Spitfire Girls (51 page)

After a more potent drink, d'Erlanger had said:

‘I suppose there isn't really any reason why women shouldn't fly Hurricanes,' and Valerie jumped in with an opportunistic, ‘Fine – when do they start?'

Every girl present at that soiree had been astonished by the steely magnetism that won Valerie every new deal for her ladies. In a few short days the Air Council, who would have been horrified at the idea in peacetime, approved the final arrangements and the women of ATA were cleared
to fly every type of operational aircraft including all models of the famous fighter coming out of the Vickers Super -marine works.

At that moment women's ATA passed into an historic phase, and the Women With Wings had become Spitfire Girls.

Shirley had been more concerned that in the absence of Friedrich Valerie was not devoting more time to renewing their closeness, than in the progress of operational assignments from Battles, Harvards and Kestrel Masters to Hurricanes, Mosquitos and the cherished Spits.

Now, on this February day, Shirley had cancelled yet another trip to see her mother in order to be near the glamorous Commanding Officer. Once more she would go back to her Hertfordshire lodgings depressed and longing for one of Angelique Florian's classic monologues full of extravagant mannerisms. Angelique was now only a memory and Shirley wondered if she was alone in missing the actress pilot. Kay Pelham boasted endlessly about joining the country's most illustrious Shakespeare Company and it was at these times Shirley wished Angelique had been there to silence the abrasive Australian.

‘A few headlines in the paper and then they forget you. That was Amy's favourite expression.'

Hamilton Slade was speaking over the soft tones of the church's modest organ. He was thin and pale, his tall physique now skeletal inside the ATA blue. When he lost Amy the pilots had been awkward but he had devoured sympathy when it was offered. Most men hated pity but Hamilton's thinning body had no desire to reject the offerings.

‘We have a few headlines inside our brains that flash by daily as we whizz through the skies in between balloons and dogfights. ATA remembers Cal March and Jo Howes, Martin Toland and his missing brother Oscar. We say hello to Amy and remember that in this past year our pilots have jumped in and out of over 15,000 aircraft. And we know that, wherever she is, her face is green with envy.'

Edith was staring at the civilian couple as the organ music swelled and abruptly she remembered Joe March the chauffeur and that odd day on the Isle of Man when Hartmut's first love letter had been placed in her hand. Seeing him again after such a long gap reminded the American aviatrix of her bath at the Beaverbrook villa and of Errol Carnaby. Since then she had loved Hartmut Weiss. His sturdy torso had lain across what she had always thought was her unattractive body, but he had wanted her in a mild sort of way, making passionless love in the detached, mechanical manner she had somehow expected from her first white man. So little time had been spent with Errol that Edith had never memorized the contours of his chest, his belly, his fierce penis that scorched like an iron. She had never rested her face upon the smooth buttocks of which her tiny hands had been vaguely aware when he had gouged a molten dwelling place inside her, and from which she would have been powerless to extricate him in the crazed height of his ecstasy.

But she had had time to memorize the contours of her German. He had been pink and white all over, the crest of his manhood dusted with a fluffy cloak of blonde hairs. Edith had teased him about being a collector's item, but he had not understood her joke about the only circumcized
towhead in the Luftwaffe. After great contortions of a cerebral nature, Hartmut would eventually achieve an erection, the inexperienced girl finding the effort boring and bemusing. He would enter and remain inside her for a while and sometimes she would experience small explosions of almost resentful pleasure. Now that he had been taken from her, however, she felt lonely, irritable, and glad when the memorial service meeting in the little Mayfair church had come to an end.

There was a large part of this Sunday left to live, and Edith wanted to tear away from the gathering and from Cal March's distraught parents, from the English pilots who had known Jo and Martin and Cal and Oscar, and who were now overcome with an almost unbearable collective grief. Edith wanted to leave this place and head for base, where aeroplanes waited for the weather to clear and where she could forget her uncomfortable longings. Valerie Cobb had been bitterly disappointed when Edith arrived in Britain without Errol in tow, and she had said something about war making women lose track of their men. Edith responded by saying she had lost track of her favourite woman, and Valerie walked away before Edith could finish saying:

‘Raine Fischtal.'

Making her way down the front steps of the church, Edith knew she could never have attempted small talk. Hamilton and Gordon had the bug-eyed look of men trying to thwart the onset of tears, and Sam's had already come. The women were languid on the pavement, anxious for a cigarette and dabbing at their faces with handkerchiefs. She noticed Nora's smart monogram and wondered if any of these girls would invite her to their family homes. Her
Australians were hovering away from the others and as Edith headed for Grosvenor Square, Gerard d'Erlanger gave what she thought was a small salute. Her pulse quickened for a moment and she contemplated the possibility that Florence Avenue might never see her again.

It was bad enough, thought Mrs Bennell, that girls like Shirley Bryce chose to leave their mothers' cosy homes to live in lodgings, but to put off visiting for a year was unnatural. Cleaning the latest room full of neatly accumulated ATA memorabilia, the landlady of The Stone House placed her hand on a large chunk of hardboard, which had been leaning against a wall and gathering dust. Angelique's Ouija board had been appropriated by Shirley after the Florian girl's departure – which some had called desertion. Shortly after she had left, Noel Slater stopped by to drink in The Stone House bar.

‘In the regular services she would have been court-martialled,' he shouted. ‘Fancy walking out of ATA.'

‘Actually, she
flew
out of ATA,' said Josef Ratusz, his bleary eyes the product of a relentless year during which he had had five days leave.

‘Don't think it has escaped our attention', Slater continued, ‘that Florian went off pregnant in a perfectly serviceable aircraft.'

‘None of us could do that, so it makes her special,' Josef said.

‘
Bollocks
, Joe.' Slater was becoming noisy and Mrs Bennell emerged to glare.

‘Why do you hate her so much?' Josef asked, rubbing his furrowy forehead.

‘Yes. What has she ever done to hurt you, Noel?' asked Mrs Bennell.

Slater studied her before he spoke. ‘BOAC should never have let d'Erlanger bring in his girlfriends. Women haven't the co-ordination to handle aircraft in a pressurized situation, and one of these days a whole factory-load of things will go down in flames because some stupid ATA girl has let her mind wander to her last amorous encounter.'

Mrs Bennell's hand hit Noel's face hard, and her hard palm left an angry weal on the flight engineer's pasty complexion. He had smiled afterwards and she felt a marked woman. As he left the bar with a sheepish Josef, she knew he would be back again, his contempt needing constant release.

She withdrew to her kitchen that evening, still numb from the job she had had to perform earlier in the day. Her first loss through fatality had left a large collection of ATA paraphernalia in her room and it had to be turned over to the Commanding Officer. Having received the unbelievable news that Jo Howes had departed this life through asphyxiation, her first impulse had been to run, apron flapping in the rainy wind, straight into the Hatfield Ops room and register a formal accusation of murder. Mrs Bennell had seen Noel Slater admiring the lean figure of Cal March, the boy's unworldly clumsiness being a source of fascination for the very senior ground engineer. Some of the girls had told her of his unhappy life, but she was never one to value past histories and had informed them he had been born wicked.

It was time now to re-let Angelique Florian's room, but Mrs Bennell had heard that a new women's ferry pool was opening. Her ATA girls would be reporting to places other than Hatfield and White Waltham, and the empty rooms
might not be filled. Carrying a large pile of
Theatre World
magazines out on to the landing, she looked back into Shirley's room and smiled at the tidiness of the ground engineer, who was of late bringing her sex so much distinction as the RAF's most-sought-after technician. Any aircraft could be placed under her jurisdiction and she would adapt to its specifications, remedying faults and rendering the machine airworthy in time for its next sojourn into death games.

‘Are those up for grabs?'

Dropping the magazines on the wooden floor, Mrs Bennell watched as they spilled across the landing, several copies slipping down the stairs as if the beautiful faces on their covers were propelled by some inner spirit.

‘They belonged to Angelique,' she answered, the newcomer's accent now familiar to the landlady's ears. Kay Pelham's bronzed beauty was disquieting, as she lingered on the landing and studied Mrs Bennell's face.

‘Could I have them?'

‘If Angelique returns, you must give them back.'

‘Noel says she's gone for a Burton.'

‘What a terrible expression that is,' the landlady muttered, going to her knees to collect the scattered
Theatre World
s. ‘Why can't flying people just say someone has passed on to their reward?'

‘Noel Slater tells all the good jokes, you know,' Kay said, bending down to help.

‘I should steer clear of him, my girl,' Mrs Bennell asserted, their faces close and Kay's thick chestnut hair brushing the other woman's cheek.

‘Our relationship is – intense,' Kay said quietly.

Rising slowly, Mrs Bennell felt a tightness in her lungs that seemed to slow her train of thought. ‘Whatever “intense” means to an Australian, I expect you are implying he has made overtures.'

‘God almighty, Mrs B.'

‘I've never known him to like
flying
alongside a woman pilot.'

Kay looked up from the floor, where she had spread the magazines at the woman's feet.

‘This has nothing to do with being up in the air,' she chortled, giving Mrs Bennell one of the smirks the other girls so dreaded.

‘People do say things about actresses, Kay.'

‘Blow me – I don't have to be an actress to get Noel going!' Kay collected the magazines all at once and rose, her smirk fading as their eyes met. ‘Did you know I met him in Brisbane? He was over on a secret mission, out of uniform. I nearly died on the spot when I turned up here and there he was, all kitted out to be a flight engineer. Let me tell you, Mrs B: dressed like a businessman, he's okay.'

‘Noel's never been of interest to any woman from the day he materialized in flying circles,' Mrs Bennell observed.

‘Bachelors are fun to disarm,' Kay said. ‘Don't you think men are fun when they're under you and they're like moaning puppies, in your control because you suck and drain away their power until they cry?'

Mrs Bennell glared at Kay.

‘Try going down on Noel and you'll see a fiend become a pup.'

‘Thank you very much but the prospect leaves me cold,'
said Mrs Bennell. ‘In any case what you are suggesting is shameful for a respectable spinster.'

Kay reached to pinch her landlady's cheek.

‘Pilots are poets, Mrs B! They have no shame – it's a waste of time when you spend your life inside a tin deathtrap.'

A clatter on the stairs startled the pair.

‘That last bit was rich – why did you have to stop?' shouted Stella, clumping up the stairs in ATA boots and trousers.

‘What is that you are wearing?' Mrs Bennell demanded.

‘Valerie Cobb does it again – she's arranged for trousers to be standard issue for flying,' Stella announced.

‘Noel will just hate all that,' Kay said, pushing past them as Stella and Mrs Bennell exchanged looks. Marvelling at the resilience of the young pilots, the landlady reflected on the rapidity with which her consignment of girls had sublimated grief. They had thrown themselves into ATA ferrying with redoubled vigour upon their return from the memorial ceremony. Though Mrs Bennell knew their lost fliers had not been forgotten, the girls had laughed and eaten and smoked for several days afterwards in between perilous flights across winter and balloons, while their landlady wept incessantly over the empty beds.

‘How's your sex life, then?' asked Kay, running long fingers through rich hair. Stella wondered how many men she had touched with that delicate, superbly manicured hand.

‘I'm afraid that has never entered into my realm,' Stella said, blushing at her own fantasies. ‘Perhaps I shall steal Gordon Selfridge from old Nora,' she continued. ‘Did I
tell you I've finally had a letter from my old ballet master Grunberg? I've written him once a month for a year and this is the first reply. I wonder if any of my correspondence ever got through to him.'

‘Where is he, then?' Kay asked, standing in the middle of the stairway.

‘Detained – the government arrested all the German-speaking people they could find and poor old André was one of them. It's all so bloody stupid: when you think of what Hitler is doing to Jews over there, and here they are in Britain under suspicion.'

‘This is the craziest country!' hooted Kay. ‘Men in red jackets howling their heads off because some frigging fox is running loose, and spending weekends in freezing cold houses because a couple of old geezers want to shoot birds – crazy!'

Following the Australian back down the stairs, Stella thrust her hands into the smartly designed pockets. ‘We've a busy day ahead because the WASP is still surviving off Malta and she wants a new supply of Spits,' she said. Her minuscule figure seeming to swim in the flaring trousers.