Spitfire Girls (16 page)

‘Now I've got spots in front of my eyes,' moaned Edith.

She sat back and made adjustments, her heart racing at the prospect of a solitary Atlantic crossing. Amid the screaming of the gathered press a lone man approached, and as he neared the open hatch Edith's palpitations increased: as airfield supervisor, Sean Vine was not required to carry out a final inspection on the departing aviatrix but she had caught his eye on this brief trip. He circled the aircraft and when his walk was complete he looked up at Edith impassively. Now he was alongside the hatch and the restless reporters still shouted. He said something and she could not hear. Suddenly Alec lurched forward and pushed them back.

A scuffle ensued, and he grinned.

‘Are you Miss Allam's beau?' a voice shrilled, grasping the Scotsman's sleeve.

‘He's mine,' stated Marion. ‘We are all qualified pilots, waiting for Valerie Cobb to find us a place in the ferry pools when the war comes. Alec and I hope to follow in Jim and Amy's footsteps. Print that.'

Alec wanted to add his bit, but his voice was drowned
out by the sudden roar of the Oxford. He could see Edith smiling broadly at Sean Vine as she revved, and when she gave Alec a quick wink he felt angrier, knowing she found his passion trivial enough to be left behind. Marion was the love of his life, after aeroplanes, but Edith could easily overtake the excitement of these machines.

As the Oxford roared to its takeoff he noticed Vine walking backwards as if drunk, then turning away, skipping briskly back to his office.

‘Do I suspect you're going to miss her?' asked Angelique.

‘He's only just met the girl,' observed Stella.

‘She has a secret, a damned juicy one, I reckon,' said Alec, calm again. ‘She'll be back because of it.'

‘I can't wait,' said Marion. ‘Come along, joystick.'

Angelique and Stella commandeered Puss Moths and watched Alec and Marion enter the Spartan. As if swallowed up by the airstream of Edith's departure, the reporters had disappeared.

In the cockpit Marion felt atrocious.

‘I have a horrible feeling about the months coming on,' she said, starting up the engine. ‘Everybody here is going to be doing something absolutely different from anything they've ever done before.'

‘Good,' enthused Alec, strapping himself in.

‘Good for the boys, but not for us. Alec, there are hundreds of these girls, and they should be regular RAF.'

‘Of course they should, and especially you. First you have to marry me. I'll be an RAF widower.'

Marion taxied and her long, delicate fingers held the joystick gently, as if reflecting the relaxation she always found when about to raise herself up from the earth's
gravity. Alec placed his fingertips on her hand and she grimaced. He withdrew and went for his cigarettes. Responding to her lone touch the throttle surged and they were airborne.

It was a calm flight. This was a quiet machine, and they could talk.

‘I can't face a war without our being married first, Marion.'

‘I wish these engines didn't purr so softly – then I wouldn't have to hear you.'

‘Listen, lass, if we are both in a civil air division, we can still be together at night.' Alec drew on the cigarette, and the aircraft lurched as if coughing.

‘God, that really is a disgusting habit.' Marion shuddered.

Alec was silent.

‘And I'm damned if a three-day assignment for a civil air unit is going to be ruined by my having to troop back to cook for Hubby.'

‘Marriage will buffer me against war,' he responded quietly. ‘War will buffer me against marriage.'

The aircraft hit a patch of thick cloud and Marion tensed in her seat. When they emerged, blue sky hit them brilliantly and the lady pilot took her fiancé to a higher altitude. Another aeroplane passed to the left and they could make out the distinctive markings of Edith's Oxford.

‘Shall I trail her out to sea?' Alec murmured.

‘Who?'

‘No-one.'

Alec peered out, and the Oxford sped away, its magnificent horsepower seeming to spirit his rage out over the sea.

‘Listen – if I am taken into an Air Arm it will mean overnights all across the map,' Marion continued, as if they had never stopped thinking during the clouds and Edith. ‘Anyway, how can you sit here considering the implications of marriage and war when you are incapable of self-discipline in any area of your life?'

‘You've been spending too much time around unnatural freaks – like the circus twins,' Alec remarked pointedly.

‘Valerie and Shirley are vastly superior to any man I've yet to meet,' she said, concentrating as cloud rippled alongside. ‘Seriously, Alec. Marriage in this climate could be catastrophic – two fliers competing for top job. It would put us both through a wringer.'

‘Unlike the marriage of Valerie Cobb and Shirley Bryce?'

‘You know bloody well Valerie has her Austrian for passion and Shirley has her mother for comfort.'

‘Have mothers and men ever stopped two women from fancying each other?' Alec stared meaningfully at Marion, and she turned her face away.

‘We were talking about marriage, I believe,' she said.

‘My belief is that it works, like the Bryce and Cobb show.'

‘Like Jim and Amy – look what's happened to them, and there isn't even a war on yet.'

Alec turned to the small window and for the rest of the ride he kept silent as the image of the Mollisons made him feel uneasy and unsexed.

Marion could think only of Valerie, Edith and the German film-maker whose combined images had begun to excite her much more than the prospect of an engagement
ring. She brought her aircraft in for a perfect landing as rain pattered on the dirt runway, Sean Vine observing from nearby. He smiled, as if relieved to see Alec close to home. As the couple walked the slippery road to the common room in silence Marion stooped to pick up a tiny canister. It was marked ‘Kodak', and as she pocketed it she laughed at the thought of some distraught press photographer who tonight would be without his pictures.

In their home, Jim and Amy Johnson-Mollison were dressing for a small party they were to be hosting. She was a quiet, if not depressive creature, but the prospect of war had made her feel cheerful.

‘This could be my big chance to shine,' she said, buttoning her blouse.

‘Haven't you shone enough?'

‘If there's a war, which more than likely there will be, Valerie will find me something worthwhile to do.' She looked up at Jim, who stood near her with a quizzical expression on his face. Amy knew an anecdote was coming.

‘Our genius drew a blower on the blackboard today, and asked the men what they thought it was. Alec Harborne volunteered. He said he thought it looked to him like the cross-section of the inside of a lady pilot.'

Amy remained quiet.

‘Please don't humiliate me on this night, of all nights,' she said, her colour gone.

‘Are those my instructions, Captain?'

‘Yes.'

‘They mean nothing.'

The doorbell rang.

Jim was angry. ‘Go and answer that.'

Amy went to the door, and the guests poured in. No sooner had Valerie Cobb and her father crossed the threshold than she was bubbling, bringing the circulation back to Amy's veins.

‘War is looming, darling,' Valerie hummed. ‘Daddy is hoarse from yelling in the Commons. Did I tell you Tim Haydon has been paying us regular calls?'

By now Jim had entered the drawing room, scowling.

‘Tim seems fascinated by you two,' said Amy.

‘He's fascinated by deviation – new word,' Jim growled. ‘Not even in the dictionary.'

‘I see you are in regular form, Mollison,' retorted Sir Henry. ‘Valerie is abnormal, you say?'

‘Oh, let's not go sour,' begged Amy.

‘He's not sour, he's pickled,' laughed Valerie, good-naturedly squeezing Jim's arm. ‘May an unnatural woman touch you?'

The doorbell rang again and Amy was gratified to see Gerard d'Erlanger and Hamilton Slade, a fine pilot too old for the RAF but still a vibrant figure, his strong frame topped by a warmly handsome face and thick blond curls, now greying at the temples. He had a sadness about him that matched Amy's melancholy. She walked towards him and the others stood aside.

‘God, Ham, I was thinking tonight, while Jim was ranting on about something, that my world is coming to an end.'

‘I'm surprised you can think about anything when he rants.'

‘You'd be amazed at the ground I cover inside my head when he starts,' she whispered, knowing the guests were close by. A hand reached over and offered her a drink. It was Valerie, and she was grinning.

‘Don't let me interrupt you two,' she said.

‘That's all right, Val,' Amy smiled back. ‘I was just saying to Ham that my world is over.'

‘That's what the American girl was saying this morning – you know, Edith Allam?'

‘Oh, God, that one,' groaned Jim, now leaning against Amy's small frame.

‘She took off today, but before she left, Alec says she told the reporters her world had changed.'

D'Erlanger had joined them, and Amy perked up.

Valerie continued.

‘What a story – that girl sold a cover photo to
Life
, flew the Atlantic, and helped us pinch Fischtal and her film all in the space of a fortnight.'

‘Could we use her?' asked d'Erlanger.

‘Allam? She's coming back with a load of Americans and then doing another load from Australia – all female,' said Valerie.

‘Ho-ho! I like the sound of that!' exclaimed Jim.

‘You would,' murmured Amy. ‘Has anyone thought of me?'

‘Essential for the war effort – publicity,' enthused Slade. ‘We could use you to get support for anything.'

‘Amy gets support even when she's flying with her entourage of admirers,' snapped Jim, downing another vodka. ‘She uses her fame and freedom to flirt around the globe,' he continued. ‘I stay at home and brew, Slade.'

‘No woman ever has freedom,' muttered Valerie.

‘Are you really going to take on the Air Ministry, Val?' asked Amy, her voice shaky.

‘I may,' Valerie replied.

Sir Henry looked sharply at his daughter, but knew it was not his moment for contention.

‘I'll come along as an accomplice. Would that be all right?' asked Amy, more nervous than a minute before.

‘It might backfire, Amy,' said d'Erlanger. She could sense his gravitational pull, and knew her world was receding. He wanted good things for Valerie Cobb.

‘This is monstrous!' exploded Sir Henry. ‘Enough is enough. Women will be needed in the canteens, and lesser ladies will be sent to staff the factories.'

‘Nonsense, Henry,' said Jim, suddenly subdued. ‘There are loads of stunning young women flying at our club.'

‘That's what's worrying all the suits in the House,' said Slade.

Sir Henry was cornered.

‘Dad, women like Edith are coming back to fly for Britain, and the rest are already here.'

Jim sniggered unpleasantly. ‘One of our girls at the Club exercises by standing on her head,' he mused. ‘I can think of one lady pilot who ought to do that – it might improve her … performance.' Having delivered his punch line, Jim Mollison collapsed in a heap on the floor.

Another evening at the Mollisons had turned into a disaster, and to divert everyone's embarrassed attention the pale and trembling hostess pointed to her newest trophy. No-one looked, and her husband remained prostrate. One by one the guests dispersed, and only Hamilton Slade remained as a blast of cold air blew past after a slam of the door.

Amy was sitting on the floor and Hamilton crouched next to her. They would leave Jim to sleep.

‘I'm joining the Civil Air Guard,' said Hamilton.

Amy looked up at him, bemused.

‘You should join too, Amy.'

‘What? Why?'

‘Ten choice women are to be picked for front-line service. Valerie will do it – mark my words. Everything she does is marked by perfection. You and I could ferry from the same pool when she gets started.'

By now he was holding her and his majestic size sent a rush of rage and want surging through her. Then she became miserable. Like clockwork.

‘Please leave,' she asked Slade quietly, without conviction.

Moments later he was touching her and she was more miserable, Jim's snoring drowning out her moans as Hamilton erupted inside her and another Amy came.

When he had left her alone with her trophies she sat on the floor, looking through a scrapbook of clippings and holding her blouse tightly against her damp flesh. These were well organized clippings, and the other Amy wallowed in feeling miserable as the night ticked away in rhythm with the imperfect man's noisy dreams of women standing on their heads.

Smithfield Market at dawn was a rough, noisy hodgepodge and on this particular morning the men were huddling in groups. Talk was of mobilization, and each worker was already a soldier in his private fantasy. Chatter became a roar as boys and men speculated on their days to come.

Inside a small warehouse office, Nora Flint was sorting market files and Cal March, the energetic sixteen-year-old runner, had stopped to make tea. Their boss, Sam Hardwick, tumbled into the office, his overweight frame breathless.

‘I can't get any discipline this morning,' he gasped. ‘Those men have decided they're already serving another master.'

‘Perhaps they are,' said Nora.

‘What? How can you say that? This is one of the busiest times of the year – it will destroy me if things go wrong.'

Cal handed him a cup of tea and his hand was unsteady. The hot liquid reached his mouth too soon and he spluttered.

‘All the papers are full of war,' murmured Nora. ‘Surely you're absorbing it, Mr H?'