The Spitfire Girls Page 9

‘It depends on where you get posted.’

  They approached the outskirts of town then drove through narrow streets until they came to the railway station perched on flat ground overlooking the harbour. Stan parked the car close to the ticket office and waited while Mary retrieved her suitcase from the back seat. ‘Good luck,’ he told her, his strong forearms resting on the rim of the steering wheel.

  She nodded and thanked him. This was it; there was no turning back. The train waiting on the platform would carry her along its gleaming tracks, steam hissing and billowing from the funnel, whistle screeching – away from a narrow life that had had its fair share of deprivation and misery, widening out to new horizons. ‘Goodbye, Stan.’

  He smiled and nodded then pulled away from the kerb. In his rear-view mirror he saw Mary still standing there in her smart navy blue uniform, clutching her suitcase. She looked young, he thought, and a bit lonely and lost.

  ‘You said yes?’ Bobbie could scarcely believe what Angela was telling her as they waited outside Hangar 2 for Gordon and Stan to taxi their Spits on to the runway. The two women stood well clear of the wide doors, shouting above the whine of the powerful Merlin engines. ‘Lionel proposed marriage and you accepted!’

  ‘I did indeed.’ Angela had waited from the Sunday until Wednesday to impart her news, hoping to adjust to her new status before sharing it with others.

  ‘Why didn’t you tell me straight away? You must be over the moon. Oh, I say!’

  Angela gave Bobbie a wry smile. ‘Lionel has proposed to me before, of course, and I’ve asked him to wait. This time I felt it would be too cruel.’

  ‘But you do want to marry him?’

  ‘Do I?’ Angela turned over the question in her mind. ‘I don’t want to marry anyone else, let’s put it that way.’

  The half-hearted answer didn’t satisfy Bobbie, who felt a surge of sympathy towards lovelorn Lionel. Sometimes Angela was a cold fish. It was as if she didn’t have any real heart. Then again, perhaps she simply kept her emotions carefully hidden beneath that glossy, glamorous surface. ‘Congratulations. I’m very pleased for you both. Do you have a ring? Have you told your papa?’

  Stan sat behind the wheel of a heavy Amazon lorry, towing Angela’s plane towards Runway 1. Its wingtips barely cleared the doorway so he steered carefully.

  ‘Not yet,’ Angela answered. ‘I’ve left it to Lionel to ask Pa’s permission before he buys the ring and we broadcast the news.’ She remembered the moment in the dark grounds of the ruined church when Lionel had pressed her to tell him how she felt. Truthfully? she should have replied. I feel confused. I have no idea what’s really going on between us. We’re comfortable together and I know I can depend on you. But is that enough? But when it came to it she hadn’t had the heart to confess her doubts and so had agreed to the engagement. ‘Keep it under your hat for now,’ she told Bobbie before following her Spit on to the runway.

  ‘Drat!’ Bobbie realized that she’d come on to the airfield without her goggles and gauntlets. She sprinted back to the ops room where she’d left them, still amazed by Angela’s news and by the casual way in which she’d announced it. ‘I shan’t be a minute!’ she called up to Gordon as he towed her plane towards Runway 3. At the bottom of the stairs leading up to the control tower, she ran into Teddy, who was still waiting for his chit. ‘Goggles,’ she explained hastily before dashing up to the ops room.

  He was still there when she came down again.

  ‘I wrote down the fifth in my diary,’ he told her casually. ‘For your birthday soirée.’

  ‘Super. Sorry, I must dash.’

  He caught her by the wrist and swung her towards him. ‘I thought you’d be pleased.’

  ‘I am; thrilled.’

  ‘Where will it be held? Who else will be there?’

  Bobbie tried to pull away but found that Teddy’s grip was too strong. ‘I haven’t decided on the venue yet. I’ll invite the usual crowd – Hilary, Cameron, et cetera.’

  ‘Angela?’ Teddy prompted.

  ‘Of course. Now I really must dash.’

  He released her at last and watched her scamper away, like a little red squirrel in her zip-up suit and brown leather jacket, helmet strapped firmly under her chin. Hearing someone approach from behind, he stepped aside to let Cameron emerge from the office he shared with Hilary and Douglas.

  Cameron had been irritated to see the blatant way Teddy had held Bobbie back. He’d spotted it through the window and decided that it showed a lack of respect so had come out to tick him off. But Teddy was already on the move, up the stairs and into the ops room to learn from Douglas that his job for the day was to fly a lumbering four-engine Stirling to a ferry pool in Leicestershire: a mundane task that Teddy didn’t relish.

  From behind his desk Douglas studied the young pilot’s scowl as he picked up his chit and departed. There’s something not quite right about Teddy Simpson, he thought. Surely I can’t be the only one who wonders why a top-notch fighter pilot has been posted to Rixley to do lowly ferry pool work with the ATA. Perhaps he would mention his doubts to Cameron or Hilary. Is our new boy as good as he says he is? Or is there something we haven’t been told?

  The morning ticked on without Douglas being able to raise his concern and it soon slipped from his mind. Running his hand through his thick hair, he switched his attention to cross-checking conflicting weather reports that would affect tomorrow’s schedules. Then he sat and considered the news from Central Ferry Control that in the coming months there was to be a steady build-up of transfers of new Spits from factory to pools throughout the country. The figure would soon reach a level just short of 2,500 planes, which suggested to Douglas that something big was afoot in the not too distant future. He missed elevenses and by noon was in need of a breather so he left his desk and was heading for the canteen when it struck him that Jean was thirty minutes late flying in the Spit that she’d been scheduled to pick up from a maintenance unit in Sunderland. It should have been a straightforward hop from A to B. Douglas paused on the lawn, thought hard for a few seconds then returned to his office. He picked up the phone and asked the operator in the switch room to put him through to the Sunderland base.

  ‘Hello, this is First Officer Thornton here. I’m calling from Rixley,’ he began as soon as a line was free. ‘What’s the latest information on First Officer Dobson’s departure? Did it go ahead as planned?’

  There was a pause while the morning’s file was checked then a brief reply: ‘Yes, sir; as planned.’

  Douglas felt a flicker of worry inside his chest. ‘How’s the weather up there?’

  ‘No adverse conditions according to the met boys.’

  ‘You’re sure?’

  ‘Quite sure, sir. Your First Officer Dobson took off on time and in ideal conditions.’

  ‘Thank you.’ Douglas replaced the handset then stared out of the window. If it wasn’t the weather causing Jean’s delay then it must be something mechanical. There was no radio contact with the Spit, which meant that in the unlikely event of engine failure she was completely on her own. She would know the drill, of course – trim the aircraft’s nose down, unclip oxygen tube if any, jettison canopy, release harness, roll aircraft upside down and good luck! The motto – ‘If in doubt, bail out!’ – would be at the very forefront of her mind.

  ‘Something wrong?’ Hilary asked as he entered the office.

  ‘Yes; Jean Dobson should have landed her Spit Mark IX on Runway Two thirty-five minutes ago.’

  ‘Damn,’ Hilary muttered. ‘What’s gone wrong, do we know?’

  ‘No, sir, we don’t.’

  ‘So all we can do is sit tight and try not to think the worst.’ As always, Hilary kept a lid on his feelings. ‘If there’s trouble, Jean will know what to do.’

  Douglas nodded then sat down heavily in his swivel chair. He turned to face the window, searching in vain for the speck in the sky that would materialize into Jean’s Mark IX. His hands were clenched and he hardly dared to bre
athe.

  Ten minutes out of Sunderland and at a height of 4,000 feet, Jean encountered an unexpected, weather-related problem. It wasn’t cloud that affected her flight but rather the absence of it, for it meant that the late-September air was exceptionally cold. Sharp fingers of ice had begun to form on the Spit’s windscreen, cutting down visibility to practically zero. Soon the side sections in the bubble canopy were also affected and she noticed a white layer of frost on the aircraft’s wings.

  The only possible remedy was to reduce height, so Jean quickly eased back the throttle. She felt her stomach lurch as she went into a steep dive but to her relief at 1,000 feet her solution seemed to be working: the ice had started to melt, allowing her to peer through small patches of Perspex and see that there was no immediate danger in the shape of hills up ahead. Visibility was still limited, however, so to be extra sure that the topography wouldn’t be against her at this height, she used her compass to track a new course, away from land and over the North Sea, keeping the coast in sight and preparing to turn inland again when she drew closer to her destination.

  It took five minutes, but once clear of the coast and flying low over the water, Jean breathed a sigh of relief and eased off the rudder pedals. She knew that the unplanned detour would make her late and that she had no way of letting Rixley know what had caused the delay. In an attempt to make up time, she upped her speed and was going along nicely at 800 feet when she felt rather than saw another aircraft approach from behind. A glance over her shoulder gave her a glimpse of fuselage that told her the day’s troubles had only just begun – she’d spotted a black cross on the port side and a swastika on the tail fin: Luftwaffe! A fully armed Focke-Wulf Fw 190, no less.

  Jean didn’t hesitate. Her only hope, once spotted, was to outmanoeuvre the German plane. She knew that the one advantage she had over her opponent was her superior turn radius so she increased her revs to 2,500 and rammed her left pedal to the floor. She climbed steeply, banked then veered sharply out to sea with the Fw 190 in hot pursuit. Any moment now the pilot would fire his guns. She prepared herself for an explosion of bullets tearing through wings and fuselage, a giant force lifting her and tilting her wildly off balance as the bullets hit their target. Don’t let it happen. Change course again, dive low, use your speed to stay out of range. A voice inside her head issued urgent orders, which she followed instinctively.

  Putting distance between herself and her pursuer, Jean experienced living proof that the handling of the 190 was inferior to the updated Spit and was grateful for it. Jerry seemed clumsy in comparison but he still came after her, close enough to fire if he wanted to and driving her further out to sea.

  Let’s hope he’s alone. Jean scanned the empty sky for other planes. Yes, thank goodness. One against one – a fair contest – and if she used all her skill there was a good chance of coming out of this in one piece. She clenched her jaw tight in grim determination to outfly her opponent.

  Without warning she went into a steep dive, plummeting until she was almost at sea level then levelling out underneath the 190 and speeding towards the shoreline, tricking her opponent by turning at the last second and gaining speed and height again. This manoeuvre gave her a fleeting glimpse of the burly German pilot in his cockpit. For a split second their gazes locked. She saw his eyes widen in amazement.

  All of a sudden and without warning he raised his arm in salute then altered course and fell away. The chase was over.

  Jean watched him climb steadily, heard his engines fade into the distance.

  He saw that I was a woman! she realized with astonishment. There was such a thing as gallantry left in this war-tattered world after all. Jean had mixed feelings: she’d been intent on beating the enemy fair and square but the German pilot’s reaction when he saw her had been born out of a deep-seated courtesy that she was bound to acknowledge.

  However, now that the emergency was over, Jean wanted to get home fast. How much fuel did she have in her tank? She checked the gauge: maybe just enough. She would head inland, pick out a series of landmarks and hope for the best. Relaxing a little, Jean flew low along the shoreline until she recognized the small village of Maltby Bay then the distinctive layered cliffs to the north of her home town of Highcliff. She spotted fishing boats bobbing in the blue water and the untidy cluster of cottages and pubs with red-tiled roofs that formed the hub of the town. From here she would need to follow the railway line directly west for the final twenty miles to Rixley.

  A glance at her watch told her that it was coming up to half past twelve. She noticed the needle on the fuel gauge hover over empty and gave a grim smile. Oh, the irony of being forced to ditch the poor Spit and bail out at the very last minute if she ran out of fuel! Let’s hope not, she thought as she flew on at 600 feet, longing for a sight of Burton Wood and the three runways just beyond.

  Two miles short of Rixley Jean saw the needle flicker then stop. She heard the Merlin begin to stutter. She wasn’t going to make it after all.

  The engine stalled suddenly and the Spit juddered. The tank was empty. There was an eerie silence. Surely there must be an open area where Jean could make an emergency landing. She looked down at a patchwork of small fields bordered by barns and farm buildings then considered bringing the Spit down on a straight stretch of road. But she shook her head at the thought of giving some poor motorist the fright of his life. She had a better idea. Frantically pressing the rudder pedals and riding on wind currents, she steered the now silent plane towards Burton Grange, gliding low over the village, lowering the landing gear as she aimed for the vast lawn in front of the house.

  The grounds were deserted. Jean felt an almighty bump as she hit terra firma. She sat tight and slammed on the brakes, praying that she would avoid the deep holes left by the bombs. Such a pity to wreck the crate at this point, she reflected with wry humour.

  The Spit’s wheels churned up the grass, digging deep, black furrows as it squealed to a halt fifty yards from the front entrance. Unseen by any witnesses, Jean raised the canopy then unstrapped her harness. She climbed down from her plane.

  Time to phone the ops room and report my location, she thought calmly as she mounted the broad steps on to the front terrace. Apologies and so forth; you’ll have to send an Amazon lorry to tow her in.

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  The venue chosen for Bobbie’s birthday celebration was the humble Fox and Hounds in Rixley. A small back room had been set aside for a dozen guests and Bobbie, Angela and Jean had arrived early to deck it out with balloons and a hand-made Happy Birthday banner painted by Angela on to a square of old parachute silk.

  ‘I didn’t want anything too lavish,’ Bobbie explained as the three women stepped back to admire their amateurish efforts. ‘It doesn’t seem right to splash out when there’s strict rationing everywhere one looks.’

  Jean agreed. ‘Even so, it’s nice to have something to celebrate, for a change.’ She’d taken care to look her best by lifting her long hair into a stylish pleat and wearing her smart cream jersey-knit dress with cap sleeves and a sweetheart neckline. She’d judged rightly that anything dressier would have seemed out of place in the homely surroundings.

  The village pub, like many others in Yorkshire, hadn’t seen a lick of paint for decades. Its ceilings sloped this way and that and the rooms were still lit by gaslight, which produced a low, constant hiss in the background. Spotting a cobweb draped across one corner of the ceiling Angela stepped on to a chair and used a handy window pole to whisk it free, dislodging a red balloon in the process. The balloon drifted down towards a burning gas mantel and burst with a loud pop, making Bobbie and Jean jump.

  ‘That scared the living daylights …!’ Bobbie gasped.

  The landlady, Florrie Loxley, poked her head around the door. ‘Was that a gun going off?’

  ‘No; relax, Mrs Loxley.’ Bobbie scooped up the remains of the balloon from the flagged floor. ‘When the guests arrive, would you mind sending them straight through, please?’
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br />   Florrie nodded curtly and disappeared. She wondered if it had been a good idea to rent out the room. It might have been better from her point of view to have held the party in the Snug. That way, guests could have more easily bought drinks at the bar and upped her profits for the night. Still, the little Scottish Atta girl liked to have things her own way and a private room with their own supply of beer and whisky was what she wanted.

  ‘Nervous?’ Angela asked Bobbie as she jumped down from the chair. She too had chosen a dressed-down look, simply running a comb through her freshly washed hair and throwing on her daytime favourite: a raspberry-pink woollen dress nipped in at the waist and flaring out to mid-calf length, with contrasting white collar and belt. She wore peep-toed shoes to match.

  ‘As a kitten,’ Bobbie confessed. During the run-up to her twenty-second birthday she’d tried in vain to play it down. ‘It’s hardly worth celebrating,’ she’d protested on the Monday as a parcel from home had arrived in the post. The package had contained a silk petticoat and a large Dundee cake, which Angela had insisted on icing with the number twenty-two picked out in blue. To Bobbie’s chagrin she’d brought it along to the Fox. ‘Must everyone know how old I am?’ she’d said with a sigh.

  ‘But you’re not exactly ancient. In any case, you look delightful.’ Angela made one last effort to cheer up her friend as the clock on the wall ticked towards half past seven. She knew that Bobbie had been feeling rather down after realizing that there was no way that she could hit her five-hundred-hour target before the big day. ‘Believe me, you put us all in the shade.’

  Bobbie fluffed up her hair and straightened the collar of her jade-green blouse. She’d matched it with her favourite black trousers and sophisticated heeled shoes. Guests would start arriving any time now; glasses were lined up on a trestle table next to bottles of spirits and there was a full keg of beer in the corner. Everything was ready. ‘It’s a shame that Lionel couldn’t wangle another twenty-four-hour shore leave,’ she mentioned to Angela as Jean slipped away to powder her nose. ‘Is his ship still in dry dock?’