by Jenny Holmes
Bloody hell; in future, I’ll take everything these two say with a pinch of salt, Olive thought as she pulled up at the door and turned to face her passengers. ‘Here you are, ladies; your billet for tonight.’
The ancient floorboards at Fenton Royal creaked and groaned as Bobbie and Angela followed their hostess up a wide flight of stairs.
‘I hope you girls don’t mind sharing.’ The equally ancient owner, Harriet Wilby, also creaked and groaned as she showed Bobbie and Angela into the Queen’s Room: an extravaganza of carved plasterwork, oak panelling and a great four-poster bed draped with faded crimson brocade. Her two brindle greyhounds bounded on to the bed as she apologized for the lack of modern facilities such as running water and electric light, pointed out a basin and ewer on the washstand and candlesticks by the bed then called the dogs to heel and said goodnight.
After taking in her surroundings, Bobbie ran after their landlady down a long, sloping gallery that gave the odd impression of being at sea aboard a galleon.
‘Excuse me, Mrs Wilby, where’s the WC?’ she asked while the greyhounds sniffed at her skirt, tails wagging.
‘Miss Wilby,’ the no-frills old lady replied. Her outdated clothes hung from her skeletal figure and her skin sagged like worn leather. ‘I thought I’d explained; there’s no running water in this wing of the house. You’ll find a chamber pot under the bed.’
Bobbie thanked her but her face wore a worried frown as she reported back to Angela.
‘A chamber pot?’ Angela lifted the counterpane and peered under the bed to see that it was true. She quickly dropped the cover and stood, hands on hips, with an expression of squeamish distaste. ‘Good Lord, it’s practically medieval!’
Bobbie burst out laughing. ‘Think about it; that’s exactly where we’ve landed – in a house that was probably built when Henry the Eighth was King of England!’
Angela took the point. ‘And very little effort has been made to modernize it in four hundred years.’
‘There might be ghosts!’ Bobbie suggested with a nervous laugh. ‘Ladies in Elizabethan ruffs, rebel lords executed by the King, wafting down the gallery with their heads tucked under their arms …’
‘That’s quite enough of that.’ Angela repressed a shudder and brought them down to earth with a bump.
Obviously, there was nothing the girls could do about their primitive accommodation so they lit candles and decided to make the best of things.
‘It’s only for one night, thank heavens.’ Bobbie was the first to undress. She stood in her pyjamas at the latticed window overlooking parkland.
Angela sat on the edge of the bed to test the mattress. ‘Hard as a board,’ she commented before springing up and flinging off her uniform then slipping into a sleeveless nightdress. ‘Brr!’ She shivered as she slid between the sheets. ‘It’s freezing in here. Which side do you prefer?’
‘This one.’ Bobbie chose the side of the bed closest to the window. ‘The oddest thing is that in less than eight hours you and I will have closed the door on this crumbling pile and will be sitting in the cockpit of the most up-to-date aircraft in the world, checking our revs and giving the signal for chocks away.’
‘A twentieth-century miracle of engineering.’ Angela pulled the sheets up to her nose. ‘We’ll trailblaze our way into the history books yet again.’
Bobbie and Angela lay side by side in the flickering candlelight, hands behind their heads and staring up at the plaster acorns and oak leaves carved into the ceiling. The floorboards creaked though no one was there.
‘I’ve had a letter from Lionel,’ Angela confided after a long pause. ‘He wrote it the night before his ship set sail for Greece.’
‘You sound upset.’ Raising herself on to her elbows, Bobbie looked keenly at Angela. ‘Are you crying?’
Angela wiped her eyes with the back of her hand. ‘It was such a heartfelt letter, telling me how much he loves me and how he thinks about me every hour of every day.’
‘I don’t think I’ve ever seen you cry before.’ Bobbie slid out of bed to fetch Angela a handkerchief. ‘You must miss Lionel an awful lot.’
Angela sat up in bed and dabbed at her eyes. ‘That’s the saddest thing,’ she confessed. ‘Whole days can go by without me giving him a thought. The truth is Lionel seems to love me more than I love him. That’s wicked of me, I know.’
‘Not wicked,’ Bobbie argued. ‘You can’t help how you feel. And this blasted war twists everything out of shape.’
‘In what way?’
‘You and Lionel are forced apart, for one thing. In normal times, when a girl gets engaged, the happy couple goes ahead and makes plans for the wedding and so on. Everyone is caught up in decisions about bridesmaids and guest lists, with nothing to get in the way. It’s different with Lionel sailing off in his convoy and you flying your Spits. We need to keep our wits about us, doing this job. If we don’t we’re likely to end up in the drink or worse. Look at Jean and her latest scrap with Jerry – she only just managed to come out in one piece and she’s the best pilot we have.’
Surprised by Bobbie’s mature view, Angela nodded slowly. ‘That’s true. But I’ve known Lionel for a long time. And even before the war started, I wasn’t sure how I felt about him; not deep down. He’d been part of Hugh, Cameron and Hilary’s crowd for as long as I can remember; always there, always opening doors for me and offering me his arm.’
‘And then at some point Lionel must have made his feelings plain?’
Angela struggled to remember. ‘Not really. I don’t think he ever formally asked me to go out with him. We were always just part of the crowd. And then when he did spring it on me – one night at a cabaret club in the West End – it took me completely by surprise.’
‘Why – what did he do?’ Bobbie was seeing a side of Angela that she hadn’t known existed: less self-assured and much more serious. She wrapped a cardigan around her shoulders and listened intently.
‘He didn’t go down on one knee exactly, but as near as damn it. We were dancing together and he came out with it: whispered in my ear that he loved me and wanted to marry me, just like that. He had to hold me up, I was so surprised.’
‘That’s awfully romantic,’ Bobbie insisted. ‘What did you say?’
‘I said I was fond of him.’ Angela’s voice was wistful. ‘But I was only nineteen and Lionel was twenty-one. He was home on leave from the Navy.’
‘He proposed and you turned him down?’
‘I said we should wait. Honestly, at nineteen a girl has no clue what she wants to do with the rest of her life. I said I did like him and I found him attractive. He is, isn’t he?’
‘Very,’ Bobbie agreed. ‘You don’t need me to tell you that.’
‘So what is wrong with me? Am I really so shallow? Lionel is handsome and very decent, so why don’t I feel the way I should?’
Bobbie hugged her knees to her chin. ‘You’re asking the wrong person. You know I have no idea what it feels like to fall in love.’
Realizing that there were no easy answers to her questions, Angela gave a short sigh. ‘Not even with Teddy Simpson?’ she asked with a wry grin.
‘Most definitely not with Teddy!’ Bobbie exclaimed. She saw him in her mind’s eye; tall (too tall for her?), slim (too slim?), smiling (mocking her?). Handsome enough to be a matinee idol, he could play the part of the gigolo in cravat and blazer who steals the heroine from her loyal but plodding husband. There; she had Teddy Simpson down to a T. ‘There’s no danger on that score,’ she assured Angela as she got into bed and blew out the candle.
The weather was at the forefront of Jean’s mind when she woke early on Saturday morning. Was the sky clear enough to fly out? Was rain in the forecast? What was the direction of the prevailing wind? Added to the usual concerns there was the increasing likelihood of fog as autumn set in.
‘Good morning, Jean.’ Cameron met her on the stairs at the Grange, hat tucked under his arm, greatcoat buttoned. ‘You’re up bright and ear
ly. Would you like a lift with me and Douglas?’
‘Yes, please.’ She accepted gratefully and they walked across the hall together. They were about to leave by the main entrance when Cameron remembered that he’d arranged to meet Douglas round the back and so took Jean’s elbow and steered her below stairs, along a dingy corridor and through the old butler’s pantry, down the back steps into the stable yard where their lift awaited.
‘I received a phone call yesterday that might interest you,’ Cameron mentioned to Jean as they made their way through the house. ‘About Mary Holland; you know who I mean?’
‘Of course. We spoke on the afternoon before she set off for Thame. How’s she getting on?’
‘The call was from her instructor, Flight Sergeant Rouse. He’s not a chap to lavish praise, I gathered, but reading between the lines I’d say that he was pretty happy about Mary’s progress to date.’
‘That’s good. I like Mary. She has something about her.’ Jean spoke warmly and sincerely.
‘I like her too,’ Cameron said as he held open the back door for Jean. ‘Rouse said he was ready to send her up on her first solo flight any day now. After that she hopes to be sent back to Rixley to join our team.’
‘I’ll look forward to that.’ Jean put on her forage cap and led the way down the steps before saying hello to Douglas who was waiting for them under the stable-yard clock. He sat in the grey half-light, his coat collar turned up, with the car engine ticking over.
‘All set?’ Douglas asked as she and Cameron got in. He drove steadily down the drive and through the sleeping village, happy to let the others chat.
‘How likely is it that Mary will come back here?’ Jean enquired.
‘Quite likely if I pull a few strings.’ In fact, Cameron had already set things in motion with Hilary. ‘I can cite family circumstances to keep her close to home.’
‘Such as?’
‘Mary is from the West Riding. She has a widowed father who’s getting on a bit. He’s not in the best of health.’
‘I didn’t know that.’
‘It’s written in her file.’ Cameron saw that they were approaching the sentry box outside the ferry pool’s main gates.
The sentry recognized Douglas and waved him through. Douglas parked his car close to the administration block and while he went straight into the operations room to write out chits for the day, Cameron and Jean headed to the busy canteen where there was the usual gathering of ground crew and pilots. Music played on the wireless and half a dozen personnel who had finished eating sat at the long tables doing jigsaws or playing backgammon.
By chance Jean stood behind Stan in the queue. ‘No Bobbie and Angela this morning?’ she asked him as she glanced quickly around the room.
‘They’re in Walsall.’ Stan had already checked his schedule for the day and knew that the two girl pilots were due in at half ten. ‘They’re bringing in a couple of spanking new Spits, by all accounts.’
Teddy had come into the canteen hard on the heels of Cameron and Jean and was standing behind them in the queue, stamping his feet and blowing into his hands to counteract the effects of his chilly ride over from the Grange on a Royal Enfield motorbike that he’d brought back after a twenty-four-hour home leave. He wore a thick woollen scarf over his pilot’s jacket and his hair had a windswept look that he hadn’t bothered to smooth down. ‘What’s that you say?’ he asked Stan. ‘Did I hear the magic words, “new Spits”?’
‘Yes, but that doesn’t necessarily mean you’ll get your mucky hands on them,’ Cameron warned. Deciding to go without breakfast, he turned back towards the door. ‘The Spits won’t be here long,’ he called over his shoulder. ‘From what I gather, Rixley is a temporary stop on their way over to Northern Ireland.’
‘Don’t be like that.’ Teddy unwound his scarf then shuffled forward with the queue. ‘My hands are as good as anyone else’s to fly the little beauties over the Irish Sea. Better than most, I would say.’ He winked at Jean.
‘That’s for others to decide,’ Stan said under his breath. He’d caught sight of the wink and was nettled. Standing to one side, he offered to let Jean go ahead of him. ‘You get your breakfast first,’ he told her. ‘I’m not on duty until eight.’
She smiled and thanked him. ‘I’ll be over by the window. Come and join me if you like.’
Like? Of course Stan would. In fact, it would set him up for the day. So when it came to his turn at the counter he put in a quick order for toast and a mug of tea then hurried to Jean’s table.
‘I hope you get one of the new Mark IXs,’ he told her as he sat down opposite. ‘The flight lieutenant’s right about them wanting to move them on pronto, though. There’s every chance that Jerry will be back on a second raid, now that we’re on their radar. We’re pretty much a sitting target, to tell you the truth.’
‘I really don’t mind what I fly.’ Jean meant what she said. ‘Class One right through to Class Six. In fact, I enjoy the challenge of the Class Five and Six: four engines, flying boats – anything.’
‘They say variety is the spice of life.’ Stan was wondering how to move on from talking about work to more personal matters when Teddy interrupted their cosy tête-à-tête by sitting down next to Jean and tucking into his plate of bacon and eggs.
‘I’d agree with that; the more variety the better, especially when it comes to the ladies.’ Teddy’s remark, made with a full mouth, was accompanied by the annoying wink. ‘Never let the grass grow, eh, Stan?’
Jean looked from one to the other. It was obvious that Teddy had riled Stan, whose normally cheerful features were knotted into a deep frown. ‘Do you know what you’re flying today?’ she asked Teddy as casually as she could.
‘Not yet. Hopalong Cassidy hasn’t issued the chits.’
Jean’s large, blue-grey eyes opened even wider at the off-colour remark against Douglas. Her knife and fork stayed poised over her plate.
It was the first time that Stan had seen Jean ruffled. Colour came into her cheeks. He held his breath, waiting for her retort.
Her voice was clear and slow. ‘If you mean First Officer Thornton, he gave me a lift in this morning. He skipped breakfast to hurry things along.’
Cold and stiff; really angry. Stan was fascinated.
‘Take it easy,’ Teddy said with a grin. ‘Come on, Jean, where’s your sense of humour?’
‘That wasn’t funny. I don’t know why you would think it was.’
Cool as a cucumber. A bloody knockout.
‘My, someone’s touchy this morning.’ Passing it off with a shrug, Teddy’s mind veered off on to more important things. ‘I really hope I get one of those Spits, though. I can fly her over Manchester en route to Derry, put on another display for my nearest and dearest.’
‘Fine, if you fancy facing a court martial,’ Stan said sharply.
‘Why? Who would be any the wiser?’
‘I would.’
In the split second between the sudden click as the wireless cut off and the morning announcement on the Tannoy Jean let her knife and fork clatter on to her plate. She stared at Teddy, speechless.
‘Will all pilots report to the operations room for their chits,’ came the nasal blare over the loudspeaker. ‘Repeat: all pilots report to the operations room!’
‘Action stations!’ The cry went up and every pilot in the room left off what they were doing and made a beeline for the ops room, Jean and Teddy among them.
‘Pass on an important message to First Officer Thornton, will you?’ Dorothy Kirk from the met room pushed past Jean in the doorway into the admin block. ‘Tell him thick fog is forecast over the estuary. Wasn’t picked up until five minutes ago.’
‘Forecast for what time?’ Jean called after the young assistant, who was hurrying to spend a penny.
‘Later this morning – around ten. It should burn off by noon. I’ll print off the official report when I’m back at my post.’
The Tannoy announcement had taken Jean by surprise.
She’d had to hurry to her locker for her helmet and parachute so for once was not near the front of the queue of pilots approaching the hatch to receive their chits. As she waited patiently, she heard Teddy’s voice protesting about his allocation for the day.
‘Bloody hell; a PBY Catalina!’ He sounded disgusted, elbowing people aside as he came down the stairs. ‘Why can’t the Yanks drive down from the Clyde and fetch the old crate themselves? Why do I have to drive to Highcliff harbour to pick her up and fly her all the way up there?’
There were a few laughs at his expense – ‘Not fast enough for you, Teddy boy?’, ‘I hear it’s a sunny day up in Glasgow. Fancy a dip?’, and so on – for everyone knew that the American-built flying boat was slow and ungainly, an odd-looking two-engine aircraft with its wings and propellers attached to the top of the cockpit to keep them clear of the water when landing.
Managing to stay well out of Teddy’s way, Jean edged towards the hatch. When she reached the front of the queue, she took her chit and read that she was to fly a nimble Hurricane to Kent then pick up a Corsair and fly it back to Rixley. Glancing through the hatchway, she saw Douglas with his back towards her, deep in conversation with his secretary, Gillian Wharton.
‘Step aside,’ the bad-tempered girl issuing the chits told her. ‘Next, please.’
So Jean did as she was told and made a sideways move to put her head around the door. The small room buzzed with activity – there was the clickety-clack of a typewriter, the ring of a telephone and several people speaking at once. ‘Excuse me, First Officer Thornton – might I have a word?’
Douglas didn’t turn.
Jean took a step forward and raised her voice. ‘Excuse me, Douglas …’
Gillian looked up from the file that she and Douglas had been discussing. She tapped her commanding officer on the shoulder and pointed to where Jean stood.
He apologized when he saw her. ‘Sorry, Jean … we were looking at inconsistencies in this log … I didn’t hear you.’ He waved the buff-coloured folder at her. ‘Now, how can I help?’
‘Expect a fog warning from the met office,’ she said quickly. ‘They’ll send it along official channels in the next few minutes. I got it by word of mouth from Dorothy Kirk.’