Spitfire Girls (46 page)

Turning around, Sally headed back and prepared for her first solo high-speed landing. She knew Jo would need reassuring if her head became filled with any further thoughts of Cal March and his celebrated mission. Everything had become secret in this war, so that a boy from a slum could not speak to his loved one about a task to which he had been assigned that could change the course of their Empire's history for ever. Jo had wanted to join Hana in London to track down the bits of paper that revealed the whereabouts of Vera Bukova, but Sally wagered to herself that Jo would be rushing off to White Waltham in pursuit of Cal.

Now Sally was approaching the hilly grass and she could see Josef's Oxford, his unmistakably daring aerobatics spellbinding to even the experienced eye. She would have to do a circuit of the airfield because he was now making a landing approach and in the distance she was pleased, and to her own astonishment, relieved, to see Barbara and Anthony on their way back to base.

Close enough to Sally to discern the colour of her smart goggles, Anthony Seifert was savouring this solo flight, the Oxford seeming to content itself with his delicate, and as yet uncertain touch. He knew he should not be ruminating but the special solitude that was flying had always made his brain tingle: never did he think so extravagantly as when airborne. Delia's awkward figure rampaged across his mind, and he wondered if she would accept him as a brother and perhaps become a girl at last. Had his mother
done the unthinkable and made her only daughter into a surrogate son and husband? He had loved the girl as soon as he had seen her getting out of a Tiger at Lossiemouth.

Now, as he approached the charming field that still boasted green patches of autumn grass, the vibrant engines of the aircraft reminded him that human contact would be minimal in this conflagration. Now the immediate task at hand was the bringing of distinction to Valerie Cobb's prestigious organization, without which the RAF would by now have fallen on its face.

Anthony's height made visibility excellent and he could take in the movements of every chum on this course: there was Barbara, followed by Sally, and the crazy Pole who was so famous in his own land. As he positioned himself for an approach, Anthony realized that from this war he wanted a commodity about which he had never thought until ATA had brought him back to his family's doorstep: that commodity, he told himself, was love – and with that he raced on to the somewhat uneven landing strip of Upavon and screeched past a clutch of wincing WAAFs.

Delaying her approach and embarking on a circuit, Barbara watched Anthony Seifert blister Upavon's landing patch. She relished this chance to fly solo in a new machine that had become second nature to the Angeliques and Edith Allams of this world. What was it about Allam that made her rise above any normal pattern for a girl of her generation? It was bad enough that she, Barbara Newman, had departed from the perpetual tedium that had been the destiny of every woman in her family's, but for Edith it must have been a catastrophic event. Barbara's father had always detested Americans but she felt he would not repu-
diate Allam. Guiding the Oxford back towards the deceptively short path that was an excuse for a wartime runway, Barbara gasped and for a moment came close to losing control of her aircraft. All she wanted now was to land and be done with this exercise: she looked forward to the arrival of Edith and the colonials and to hatching a plan that would bring Valerie back into glory. Glancing briefly to the side, Barbara could see Josef Ratusz showing off. She prayed for his safe landing, not so much for the sake of his well-being as for ATA's reputation.

Polish and Czech pilots were taking Spitfires into air combat and men like Ratusz, now roaring into Upavon at an excessive landing speed, were also praying. They beseeched the Almighty that Valerie Cobb might be back in leadership soon and that more of the supremely talented women fliers would be taking over as Commanding Officers across Britain. Her team of aces would be brought in on the strength of their own merits, not as a publicity exercise ‘to release more men for the RAF'.

As he taxied, Ratusz was committing the cardinal sin of ignoring the instructor, but his mind travelled forcefully to thoughts of Kranz the Jew and to the gossip the Poles had already heard concerning Shirley Bryce, Amy and Jim, and Gordon Selfridge. Hana had been told that Selfridge had departed Britain desperately in love with Nora, who, it was whispered, had no real interest in men. Josef laughed to himself and the instructor glared. His mind still chattered as his Oxford slowed, manoeuvring past Barbara and Sally, each in a Master. Shirley had not been home to see her mother for six months, and this had horrified Hana more than anything she had heard in the Hatfield canteen. Amy
and Jim had been the victims of alcohol, a situation that left Hana and Josef bemused: what pilots would drink so much schnapps that they would be renowned for their habits rather than for their achievements?

His engines now stopped, Josef's instructor was barking at him and a group of WAAFs were standing beneath his window like the crowds who had awaited him when in his previous life he had been greeted as an ace. He waved, half listening to the instructor, whose words suggested Ratusz was now qualified to fly any single- or twin-engined war machine to which the Ministry cared to assign ATA fliers.

When the WAAFs returned to their desks the only person left on the airfield was the Polish ace who had requested three days' leave for the sake of a fictitious funeral, but whose real intention had been to conquer staggering feelings of dread that, for some inexplicable reason, and for the first time in his life, had overwhelmed all his other emotions.

Harold Balfour could hardly contain himself.

Events in Europe were catastrophic, but all he could do was quake at the prospect of the dark-haired vision crossing the threshold of his elegant London residence. During the months following the fall of France, the vision's frequent visits had cheered him and now he awaited another magical meeting. She had always been in uniform and an aide had always been nearby – his fear of accusations of improper behaviour were acute – but now that her condition was beginning to show he knew this would be their last contact.

Fingering the rim of a particularly fragile piece of crystal from his town collection, Balfour wondered if this was one visit too many – should he have stopped the meetings last month, when the Kranz affair had broken? There was a tinkling in a corner of the house and he came alive, striding to the door and smoothing down his own uniform.

‘It won't improve you, Harold,' chirped Angelique as she bounced in from the corridor. ‘All the medals in the world would make no difference. To your friends you're always Dear Old H.'

Balfour could see the butler peering in and focusing on the girl's ample midriff.

‘Please leave us, Denison,' he said, his voice stiff with tension.

Angelique turned and grinned at the butler, but he had vanished. ‘They do move so fast,' she said.

‘Who do?'

‘Butlers.'

‘So do babies grow,' murmured Balfour, smiling and motioning for her to sit. ‘How are you feeling, Angelique?'

‘I feel horrid – rotten in fact. You will be amazed to hear the reason is not the wretched baby at all.' She moved to a sofa upholstered in a vivid floral pattern and for the first time in all her visits noticed that each bloom on the fabric had a bee nosing into its heart. Balfour watched her with fascination, the endless thoughts he harboured away from her company now a mass of confused sparks circulating within his being.

‘You're unbelievably agitated,' he said, remaining standing at the far end of the room.

‘In one day I've given coaching and moral support to the latest group for Upavon, and I've been to see the Toland brothers, who are on four trips a day, and finally I've been to see Cal March, our ATA cadet, who as you know is earmarked for destiny.'

‘Have you been to see Valerie?'

‘No, Harold. Please let me speak.'

Balfour watched her carefully as her eyes roved round the drawing room.

‘Has the war got to you?' he asked quietly.

‘Good God, Harold – one would have to be living on the moon for the war not to be “getting” to one. But what's really getting to me is the message I have been receiving from my Ouija board.'

Balfour sat down stiffly on the sofa, leaving as much space as possible between himself and Angelique. ‘Are you joking?' he asked seriously.

‘Listen to me,' she continued. ‘My brothers are in a dreadful bind in Spain. The board says Annabel Cobb and Sarah Truman are there as well.'

Balfour rose and moved behind the sofa. ‘Surely you haven't become a spiritualist?' he demanded.

She turned around and looked up at him, her face drained of colour and stark against the blue ATA uniform.

‘It also told me what Cal March is up to,' she said. ‘I want to go on his mission. It would mean I can seek out my brothers and secure the return of the two girls. Honestly, Harold, Franco is so disorganized compared with Hitler! The Spanish are like the Italians – offer them some good wine and food and they let you do anything.'

‘You know nothing,' Balfour muttered.

‘I'm just an ignorant woman, am I?'

Balfour leaned back against the sideboard. ‘In all of our little meetings, Angelique, you've told me about the problems ATA has been having, and you've told me the gossip. I've heard about Noel Slater pushing you around, and Amy and Jim's divorce. I know that Martin Toland fathered your child and that Marion Harborne wants some credit for the concentration camp pictures. Everything you say, and the way you say it, enchants me. None of it leaves this room except to dazzle me in my dreams at night. Something you have never grasped, however, is that my sort of mind will not accept voodoo of any sort.'

‘Why have you never made love to me?' she demanded.

Balfour was stunned.

‘It's something that bothers me intensely, Harold.'

‘Ask me again, only more loudly, so Denison will know the child isn't mine,' he said, smiling.

Angelique had become more comfortable on the large sofa, but her face remained a pallid mask.

‘Your duties will be expanding within ATA,' he continued, seating himself on the sofa and reaching for her hand, ‘and I don't want any of you going off on tangents with black magic, or with peculiar habits.'

‘You must help me get to Zack and Paul,' she blurted suddenly, fighting back tears.

‘Not possible,' he asserted, squeezing her hand, its clammy lifelessness making him shudder. Cutting into his palm was a ring that had not been there before – its stone a sharp gem giving him a physical pain that hovered in his abdomen and made him feel ashamed because he was jealous.

‘Two things, Harold. You must help me get an aircraft across the Channel, and you must get Valerie reinstated.'

‘What about the child?' he asked, still squeezing and letting the stone dig into his heart.

‘You can't do anything about that, my dear,' she said, a bit too loudly.

‘Dammit, woman – how can you fly to Spain pregnant?'

Angelique leapt up from her seat. ‘The mere fact that you've suggested I might fly to Spain means we're there. Do it. Now.'

At once Balfour was set alight by the fire she had ignited within his bloodstream, a red-hot maelstrom he had known from the moment he had first spied her in the locker room at Maylands. Angelique's blazing eyes put his thoughts into disarray and he felt he might give her his house and all his worldly goods at this moment for the sake of one much longed-for coupling.

‘You were talking about reality, Harold?'

She was speaking, but he was travelling at breakneck speed over a giant mountain that had left his chest pounding and his loins urging him not to think but to do.

‘Will we ever make love, do you suppose?' he whispered.

‘We might,' she replied. ‘for the time being I suggest you keep your mind on serious matters at hand, Captain Balfour.'

But Balfour was devouring her with his eyes, and she could not move.

‘I love you,' he murmured. ‘It too is unforgivable, but I love you, Angelique, bastard child and all.'

‘Martin's baby will be born in Spain,' she asserted, grinning at Balfour.

‘Did you hear what I said?'

As they stood facing each other the only sound was the occasional shout from a newspaper vendor, motorcars now a rare presence in the dark times of the London siege.

‘Go to the airfield where Cal March will be commencing his journey,' he said slowly, ‘and there will be help provided for your escapade.'

Angelique's colour had returned. ‘You would do this for a first generation Armenian who communes with Ouija boards?' she piped.

‘I would do this for a face that God must promise will come back to me.'

‘God isn't doing much currently for those poor people in the death camps.'

Balfour held her hands and kissed them, the maelstrom returning to his flesh and the veins all round his body.

But Angelique was already miles away, wanting to depart for a terrible land of which she knew nothing. Balfour was holding her now, and she let him embrace her with a kind of desperation she knew could only be spawned by war. As her breath came in spurts and he held her to him the voices inside her head announced that she would be embracing her brothers within the week and that Valerie would be free when the time came to welcome Angelique back from the fascists.

‘I've a priceless cutting for you,' Alec Harborne announced, his presence inspiring a group of ATA women to look up from their chess board in the common room at White Waltham.

Shirley Bryce excused herself and went over to him. ‘You are a noisy bugger,' she said, ushering him into a corner.

‘Speak for yourself – this place was quiet until they started letting females fly with us.' He unfolded a piece of newsprint as they sat on a bench attached to the faded wall.