‘Dear Hugh, Can you spare a few moments to offer your little sister some much needed advice?’ Angela reread the letter she’d begun immediately after her argument with her father. ‘I’m at Heathfield and Pa and I have had the most awful row – what’s new there, you may well ask.’
She’d sat at her dressing table in her room overlooking the moors, her hand shaking as she wrote. ‘How we got through the evening I really don’t know. Pa says I must leave the ATA. He might as well tell me to stop breathing – believe me, Hugh, I don’t exaggerate. I love flying and refuse to give it up, but according to He Who Must Be Obeyed, it’s too risky for me to continue.’
Angela had almost wept as she’d written. She’d put down her pen and run through the events of the evening before: the row followed by a lull and then a heartfelt appeal for her father to relent that had fallen on deaf ears. Later Angela had gone to her mother’s room, hoping to enlist support, but Virginia had sighed and protested that she had no say in the matter. She’d quickly played her usual trick of taking refuge in trivialities: had Angela noticed the new Turkish rug in the hall and the Venetian mirror over the mantelpiece in the lounge? Would she please close the door properly on her way out to prevent a draught?
So Angela had retreated to her room, still fuming with Lionel and wondering where to turn for support. Hugh had been the answer. Her brother was the sole person to whom her father might listen; if she got him on side he might be able to soften the old man’s opinion. But she’d only written a few lines before losing heart. After all, poor Hugh was currently slogging it out in the searing heat of the Sahara, serving under Montgomery. Although her letter might reach him eventually, Angela’s latest spat with their father would seem small beer compared with what Hugh faced on a daily basis. Besides, her brother, who was not well known for his progressive views, might well take the side of their father and Lionel.
So she’d put down her pen and only after a night’s sleep and a brisk walk on the moor to clear her head had she gathered the willpower to resume where she’d left off.
‘Dearest Hugh, please help me to make Pa see sense. Explain to him that my being in the ATA is the main reason for getting up in the morning. I come truly alive when I’m flying; more than at any other time. The thrill of being up there among the clouds, knowing that I’m doing a jolly useful job and doing it well … My heart would break in two if I had to give it up. Who else can I turn to except you? Lionel is no help; in fact, he was the one who landed me in this mess.’
Angela threw down her pen with a feeling of hopelessness. She stared at the letter for a long time until the words blurred then she picked it up and carefully and deliberately tore it in half then into quarters. Then she stuffed the scraps into a corner of her suitcase. If she were to sort out this mess, it must be through her own efforts, not by blaming others or relying on Hugh for help.
She marched purposefully along the corridor and down the stairs, willing to risk one more assault on the enemy; out of the trench and over the top into a hail of bullets, no doubt.
‘Father,’ she began hurriedly as she entered his study after tapping on the door. ‘I understand that you and Mother are worried about me, as is every parent in the land.’
Joseph looked up from his copy of the Yorkshire Post. He sat behind his fortress-desk in his weekend tweed suit with his reading glasses perched on the tip of his nose. ‘Good morning, Angela. Trevor is standing by, ready to drive you to the station whenever you’re ready.’
‘Yes, but before I go I want to explain my reasons for not doing as you wish.’ She watched his expression alter from its usual settled complacency to instant and fiery irritation. ‘As I said last night, I will be staying with the ATA and will not allow you to interfere with my decision. I’m over the age of twenty-one, thank heavens, so it’s entirely up to me.’
Joseph clenched his hands into fists and stood up. ‘You know what this will mean?’ he asked quietly. ‘Have you thought it through?’
‘Yes, it means that I’ll keep on flying for as long as my country needs me. I’m sorry, Father.’ Angela found herself clenching her own hands for the verbal fisticuffs to come.
Her father turned his head towards the window. ‘But do you fully understand what you’re turning your back on?’ he said without looking at her. ‘By disobeying me you will cut yourself off from this family once and for all; no half measures. You will not come back here to Heathfield; you will no longer receive your allowance. You will have no further contact with your mother or with Hugh.’
Angela slumped forward under the cruel weight of his words. ‘That’s unfair,’ she gasped. ‘We’re not living in the Dark Ages. Surely a father should have the decency to allow his daughter to make her own decisions.’
‘No,’ he shot back. ‘A daughter should respect her father’s judgement.’
The wide desk formed a barrier between them. Photographs on a shelf behind Joseph showed him shaking hands with Mr Churchill inside the Houses of Parliament and standing outside a hunting lodge with fellow Yorkshire worthies, shotguns under their arms, dogs at their feet. Other pictures were of immense mill buildings with tall chimneys – hives of industry styled after Italian palazzos on which two generations of Brownes had built their wealth. There were no pictures of his wife and children.
‘You understand me, Angela: if you choose to follow your own course you will leave this house and not come back.’ Joseph dragged his gaze from the window to his daughter’s startled face. ‘I will alter my will so that everything goes to Hugh. You will not get a penny.’
‘You can’t mean it,’ she stammered. ‘Mother won’t allow it.’ This feeling of helplessness was worse than finding herself at the mercy of the waves after she’d ditched the Spit. Now storm waves of anger crashed over her head and the vicious undertow of her father’s implacability pulled her towards the rocks.
‘Your mother has no say in the matter, as you well know. If, on the other hand, you change your mind and decide to do as you’re told, I propose that we carry on as before, with me providing an allowance until the war ends and you fulfil your obligation to marry Lionel.’
‘Father, please!’ Angela had to lean against the desk to steady herself.
Joseph stood his ground. ‘The fact is, Angela, you can do less harm here, helping to look after your mother, than you can flying aeroplanes. That’s obvious, surely?’
How dare he mock her and hold her in so little esteem? Because she was a woman; because women stayed at home to nurse and run the domestic side of things; because, according to Joseph Browne, that was the way the world worked. Words failed Angela.
‘And may I point out,’ he went on with ruthless logic, ‘without an allowance or any prospect of inheritance, it’s extremely doubtful that Lionel will wish to continue with the engagement. That’s something else you haven’t taken into account.’
‘You’re wrong; Lionel loves me!’ she cried. Her insides churned and her heart banged against her ribs.
‘Love,’ Joseph muttered sardonically. ‘Love doesn’t pay the bills. And in my experience a man is lucky if it survives the first year of marriage.’
‘Because you have no heart, that’s why. You’re not capable of loving anyone or anything except yourself and your damned mills.’ She dragged these boiling resentments from the dark corners of her soul. ‘Look what you’ve done to Mother. You’ve turned her into an invalid, incapable of doing anything for herself. Your tyranny has done that to her. And your intention is to turn Hugh into a likeness of yourself; a carbon copy strutting around the place, dishing out orders, only caring about his status in society. And what a dreary society it is – men with fat wallets, broad accents and bloated faces and their simpering wives who wouldn’t know their Hamlet from their … from their Buster Keaton.’ Angela’s voice broke down and she cried tears of exasperation.
Virginia Browne had stood in the doorway long enough to hear the whole of her daughter’s outburst. Joseph had noticed his wife but had made no attempt to warn Angela.
‘Your father’s right,’ Virginia said now, ‘you should go.’
Angela spun round to see her mother: a pale, gaunt figure dressed in a green silk dressing gown, one hand at her throat, her rings sparkling in the sun’s rays.
‘He is right,’ Virginia repeated tonelessly without making any attempt to enter the room. Her voice was deadened by a lifetime’s resignation to her husband’s domination. ‘If you can’t agree to your father’s rules, you must leave Heathfield and learn to make your own way in the world.’
Green turned to gold, gold to russet red and then to brown before the leaves finally fluttered down to the soft black earth. The sky was blue when Jean and Douglas chose to start their Saturday afternoon by walking home together through Burton Wood.
‘You don’t mind going at my snail’s pace?’ he checked as he locked the office door and they set out past the canteen.
Jean shook her head. ‘I haven’t had much chance to take a close look at nature recently. I missed the blackberries and horse chestnuts this year; they were gone before I knew it.’
‘Yes, these days you have to run hard just to stay on the spot.’
‘As the Red Queen said to Alice.’ She smiled as she recollected one of her favourite sayings from the Lewis Carroll tale. ‘“Now, here, you see, it takes all the running you can do, to keep in the same place.”’
‘“If you want to get somewhere else, you must run at least twice as fast as that!”’ Douglas offered the rest of the quotation. He held the gate open for Jean and followed her into the wood. ‘That’s exactly what it feels like to me these days. And with this leg I’m not up to sprinting very far.’
‘I feel the same way.’ The pace of life at Rixley rarely slackened. ‘But hopefully it’ll ease the situation to have Mary Holland join us as an extra pilot.’
‘Yes, Cameron’s a fan of hers; he pushed Hilary hard to make that happen. She’s due to arrive later today, as a matter of fact.’ Douglas’s leg bothered him and the pain made him limp more heavily. ‘Mary will need moral support when she moves into the Grange. She’ll feel like a fish out of water at first.’
‘Of course.’ Jean took his point. ‘I remember the feeling.’ She stopped and took a deep breath. ‘Actually, I’ve had a piece of good news,’ she confided. ‘My promotion to flight captain came through yesterday. How about that?’
On impulse Douglas grasped her hand and squeezed it. ‘That’s very good news. Congratulations.’
Her hand in his felt reassuring and she was happy to leave it there as they continued on their way.
‘Angela and Bobbie are bound to be envious,’ Douglas warned. ‘Don’t be surprised if they try to outdo you with fresh acts of derring-do.’
‘It ought not to be a contest.’ The sun’s rays shone pure gold through the leaf canopy, casting a warm light and creating a feeling of deep calm. ‘We’re all in this together.’
‘But there’s nothing wrong with a healthy dose of competition.’ Douglas laced his fingers between Jean’s. Her hand was warm and compared to his uneven walk she seemed to glide along. ‘It never did anyone any harm.’
‘I’m sure Teddy would agree with you there.’
‘Ah yes; Teddy.’
Jean cast a curious glance at Douglas’s face. ‘Have you found out something?’
He frowned and nodded.
‘Don’t tell me if you’d rather not; if it’s hush-hush.’
‘No, I’m sure you’ll keep it under your hat. It was as we thought: Teddy did cook the books and help himself to quite a few gallons of petrol on the sly. I had a word with him about it.’
‘What did he say?’
‘He tried to brush it off but I wouldn’t let him. Let’s just say I don’t think he’ll pull the same trick in future.’
Jean pictured the scene of the older man dragging the young hothead over the coals. ‘I don’t suppose he was very happy about it?’
‘You know Teddy.’ Douglas had a bigger dilemma but he decided to keep that to himself for now. It had to do with an extremely serious incident that Teddy Simpson had been involved in just prior to his posting to Rixley. Hilary had left an official-looking document on his desk and Douglas had glanced at it in passing: the name ‘Flight Lieutenant E. J. Simpson’ had caught his eye at once. There was a box at the top of the form headed ‘Account of eyewitness, Flying Officer H. W. Flynn, 8 August 1943’, followed by a paragraph that he hadn’t had time to read before Hilary had returned to his desk.
‘But let’s not talk about Teddy,’ Douglas said now. ‘This is your big day, Jean. We ought to celebrate your promotion tonight.’
Yes, she thought, we ought. ‘What do you suggest?’
‘Is there somewhere you’d like to go? You name it.’
‘How about Northgate, or is that too far?’
‘Not at all; good choice.’ They walked hand in hand and talked as if it was the most natural thing in the world for Douglas to invite Jean out. And that’s how it felt: perfectly easy and comfortable. Still, his heart had beat faster when she’d said yes. ‘What would you like to do there?’
There was a wide choice of cinemas, a theatre and two dance halls in the elegant spa town. ‘I’d like to listen to some music,’ she decided.
‘What type of music?’
‘I don’t mind; anything at all.’
They smiled at each other and stopped in a small clearing with a bench.
‘Shall we sit for a while?’ Jean suggested. And so they sat under the trees in the dappled sunlight, watching leaves flutter in the breeze then spiral slowly down. Hand in hand. Letting the world slow down, enjoying the sunny moment while they could.
Mary wore her new wings with pride as she walked towards the canteen at Rixley. The long train journey from Thame hadn’t tired her. Instead, it had given her time to overcome her nerves about returning as Third Officer Holland instead of a lowly driver. She’d pre-planned her movements on arrival; a late-afternoon walk from the train station to the ferry pool followed by a quick cup of tea and a bite to eat. With luck there would still be enough time to walk through the wood to Burton Grange where she was to take up residence in the women’s quarters. Luckily the weather had been glorious when she’d stepped off the train: all green and golden in the sunlight, with the spire of St Wilfred’s piercing the clear blue sky.
But in spite of her careful preparations, Mary’s nerves got the better of her as she reached the canteen door. This was an awfully big thing she’d achieved – to raise herself up through sheer grit and determination – yet she was suddenly struck by a crippling sense that she didn’t deserve to be where she was now, that somehow it had all been a huge mistake and that her present happiness could be snatched away at any moment. With her hand on the door, she peered through the pane of glass at Olive and Harry doing a jigsaw together and at Gillian Wharton and two of the typists from the ops room laughing at a table close to the door.
I’ll skip the cup of tea, Mary decided as she backed away, straight into Stan.
‘Look who it isn’t!’ he cried.
Before Mary could object he’d swept her off her feet and was swinging her round. She had to hold on to her hat and beg him to put her down. ‘Please, Stan; you’re making me dizzy.’
Laughing, he set her down then slapped her on the back. ‘Look at you, Mary! Those wings suit you, by the way. And you look different. Have you done something with your hair?’
‘I had it cut shorter.’ She straightened her jacket then grinned at him. ‘I’m glad to see your ugly mug. I was about to give the canteen a miss until you turned up.’
‘I could see that. Anyway, it’s good to have you back.’ Giving Mary a push from behind, Stan propelled her through the door. ‘Look who’s here!’ he cried.
In an instant Mary was surrounded by a crowd of well-wishers and swamped by congratulations. While Stan went to fetch her tea, Gordon bet her a fiver that she would make first officer by Easter and Harry admired the changes from afar: a smart new haircut, a broad smile and a touch of rouge and mascara.
‘You won’t want to talk to the likes of us,’ Olive kidded. ‘You’ll be too busy rubbing shoulders with the top brass at the Grange from now on.’
‘No, it won’t make any difference.’ Blushing from the praise, Mary accepted her drink from Stan then sat down with the old crowd. ‘We can all still meet up at the Fox, can’t we?’
‘You bet we can. How was the course?’ Gordon offered her the last biscuit on the plate. ‘Was the theory part the worst?’
‘By far,’ she replied. ‘I thought I’d never get the hang of control configurations and settings on all the different aircraft.’
‘What about the instructors?’ Olive wanted to know. ‘Were they as strict as they say?’
‘Ten times worse,’ Mary admitted. ‘I suppose it’s their way of weeding out the ones who aren’t going to make it.’
Stan sat opposite her, his chest puffed up with pride on her behalf. ‘But you did it, Mary. I’m chuffed to bits.’
She smiled warmly. ‘With a hefty kick and a shove from you,’ she reminded him. Stan was her best pal at Rixley; in fact, her best friend full stop. ‘What’s been happening here while I’ve been away?’
‘Angela ditched a new Spit into the drink,’ Gordon reported. ‘A complete write-off. Bobbie saved her life.’
‘Blimey.’ Taken aback, Mary looked to Stan for confirmation.
‘It’s true. Oh, and Teddy Simpson has taken to roaring about on a Royal Enfield hoping to impress the girls; a Bullet of all things.’ It was a sore point with Stan.
‘And succeeding,’ Gillian assured Mary from the neighbouring table.
‘Watch out, ladies – stand by your beds!’ Olive gave Mary a knowing look. ‘But he’s not my type,’ she added. ‘Now, if it was Flight Lieutenant Cameron Ainslie we were talking about …’
‘Too serious by half,’ Vivien Francis, Gillian’s friend, argued. ‘And you wouldn’t want to get on the wrong side of him. I have and it’s not pleasant.’
‘Anyway, thanks everyone, but I’ll love you and leave you.’ Mary downed the rest of her tea then stood up. She was glad when Stan accompanied her outside.
‘Did I mention: it’s good to have you back?’ he asked as they walked slowly across the lawn. He thrust his hands deep in his pockets and kicked at a nearby stone.
‘You did. And it’s good to be back, Stan. But I’d better get a move on if I want to get to the Grange before dark.’
‘What Olive said – about you moving there …’
‘What?’ Mary prompted.
‘If you ever need someone to talk to …’
‘It’ll be you, Stan.’ She felt tears of gratitude well up.
‘That’s the ticket,’ he murmured. ‘But if you’re ever lonely over there and I’m not around, try talking to Jean.’
‘Ta, I’ll remember that.’ It was true: Jean was definitely the most approachable of the officers billeted at the Grange.
‘She takes a bit of getting to know but she’d be a good friend to have.’
Mary nodded. ‘Thanks. I appreciate it.’
‘Make sure you look after yourself,’ he insisted. ‘And good luck.’
Good for Mary, Stan thought as he watched her walk through the deep shadow cast by the control tower towards the wood. She’s got guts for getting this far. Now let’s see how she does as a junior officer in her new surroundings; that’s bound to be a challenge and a half.
Mary had never before stepped inside a house as grand as the Grange. She’d only seen such places from a distance, during day trips to the seaside, travelling through areas where the mill owners had built their mansions. They’d seemed to her no more real than castles in fairy tales – impossibly large and ornate, surrounded by parkland where swans swam on lakes and rows of regimented bushes lined the drive. Recalling the Cinderella fairy tale of her childhood, Mary felt a flutter in her stomach and stood with a nervous smile on her lips. She gazed up the stone steps at the wide doorway.
It was the first time she’d been back to Burton Grange since the German bombing raid and she was shocked by the extent of the damage. A whole wing stood in ruins amid heaps of rubble. Many windows had been boarded up through the rest of the house and the porch over the entrance had collapsed. Chunks of masonry still littered the front terrace.
‘It’s a mess, isn’t it?’ Cameron surprised her by appearing round the side of the house. He’d spied Mary from an upstairs window then run down the back stairs into the stable yard from where he’d emerged on to the terrace. He was still in uniform after a morning spent studying met forecasts with Douglas, after which he’d been delayed by Hilary wanting to reminisce about college days.
A fidgety Cameron had escaped at last then dashed back to the Grange. His intention was to make Mary feel welcome and he’d only recognized how important this was to him when Hilary had held him up. He’d got there just in time to see her emerge from Burton Wood and walk towards the house.
‘Yes, I hadn’t realized how much damage there was.’ She noticed that a bomb had scored a direct hit on the lodge house at the end of the drive and that deep craters scarred the wide lawns.
Cameron came down from the terrace and offered to take her suitcase. ‘We came across an unexploded incendiary last Tuesday,’ he told her. ‘Orders are not to walk in the grounds until the disposal team has dealt with it.’
‘Thank you; that’s good to know.’
‘Come inside; let me show you around.’ Feeling unexpectedly nervous on Mary’s behalf, he led the way up the steps and through the door. ‘There’s a library over to your left if you ever want some peace and quiet. The lounge bar is on the right. That’s where we generally congregate in the evening. Straight ahead is the corridor leading down to the kitchens and servants’ rooms. The old hospital wing is out of bounds, of course.’
Mary had a vivid memory of driving up in the Tilly wagon to a scene of fire and smoke, of screams and cries for help. Hunched, coughing figures had stumbled from the smoke and a cool, calm Cameron had taken charge of transporting the injured to the hospital. ‘Where am I to sleep?’ she asked him now.
‘Upstairs; I’ll show you.’
He led her up a flight of stairs, past a torn painting of a woman in a high white wig to a half landing with an arched window overlooking the grounds.
‘Congratulations, by the way. I mean it, Mary; very well done.’
‘Thank you, sir.’
‘Cameron,’ he reminded her.
‘Thank you, Cameron.’ To call the second in command by his first name didn’t come naturally, but he was kind and polite, and was obviously going out of his way to settle her in.
‘The female quarters are up there to your left. Bathroom at the far end of the corridor. I believe your room is the first on the right, next to Jean’s.’
‘Thank you,’ she said again.
‘Men’s rooms are on the second floor. I wouldn’t venture up there if I were you. Not without a gas mask.’
‘No?’
‘Some of us are scarcely house-trained – dirty clothes strewn around all over the shop, wet towels on the bathroom floor …’
‘I see.’ Her lips twitched then expanded into a broad smile. ‘I’m used to that; I grew up with two brothers.’
Cameron liked Mary’s grin. It showed her white, even teeth and transformed her whole appearance. He had to resist an impulse to move closer and take her by the hand. Perhaps too complicated. Most definitely too soon. ‘Roll-calls usually happen out in the stable yard. Would you like me to explain the drill now or later?’
‘Later, if you don’t mind.’ She took her case and went on up the stairs. Who needed a staircase this wide and ceilings this high? she wondered. What was the point of the fancy plasterwork and who was responsible for dusting the glass chandeliers? Not me, thank goodness, Mary said to herself as she turned left at the top then opened the door to her room. It’s not my job to scrub floors or fetch and carry for Lord and Lady Muck; not any more.