The women’s quarters at the Grange seemed the lap of luxury to Mary. Her bedroom was enormous for a start, with a window from floor to ceiling overlooking the wood. The bed was a double, with a defunct servants’ bell-pull to one side. Though the patterned carpet was worn, the edging tassels were frayed and moths had been at the embroidered blue counterpane, she could see how grand the furnishings and fittings must once have been.
Awake before dawn on the Sunday morning, she lay in the darkness and was slow to identify the musty smell of the carpet and hulking outlines of her mahogany wardrobe and chest of drawers. Eventually a glint of daylight was reflected in the mirror on the dressing table: a signal that it was time to get up. So, still in her nightdress, Mary carried her towel and washbag along to the bathroom at the end of the corridor, padding on bare feet and hoping that she would find it free.
The door was ajar and she breathed a sigh of relief. There was a hot-water tap for the sink (another luxury) and a bar of Palmolive soap in a dish on the washstand. Mary washed quickly then brushed her teeth. With luck, she’d be back in her room before anyone else was up.
But when she slid back the bolt and opened the bathroom door she found Angela fully dressed and hovering outside.
Angela’s face fell. ‘Oh, hello, Mary. I thought it was Bobbie in there.’
‘As you see; it’s not.’ Mary waited, straight-faced, for Angela to step aside.
‘She’s not in her room either.’ Angela peered over Mary’s shoulder as if suspecting her of hiding Bobbie in the bathroom. ‘She can’t be far away. I need to talk to her. It’s rather urgent.’
‘I haven’t seen her.’
‘Well, if you do will you tell her that I’ve come back sooner than expected. I have something important to tell her.’ At last Angela backed away and Mary slipped past.
‘Where will you be?’ Mary asked.
‘Downstairs, in the breakfast room.’ Angela didn’t offer to wait for her and show her the ropes. Instead, she turned on her heel and marched off.
Mary swallowed hard after this blow to her already fragile confidence. She decided to avoid the breakfast room altogether and instead walk over to the base and eat her bacon and eggs in familiar surroundings.
So she went back to her room and put on a warm green jumper, a red woollen scarf and a pair of brown corduroy trousers. She threw her overcoat over the top, slid her feet into some flat shoes then hurried downstairs.
A faint clatter of cutlery from a room to her right told her the whereabouts of Angela and her fellow officers. It’d be like Daniel entering the lions’ den if I went in there, she thought, crossing the hallway and escaping through the front door.
Halfway down the steps, Mary remembered Cameron’s warning not to walk at the front of the house until the bomb disposal team had done their work so she cut along the terrace then down into the stable yard where she saw wisps of blue smoke emerging from a chimney and the clock in the tower telling her that it was half past eight. About to hurry under the archway and follow the short path towards Burton Wood, she didn’t notice Cameron and Douglas deep in conversation beside Douglas’s car.
Douglas spotted her first. ‘Hello, Mary. Welcome to the Grange.’ He limped across to shake her hand. ‘Very well done, by the way.’
‘Thank you,’ she replied with downcast eyes.
‘We’ll get you up and running first thing tomorrow,’ Douglas promised, as Cameron joined them. ‘Do you have any preference for your first time up in the air – a Hurricane or an F4U Corsair, for instance?’
‘No, thanks. I don’t want special treatment; just whatever needs to be done.’
‘Fair enough.’ Now that Mary was qualified to fly, Douglas would have to rethink his attitude towards her. He’d always found her a little too brusque when she’d worked as a driver so had made little attempt to get to know her. This was still the case, but the girl must have hidden depths to have sailed through the conversion course the way she had. ‘Cameron here has great faith in you, don’t you?’
‘I do,’ came the reply. Rixley’s second in command cleared his throat and glanced up at the smoking chimney.
Douglas seemed unaware that he was embarrassing them both. ‘He’s been singing your praises every chance he gets.’
Cameron coughed and shuffled. ‘Who lit a fire in the old grooms’ quarters, I wonder?’ Without waiting for an answer, he went off to investigate.
Mary had wanted him to stay, if only to protect her from more of Douglas’s friendly but clumsy overtures. But Cameron strode off, dressed only in shirtsleeves and casual trousers, as if glad to have found an excuse to leave.
‘Cameron likes everyone to think he’s the strict disciplinarian but he does have a softer side if you catch him off guard,’ Douglas confided. ‘Mind you, it’s the first time I’ve seen him take someone under his wing the way he has done with you, Mary. I hear from Hilary he put in a word on your behalf to get you on to the course. Not that you couldn’t have done it on merit; don’t get me wrong,’ he added hastily.
Mary bit hard on her bottom lip. She told herself that Douglas hadn’t meant to put his foot in it. ‘If you don’t mind …’ She gestured towards the path that she’d been about to take.
Douglas carried on regardless. ‘In any case, you’ve done remarkably well to impress Geoff Rouse the way you did. I know Geoff of old and he’s a hard taskmaster.’
Mary was dismayed to learn that she’d been talked about behind her back. Her face flushed bright red as she saw Squadron Leader Hilary Stevens coming down the steps to join them.
‘Welcome to Burton Grange, Mary.’ He took her hand and gave it one stiff shake. His aquiline features, always serious, had the keen look of an eagle as he turned sideways to glance up at the smoke coming out of the chimney. ‘Who’s …?’ he began.
‘Cameron’s gone to find out.’ Douglas guessed what he’d been about to say.
‘Very well. We don’t want any mishaps. That chimney hasn’t been cleaned recently, as far as I’m aware.’ As Hilary spoke, his mind was elsewhere. He’d bumped into Angela in the breakfast room and listened to her fresh tale of woe. Apparently she’d been summonsed home where old man Browne had cut up rough – threatened to disinherit her, no less. Serious stuff, though Angela had tried to make light of it, as was her wont. She’d reproached Hilary for letting Lionel know about her dramatic bail-out at sea, and so he decided it would be better to stay out of it this time – let her sort things out for herself. ‘If you’ll excuse us, Douglas and I need to have a chat,’ he told Mary now as he led the way across the yard.
The squadron leader’s brush-off came as a relief. Mary fled, practically running under the stone arch and down the path, into the wood where she took out her frustration by rustling through heaps of leaves underfoot, kicking and listening to their swish until her nerves settled. A startled wood pigeon clattered down from a branch and flew ahead of her, swooping upwards then banking out of sight.
Mary stopped in a clearing, hands deep in her pockets, staring up through the canopy and trying to calm herself. She must take no notice of what people said and how they said it. Never mind if men like Douglas and Hilary patronized her and girls like Angela looked straight through her. She, Mary Holland, knew she was as good as them. She’d proved it at Thame. What did it matter if she didn’t fit in at the Grange? It wouldn’t make her a worse pilot. And if she needed company, she would do as Stan had suggested and pal up with Jean or stick with her old friends. In any case, she usually preferred to keep to herself.
So Mary walked on towards the airbase, kicking through the leaves and disturbing more woodland creatures. A bushy-tailed squirrel shot vertically up the trunk of a beech tree; a blackbird searching for worms amongst the leaf litter sent out an alarm call to its mate. She took no notice. I have done the right thing, she reminded herself firmly as she reached the Nissen huts at the edge of the airfield. What’s more, once I’m in the cockpit of a Spit and flying high, I’ll prove I’m their equal, whether they like it or not.
Harry sat on a stool outside the door of the men’s billet. He was dressed in singlet and trousers, braces dangling, and had set a small mirror on the card table he’d carried from inside the hut. He got out his shaving gear and was happily lathering up when he happened to glance towards the wood. He paused, shaving brush in hand.
‘Blimey O’Flipping Reilly!’ Harry looked again. Sure enough, there was Bobbie Fraser, standing stock-still under a big old oak tree. He almost fell off his stool. ‘Stan, come and take a look at this!’ he yelled.
Hearing the young lad’s call, Stan sauntered down the central aisle, between dimly lit rows of beds, tugging Gordon’s blanket off him as he passed by. ‘Wakey-wakey!’
Gordon swore and pulled the blanket back up over his head.
‘What is it, Harry?’ Stan emerged, blinking into the daylight.
‘Look – over there.’ Harry pointed to the small figure under the tree. ‘It’s Bobbie Fraser; she’s got next to nothing on!’
‘Bloody hell, Harry; don’t just sit there!’ In a flash Stan ran back into the hut and grabbed the nearest blanket. He came out again and made a beeline for Bobbie. As he drew near he slowed down then stopped two or three paces from where she stood.
‘Next to nothing’ was right. Bobbie was turned away from him, dressed only in a short pink petticoat with a lacy edge. Her arms, legs and feet were bare.
‘Bobbie, it’s me.’ Stan ventured one step closer.
She didn’t turn at the sound of his voice.
He advanced again and carefully wrapped the rough grey blanket around her shoulders. ‘For God’s sake, girl; you’ll catch your death,’ he murmured.
Bobbie clutched at the warm covering and shook her head as if to ward Stan off. What on earth had happened to her? Stan gestured for Harry to come closer. ‘Fetch one of the girls,’ he said quickly. Then, as Harry ran off again, Stan tried to get through to Bobbie. ‘You must be freezing. Why not come with me? We’ll find you a nice cup of tea.’
Bobbie shook her head again. ‘Did I …? Have I walked here?’ Her feet were cold and sore, her fingers were numb as she tried to keep the blanket from slipping.
Bloody hell! Stan rarely found himself out of his depth but this was one of those times. Had Bobbie been sleepwalking? Or had she been drinking all night and ended up out for the count? Her face was a white mask, her sandy-coloured hair tangled and knotted.
‘I have to go,’ she whimpered, staggering a few steps into the wood.
Stan blocked her way. ‘No, stay here,’ he pleaded. A glance over his shoulder told him that Olive and Harry were on their way. ‘Get a move on!’ he yelled.
Overtaking Harry, Olive thrust a bundle of clothes into Stan’s arms. ‘Give her these before she freezes to death,’ she mumbled ungraciously.
Stan thrust them back at her. ‘You do it. But go carefully.’
Olive approached Bobbie. She thought she could guess what had happened here. It reminded her of the case of Lilian Watkins, the driver whom Olive had replaced. By all accounts, Lilian had been out drinking in Highcliff with a sailor boy she’d met at the fair. Things had got out of hand as they sometimes did and Lilian had turned up at the base the next morning looking the worse for wear. She’d still had most of her clothes on, mind you. ‘You need to put these on before anybody else catches sight of you,’ Olive advised in the same unsympathetic undertone, holding out a pair of slacks. ‘Come on, it’s time to pull yourself together. There’s a jumper here too.’
‘Gently,’ Stan reminded Olive.
Shaking all over, Bobbie struggled into the jumper and trousers. Olive helped her to tuck her lacy petticoat inside the waistband.
‘There, that’s better.’ Stan stepped between Olive and Bobbie before Olive had a chance to blurt out awkward questions. ‘Now for that cup of tea and a slice of toast. And while we’re doing that, you can fill us in. No rush. Olive, fetch Bobbie some shoes and socks. Easy now – gently does it.’
Angela wondered if Bobbie had been away overnight. Perhaps Douglas had handed her a chit yesterday that had sent her winging her way up north of the border again; in which case, that would have meant an overnight stop in a B & B.
That must be it, a frustrated Angela decided. Her journey back from Heathfield had involved delays and diversions and she’d arrived at the Grange after midnight, too late to speak to anyone. As dawn broke, after hardly any sleep and badly in need of a sympathetic ear, she’d discovered that Bobbie didn’t seem to be around. So Angela polished off her Sunday breakfast then dashed back to her room to write a letter to Lionel. Make it good, she told herself. Don’t beat about the bush. Tell him the whole truth and nothing but the truth.
‘Dear Lionel,’ she began before tearing the sheet from the pad and screwing it up then starting a fresh one. ‘My dearest Lionel, I have to tell you about a terrible row that your last letter to Pa has caused. I’m sure you didn’t intend for it to have the consequences it did, but my dear boy, you shouldn’t have written and told him about my having to ditch the Spit. Knowing Father as I do, I would never have let you put pen to paper.’
Angela’s stomach churned and she put down her pen. This was true, but really what good did recriminations do now that the worst had happened? She tore a second sheet from the pad and it joined the first in the waste-paper basket.
‘Dearest Lionel, Pa and I have fallen out for good. The reasons why aren’t important; suffice it to say that he has ordered me out of the house and will have no further contact with me unless I bend to his will and give up flying for the ATA.
‘I can’t agree to do that. The work is too important and besides, the request is unreasonable. So I refused point-blank.’
Misery threatened to swamp Angela so she stood up and paced the floor. In reality, the argument went far beyond the matter of her continuing to fly. If it hadn’t been this, the break with her father would have happened over something else: perhaps his tyrannical treatment of her mother or of women in general, or some other important issue where he would have sought to override Angela and bully her into submission. Exercise of power was the only thing that mattered to Joseph Browne. Defiance led down a one-way street ending in exile and penury.
On the verge of tears, Angela sat down again and took up her pen. ‘I make this sound simpler and more clear-cut than it was. By deciding to stay in the ATA I know without a shadow of a doubt that Pa will carry out his threat to disown me. I’ll be written out of his will and won’t be allowed back to Heathfield to see Mother. Father will also try to influence Hugh against me, which will hurt a great deal if it comes to pass. And worst of all, dear Lionel, it will affect us badly – you and me. For I am penniless now and not the good catch you thought I was when you proposed marriage.
‘I imagine you reading this and springing to your feet to declare that it makes no difference; you will marry me in any case, because that is the good, kind-hearted soul that you are. However, I can’t let you do that. I thought about it long and hard during the night and know that it won’t do. Unless we continue as equals, there’s no hope for our future together. I need to be equal, Lionel.’ Angela underlined the word ‘need’ twice. ‘Not because people would think badly of me for marrying into money without a penny to my name (which they would), but because I would think badly of myself.’ She underscored ‘myself’ once. ‘I would be unhappy and that would make you unhappy, don’t you see?
‘No doubt you will read this letter and feel for a while that your heart is broken. But the Navy has given you many responsibilities and your mind will be taken up with fighting the enemy. In time I hope the broken pieces will heal.
‘I say this from my heart, dear Lionel; I truly wish you to be happy in your life. In years to come I hope we can meet as friends; me finding my feet in the commercial aviation field, perhaps, and you following your father into the highest ranks of the civil service. All will turn out for the best, my dear; believe me.’
The words came slowly and caused Angela much heartache. She signed it simply, with her name and one kiss.
Sighing, she blotted the page then reread the letter in its entirety. She’d done her best to express herself honestly but the words and phrases seemed flat and lacking in emotion. Why couldn’t she be softer? What was missing in her make-up that made even breaking her engagement sound formal and coldly thought out? Was it because, as she’d originally suspected, she was incapable of fully loving Lionel? Of loving anyone with her whole heart, for that matter?
Enough of that! Angela folded the letter and put it in an envelope. She would slip it in the village post box on her way to the ferry pool in the morning. The deed would be done.
Stan had second thoughts about taking a bewildered Bobbie to the canteen. It would be too noisy and crowded, he decided. Perhaps the women’s billet would be better. There again, it didn’t feel right to hand her over to an unsympathetic Olive.
‘Silly little fool,’ Olive had murmured behind Bobbie’s back when she’d brought back shoes and socks. ‘What’s the betting she’s had too much to drink and ended up doing what a nice girl oughtn’t.’
‘That’s not Bobbie’s style,’ Stan had objected. Then again, what did he really know about what went on at the Grange? ‘Ta for the clothes and the shoes,’ he said to Olive as he led Bobbie towards the control tower.
‘Tell her I want them back – when she comes to her senses.’
‘Will do.’ Stan noticed that Harry still hovered in the background, his chin covered in white shaving foam. ‘Thanks, I can manage now,’ he told him. Hoping that the squadron leader’s office would be deserted at this time on a Sunday morning, Stan steered Bobbie down the side of the building towards a back entrance but she pulled back from the shadowy alley and he decided not to force her to go on.
‘Fair enough,’ he murmured. Perhaps it would have to be the canteen after all.
They’d turned around and were heading in that direction when Mary turned up out of the blue. She emerged from the wood wearing an overcoat and a red scarf, her face flushed from a brisk walk. When she saw Stan she waved.
‘Come here, quick!’ He beckoned her across.
‘Stan, what’s wrong?’ One look at Bobbie standing in jumper and trousers that swamped her small frame told Mary that something was badly amiss.
‘I don’t know; I can’t get a word out of her. Why don’t you have a go?’
Mary frowned doubtfully. She’d never spoken to Bobbie except to ask for destinations and drop-off points. ‘Shouldn’t I run and fetch Angela?’
At the sound of the name Bobbie breathed in sharply and shook her head in agitation. ‘No! I’m all right. I don’t need Angela.’
‘You’re not all right,’ Stan insisted. He led Bobbie to a bench at the front of the building and sat her down. ‘Wait here with her while I fetch a hot drink,’ he told Mary.
He was gone before she could object so she sat down nervously next to Bobbie.
‘Don’t tell her.’ Bobbie clutched at Mary’s sleeve with a frantic look. ‘Don’t say a word to Angela.’
‘We won’t,’ Mary promised. Tell her what? she wondered.
‘I don’t want anyone to know.’
‘Don’t worry, I won’t say anything.’ Mary tried to piece things together. Why was Bobbie in borrowed clothes? And why did she look like death warmed up?
Bobbie’s breath was ragged and she shivered in spite of the warm clothes. The gaps in her memory terrified her; one minute she and Teddy had been riding back to the Grange in Douglas’s car, the next they were together in some kind of barn or loft. It had been very dark. Then there were flames and the sound of logs crackling. She remembered the firelight reflected in Teddy’s eyes.
Mary sat quietly. Was this a bad hangover or something more?
Teddy’s voice. I won’t hurt you … Lie still. His lips, his hands on her. Bobbie shot to her feet and looked round wildly. ‘How did I get here?’ she begged.
‘I have no idea.’ Definitely worse than a hangover, Mary concluded. Bobbie’s face looked haunted. It reminded her of the dazed expressions of the people she’d seen wandering the corridors of the hospital at Highcliff on the night of the air raid: relatives of the dead and injured, the old man calling out his wife’s name and getting no response. She put her arm around Bobbie’s shoulder. ‘It’s all right; you’re not in any danger.’
Teddy’s voice and his cruel face and the sensation of falling out of control, of being helpless, of blacking out completely. Then a memory of coming round and it still being night and Bobbie remembered lying on a mattress, alone and undressed. Then there was another black, blank gap and the cold wind and sigh of leaves in trees. A maze of oaks and ash, beech and sycamores. Sharp thorns underfoot. Icy cold.
‘There, there,’ Mary said, holding Bobbie tight. ‘Here’s Stan with a hot drink. Sit down again; here, next to me. Let me hold the cup for you. Now sip this carefully in case it scalds your tongue.’
Before Douglas and Jean had parted the night before, he’d warned her of a busy week ahead. ‘Make the most of your day off tomorrow. We’re expecting another big push of the new Spits – out to Belgium and parts of northern France, as well as Scotland and Scandinavia. I might even have to fly the odd crate myself if we run short of pilots.’
But their evening had ended strangely after that first kiss; they’d left the lounge hand in hand and had reached the bottom of the stairs but then they’d stepped apart at the sound of someone moving along the landing on the first floor. Though no one had materialized, the interruption had broken the mood and an awkward exchange had followed.
‘Thank you for a lovely evening,’ Jean had said.
‘My pleasure,’ he’d replied. ‘We must do it again.’
‘Yes, we must.’ She’d waited for him to kiss her a second time but it hadn’t happened. ‘Thanks again,’ she’d whispered, one foot on the bottom step.
She was too lovely, too perfect, too young. Douglas remembered with a sharp stab of shame the look of scorn on Teddy’s face when he’d spotted them together in the bar at the Spa Ballroom. Don’t be such a bloody fool, he told himself. On Monday he would sit at his desk and write out the chits. Jean would fly her plane. That summed them up: he the desk-bound crock, Jean soaring through the air in a magnificent flying machine. Leave it at that.
Though disappointed, Jean had followed Douglas’s lead. She got up the next day determined to have breakfast then set out on a bicycle ride along the lanes around Rixley. It was a cold morning so she wrapped up well in her sheepskin jacket, scarf and gloves then went down to the yard to borrow one of the Grange bikes stored in an empty stable next to the boot room adjoining the main house. There she ran into Teddy, similarly wrapped up and about to set out on his motorbike.
‘Good morning, Jean; did you sleep well?’ he called as he sat astride the bike and rocked it back off its stand.
‘Very well, thanks.’ Choosing a push-bike, she wheeled it under the arch, hearing Teddy start his engine then follow her.
He slowed almost to a stop as she mounted her bicycle. ‘Are you going far?’
‘No, not far. How about you?’
‘Maybe to the coast and back. Not much petrol since Douglas clamped down.’ He patted the tank then opened the throttle. ‘See you later, Jean.’
Relieved as always to see the back of Teddy, she watched him roar off around the back of the house then made her way out on to the lane. She chose a route that skirted the village and came out beside St Wilfred’s where a steady stream of churchgoers in Sunday best entered the church. From there Jean cycled on past the ferry pool; an easy, flat ride that allowed her to enjoy from a distance the autumn colours of Burton Wood. The sky above the bank of orange and gold was clear blue. A dog at a farmyard gate barked and strained at its chain. Further along, two little girls played hopscotch on the pavement outside their house and a lad perched on a low tree branch whistled cheekily at Jean as she rode by.
When she came to an unmarked crossroads at the top of a long hill she stopped. The wind had picked up and nipped her cheeks. Reckoning that she was about an hour from home, she was ready to turn around when Dorothy Kirk, the met-room typist, climbed a nearby stile and jumped down on to the grass verge. Dorothy was soon followed by Viv Francis from the ops room and Douglas’s secretary Gillian Wharton.
‘Hello, Jean, what are you up to?’ Dorothy was the first to greet her. ‘Silly question; you’re out on a bike ride.’
‘Keeping trim,’ Viv added. ‘Not that you need to.’ She was envious of Jean’s slim figure and gave her own stomach a quick pat. ‘Not like some of us.’
Dressed in walking gear of corduroy slacks and windcheater and carrying a rucksack, Gillian was the last to jump down from the stile. She approached Jean with a smile. ‘We’ve covered seven miles this morning; around the reservoir then on past the ruins of the old monastery. Do you know it?’
‘Yes, it’s a good long hike.’ Their three cheerful faces boosted Jean’s mood.
Dorothy’s nickname was Dotty and it suited her scatterbrained nature. She did everything in a rush and said whatever came into her head but she was funny with it and her jokey style made her popular with the boys in the met room. Viv was her opposite: easy-going and steady, with thick, straw-coloured hair that she wore in an unflattering short bob. She was the first to admit that her aim in life was to slip under the radar and escape the notice of her bosses. The way to do this was to work quietly and efficiently and to get on with everyone. This left Gillian to take the energetic lead whenever the trio went out on jaunts together. Today Viv was map-reader-in-chief.
‘We’ll ask you to join us next time,’ Gillian told Jean, ‘if you fancy it.’
‘Count me in,’ Jean agreed. ‘Or else we could all set out on a bike ride.’
‘No, thanks; that’s not for me,’ Dotty protested. ‘I’m not safe on two wheels. I collide with lamp-posts.’
The others laughed.
‘And I don’t have enough puff to get up these hills.’ Viv too was happier to walk.
‘Then it looks like it’s just you and me, Jean.’ Gillian slipped her rucksack from her shoulders then took out a vacuum flask and offered her a drink of tea. The tea was poured and the autumnal splendour of the valley below admired, after which the talk turned to recent goings-on at the ferry pool.
‘My boss had a proper dressing-down this week,’ Dotty reported gleefully. She was often in trouble with Fred Richards, the head of the met room, and couldn’t resist the chance to gloat. ‘Squadron Leader Stevens blamed him for not picking up sooner on the met report from Central Control last week.’
‘About the weather front rolling in off the North Sea?’ Gillian asked. The incident in which the new Spitfire had been lost was still a major talking point among office staff.
‘Yes. Fred was accused of not acting on the information soon enough.’
Jean was curious. ‘How long did he hang on to it for?’
‘Ten or fifteen minutes, that’s all. But, as the squadron leader was quick to point out, every minute is vital when Douglas is sending planes out.’ Dotty kicked her heels against the wall that they’d perched on to drink their tea. ‘Talking of which …’ She jerked her elbow into Gillian’s ribs.
‘What?’ Gillian pushed her short red hair back from her forehead so that it stood straight up in the wind.
‘Tell Jean what you were telling us – you know, about First Officer Thornton.’
Jean’s attention was sharpened further.
Gillian wrinkled her nose. ‘Maybe it’d be better to keep schtum about that.’
‘Go on, tell her,’ Dorothy urged. ‘Jean’s not the type to spread it around.’
Viv followed her usual course of saying nothing, but she listened and observed.
‘The thing is,’ Gillian quickly overcame her scruples, ‘you must have noticed this yourself, Jean – Douglas sometimes doesn’t listen to what people say.’
‘Or doesn’t hear,’ Dotty added pointedly.
‘He doesn’t listen or he doesn’t hear; which is it?’ Gillian confessed that she couldn’t decide and welcomed Jean’s opinion.
‘I don’t know. He hasn’t said anything to me.’ Jean’s chest tightened. Obviously, no one except Teddy and Bobbie knew about her and Douglas (if indeed there was anything to know) so she had to be careful what she said.
‘But you remember when you popped into our office on the day of Angela’s crash?’
‘Yes; to pass on Dotty’s message.’
Gillian nodded then hurried on. ‘You spoke and Douglas didn’t hear you? You had to raise your voice.’
‘I remember.’
‘That happens a lot with him, especially when there’s background noise. Believe me, I can count a dozen times in the last week alone.’
‘So what are you saying?’
‘That he’s going deaf.’ Dotty interrupted with her usual bluntness. She turned from Jean to Gillian. ‘But First Officer Thornton is too proud to admit it. That’s what you think, isn’t it?’
‘I’m not sure. I’m just posing the question.’
‘What’s your opinion, Jean?’ Viv spoke for the first time. ‘You know him better than we do. Is Douglas fit to carry out his job?’
With a frown Jean handed her cup to Gillian. ‘Don’t ask me; I’m no expert,’ she said quietly. While the talk drifted on she firmly reknotted her scarf.
‘Who else might have a view?’ Dotty asked. ‘I suppose we could take it higher up, to Flight Lieutenant Ainslie, for example.’
‘Or Jean could take the bull by the horns and tackle it with Douglas himself.’ Gillian came down on the side of a direct approach.
‘Right, I’ll be off.’ Jean ignored the last suggestion. The conversation had rattled her and she resolved to be on her way. ‘Thanks for the tea.’
Viv, Gillian and Dotty watched her get back on her bike.
‘Don’t crash into any lamp-posts!’ Dotty called as Jean set off.
‘We’ll see you in the morning,’ Gillian added.
‘Bright and early.’ Jean waved and cycled on over the brow of the hill. She hoped that the tightness in her chest would fade but instead it got worse as she coasted down into the next valley. They’re right; Douglas can’t hear properly, she thought with another dull thud of certainty. But if anyone mentions it, he’ll deny it. She sped on, past five-barred gates and sheep grazing in fields. He’s proud. He won’t own up to any weakness.
But what if she and the three other girls kept their doubts to themselves? What then?
Jean approached a bend and braked. A tractor trundled towards her, almost forcing her off the narrow road. She swerved on to the grass verge then eased the bike down again on to the tarmac.
Ought she to warn Douglas that people had started to notice that he missed a lot of what was being said to him? Might he then blame her and end their friendship altogether? That would be his pride talking, of course. But what on earth would Douglas do if he was forced out of his job because of it, rejected by the RAF and then by the ATA?
Jean braked again then turned left at the junction leading to Rixley. At the gate to St Wilfred’s she stopped and gazed in at the rows of moss-covered graves. The church door was closed after the morning service. All was quiet and still.
She was sure of only one thing: if increasing deafness meant that Douglas was unable to hear the decrease in the rev count of a plane’s engine in time to prevent it stalling and going into a fatal tailspin then he ought not to be behind the controls of an aircraft. ‘Douglas mustn’t put himself or anyone else in danger,’ she said out loud. ‘Really and truly, he ought not to fly.’