Spitfire Girl (15 page)

‘You’re out’ they say when war is won,
‘We know of all the work you’ve done’;
But men must work and women weep,
And women say yes like a lot of sheep.

1945

‘Fifty-six potatoes, please.’

‘Pardon, madam?’

‘Fifty-six potatoes!’

‘Excuse me, madam, why fifty-six?’

‘That’s what the cook-book says. I’ve added it up. Fifty-six potatoes for meals for a week for two persons.’

‘Yes, madam.’

‘And they must be the same size.’

‘You must be Mrs Moggridge!’

He humoured me, carefully selected and counted fifty-six potatoes. I put them on my bike and rode home. We had just moved in to a grace and favour house owned by my father-in-law. Though ugly and one of four in a dismal row I liked it. Situated on the Ilminster Road two miles from Taunton’s moderately bustling centre it faced a Constable landscape and backed distant forests. Every night over supper we agreed it was only a temporary arrangement until we built our own home. A simple thing surely for Messrs. Moggridge & Sons, Building Contractors. As I sit, years later, typing this book, the same landscape dulled by familiarity stares obdurately back at me and the forests at the back are hidden by council houses that anger by their intrusion but comfort by their example of social progress.

My daughter, weighing six and a quarter pounds (though why that should interest puzzles me) and none the worse for having a few hundred flying hours to her credit, arrived punctually in the nursing home. The nurses hurriedly assured me that all new-born babies are equally monstrous. With her arrival came a King’s Commendation for valuable services in the air. It seems that I had ferried more aeroplanes than anyone else, male or female, in the A.T.A. I looked wryly at the crisp parchment scroll disappointingly signed by the new Prime Minister, Atlee, whose autograph for all his virtues lacked the collector’s appeal of Churchill’s, and then down at the terracotta coloured bundle nuzzled at my breast. Was one to end the other? Reg had just paid a flying visit from Germany, exhibited hopelessly subjective sentiments about his daughter and returned to Germany happy and content with the acorns of his new life.

Reg was demobilized shortly after I left the nursing home and returned without equivocation to the family business. Following his urbane example I put away my uniform and log-books and, for the first few months, enjoyed painting and wallpapering, choosing utility furniture and uttering the absurd but enchanting goo-goos of mother-baby language. Her helpless dependence invoked a discipline that smothered revolt and nostalgia whenever dishes were damned with faint praise, the weekly wash – sans washing machine – overflowed the dirty-linen basket or aircraft passed overhead.

Once a viable routine was established it was not long before I succumbed to the temptation to scan through my flying log-books, and step back into memories of war. In the peace of the afternoon, the housewife’s armistice between lunch and dinner, I recalled the smell of hot oil and glycol, the thunder of the Lancaster, the lyrical Spitfire and a getting up in the morning with one eye on the sky. I knew there were many others with the same temptation, whose station in peace mocked their achievements in war. Most of them had the courage to turn back to the factory bench, the brief-case or the pen and recall the old days only over a mug of beer. I could not, or would not. I was happy with the trilogy that most women desire – a husband, a baby, a home – but the stimulant was lacking that would bring peaks to the foothills of dull content. Being a wife, a mother and a housewife was too constant an occupation. Even heaven must be dull without a brief relative glimpse of hell.

There is an abandoned aerodrome near Taunton. It was my opiate. When tears of maudlin self-pity welled I rode there on my bike and walked along the silent runways already crumbling at the edges and cracked with weeds. The gaunt wooden huts became filled with the potent bustle of aircrew, the runway trembled with the surge of accelerating bombers and the air was filled with the ghosts of those who did not return. For many hours I relived Hatfield, Hamble and Creek Cottage. But the drug was ephemeral. The trilogy insufficient.

‘Reg,’ I blurted one evening as he pored over plans and estimates for other people’s homes.

‘Uh-huh.’

‘I want to do some flying.’

He looked up and grinned ruefully. ‘I thought it would come sooner or later. How? You haven’t got a licence.’

‘I can get a ‘‘B’’ licence easily enough. My A.T.A. experience will exempt me from most of the examinations.’

‘Then what?’

‘Nothing much,’ I prevaricated. ‘Just to know I’ve got the licence and can fly if I want to. That’s all.’

‘All right,’ he sighed. ‘If that’s what you want, go ahead.’

Within a few weeks I received my first professional licence. I carried it with me everywhere, next to the ration books. It was not quite so bad then when an aircraft glinted sharply in the sun, or hummed overhead at night.

Once or twice a month I collected the small hoard of sixpences and shillings appropriated from the household budget, sneaked off to Exeter Flying Club and for an hour hired a Tiger Moth or Auster. It was enough at first. To hide behind a cloud, to have my fingers curled around a control column instead of kneading dough. To share solitude with the sky and sorrow for those who know it not. But, soon, the flimsy innocuous club aircraft, toys compared with the Tempests and Typhoons of the war, and the aimless circling of the aerodrome, began to pall.

‘Reg.’

‘Uh-huh.’

‘Do you mind if I get a job?’

‘What on earth for?’

‘Just a little flying job... you know... part-time.’

‘Oh, I see!’

‘It’s silly now that I’ve got a licence not to use it and the money would be useful for Jill’s schooling.’

‘What sort of flying?’

‘I don’t know yet. I thought of answering some of the jobs advertised in
Flight
and
The Aeroplane
.’

He frowned dubiously. I loved him for not saying where my place was. ‘What about Jill and the housekeeping?’ he asked.

‘It wouldn’t interfere with that. Mother could take care of Jill on the days when I’m flying.’

‘And I have lunch in town?’ he said wryly.

I nodded eagerly.

‘All right,’ he decided, unconsciously repeating himself. ‘If that’s what you want, go ahead.’

The aeronautical journals were crammed with vacancies for pilots. I wrote only to the illustrious firms and waited confidently for a flood of replies. I got the replies but they were monotonously identical in content: Dear Madam, We regret to inform you that, owing to passenger psychology, it is not our policy at present to employ women pilots. However we have placed your name on our files and will communicate with you if etc., etc.

In desperation I put an advertisement in one of the journals:
Woman pilot ‘B’ licence
, 2500
hours
. 70
types including Single, Twin and Multi-engined. Seeks Flying Post
.

I received one reply. It was from a company marketing a new type of flying overall who hoped I would be interested in the enclosed brochure.

‘So this is what I flew in the war for,’ I said bitterly. ‘To make the world free... if you’re a man.’

‘That’s nonsense and you know it,’ answered Reg. ‘You flew in the war because you love flying and,’ he added with a grin ‘either the passengers have freedom from fear or...’

‘Oh shut up. I suppose you agree with these stupid letters.’

‘Yes,’ he answered honestly. ‘More or less. I don’t know much about flying but I’d be frightened to death if I sat in a passenger’s seat and saw a luscious blonde mince up to the pilot’s seat.’

‘Prejudice,’ I shouted furiously.

‘Agreed,’ he admitted, ‘but the reaction of a normal passenger, male
or
female.’

‘You of all people,’ I spluttered. ‘Judas!’

He smiled at my fury. ‘Look, darling,’ he soothed. ‘I think I’ve been fair. I’ve let you try to get a flying job but, prejudice or not, passengers will never accept a woman up in front. You’ve got to face up to it. The war’s over. Give it up. You’ll only make yourself miserable.’

‘I won’t. I’ll get a flying job if it kills me.’

‘That’s all right. As long as it doesn’t kill anyone else.’

‘Pshaw!’

I continued answering advertisements but every flicker
of hope died by return post. It was a disheartening period. Now I am partially reconciled to the rebuffs of prejudice but in those earlier days I felt sick with humiliation and envy whenever an aircraft droned by in the sky.

A few weeks later Reg passed a letter across the breakfast table. ‘Sorry,’ he apologized. ‘It was addressed to
Mr
Moggridge.’

‘It’s a job,’ I shouted triumphantly, passing the letter back to him.

‘Not quite,’ he corrected, scanning the letter. ‘It’s an invitation for lunch to discuss a job.’

‘Same thing,’ I asserted confidently.

He shook his head. ‘Not when the letter was addressed to me. They don’t realize you are a woman.’

‘I’m going anyway,’ I said. ‘What shall I wear?’

I boarded the express to London wearing a charcoal-grey costume and modest shoes. In accordance with the instructions in the letter I located a small luncheon club in London and asked for Mr... ‘He is expecting me,’ I added untruthfully. A few moments later a small middle-aged man with the paunchy loose look of a publican hesitantly approached me. ‘Mr...?’ I asked. He nodded warily. ‘I am Mrs Moggridge.’

‘Er. Howdoyoudo,’ he welcomed. ‘Your husband?’

‘There has been a misunderstanding,’ I explained. ‘I wrote to you for the flying post.’

‘But you are a woman,’ he frowned.

‘Yes,’ I said brightly. He cast a surreptitious glance at my legs. I wished I had worn high heels.

Over lunch I told him about myself. He was impressed though his lips still pursed. Then he told me about himself. I did not purse my lips though I was equally doubtful about him. There was something flushed about him as though his heart or his conscience were working under pressure.

‘I operate a small freight run to the Continent,’ he explained over the mock-turtle soup. ‘Urgent aircraft spares and valuable small bulk cargo. Doing quite well,’ he added proudly, sipping his half-bottle of wine.

‘What type of aircraft?’

‘Austers and a Proctor,’ he answered.

I was surprised. ‘You can’t carry much freight on those,’ I said.

‘No,’ he agreed. ‘But it isn’t the bulk that matters. It’s the value and urgency of the cargo that justifies the expense of air-freight.’

‘Or perishables,’ I added trying to be sagacious.

‘That’s right,’ he nodded, pleased with my attention.

He ordered another bottle of wine with the cutlets and an orangeade for me. I could see he was in an ambiguous frame of mind, trying to balance my virtues as a woman against my potential as a pilot. To help him decide I slipped out to the Ladies’ Room and added a further layer of lipstick and a touch of mascara.

‘I want only a part-time pilot,’ he continued over the cheese and brandy, ‘to stand by and fly whenever required.’

‘But that suits me admirably,’ I replied with a beaming smile.

‘Do you think you can manage Austers?’ he asked tactlessly.

I refused to be insulted and passed him my flying log-books. He grinned sheepishly as he scanned through them. After three more Napoleon brandies he became jovial and offered me the job. ‘Seven pounds ten for each return trip, plus expenses. You should average about two flights a week.’

I accepted promptly.

‘Good,’ he smiled. ‘A toast,’ and touched his glass to mine. ‘You won’t have to worry about Income Tax,’ he said as we rose to go.

I danced in the empty train compartment back to Taunton. It was not the job I would have chosen. Austers were insipid aircraft but at last I had stepped on the professional ladder.

After a month during which I had completed six flights without incident I sat in the airport lounge waiting for minor repairs before setting out on another flight when in walked an ex-A.T.A. pilot now resplendent in the uniform of a well-known air charter company.

‘Hello, Jackie,’ he welcomed, ‘still flying?’

I nodded and we talked about old times.

‘What are you doing now?’ he asked later.

‘I’m with...’ I answered proudly.

The smile dropped from his face. ‘Crikey, Jackie!’ he ejaculated. ‘I hope you know what you are doing.’

‘What’s the matter with them?’ I protested. ‘They are treating me splendidly.’

‘I’m not surprised,’ he said with a cynical laugh. ‘But I’m surprised at you,’ he added.

‘What is it? What are you talking about?’ I asked irritably.

‘Smuggling.’

‘Nonsense.’

He shrugged his shoulders. ‘No proof of course, but it’s common knowledge.’

‘Holy Mother of Mary,’ I whispered. ‘I’ve done six trips already.’ There was silence at the awful implication.

‘You didn’t know?’

‘Please,’ I protested.

‘Then you had better get out quickly,’ he advised. ‘Or, better still, go and see the Customs.’

I shook my head.

‘Why not?’ he insisted.

‘It’s too much like Judas.’

He shrugged again. ‘It’s your funeral. The Customs won’t believe your story unless you tell them now.’

Like a criminal I glanced furtively at the uniformed airport police and sank deeply into the armchair until the tannoy announced the departure of his flight.

‘Here’s my card, Jackie,’ he said, getting up. ‘Maybe we can convince the Customs of your innocence if the whole thing blows up. But,’ he warned, ‘don’t fly for them again.’

I nodded feebly and shook hands from the depths of the armchair. Enviously I watched his confident, open stride past the uniformed officials and waited for the bustle of the departing flight to distract them before sneaking out of the passengers’ exit.

Retreating to Taunton I wrote a letter of resignation without giving any explanation, told Reg vaguely that the job had fallen through and waited in agonizing suspense for the imperious knock of authority at the door.