by Molly Green
‘Maman, you don’t understand. I’d give anything to be up there, helping our boys.’
‘Then I am glad you will never be allowed. The men must be left to get on with their job.’
Raine managed to stop herself from mentioning the possibility of joining the ATA. It would only lead to another argument, and anyway she might not ever be accepted.
‘Maman, we all have to do something to help.’ Her mother opened her mouth to interrupt but Raine continued. ‘Look what’s happened already in the Channel Islands. Poor innocent people. British subjects and we haven’t sent anyone to help them. I bet anything Hitler will have his evil eyes on us next. They’re always talking at work about his plans to invade us.’
‘Well, you are no longer at work,’ her mother flashed. ‘Why do you not come and help me with collecting the aluminium for your precious aeroplanes?’
‘I’m a qualified pilot,’ Raine half rose from the table in frustration that her mother simply had no idea what drove her daughter, ‘not a scrap metal collector.’
‘Lorraine, sit down,’ her father interrupted. ‘And don’t demean your mother’s efforts. Eat your meal – a feat in itself with all the rationing.’
Raine sat down, biting back a retort, knowing when her father called her ‘Lorraine’ he wasn’t going to tolerate any more backchat, as he called it.
‘There will be no further discussion on the subject of invasion in front of your sisters.’ Maman popped a morsel of meat between her perfectly painted lips. ‘I will not have it.’
How can her father ever have said she was like Maman? Raine gritted her teeth.
‘Very nice stew, Simone,’ her father said mildly as he placed his knife and fork neatly together. ‘Did you have to queue very long for the meat?’
‘You don’t need to change the subject, Dad,’ Ronnie spoke up. ‘Suzy and I aren’t babies. We do listen to the wireless.’ She turned to Raine. ‘What are you going to do now you’ve left Biggin Hill?’
‘Find out if there’s any way I can increase my flying hours,’ Raine said without hesitating.
‘You’ll find the answer,’ Ronnie said, ignoring their mother’s glare. ‘You always do.’
Later, Raine went upstairs to write her letter to Miss Gower in private before Suzanne came back from her music lesson. She sat on the edge of her bed with a sheet of writing paper and a book underneath to act as a desk. Uncapping her pen, she began to write.
Dear Miss Gower,
I understand you are seeking pilots, both male and female, to join your ferry pool at Hatfield and I would like to apply.
I have twenty hours with a ‘C’ pilot’s licence – mostly in Tiger Moths at Hart’s Flying Club near Biggin Hill in Kent, but since the war started I haven’t had much opportunity to increase the hours.
I would be very pleased to come for an interview any time at your convenience and in the meantime, I look forward to hearing from you.
Yours sincerely,
Lorraine Linfoot (Miss)
She read it through once, swiftly, and decided it couldn’t be improved. The message was simple. She was a qualified pilot and would love to join the ATA. The only thing holding her back was that blasted two hundred and fifty hours minimum flying time.
She folded the letter and stuck it in an envelope, then licked the flap and pressed it firmly down. Using the note Linda had slipped her, she carefully copied the address. She’d go to the post office first thing in the morning. If only she could increase her flying hours … but with a war on, and the expense, and now no job to pay for them, and no civilian flying clubs open even if she could, she was seeing her dream slowly drift away.
‘Maman said you were in our room.’ Suzanne crept in. ‘I hope I’m not disturbing you.’
‘Course not. How did your lesson go?’
‘Not so well today.’ Suzanne flopped on her bed. ‘I couldn’t seem to concentrate.’
‘Why not?’
Suzanne breathed out a long sigh. ‘All this war stuff. And I’m old enough to do something towards it.’ She looked at Raine. ‘Like you, being a pilot. That ought to be really useful.’
‘You would think,’ Raine said, pulling a face. ‘And there’s an organisation called the ATA – the Air Transport Auxiliary – who will actually accept women pilots, but I haven’t enough hours clocked up.’
Suzanne’s eyes were warm with sympathy. ‘Do you know who’s in charge?’
‘Yes, it’s a Miss Pauline Gower. In fact, I’ve just finished writing a letter to her to apply.’ Raine waved the envelope in front of her sister. ‘But I don’t hold out much hope. She wants girls … women with a lot more experience than I’ve got – even though I know damned well I could be trained to do the job.’
Suzanne gave her a hug. ‘Well, at least you’ll have tried. And you know what? I have a strong feeling this Miss Gower might make an exception for you.’
Raine hugged her back. ‘You’ve always been my greatest fan,’ she chuckled. ‘But I’m concerned about you. Maman will go mad if you don’t keep up your lessons. Which you would have to forego if you really wanted to do something worthwhile in the war.’
‘It’d be worth it,’ Suzanne said soberly. ‘I can pick it up again when the war’s over. People are saying it shouldn’t last more than another year.’
‘It’s barely started as far as Great Britain is concerned,’ Raine said. ‘Our boys are still fighting off the Luftwaffe, so I think we’re in for a long haul. They said at the start of the Great War that it would be over by Christmas, which was only a few months away … and look how long that one lasted – four terrible years for those poor soldiers in the trenches. Who knows how bad this one will get before Mr Hitler realises he’ll never get the better of us.’
It was only five days later, on a crisp autumn morning, that the postman handed Raine a typed addressed envelope. She didn’t dare think it might be from Miss Gower. She glanced at the postmark: Hatfield. She couldn’t help her lips curving in a smile. This letter could change her life.
‘Looks like it’s good news,’ he said, giving her a wink.
‘I hope so.’
She stood outside the garden gate watching the postman cycle off whistling, and contrary to her father’s instructions to always use a letter opener, she ripped the envelope open where she stood and withdrew a folded sheet.
Until I open it I can believe Miss Gower is inviting me for an interview, she thought, the letter trembling a little in her hand. But if it’s not – sorry, you haven’t enough experience … Raine momentarily shut her eyes. But suppose it’s good news … I’d then know …
Dear Miss Linfoot,
Thank you for your letter. I was most interested to read that you are already a qualified pilot with a certain number of flying hours.
Raine’s heart leapt with excitement. She read on.
It is urgent that we recruit more ferry pilots and we are able to take a certain number of experienced women pilots. Unfortunately, I’m afraid all the places were immediately filled. However, I have put your name on a waiting list and will contact you if the situation changes. In the meantime, I suggest you join the WAAFs, as at least you will be in your chosen environment.
Yours sincerely,
Pauline Gower (Commanding Officer)
Raine stumbled to the front door, tears pouring down her cheeks without a sound, and rushed up to her bedroom. She threw herself on the bed and sobbed. How ridiculous, now the country was at war, to turn qualified pilots away, whether they happened to be female or male. There must be hundreds of women like her who wanted to do their bit for their country.
After thumping her pillow and using a few choice words, she finally got up and found a handkerchief to blow her nose. Then she went to the bathroom to splash her face. She stared at herself in the mirror, her eyes pink and puffy. She actually looked beaten. What on earth was she going to do? If she’d never dreamed of being a pilot, she would have signed up to join the WAAFs like a shot. But it w
ould be too frustrating for her to wear the uniform and talk to male pilots, all the while knowing she would never be allowed to fly, even though she was as qualified as they were.
‘As though I’m some sort of inferior being,’ she said aloud.
Sniffing and brushing away her tears, Raine pulled the letter from her coat pocket and reread it. Miss Gower promised – well, not promised, exactly – but said she would contact her if the situation changed. In other words, if Miss Gower was given permission to take on more women. Raine supposed at least that was something. A glimmer of hope.
What to do in the meantime?
She wasn’t in the mood to think straight right now. The library. She’d cycle into Bromley and have a good look round. Libraries were full of information. She heard her mother in the kitchen so she put her head in the door.
‘Maman, I’m just going to the library to change some books.’
Her mother was peeling potatoes for dinner.
‘You’ll be back by one?’ she asked, looking up. ‘Are you all right, Lorraine? You look as though you’ve been crying.’
‘It’s probably a cold coming on,’ Raine said. ‘And yes, I should be back by one.’
That would give her plenty of time to calm down. Try to think sensibly what to do.
Mrs Jones, the elderly library assistant, looked up as Raine walked in and put her three books on the library counter. She smiled as she recognised her customer.
‘Hello, dear. Are you looking for anything in particular today?’
‘Not really,’ Raine answered. ‘Um, that is, I don’t suppose you have any information on the ATA, do you?’
Mrs Jones pushed her spectacles up her nose. ‘The ATA? I’m afraid you’ll have to enlighten me, dear.’
Raine explained, but Mrs Jones remained looking nonplussed.
‘I’ve never heard of it,’ she said. ‘Perhaps the librarian will know. I’ll have a word with her when she comes in later. But I have something that might interest you – if you’re set on aeroplanes, that is.’
Raine followed her over to a table with a couple of daily newspapers and a few out-of-date magazines.
‘Ah, here it is.’ Mrs Jones pounced on a magazine displaying drawings of several different aeroplanes on the cover. ‘A gentleman brought this in, in case one of our readers was interested.’ She took off her steel-rimmed glasses and smiled at Raine. ‘You’re welcome to have it, dear.’
‘Oh, thank you,’ Raine said, taking the magazine and glancing at the name: Flight. ‘I haven’t seen this one in the newsagents’. How kind of you to think of me.’ She gave Mrs Jones a beaming smile. ‘I shall really enjoy reading this.’
‘Is there anything else I can help you with?’
‘No, thanks. I’ll just have a look around the shelves.’
She passed a table where there were some pamphlets about a dance on at the Palais in Bromley. She picked one up and put it in her bag without looking at it. She hadn’t been out for a long time. Perhaps that was just what was needed to cheer her up.
That evening, before supper, when Raine was in their shared room, she read Miss Gower’s letter to Suzanne.
‘Oh, Raine, how disappointing.’ Her sister regarded her. ‘What are you going to do?’
‘Good question. I wish I knew.’
‘Well, you must write to this Miss Gower and thank her,’ Suzanne said firmly. ‘Maman taught us that. Tell her how disappointed you are but thank her very much for putting you on her waiting list. And that you look forward to hearing further if things change. No, on second thoughts not “if”, but when things change. Because they’re bound to with so many of our soldiers losing their lives.’ She blinked away a tear.
‘I don’t want to bother her when she’s obviously busy.’
‘I still think she’d appreciate a letter,’ Suzanne said. ‘At the very least, it will keep your name in front of her before anyone else who applies. You don’t know, but you could hear in a few weeks’ time.’
‘You’re such a wise owl,’ Raine said, smiling for the first time all day. She hugged her. ‘I’ll do it straightaway. Oh, I nearly forgot. I picked up a leaflet in the library about a dance at the Palais. I haven’t read it properly, but we’ve never had an evening out on our own, have we?’ She pulled the leaflet from her bag and handed it to her sister.
‘It’s this Saturday,’ Suzanne said, looking up excitedly. ‘Oh, Raine, I’d love to. They’ve got a jazz band playing.’ She glanced at the leaflet again. ‘Richard Spicer is the bandleader – he’s one of my favourites – and Sally Rivers is singing. She’s becoming very popular on the wireless but I’d love to hear her in person, wouldn’t you?’
‘Yes, but you’ll have to be the one to convince Maman,’ Raine said. ‘She’s much more likely to agree than if I asked her.’
Chapter Nine
To Raine’s astonishment her mother was actually amenable to the idea of her two daughters going to a dance together.
‘How will you come home?’ Simone asked.
‘Same way we go – on the bus,’ Raine answered.
‘Well, you may go if you promise not to lose the last bus.’
‘We promise, Maman,’ Suzanne said.
‘And to look after your sister at all times, Lorraine.’
‘I will.’
Ronnie’s face was a picture when Raine and Suzanne waltzed down the stairs on the evening of the dance.
‘Look at you two – dressed up like a dog’s dinner.’
Raine gently pulled one of Ronnie’s pigtails. ‘You’re still a baby. I’m sure in a few years’ time you’ll have given up being a tomboy and will be just as excited to go off to a dance as we are.’
‘I’m hardly a baby at fourteen,’ Ronnie protested, ‘but I just hate all that girl–boy stuff. Waiting on the edge of the floor to be asked to dance by some pimply boy with greasy hair. Ugh.’ She made an ugly face.
‘We don’t intend to dance with pimply boys,’ Suzanne said, laughing. ‘There should be a few slightly more mature ones around, being so close to the aerodrome – if they’re not all away fighting the Germans, that is. If there’s no one we fancy we’ll have a dance together, won’t we, Raine?’
‘Let’s hope it doesn’t come to that,’ Raine chuckled. ‘Come on, Suzy, we don’t want to be late and miss all the fun.’
The dance hall was packed as the two sisters entered. Raine swiftly glanced around, wondering if there was anyone she knew from Biggin Hill, but it was difficult to see the faces clearly because of so much smoke. And as many of them were in uniform it was even harder to differentiate between them. She suddenly thought of Foxy and hoped to God he wouldn’t be here or suddenly turn up.
The floor was already crowded with couples dancing to the small orchestra playing ‘Crazy Rhythm’ and Raine found herself tapping her foot to the infectious beat. She glanced at Suzanne, who was staring at the small stage, eyes half closed, mesmerised. Suzanne looked delightful in her new dress, Raine thought. Her sister had made it out of a length of bright flowered cotton that one of Maman’s housewives had given her, saying she didn’t have any spare saucepans but hoped the material would help the war effort.
Suzanne had altered one of Maman’s gowns for Raine – a bright red silky affair with a short full skirt that flew above Raine’s knees when she’d twirled in the mirror and a halterneck top. What a marvel her sister was with a sewing machine.
‘I’ll get a drink for us at the bar,’ Raine said, ‘if you can find a table.’
Even though she was tall, and wearing her eye-catching red dress, Raine could not catch the barman’s eye. Men who should have been behind her somehow edged their way in front and were served. Chewing her lip in frustration she finally elbowed her way forward and stood directly in front of one of the bartenders, then opened her mouth to give her order. Ignoring her, he nodded to the tall man who had suddenly appeared on her right. Raine sucked in a breath of irritation. What was so special about him?
She g
ave him a sideways glance. He was in RAF uniform, as were many of the other men – three or four years older than her, she decided. His fair hair was swept back from his forehead to show the world what a very good-looking bloke he was. He knew it, too, she thought scornfully, by the cocksure way he’d managed to get served before her. He had no manners. He jolly well knew she was at the bar before him.
As though he felt her staring, he turned to her. His eyes, the green of a blade of grass, held hers. And then he smiled. She gave a start. She’d seen that smile before. It lit up his face. But where? At this moment he was regarding her with open admiration, but it did nothing to thwart her temper.
‘Excuse me, but I’ve been standing here for ten minutes.’ She flashed him an angry look. ‘But I realise I must be invisible.’
‘Oh, no,’ he chuckled. ‘Believe me, you are extremely visible – particularly in that vampire’s dress.’
‘In that case, I’d like to put my order in before you,’ she snapped.
‘Be my guest.’
He shifted no more than an inch or two, supposedly giving her the impression he was letting her go in front. She noticed his wings and the two bars on the cuffs of his tunic. He was a pilot – and an officer. He wouldn’t have had any trouble joining up. The RAF would have welcomed him with open arms. And because she was a woman she was not only denied getting into the ATA to do something worthwhile for the war effort through lack of solo air miles, but it was also as though this cocky pilot was rubbing her nose in it at the same time.
Common sense finally came to the rescue and aware that the bartender was enjoying the little scene, she said in as cool a tone as she could muster, ‘Two lemonades, please.’
‘Coming right up,’ the barman said, and she saw a wink pass between the two of them.
They were laughing at her! In a split second she’d turned on her heel, but the pilot was too fast. He grabbed her arm.
‘Hey, what’s the matter? You’ve made your point. You’re being served now.’