The Spitfire Girls

by Jenny Holmes

  But what if she and the three other girls kept their doubts to themselves? What then?

  Jean approached a bend and braked. A tractor trundled towards her, almost forcing her off the narrow road. She swerved on to the grass verge then eased the bike down again on to the tarmac.

  Ought she to warn Douglas that people had started to notice that he missed a lot of what was being said to him? Might he then blame her and end their friendship altogether? That would be his pride talking, of course. But what on earth would Douglas do if he was forced out of his job because of it, rejected by the RAF and then by the ATA?

  Jean braked again then turned left at the junction leading to Rixley. At the gate to St Wilfred’s she stopped and gazed in at the rows of moss-covered graves. The church door was closed after the morning service. All was quiet and still.

  She was sure of only one thing: if increasing deafness meant that Douglas was unable to hear the decrease in the rev count of a plane’s engine in time to prevent it stalling and going into a fatal tailspin then he ought not to be behind the controls of an aircraft. ‘Douglas mustn’t put himself or anyone else in danger,’ she said out loud. ‘Really and truly, he ought not to fly.’

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  Hilary’s expression was grim as, first thing on Monday morning, he tapped the table with the end of his fork to claim the attention of his officers sitting down to breakfast at the Grange. When the clatter of cutlery and the general chatter didn’t subside, he tapped again.

  Jean broke off from her conversation with Agnes and Mary and looked towards the table at the far end of the room. She and the other early risers sensed bad news.

  Their commanding officer waved a piece of paper in the air and spoke briskly. ‘I have here a report of an overnight bombing raid on Northgate,’ he announced without preliminaries. ‘Between the hours of nine thirty and eleven fifteen p.m. there were six direct hits in all. Extensive damage is reported to buildings in the town centre and on the outskirts of town, namely the areas of Foxborough and Welbeck. There are as yet no firm reports of casualties but the information I have here lists two of our ground personnel as currently missing.’

  An audible gasp ran around the room, followed by a tense silence. Mary held her breath and waited for the squadron leader to name names.

  ‘Private Mechanic Harry Wood and Corporal Mechanic Gordon Mason did not return to Rixley last night. It is known that they were visiting Northgate for personal reasons. Any further information will be posted on the ferry pool board.’ Hilary sat down between Cameron and Douglas, clasping his hands and resting them on the table. He remained silent as the news gradually sank in.

  ‘Harry and Gordon?’ Agnes whispered in disbelief. ‘I saw them cycling through the village yesterday teatime, large as life. They must have been setting out for Northgate by bike.’

  Mary recalled her last sighting of Harry hovering by the control tower at the ferry pool, his jaw covered in shaving foam, watching uncertainly as she and Stan had taken care of Bobbie. She heaved a sigh of relief that Stan hadn’t been mentioned in Hilary’s report then prayed that neither Harry nor Gordon was badly injured.

  ‘Why is Jerry dropping bombs on Northgate?’ Jean wondered aloud. The spa town seemed an unlikely target. ‘Unless they mistook it for one of the mill towns further west.’

  ‘There’s an RAF training camp in Foxborough,’ Agnes reminded her.

  ‘Anyway, Jerry’s not particular.’ Teddy’s voice broke in. He’d come into the room in time to hear the tail end of Hilary’s announcement and didn’t seem unduly upset by it. ‘He’ll bomb any old target rather than fly back with a full load. I’ve seen him blow up a field full of cows for want of something better.’

  Jean, Agnes and Mary chose to ignore Teddy and were relieved when he sat down with Cameron, Douglas and Hilary.

  Meanwhile, people slowly digested the bad news along with their toast and jam. ‘Listed as missing’ was a phrase that held out hopes for Gordon and Harry’s safe return. Perhaps the plucky pair had stayed behind to help air raid wardens with the aftermath and would turn up at the ferry pool later today, battered and bruised but otherwise none the worse for wear. But surely they would have telephoned to say they were safe? Not if they were up to their necks in clearing rubble, they wouldn’t. Wait and see; it was all their friends and colleagues could do.

  ‘It’s a good job Jerry chose Sunday and not Saturday to bomb the blazes out of Northgate.’ Teddy leaned across the table to speak to Douglas. ‘Otherwise you and I might not be sitting here now.’

  Cameron looked uncertainly from one to the other: Teddy smiling and winking, Douglas clearly irritated to the point of rapping his spoon down into his empty bowl and getting up to leave.

  ‘I said, it’s a good job—’ Teddy repeated.

  ‘I heard what you said,’ Douglas snapped back. ‘I’m running late,’ he explained. ‘Cameron, would you like a lift?’

  Cameron nodded. ‘Excuse us, gentlemen …’ He scraped back his chair and followed Douglas.

  Hilary’s eyes narrowed as he studied their back views. ‘You and Douglas were in Northgate on Saturday?’ he asked Teddy.

  ‘Yes; with Bobbie and Jean, as a matter of fact.’ Teddy spoke breezily. ‘We made quite a night of it before Douglas drove us all back home.’

  ‘Bobbie and Jean,’ Hilary echoed. ‘I see.’

  ‘Oh, I say; no! Don’t read too much into it,’ Teddy protested good-humouredly. ‘We’re all just good pals – nothing more.’

  ‘Flying is my life.’ Angela had come to Bobbie’s room just before dawn to explain at last her reasons for writing the letter to Lionel. ‘I’ll never give it up, even if Father carries out his threat to cut me off.’

  ‘Surely he wasn’t serious.’ Bobbie summoned every ounce of willpower to carry on as normal: she took her uniform from the wardrobe then placed it carefully on the bed. ‘He couldn’t mean what he said.’

  ‘You don’t know my pa; he meant every word, which is why I’ve written to Lionel to break off our engagement.’

  ‘You never did!’ Bobbie tried to make out Angela’s expression in the dim light. The news drew her out of the fog of confusion that she’d been in since Saturday night.

  ‘I have and I intend to send it to him this morning, before I change my mind.’ Angela’s voice faltered then she gave herself a shake and went on with renewed determination. ‘The thing is, I need the excitement that flying brings. Yes, we run an enormous risk every time we take off, but there’s nothing in life to compare with the thrill of being behind the controls inside that cockpit. You understand me, don’t you, Bobbie?’

  ‘I do. And besides, why throw away the training and experience?’ Bobbie was in no doubt that Angela should stay with the ATA but she thought it would be rash to send the break-up letter to Lionel straight away. ‘But my advice is to hold fire and wait.’

  ‘What for?’ Angela dipped her hand into her inside jacket pocket for her packet of cigarettes. She felt the smoothness of the scarlet silk lining that she’d requested from the Savile Row tailor who had customized her uniform, remembering the eager-beaver enthusiasm she’d experienced on being accepted into the service. Forgetting about the cigarette, she stood up and paced the room as Bobbie stated her case.

  ‘Wait for the dust to settle. Give your father time to reflect before you even think of giving up Lionel.’ Bobbie began to get dressed, slipping into her underthings while Angela’s back was turned.

  Angela disagreed. ‘You’re not paying attention – once that man has made up his mind he never backs down. I’m not kidding; my pa has a heart of stone. In any case, I felt a sense of relief when I finished the letter and sealed the envelope. That sounds awful, I know.’

  Bobbie zipped up her trousers then buttoned her pale blue shirt. She went to the dressing table to run a brush through her hair, catching sight of Angela’s reflection in the mirror. ‘In what way, relieved?’

  ‘It brought a breath of freedom back in
to my life.’ Angela tapped the envelope against her thigh. ‘This decision may land me firmly on the shelf for the rest of my life but, if that turns out to be the case, at least I’ll never have to put a husband and family before flying.’

  ‘Poor Lionel; that’s a shocking thing to say.’ Bobbie gazed at Angela’s face in the mirror.

  ‘I know, but it’s true.’ Angela decided to smoke after all.

  The click of the cigarette lighter took Bobbie back to the moment when Teddy had crouched by the stove to light a fire and the memory made her drop the hairbrush on to the floor with a sudden clatter.

  Angela inhaled deeply. ‘The truth is I’d never excelled at anything before I learned to fly. I was extremely average at school despite the money that Father poured into my education. I simply wasn’t interested in geometry theorems or the life cycle of the fruit fly. As for algebra …’ Angela stooped to pick up the hairbrush and hand it back. ‘But flying a Spit is the one thing I know I’m good at. My dream is to keep on doing it, getting better and better until the point where I know that no one – woman or man – can beat me. I want to be the best aviator in the country.’

  ‘I do understand.’ Bobbie’s hand shook as she took the brush.

  ‘Oh, dear girl, are you sickening for something?’ Angela stared over Bobbie’s shoulder at their reflections. Neither looked as if they’d slept and Bobbie’s eyes were swollen and red. ‘Have you been crying?’ she demanded.

  Bobbie quickly shook her head. ‘It’s a sniffle, that’s all.’

  ‘A sniffle, my backside! You’ve been upset. And I was so busy pouring out my woes I failed to notice. What’s happened while I’ve been away?’

  ‘Nothing,’ Bobbie said faintly, brushing her hair fiercely and refusing to look Angela in the eye.

  Angela thought back over the weekend. ‘Where were you on Saturday night, by the way?’

  ‘Nowhere.’

  Angela stubbed out her cigarette in the heavy, cut-glass ashtray on Bobbie’s bedside table. ‘You weren’t in your room when I put my head around the door. I assumed at first that Douglas had sent you to some God-forsaken corner of the frozen north.’

  ‘No, I was here at the Grange all weekend.’

  ‘So why weren’t you in your room?’

  Letting out a long sigh, Bobbie kept her back turned as she searched in a drawer for her tie. ‘I must have popped out for some reason.’

  ‘I looked in again next morning: your bed hadn’t been slept in. And when I checked later in the day, there you were, dead to the world.’

  Bobbie found the black tie and slammed the drawer shut. ‘Good Lord above, Angela, will you please stop asking questions!’ She turned to face her, eyes blazing.

  ‘Aha.’ A different, unexpected picture presented itself – of young Bobbie painting the town red on her night off. ‘You were otherwise engaged?’

  ‘Please leave me alone,’ Bobbie begged as she fumbled with the tie. ‘At this rate I’ll never get to the ferry pool in time to report in and receive my chit.’

  Slowly Angela backed towards the door. Obviously Bobbie was not about to elaborate. ‘I’m sorry,’ she murmured. ‘I’ll go down and order breakfast for you, shall I? What’ll it be: the full works or just porridge?’

  ‘Porridge, please.’ At last Bobbie managed to knot her tie. She calmed her voice to answer normally. ‘I’ll follow you down as soon as I’ve made the bed.’

  ‘As long as you’re sure you’re all right,’ Angela said as she left the room.

  ‘I’m fine, thank you.’ Leave me alone. Don’t ask me questions that I can’t answer. The blanks in Bobbie’s memory yawned like the deep, dark craters on the lawn in front of the Grange. The sensation of falling into blackness came back with a vengeance so she sat on the edge of the bed, gripping its iron frame until the dizziness stopped and she was fit to go downstairs to breakfast.

  The falling sensation slowly passed. It left Bobbie disorientated, uncertain of either time or place until another knock on the door brought her round.

  ‘Bobbie, are you there?’

  It was Mary’s low, quiet voice. Bobbie went to the door and opened it.

  ‘I’ve just had breakfast and now I’m setting off for Rixley. Do you fancy walking with me?’ After the previous day’s mysterious episode at the base, Mary wanted to find out how Bobbie was coping. ‘I thought you might appreciate some company,’ she added gently.

  ‘That’s sweet, but no thanks.’ Bobbie had a hazy memory of being walked back to the Grange in clothes that didn’t belong to her. Then Mary had run a bath for her and Bobbie had rubbed and scrubbed herself all over with flannel and nailbrush, scrubbed again and wept. Mary had fetched Bobbie’s clothes and taken away the others. She’d persuaded her to go to bed and rest, asked no questions and shown Bobbie more kindness than she felt she deserved. ‘Angela has ordered breakfast for me downstairs.’

  ‘Champion. I’ll see you at the base then.’

  ‘It’s your first day,’ Bobbie remembered suddenly.

  ‘That’s right; it is.’

  ‘Good luck, Mary. And thank you.’

  Mary smiled and nodded. Bobbie still didn’t seem right – her voice was not much more than a whisper and her delicately freckled face had regained none of its colour. Her eyes were still red from crying. And she seemed a million miles away from what was going on around her. ‘Ta-ta for now,’ Mary said as she put on her hat and zipped up her jacket. She breathed in its new, leathery smell and ran through the morning’s procedure as she descended the stairs: first stop the locker room and a quick check of items in her locker – her goggles, helmet, map and parachute pack – then on to the ops room to pick up her chit for the day. I can hardly wait, she said to herself as she left by the back door and crossed the stable yard. Her spirits rose and her stride lengthened as she entered the wood. Third Officer Mary Holland reporting for duty, Monday October the eighteenth, 1943, at eight o’clock sharp.

  Bobbie stood on the landing watching Mary leave. She knew she ought to force herself to eat and drink but her throat was tight as she went down the stairs. She felt frightened, like a child who fears monsters hiding in dark corners even though the child has been told again and again that monsters are not real. Afraid of what or of whom? The click of a cigarette lighter, flames, Teddy’s face, his voice, his weight pressing down. Bobbie paused in the hall. She’d woken up alone in a dark room without her clothes. Then, after that, all she could remember was a cold wind, branches overhead, Harry calling for Stan. Olive’s contemptuous look.

  What did I do? Bobbie asked herself. There was enormous shame in it, whatever it was – sharp shame that pierced her again as she remembered swallowing whisky from Teddy’s flask. And then black guilt. And shame again that Stan and the others knew something that Bobbie did not and she would have to face them today, aware that they would greet her with guarded expressions then whisper behind her back. She closed her eyes in an attempt to blank it all out then opened the door into the busy breakfast room.

  ‘Bobbie, over here!’ Angela sat with Teddy and Hilary, pointing to the empty chair next to her.

  Teddy glanced up from his plate of eggs and bacon. He smiled fleetingly at Bobbie then went on talking to Hilary.

  Bobbie’s slight frame shook from head to toe. It seemed impossible to walk between tables, smiling and saying good morning, to sit between Angela and Teddy as if nothing had happened. But perhaps nothing had happened? Had it or hadn’t it?

  Was Saturday night a hysterical episode of her own making, brought on by drinking too much and passing out? What did I do? At the table Teddy laughed and talked as usual while Angela pointed to Bobbie’s tray. What did I do?

  The clamour of voices, crockery and cutlery, of chairs scraping over linoleum and the glimpse of kitchen activity through swing doors proved too much for Bobbie. As Angela called her name again, she shook her head then turned and rushed from the house, following the route that Mary had taken through Burton Wood.

&nbs
p; Anything to Anywhere. Douglas sat at his desk rapidly writing out chits. The met report was good: clear weather over the north of England, some cloud to the south. This meant he could get all of his planes safely off the ground before ten o’clock. Agnes Wright to Ulster, Angela to Walsall in a Spit that was going in for repair. Bobbie to Bristol in a Miles Magister. Teddy to Hatfield in a Dauntless A-24 (knowing that Teddy would hate the old workhorse), Jean in a Spit to Reading.

  Douglas paused before signing off Jean’s chit. Despite his decision to stay away from her in future, he couldn’t get her out of his thoughts. He’d kept busy on mundane chores all through Sunday morning: splitting logs for the woodpile alongside the Grange handyman, Ernest Poulter, then washing and polishing his car until it gleamed. But one glimpse of Jean returning from a bike ride had thrown him.

  Dazzling was how Douglas would describe her: upright on her bike, her long legs pedalling with ease, her hair blown back from her beautiful face. The sight had stayed with him through an afternoon of letter writing followed by room tidying – hanging clean shirts on hangers, stuffing dirty washing in a canvas bag ready to go down to the laundry room – then dinner and the challenge of being merely chatty with the woman he adored. How was the bike ride? How lovely the trees were at this time of year.

  Douglas went on making out chits. Jean in a Spit Mark V to Reading. Mary in a brand-new Spit in a hop across the Lancashire border to the ferry pool near Lancaster – giving her the very best, most up-to-date machine for her first flight.

  Cameron looked over Douglas’s shoulder to read Mary’s chit. ‘No need to send anyone to fetch Third Officer Holland,’ he remarked. ‘I’ll be in that neck of the woods later this morning. I can easily drive her back.’

  ‘Right you are.’ Cameron’s offer released a driver for other duties so Douglas took him up on it. He pushed a pile of chits across his desk towards Gillian. ‘These are signed off,’ he told her. ‘You can go ahead and make the announcement.’