by Jenny Holmes
‘This is more interesting, don’t you think?’ Teddy took out a packet of cigarettes and tapped it on the table. He jiggled one foot impatiently. Like Bobbie in her purple blouse and black trousers, he looked out of place amongst the gathering of old sea dogs. He wore a good Harris tweed jacket over an open-necked white shirt and his hands when he took a cigarette from the packet were smooth and clean. ‘Did you know, there’s a network of secret tunnels under these streets, all leading down to the harbour?’
‘Whatever for?’ Bobbie was intrigued.
‘To cheat the excise men. Smugglers used to unload their rum and tobacco and what have you under cover of night, straight into the caves that were linked to the tunnels and no one was any the wiser. Very enterprising, don’t you think?’
‘What happened if they were caught?’
Teddy put his hand to his throat then mimed the action of throttling. ‘Hangman’s noose, no two ways about it.’
Bobbie took a sip of her drink. Though she was disappointed by her companion’s choice of venue, she determined not to let it show. Instead, she set about drawing information from him. ‘I’ve been wondering, during your training what made you choose fighter planes over bombers?’
‘That’s easy; I always knew I wanted to fly Spitfires, right from the start.’
‘Even before you’d been near one?’ Bobbie’s eager smile indicated that the feeling was mutual. ‘That was my dream, too. There’s something about the Spit that makes your heart race – just her shape: so lean and easy on the eye.’
‘Then there’s the fact that she’s lethal in a dogfight. There’s nothing to compare. But mainly I trained to fly fighters because it meant I would be up there by myself, flying solo. That’s what I was cut out to do.’ Teddy turned his back on the card players and relaxed into the conversation.
‘Yes; that moment when your instructor says she’s all yours …’
‘No more exams and interviews, no more medical tests.’ He remembered with a hollow laugh one of the questions he’d been asked before gaining entry into the Receiving Wing in Torquay. What sports did he play? He’d ticked showjumping and fox-hunting over football, though he’d never been within fifty yards of a horse. In his oral tests before a board of high-ranking officers he’d successfully smoothed out his Mancunian accent.
‘Why are you always laughing?’ Bobbie asked.
‘Because …’ He shrugged then changed the subject. ‘You know something, Bobbie, I’ve had more than enough of “resting”, as the RAF calls it. I can’t wait to get my next posting, hopefully teaching the Yanks and doing what I’ve been trained to do.’
‘Yes,’ she acknowledged. ‘You’ve always said that Rixley is tame by comparison.’
‘It is. Originally they sent me here to help shift the backlog of Spits – which is still building up in the factories, by the way.’
‘I know – Angela and I saw them in Castle Bromwich. Does it mean we’re heading for a big push in Europe early next year? That’s what a lot of people seem to think.’
‘Who knows?’ Teddy didn’t look that far ahead. All he knew was that he’d towed the line long enough and was desperate to start afresh. Stubbing out his cigarette, he asked Bobbie to stay where she was while he had a word with the group of card players.
A faint frown creased her brow as he walked across the room. She watched as the men looked up and Teddy talked heatedly, singling out William and tapping the cards on the table with his forefinger. William shook his head then scraped back his stool menacingly. One of the other players put a restraining hand on William’s arm then pulled a folded ten-shilling note from his own pocket and shoved it across the table at Teddy, who snatched it up and strode back to the bar.
‘Time to leave, before the natives get restless,’ he warned Bobbie.
He led her out to black looks from the three card players and before she had time to gather her thoughts she was riding pillion again, up the steep hill out of the village then coasting along the Rixley road.
Bobbie heard Teddy whistling cheerfully as they went. ‘How was that?’ he asked as he approached the Grange through the back gate and came to a stop in the stable yard. ‘Did you enjoy your ride?’
‘Very much, thank you.’ Feeling decidedly disgruntled, Bobbie dismounted. Why had she bothered to try to look her best? Her hair was a mess and she was chilled to the bone. All she wanted to do now was to head straight for bed.
‘Fancy a nightcap?’ Teddy asked as he parked his bike.
‘No, thanks – I …’
‘Come on, don’t be a spoilsport,’ he wheedled, catching her by the hand then running up the steps. ‘One more won’t do any harm.’
Bobbie sighed then gave in. ‘All right, just one.’
They headed for the lounge to find Cameron and Hilary standing by the bar with a large group that included Horace and Agnes. Jean and Douglas sat apart, deep in conversation as usual.
‘Oh Lord!’ Teddy exclaimed under his breath. ‘Can you believe it? No one’s moved an inch – they’re like waxworks in Madame Tussauds.’ He spun Bobbie around then waltzed her across the hall to the bottom of the stairs. ‘Tomorrow’s Saturday. Let me take you out again.’
‘Tomorrow night … I’m not sure I can.’ Tempted to turn him down flat, she hesitated instead.
Teddy leaned in and kissed her gently on the lips. ‘Of course you can,’ he cajoled, his hands around her waist. ‘This blouse suits you, by the way; you look very pretty in it. Say yes to tomorrow?’
She turned away and started to climb the stairs. ‘Yes,’ she told him from the third step without looking round. ‘But not the Anchor. Let’s go somewhere nicer than that.’
‘Much nicer,’ Teddy assured her, watching her continue up the stairs. ‘Wear a dress this time and do your hair. I promise to take you on another magical mystery tour.’
CHAPTER ELEVEN
‘Dear Hugh, Can you spare a few moments to offer your little sister some much needed advice?’ Angela reread the letter she’d begun immediately after her argument with her father. ‘I’m at Heathfield and Pa and I have had the most awful row – what’s new there, you may well ask.’
She’d sat at her dressing table in her room overlooking the moors, her hand shaking as she wrote. ‘How we got through the evening I really don’t know. Pa says I must leave the ATA. He might as well tell me to stop breathing – believe me, Hugh, I don’t exaggerate. I love flying and refuse to give it up, but according to He Who Must Be Obeyed, it’s too risky for me to continue.’
Angela had almost wept as she’d written. She’d put down her pen and run through the events of the evening before: the row followed by a lull and then a heartfelt appeal for her father to relent that had fallen on deaf ears. Later Angela had gone to her mother’s room, hoping to enlist support, but Virginia had sighed and protested that she had no say in the matter. She’d quickly played her usual trick of taking refuge in trivialities: had Angela noticed the new Turkish rug in the hall and the Venetian mirror over the mantelpiece in the lounge? Would she please close the door properly on her way out to prevent a draught?
So Angela had retreated to her room, still fuming with Lionel and wondering where to turn for support. Hugh had been the answer. Her brother was the sole person to whom her father might listen; if she got him on side he might be able to soften the old man’s opinion. But she’d only written a few lines before losing heart. After all, poor Hugh was currently slogging it out in the searing heat of the Sahara, serving under Montgomery. Although her letter might reach him eventually, Angela’s latest spat with their father would seem small beer compared with what Hugh faced on a daily basis. Besides, her brother, who was not well known for his progressive views, might well take the side of their father and Lionel.
So she’d put down her pen and only after a night’s sleep and a brisk walk on the moor to clear her head had she gathered the willpower to resume where she’d left off.
‘Dearest Hugh, please help me to make P
a see sense. Explain to him that my being in the ATA is the main reason for getting up in the morning. I come truly alive when I’m flying; more than at any other time. The thrill of being up there among the clouds, knowing that I’m doing a jolly useful job and doing it well … My heart would break in two if I had to give it up. Who else can I turn to except you? Lionel is no help; in fact, he was the one who landed me in this mess.’
Angela threw down her pen with a feeling of hopelessness. She stared at the letter for a long time until the words blurred then she picked it up and carefully and deliberately tore it in half then into quarters. Then she stuffed the scraps into a corner of her suitcase. If she were to sort out this mess, it must be through her own efforts, not by blaming others or relying on Hugh for help.
She marched purposefully along the corridor and down the stairs, willing to risk one more assault on the enemy; out of the trench and over the top into a hail of bullets, no doubt.
‘Father,’ she began hurriedly as she entered his study after tapping on the door. ‘I understand that you and Mother are worried about me, as is every parent in the land.’
Joseph looked up from his copy of the Yorkshire Post. He sat behind his fortress-desk in his weekend tweed suit with his reading glasses perched on the tip of his nose. ‘Good morning, Angela. Trevor is standing by, ready to drive you to the station whenever you’re ready.’
‘Yes, but before I go I want to explain my reasons for not doing as you wish.’ She watched his expression alter from its usual settled complacency to instant and fiery irritation. ‘As I said last night, I will be staying with the ATA and will not allow you to interfere with my decision. I’m over the age of twenty-one, thank heavens, so it’s entirely up to me.’
Joseph clenched his hands into fists and stood up. ‘You know what this will mean?’ he asked quietly. ‘Have you thought it through?’
‘Yes, it means that I’ll keep on flying for as long as my country needs me. I’m sorry, Father.’ Angela found herself clenching her own hands for the verbal fisticuffs to come.
Her father turned his head towards the window. ‘But do you fully understand what you’re turning your back on?’ he said without looking at her. ‘By disobeying me you will cut yourself off from this family once and for all; no half measures. You will not come back here to Heathfield; you will no longer receive your allowance. You will have no further contact with your mother or with Hugh.’
Angela slumped forward under the cruel weight of his words. ‘That’s unfair,’ she gasped. ‘We’re not living in the Dark Ages. Surely a father should have the decency to allow his daughter to make her own decisions.’
‘No,’ he shot back. ‘A daughter should respect her father’s judgement.’
The wide desk formed a barrier between them. Photographs on a shelf behind Joseph showed him shaking hands with Mr Churchill inside the Houses of Parliament and standing outside a hunting lodge with fellow Yorkshire worthies, shotguns under their arms, dogs at their feet. Other pictures were of immense mill buildings with tall chimneys – hives of industry styled after Italian palazzos on which two generations of Brownes had built their wealth. There were no pictures of his wife and children.
‘You understand me, Angela: if you choose to follow your own course you will leave this house and not come back.’ Joseph dragged his gaze from the window to his daughter’s startled face. ‘I will alter my will so that everything goes to Hugh. You will not get a penny.’
‘You can’t mean it,’ she stammered. ‘Mother won’t allow it.’ This feeling of helplessness was worse than finding herself at the mercy of the waves after she’d ditched the Spit. Now storm waves of anger crashed over her head and the vicious undertow of her father’s implacability pulled her towards the rocks.
‘Your mother has no say in the matter, as you well know. If, on the other hand, you change your mind and decide to do as you’re told, I propose that we carry on as before, with me providing an allowance until the war ends and you fulfil your obligation to marry Lionel.’
‘Father, please!’ Angela had to lean against the desk to steady herself.
Joseph stood his ground. ‘The fact is, Angela, you can do less harm here, helping to look after your mother, than you can flying aeroplanes. That’s obvious, surely?’
How dare he mock her and hold her in so little esteem? Because she was a woman; because women stayed at home to nurse and run the domestic side of things; because, according to Joseph Browne, that was the way the world worked. Words failed Angela.
‘And may I point out,’ he went on with ruthless logic, ‘without an allowance or any prospect of inheritance, it’s extremely doubtful that Lionel will wish to continue with the engagement. That’s something else you haven’t taken into account.’
‘You’re wrong; Lionel loves me!’ she cried. Her insides churned and her heart banged against her ribs.
‘Love,’ Joseph muttered sardonically. ‘Love doesn’t pay the bills. And in my experience a man is lucky if it survives the first year of marriage.’
‘Because you have no heart, that’s why. You’re not capable of loving anyone or anything except yourself and your damned mills.’ She dragged these boiling resentments from the dark corners of her soul. ‘Look what you’ve done to Mother. You’ve turned her into an invalid, incapable of doing anything for herself. Your tyranny has done that to her. And your intention is to turn Hugh into a likeness of yourself; a carbon copy strutting around the place, dishing out orders, only caring about his status in society. And what a dreary society it is – men with fat wallets, broad accents and bloated faces and their simpering wives who wouldn’t know their Hamlet from their … from their Buster Keaton.’ Angela’s voice broke down and she cried tears of exasperation.
Virginia Browne had stood in the doorway long enough to hear the whole of her daughter’s outburst. Joseph had noticed his wife but had made no attempt to warn Angela.
‘Your father’s right,’ Virginia said now, ‘you should go.’
Angela spun round to see her mother: a pale, gaunt figure dressed in a green silk dressing gown, one hand at her throat, her rings sparkling in the sun’s rays.
‘He is right,’ Virginia repeated tonelessly without making any attempt to enter the room. Her voice was deadened by a lifetime’s resignation to her husband’s domination. ‘If you can’t agree to your father’s rules, you must leave Heathfield and learn to make your own way in the world.’
Green turned to gold, gold to russet red and then to brown before the leaves finally fluttered down to the soft black earth. The sky was blue when Jean and Douglas chose to start their Saturday afternoon by walking home together through Burton Wood.
‘You don’t mind going at my snail’s pace?’ he checked as he locked the office door and they set out past the canteen.
Jean shook her head. ‘I haven’t had much chance to take a close look at nature recently. I missed the blackberries and horse chestnuts this year; they were gone before I knew it.’
‘Yes, these days you have to run hard just to stay on the spot.’
‘As the Red Queen said to Alice.’ She smiled as she recollected one of her favourite sayings from the Lewis Carroll tale. ‘“Now, here, you see, it takes all the running you can do, to keep in the same place.”’
‘“If you want to get somewhere else, you must run at least twice as fast as that!”’ Douglas offered the rest of the quotation. He held the gate open for Jean and followed her into the wood. ‘That’s exactly what it feels like to me these days. And with this leg I’m not up to sprinting very far.’
‘I feel the same way.’ The pace of life at Rixley rarely slackened. ‘But hopefully it’ll ease the situation to have Mary Holland join us as an extra pilot.’
‘Yes, Cameron’s a fan of hers; he pushed Hilary hard to make that happen. She’s due to arrive later today, as a matter of fact.’ Douglas’s leg bothered him and the pain made him limp more heavily. ‘Mary will need moral support when she moves into the Grange
. She’ll feel like a fish out of water at first.’
‘Of course.’ Jean took his point. ‘I remember the feeling.’ She stopped and took a deep breath. ‘Actually, I’ve had a piece of good news,’ she confided. ‘My promotion to flight captain came through yesterday. How about that?’
On impulse Douglas grasped her hand and squeezed it. ‘That’s very good news. Congratulations.’
Her hand in his felt reassuring and she was happy to leave it there as they continued on their way.
‘Angela and Bobbie are bound to be envious,’ Douglas warned. ‘Don’t be surprised if they try to outdo you with fresh acts of derring-do.’
‘It ought not to be a contest.’ The sun’s rays shone pure gold through the leaf canopy, casting a warm light and creating a feeling of deep calm. ‘We’re all in this together.’
‘But there’s nothing wrong with a healthy dose of competition.’ Douglas laced his fingers between Jean’s. Her hand was warm and compared to his uneven walk she seemed to glide along. ‘It never did anyone any harm.’
‘I’m sure Teddy would agree with you there.’
‘Ah yes; Teddy.’
Jean cast a curious glance at Douglas’s face. ‘Have you found out something?’
He frowned and nodded.
‘Don’t tell me if you’d rather not; if it’s hush-hush.’
‘No, I’m sure you’ll keep it under your hat. It was as we thought: Teddy did cook the books and help himself to quite a few gallons of petrol on the sly. I had a word with him about it.’
‘What did he say?’
‘He tried to brush it off but I wouldn’t let him. Let’s just say I don’t think he’ll pull the same trick in future.’
Jean pictured the scene of the older man dragging the young hothead over the coals. ‘I don’t suppose he was very happy about it?’
‘You know Teddy.’ Douglas had a bigger dilemma but he decided to keep that to himself for now. It had to do with an extremely serious incident that Teddy Simpson had been involved in just prior to his posting to Rixley. Hilary had left an official-looking document on his desk and Douglas had glanced at it in passing: the name ‘Flight Lieutenant E. J. Simpson’ had caught his eye at once. There was a box at the top of the form headed ‘Account of eyewitness, Flying Officer H. W. Flynn, 8 August 1943’, followed by a paragraph that he hadn’t had time to read before Hilary had returned to his desk.