The Spitfire Girls

by Jenny Holmes

  ‘Goodnight,’ Stan grunted. Earlier in the evening he’d offered Jean a lift home and she’d refused, saying the walk would do her good. Now it looked as though she and one or two of the other girls had accepted the flight lieutenant’s offer.

  ‘G’night,’ Gordon and Harry echoed.

  ‘Goodnight all.’ The three men disappeared into the darkness while Cameron confirmed arrangements with Bobbie. ‘Find Angela and pass on my message. It wouldn’t do for her to walk home by herself.’

  So Bobbie began the search. She tried the sparsely furnished public bar then the cosy Snug without any luck. Perhaps Angela had already left without telling anyone? On the point of admitting defeat and returning to the party room, Bobbie opened one final door leading out into a small yard at the back of the building.

  There was no light. The moon was hidden behind thick rain clouds and it was several seconds before Bobbie made out a row of oak barrels and several wooden crates stacked against a high stone wall. In the middle of the wall there was a gate that stood ajar. Bobbie had a sense that someone had recently been there; the gate latch fell with a sudden click and she heard movement in the thick darkness immediately beyond the yard.

  ‘Angela?’ No, I’m imagining things. Bobbie shook her head.

  The gate swung open in the breeze. There was a whisper then suppressed laughter.

  ‘Angela!’ Bobbie grew suddenly angry. Whoever was out there was doing a poor job of hiding from her. ‘I know you’re there. Stop being silly.’

  After a pause, a figure stepped into view. It was too tall to be Angela; in fact, it was a man’s outline followed by a voice Bobbie recognized.

  ‘If it isn’t the birthday girl,’ Teddy said jovially as he walked into the yard, one hand in his trouser pocket, the other holding a cigarette. He advanced towards Bobbie, putting his cigarette to his lips and inhaling deeply.

  ‘What are you doing out here?’ she demanded.

  ‘Minding my own business and having a quiet smoke.’

  Bobbie saw that he was smirking and his eyebrows were raised mockingly.

  Teddy came closer. ‘How about a birthday kiss?’ he whispered in her ear, sliding his arm around her waist.

  With a small gasp Bobbie pushed him away. ‘Who else is out there? Is it you, Angela?’ Without waiting for a reply, she brushed past Teddy and stepped out through the gate on to a rough cinder track overlooking a steep railway embankment. Sure enough, she found who she was looking for.

  ‘Yes?’ Angela’s enquiry had a hard edge. ‘What do you want?’

  Bobbie glanced back towards the yard in time to see Teddy disappear into the pub. ‘For goodness sake, Angela; what were you thinking?’

  ‘I wasn’t thinking anything, if you must know.’ This was true; one moment Angela had been dancing a slow waltz with Teddy, his arms wrapped around her. The next thing she knew they’d been standing on the embankment in the rain. ‘Don’t look so shocked; nothing happened.’

  ‘I don’t believe you.’

  Angela shrugged. ‘We were both tipsy, I suppose.’

  ‘Did he kiss you?’ Bobbie demanded.

  The question was met by an impatient toss of the head. ‘That really is none of your business.’

  ‘But did he?’

  Angela was obliged to raise her voice above the rumble and rattle of an approaching train. ‘Really, darling, I won’t answer that. And I’ll pretend that you never asked.’ She brushed raindrops from her cheeks but couldn’t control a shiver that ran through her. ‘Let’s try to forget this ever happened, shall we?’

  Bobbie’s shoulders sagged forward. The wheels of the train clicked along the tracks and steam belched from its funnel into the night air. There was no doubt in her mind that Teddy had kissed Angela and it wasn’t ever to be spoken about. ‘Very well,’ she agreed stiffly.

  The train chugged past in a blur of metal and steam, the lights in its compartment windows casting a yellow glow on the two women standing next to the embankment. Brakes squealed as it approached the station two hundred yards from where Angela and Bobbie stood.

  ‘Cameron will give us a lift back,’ Bobbie said in a flat voice.

  A guard called out the name of the station. There was a short delay before doors opened then slammed shut. A whistle blew.

  ‘Then what are we waiting for?’ Angela declared. She ran ahead of Bobbie through the unlit yard and into the pub. ‘Come along, darling, before we catch our deaths.’

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  During her two weeks at Thame, Mary had donned overalls to stand behind a work bench and examine the oily innards of a dozen aeroplane engines. She’d sat at a desk to learn a confusing variety of control configurations and settings for the aircraft she was being trained to fly. Equally important were the Aircraft Identification classes led by Flight Sergeant Rouse, whose voice was a sharp bark and whose instructions it would be fatal to ignore. The sergeant made it clear that quick and accurate recognition of an approaching aircraft – friend or foe – would mean the difference between life and death; hence the importance of studying the posters on the classroom walls and memorizing every single silhouette.

  In the evenings Mary had studied her Ferry Pilots’ Notes and tried to retain speeds for take-off, climbing, cruising, landing and stalling for single-engined Spits, Corsairs, Mustangs and Hurricanes. Towards the end of the fortnight, focus had switched to Classes 3 and 4 – the twin- and four-engine operational aircraft such as Lancasters and Stirlings: yet more facts and figures to cram into her already stuffed and overheated brain.

  Nevertheless, the days had sped by and Mary had absorbed information like a sponge, pouring all her energy into learning the theory and largely ignoring the recreational facilities on offer at the school. As expected, she had little in common with her fellow trainees, who spoke differently and talked of a world she knew little or nothing about. So, while her cohorts played tennis in their spare time and inhabited the town’s drinking haunts, Mary stayed behind in the women’s dormitory, sitting cross-legged on her bed and devouring her Notes, looking forward to the day, fast approaching, when she would graduate from training in a dummy cockpit to the real thing – up in the air at last.

  ‘This is it.’ Flight Sergeant Rouse walked Mary out on to the runway early on Friday 8 October for her much anticipated ‘stooge’ flight. A strong breeze swept in from the east as they approached the Oxford, a twin-engine monoplane favoured by the instructors at Thame. He walked her round the aircraft to give her time to get used to its dimensions. ‘Now remember; she has a tendency to swing on take-off and landing, especially in this wind. You’ll have to correct that as best you can. She’s a lot faster than the Tiger Moth. Try not to stall her; she’ll drop like a stone if you do. But don’t worry; I’ll be sitting right behind you.’ Rouse tapped the mouthpiece attached to her parachute harness. ‘If you get into difficulty, speak into this. I’ll guide you through.’

  ‘Yes, sir.’ Mary’s mouth was so dry she could hardly speak. The moment had arrived. She must seem neither too anxious nor too excited. Above all, she must keep a level head.

  ‘The Oxford has retractable wheels,’ Rouse reminded her as he stepped up on to the wing and climbed into the dual cockpit. ‘See this lever? Pull it back to bring up the undercarriage. Press it forward for landing. Make sure it’s locked. Watch for the green lights.’

  ‘Yes, sir.’ Mary climbed in after him, aware of the snug fit of her Sidcot suit as she wriggled into the narrow seat in front of his. As Rouse lowered the canopy, she slid her goggles over her eyes and tightened the chin strap of her helmet, checked the dials in front of her then waited for the sergeant to signal chocks away to the ground crew below.

  The wind buffeted the stationary plane. It scattered early autumn leaves across the runway. The sky was dull grey.

  ‘Fire up the engines and taxi to the take-off point,’ Rouse instructed.

  This is a first for me but it’s an everyday event for the sergeant, Mary thought as she c
arefully followed orders. The idea helped to slow down her racing heart.

  ‘Did you check with the met room for visibility?’ The voice behind her ran calmly through the routine.

  ‘Yes, sir: fifteen hundred yards with twelve hundred feet of cloud clearance.’ The moment was approaching; there was no turning back.

  ‘Very good. Check your revs, keep your hand steady on the stick – off we go!’

  With the roar of the twin engines in her ears, Mary hurtled down the runway. She felt the Oxford’s nose tilt upwards then there was a jerk followed by a strange floating sensation as they were suddenly airborne. The pull of gravity pushed her hard against the back of her seat. With her hand on the joystick and using her rudder pedals to combat the easterly wind, she climbed steadily then levelled out at 1,000 feet. Below them the airfield was a square of bright green, the surrounding fields a patchwork of yellows and browns.

  ‘Steady as you go,’ Rouse instructed. ‘Lower your revs, increase boost until you achieve maximum cruising speed; that way you keep your petrol consumption to a minimum.’

  Exhilarated to her fingertips, Mary followed a westerly course. All her pre-flight nerves had vanished; her heartbeat was rapid but steady. She was flying a real plane, hearing its roar, drinking in every detail of her surroundings: the white, wispy clouds streaming past the cockpit, the grey sky above, the colours of autumn below. And there was the ancient city of Oxford, set out like a model village complete with spires and domes. She flew over miniature college greens and narrow streets, smiling to herself, remembering her fairground ride on the Moonrocket and how she’d dreamed back then of this impossible moment. She banked the plane and turned her towards the south, felt the wind batter her port side and corrected the swing.

  ‘Nicely done,’ came the comment through her headset.

  Mary felt on top of the world. An indescribable thrill ran through her as the powerful plane responded to her touch – to travel at such speed, to be in control, was beyond words! Even as she followed the instruction to turn for home and began a slow descent, her spirits continued to soar.

  ‘Lower the landing gear,’ Rouse reminded her from his instructor’s seat.

  She pressed the lever on cue and felt the wheels lower then lock into position. Using her compass to chart her exact course and looking out for landmarks, she headed home. Throttle down without stalling the engine, hand steady on the stick, decrease speed, hit the concrete, apply brakes. The Oxford squealed to a halt with fifty yards of runway to spare. Mary turned off the engines.

  As the propellers stopped whirring, the ground crew ran up with the chocks. Rouse lifted the canopy, allowing Mary to unbuckle her harness and step out ahead of him. She stood for a moment on the wing of the training plane, looking out with pride over the airfield at the service huts, administration block and mess buildings.

  ‘Get a move on, Holland,’ Rouse barked at her from behind. ‘I haven’t got all day.’

  It didn’t matter; his two words of praise – ‘Nicely done’ – stayed with Mary as she walked towards the canteen.

  Her instructor would put in a favourable report. She would soon move on to the final stage of her training – her first solo flight in a Spitfire Mark V.

  ‘Oh, how I hate these overnight assignments,’ Angela grumbled from the back seat of the car driven by Olive Pearson. ‘Especially on a Friday; they’re the worst.’

  Bobbie agreed. ‘I blame Douglas for picking on us,’ she complained. ‘He knows how much we look forward to a Friday night off yet at the last minute he says we must trek all the way to Walsall to pick up two new Spits instead.’

  ‘In the dark!’ Angela sighed. They could see nothing but their own reflections in the car windows as Olive drove them mile after endless mile, through grimy mining villages and smoky pottery towns.

  ‘When we’d far rather go out and paint the town red.’

  Olive pulled up at a crossroads to let a small convoy of army supply lorries trundle by. She tried to close her ears to the grumbles from the back seat. Had Bobbie and Angela forgotten that there was a war on and bigger sacrifices than theirs had to be made? Take Olive’s own case – she had to drop off the two pilots at their digs close to the factory then drive all the way back to Rixley before morning. There would be three hours’ kip for her tonight, if she was lucky.

  Angela stared vacantly at the back of Olive’s head and shoulders, aware that her conversation with Bobbie didn’t flow as usual. In fact, Bobbie had been short with her all week, ever since the silly business with Teddy after the birthday party. There’d even been one occasion when Bobbie had snubbed Angela outright: they’d both been standing in the queue to receive their chits and Angela had tried to pass the time of day by asking Bobbie if she’d heard the report on the wireless about events in Naples. Pretending that she hadn’t heard, Bobbie had turned away to speak with Jean, deliberately excluding Angela from the conversation.

  ‘Where are we now?’ Angela broke the weary silence to lean forward and tap Olive’s shoulder.

  ‘We’re just coming into Larchfield.’ Olive didn’t turn her head as she signalled right and followed the army convoy along a street of terraced houses, all with their blackout blinds in place, smoke rising from their chimneys into the cold night air. The slow crawl did nothing to improve the mood inside the car until Angela decided to tackle head-on the problem of Tuesday night.

  ‘Bobbie – I want to talk to you about Teddy,’ she began hesitantly. She crossed and uncrossed her legs with a silky swish. ‘By the way, Olive, do you have a light?’

  Olive took a box of matches from the glove compartment and passed it back.

  ‘Thank you.’ A match flared and lit up Angela’s perfect features; blue eyes hooded, scarlet lips pouting and head tilted back as she took her first puff. ‘I’m awfully sorry if you read too much into that little skirmish,’ she went on.

  ‘If you mean the incident in the yard behind the Fox and Hounds …’ Bobbie wound down her window to disperse the smoke. Trust Angela to phrase it in such a way that shifted the blame. ‘I don’t want to talk about it.’

  Angela glanced across to see that Bobbie was in a seriously bad temper. ‘I’m sorry,’ she said again. ‘Things with Teddy may have got a little out of hand, but I swear that it was nothing more than harmless flirtation – very silly on both our parts.’

  Bobbie turned towards her with a frown. ‘Apology accepted,’ she said stiffly.

  Angela wasn’t convinced. ‘Really and truly, can we be friends again? I’ll give you a blow-by-blow account if it’ll help. We’d danced the last waltz together then Teddy being Teddy, he took things a step too far.’

  ‘So it was his fault?’ There Angela went again, refusing to accept any responsibility. ‘Did you conveniently forget that you’re engaged to be married to Lionel?’

  In the driving seat Olive pricked up her ears as she turned left out of the town and on along a country road towards the Castle Bromwich factory where the Spitfires rolled off the production line. She’d arrived late at Tuesday’s party but anyone with eyes in their head could see that First Officer Browne had been leading Teddy Simpson on. And surprise, surprise; she was engaged! Now, that was a turn-up for the books!

  ‘Ouch!’ Angela let out a groan. Then, sitting up very straight, she said, ‘No, Bobbie, I did not forget. And nothing happened. You may find that hard to believe. Teddy suggested going outside for a cigarette. I agreed. Then, when we heard you calling my name, we decided to play a childish trick by hiding on the railway embankment.’

  Blimey O’Reilly! Olive’s hands gripped the wheel a little tighter. Was Angela to be believed or was she simply trying to talk herself out of a tight corner?

  ‘As I said, I’d had too much to drink,’ Angela went on from behind a cloud of smoke. ‘And I regret it. But nothing happened.’ She spoke the last sentence with emphasis on the word ‘nothing’.

  Slowly Bobbie’s frown eased. Angela’s account began to seem plausible after all.
‘I’m glad to hear it,’ she said primly before relaxing into a smile. ‘Truly, I am.’

  Uh-oh, I wouldn’t believe her if I was you. Olive drove the car through a shallow ford then up a steep hill lined by oak trees. If you want my opinion, that pair went outside for more than a quick cigarette!

  Angela was relieved that she and Bobbie had cleared the air. ‘And while we’re at it, I hope you know that our friendship means much more to me than Teddy Simpson ever could.’

  ‘Of course.’ Bobbie nodded and blushed. ‘Now I feel such a fool,’ she stammered.

  ‘What for?’

  ‘For even caring what you and Teddy were up to. It’s not as if I have any claim on the man.’ What was an embrace and a couple of kisses in the downstairs room of a bed and breakfast when all was said and done?

  ‘But you do like him?’ Angela queried. It was easy to see how someone as naive as Bobbie could be swept off her feet.

  ‘I do, but the question is: does he like me?’ Yes, Teddy had flirted and teased since the night in Harkness and he sometimes looked at Bobbie in a meaningful way, but he’d never asked her out or given any definite sign that the kisses had meant something to him.

  ‘Teddy likes all girls.’ Angela’s warning was kindly meant. ‘If I were you, Bobbie, I wouldn’t take him too seriously.’

  Bobbie pressed her lips together to consider the advice. Angela was worldly and probably saw things in a clearer light, whereas she, Bobbie, had so little experience of men. ‘You’re right,’ she said decisively as Olive turned up a tree-lined drive with a Tudor mansion at the end of it. The silhouette of the house showed tall chimneys and steep gables and a dim light shone from an arched main entrance. Two thin dogs ran down the drive towards the car. ‘Teddy is good fun; nothing more.’

  ‘Quite.’ Angela stubbed out her cigarette in the ashtray.