Spitfire Girls (11 page)

A terrifying roar broke their conversation and the blinding lights of screeching cars swarmed from out of nowhere. Edith watched as Raine Fischtal, Zuki and Hartmut were bundled into the shiny vehicles and she was left alone.

Raine's precious film remained on board the aircraft and Edith climbed back into the cabin to remove the canister. She sat for some moments and felt the chill air leaking into the tiny spaces around the windows and chuckled at the thought of German imperfection. Technically, the two countries were not at war and she was an innocent bystander. Britain could be unpleasant to her three new friends but could not interrogate them like spies. In an odd way she did not want them to be hurt or abused. Confident that all was well with her world, the pilot emerged from the cockpit only to find two well-dressed men looking up at her expectantly.

‘Care for some Florida oranges?' she asked, peering down at the pair.

‘Would you be Miss Edith Allam?' asked the younger man, his face not dissimilar to that of a ten-year-old schoolboy.

‘Only two reporters? Do me a favour!' exclaimed Edith, climbing down over the wing.

The older newcomer offered her an elegantly gloved hand. ‘We require two things from you, madam. Your identification, and the Fischtal film,' he said.

Edith had become apprehensive and when she removed her papers from the bag a lemon rolled out.

‘I was serious about the orange,' she said, handing him the documents and a lemon.

The younger man wiped it with his handkerchief.

‘Don't do that. You'll ruin your hanky!' she exclaimed.

Both men stared at this strange girl.

‘Are you Lord Beaverbrook's guys?' she inquired.

‘We represent the Parliamentary committee which deals with matters of air readiness and with foreign nationals. You, of course, are our honoured guest. But, as you know, the three Germans will be under surveillance for … some time.

‘
Some
time?' demanded Edith.

‘A day or two,' the young one murmured, smiling weakly.

‘Who are you, anyway?'

‘I do beg your pardon. I'm Sir Henry Cobb, and this is Tim Haydon MP.'

‘Well, you can't have Raine's film. She and I did a deal that if I got her home in one piece, her lab in Berlin would let me take back a copy – it's just some “Hindenburg” footage.'

‘We are aware it contains extensive material which might embarrass the Reich,' Cobb asserted, ‘and which might strengthen Winston Churchill's position. You know of Churchill, I take it?'

‘Yes I know of Winston – how the hell do you know
what's on Raine's film?' Shaking with rage, Edith snatched the lemon from Haydon's grasp.

‘Press-Shots UK notified the newspapers of your exercise,' Sir Henry explained, ‘and in the present atmosphere such information would automatically be passed on to the appropriate government authorities.'

‘In America it's the other way around,' Edith mumbled, her thoughts darting from newspapers, to Beaverbrook, and then to Valerie Cobb.

‘If I may say so, madam,' Haydon presumed, ‘your so-called deal with Fischtal is one of the most childish and foolhardy things I have encountered in my entire career.'

‘Considering you look twelve, your career must have been pretty short,' she observed curtly.

‘Lady pilots, I must confess, are a law unto themselves,' nodded Sir Henry, smiling with what Edith felt was a kind of conciliatory warmth.

‘You can't fool me, mister – your kid is Valerie Cobb.' Edith grinned. ‘Okay. Here's another childish deal. You get to keep a copy of Raine's horror movie, if I get a copy from a London lab free of charge, and if Raine gets her original back. In addition, I want to meet your daughter.'

‘Of course,' said Sir Henry. ‘On my word of honour.'

Edith had read books about an English gentleman's honour. He just
had
to be honourable – didn't he?

A large car had drawn up beside them and the two MPs fell silent as Edith was ushered into its plush interior. To her relief and amazement, in a day filled with miracles, they had prepared a receipt on official headed paper, in exchange for the canister, which under her fierce grip had by now pressed a ridge into her side.

Haydon remained stony-faced, but Sir Henry smiled and waved as the car drove her away from her now-beloved German flying machine.

Would she ever again embrace its magical powers?

Would Raine ever see her film again?

As they sped away Edith craned to glimpse the main building, eager for signs of her payload – but there were no traces of human activity to be seen.

‘Who the hell are you, and where the hell are you taking me?' she demanded of the driver.

‘
Daily Record
, madam,' he said.

‘Daily
what?
'

‘Newspaper.' He steered with one hand and with the other held up a gigantic bouquet of flowers. ‘These are for you. From the proprietor, miss.'

‘Take me back – I just want to meet Valerie Cobb,' pleaded Edith.

The driver's hand dropped and the flowers disappeared out of sight.

‘If I give you a lemon will you take me to Valerie Cobb?'

‘What's a lemon to a bloke like me, if you please, madam?'

‘I know damn well your government's about to ban everything except turnips and tea,' snapped Edith.

‘If you say so, madam.'

She handed him a Hershey bar and a handsome Camel carton, and he accelerated into the Ipswich Road.

‘Thank you very much, madam. For your information, His Lordship has already arranged for you to meet Miss Cobb at the
Daily Record
. My job is simply to take you there.'

Edith Allam buried her face in her hands and shook with helpless laughter at the folly of her deeds, and the strangeness of her present situation – as the car raced towards the capital of an England that had long forgotten its childhood, and was now bracing itself for a painful old age that might end in tyranny.

Burt Malone seemed to spend his life bailing people out of police cells. On this occasion he was being forced to argue with his own brother, whose severe hangover had made him fractious. Summer had not abated, giving the musty incident room an oppressive airlessness resembling a Mississippi August. Two stylishly dressed young people sat on a bench at the far aide of the room, one a dapper boy sporting a flashy hat, the other a girl too voluptuous to seem real. For a moment Burt pictured them as some weird optical illusion off a carnival display, or fallen off a river steamer, bringing with them that Mississippi oppression.

When Frank Malone emerged his eyes avoided brother Burt's glance as long as neither man spoke. One of the youths arose, and both men looked up. Her thick, glowing hair seemed to bring a reflected glow that lit the vomit-green walls.

‘Any news on Carnaby?' asked the girl, trying for Frank's attention.

Burt wheeled around to face her, and his brother dashed to the counter.

‘Why don't you come back tomorrow, sis?' hissed Frank.

‘Do you know the boy?' Burt asked, smiling at the couple.

‘He's a friend of a friend,' she said.

‘Whose friend?' pressed Burt.

Now the boy was standing too.

‘Mine,' replied the girl. ‘I'm Molly, this is Kelvin.'

‘We wanted to leave him his Blake but this guy won't pass him the book,' Kelvin Bray explained, pointing to Frank.

‘No, we just throw the book at him,' the cop guffawed, as Kelvin wielded Blake.

‘That's Edith Allam's!' Burt sputtered, reaching for the ancient volume.

‘He wouldn't know how to read, son,' Frank said, his breath unbearable in the hanging humidity.

‘Listen, officer, Errol Carnaby could tie circles around anybody when it comes to brains,' Kelvin asserted. ‘Please just give him the book. This young lady has to get back home – or her fiancé will kill her.'

‘I know what the dagos are like, kid,' muttered Frank.

Molly's eyes shot darts at the overweight cop.

‘Okay, it's time for me to deliver the goods,' said Burt, handing over a wad of bills to his brother.

‘Are you nuts?' complained Frank, still leaning on the counter.

‘I should be hunting down that goddam Hindenburg film, and my missing photographer – instead I'm wasting a morning over some trumped-up charge.'

‘It ain't trumped up, Burt,' Frank said, straightening up. ‘This kid gave me trouble first thing last night, and there he was again at the stroke of twelve. Some shitty story about his mother being a cleaning lady.' He turned to Molly. ‘Excuse me, miss.'

‘You're excused. Now, pass the dough, honey.' Molly grinned at Burt.

‘I'm bailing the kid out, little brother. Right now.'

Scowling, Frank took the money, then sauntered off towards the cells.

‘By the way, his mother cleans our house – every other Wednesday night,' chirped Kelvin.

‘How do you know Errol?' Molly asked Burt.

‘He works for me – best projectionist in town. None of the movie houses will hire him, so I take what the others dump. I've got all the eccentrics in Philly – Stan, my editor, who stinks but has a genius talent, and this girl Edith who snaps and flies aeroplanes. I must be crazy.'

‘She's become a celebrity – crossing the ocean with that film-maker woman,' Kelvin offered.

‘We met her at Fidler's – Fish-stall,' Molly added.

‘You met the German broad?!' Burt shouted, nonplussed.

There was a noisy clatter of keys and latches, and Errol emerged, his clothes dishevelled and his eyes streaked with red.

‘Who says Jim Crow stops on the Mason-Dixon line?' he joked, smiling at the crowd awaiting him.

‘Your mother came to us hysterical today – that's how I knew you were here,' Kelvin said quietly.

‘I know why you're here,' Errol murmured, looking at Burt. ‘Are you going to dock my pay?'

Frank pushed the coloured man through the narrow passage into freedom, glaring at his brother.

‘Down south they'd call you a nigger-lover,' whispered Frank.

‘This
isn't
Down South, and I need my projectionist,' bellowed Burt, taking Errol's arm.

‘The question is – how has Enitharmon fared in my absence?' Errol grinned as he spoke, loving Frank's expression of horror mixed with fear.

‘What's he talking about? We'll take you in again, so
watch your language,' he snapped, swinging the keys in front of Errol's weary face.

‘Let's get out of here,' said Molly, and the foursome headed for the door. An elderly Hasid stumbled in, limping. Burt started, remembering Raine's footage.

‘You all right, old man?' he asked.

‘They mean trouble every time,' growled Frank.

‘How did you get to be in such a bad way?' Burt was becoming agitated.

Words failed the old man and he tottered to the counter.

Burt wanted to stay, and the others began to look at him oddly.

‘Someone given you trouble?' he enquired, his face close to the old man's beard.

‘Talk to me,' said Errol.

‘You know Yiddish?' the old man exclaimed.

Guffaws reverberated in the police station, and even the Hasid smiled, touching the giant Negro's hand with affection. ‘I'm here to announce that for Rosh Hashanah the Messiah is coming.'

‘You're two thousand years too late, Isaac.' Frank chortled.

Burt heaved a great sigh, and wondered if this sweet little man knew of the horrors befalling his brethren in places as enlightened as Berlin and Vienna.

‘Good Yomtov,' Errol shouted as they left. In the distance they could still hear the cop and the old man arguing about the true Messiah.

‘What happened, schwartzer?' Burt asked as they turned the corner into Broad Street. In the light he could see that Errol's dark face had acquired a shiner.

‘Malone, your brother by some freak of nature, had had his night of joy on Florence Avenue and decided to pick on me after I ‘d been to visit Edith's folks.'

‘Are they worried about her?' asked Molly.

‘Let him finish,' snapped Burt.

‘I am finished,' muttered Errol. He stopped. As his body began to shake, tears came. He was ashamed.

Burt looked away, thinking again of Raine's film. Kelvin offered the tattered man an arm, and holding his Blake in one hand helped him continue his journey back to the comforting darkness of Burt's studio. Molly would go home to her fiancé to be serenaded in the name of a religion that had already found its saviour. The gang of four, an Italian dressed for a wedding ritual, an Irishman dressed for its aftermath, a Negro and another kind of Irishman, staggered up Broad Street, oblivious to the raging headlines that presaged their interrupted futures.

More flashes popped and reporters shouted as an exhausted and very unwashed Edith Allam emerged from her chauf-feured car and was ushered into the luxurious corridors of the Beaverbrook empire.

Pushing past the press men and marching down the halls from which their dangerous words would be printed for mass consumption, the American aviatrix followed her chauffeur, now smoking his new Camel cigarette. Down a flight of stairs, she was led into what appeared to be a hotel suite, its red velvet curtains and pink velvet walls reminiscent of a Philadelphia whorehouse she had infiltrated for Burt Malone's picture library. Turning around to query the chauffeur, she was surprised to see he had been replaced by a genteel curly-haired woman bordering on the elderly, who sported a black dress and an apron and who seemed weighted down with plush bath towels. She moved silently about the room, making her way to a door which opened into a bathroom that took Edith's breath away. Without speaking, the aproned woman leaned over a gleaming bathtub and drew water that created an instant cloud of steam. Was this really happening?