Spitfire Girls (29 page)

‘Yes, ma'am. I saw you land that Courier – my pa says
it's a collector's item!' she shouted above the din of the motor and the pouring rain.

‘That wasn't a Courier, Jo,' Nora yelled back, smiling weakly.

‘It sure was.' She was staring at Valerie. ‘Have you seen this? You're famous, miss!' she gushed.

‘Since when?' the Commanding Officer snapped.

Jo held up an evening newspaper, one of the London editions.

On its front page was a picture of Friedrich Kranz, and a larger one of Valerie and her father in the country on a hunt outing.

‘Let me see that.' Valerie grasped at the damp paper.

All over Britain a story had broken about an alien calling himself Pavel Wojtek who had committed crime after crime and was now in custody, his only plea that he might see Sir Henry Cobb's daughter before the English locked him away. Friedrich in prison? Valerie handed the newspaper back to the American and shut the window, her hair now soaked and the steering wheel dripping.

‘So he's alive,' Nora murmured, touching Valerie's cold, shivering hand.

They sat in a state of frozen quiet.

‘Dear God,' gasped Valerie, starting up the motor once more. ‘More ferry pools, more women, Amy and Shirley on the verge of joining, more promotions, and now it will all end with me in disgrace.'

‘Aren't you pleased he's alive?'

‘Of course I am,' she said, biting her lip and handling the steering wheel so tensely that the car swerved alarmingly along the slippery road. Terror had overtaken Valerie, and
Nora's offers of comfort seemed to come as murmurings from a distance as she drove mechanically and tried to grasp the enormity of the crisis her lover had engendered.

Marion had excused herself when Mrs Bryce had begun to chatter. Carrying her own luggage up the narrow flight of stairs, her first task on her wedding day was to empty her head of the guilt she had accumulated on the journey up from Kent. In her mind's eye was her father's sour expression. If only she could expel the image! There was a washbasin in the corner of the bedroom and she splashed cold water on her wrists and on her forehead, moving to look out of the old, dirt-encrusted window.

How could Alec have accepted such an assignment?

ATA could easily have used men fresh from BOAC. Here, in the spare room Shirley always kept for visiting flying chums, Marion would lie down and try to think of a way in which she could disentangle her energetic lover from his unnecessary diversion to France. Hopefully Hitler would overrun the whole bloody place, and they would just have to forget the Hurricanes.

Smells of food were drifting up from Mrs Bryce's magic kitchen, but Marion was dizzy. She closed the door and lay down on the sagging, musty bed. Closing her eyes, she could taste and smell Alec, the dank chill of the room and the mattress depressing her as she contemplated the next twenty-four hours. It was crucial that each member of Valerie Cobb's hand-picked shortlist passed her test with merit, not only for the image of women pilots but also for Churchill: now it was said that he had a staunch ally in Lord Truman, who raged against the Nazi threat in the House of Lords.

Poor Valerie – she had a lot on her plate at the moment, Marion reflected, letting her shoes drop to the floor and curling up under the woollen blanket. No-one dared mention Kranz in her presence – it would have been bad taste – but everyone knew he had used her name to steal a valuable Fulmar earmarked for d'Erlanger and that the registration letters on the wrecked fuselage had been confirmed as matching those of the doomed aircraft. Could Valerie face being CO and testing a bunch of chattering girls, as well as handling Beaverbrook, the Air Ministry, and that prat of a father?

Not that my dad is much better, thought Marion, snuggling down to escape the creeping damp. What folly … to think that the Germans had amassed a giant air force, and that in Poland before the occupation women had long been employed as combat pilots, but that here at home the Air Marshal had only succeeded so far in supplying ATA with a precious handful of Ansons, Airspeed Couriers and Stinsons. Pushing her face into the pillow, Marion imagined Alec's warmth insulating her against the damp and the fears but all she could think of when she opened her eyes was poor Valerie, the Fulmar wreckage and that dear Austrian Jew their tomboyish CO had loved so passionately.

‘Making love to that teddy bear you carry around?'

Shirley stood over Marion, her wedding day now well into the darkness of a London twilight.

‘You should be congratulating me!' She sat up and Shirley reached for the small bedside light, its faded lampshade casting variegated shadows on to the ceiling.

‘Let me see.' Marion held out her hand, her gleaming wedding band tight against the engagement ring for which
Alec had sold the bulk of his supply of Harborne's Original Forfar Malt Brew.

‘Tomorrow's the big day, mate,' Shirley said, dropping Marion's hand and moving to the window where she drew the curtains with a force bordering on disgust.

‘Today was mine.'

‘I know, Marion. My mother hasn't stopped going on about it.'

‘Aren't you going to be just a little bit happy for me?'

Shirley jumped on to the small bed and hugged Marion. ‘Congratulations, and I wish you well, but right now we should be closing ranks to support Valerie, so don't start telling me long stories about Alec.'

Marion pushed her away, but gripped her arms. ‘That's a bit hard, and hurtful, Shirl,' she said, looking into the other woman's troubled face.

‘Have you ever tried to take your own life?'

Marion abandoned her hold on Shirley. ‘What are you asking me?'

‘Certain things upset me, and this business with Valerie and Friedrich has nearly driven me mad.'

Rising from the bed, Marion felt even more chilled than before, and she hugged her arms to herself, wanting the dizzy feeling to recede. Food smells were getting stronger in the house, and she fought sickness. What solace could she offer this fiercely independent creature, who, like her soul-mate Valerie, did not need a man to help her greet each new day? Still sitting on the bed, Shirley looked up earnestly but the cold and the smells had left the newlywed speechless.

‘I am sorry to depress you on your wedding day, Mrs
Harborne, but there is no-one else to whom I can talk. Angelique is now ATA premiere ace and never spends more than two minutes on the ground. Stella is so wrapped up with Selfridge that it sickens me.'

Marion went to the window, releasing the catch to allow a reviving breeze to enter the dreary bedroom.

‘Has marriage made thee so meek thy tongue now hath another master?'

‘Shirley, I'm not too well myself.' She turned and faced the bed, where the ground engineer had retreated into a corner against a pillow. ‘It may be exhaustion but I have these spells. In answer to your question, I have never contemplated topping myself.'

‘I have,' Shirley said quietly. ‘My mother doesn't know, but I nearly cut my wrists that day you all came over for lunch. For one thing, all I have to do is
look
at Amy and I am depressed, but then Jim behaved badly, and Valerie went off with her Kraut Yiddle and it all just overwhelmed me.'

‘Obviously you are almost still alive!' quipped Marion, moving to the side of the bed and leaning against its sagging innards.

‘Aren't you concerned? Haven't I shocked you?'

‘One could say I am bewildered by the idea of your best friend's happiness making you want to slit your wrists. Are you fond of Valerie?'

‘Of course I'm fond of Valerie – what is this conversation all about?' Shirley leaped off the bed angrily, her strong stocky frame filling the flying suit amply.

‘You been overeating, chum?' Marion touched her abdomen playfully.

Shirley smiled. ‘Every time I think about Valerie I eat – which is often.'

‘There isn't that much to go around these days.'

‘Marion, listen to me. You have no idea how much I miss our caravan. For eight years we lived, ate and slept under the same roof, in horrible conditions but with such laughter that we never cared about Tim Haydon snooping, or Val's Dad carping. We were a perfect partnership. Flying was our life's blood.'

‘Flying is life's blood to a lot of women, Shirl, but it doesn't mean you have to hate men.'

‘What are you suggesting?'

‘Perhaps you have an illness.'

‘Unthinkable.'

‘You asked for an audience, and I have listened.'

‘If you imagine I have some mortal illness you had better not be in the same room with me, or you might catch it, Marion.'

‘One doesn't catch being fond of someone.' Marion was feeling better, and the room seemed to take on a warmth despite the moist breeze struggling through the inch-open window.

‘Marion, I have this horrible feeling Kranz is still alive, and that's what's driving me mad.'

‘Nonsense! No-one could have survived a crash like that. The Fulmar was demolished and nobody has found parachute remnants.'

‘Precisely!' Shirley was standing close by Marion, her intensity almost amusing in its childishness. ‘Kranz got away by bailing out, and as we know, it was a clear night. He's probably tramping the roads even now, looking for
Valerie. Honestly, Marion, if a criminal were lurking I couldn't feel more threatened.'

‘Threatened? For whom?'

‘For Valerie!'

Marion went to the window and shut it forcefully, her energy restored alongside her equilibrium.

‘Shirl, you must put any unusual thoughts about Valerie out of your mind. She is a Commanding Officer, and after tomorrow she may be our CO – if we get in. Some months ago she was lucky enough – or unfortunate enough, in your eyes – to meet and fall madly in love with a rich industrialist.'

‘Ever heard of a poor industrialist?' sniffed Shirley.

‘Let me finish. He happened to be married, and it also transpires that you have become too fond of Valerie. Forget her.'

Mrs Bryce was shouting and when they opened the door the glorious smells wafted up with her sing-song dinner call.

In silence the two women, one still wearing her modest bridal attire, and one in dirty flying gear, went down to the waiting feast.

‘What's all this?' Marion marvelled, as she took in the challah and the candles.

‘It's a custom in this house to observe the Sabbath on Friday night and Saturday.'

‘Surely the Sabbath Day is Sunday,' protested Marion.

Shirley grinned, motioning for her to sit down. ‘If the Jews should ever take over the world, watch out!' she warned. ‘You and Alec will have to work on Sundays.'

‘Shame on you, Shirley,' tutted Mrs Bryce, dishing out the chicken soup with kneidlach.

Before spoons reached any mouths Shirley's mother chanted a prayer in Hebrew, and then waved her hands over the candles, lighting them with another sung verse, followed by ‘Amen'.

‘Valerie and I never did any of these things – she never prayed to Jesus,' grumbled Shirley.

Both Mrs Bryce and Marion glared at Shirley, who had already embarked on the soup.

‘What about the prayer over the bread?'

‘Oh, Mum!'

‘Could you do it? I'm intrigued,' murmured Marion.

Over the challah another chant was performed and Marion tore into the plaited bread with the eagerness of a starving vagrant.

‘This is a celebration of a nice girl's wedding, in not-nice times,' Mrs Bryce remarked.

They attacked the food, forgetting war and rationing and the ATA test looming. Shirley's mother watched the young people devouring her Sabbath fare and sighed with a mixture of pride and contentment.

‘Has everyone seen the newspapers tonight?' she asked, folding her arms along the edge of the table.

‘I haven't read a paper in weeks, Mum – we lady pilot candidates are too busy being part of the war they're reporting.'

‘I must confess I've not caught up with the news,' said Marion. ‘Has Hitler arrived?'

‘You shouldn't joke,' Mrs Bryce said, realizing that neither girl knew what had happened. Both faces rose from their soup bowls and stared.

‘Oh, it's nothing, girls, nothing – just some gossip.'

‘We love gossip, Mum.'

Mrs Bryce took a mouthful of soup and chewed forlornly on a dumpling.

‘You've got a secret, Mrs B!'

‘Someone called Pavel Wojtek has been arrested and is claiming he visited you and Valerie at Hunstanton. Some mad butler at a country house says the man bathed in their scullery and was circumcized. I thought it might be that Friedrich chap who ate at this table, please God.'

‘Kranz is dead,' said Marion, her soup bowl empty.

‘Why please God, Mum?'

‘He was a wonderful man, Shirley.'

‘He was married and I hope he's dead.'

‘Don't say such things on Shabbos!' Mrs Bryce gave her daughter a rough push, knocking her arm off the table.

‘I'm sure it is nothing to do with Friedrich,' Marion murmured, stacking the empty soup bowls. ‘He would have contacted Valerie, not the press.' But as she rose to help her ample hostess, Marion felt nearly overcome by a strange and terrifying roaring in her ears. Weakly she sank back on her seat.

Mrs Bryce, having arranged the spread of Sabbath fare on the table, drew a newspaper from the spacious pocket in her apron.

‘God, that
is
Friedrich,' murmured Marion, sitting upright and peering at the press photograph.

‘Why is he calling himself by a false name?' Mrs Bryce inquired, patting her brow with a large cloth.

‘Everything about that man is false,' chimed Shirley. ‘He never told Valerie he was married, and I expect he knows nothing about aircraft manufacturing.'

Marion pushed the newspaper away.