The Spitfire Girls

by Jenny Holmes

  He looked keenly at her without saying anything.

  ‘That night in the Harbour Inn,’ she explained him. ‘We wouldn’t have met if you’d still been flying your Spits, et cetera. It’s you I have to thank for all this.’ Jean gestured towards the windscreen and the thin clouds below, glowing red and gold in the setting sun. ‘I still have to pinch myself sometimes to know that it’s true.’

  ‘Four missions in eighty hours,’ Douglas continued as if she hadn’t spoken. ‘All with the 74 “Tiger” Squadron. Four kills and seven other hits for me, each one chalked up on my fuselage. Two more kills and I’d have won my Distinguished Flying Cross. But it wasn’t to be.’

  Jean watched him tap the dials again. Their change of direction had increased the force of the headwind and she heard the engine falter and felt the aircraft shudder with the effort of holding its course. For a few seconds they were in danger of stalling until Douglas opened up the throttle to boost the revs and they flew safely on. When he made out Rixley station at the end of the railway line he slowly began his descent. The momentary lapse of concentration bothered Jean but she said nothing about it. Soon she recognized the dark area of Burton Wood and its three adjoining runways. They descended fast and low, preparing for landing in the dying light. Once again Jean’s reactions were quicker than the pilot’s; he was a few seconds late in pressing the overhead lever to lower and lock the undercarriage. Two green lights appeared with moments to spare then the wheels hit the ground and the plane squealed to an undignified halt.

  ‘Sorry about that,’ Douglas said as the Anson slewed sideways. ‘It’s been a long day.’

  Jean noticed the stern, closed look on Stan’s face as he and Gordon ran from the nearest hangar to slide the chocks in place. ‘For you and me both,’ she said as she unstrapped her seat harness. ‘But thanks anyway; you got us back before dark.’

  She and her pilot climbed out of the cockpit together, took off their helmets and goggles then walked to the operations room to clock off for the day. The small, cream-painted room was deserted, with maps, a typewriter and files cluttering the desk and two messages for Douglas left on a spike on the window sill.

  ‘I hope you didn’t mind my rabbiting on,’ he said quietly as Jean filled in the necessary form and he read his messages. ‘I don’t normally do that.’

  ‘Not at all,’ she assured him with a smile. She had a sense of them both hovering over the paperwork, unsure of what to say or do next.

  ‘Can I give you a lift to the Grange?’ Douglas offered with a feigned casualness that didn’t deceive Jean.

  She caught her breath. ‘I was planning to walk back,’ she began then changed her mind. ‘But yes – why not? It’ll be dark in ten minutes. Ta; a ride back would be most welcome.’

  They went out to Douglas’s Ford and he opened the passenger door for Jean before swiftly taking his place behind the wheel. Gordon and Stan watched them from the shelter of the Anson’s starboard wing, a strong smell of burnt rubber in their nostrils. Gordon grinned and tipped his head knowingly in the direction of Douglas’s car but Stan didn’t react. ‘We’ll have to change these tyres first thing tomorrow,’ he muttered through gritted teeth.

  Bobbie hadn’t been so lucky in her attempt to get back to Rixley before dark. She’d flown south to a maintenance unit in West Bromwich to drop off an aircraft that she didn’t much enjoy flying: a P-40 Tomahawk whose throttle had to be pushed forwards rather than backwards, much to her surprise. It would teach her to read her Ferry Pilots’ Notes more thoroughly in future, she decided. In any case, she’d delivered the Tomahawk successfully then taken a train to Crewe, expecting to make a north-bound connection and arrive home in time for a much-needed bath. However, her first train had been delayed and then diverted and she’d ended up in the back of beyond, in a country station called Harkness with rosebay willow herb going to seed between the wooden sleepers and no sign of the stationmaster in the small cottage at the end of the platform.

  Stranded! Bobbie put her bag on the station bench then slumped down beside it. It seemed like a dismal end to a frustrating day until a long-legged figure hove into view and loped towards her.

  ‘Hello, Bobbie, fancy meeting you here!’ Teddy laughed at her astonished expression. He was wearing his pilot’s jacket and carrying a canvas hold-all which he dumped beside hers on the bench.

  She jumped up with a smile, trying to control the tell-tale pitter-patter. What luck! Teddy of all people! ‘I say, this is a nice surprise,’ she burbled.

  ‘Likewise – although, to be honest, I did expect to find you here. There’s a telephone box in the village and I got on the blower to Rixley. They told me that my train wasn’t the only one to have been diverted.’

  ‘Yours too?’ The broad smile gave way to a more arch expression. After all, she really must not make her liking for Teddy too obvious.

  He nodded. ‘Would you like the bad news first or the good?’

  ‘The bad, please. No, don’t tell me – we’ve missed the last train of the day?’

  ‘Quite.’ Teddy pulled out a packet of Player’s and offered her one. ‘But the good news is: there’s a handy bed and breakfast less than five minutes’ walk from here.’

  ‘Excellent.’ Things were looking up, Bobbie thought as she picked up her bag. ‘Does there also happen to be a decent hostelry nearby, by any chance?’

  ‘There’s a place called the Rose and Crown in the centre of the village. We could call in there once we’ve got settled in our digs.’ Teddy could tell that Bobbie was trying but failing to maintain a sophisticated air. He noticed her fingers tremble as she put the cigarette to her lips and accepted a light before they walked under the station clock then out on to a road with a narrow pavement, bordered by a rough grass verge and a deep ditch.

  He smiled to himself as they set off at a rapid pace towards what passed for a hub of activity around here; in other words, the old-fashioned pub and a single row of houses, one of which was to be their billet for the night. In spite of having privately set his sights on poster-girl Angela on the day he’d arrived at the Grange, Teddy found himself once more appreciating Bobbie’s slight build and pale complexion. She reminded him of an old girlfriend from his home town, though Nancy Jennings hadn’t had anything like Bobbie’s gilded start in life.

  ‘Is this it?’ Bobbie asked as they passed the Rose and Crown and Teddy came to a halt outside number 6 Station Row. The humble house fronted straight on to the pavement. It had a low door with a stone lintel and a single room to the right. The window had no net curtains so that any passer-by might glance inside at the shabby armchairs to either side of an old-fashioned fireplace complete with brass fender and worn hearthrug.

  ‘Yes. Were you hoping for something better?’ Another smile played over Teddy’s lips.

  Bobbie pretended otherwise. ‘Good Lord above, no. We all have to make sacrifices.’ But where on earth were they to sleep? she wondered. Surely there were two bedrooms at most in this tiny house, and one of those must be occupied by the owner. To hide her confusion she lowered her head and slowly ground out the stub of her cigarette.

  Teddy knocked on the door. It was answered by an elderly, stooping woman in carpet slippers and flowered overall, her white hair neatly waved and her thin face heavily lined. ‘Hello, Mrs Evans; it’s me again – Flight Lieutenant Simpson. And this is Second Officer Fraser: the other pilot I mentioned.’

  ‘Follow me.’ With a quick glance at Bobbie but without further ado the old woman turned down the narrow corridor and indicated a flight of stairs ending in a small landing with a door to either side. ‘Room on the left,’ she said shortly before disappearing into the living room at the foot of the stairs.

  ‘Good Lord above!’ Bobbie murmured. She looked at Teddy in alarm. ‘Mrs Evans surely doesn’t expect …?’

  Teddy was enjoying the moment. It seemed that Bobbie had only one expression of surprise and he liked the way she rolled the ‘r’ in ‘Lord’ with a true Scots bu
rr. ‘Heavens; no.’

  ‘What then? Do you propose to sleep on the floor?’ Silently kicking herself for her gaucheness, she raised one eyebrow before setting foot on the bottom stair. Angela would have behaved differently, she was sure. There would have been more aplomb and a sharp witticism to put Teddy in his place.

  ‘If you prefer,’ he began. ‘Or else I could …’

  ‘I think not!’ she said with a flash of her grey eyes.

  ‘… pull the armchairs together in the living room and sleep on those,’ he proposed calmly.

  ‘Ah.’

  ‘Why, what did you think I was going to say?’

  Bobbie saw that he’d been deliberately toying with her. ‘Teddy Simpson, you’re an awful tease!’ She turned away and took the stairs two at a time while he followed Mrs Evans into the living room. Bobbie opened her door to find a single bed of the old-fashioned iron variety, complete with lumpy horsehair mattress and a chipped chamber pot underneath. There was a jug and basin on a washstand with a mirror on the wall above and a mahogany wardrobe taking up too much floor space beside it. It would have to do. Bobbie ran back downstairs without even combing her hair. She opened the living-room door to find Teddy alone and the landlady nowhere to be seen. ‘Come along, Flight Lieutenant Simpson, you owe me a Dubonnet and lemonade!’

  ‘Right you are, Second Officer Fraser.’ He’d played it correctly, he thought. It turned out that Bobbie could indeed take a joke and who knew what might happen later that night, after a couple of drinks at the Rose and Crown? After all, these were free and easy times and Atta girls had a racy reputation amongst the RAF pilots he’d known in previous postings. He linked arms with her and stepped out on to the pavement. ‘A Dubonnet and lemonade it is.’

  The rain came down in earnest soon after Douglas had driven off with Jean in his gleaming black Ford, its blackout-adapted headlights glimmering through the gloom.

  ‘Wouldn’t it be better to refuel the Anson now?’ Gordon asked Stan. It would entail one of them venturing from under the wing to run and fetch the petrol tanker from its parking place next to Hangar 2 – a sprint of two hundred yards through the downpour.

  ‘No, the morning will do.’ Stan kicked the nearest worn tyre with uncalled-for vehemence. ‘Bloody idiot,’ he grumbled under his breath.

  ‘Who – me?’ Gordon shot back.

  ‘No, First Officer Douglas bloody Thornton! Did you see the way he came in to land?’

  Gordon shrugged. It was easy to work out what was really eating his companion but now was not the time to kid Stan about the soft spot he’d obviously developed for Jean Dobson.

  ‘What the hell was he playing at?’ Stan went on. ‘He nearly overshot the runway and landed belly-up in Burton Wood.’

  Gordon turned up his collar and hunched his shoulders, ready to make a dash for it. ‘See you over in the canteen?’ he prompted.

  ‘No, not right now. I’m off to check the Spit in Hangar One that limped in yesterday afternoon with a damaged prop.’

  ‘Please yourself,’ Gordon called over his shoulder as he ran across the grass and disappeared into the canteen hut.

  Stan grunted. He ignored the rain and walked slowly towards the hangar, through the wide doors into a cavernous space where two small Corsairs were lined up next to a Lancaster and beyond that the Spit. As he approached the fighter plane it was obvious from a glance that the propeller blades had been badly bent out of shape by enemy fire and that the pilot had been lucky to have limped back to base. It couldn’t be fixed in a hurry, Stan decided. Better wait until morning. Still, he was in no rush to call it a day so he decided to refuel the Anson after all. He walked back to the doorway to spot Mary parking her car next to the petrol tanker close to Hangar 2. She looked worn out and seemed to have no coat or umbrella with her so Stan grabbed an oilskin cape from a nearby hook and hurried towards her.

  ‘Here; put this on.’ He slung the cape around her shoulders. ‘Can’t have you catching your death, can we?’

  ‘Ta, Stan, I appreciate it.’ It was nice to see a friendly face after a long drive all the way back from Oxfordshire and especially kind of Stan to bring the cape. He was a decent, brotherly sort – good-looking in a sturdy, deep-chested way, built like a middleweight boxer, she thought. ‘Come on; why not let me treat you to a nice, hot cup of tea?’ She veered towards the lights of the canteen and before he could say no she’d steered him inside and sat him down at a table beside one of the misted-up windows overlooking the square of neatly mown lawn. ‘With or without?’ she asked.

  ‘Without, ta.’ Ignoring a knowing look from Gordon, who sat on the opposite side of the room with Harry and newcomer Olive Pearson, he wiped the window pane with the side of his hand then stared out into the dark. ‘Why so late back?’ he asked Mary when she returned with the tea.

  She told him about her day: how she’d had to drop off two RAF men – one a wireless operator, one a gunner – at a training centre more than two hundred miles away and then drive back again.

  ‘Blimey, no wonder you look all-in.’ There were dark circles under her eyes and her face was pale and drawn. ‘Will you be able to have a lie-in tomorrow?’

  ‘I doubt it. First Officer Thornton wants me to cover for Olive. She’s got forty-eight hours’ home leave.’

  ‘What for? She’s only just got here.’

  ‘The family’s had bad news – her brother’s gone missing in action.’

  ‘Fair enough.’ Though Stan had no immediate family to worry about, he could see why Olive might need her couple of days off to support her grieving mother. ‘Have you got brothers?’ he asked Mary.

  ‘Two,’ she replied. ‘Tom’s in North Africa – Tunisia when I last heard. I don’t have a clue where Frank is. He’s the oldest. I lost track of him before the war started so it’s anyone’s guess what he’s up to now.’

  ‘You don’t know and you don’t want to know, eh?’

  Mary nodded. If only you knew the half of it, she thought. Black sheep didn’t cover it as far as her brother Frank was concerned. His antics had seen him thrown out of the house by their father by the time he was eighteen. ‘I’d rather not talk about it if you don’t mind.’

  Stan wrinkled his nose. There she went again, bringing down the shutters with a single bat of her long dark lashes, retreating into her own world of shadows and ghosts. Mary Holland was one dissatisfied girl, he decided. ‘Did you fill in that application form yet?’ he demanded with a quick tap of the table to draw her attention.

  ‘What application form?’

  ‘For the Class Two conversion course. Come on, Mary; you know what I’m talking about.’

  She raised her mug and sipped her tea, giving him that same guarded look.

  ‘You haven’t, have you?’

  ‘Not yet,’ she admitted.

  Stan tapped the table a second time. ‘You want to know what I think?’

  ‘Not really.’

  ‘Well, pin back your lugholes and I’ll tell you anyway.’ Someone had to, or else Mary would drift on from week to week without pursuing her dream of flying. ‘I think that the chip on your shoulder is the only thing that’s stopping you from going ahead.’

  ‘What chip?’ Stan had a cheek; assuming that he had the right to talk to her in this way. She frowned, looked down at the table and muttered sulkily.

  ‘I’m talking about the grudge you carry around with you. You’re always comparing yourself with girls like Bobbie and Angela and feeling sorry for yourself that you didn’t have their leg-up in life.’

  Mary resisted the urge to storm off, a move that would draw unwanted attention. Instead, she leaned across the table to hiss at Stan: ‘I’m not sorry for myself!’

  ‘Yes, you are, and I don’t altogether blame you. But you don’t need to carry on as you are, hating life’s golden girls and not doing anything about it; not when you could take the conversion course and join them.’

  ‘I don’t hate them,’ she argued weakly.

&nb
sp; ‘Then fill in the form and go to Thame,’ he insisted, as if it was the most natural thing in the world. ‘Once you get rid of that nasty chip there’ll be no stopping you.’

  Mary glanced up at him, her eyes flashing with a mixture of resentment and determination. ‘All right, I will,’ she muttered, rising to the challenge at last.

  ‘Tomorrow first thing, when you go to the ops room to collect your chit. March right up to the squadron leader and tell him you want to learn to fly.’

  She studied her hands splayed palms down on the table. ‘No, not him,’ she said thoughtfully. There was someone else she would rather ask. ‘I will do it but in my own way in my own time.’

  ‘Promise?’

  ‘I promise,’ she agreed, looking straight at Stan without blinking.

  He drained his mug then smiled. ‘That’s more like it. You’ll be up and at ’em before you know it – on the posters alongside Angela, hopping into that cockpit with your compass and stopwatch and taking to the skies with the best of them. And good luck to you, Mary. You deserve it.’

  The Rose and Crown in Harkness had seen better days. The yellowing plaster on the walls of the low-ceilinged Snug was cracked and a thick layer of dust coated the window sills and the rows of mostly empty shelves behind the bar. Still, Bobbie found the atmosphere convivial enough, especially with Teddy at her side.

  ‘The problem with Jerry,’ he opined to the portly, middle-aged landlord, who provided them with the third round of the evening, ‘is that he flies strictly according to the rules. Always the same formation, always regimented; that makes it easy for our lads to work out his next move in advance, which is a great advantage when you think about it.’

  The landlord nodded and smiled as he pulled Teddy’s pint. John Hughes didn’t object to the young airman’s exaggerated swagger; in fact, he saw that it formed a necessary shield to protect these RAF boys from the perils involved in fighting for King and country. Rather him than me, he thought as he carried on serving.

  ‘Believe me, I’ve seen it with my own eyes,’ Teddy sailed on confidently. ‘I ran into a bunch of them off the Essex coast late last year. My squadron was scrambled to intercept them head-on at twenty thousand feet. I took a decision to split off from the others and come at Jerry from port side. The closest Messerschmitt was a sitting duck; you could hear bullets pinging off his fuselage as I hit my target. Jerry’s canopy was smashed to pieces. I reckon his oxygen tube was cut clean through as well.’