by Jenny Holmes
Angela boarded the train then leaned out of the window. ‘Sunday evening, all being well.’
The train chugged forward in a cloud of steam while Bobbie set off on the short walk to the Grange. Inside Angela’s carriage, which she shared with three Merchant Navy boys and a doleful young woman in a brown beret and raincoat, she fretted over where to put her luggage. The rack was crammed with the sailors’ kitbags and the woman’s bulky suitcase but Angela was reluctant to place her own case on the grubby floor. So she set it on her knees until one of the sailors made a great show of removing his bag from the rack and offering to put hers in its place. This opened up a lively conversation about where the men served and what recent action they’d seen in the Med. In turn Angela told them about the September raid on Rixley – bombs exploding, fire taking hold, part of the roof caving in. The sailors viewed her with new respect. Appearances were deceptive; they’d never have guessed Angela was a pilot, they said – she looked far too glamorous for that. The unsmiling woman in the corner looked sceptical. Some girls made things up to impress boys, whereas she, a recent Land Army recruit, preferred discretion – for everyone knew that careless talk costs lives.
The train rattled over the tracks, swaying at junctions and steaming on into the dusk, up hill and down dale until it arrived at Angela’s station. Several willing hands reached simultaneously for her suitcase and she was given a cheery send-off. ‘Atta girl!’ The sailors leaned out of the window and shouted along the platform after her.
Trevor Ingelby, her father’s driver, waited for Angela under the station clock. ‘Welcome home, Miss,’ he said as he took her case.
‘Hello, Trevor.’ Still the same: upright and stiff in his grey chauffeur’s coat, his expression blank under the shiny peak of his cap. Though he’d worked for the Browne family since before Angela was born, she scarcely knew the first thing about the man – where he was born, whether or not he had family, his opinions about life in general. ‘How are things at Heathfield?’
They reached the Bentley and he held open the back door. ‘Much the same, Miss.’
The car door clicked shut. He sat in the driver’s seat and edged away from the kerb. ‘How’s Mother?’
‘The same,’ he said again.
Three years earlier Angela’s mother, Virginia, had taken to her bed with an undiagnosed fever, possibly rheumatic, that had affected the movement of her joints. She had more or less remained there ever since. After much wondering, Angela had judged the retreat to be strategic, for it meant that her mother no longer had to endure the stuffy mayoral functions and endless visits to the opera, theatre and races that her father had insisted upon. Instead, Virginia now sat all day amongst a sea of white bed linen, propped up on pillows, a book open but unread on her lap, her dark hair now greying at the temples, her skin as white as paper.
‘And how’s Father?’ Angela enquired, recognizing every single house, pub, school and chapel they passed on the way.
‘He’s at home,’ Trevor replied.
I didn’t ask where, I asked how he was. Angela’s niggle over the chauffeur’s remark masked her mounting apprehension. They were out of the town now, climbing the hill towards the wide, black expanse of the moor, less than a mile away from Heathfield.
‘Mr Browne left his office early today,’ Trevor added. ‘He wanted to make sure he was at home when you arrived.’
Angela’s heart sank. It had been almost a year since she was last here. She’d left home under a cloud after fierce arguments with her father about her desire to join the ATA. He’d been dead set against it even though she’d pointed out that he was the one who was partly responsible. ‘You gave me my first flying lesson when I was thirteen years old,’ she’d reminded him. ‘Behind the controls of your Gypsy Moth, remember?’ If he hadn’t wanted her to love flying as she did, he should never have given her a taste for it in the first place. Joseph Browne had brushed aside her logic and told her she must do as she was told. ‘No daughter of mine will share a billet with a bunch of half-wit casualties from the Great War,’ et cetera. ‘Anyway, you’ll end up like Amy Johnson,’ he’d warned, ‘having to bail out over the Thames, never to be seen again.’
Father and daughter had quarrelled for weeks until, distracted by supply problems in several of the mills he owned, Joseph had weakened. ‘Please yourself,’ he’d told her in one of his great sulks. ‘You always do.’
So this return to the fold filled Angela with trepidation as the limousine crested the hill and Trevor drove slowly along the twisting moor road until the dark bulk of the house hove into view. He turned down the drive and pulled up outside the front door where Molly the housekeeper hovered anxiously.
‘At last!’ she wheezed as Angela got out of the car. Bronchitis made Molly’s chest heave as she took Angela’s case from her. A stiff black uniform encased her bulky frame and her almost white hair had grown thinner in the intervening months. ‘It’s good to see you, Miss Angela. I hope you’re well.’
‘Quite well, thank you, Molly.’ Angela stepped into the gloomy hall, its wood panelling adorned with motifs of lilies and vines in the Arts and Crafts style. A log fire burned brightly in the living room to the left but it was the study door to the right that opened.
‘About time too,’ Joseph said as he strode to meet his daughter. ‘What’s this I hear about you crashing your plane into the sea?’ Giving Angela no time to take off her coat and hat, he took her by the elbow and marched her into the living room. ‘It’s turned out exactly as I said it would. Now sit down and explain yourself. I expect you to describe the event in every last detail.’
Angela’s visit to her parents’ house had left Bobbie at a loose end and wondering what to do with her Friday evening. She decided to write a letter home, asking after friends and relations in the neighbourhood and saying that she hoped the dogs, Rufus and Captain, were still enjoying their rambles out on the heather moors with gamekeeper Murdo. She assured her mother and father that she was fit and well. ‘Canteen food is plain but there’s plenty of it,’ she wrote. ‘Bad for the waistline, as a matter of fact.’ Then she sat with pen poised. What else did she have to report? That she was within twenty-five hours of achieving first officer and was enjoying every minute in the air. Yes, she would write that down but she thought it would be wise to leave out the part she played in Angela’s rescue from the briny.
She penned another paragraph then ground to a halt. Rereading the letter so far, she found that it seemed flat and dull. Perhaps she would stop now and resume tomorrow. Yes! Bobbie hurriedly screwed on the top of her Parker pen and rushed to her wardrobe to take out a pair of black trousers and a blouse she’d made from spare parachute silk. She’d dyed the silk bright purple and chosen a pattern with care. The neckline had turned out to be more plunging than expected and the style was wraparound with a tie fastening. Standing in front of the mirror and holding the new blouse up for inspection, Bobbie decided that this would be her outfit for the evening.
Fifteen minutes later, with her wavy hair swept up in a stylish chignon, she was sitting at the bar with Teddy.
‘Tell me, Pa, how did you hear about the crash?’ Angela moved the sofa cushions to one side and sat down with bad grace. Immediately the heat from the fire set her cheeks aflame.
‘From Lionel, as a matter of fact.’ Joseph stood by the long window overlooking the garden. The gold damask curtains were drawn and table lamps placed around the room gave off pools of yellow light.
‘But I didn’t tell him,’ Angela said with a frown. ‘How did he find out?’
‘From Hilary, I presume.’ Earlier that week Joseph had received a letter from Angela’s fiancé expressing alarm about the daily dangers faced by ATA pilots. Did Mr Browne realize that Angela’s plane had recently been shot down by friendly fire, for instance? Luckily Hilary Stevens had tipped Lionel the wink, which was the reason behind this letter; Lionel had passed on the information, believing that a parent had a right to know.
‘Hil
ary wrote to Lionel?’ Angela was infuriated. She got up from the sofa and strode around the room. ‘He had no right.’
‘I believe Hilary only mentioned it to Lionel in passing.’ Joseph waited for his daughter to calm down. He was used to her moods, a trait that she had inherited from her mother. ‘Naturally he assumed that you would have written and told him yourself.’
‘Why should I? Do you think Lionel writes to me every time a U-boat launches a torpedo at his ship or the Luftwaffe drops bombs on his convoy? This is a war, Father. We all face danger, like it or not.’
‘Stop pacing the floor and sit down. Your fiancé is concerned about you. He did the right thing.’
‘He did not.’ Angela resolved to write to Lionel and tell him so. ‘In any case, why all the fuss? I’m still in one piece, as you see.’
‘Sit down, Angela, and listen to me.’ Joseph waited until she obeyed. Six feet tall with a large, balding head and a heavy grey moustache, his authoritative presence dominated the room. ‘The way you’ve chosen to help the war effort may be laudable in some people’s eyes, but to me and your mother it has always seemed foolhardy.’
‘Father, please …’ Angela took off her hat and flung it aside in frustration.
‘Listen to me. Your mother is not well. Worrying about you makes her worse.’
‘Which you knew all along; so why tell her about this latest mishap?’
‘Virginia is at her wits’ end,’ Joseph continued in his heavy way, steamrollering flat all Angela’s objections. He would have his say then make his pronouncement on the matter. ‘You’re her only daughter and in my opinion she’s always given you far too much leeway to do as you pleased.’
Angela stared up at her father. There was a greyness about him, from his well-made worsted suit with its buttoned-up waistcoat to his grainy, lined complexion and outmoded Edwardian moustache. It struck her that she rarely saw him out of his suit, collar and tie; in other words, he’d always been the businessman, never the loving father who took off his jacket, rolled up his shirtsleeves and played with the small daughter who longed to be picked up and swung around. As for a smile and a kind word; well, they were as rare as hen’s teeth.
Joseph’s voice rumbled on. ‘The result of your mother’s laxity is plain for all to see. Instead of turning out to be a refined, obliging young woman with every advantage with which to boost her standing in society, you have proved hot-headed, flighty and rash.’
The words hit like hammer blows to the solar plexus. Oddly, ‘flighty’ was the one that hurt Angela the most. Still her father wasn’t finished.
‘It’s true that I must shoulder part of the blame. I encouraged your rebellious spirit by allowing you to learn to fly instead of following more decorous pursuits, something that I now regret.’
Enough! Angela sprang to her feet again. ‘What do you see when you look at me, Father? Am I a creature to be tamed and trained to do as I’m bidden – no better than a dog taught to sit and stay, to run and fetch? Or am I a person in my own right, at a stage in my life when I’m entitled to make my own decisions and do what I think is best?’
‘In your own right?’ Joseph echoed incredulously. He strode up to her and tugged roughly at the collar of her coat. ‘Who paid for this, I wonder, and all of the rest – the gowns, the necklaces, the perfumes? Yes, what do you have to say about that?’
Angela gasped under the sharpness of his attack and the threat behind it, then pulled free. She put her hand to her throat in sudden panic.
‘Nothing to say for yourself now, eh?’
‘Plenty,’ she contradicted. ‘You call me flighty and perhaps I am, because how am I to know where and on whom to settle my affections? Hugh and I had no lead to follow in this house, I can assure you! The best I could do when I was growing up was to make use of what I know I have, which is a quick wit teamed with a halfway decent appearance. I find it serves me well enough on the whole.’
‘Which proves the point I’m trying to make.’ Joseph’s anger rose to boiling point. Patches of vivid red appeared on his lined cheeks. ‘Blame me and your mother as much as you wish, but we all know that you lack the character to hold a steady course; specifically the self-discipline needed to make a success as a pilot for the Air Transport Auxiliary.’
‘That’s not true,’ Angela protested as an arrow of fear darted towards her heart. ‘How can you say such a thing?’
‘Easily. Look at what you’ve just cost the war effort with your recklessness: a brand-new Spitfire, the very latest model.’
‘I was not reckless!’ She closed her eyes and swallowed hard, trying in vain to frame a coherent sentence about an unexpected weather front blowing in off the North Sea and the mistaken friendly fire. ‘Oh, what’s the point?’
‘Lionel and Hilary will agree with me, I’m sure.’
Angela recognized the streak in her father’s personality that was hard as granite, forbidding as the high stone walls and barred windows of the mills he owned. Her fighting spirit almost failed her.
‘I will write to Hilary,’ Joseph concluded. ‘I will tell him that I no longer wish you to continue in your present situation.’
‘He won’t listen …’ Angela backed away towards the door.
‘He will when I point out to him the flaws in your nature and the detrimental effect this is having on your mother’s health.’ Joseph rubbed his palms together to produce a dry, grating sound. ‘So prepare yourself, Angela. Take the train back to Rixley first thing tomorrow morning, pack your bags there and say your goodbyes. No arguments; I want you back home in Heathfield by next Wednesday at the very latest.’
After a couple of drinks at the bar in the Grange Teddy declared that he found the atmosphere there somewhat stale. ‘Same old faces in the same old chairs,’ he complained to Bobbie. ‘All Douglas, Cameron and their cronies do is jaw endlessly about chits and schedules. What do you say to a change of scene?’
‘Why not?’ Bobbie, too, felt that it would be good to liven up their evening. ‘Where shall we go?’
Teddy cocked his head to one side. ‘Go upstairs and fetch your leather jacket,’ he said mysteriously. ‘Oh, and bring a headscarf. I’ll meet you by the main door.’
She smiled and rushed from the room, ran upstairs to put on her flying jacket then dashed down again. When she stepped outside into a dark, damp night she found Teddy outside the door sitting astride his gleaming Royal Enfield.
‘Hop on,’ he said, indicating the pillion seat with a jerk of his head.
Bobbie quickly did as he said.
‘Arms around my waist,’ he instructed. ‘Hold tight.’
Then off they roared up the drive, wind on their faces and cold nipping at their fingertips. Once on the road, Teddy picked up speed. He zoomed through the village without stopping, following the road to the coast, now and then patting Bobbie’s hand to remind her to keep tight hold.
This was thrilling, she told herself; her first time riding pillion on a motorbike, swaying with it around bends, everything happening in a dark rush – flashing past trees and farm entrances, ignoring autumn leaves that spiralled to the ground then danced and skittered under their squealing tyres, roaring across road junctions without stopping to look. Almost as exciting as flying a Mustang or a Gypsy Moth. Not a patch on getting behind the controls of a Spit, however.
She freed one hand and tapped Teddy on the shoulder. ‘Where are you taking me?’ she cried over the rush of wind and the engine’s roar.
‘Wait and see. Hold on.’ They’d come to a steep hill descending into Maltby Bay, the tiny fishing village north of Highcliff. Here Teddy was forced to apply his brakes and ride slowly between dilapidated cottages, some with bomb damage, all facing straight on to the cobbled street, until they reached a small quayside stacked high with creels, nets and buoys. The air was damp and salty, with an underlying stench of rotting seaweed and fish.
Bobbie wrinkled her nose at the smell. ‘Don’t laugh at me,’ she protested as she dismounted f
rom the bike and watched Teddy set it upright on its rest.
‘Why not? You’re pulling a funny face. Anyway, what’s wrong with a good, healthy whiff of sea air?’ He linked arms with her then walked her a few yards back up the hill before guiding her down the narrowest of dark alleyways into a small courtyard with more tumbledown houses on three sides and an ancient sailors’ inn overlooking the sea on the fourth. ‘Welcome to the Anchor,’ Teddy announced. ‘Ye ancient haunt of smugglers and pirates.’
Propelled across the courtyard towards a creaking sign above the door, Bobbie found herself entering a dingy, smoke-filled room with a stone floor and low, beamed ceiling. At the table nearest to the door three men with dour expressions, weather-beaten faces and gnarled hands broke off from their game of cards to observe the newcomers through narrowed eyes.
‘Look what the cat dragged in,’ one remarked when he saw Teddy.
‘It’s grand to see you too, William,’ Teddy replied sarcastically.
The trio hunched their shoulders and resumed play, slapping down card after card in quick succession as Teddy and Bobbie approached the bar.
‘You’ve been here before?’ A wide-eyed Bobbie drank in her surroundings – the room was as plain and dark as could be, with three round oak tables, a dartboard on one wall and some large, chipped Toby jugs lined up on a shelf behind the bar. She soon discovered that she was the only woman amongst a dozen or so men.
‘Yes, I’m quite the regular here.’ Teddy ordered the drinks from the landlord without asking her what she would like. ‘William over there owes me money from our last game of poker but it’s like getting blood out of a stone.’
‘So you’re here to collect a debt. And there was I thinking you were intending to whisk me off to one of the grander hotels in Highcliff,’ Bobbie teased as they found a table. She pictured gentlemanly Lionel treating Angela to an evening out at the Mount: cocktails in the lounge leading to a walk along the cliff path and a romantic marriage proposal.