
I particularly want to thank the wonderful Helen Mills, a former WAAF plotter who agreed to meet me at the Battle of Britain Bunker in Uxbridge. She has been a brilliant early reader for me and has saved me from making errors about life in the 1940s. Her insight, knowledge and interest has been a huge help to me and her life as a plotter may yet be inspiration for future novels, so watch this space.
As a former journalist, I do get anxious about getting facts wrong, so I am grateful to the Facebook group, Anything to Anywhere, in particular historian, Nick Sturgess, who was so happy to help over the uniform.
That website led me to Sally McGlone, ex RAF and now an MRes (Aviation History) specialising in the ATA. She kindly offered to pre-read it for me and her careful reading and encouragement really gave me confidence. I can only say a sincere thank you to her.
This last year, I have got to know Kate Barker, my agent, and Claire Johnson-Creek, my editor at Bonnier Books UK, so much better and I am very much in their debt for their help, guidance and positive criticism. Their professionalism and knowledge has, I know, made me into a much better writer and Bobby’s War a better book – I am so grateful to them. I’d also like to mention Ellen Turner, whose publicity expertise has really helped to put me ‘on the map’. To Laura Gerrard, my copy-editor, and Gilly Dean, my proofreader, I say a huge thank you. Your beady-eyed skills have prevented mistakes in everything from timelines to repetitions. The author, Clare Harvey, has been, as she was with Lily’s War, incredibly generous with her comments and I feel so thankful that there are experienced authors like her out there happy to support newbies like me.
I have such a wonderful groundswell of support from people in my small Derbyshire town who are forced to listen to my angsts and doubts, and their belief in me has been humbling. Again, I want to thank fellow author, Tricia Durdey, who has been so generous with her time, loyalty and encouragement – her experience of being published has been invaluable – and Carol Taylor, who has unstintingly given her time to help me with talks, even a Zoom one during lockdown in the Coronavirus pandemic. Marie Paurin was my wonderful French ‘consultant’ and Peter Walton, a former RAF pilot, was incredibly helpful in guiding my aeronautical knowledge. I especially want to mention our lovely friends, Barry and Flora Joyce and George and Pippa Mansel Jones, who have encouraged me and fortified me with a glass of wine when necessary. Sarah Price has, as ever, been such a wonderful friend and without her reassurance and common sense, I doubt I would have ever got to this point.
And then there’s my wonderful family. My husband, Kevin, who has willingly trailed around air museums with me, grateful that I don’t write novels about hairdressing; my sister, Hilary, who shares in all my triumphs and disasters with unqualified support, humour and common sense; Gareth, Jonathan, Michael and Alex who get as excited as I do about my journey, and Teresa, who searches out brilliant research books that she thinks I might be able to use. I look forward to the day when little Clara moves on from books about Thomas the Tank Engine to ones about Spitfires!
But my last thanks must go to our two daughters, Jayne and Sarah. Sarah listens tirelessly, helping to sort out plotlines and angles and giving me valuable journalistic advice. She and Jayne wholeheartedly share the moments when I feel completely overwhelmed. Jayne is also my wonderful marketing expert, who has now forbidden me from pressing any buttons until I check with her. I’m still not there with working out how to use social media but she – and Sarah – are constantly trying to save me from disaster.
They have become the sort of women I know Mary Ellis would have been proud to pave the way for.
About the Author
Shirley Mann is a Derbyshire-based journalist who spent most of her career at the BBC. Her first novel, Lily’s War, was inspired by Shirley’s mother, who was a WAAF, and her father, who was in the Eighth Army. Her second book, Bobby’s War, is about a young ATA pilot.
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Dear Reader,
It’s so lovely to be back again with my new book, Bobby’s War. As soon as I heard about the women who flew for the Air Transport Auxiliary, I just knew I had found the subject for my second novel. In Lily’s War I’d learned how women had escaped the kitchen to do important jobs and how they had taken men on at their own game, but for women to become pilots, delivering all different types of aircraft all over the country, was a role I had not really been aware of. It was so groundbreaking, it completely inspired me. I visited the ATA exhibition at the Maidenhead Heritage Museum and they kindly put me in touch with Mary Ellis, one of the last surviving ATA pilots in the world, who at that stage was 101 years old. I was so thrilled that she invited me to visit her that it was only as an afterthought I asked where she lived. Getting to the Isle of Wight by public transport from Derbyshire proved to be a bit of an adventure and when I finally arrived at her house in the pouring rain, with my little wheelie case, I was drenched. Cool as a cucumber, she welcomed me into her home, ignoring my feet, which had gone black from the fabric of my new shoes, offered me a place to put my dripping waterproof and showed me into her conservatory. Following her, I hardly felt like a professional author but I had no doubt I was in the presence of a professional woman. Wearing smart navy slacks and a white blouse, I could easily envisage her clutching her Blue Ferry Notes, undaunted by either a huge Manchester bomber or a Spitfire. I knew immediately that nothing would faze this woman. We were joined by her niece-in-law, Rosemarie, who helped me by prompting Mary with anecdotes she had heard her talk about and throughout the afternoon Mary patiently answered my questions. I knew I was going to write a fictional book which would not in any way compete with the biographies that had been written about her but the little snippets of information that she shared with me were a wonderful insight into the incredibly pressurised lives these women lived. Her memory was astonishing, and she listed planes and places, remembering amazing details of each, even to the point of which airfields were the most difficult ones to land at and why. As ever, the minute details of everyday life were the ones that entranced me, the ones that aren’t in any of the history books and I felt privileged that she shared them with me. I was so fascinated, I had to constantly remind myself to take notes; I could have listened to her all day.
There were some moments when I asked her about letting her hair down when I got the look; the one that let me know firmly about how professional these women had to be. Unrecognised by some, condemned by others, there was not a moment in Mary’s career when she had been able to forget the he
avy responsibility she bore. One mistake and the reputation of women ATA pilots, as well as her own life, would be in danger.
Returning from the Isle of Wight I struggled to rationalise the storyline. I was going to take my heroine further than Mary might have approved of, but then I reminded myself, this is fiction so I have taken a few liberties that I hope you will forgive me for.
It was six weeks later that I read the obituaries telling me Mary had died. I was torn between being deeply upset that the world had lost this amazing woman and relieved that she had been so fit and able almost to the end. I felt incredibly privileged to have met her and will always remember the mischievous chuckle she let out at the end of the interview when she insisted on a photograph with me.
My visit to the Isle of Wight prompted a succession of visits to air museums and airfields including the wonderful Shuttleworth Collection. We arrived at a campsite in our camper van and the man who owned it immediately started to talk to my husband about how much he would enjoy the museum. The expression on his face when it was explained that it was me who was particularly interested in it rather than my husband gave me an insight into the natural prejudice that women like Mary had suffered and, I have to confess, elicited a little triumphant smile from me.
I hope you enjoyed Bobby’s War. I loved writing it, creating the characters and developing the storyline. I am in awe of the women who were in the ATA; their ability to juggle frantic schedules, fly so many different types of planes and find their way around the country without radar or a radio. As someone who struggles to travel five miles without Sat Nav, their ability fills me with awe. They were real trailblazers and their determination, dedication and, I’m afraid to say, in some cases, their sacrifice, has made my generation’s passage into equality an easier path and to the women like Mary, I would just like to say a huge heartfelt thank you.