Abby shook her head. ‘I’m afraid not, Mac, it’s a Mr Featherstonehaugh from The Times.’
The Scotsman barked with laughter. ‘Fanshaw? What kind of silly stuck-up snooty aristo English name is that?’ He gave Lord Bagshot a cursory glance, and held up a hand in a feeble attempt at apology. ‘No offence, my Lord.’
Lord Bagshot was smiling broadly at Mac’s tirade, enjoying it just as much as everyone else, and he waved away the Scotsman’s apology. ‘None taken.’
‘Most kind.’ Mac barely acknowledged him, before launching straight back into his diatribe. ‘He’ll undoubtedly be some unsavoury type with no social skills, just like every other journalist I’ve ever met. Although he is from The Times, so he’ll probably have airs and pretensions of grandeur and self-importance.’
There was laughter, and Mac took the opportunity to grab a breath, but before he could continue he was interrupted by a cough and turned to find that the Bagshot’s butler had just come through the door behind him. The painfully straight-backed man crossed the room carrying a silver tray at shoulder height, which he presented to Lord Bagshot, revealing that it had a single white calling card on it.
‘Mr Featherstonehaugh of The Times, my Lord.’
Lord Bagshot took the card and frowned at it briefly. ‘Show him in, please, Cuthbert.’
‘Very good, sir.’ The butler bowed and walked from the room, as stiffly and slowly as he’d entered it, glancing disapprovingly down his nose at Mac as he went past.
There was more laughter from the pilots as Mac made a face at the butler’s back, but it quickly died down when the dour man returned, closely followed by the journalist.
‘Mr Featherstonehaugh of The Times, my Lord.’ The butler gave a short bow to his master, another very English sneer at the Scotsman, then left, closing the door firmly behind himself.
The man nodded at the group, meeting their eyes briefly one by one. ‘My Lord, Lady Penelope, ladies, gentlemen, how do you do?’
He smiled at them, but his greeting was returned with silence as the group stared at him.
Prepared for the worst by their low expectations and Mac’s joking, most of the Misfits had expected to be confronted with someone approximating the typical image of a journalist - a hunched and unkempt older man, with ink-stained fingers, wearing a cheap suit and with pale skin and thick spectacles from working too long in dark rooms, but the reality was far different. He turned out to be young, in his mid to late-twenties, impeccably, if not expensively dressed in a dark-grey suit with a matching cravat. The only sign of his chosen profession was the small notebook tucked in the breast pocket where a handkerchief would usually go. His blonde hair, fashionably long, framed a chiselled face and he carried himself with a bearing and assurance that spoke of good education and breeding.
Abby recovered first and glanced at Lord Bagshot, who, as the host, had the right to greet the man first, but he just waved his permission with a grin, still thoroughly entertained.
She stood and walked around the table. ‘Mr Featherstonehaugh, my name is Abby Lennox, welcome to Misfit Squadron.’
The man shook her preferred hand with a smile. ‘Wing Commander Lennox, it is a pleasure to meet you.’ He glanced around the group again. ‘As it is to meet all of you.’
The pilots belatedly made their greetings in an uncoordinated chorus, which Lord Bagshot let die down before calling out, gesturing to an empty chair next to Kitty near the far end of the table. ‘Take a seat, young man, you must be hungry after your journey. Will you join us for a spot of lunch?
‘Thank you, my Lord, I would be delighted.’
‘Wonderful, I’ll have Cuthbert lay you a place. And please, call me Biffy.’
Featherstonehaugh gave him a small bow. ‘I would be honoured, Biffy, but only if you,’ he looked around the room at the pilots, smiling winningly, ‘if all of you, call me Freddy.’
‘Very well, uh, Freddy. And your photographer? I was told you were bringing a chap to take photographs. Will he be joining us as well?’
Featherstonehaugh paused on his way down the table to the chair. ‘My photographer, Mr Jones, is currently on assignment. He will join us in a couple of days.’
‘Does Mr Jones have a first name?’ asked Penelope. ‘Perhaps I might have seen his work.’
‘If you read The Times then you have, undoubtedly, Lady Penelope, but his work is only ever attributed to “Mr Jones”; he was given the name “Inigo” by his parents, who were admirers of the great man’s work, and naturally insists on just being addressed as “Jones” or “Mr Jones”.’
‘That is perfectly understandable.’ Penelope smiled. ‘We will endeavour to do so.’
‘Thank you, Lady Penelope.’
The journalist sat down and Lord Bagshot rang the small bell he had at hand.
The butler instantly appeared and, while he was busying about, Bruce leaned in to whisper to Mac. ‘Unsavoury character, eh?’
‘Mebbe not,’ replied the Scotsman reluctantly. ‘But “Freddy Fanshaw?” C’mon, really?’
The brief conversation, carried out in a stage whisper, carried easily to everybody in the room, including the journalist, but he was tactful enough to ignore it.
Abby joined the butler in glaring at them, then gestured at her pilots while she spoke to Featherstonehaugh. ‘These are the Misfits. I’m sure you’ll have plenty of time to get to know them, so I won’t bother introducing them to you now, except to say that the young officer sitting on Lord Bagshot’s left hand is Gwen Stone, who made such a stir this morning. I assume you’ll be wanting to speak to her first?’
The journalist gave Gwen a small bow, nodding elegantly over the table with his upper body. ‘Miss Stone. Congratulations on your victory.’
Gwen returned his nod with a smile. ‘Thank you.’
‘I look forward to hearing about it from your perspective some time; the official story that the Ministry has given us is rather hard to believe.’ He smiled wryly at her, before turning his attention back to Abby. ‘However, as interested as I am in the squadron’s heroic exploits, I’d like to start at the very beginning, if I may, Wing Commander, and ask you to tell me in your own words how the Misfits came about.’
Abby nodded. ‘Very well, we can sit down together later, once we’re of duty.’
Gwen broke in. ‘I’d quite like to hear that, actually; in all the time I’ve been a Misfit, I’ve never found out much about why the squadron was formed, or how you did it. Why don’t you tell us now?’
Gwen’s request was backed up by the rest of the pilots, most of whom didn’t know the details.
Abby shrugged. ‘There’s not much to it. The King, well he was still Emperor George II back then, called me in to Whitehall one day and told me to form the squadron.’
‘Oh, come off it, Abby, there has to be more to it than that.’ Penelope said. ‘Why don’t you tell us the gory details?’
Abby looked around the table, seeing the enthusiastic faces, all willing her to tell her story and sighed. ‘Oh, very well, but don’t blame me if you fall asleep in your Boeuf Bourguignon.’
1937
Abigail Lennox consulted the small map attached to her thigh and wondered for the umpteenth time why it was her that had been called up to London and not Cecily. Her sister Cece was the charismatic one, the life of the party, she was the one that everybody liked and wanted to be with and she should be the one going to Whitehall for some secret assignment, not Abigail, the practical and frankly boring aircraft designer, the mechanic, who preferred to be left to her own devices and was usually to be found covered in grease or graphite.
The Emperor had sent the message to her, though, not Cece, so consequently it was Abigail flying from their home in Norfolk to the capital first thing in the morning. She was hoping that the Emperor was going to give them some kind of grant or commission to build or design aircraft for the burgeoning Aviation Corps, that way they would be able to afford to keep the Lennox Aviation Company going - som
ething that had become increasingly difficult since their father had died three years before.
Navigation wasn’t really her strong suit, so she sighed with relief when the elegant glass and iron tower of Buckingham Palace finally came into view, shining in the light of the spring morning. She adjusted course towards it, knowing that her destination, Hyde Airstrip, was right next to it, then took in the sight of the sprawling metropolis that stretched almost as far as she could see in all directions.
It was her first time seeing London from the air; permission to overfly the city was not given to just anybody and it was quicker and easier just to take a train down from Norfolk if she had business there. As usual, there was a haze over most of the city, especially in the east where most of the industry was concentrated, but it didn’t stop the view from being spectacular.
She had very little time to enjoy it, though, because as soon as she passed into the city’s airspace, the stern voice of the Hyde Airstrip tower filled her ears.
‘Unidentified aircraft, this is London control, you are entering a restricted area, please state your business.’
‘London control, this is, uh...’ She glanced down at the map, in the corner of which she had scrawled the strange call sign she had been given. ‘This is Badger, requesting permission to land.’
There was a short pause before the same voice came back on, sounding decidedly more friendly. ‘Welcome, Badger, permission granted. Wind is ten knots from the south and we are landing from the north. Please join the holding pattern, you are number three. Once down, proceed directly to hangar one, where you are expected.’
‘Acknowledged, control, and thank you. Badger out.’
Abigail swung her aircraft out towards the north, crossing the line of Oxford Street and search her left side for the two aircraft that were in front of her in the queue to land. She quickly spotted them - one, an enormous blue and gold zeppelin, was almost on the ground. It had dropped its guy ropes and was being towed into position by two heavy pilot wagons. The other was a gold-painted pleasure aircraft, a long fat thing with two large wings above and below its bulky fuselage, which had four huge engines sandwiched between them. She watched it come around onto its final approach a fair distance from the airstrip and winced; it could barely manoeuvre, dipping its wings less than twenty degrees to make the turn and even then looking like it was struggling to stay in the air. She pitied the poor pilot who had to land it on the tight runway; it wouldn’t have much room to spare.
She turned onto her base leg and watched the golden aircraft as it dipped over the last buildings then the trees at the edge of the airstrip. It touched down just beyond the markers, sending puffs of grass and dirt rising from its wheels, then black smoke from its engines as it put them into reverse pitch. Surprisingly, it was barely half-way across the airstrip by the time it had slowed sufficiently to turn off towards its stand. Everything about the landing had been impressive and spoke of an expert pilot who was very familiar with his machine.
‘Badger, this is London control, you are clear for landing.’
‘Roger control.’
Abigail banked her aircraft onto final approach and throttled back, putting her aircraft easily on the glide path. She had done her homework so she knew that the hangar she had been assigned to, the Imperial hangar, was at the south end of the airstrip, so she didn’t aim to hit the grass too soon, but instead flew along just above it, bleeding off speed, before finally settling to the ground almost exactly level with the big gold aircraft that had preceded her. She throttled back, but allowed her speed to stay up, coasting towards the big hangar at the end, where there was a man in a blue RAC uniform waving what looked like ping-pong bats at her, as if she didn’t know that the big red-painted building with the bloody great golden lion on the side was the Imperial hangar. She obediently followed his directions, though, coming to a halt in front of the hangar and blocking her spring at his command.
She unplugged and grabbed her bag from the small storage compartment behind the seat, then climbed out, stepping onto the wing before jumping down to the ground.
The man with the bats came over with a few other fitters, who grabbed the wings of her aircraft and began pushing it inside.
‘Beautiful machine.’
She blushed and glanced sideways at the man, expecting to see a sarcastic sneer; her aircraft was unpainted metal and was squat and admittedly quite ugly. It was the one that she and her sister used to test new ideas and had been the only one of their aircraft that had been airworthy to come at such short notice. She was surprised to see genuine admiration in the man’s eyes, though.
‘Oh, er, thank you.’
‘What’s her name?’
‘Butterfly.’
The man raised an eyebrow, but still didn’t scoff. ‘Reminds me a bit of the old Lennox LE5a.’ The aircraft disappeared into the shadows of the hangar and he turned to face her, sticking out his hand. ‘Corporal Henry Potter, ma’am.’
‘Abigail Lennox.’
The man chuckled on hearing her name. ‘That would explain the aircraft, then.’
Abigail smiled at him. ‘Yes, it would.’
He jerked his head in the direction of the hangar. ‘Better get you inside, ma’am; there’s an officer waiting for you.’
‘Lead on, Corporal.’
There was a female Wing Commander standing by the wall just inside the hangar doors, making sure to stay out of everyone’s way while she watched the fitters working on Butterfly. She was in her late forties, the curly brown hair poking out from under her uniform cap streaked with grey and there were deep lines around her eyes betraying endless hours spent squinting into the sky, searching for enemy aircraft.
Potter saluted her and the woman returned it smartly. ‘Thank you, Corporal, I’ll take her off your hands now.’
‘Yes, ma’am.’ The man nodded at Abigail. ‘Don’t you worry, ma’am, I’ll keep a good eye on Butterfly.’
‘Thank you, Henry.’
The fitter went to supervise the team working on Abigail’s aircraft, leaving the two women alone.
The Wing Commander stuck out her hand. ‘Dorothy Campbell, ma’am. Pleased to meet you. I’ve been assigned to escort you to Whitehall.’
‘Abigail Lennox, but I suspect you already knew that.’
The woman nodded before looking at Abigail’s black flight suit. ‘You’ll be wanting to change, I suppose?’
‘Yes, please; I don’t want to meet the Emperor wearing skin-tight leather if I can help it.’
The woman winked. ‘Oh, I don’t know, he might enjoy it.’
Abigail laughed and followed her towards the back of the hangar.
Ten minutes later, the two women were sitting in the back of a large black autocar flying the Imperial colours as it made its way past Buckingham Palace and up The Mall towards Whitehall.
The Wing Commander stroked the soft leather seats on either side of her legs with a smile. ‘This is quite nice, isn’t it? It’s the first time I’ve ever been in one of these official autocars; I don’t warrant one. What they have in mind for you must be important.’
‘You don’t have any idea what that is, then?’
‘I’m afraid not, they just asked me to show you around and make sure you didn’t get lost.’
‘Never mind, it’ll just have to be a surprise.’ Abigail grinned and the woman returned it.
The autocar turned off The Mall before Admiralty Arch and headed up Horse Guards Road, past a group of guards exercising beautiful black horses and a squad of Artillerymen drilling in the large courtyard, who paused in what they were doing to salute the car. They bypassed both Downing Street, where the Emperor kept his office hours, and the Foreign and Empire Office and stopped in front of the large white building at the end of the road.
The Imperial Guard driver held Abigail’s door for her, and she stepped out and looked up at the building in puzzlement for a second before glancing sideways at the Wing Commander. ‘Haven’t they just mo
ved the Treasury in here? They’re not going to make me the Emperor’s accountant, are they? I mean, I do the company’s books, but I’m not exactly equipped to run the entire Empire.’
The woman laughed. ‘I think that’s highly unlikely and anyway, we’re not going in there, we’re going round the side.’
She took Abigail to an unobtrusive door in the side of the building and pressed a buzzer.
The door immediately clicked open and the woman pushed it wide. ‘I don’t want to scare you or anything, but I’d advise not making any sudden movements and keeping your hands open and by your sides for the next few minutes.’ She smiled, then led the way inside.
Abigail was taken through a rigorous security check, which included the contents of her bag, hygiene items included, being dumped on the table and rifled through and a thorough pat down by a very apologetic female Imperial Guard, before she was allowed any further than the bare concrete room just beyond the door. She found the search quite obtrusive, but was mollified somewhat when she saw that the same was being done to Campbell, in spite of her being a military officer and in spite of the fact that she had obviously been there before and knew them well enough to laugh and joke with them while they did their duty.
The search was carried out efficiently and they were soon cleared and passed through into the passages beyond. They went down a flight of stairs and turned a corner, but then came to an abrupt halt as they were confronted by a slim, clean-shaven man in his early forties, wearing a black suit and accompanied by two red uniformed Imperial Guards.
The Wing Commander immediately snapped to attention, but the man shook his head with a smile. ‘At ease, Wing Commander. No need to stand on ceremony with me, you know that.’
‘Thank you, Your Imperial Majesty.’
As soon as she relaxed, the Emperor turned to look at Abigail. ‘Miss Lennox, welcome.’
The Russian Resistance Page 9