The Spitfire Girls

by Jenny Holmes

  Bobbie tried to clear her head. She’d drunk too much again and it had made her gauche and confused. ‘It’s just a feeling. I can never tell whether or not you mean what you say.’

  Teddy took hold of her by both arms. ‘That’s just me. It’s the way I am with everyone. I can’t help it.’

  ‘But why?’ His grip was tight as she tried to pull free.

  ‘I haven’t a clue. Dr Freud would have a theory about it, I suppose. I probably joke and make light of things because I’m running away from some deep trouble in my childhood; isn’t that what the psychiatrists say?’

  Bobbie stopped struggling. ‘What trouble?’

  Teddy’s brow was furrowed and he took a long time to answer. ‘My father ran off when I was four and a half. After that I lived pretty much on the breadline with my mother and grandfather. That’s probably reason enough.’

  ‘I didn’t know that,’ she said softly. ‘I’m sorry.’

  ‘Don’t be; either you sink under it or you come back fighting. I chose to claw my way out.’ None of this was a lie, Teddy reminded himself. His motive for telling Bobbie at this point might be called into question, but it seemed to be having the desired effect.

  ‘I see.’ She stood motionless, gazing up at him.

  ‘Do you?’ he murmured, placing one hand gently on the back of her head. ‘All this larking around; it’s a big front to help me get by. But deep down it’s not really what makes me tick.’

  Bobbie nodded slowly. As her head tilted back, Teddy’s tentative kiss took her breath away.

  The kiss deepened into a close embrace. He felt her return the increasing pressure of his lips and when they finally broke apart her eyes glistened with tears and a shiver ran through her.

  ‘Are you feeling chilly?’ Teddy took her hand and quickly led her up some stone steps to a large loft where grooms and coachmen had once slept. The bare, basic room ran the length of one side of the stable yard and in the gloom it was only possible to make out open rafters and a series of skylights letting in shafts of moonlight. Teddy, however, had been here before.

  ‘There’s a stove in the corner.’ He crouched to open the door and took out a lighter. ‘I come here once in a while for some peace and quiet.’

  The lighter flared and Bobbie made out disused furniture stacked against a wall: a table, a few armchairs, an old mattress and a broken glass-fronted cabinet. She heard the wood in the stove crackle and catch light.

  ‘Come closer,’ Teddy invited. He stretched out his hand.

  Bobbie crouched beside him and leaned against him. The flames flared blue and yellow and then orange. ‘I never knew this room was here,’ she whispered.

  ‘Let it be our secret.’ Drawing a silver hip flask from his pocket, he unscrewed the top and offered her a drink. ‘To warm you up.’

  Bobbie took the flask and drank without thinking. The burn in her throat made her splutter.

  ‘More,’ Teddy encouraged, watching her as she drank again. ‘There, that’s better. Wait here; I’ll drag some chairs across.’

  Bobbie tried to stand up but she was suddenly unsteady on her feet.

  Teddy reached out to prop her up. ‘Wait; I’ve had a better idea.’ Instead of bringing chairs, he dragged the old mattress across the floor then set it down in front of the stove.

  Bobbie heard the sound of something being dragged. There was a flop and a thud as the mattress landed.

  ‘Sit,’ he said.

  Her legs gave way and she sank to her knees. ‘I don’t know what’s wrong with me.’ The warmth of the fire felt comforting and the flutter of doubt in her stomach settled. ‘I’m sorry … you must think …’

  ‘I don’t think anything.’ Teddy knelt beside her. ‘Come here.’ He held his arms wide open and waited for her to snuggle close.

  Closing her eyes, Bobbie breathed in the smell of his cologne and felt the rise and fall of his chest.

  ‘Another?’ He offered her the flask again.

  ‘No.’ Nothing in the room would stay still. Everything tilted and slipped. ‘Better not,’ she tried to say but the words too slid out of control. ‘Sorry,’ she breathed, wiping the back of her hand across her mouth.

  Teddy kept his arm around her as he tempted her to drink again. He eased her on to the mattress then lay down beside her and stroked her face. ‘There now; you’ll soon be nice and warm.’

  Bobbie felt her cape slide from her shoulders. Teddy’s face in the firelight had taken on an oddly determined quality, quite different from the soothing tone of his voice. His eyes were hooded and dark. Doubt fluttered again and rose high in her chest. ‘No, Teddy …’ As she tried to raise herself from the mattress, the straps on her dress slipped down her arms, leaving her shoulders bare.

  ‘Don’t be silly.’ He pulled her back down. ‘Stay here with me where it’s warm.’

  She fell against him and felt him kiss her neck. Falling and falling; eyes closed, head back, feeling Teddy’s mouth on her shoulders, her cheek, her lips. Falling further, she started to push against him as he cupped her breasts in his hands.

  He used his weight to press her against the mattress. ‘Lie down. I won’t hurt you. There now; lie still. That feels nice, doesn’t it?’

  Falling again into a vast, dark space and aware of Teddy kissing her mouth hard, his hands on her, his weight pressing her down. Bobbie twisted her head sideways. ‘No.’

  ‘Yes,’ he said. He found the zip at the side of her dress and slid it down, heard her gasp and try to pull away. Her pale skin glowed golden in the firelight and strands of hair streaked her flushed cheek. ‘It’s nice, it’s good,’ Teddy breathed into her ear. ‘You’ll like it, I promise. Lie still and don’t put up a fight; there’s a good girl.’

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  The women’s quarters at the Grange seemed the lap of luxury to Mary. Her bedroom was enormous for a start, with a window from floor to ceiling overlooking the wood. The bed was a double, with a defunct servants’ bell-pull to one side. Though the patterned carpet was worn, the edging tassels were frayed and moths had been at the embroidered blue counterpane, she could see how grand the furnishings and fittings must once have been.

  Awake before dawn on the Sunday morning, she lay in the darkness and was slow to identify the musty smell of the carpet and hulking outlines of her mahogany wardrobe and chest of drawers. Eventually a glint of daylight was reflected in the mirror on the dressing table: a signal that it was time to get up. So, still in her nightdress, Mary carried her towel and washbag along to the bathroom at the end of the corridor, padding on bare feet and hoping that she would find it free.

  The door was ajar and she breathed a sigh of relief. There was a hot-water tap for the sink (another luxury) and a bar of Palmolive soap in a dish on the washstand. Mary washed quickly then brushed her teeth. With luck, she’d be back in her room before anyone else was up.

  But when she slid back the bolt and opened the bathroom door she found Angela fully dressed and hovering outside.

  Angela’s face fell. ‘Oh, hello, Mary. I thought it was Bobbie in there.’

  ‘As you see; it’s not.’ Mary waited, straight-faced, for Angela to step aside.

  ‘She’s not in her room either.’ Angela peered over Mary’s shoulder as if suspecting her of hiding Bobbie in the bathroom. ‘She can’t be far away. I need to talk to her. It’s rather urgent.’

  ‘I haven’t seen her.’

  ‘Well, if you do will you tell her that I’ve come back sooner than expected. I have something important to tell her.’ At last Angela backed away and Mary slipped past.

  ‘Where will you be?’ Mary asked.

  ‘Downstairs, in the breakfast room.’ Angela didn’t offer to wait for her and show her the ropes. Instead, she turned on her heel and marched off.

  Mary swallowed hard after this blow to her already fragile confidence. She decided to avoid the breakfast room altogether and instead walk over to the base and eat her bacon and eggs in familiar surroundings.


  So she went back to her room and put on a warm green jumper, a red woollen scarf and a pair of brown corduroy trousers. She threw her overcoat over the top, slid her feet into some flat shoes then hurried downstairs.

  A faint clatter of cutlery from a room to her right told her the whereabouts of Angela and her fellow officers. It’d be like Daniel entering the lions’ den if I went in there, she thought, crossing the hallway and escaping through the front door.

  Halfway down the steps, Mary remembered Cameron’s warning not to walk at the front of the house until the bomb disposal team had done their work so she cut along the terrace then down into the stable yard where she saw wisps of blue smoke emerging from a chimney and the clock in the tower telling her that it was half past eight. About to hurry under the archway and follow the short path towards Burton Wood, she didn’t notice Cameron and Douglas deep in conversation beside Douglas’s car.

  Douglas spotted her first. ‘Hello, Mary. Welcome to the Grange.’ He limped across to shake her hand. ‘Very well done, by the way.’

  ‘Thank you,’ she replied with downcast eyes.

  ‘We’ll get you up and running first thing tomorrow,’ Douglas promised, as Cameron joined them. ‘Do you have any preference for your first time up in the air – a Hurricane or an F4U Corsair, for instance?’

  ‘No, thanks. I don’t want special treatment; just whatever needs to be done.’

  ‘Fair enough.’ Now that Mary was qualified to fly, Douglas would have to rethink his attitude towards her. He’d always found her a little too brusque when she’d worked as a driver so had made little attempt to get to know her. This was still the case, but the girl must have hidden depths to have sailed through the conversion course the way she had. ‘Cameron here has great faith in you, don’t you?’

  ‘I do,’ came the reply. Rixley’s second in command cleared his throat and glanced up at the smoking chimney.

  Douglas seemed unaware that he was embarrassing them both. ‘He’s been singing your praises every chance he gets.’

  Cameron coughed and shuffled. ‘Who lit a fire in the old grooms’ quarters, I wonder?’ Without waiting for an answer, he went off to investigate.

  Mary had wanted him to stay, if only to protect her from more of Douglas’s friendly but clumsy overtures. But Cameron strode off, dressed only in shirtsleeves and casual trousers, as if glad to have found an excuse to leave.

  ‘Cameron likes everyone to think he’s the strict disciplinarian but he does have a softer side if you catch him off guard,’ Douglas confided. ‘Mind you, it’s the first time I’ve seen him take someone under his wing the way he has done with you, Mary. I hear from Hilary he put in a word on your behalf to get you on to the course. Not that you couldn’t have done it on merit; don’t get me wrong,’ he added hastily.

  Mary bit hard on her bottom lip. She told herself that Douglas hadn’t meant to put his foot in it. ‘If you don’t mind …’ She gestured towards the path that she’d been about to take.

  Douglas carried on regardless. ‘In any case, you’ve done remarkably well to impress Geoff Rouse the way you did. I know Geoff of old and he’s a hard taskmaster.’

  Mary was dismayed to learn that she’d been talked about behind her back. Her face flushed bright red as she saw Squadron Leader Hilary Stevens coming down the steps to join them.

  ‘Welcome to Burton Grange, Mary.’ He took her hand and gave it one stiff shake. His aquiline features, always serious, had the keen look of an eagle as he turned sideways to glance up at the smoke coming out of the chimney. ‘Who’s …?’ he began.

  ‘Cameron’s gone to find out.’ Douglas guessed what he’d been about to say.

  ‘Very well. We don’t want any mishaps. That chimney hasn’t been cleaned recently, as far as I’m aware.’ As Hilary spoke, his mind was elsewhere. He’d bumped into Angela in the breakfast room and listened to her fresh tale of woe. Apparently she’d been summonsed home where old man Browne had cut up rough – threatened to disinherit her, no less. Serious stuff, though Angela had tried to make light of it, as was her wont. She’d reproached Hilary for letting Lionel know about her dramatic bail-out at sea, and so he decided it would be better to stay out of it this time – let her sort things out for herself. ‘If you’ll excuse us, Douglas and I need to have a chat,’ he told Mary now as he led the way across the yard.

  The squadron leader’s brush-off came as a relief. Mary fled, practically running under the stone arch and down the path, into the wood where she took out her frustration by rustling through heaps of leaves underfoot, kicking and listening to their swish until her nerves settled. A startled wood pigeon clattered down from a branch and flew ahead of her, swooping upwards then banking out of sight.

  Mary stopped in a clearing, hands deep in her pockets, staring up through the canopy and trying to calm herself. She must take no notice of what people said and how they said it. Never mind if men like Douglas and Hilary patronized her and girls like Angela looked straight through her. She, Mary Holland, knew she was as good as them. She’d proved it at Thame. What did it matter if she didn’t fit in at the Grange? It wouldn’t make her a worse pilot. And if she needed company, she would do as Stan had suggested and pal up with Jean or stick with her old friends. In any case, she usually preferred to keep to herself.

  So Mary walked on towards the airbase, kicking through the leaves and disturbing more woodland creatures. A bushy-tailed squirrel shot vertically up the trunk of a beech tree; a blackbird searching for worms amongst the leaf litter sent out an alarm call to its mate. She took no notice. I have done the right thing, she reminded herself firmly as she reached the Nissen huts at the edge of the airfield. What’s more, once I’m in the cockpit of a Spit and flying high, I’ll prove I’m their equal, whether they like it or not.

  Harry sat on a stool outside the door of the men’s billet. He was dressed in singlet and trousers, braces dangling, and had set a small mirror on the card table he’d carried from inside the hut. He got out his shaving gear and was happily lathering up when he happened to glance towards the wood. He paused, shaving brush in hand.

  ‘Blimey O’Flipping Reilly!’ Harry looked again. Sure enough, there was Bobbie Fraser, standing stock-still under a big old oak tree. He almost fell off his stool. ‘Stan, come and take a look at this!’ he yelled.

  Hearing the young lad’s call, Stan sauntered down the central aisle, between dimly lit rows of beds, tugging Gordon’s blanket off him as he passed by. ‘Wakey-wakey!’

  Gordon swore and pulled the blanket back up over his head.

  ‘What is it, Harry?’ Stan emerged, blinking into the daylight.

  ‘Look – over there.’ Harry pointed to the small figure under the tree. ‘It’s Bobbie Fraser; she’s got next to nothing on!’

  ‘Bloody hell, Harry; don’t just sit there!’ In a flash Stan ran back into the hut and grabbed the nearest blanket. He came out again and made a beeline for Bobbie. As he drew near he slowed down then stopped two or three paces from where she stood.

  ‘Next to nothing’ was right. Bobbie was turned away from him, dressed only in a short pink petticoat with a lacy edge. Her arms, legs and feet were bare.

  ‘Bobbie, it’s me.’ Stan ventured one step closer.

  She didn’t turn at the sound of his voice.

  He advanced again and carefully wrapped the rough grey blanket around her shoulders. ‘For God’s sake, girl; you’ll catch your death,’ he murmured.

  Bobbie clutched at the warm covering and shook her head as if to ward Stan off. What on earth had happened to her? Stan gestured for Harry to come closer. ‘Fetch one of the girls,’ he said quickly. Then, as Harry ran off again, Stan tried to get through to Bobbie. ‘You must be freezing. Why not come with me? We’ll find you a nice cup of tea.’

  Bobbie shook her head again. ‘Did I …? Have I walked here?’ Her feet were cold and sore, her fingers were numb as she tried to keep the blanket from slipping.

  Bloody hell! Stan rar
ely found himself out of his depth but this was one of those times. Had Bobbie been sleepwalking? Or had she been drinking all night and ended up out for the count? Her face was a white mask, her sandy-coloured hair tangled and knotted.

  ‘I have to go,’ she whimpered, staggering a few steps into the wood.

  Stan blocked her way. ‘No, stay here,’ he pleaded. A glance over his shoulder told him that Olive and Harry were on their way. ‘Get a move on!’ he yelled.

  Overtaking Harry, Olive thrust a bundle of clothes into Stan’s arms. ‘Give her these before she freezes to death,’ she mumbled ungraciously.

  Stan thrust them back at her. ‘You do it. But go carefully.’

  Olive approached Bobbie. She thought she could guess what had happened here. It reminded her of the case of Lilian Watkins, the driver whom Olive had replaced. By all accounts, Lilian had been out drinking in Highcliff with a sailor boy she’d met at the fair. Things had got out of hand as they sometimes did and Lilian had turned up at the base the next morning looking the worse for wear. She’d still had most of her clothes on, mind you. ‘You need to put these on before anybody else catches sight of you,’ Olive advised in the same unsympathetic undertone, holding out a pair of slacks. ‘Come on, it’s time to pull yourself together. There’s a jumper here too.’

  ‘Gently,’ Stan reminded Olive.

  Shaking all over, Bobbie struggled into the jumper and trousers. Olive helped her to tuck her lacy petticoat inside the waistband.

  ‘There, that’s better.’ Stan stepped between Olive and Bobbie before Olive had a chance to blurt out awkward questions. ‘Now for that cup of tea and a slice of toast. And while we’re doing that, you can fill us in. No rush. Olive, fetch Bobbie some shoes and socks. Easy now – gently does it.’

  Angela wondered if Bobbie had been away overnight. Perhaps Douglas had handed her a chit yesterday that had sent her winging her way up north of the border again; in which case, that would have meant an overnight stop in a B & B.