During her two weeks at Thame, Mary had donned overalls to stand behind a work bench and examine the oily innards of a dozen aeroplane engines. She’d sat at a desk to learn a confusing variety of control configurations and settings for the aircraft she was being trained to fly. Equally important were the Aircraft Identification classes led by Flight Sergeant Rouse, whose voice was a sharp bark and whose instructions it would be fatal to ignore. The sergeant made it clear that quick and accurate recognition of an approaching aircraft – friend or foe – would mean the difference between life and death; hence the importance of studying the posters on the classroom walls and memorizing every single silhouette.
In the evenings Mary had studied her Ferry Pilots’ Notes and tried to retain speeds for take-off, climbing, cruising, landing and stalling for single-engined Spits, Corsairs, Mustangs and Hurricanes. Towards the end of the fortnight, focus had switched to Classes 3 and 4 – the twin- and four-engine operational aircraft such as Lancasters and Stirlings: yet more facts and figures to cram into her already stuffed and overheated brain.
Nevertheless, the days had sped by and Mary had absorbed information like a sponge, pouring all her energy into learning the theory and largely ignoring the recreational facilities on offer at the school. As expected, she had little in common with her fellow trainees, who spoke differently and talked of a world she knew little or nothing about. So, while her cohorts played tennis in their spare time and inhabited the town’s drinking haunts, Mary stayed behind in the women’s dormitory, sitting cross-legged on her bed and devouring her Notes, looking forward to the day, fast approaching, when she would graduate from training in a dummy cockpit to the real thing – up in the air at last.
‘This is it.’ Flight Sergeant Rouse walked Mary out on to the runway early on Friday 8 October for her much anticipated ‘stooge’ flight. A strong breeze swept in from the east as they approached the Oxford, a twin-engine monoplane favoured by the instructors at Thame. He walked her round the aircraft to give her time to get used to its dimensions. ‘Now remember; she has a tendency to swing on take-off and landing, especially in this wind. You’ll have to correct that as best you can. She’s a lot faster than the Tiger Moth. Try not to stall her; she’ll drop like a stone if you do. But don’t worry; I’ll be sitting right behind you.’ Rouse tapped the mouthpiece attached to her parachute harness. ‘If you get into difficulty, speak into this. I’ll guide you through.’
‘Yes, sir.’ Mary’s mouth was so dry she could hardly speak. The moment had arrived. She must seem neither too anxious nor too excited. Above all, she must keep a level head.
‘The Oxford has retractable wheels,’ Rouse reminded her as he stepped up on to the wing and climbed into the dual cockpit. ‘See this lever? Pull it back to bring up the undercarriage. Press it forward for landing. Make sure it’s locked. Watch for the green lights.’
‘Yes, sir.’ Mary climbed in after him, aware of the snug fit of her Sidcot suit as she wriggled into the narrow seat in front of his. As Rouse lowered the canopy, she slid her goggles over her eyes and tightened the chin strap of her helmet, checked the dials in front of her then waited for the sergeant to signal chocks away to the ground crew below.
The wind buffeted the stationary plane. It scattered early autumn leaves across the runway. The sky was dull grey.
‘Fire up the engines and taxi to the take-off point,’ Rouse instructed.
This is a first for me but it’s an everyday event for the sergeant, Mary thought as she carefully followed orders. The idea helped to slow down her racing heart.
‘Did you check with the met room for visibility?’ The voice behind her ran calmly through the routine.
‘Yes, sir: fifteen hundred yards with twelve hundred feet of cloud clearance.’ The moment was approaching; there was no turning back.
‘Very good. Check your revs, keep your hand steady on the stick – off we go!’
With the roar of the twin engines in her ears, Mary hurtled down the runway. She felt the Oxford’s nose tilt upwards then there was a jerk followed by a strange floating sensation as they were suddenly airborne. The pull of gravity pushed her hard against the back of her seat. With her hand on the joystick and using her rudder pedals to combat the easterly wind, she climbed steadily then levelled out at 1,000 feet. Below them the airfield was a square of bright green, the surrounding fields a patchwork of yellows and browns.
‘Steady as you go,’ Rouse instructed. ‘Lower your revs, increase boost until you achieve maximum cruising speed; that way you keep your petrol consumption to a minimum.’
Exhilarated to her fingertips, Mary followed a westerly course. All her pre-flight nerves had vanished; her heartbeat was rapid but steady. She was flying a real plane, hearing its roar, drinking in every detail of her surroundings: the white, wispy clouds streaming past the cockpit, the grey sky above, the colours of autumn below. And there was the ancient city of Oxford, set out like a model village complete with spires and domes. She flew over miniature college greens and narrow streets, smiling to herself, remembering her fairground ride on the Moonrocket and how she’d dreamed back then of this impossible moment. She banked the plane and turned her towards the south, felt the wind batter her port side and corrected the swing.
‘Nicely done,’ came the comment through her headset.
Mary felt on top of the world. An indescribable thrill ran through her as the powerful plane responded to her touch – to travel at such speed, to be in control, was beyond words! Even as she followed the instruction to turn for home and began a slow descent, her spirits continued to soar.
‘Lower the landing gear,’ Rouse reminded her from his instructor’s seat.
She pressed the lever on cue and felt the wheels lower then lock into position. Using her compass to chart her exact course and looking out for landmarks, she headed home. Throttle down without stalling the engine, hand steady on the stick, decrease speed, hit the concrete, apply brakes. The Oxford squealed to a halt with fifty yards of runway to spare. Mary turned off the engines.
As the propellers stopped whirring, the ground crew ran up with the chocks. Rouse lifted the canopy, allowing Mary to unbuckle her harness and step out ahead of him. She stood for a moment on the wing of the training plane, looking out with pride over the airfield at the service huts, administration block and mess buildings.
‘Get a move on, Holland,’ Rouse barked at her from behind. ‘I haven’t got all day.’
It didn’t matter; his two words of praise – ‘Nicely done’ – stayed with Mary as she walked towards the canteen.
Her instructor would put in a favourable report. She would soon move on to the final stage of her training – her first solo flight in a Spitfire Mark V.
‘Oh, how I hate these overnight assignments,’ Angela grumbled from the back seat of the car driven by Olive Pearson. ‘Especially on a Friday; they’re the worst.’
Bobbie agreed. ‘I blame Douglas for picking on us,’ she complained. ‘He knows how much we look forward to a Friday night off yet at the last minute he says we must trek all the way to Walsall to pick up two new Spits instead.’
‘In the dark!’ Angela sighed. They could see nothing but their own reflections in the car windows as Olive drove them mile after endless mile, through grimy mining villages and smoky pottery towns.
‘When we’d far rather go out and paint the town red.’
Olive pulled up at a crossroads to let a small convoy of army supply lorries trundle by. She tried to close her ears to the grumbles from the back seat. Had Bobbie and Angela forgotten that there was a war on and bigger sacrifices than theirs had to be made? Take Olive’s own case – she had to drop off the two pilots at their digs close to the factory then drive all the way back to Rixley before morning. There would be three hours’ kip for her tonight, if she was lucky.
Angela stared vacantly at the back of Olive’s head and shoulders, aware that her conversation with Bobbie didn’t flow as usual. In fact, Bobbie had been short with her all week, ever since the silly business with Teddy after the birthday party. There’d even been one occasion when Bobbie had snubbed Angela outright: they’d both been standing in the queue to receive their chits and Angela had tried to pass the time of day by asking Bobbie if she’d heard the report on the wireless about events in Naples. Pretending that she hadn’t heard, Bobbie had turned away to speak with Jean, deliberately excluding Angela from the conversation.
‘Where are we now?’ Angela broke the weary silence to lean forward and tap Olive’s shoulder.
‘We’re just coming into Larchfield.’ Olive didn’t turn her head as she signalled right and followed the army convoy along a street of terraced houses, all with their blackout blinds in place, smoke rising from their chimneys into the cold night air. The slow crawl did nothing to improve the mood inside the car until Angela decided to tackle head-on the problem of Tuesday night.
‘Bobbie – I want to talk to you about Teddy,’ she began hesitantly. She crossed and uncrossed her legs with a silky swish. ‘By the way, Olive, do you have a light?’
Olive took a box of matches from the glove compartment and passed it back.
‘Thank you.’ A match flared and lit up Angela’s perfect features; blue eyes hooded, scarlet lips pouting and head tilted back as she took her first puff. ‘I’m awfully sorry if you read too much into that little skirmish,’ she went on.
‘If you mean the incident in the yard behind the Fox and Hounds …’ Bobbie wound down her window to disperse the smoke. Trust Angela to phrase it in such a way that shifted the blame. ‘I don’t want to talk about it.’
Angela glanced across to see that Bobbie was in a seriously bad temper. ‘I’m sorry,’ she said again. ‘Things with Teddy may have got a little out of hand, but I swear that it was nothing more than harmless flirtation – very silly on both our parts.’
Bobbie turned towards her with a frown. ‘Apology accepted,’ she said stiffly.
Angela wasn’t convinced. ‘Really and truly, can we be friends again? I’ll give you a blow-by-blow account if it’ll help. We’d danced the last waltz together then Teddy being Teddy, he took things a step too far.’
‘So it was his fault?’ There Angela went again, refusing to accept any responsibility. ‘Did you conveniently forget that you’re engaged to be married to Lionel?’
In the driving seat Olive pricked up her ears as she turned left out of the town and on along a country road towards the Castle Bromwich factory where the Spitfires rolled off the production line. She’d arrived late at Tuesday’s party but anyone with eyes in their head could see that First Officer Browne had been leading Teddy Simpson on. And surprise, surprise; she was engaged! Now, that was a turn-up for the books!
‘Ouch!’ Angela let out a groan. Then, sitting up very straight, she said, ‘No, Bobbie, I did not forget. And nothing happened. You may find that hard to believe. Teddy suggested going outside for a cigarette. I agreed. Then, when we heard you calling my name, we decided to play a childish trick by hiding on the railway embankment.’
Blimey O’Reilly! Olive’s hands gripped the wheel a little tighter. Was Angela to be believed or was she simply trying to talk herself out of a tight corner?
‘As I said, I’d had too much to drink,’ Angela went on from behind a cloud of smoke. ‘And I regret it. But nothing happened.’ She spoke the last sentence with emphasis on the word ‘nothing’.
Slowly Bobbie’s frown eased. Angela’s account began to seem plausible after all. ‘I’m glad to hear it,’ she said primly before relaxing into a smile. ‘Truly, I am.’
Uh-oh, I wouldn’t believe her if I was you. Olive drove the car through a shallow ford then up a steep hill lined by oak trees. If you want my opinion, that pair went outside for more than a quick cigarette!
Angela was relieved that she and Bobbie had cleared the air. ‘And while we’re at it, I hope you know that our friendship means much more to me than Teddy Simpson ever could.’
‘Of course.’ Bobbie nodded and blushed. ‘Now I feel such a fool,’ she stammered.
‘What for?’
‘For even caring what you and Teddy were up to. It’s not as if I have any claim on the man.’ What was an embrace and a couple of kisses in the downstairs room of a bed and breakfast when all was said and done?
‘But you do like him?’ Angela queried. It was easy to see how someone as naive as Bobbie could be swept off her feet.
‘I do, but the question is: does he like me?’ Yes, Teddy had flirted and teased since the night in Harkness and he sometimes looked at Bobbie in a meaningful way, but he’d never asked her out or given any definite sign that the kisses had meant something to him.
‘Teddy likes all girls.’ Angela’s warning was kindly meant. ‘If I were you, Bobbie, I wouldn’t take him too seriously.’
Bobbie pressed her lips together to consider the advice. Angela was worldly and probably saw things in a clearer light, whereas she, Bobbie, had so little experience of men. ‘You’re right,’ she said decisively as Olive turned up a tree-lined drive with a Tudor mansion at the end of it. The silhouette of the house showed tall chimneys and steep gables and a dim light shone from an arched main entrance. Two thin dogs ran down the drive towards the car. ‘Teddy is good fun; nothing more.’
‘Quite.’ Angela stubbed out her cigarette in the ashtray.
Bloody hell; in future, I’ll take everything these two say with a pinch of salt, Olive thought as she pulled up at the door and turned to face her passengers. ‘Here you are, ladies; your billet for tonight.’
The ancient floorboards at Fenton Royal creaked and groaned as Bobbie and Angela followed their hostess up a wide flight of stairs.
‘I hope you girls don’t mind sharing.’ The equally ancient owner, Harriet Wilby, also creaked and groaned as she showed Bobbie and Angela into the Queen’s Room: an extravaganza of carved plasterwork, oak panelling and a great four-poster bed draped with faded crimson brocade. Her two brindle greyhounds bounded on to the bed as she apologized for the lack of modern facilities such as running water and electric light, pointed out a basin and ewer on the washstand and candlesticks by the bed then called the dogs to heel and said goodnight.
After taking in her surroundings, Bobbie ran after their landlady down a long, sloping gallery that gave the odd impression of being at sea aboard a galleon.
‘Excuse me, Mrs Wilby, where’s the WC?’ she asked while the greyhounds sniffed at her skirt, tails wagging.
‘Miss Wilby,’ the no-frills old lady replied. Her outdated clothes hung from her skeletal figure and her skin sagged like worn leather. ‘I thought I’d explained; there’s no running water in this wing of the house. You’ll find a chamber pot under the bed.’
Bobbie thanked her but her face wore a worried frown as she reported back to Angela.
‘A chamber pot?’ Angela lifted the counterpane and peered under the bed to see that it was true. She quickly dropped the cover and stood, hands on hips, with an expression of squeamish distaste. ‘Good Lord, it’s practically medieval!’
Bobbie burst out laughing. ‘Think about it; that’s exactly where we’ve landed – in a house that was probably built when Henry the Eighth was King of England!’
Angela took the point. ‘And very little effort has been made to modernize it in four hundred years.’
‘There might be ghosts!’ Bobbie suggested with a nervous laugh. ‘Ladies in Elizabethan ruffs, rebel lords executed by the King, wafting down the gallery with their heads tucked under their arms …’
‘That’s quite enough of that.’ Angela repressed a shudder and brought them down to earth with a bump.
Obviously, there was nothing the girls could do about their primitive accommodation so they lit candles and decided to make the best of things.
‘It’s only for one night, thank heavens.’ Bobbie was the first to undress. She stood in her pyjamas at the latticed window overlooking parkland.
Angela sat on the edge of the bed to test the mattress. ‘Hard as a board,’ she commented before springing up and flinging off her uniform then slipping into a sleeveless nightdress. ‘Brr!’ She shivered as she slid between the sheets. ‘It’s freezing in here. Which side do you prefer?’
‘This one.’ Bobbie chose the side of the bed closest to the window. ‘The oddest thing is that in less than eight hours you and I will have closed the door on this crumbling pile and will be sitting in the cockpit of the most up-to-date aircraft in the world, checking our revs and giving the signal for chocks away.’
‘A twentieth-century miracle of engineering.’ Angela pulled the sheets up to her nose. ‘We’ll trailblaze our way into the history books yet again.’
Bobbie and Angela lay side by side in the flickering candlelight, hands behind their heads and staring up at the plaster acorns and oak leaves carved into the ceiling. The floorboards creaked though no one was there.
‘I’ve had a letter from Lionel,’ Angela confided after a long pause. ‘He wrote it the night before his ship set sail for Greece.’
‘You sound upset.’ Raising herself on to her elbows, Bobbie looked keenly at Angela. ‘Are you crying?’
Angela wiped her eyes with the back of her hand. ‘It was such a heartfelt letter, telling me how much he loves me and how he thinks about me every hour of every day.’
‘I don’t think I’ve ever seen you cry before.’ Bobbie slid out of bed to fetch Angela a handkerchief. ‘You must miss Lionel an awful lot.’
Angela sat up in bed and dabbed at her eyes. ‘That’s the saddest thing,’ she confessed. ‘Whole days can go by without me giving him a thought. The truth is Lionel seems to love me more than I love him. That’s wicked of me, I know.’
‘Not wicked,’ Bobbie argued. ‘You can’t help how you feel. And this blasted war twists everything out of shape.’
‘In what way?’
‘You and Lionel are forced apart, for one thing. In normal times, when a girl gets engaged, the happy couple goes ahead and makes plans for the wedding and so on. Everyone is caught up in decisions about bridesmaids and guest lists, with nothing to get in the way. It’s different with Lionel sailing off in his convoy and you flying your Spits. We need to keep our wits about us, doing this job. If we don’t we’re likely to end up in the drink or worse. Look at Jean and her latest scrap with Jerry – she only just managed to come out in one piece and she’s the best pilot we have.’
Surprised by Bobbie’s mature view, Angela nodded slowly. ‘That’s true. But I’ve known Lionel for a long time. And even before the war started, I wasn’t sure how I felt about him; not deep down. He’d been part of Hugh, Cameron and Hilary’s crowd for as long as I can remember; always there, always opening doors for me and offering me his arm.’
‘And then at some point Lionel must have made his feelings plain?’
Angela struggled to remember. ‘Not really. I don’t think he ever formally asked me to go out with him. We were always just part of the crowd. And then when he did spring it on me – one night at a cabaret club in the West End – it took me completely by surprise.’
‘Why – what did he do?’ Bobbie was seeing a side of Angela that she hadn’t known existed: less self-assured and much more serious. She wrapped a cardigan around her shoulders and listened intently.
‘He didn’t go down on one knee exactly, but as near as damn it. We were dancing together and he came out with it: whispered in my ear that he loved me and wanted to marry me, just like that. He had to hold me up, I was so surprised.’
‘That’s awfully romantic,’ Bobbie insisted. ‘What did you say?’
‘I said I was fond of him.’ Angela’s voice was wistful. ‘But I was only nineteen and Lionel was twenty-one. He was home on leave from the Navy.’
‘He proposed and you turned him down?’
‘I said we should wait. Honestly, at nineteen a girl has no clue what she wants to do with the rest of her life. I said I did like him and I found him attractive. He is, isn’t he?’
‘Very,’ Bobbie agreed. ‘You don’t need me to tell you that.’
‘So what is wrong with me? Am I really so shallow? Lionel is handsome and very decent, so why don’t I feel the way I should?’
Bobbie hugged her knees to her chin. ‘You’re asking the wrong person. You know I have no idea what it feels like to fall in love.’
Realizing that there were no easy answers to her questions, Angela gave a short sigh. ‘Not even with Teddy Simpson?’ she asked with a wry grin.
‘Most definitely not with Teddy!’ Bobbie exclaimed. She saw him in her mind’s eye; tall (too tall for her?), slim (too slim?), smiling (mocking her?). Handsome enough to be a matinee idol, he could play the part of the gigolo in cravat and blazer who steals the heroine from her loyal but plodding husband. There; she had Teddy Simpson down to a T. ‘There’s no danger on that score,’ she assured Angela as she got into bed and blew out the candle.
The weather was at the forefront of Jean’s mind when she woke early on Saturday morning. Was the sky clear enough to fly out? Was rain in the forecast? What was the direction of the prevailing wind? Added to the usual concerns there was the increasing likelihood of fog as autumn set in.
‘Good morning, Jean.’ Cameron met her on the stairs at the Grange, hat tucked under his arm, greatcoat buttoned. ‘You’re up bright and early. Would you like a lift with me and Douglas?’
‘Yes, please.’ She accepted gratefully and they walked across the hall together. They were about to leave by the main entrance when Cameron remembered that he’d arranged to meet Douglas round the back and so took Jean’s elbow and steered her below stairs, along a dingy corridor and through the old butler’s pantry, down the back steps into the stable yard where their lift awaited.
‘I received a phone call yesterday that might interest you,’ Cameron mentioned to Jean as they made their way through the house. ‘About Mary Holland; you know who I mean?’
‘Of course. We spoke on the afternoon before she set off for Thame. How’s she getting on?’
‘The call was from her instructor, Flight Sergeant Rouse. He’s not a chap to lavish praise, I gathered, but reading between the lines I’d say that he was pretty happy about Mary’s progress to date.’
‘That’s good. I like Mary. She has something about her.’ Jean spoke warmly and sincerely.
‘I like her too,’ Cameron said as he held open the back door for Jean. ‘Rouse said he was ready to send her up on her first solo flight any day now. After that she hopes to be sent back to Rixley to join our team.’
‘I’ll look forward to that.’ Jean put on her forage cap and led the way down the steps before saying hello to Douglas who was waiting for them under the stable-yard clock. He sat in the grey half-light, his coat collar turned up, with the car engine ticking over.
‘All set?’ Douglas asked as she and Cameron got in. He drove steadily down the drive and through the sleeping village, happy to let the others chat.
‘How likely is it that Mary will come back here?’ Jean enquired.
‘Quite likely if I pull a few strings.’ In fact, Cameron had already set things in motion with Hilary. ‘I can cite family circumstances to keep her close to home.’
‘Such as?’
‘Mary is from the West Riding. She has a widowed father who’s getting on a bit. He’s not in the best of health.’
‘I didn’t know that.’
‘It’s written in her file.’ Cameron saw that they were approaching the sentry box outside the ferry pool’s main gates.
The sentry recognized Douglas and waved him through. Douglas parked his car close to the administration block and while he went straight into the operations room to write out chits for the day, Cameron and Jean headed to the busy canteen where there was the usual gathering of ground crew and pilots. Music played on the wireless and half a dozen personnel who had finished eating sat at the long tables doing jigsaws or playing backgammon.
By chance Jean stood behind Stan in the queue. ‘No Bobbie and Angela this morning?’ she asked him as she glanced quickly around the room.
‘They’re in Walsall.’ Stan had already checked his schedule for the day and knew that the two girl pilots were due in at half ten. ‘They’re bringing in a couple of spanking new Spits, by all accounts.’
Teddy had come into the canteen hard on the heels of Cameron and Jean and was standing behind them in the queue, stamping his feet and blowing into his hands to counteract the effects of his chilly ride over from the Grange on a Royal Enfield motorbike that he’d brought back after a twenty-four-hour home leave. He wore a thick woollen scarf over his pilot’s jacket and his hair had a windswept look that he hadn’t bothered to smooth down. ‘What’s that you say?’ he asked Stan. ‘Did I hear the magic words, “new Spits”?’
‘Yes, but that doesn’t necessarily mean you’ll get your mucky hands on them,’ Cameron warned. Deciding to go without breakfast, he turned back towards the door. ‘The Spits won’t be here long,’ he called over his shoulder. ‘From what I gather, Rixley is a temporary stop on their way over to Northern Ireland.’
‘Don’t be like that.’ Teddy unwound his scarf then shuffled forward with the queue. ‘My hands are as good as anyone else’s to fly the little beauties over the Irish Sea. Better than most, I would say.’ He winked at Jean.
‘That’s for others to decide,’ Stan said under his breath. He’d caught sight of the wink and was nettled. Standing to one side, he offered to let Jean go ahead of him. ‘You get your breakfast first,’ he told her. ‘I’m not on duty until eight.’
She smiled and thanked him. ‘I’ll be over by the window. Come and join me if you like.’
Like? Of course Stan would. In fact, it would set him up for the day. So when it came to his turn at the counter he put in a quick order for toast and a mug of tea then hurried to Jean’s table.
‘I hope you get one of the new Mark IXs,’ he told her as he sat down opposite. ‘The flight lieutenant’s right about them wanting to move them on pronto, though. There’s every chance that Jerry will be back on a second raid, now that we’re on their radar. We’re pretty much a sitting target, to tell you the truth.’
‘I really don’t mind what I fly.’ Jean meant what she said. ‘Class One right through to Class Six. In fact, I enjoy the challenge of the Class Five and Six: four engines, flying boats – anything.’
‘They say variety is the spice of life.’ Stan was wondering how to move on from talking about work to more personal matters when Teddy interrupted their cosy tête-à-tête by sitting down next to Jean and tucking into his plate of bacon and eggs.
‘I’d agree with that; the more variety the better, especially when it comes to the ladies.’ Teddy’s remark, made with a full mouth, was accompanied by the annoying wink. ‘Never let the grass grow, eh, Stan?’
Jean looked from one to the other. It was obvious that Teddy had riled Stan, whose normally cheerful features were knotted into a deep frown. ‘Do you know what you’re flying today?’ she asked Teddy as casually as she could.
‘Not yet. Hopalong Cassidy hasn’t issued the chits.’
Jean’s large, blue-grey eyes opened even wider at the off-colour remark against Douglas. Her knife and fork stayed poised over her plate.
It was the first time that Stan had seen Jean ruffled. Colour came into her cheeks. He held his breath, waiting for her retort.
Her voice was clear and slow. ‘If you mean First Officer Thornton, he gave me a lift in this morning. He skipped breakfast to hurry things along.’
Cold and stiff; really angry. Stan was fascinated.
‘Take it easy,’ Teddy said with a grin. ‘Come on, Jean, where’s your sense of humour?’
‘That wasn’t funny. I don’t know why you would think it was.’
Cool as a cucumber. A bloody knockout.
‘My, someone’s touchy this morning.’ Passing it off with a shrug, Teddy’s mind veered off on to more important things. ‘I really hope I get one of those Spits, though. I can fly her over Manchester en route to Derry, put on another display for my nearest and dearest.’
‘Fine, if you fancy facing a court martial,’ Stan said sharply.
‘Why? Who would be any the wiser?’
‘I would.’
In the split second between the sudden click as the wireless cut off and the morning announcement on the Tannoy Jean let her knife and fork clatter on to her plate. She stared at Teddy, speechless.
‘Will all pilots report to the operations room for their chits,’ came the nasal blare over the loudspeaker. ‘Repeat: all pilots report to the operations room!’
‘Action stations!’ The cry went up and every pilot in the room left off what they were doing and made a beeline for the ops room, Jean and Teddy among them.
‘Pass on an important message to First Officer Thornton, will you?’ Dorothy Kirk from the met room pushed past Jean in the doorway into the admin block. ‘Tell him thick fog is forecast over the estuary. Wasn’t picked up until five minutes ago.’
‘Forecast for what time?’ Jean called after the young assistant, who was hurrying to spend a penny.
‘Later this morning – around ten. It should burn off by noon. I’ll print off the official report when I’m back at my post.’
The Tannoy announcement had taken Jean by surprise. She’d had to hurry to her locker for her helmet and parachute so for once was not near the front of the queue of pilots approaching the hatch to receive their chits. As she waited patiently, she heard Teddy’s voice protesting about his allocation for the day.
‘Bloody hell; a PBY Catalina!’ He sounded disgusted, elbowing people aside as he came down the stairs. ‘Why can’t the Yanks drive down from the Clyde and fetch the old crate themselves? Why do I have to drive to Highcliff harbour to pick her up and fly her all the way up there?’
There were a few laughs at his expense – ‘Not fast enough for you, Teddy boy?’, ‘I hear it’s a sunny day up in Glasgow. Fancy a dip?’, and so on – for everyone knew that the American-built flying boat was slow and ungainly, an odd-looking two-engine aircraft with its wings and propellers attached to the top of the cockpit to keep them clear of the water when landing.
Managing to stay well out of Teddy’s way, Jean edged towards the hatch. When she reached the front of the queue, she took her chit and read that she was to fly a nimble Hurricane to Kent then pick up a Corsair and fly it back to Rixley. Glancing through the hatchway, she saw Douglas with his back towards her, deep in conversation with his secretary, Gillian Wharton.
‘Step aside,’ the bad-tempered girl issuing the chits told her. ‘Next, please.’
So Jean did as she was told and made a sideways move to put her head around the door. The small room buzzed with activity – there was the clickety-clack of a typewriter, the ring of a telephone and several people speaking at once. ‘Excuse me, First Officer Thornton – might I have a word?’
Douglas didn’t turn.
Jean took a step forward and raised her voice. ‘Excuse me, Douglas …’
Gillian looked up from the file that she and Douglas had been discussing. She tapped her commanding officer on the shoulder and pointed to where Jean stood.
He apologized when he saw her. ‘Sorry, Jean … we were looking at inconsistencies in this log … I didn’t hear you.’ He waved the buff-coloured folder at her. ‘Now, how can I help?’
‘Expect a fog warning from the met office,’ she said quickly. ‘They’ll send it along official channels in the next few minutes. I got it by word of mouth from Dorothy Kirk.’
‘That’s news to me.’ Douglas reached for the telephone on his desk. ‘I’ll get on to them right away. Thank you, Jean.’
She retreated on to the landing then made her way down the stairs. Fog was still on her mind as she stepped outside and began the long walk to Runway 3, the furthest from the control tower. The short conversation with Douglas also bothered her. Why hadn’t he turned when she’d tried to attract his attention? She’d spoken above the rattle of typewriter keys, surely loud enough for him to hear. And she remembered the look of tried patience on Gillian’s face – raised eyebrows and a quick shake of her head.
Jean saw Teddy striding ahead of her towards his motorbike parked outside Hangar 2 and she remembered with a fresh burst of anger his throwaway Hopalong insult against Douglas. The anger was soon replaced by concern. Might there be a grain of truth behind the younger man’s callous judgement? Was Douglas’s ability to carry out his duties up to scratch or not?
‘Let’s hope so,’ she said out loud, out of earshot of Gordon, who was carrying out the final checks on her Hurricane.
Over the months Jean had been at Rixley, she’d come to view Douglas as a good friend. He was an affable, serious-minded man whom she could trust and look up to. After all, she never overlooked the fact that she wouldn’t be here now if it hadn’t been for their chance meeting in the pub. And he was the polar opposite to Teddy Simpson, just now roaring off towards the main gates on his Royal Enfield Bullet. How dare he? Jean said to herself as Gordon finished wiping the Hurricane’s windscreen then jumped down to the ground. Douglas is worth ten of Teddy Simpson any day. And next time Teddy decides to have a go at him, I’ll tell him so.