Beauty Chorus, The (52 page)

At Beau’s signal the men jumped off and ran for the Lysander in the woods. The Spitfire surged forward, the powerful exhausts blasting flurries of snow on the ground.

‘Come on, Spitty,’ he said under his breath, ‘you can do it.’ They roared down the hillside towards the cars, bullets whizzing past them. At the last moment, the Spitfire
lifted, and they rocketed into the sky.

Thank God
, Evie thought. As the Spitfire soared upwards and the snow-covered fields fell away beneath them, her heart beat fast, a cocktail of adrenalin and relief pulsing through her.
The moment they had taken off, the Lysander had exploded, shielding them from the advancing troops, bright flames leaping into the luminous midnight blue sky as they soared away.

Evie pulled the canopy closed, and settled back in Beau’s arms. She felt him rest his head against her shoulder for a moment. The noise in the cockpit made conversation impossible, but she
sensed he was trying to reassure her as he squeezed her hand.

Beau glanced behind him, wincing as his arm twisted. At any moment he was expecting the tracer fire of a Messerschmidt. He knew it would come, and that they would have to outrun the plane.
We’ll be fine as long as we don’t come across a Focke-Wulf 190.
As they cleared the coast, his mind flashed back to the last time he had flown above the sea in a Spit. This time,
there would be none of the raw, primitive exhilaration he felt with every kill – the sheer relief that the other man had bought it, not him. His heart thundered as he remembered the last,
relentless dogfight, the screaming air, the flames, the searing pain. Now, he had no guns, no radio – to outfly the enemy was their only hope. He held Evie tightly as they banked up through
the cloud, alone in a world of white. She had risked everything for him. There was no way on earth he would let her be hurt. He would never let her down. The cloud began to thin out, and the
Spitfire broke through. A perfect full moon guided them, dazzling silver light and a blanket of stars above them.

Let’s see what this old girl can do
, Beau thought as he increased their speed to over 350 mph. He was banking on the fact it was a new Spitfire, far more powerful than the older
Marks, and its clipped wingtips would give them increased speed and roll rates at lower altitudes.
Run, rabbit, run
, he thought. He felt Evie settle back in his lap, relax in his arms.
It’s not over yet.
A tracer bullet spiralled past the cockpit.
Damn, there you are.
There was a Messerschmidt on their tail.

Have you met my father?
Beau thought to himself. He felt the old, familiar sensation of tension transforming into pure concentration as the enemy pursued them. His heart skipped, and he
swallowed hard as he looped around. He felt Evie brace herself as the Spitfire pitched. The planes danced like fighting kites in the sky. When he couldn’t shake the German, Beau sent the
Spitfire into a steep spiral dive, cutting into the cloud. ‘Hold on …’ he said. The Spitfire turned tighter and tighter inside the Me109’s path.

‘Never fly level for more than twenty seconds or you’re done for.’
The voice of Beau’s instructor came back to him. They rocketed towards the earth, Beau watching
the instruments closely.

‘My God, Beau, the water,’ Evie cried, her voice drowned out by the screaming engine. She automatically pushed back in the seat and screwed her eyes closed as they plummeted towards
the sea. The g-force was so strong she felt as if she was about to pass out.

Come on, come on.
Beau willed the Messerschmidt closer.

Just as it seemed they weren’t going to make it, he used all his strength to pull them out of the dive. The Spitfire shot upwards, the Merlin engines screaming. The Messerschmidt was
caught off guard, and plunged into the Channel. As Beau looked back he saw a great plume of water exploding in its wake.

It wasn’t Hans
, he thought.
He would never have fallen for that.
Beau exhaled.
Another time.
He levelled the Spitfire’s course for home.

They flew on between heaven and earth, powering through the dawn. As the minutes ticked away, Evie closed her eyes, lost in the sensation of speed, the safety she felt in his arms. Her limbs
felt weightless, as if she was floating, the boundaries between them and the air dissolving.
This is my home
, she thought.
Here, with Beau.

The cloud above them was breaking up now, the rising sun a bright line on the horizon. The full moon, the guardian of the sky, lingered in the dawn like a last guest unwilling to say goodbye.
Evie felt Beau squeeze her arm. He pointed ahead. As her eyes blinked open, she saw the English coast.

Evie cried out with delight as the Spitfire soared over the white cliffs. The rosy colours of sunrise washed the canopy apricot, lavender, gold. Beneath them, England was a quilt of frosted
green. Beau took her left hand, pressed it to his lips.
We made it
, she thought, as the new day dawned.
We made it home.

AUTHOR’S NOTE

Some of the events in this book are true, and some of the characters lived – but many are my invention. Some of the words spoken were said and have been reported here,
but most I have imagined. I hope that in blending fact and fiction this book still honours the men and women of the ATA. The little-known true story of their bravery and ‘brief glory’
is the equal of any fiction.

The ATA’s incredible contribution was finally recognised by Downing Street in 2008 when 59 veterans received a badge of honour. 173 men and women died ferrying over
309,000 aircraft during WW2. Amy Johnson is the only one many now recall from those remarkable pilots of 28 nations. The film of her life was dedicated to ‘women who have driven through
centuries of convention’ – a fitting sentiment for all the modest and magnificent Spitfire girls.

When you walk among the graves at cemeteries like Arnhem, white crosses stretch as far as the eye can see. They stand as a proud memory to our lost souls. Every marker is a
person who lived, and loved, and was loved. Every one of them was taken too soon. At All Saints in Maidenhead, there is a smaller plot of seventeen ATA war graves. These alone mark the loss of six
different nations. Every death in war is a death too many. May we always remember, and never forget those, like Amy, who gave up their tomorrows for our freedom today.

ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

My thanks are due to a number of people who generously helped with the research for this book. Richard Poad of the ATA archive in Maidenhead Heritage Centre gave invaluable
assistance. Betty Lussier’s recollections of life as an ATA girl and her work with OSS were inspirational. David Coxon of Tangmere Military Aviation Museum, Katherine Moody of the Imperial
War Museum, Daniel Milford-Cottam of the V&A, Andrew Cormack of the RAF Museum Hendon, Matti Watton of Lambeth Palace Library, Tony Hill, vice-chairman of White Waltham PCC, Carolyn Grace,
Leslie Danker, Raffles’ historian and the Poetry Library at the Royal Festival Hall all helped get my facts straight. Sabine Walkenhorst of Cartier, Mark Gauntlett of Aston Martin, Chanel UK,
Debretts and Dr Robert Treharne Jones of the Leander Club all kindly helped with period detail. Thank you also to This England Publishing Ltd, Williamson Music Inc, Redwood Music Ltd and Universal
Music Publishing GmbH for their co-operation.

I am grateful to Nicholas Royle and my MA group at MMU for their help and advice with the story. My thanks go to Laura Palmer, Rina Gill, Lucy Ridout and the wonderful team at
Corvus, and to the incomparable Sheila Crowley of Curtis Brown whose insights and encouragement helped enormously. Finally to my family – your patience and support can probably only be
understood by the families of other writers. Thank you.