“Why do you get to fly one?” Linda sipped her tea and left red lipstick on the rim. She handed another cup to Sharon. They sat out front of the green-roofed dispersal hut at White Waltham. It was a long, one-storey, chocolate-coloured building with white-trimmed windows. At one end, there was a hangar, half a cylinder, really, where the aircraft were stored and maintained.
The morning sun set its chin on the horizon.
Sharon listened to the birdsong. “Thanks.” She took the tea and grimaced at the first sip.
“I know, it’s disgusting. Still, you haven’t answered the question.”
Sharon spoke before thinking. “And you haven’t answered my question about my grandmother. You could have warned me.” She thought, And did you just get to know me because my grandmother asked you to? When I look back on it, you became friendly with me almost right away.
“We’ve been over that. Cornelia wanted it that way.” Linda tried to hide behind her tea. “Who’s giving us a lift in the air taxi?”
“I think it’s Roger.”
Linda groaned.
“And don’t change the subject.”
The dispersal door opened. Roger looked at the pilots. He squinted through overgrown grey eyebrows. There was a river system of red blood vessels on either cheek. “Ready?” He wiped the back of his hand across his mouth.
Sharon poured her tea onto the ground and wondered if it would kill the grass.
Linda set her cup on the windowsill. “Off we go.”
They followed Roger and the formidable odour of sweat and alcohol. He was having a difficult time negotiating his way over the apparently uneven ground.
Sharon looked down at the carefully manicured grass. She glanced sideways at Linda.
Her friend mimed taking a drink, rolled her eyes, and staggered.
“You feeling okay?” Sharon called out to Roger.
“Perfectly fine.” Roger opened the back door of the Anson. It was a camouflaged, twin-engined, humpbacked tail-dragger with delusions of sophistication. He threw his parachute inside and followed it.
Sharon went next. The smell of sour beer filled the confined space.
“Don’t worry, I’ll get you there safe.” Roger looked over his shoulder, then made his way up to the cockpit.
A sulfurous stench filled the cabin.
Sharon looked over her shoulder.
Linda looked bemused, then distressed. “Wasn’t me.” She glanced ahead at Roger. “Let’s hurry up and get seated so he can get moving.
That way there’ll be a draft running through this crate.” Linda closed the door and stuck her nose in the crook of her elbow.
Sharon thought, I don’t know what’s worse: Roger’s terrible flying or his beer farts.
Linda tapped Sharon on the shoulder. “Why do you get to go to Castle Bromwich to pick up a Spitfire?”
“I don’t know.” Maybe if I change the subject. “Where is Castle Bromwich?”
“Huge factory northeast of London, near Birmingham, but you already know that. You’re just trying to distract me.” Linda leaned back, crossed her arms under her breasts, and shook her head. “Bloody unfair.”
Sharon approached the Spitfire with more than a little apprehension. Don’t lose your nerve. Not now, not here! She belched, put her left hand on the wing, and promptly threw up onto the grass.
The fitter looked the other way as she wiped her mouth.
She walked around the wing. There was the scent of fresh paint and oil.
She swallowed hard and lifted her parachute onto the wing before stepping onto the wing root and climbing to the open cockpit door. She balanced there, hooked up the harnesses of her parachute, and climbed inside. The fitter closed the door and helped her strap on the Sutton safety harness. “Did anyone warn you about the Spit’s habit of pulling to one side after take-off? Propeller torque, you know.”
Sharon nodded and smiled up at the man, who smiled back.
“And don’t forget about the sewage pond over there.” He pointed off the end of the runway. “Try not to end up in there. The rescue crews are a little reluctant to go in after pilots who end up in that mess.”
“I’ll do my best.” She looked at the gauges and recited the routine she’d memorized during weeks of training for this moment.
When the engine fired, it belched exhaust past the open cockpit. She opened the throttle and the Merlin smoothed out. She followed her training, taxied out, did her run up, checked the windsock, checked for traffic, and opened the throttle. The acceleration was like no other aircraft she’d ever flown before. Ready for the torque of the propeller, she countered with opposite rudder. The tail lifted. The wings bit the air. The wheels left the ground.
She touched the brakes, then retracted the undercarriage. At five hundred feet, she closed the canopy and brought up the flaps. The Spitfire was clean and alive. She leveled off at one thousand feet, set the propeller at coarse pitch, and saw that she was cruising at nearly two hundred and fifty knots. It seemed like only minutes later that she found herself just south of London, circling the legendary RAF airfield at Biggin Hill. She looked down at the runway on top of a hill. Sharon throttled back, then lowered the flaps and undercarriage. Reluctantly, she guided the Spitfire to land into the wind.
After signing over her aircraft, Sharon followed the scent of coffee to the canteen and sat down near the outside wall of the tent. She’d spotted four pilots gathered along the inside at a table next to the canvas wall. Their conversation was easy to hear. The voices were a mélange of accents from Scotland, England and New Zealand.
“Anyone see that wee slip of a girl deliver the new Spit this morning?”
“Quite the looker, that one. Brown hair, blue eyes, petite.”
“Landed like she knew what she was doing.”
“There’s not much of that happening around here these days. Wee pups of pilots who can barely change their nappies, let alone fly a Spitfire. We’re so short of pilots, she’ll be fightin’ soon.”
“Rather fly with her than the one the skipper sent packin’ yesterday.”
“The stupid bastard would na follow orders.”
“Malan’s got his own rules. He expects you to follow ’em and expects you to do your job.”
“I know. I know. Watch out for the Hun in the sun.”
“Don’t shoot ’til you see the whites of their eyes.”
“And he uses the finger-four formation instead of line astern.”
“Typical bloody colonial, making his own rules to suit the situation.”
“Would ye like to join one of those other squadrons and be arse end Charlie?”
Sharon sipped her coffee in the brief silence, worrying they’d caught onto the fact that she was eavesdropping.
“Not on your life! I’d like to survive this bloody war!”
“Skipper sent another one packin’ this mornin’.”
“That opinionated bastard with three last names?”
“That’s ’im. Would na want him watchin’ my back. So busy followin’ the RAF rules of engagement, he’d get me killed. One of Hitler’s secret weapons, that one.”
“Skipper’s our secret weapon.”
“Him and O’Malley.”
Sharon stopped breathing. She closed her eyes to concentrate on the reply.
“Bloody magician, that one.”
“Bloody-minded Irishman, if you ask me.”
“Ever have your guns jam in the middle of a dogfight?”
Another silence.
“Ever have an engine failure?”
Another silence.
“I thank my lucky stars every day for that bloody-minded Irishman. Talk to the pilots in other squadrons, and they’ll tell ye what it’s like to find yourself in the middle of a mess of Messerschmitt 109s with jammed guns. That does na happen here because O’Malley and Malan will nay have fools workin’ around our Spitfires.”
There was the sound of a twin-engined aircraft on finals.
Sharon looked up and spotted a sleek biplane settling onto the grass. She recognized the Dragon Rapide that was to be her ride back.
“Yer ride’s here, lassie.”
She saw a smiling ginger-haired sergeant pilot peering at her through a gap in the tent’s fabric.
He said, with his no-nonsense Scottish accent, “Keep your wits about ye. There’ll be Germans nearby, and they don’t take the time to find out whether you’re a woman or a man. They’ll kill ye given half a fookin’ chance.”
“So, you met him?” Linda sat across from Sharon in a pub near White Waltham, where the heavy scent of fermenting beer was almost as thick as the tobacco smoke.
“No. The pilots were talking about him.” Sharon looked around. Some of the patrons were eating steak and kidney pie, others were smoking, and all were hefting a pint or four. She saw all of this through a haze of smoke. The ceiling was so low, it had nowhere to sit but in front of her face. Her eyelids felt like sandpaper. “Are you finished?”
Linda chewed the last forkful of her supper.
Sharon thought, You eat like a man and weigh maybe one hundred and twenty-five pounds. How do you do that?
“I don’t know. I’ve always had a healthy appetite.” Linda stood. “Let’s talk some more on the way back.”
Did I say that out loud? She’s reading my mind again. “Fair enough.”
Outside, Sharon inhaled fresher air. The blackout made the stars brighter. She sniffed her uniform jacket and found it stank of cigarette smoke and sweat.
“No drinking. No smoking. What kind of Canadian are you?”
Sharon turned and anger lit her from within. She was greeted with Linda’s smile. The anger was extinguished. “My mother died from the one, and my grandfather abused everyone because of the other. By the way, how do you read my mind?”
“Your face is as easy to read as the morning headlines.” Linda linked her arm through Sharon’s.
Sharon felt flushed with embarrassment, as well as something unfamiliar, unnamed.
Linda said, “You know, when I found out who you were, I told my mother, and my father looked into you.”
“What is MI5, anyway?”
“Intelligence. Now, that has to stay between you and me. It’s all so hush-hush, you know.” Linda did not smile.
“Really?”
Linda pulled Sharon’s elbow and stopped them. “Really. We even have an official secrets act now.”
“Does that mean that what we talk about stays between us?”
“From now on, if you like. I told my mother about you because she took care of Cornelia after your grandfather beat her. They became close again. My mother told Cornelia about you coming to England after the bastard died.”
“How did he die?” Sharon asked.
The silence went on for more than a minute. Linda asked, “How did you find out about O’Malley?”
“My mother told me about him a couple of weeks before she died. She’d tracked him down through one of her old friends — someone who had worked for Cornelia for years. She gave me the letter, but the signature was blacked out. That’s how I knew where he was.” Sharon had a flashback of her mother’s skeletal body in the hospital bed.
“Who do you think was your mother’s old friend?” Linda asked.
Sharon tried to read Linda’s expression through the darkness. “It was Honey suckle! She was the one who wrote my mother.”
“Yes. Your mother and my mother were friends from childhood. Honeysuckle met your father on several occasions,” Linda said.
Sharon shook the image of her mother’s last emaciated days out of her mind. “I want to meet him.”
“Yes, I suppose.”
Sharon heard Linda’s reluctant tone. “Well?”
“You know that there is risk involved?”
“Of course,” Sharon said. “What’s your father like?”
“Kind of distant. Smart. Lives in his own little world.” Linda touched Sharon’s arm.
“I want to meet my father and find out for myself what he’s like.”