A Misfit Midwinter

by Simon Brading

  Harriet shifted in her seat, obviously uncomfortable with the topic of conversation, and did her best to change the subject. ‘So, do you have any plans for the holidays, darling?’

  Gwen’s smile faded slightly as she nodded. ‘A few, yes. I want to visit the Drakes as soon as our baggage gets here from the Arturo; I have to give them Rudy’s personal effects. We were also planning to go to the King’s exhibition at the Crystal Palace at some point and we’re expected at the Bagshot’s for New Year’s Eve, but we’ll probably end up staying there afterwards until we go back on duty. Oh, and I promised Kitty a tour of the factory at some point, if that’s alright?’

  Sheridan nodded. ‘Of course. In fact, why not tomorrow? We’re going in anyway, so we’ll show you around ourselves, it’ll be like a family outing!’ He grinned. ‘I’ll let Mr Jackson know to expect us.’

  ‘Thank you.’ Gwen smiled at the thought of Bill Jackson, the sprightly seventy-year-old man who managed the factory and had put up with Gwen’s precociousness with such patience over the years. He had reached retirement age years before, but had seen the war coming and refused to do so until it was over. ‘And what about your plans? Are you still having your solstice dinner with the war on?’

  For as long as Gwen could remember, the Hawkings had played host to a dinner on the longest night of the year, whenever they were in England. A core of twenty guests from the field of aviation were invited every year and they were supplemented by another twenty or so people from related disciplines. It should, by all rights, have been quite boring with so many learned people in the room, but, because the aviation community was so close-knit, with everybody knowing everyone else, the dinners turned into quite lively affairs most of the time.

  ‘It’s a bit harder to get the food, because of the rationing, but yes we are. Which reminds me - I know it’s very short notice, but do you think any of your squadron would like to come? Quite a few of our usual crowd are stuck on the continent or have gone over to the wrong side, so there’s plenty of room at the table this year for all of them, if you think they’d enjoy themselves.’

  ‘I’m sure they would. I’ll contact them, see what they say.’

  ‘Good.’ Harriet smiled. ‘We’ve been invited to Bagshot Hall for New Year as well, so if they can’t come we’ll see them there, but it would be nice to play host to your squadron for once, instead of the other way round.’

  Randolph had opened up the Panther on the near-deserted roads and conversation died out as they reached the village of Goring-on-Thames, where the Hawking family had lived for centuries.

  To get to the estate they had to pass right by the first and smallest of the Hawking factories. Built in the early 1860’s, it was a lovely brick and iron building, designed by the same architects as the Natural History Museum in Oxford, Woodward and Deane. It was very much a local landmark and the huge brass hawk on the roof, the hawk from the Hawking family crest, was kept burnished to a high shine and could be seen for miles around.

  Originally, the Hawking Coach Company had built luxury railway carriages in their Goring factory, but Gwen’s grandparents had been visionaries and had seen that the future lay not on iron rails but in the sky. They had shifted the focus of the company to aviation in 1912, becoming Hawking Aircraft Manufacturers Limited just in time to produce aircraft for the First Great War and a new, larger facility had been built in nearby Reading to meet the increased demand from the fledgling Imperial Aviation Corps. However, with the importance of air superiority in the Second Great War even that had become inadequate and the Harridan was now produced at a huge factory near Manchester, which completely dwarfed both of its predecessors. The old Goring factory hadn’t been discarded, though; the production line had been completely modernised and, despite its small size, the factory still put together a couple Harridan fighters each day, which were then ferried to squadrons around the country by volunteer pilots - men and women too old to fight, but still able to fly. It also held the design facilities where teams of aeronautical engineers worked incessantly with the Hawkings to improve the Harridan and produce new marks.

  Kitty craned her head to look at the factory as they went past, but Randolph had kept up the speed of the autocar, even when they had entered a more populated area, and it was quickly left behind. She soon had something else to look at, though, because less than two miles from the factory, up a gently sloping country lane, were the wrought iron gates of the Hawking estate.

  The estate was sprawling, with a fairly large, three-storey, ivy-covered manor on top of the hill and four separate guest cottages set in their own grounds. There was also an aerodrome, only half as big as the one at Bagshot hall but equally well-equipped, a boathouse on the river, some kennels where Harriet kept half a dozen rescued dogs and a small stable holding two elderly horses. It was surrounded by rolling hills and grassy fields, all privately owned by the family, where the horses and dogs could roam freely.

  They came to a halt at the end of a long stone driveway and a butler, a tall young man Gwen didn’t know, opened the door for them. The two pilots grabbed their kitbags, waving away the butler and the driver with a smile, then followed the Hawkings up the grey stone steps and into the large reception area.

  ‘Dinner is at six. It’ll just be us, so no need to dress up.’ Sheridan nodded, then disappeared into a room to one side of the entrance - the office in which Gwen’s parents dealt with company business.

  ‘It’s so good to have you home, darling.’ Harriet paused only long enough to kiss Gwen on the cheek and give Kitty a warm smile, before she followed her husband.

  The large wooden door closed behind her with a thud that resounded throughout the marble hall and then the two pilots were alone.

  Gwen smiled at Kitty. ‘Looks like we have an hour to kill before dinner. Would you like to see my room?’

  ‘I’d love to.’

  Gwen grabbed her hand and together they climbed the stairs.

  Gwen’s “room” was actually a suite that occupied half of the top floor at the south end of the building.

  Beyond a heavy wooden door, which separated her rooms from the rest of the house was a corridor that ended in a large window looking back towards the town and a golden point of light marking the position of the hawk on the roof of the factory. Three doors led off the corridor, two to the left and one to the right, and Gwen led Kitty straight to the second on the left and through to the bedroom.

  Without saying a word, she let her kitbag drop off her shoulder onto the fainting couch by the door, then stomped across the room. She angrily ripped a photograph off the wall next to her bed and unceremoniously dumped it into the waste basket by the vanity table.

  She turned, saw Kitty’s mystified expression and shrugged. ‘I’ve been wanting to do that ever since I found out about the Barons, but I haven’t been home since the war broke out.’

  Kitty put her own kitbag next to Gwen’s then wandered over and looked down into the basket. Staring up at her from the bottom of it was an all too familiar face. She snorted. ‘You have a photo of Gruber beside your bed?’

  Gwen shrugged, grinning sheepishly. ‘A lot of girls my age probably do. Not all of them had it signed by him personally, though.’

  Kitty reached down and grabbed it, then read the legend. ‘To...’ She squinted. ‘I’m fairly sure this says Gwyn.’

  She looked at Gwen, who nodded. ‘It does. He was too busy flirting with my mother when I asked him to sign it and I didn’t want to correct him; I was only seven at the time and a bit awestruck.’

  The American rolled her eyes. ‘That sounds about right for him.’ She went to put it back in the bin, but hesitated, then smiled slowly. ‘Actually, do you mind if I keep this?’

  Gwen frowned. ‘Why on earth would you want to?’

  ‘I’m thinking it would make a good prop for at least one practical joke, if not more.’

  Gwen laughed. ‘Go ahead, it’s all yours. Just don’t let me catch you looking longingly at
it, though.’

  ‘OK, I’ll make sure I do that when you’re not around.’

  ‘Oi!’ Gwen punched Kitty on the shoulder.

  The American laughed as she reeled back. She went back to the door and shoved Gruber’s photo into her kitbag, taking the opportunity to shrug out of her overcoat, then looked around, taking in the room properly for the first time. ‘It’s pink... Why am I not surprised?’

  Indeed, the carpet was a deep, lush pink and the wallpaper, what could be seen of it through the newspaper clippings, photographs and sheets of paper covered with sketches and designs, was a nauseating pattern of purples, reds and yet more pink.

  Even the bed was covered with pink sheets, pillows and throw cushions and had gauzy pink curtains hanging between the four posts and, predictably, that was where Kitty’s gaze finally came to rest. The bed was large, but not quite as big as the one they had shared in The Dorchester months before, so there wouldn’t be nearly as much space between the two of them.

  ‘So, is this where we’re sleeping?’ Kitty smirked, then went and sat on the bed, bouncing up and down to test it. ‘I suppose it’ll do.’

  Gwen smiled coyly. ‘Do for what?’

  ‘Sleeping, of course.’ Kitty laughed, then bounced one last time, using the impetus to surge back to her feet. She quickly closing the gap between them and wrapped her arms around Gwen, bending down to kiss her.

  Gwen allowed herself only a few seconds to enjoy what had quickly become one of her favourite activities, almost as exhilarating as flying and just as satisfying as designing, before pulling back reluctantly. ‘Come on, I’ll give you the thrupenny tour, then we have to get ready for dinner; when my father says we don’t need to dress up he means dress uniform is enough.’

  Gwen took her by the hand and pulled her from the room.

  The bathroom next to the bedroom was even more eye-achingly pink than the bedroom and even Gwen winced. ‘Maybe I did get a bit carried away with all the pink when I was younger. I don’t remember it being quite this bad, though.’

  A large clockwork water heater sitting in the corner of the tiled room supplied a shower and an over-sized bath, which Kitty eyed with a sly smile and Gwen laughed. ‘Later! But only if you behave yourself!’

  The final room was a combination lounge, study and library. Almost twice as large as the bedroom, it had one wall covered in bookshelves, a desk in front of a large picture window and some furniture grouped around a small fireplace. In stark contrast to the other rooms, it was soberly decorated, with wood panelling, dark green carpet and a few aviation-inspired paintings.

  Kitty immediately went over to the window and gazed out at the countryside. ‘Wow, this is a view to inspire an artist.’

  While the bedroom had looked eastward across rolling hills towards the sunrise, the view from this room was west, down the hill towards the river. The sun had set a short while before and the clouds were still displaying shades of pinks that didn’t quite rival the bathroom tiles for brightness, but were far more aesthetically pleasing.

  There was no sign of war or the busy nearby cities and the only signs of life were the two horses, Dizzy and Bruno, in the bottom field and a pair of fishermen on the opposite bank.

  Gwen joined her at the window and they stood shoulder to shoulder, absorbing the feeling of peace imparted by the fading day.

  Eventually, though, the colours vanished completely and darkness took over.

  They turned away and while Gwen turned on the overhead electric lamp Kitty went over to the bookshelves, curious as to what Gwen would have. ‘Wow, you don’t exactly believe in light reading, do you? Cayley’s “on Aerial Navigation”, Coleman’s “Manoeuvres”, hell, you must have just about every engineering tome ever published here!’

  ‘Most of them. I’ve also got your grandfather’s biography somewhere, along with a first edition of his treatise on the efficiency of wing area versus weight.’

  Kitty chuckled. ‘Grandfather hates his early papers; seen from today’s perspective they come across as almost childish.’

  ‘But they were pioneering!’ protested Gwen. ‘They paved the way for so much of today’s knowledge.’

  ‘I know, but you try telling him that.’

  ‘I hope I get the chance someday.’ Gwen smiled. ‘Speaking of which - after dinner I’ll take you down to my workshop and show you my Zeppelin if you want.’

  Kitty grinned. ‘I’d love that.’

  Chapter 9

  Gwen didn’t particularly like wearing her dress uniform at the best of times, finding it uncomfortable and unwieldy, and she was even more annoyed at having to struggle into it twice that day, having changed out of it for the train journey, but the sight of the new bands on her cuffs almost compensated for the hassle.

  She had joined the RAC purely to fight, to kill Prussians in revenge for the death of her husband. She had never sought promotion, never wanted to be an officer and have responsibility for lives apart from her own, but it seemed that fate, or at least the King, had other ideas for her. In four months, ridiculously quickly as these things went, she had gone from a non-commissioned officer, to an officer, and now she was a Lieutenant. She was the same rank as some of the other Misfits who had been with the squadron since its inception and she outranked others, one of whom was Kitty. On hearing the news from the King she had been worried whether it would affect the relationship between the two of them, but it seemed that the American was genuinely happy for her. In fact, an aide of Sir Douglas Pewtall had delivered new insignia for Gwen during lunch at the Palace of Westminster and Kitty had helped unpick the old ones and sew the new ones during the train ride.

  At ten minutes to the hour they went downstairs and found the Hawkings sitting in the lounge, sipping cocktails.

  Sheridan’s eyes lit up when he caught sight of Gwen’s arm. ‘Gwenevere! Why didn’t you tell us you’d been promoted? We would have celebrated. Made an occasion of it!’

  Harriet beamed and clapped genteelly. ‘Oh, very well done, darling!

  ‘Thank you, Mum,’ Gwen smiled, ‘but I didn’t do anything to deserve this.’

  ‘Nonsense! You’re only getting the recognition you merit.’ Gwen’s mother looked at Kitty. ‘Isn’t that so, Miss Wright?’

  ‘I believe so, yes.’

  Kitty nodded and smiled at Gwen, but Gwen just took a deep breath and shook her head. ‘Whether I deserve the promotion or not, I received it by doing my duty, nothing more, and that is not something that warrants congratulations. I don’t want a party or anything.’

  Harriet nodded reluctantly. ‘Then we will just have a toast in your honour for the solstice. Nothing more. Is that acceptable?’

  Gwen looked from her parents to the grinning Kitty, hoping to find support, but the American just looked highly amused with the whole situation and Gwen sighed, knowing that she owed her parents at least that much for disappearing from their lives and not letting them know how she was for months. ‘Oh, alright. One toast, that’s all.’

  ‘Wonderful!’ Harriet clapped her hands. ‘I shall have to dig up some champagne from somewhere.’

  The clock over the mantelpiece struck the hour and Sheridan stood to offer his hand to his wife. ‘Shall we?’

  The Hawkings went through the doors and into the adjoining dining room as if they were leading a party of dozens instead of just the four of them.

  With a grin, Kitty gave Gwen a small bow and mirrored Sheridan’s gentlemanly gesture.

  Gwen stifled a laugh as she took Kitty’s hand and together they paraded after her parents into the large dining room.

  Dinner had been pleasant and much more intimate than the huge room and table would seem to allow, with conversation revolving mainly around the catching up that Gwen and her parents needed to do as a family. Kitty wasn’t left out by any means, though, as the Hawkings slowly got to know the woman that was making their daughter so happy.

  Sheridan and Harriet were spending all available time working on a new var
iant of the Harridan, which they wanted to have on the production line by the beginning of January, so after dinner, they made their excuses and went back to their study, leaving Gwen and Kitty to find their own entertainment.

  There was a mischievous gleam in Kitty’s eyes that told Gwen exactly what the American wanted to do, but she wasn’t quite ready to retire to the bedroom quite yet and besides, she had promised her a tour of her workshop.

  Gwen dug some of her old work coveralls out of a closet for them both and they got changed, then headed out into the garden and wandered along the path behind the house that led towards the aerodrome.

  It was pitch black outside, the moon, what there was of it, completely covered by clouds and the lights that usually showed the way off due to blackout regulations. Gwen didn’t need to see to find her way, though; she had walked that path so many times that she could do it in her sleep. She had in fact, on one frightening occasion, done so.

  The aerodrome was half a mile from the house, through thick forest, along a path that was kept clear by the gardeners. The landing field was large enough for most modern aircraft, although something like Dreadnought would be hard pressed to stop in time, and was flanked by three buildings. The first held a machine shop where the elder Hawkings did their tinkering and the second held the double Harridan that was their personal aircraft. The third and last building was Gwen’s, though, and it was larger than the one that her parents shared, mainly because it doubled both as a hangar and her workshop.

  Gwen took them unerringly towards the side door of her workshop. It wasn’t locked, but she did struggle with the blackout curtains; her parents had installed them in all the buildings after she had left home so she didn’t know exactly where the opening in them was. Eventually she found it and, after Kitty was in with her, she made sure they were in place, then turned the lights on.