The Spitfire Sisters

by Margaret Dickinson

  ‘What about this WAAF we’ve been hearing about?’

  Harry gave a bark of laughter. ‘Which one, Mam?’

  ‘Oh you! There was one called Lucy, wasn’t there?’

  Harry wrinkled his forehead. ‘Oh yes, so there was. That was ages ago. There’ve been at least three since then.’

  Peggy bit her lip. ‘There is something I ought to tell you – unless, of course, you’ve heard already.’

  ‘I don’t know till you tell me. Go on.’

  ‘It’s about Luke – and Daisy.’

  Harry raised his eyebrows. ‘Don’t tell me they’re getting married. Not whilst the war’s still on, surely.’

  Peggy shook her head. ‘No, on the contrary. Luke came home to tell us that he has fallen in love with someone else.’

  ‘Good Lord! Now, I didn’t expect that.’ He frowned. ‘Is Daisy heartbroken?’

  Peggy laughed. ‘No, she’s – she’s seeing a lot of Johnny Hammond.’

  Harry sat very still for a moment before he began to smile. ‘That’s all right, then.’

  ‘But what about you, Harry? You’ve always said you were going to marry Daisy one day.’

  Harry guffawed loudly. ‘Oh Mam, don’t tell me you took all that kid’s stuff seriously. It was only to wind Luke up. I really thought they’d end up together and you know me; anything Luke had, I wanted.’ He shrugged. ‘I do love Daisy dearly, but not in that way. Besides, I’m too much of a flirt to settle down yet. I’m having too much fun.’

  When he walked down the lane to the Dawsons’ cottage and then on to Len’s workshop, his progress was slowed by men walking home from their labours in the fields or women hurrying home to cook tea, all wanting to shake hands with him, asking him what he was doing and wishing him well. Opposite the workshop, Kitty was leaning on the gate; she was a little too old to be seen swinging on it now.

  ‘’Lo, Harry.’

  He smiled at her and crossed the lane to talk to her.

  ‘Hello, Kitty. How are you?’

  ‘I’m fine. I’m still working at the hall.’

  ‘I know. Do you like it?’

  ‘I love it, but I’m working in the gardens now with Jake. Mrs Maitland got me an exemption because we grow vegetables and fruit.’

  ‘Is that better than being a housemaid?’

  Kitty wrinkled her forehead, considering. ‘In some ways, yes. I like being out of doors, but winter’s coming. It might not be so much fun then.’ She stared at him as if drinking in the sight of him and committing his every feature to memory. He was so very handsome in his RAF uniform. ‘What are you doing now?’

  When he told her, she turned pale and her voice was unsteady as she said, ‘I’d better go in. Mam’s got tea on the table. Take care of yourself, Harry. Don’t forget to carry the four-leafed clover with you.’

  ‘I will, Kitty,’ he began, but she was already halfway up the path, running to hide her tears and didn’t hear his final two words. ‘I promise.’

  ‘We really shall have to start planning for Christmas, Norah duck,’ Bess said.

  ‘I know, but me heart’s not in it this year. It was different last year. Not much had happened then and we all had hope that it’d soon be over, but now . . .’ A great deal had happened since then that had left the country reeling.

  ‘I know, but we’ve got to make the effort for our families and for the little kiddies here far from home. Think about them, Norah.’

  Norah sighed. ‘I wish Len would let us have an evacuee, but just because he lets Bernard come to the workshop, he thinks he’s doing his bit.’

  ‘So are you. You’ve got the WVS.’

  ‘I know, but Len won’t let me go out in the evening and the dark nights, just sitting and knitting, are so very long.’

  ‘Let’s start planning for Christmas, then. That’ll give you summat to do.’ Bess laughed raucously. ‘It’ll take a lot of thinking about with all the rationing to cope with.’

  It was a strange December for all of them. No one got home to celebrate the birthdays as they always had at the beginning of the month, nor at Christmas. The only merriment in Doddington came from entertaining the evacuee children and helping them not to feel too homesick. A few parents, invited by the people looking after their children, came for Christmas but whether that had been a good idea or not, no one could say, for having to part again brought more tears from children and parents alike. In London and other major cities, many spent Christmas Eve in air-raid shelters or in temporary accommodation, having been bombed out, their homes destroyed, their possessions lost.

  Paul managed to get two days’ leave and went down to Weybridge to be with Milly and her family.

  ‘I’ll cover for you,’ George told him. ‘Pips isn’t coming home.’

  ‘I’m sorry to hear that. What will you do?’

  ‘Oh, hold the fort here. Rebecca has asked me to have Christmas lunch with them so I won’t be alone on Christmas Day.’

  As he walked home through the blackout, George wondered if he should have made some effort to go to Bletchley. Then at least he and Pips could have been together some of the time. Pips had been home the previous weekend and they had discussed it; she had drawn the short straw to be on duty all over Christmas and would be working long hours, so they had decided it would be better for George to spend time with Rebecca and Matthew.

  ‘I’ll be home at New Year though,’ she’d said. ‘So just make sure you get some time off then. Perhaps Paul will cover for you in return?’

  He was thinking over all that had been said between them, when a voice came out of the darkness. ‘George?’

  ‘Mitch. What are you doing here?’

  ‘My beat.’ He chuckled. ‘Or whatever the name is for my round as an air-raid warden.’

  George took a deep breath and forced himself to be friendly. ‘Have you time for a drink? I’m just on my way home.’

  ‘Thanks, I don’t mind if I do. I’m due a break and the bombing’s not started yet.’

  They walked the last few paces together and entered the apartment block where George and Pips lived. As George opened the door and they went inside, Mitch didn’t bother to enquire if Pips was at home; he rather thought he would not have been invited if she had been there.

  ‘Tea, coffee – or something stronger?’

  ‘I’m still on duty. Coffee’d be great – if you have any.’

  ‘Only the chicory stuff, but it’s quite nice.’

  ‘Don’t let me stop you eating.’

  ‘It’s all right. I got something on my way home. I’m not much of a cook.’

  ‘Are you managing all right whilst Pips is away?’

  ‘In the main, yes. She comes home every two or three weeks, usually at a weekend. That’s the best time for me to get time off too.’

  ‘Over a year of war already and no sign of a let-up in the bombing, is there?’

  George set a cup of coffee in front of Mitch and sat down on the opposite side of the small table in the kitchen. ‘No, and I’m very sorry to say that I don’t think there will be for a while. Hitler seems determined to break us.’

  ‘He’ll not manage it. He doesn’t know us. You should see the folks that have been bombed out, George. They’ve lost everything, even family members sometimes, but they’ve got such fortitude, such strength of character, despite all they’ve suffered. They’ll see it through, whatever it takes.’

  They sat in silence until George said, ‘Did you manage to make the contacts you were asking me about a while back?’

  ‘Oh yes, that. Er – yes, thanks, I did.’ Mitch was silent a moment, debating with himself. There couldn’t be any harm in telling George.

  ‘Have you heard of an organization called the Special Operations Executive?’

  George stared at him. ‘Yes, I have. Their headquarters are in Baker Street now, I believe?’

  Mitch nodded.

  ‘Are you involved with them?’

  ‘In a way. Jeff works there a
nd I – um – help out if I can.’

  ‘And your air-raid warden duties are a good cover?’

  Mitch chuckled. ‘Something like that, George, but I’m only involved on an ad-hoc basis. Usually with my little Lysander.’

  ‘Is that still at Brooklands?’

  Mitch nodded.

  ‘I won’t ask any more, Mitch, but all I can say is, good for you.’

  As Mitch left to resume his duties, the two men shook hands, their mutual respect even greater than it had been.

  Thirty-Six

  Early in the New Year of 1941, the ATA suffered a grievous loss. Amy Johnson, so famous for her flying exploits and who had been ferrying aircraft for them, was lost. The aircraft she was flying was seen to go down in the Thames Estuary. Wreckage was found, but not Amy. Everyone at Hatfield was saddened by her loss. She had been well-liked amongst the girls and a ‘celebrity’ face which had brought credibility to the other women ferry pilots.

  But Pauline Gower never gave up fighting for her girls to be able to fly all types of aircraft. By April, she had permission for the ATA women to fly obsolete operational aircraft, which now had other uses.

  ‘It’s even more important,’ the Operations Manager, Mary Bryant, told them as she handed out the chits, which contained some unfamiliar names, ‘that you study your ferry pilots’ notes carefully.’

  ‘Oh, I’ve got a Westland Lysander,’ Daisy said gleefully. ‘I’ve flown one of those. Uncle Mitch has one at Brooklands. He calls it his “Lizzie”.’

  ‘I understand that’s its nickname.’

  ‘Is it?’ Daisy glanced up at Mary Bryant. ‘I thought it was just Uncle Mitch’s name for his aeroplane.’

  ‘Evidently not. It’s what the RAF boys called the Lysander. It still has a very valuable role,’ Mary Bryant said. ‘It’s used for’ – she stopped and then ended, rather lamely, Daisy thought – ‘all sorts of things.’ Mary turned away and busied herself handing out yet more chits for the day’s deliveries.

  The bombing of London, the southern counties and major cities in the north of the country continued right through the spring.

  ‘Isn’t it ever going to stop?’ Milly moaned to Paul on one of his rare visits to Weybridge. ‘I want to come home. I can do so much more in London.’

  ‘But you’re helping your mother with her war effort and your granny loves having you here, darling. Just hold on a little longer.’

  But a devastating air raid in May almost broke even the steadfast reserve of the hardened Londoners. Over five hundred German bombers dropped incendiaries and high-explosive bombs through the night hours. The House of Commons was hit and Big Ben damaged. Westminster Abbey’s square tower fell and St Paul’s Cathedral, which had miraculously survived previous bombs, was hit again. High above the carnage Luke, Johnny and their fellow RAF fighter pilots chased the bombers and brought down twenty-nine enemy aircraft.

  Patrolling his usual street, Mitch saw and heard the bombs falling. He watched in horror as the apartment block where George and Pips lived took a direct hit.

  He began to run. All he could think of was George’s words: ‘She comes home every two or three weeks, usually at a weekend.’

  And tonight was Sunday, 11 May.

  ‘Have you heard that the bombing was really bad in London last night? I hope your relatives are safe, Daisy,’ Gill said.

  ‘I expect they will be. Pips is away somewhere, though no one will say where and Uncle George will be in whatever shelter the War Office staff use.’

  ‘What about Milly?’

  ‘She’s gone to her parents’ home near Weybridge.’ She paused, reflecting. ‘There’s only Uncle Mitch who might be in real danger. I know Johnny worries about him.’

  ‘What about your folks at home? Will Lincoln get bombed, d’you think?’

  Daisy hesitated. ‘I rang home last night. Some bombs fell on the outskirts of Lincoln four nights ago, but nothing near us.’

  ‘Dad thinks we should be OK out in the middle of the Yorkshire countryside, but you can never be complacent, can you? If they’re on their way home and have got any bombs left they’ll just chuck ’em out anywhere.’

  ‘Presumably, Lincolnshire will be a prime target anyway because of all the airfields there.’

  ‘Mm. Yorkshire’s got a few too.’

  The two young women were standing in line at the office waiting for their orders for the day.

  ‘Right, come on, we’re next. Where are we today?’

  As they were handed their chits, they compared notes.

  ‘Blimey,’ Daisy said. ‘I’m off up to Scotland. I’ll be away for a night or two by the looks of it. A Tiger Moth.’

  ‘That’ll be a long, cold haul in an open cockpit, even though it’s May. I’m just pootling around locally. I’ll see you when I see you, then. Good luck.’

  In Weybridge, Milly answered the telephone when Paul rang in the early afternoon instead of waiting until the evening as usual. At once, she knew something was wrong.

  His voice was husky. ‘Milly, darling. Are you with someone?’

  ‘Yes, Mummy, Daddy and Granny. We’ve just had luncheon.’

  ‘I have awful news, my darling. The apartment block where George and Pips live took a direct hit last night. George wasn’t at work, so we are assuming he was at home, but he hadn’t gone to the nearest shelter. We do know that. We don’t know if Pips was there or not. They’re still searching and I’m trying to get a message to her at – um – at where she works.’

  ‘Has anyone let her parents know? Or Rebecca?’

  ‘Matthew went back to his home this morning – he’d been working all night – but Rebecca wasn’t there. He’s still trying to find her. He thinks she must still be out somewhere helping the injured from last night’s raid. It was appalling. Some are saying the worst ever and Rebecca could be anywhere.’

  ‘Do you think I should go up to Lincolnshire? It’s an awful thing to tell them over the telephone. I could go by train or perhaps Daddy would let his chauffeur drive me there.’

  ‘I’m sure he would. I think that’s a good idea.’ He paused and then added quietly, ‘You know, Milly darling, I’m very proud of you. That’s not an easy task to undertake. But Pips always said you had a lot more courage than anyone ever gave you credit for. Now I see it for myself.’

  With further fond messages between the two of them and a last promise from Milly to telephone him as soon as she arrived at the hall, they disconnected. Milly’s parents and grandmother knew Pips and George well and were very fond of them both. They did everything they could to help her as she packed quickly for the long journey north. Cook made up a hamper for her and Timson, the family’s chauffeur. ‘Obviously, you’ll be staying at the hall, Milly, but what about Timson?’

  ‘I’m sure the Maitlands will find him a bed. If not, he can always stay in the village or even in Lincoln. It’s only three or four miles away. He can come back tomorrow, but I shall stay for a few days.’

  In under an hour, she was on her way.

  Mitch stood up and eased his aching back and gazed at the mound of rubble in front of him. It didn’t seem to be getting any less, even though there were a dozen workers digging in an effort to see if anyone could still be alive. How could they be, he wondered, under all that lot? They’d been working for the rest of the night after the bomb fell, and all day, and now it was early evening on Monday. They’d already brought out two bodies, a man and a woman, but no one had been able to identify them. They weren’t anyone Mitch knew. He knew in his heart it was hopeless, but he had to try. He had to keep on digging. He didn’t even notice that his hands were bleeding, that his face and uniform were covered in dust or the fact that he hadn’t eaten since the previous day. Locals provided a constant supply of tea to the rescuers, but no one had stopped to eat.

  Somewhere under there could be his beloved Pips and he wasn’t going to stop searching for her until all hope was gone.

  ‘We’ll have to stop in an hour o
r so, Mitch old man.’ The senior air-raid warden put his hand on Mitch’s shoulder. ‘It’ll be dusk and we can’t put lights up, you know that.’

  Mitch nodded and bent again. After ten minutes he heard a shout from the other side of the mound.

  ‘Here – over here.’

  Everyone scrambled towards where the voice came from.

  ‘I’ve found a body. It’s a man and he’s dead, but I think there’s someone else with him. I need help. Just two of you.’

  ‘Please, let me,’ Mitch almost begged. ‘I might know him. My – friends live here.’

  Sympathetic glances were cast his way as most of the rescuers stood back. Only one moved to Mitch’s side. Gently they cleared away the remaining rubble covering the body and then wiped his face.

  Mitch nodded. ‘Yes,’ he said huskily. ‘It’s George.’

  ‘There’s someone else, just a couple of feet away from him.’

  They worked carefully, although there was hardly any hope that whoever it was could be still alive.

  ‘It’s a woman,’ a voice said. ‘Go carefully, boys.’

  They lifted the lifeless form from the debris and laid her reverently on the ground. Hardly daring to look, Mitch knelt beside her and gently wiped her face. As her features became recognizable, a sob escaped his throat. Then he leaned forward and rested his face against her shoulder, no longer able to hold back the tears.

  When Milly arrived at the hall that evening, the family were gathered in the parlour, as they always were, for a pre-dinner drink. Wainwright showed her in, knowing there was no need to ask if he might do so. Milly was always a welcome visitor at the hall.

  ‘Mrs Whittaker, madam.’

  ‘Milly, my dear . . .’ At once Henrietta was on her feet. She was about to add ‘what a nice surprise’, but the look on the young woman’s face and her unexpected arrival stilled the words on her lips.

  ‘I had to come myself,’ Milly blurted out, glancing around the room. ‘I couldn’t do it by telephone.’ They were all there, so this would be easier. ‘You must know about the awful bombing happening almost every night in London.’

  ‘Of course.’ Robert stood up and guided her to a chair. He could see, not only with a doctor’s trained eye, but also with that of a friend, that Milly was very upset. ‘Now tell us slowly whilst Mother pours you a drink.’