by Tessa Arlen
“I hope she does put on a good show,” said Huntley. “She needs to compensate for being such a pain in the neck all morning.”
“What did you say?” Annie’s voice held a strong note of reprimand—her brows were down and her chin out. I had taken her for the quietest and most unassuming member of group, and so had Keith and Huntley. Keith looked up from his camera and Huntley’s head whipped round, his mouth open.
“Edwina is the best pilot we have.” Annie took a step forward. “And, yes, sometimes she loads it on a bit, but you need to be more respectful. She knows what she’s talking about and she wants us to look like professionals and not just a bunch of amateur movie stars.”
Huntley looked like he had been stung by a wasp. He stared at Annie for a moment until he found his voice. “You’re right,” he said. “I apologize. I know what a demanding job this is and how hard you work. I didn’t mean to sound . . . critical in any way.” As he turned away he caught Keith’s sympathetic glance and rolled his eyes.
We waited as Edwina climbed into her plane. We waited another five minutes, maybe longer. Keith was crouched over his camera as Huntley’s thumb clicked his stopwatch on and then off. “Why the wait?”
“She is doing a flight check,” Annie said between clenched teeth as we watched the two groundmen pull away the chocks under the Spitfire’s wheels.
“Any longer and we’ll need floodlights,” Huntley muttered under his breath to Keith. Annie couldn’t have heard his words, but she had caught his tone. She turned as if to say something and Grable reached out to take her friend by the arm. She gave it a little shake.
“He’s said he’s sorry,” she murmured. “Let it go.”
“I’m sick of being treated like fools because we are women.” Annie’s dark eyes flashed. “He would never talk about a male pilot that way.”
The Spitfire started to move forward, and Griff folded his arms. “I was wondering,” he said half to himself, “if I could fly that plane before we leave.” He turned to Huntley. “See the elliptical wing? That’s what makes her so incredibly fast.”
“A lady in the air,” said Grable lifting a pair of binoculars to her eyes, “but a perfect bitch on the ground.” All pilots called their planes “she.” But I wasn’t too sure if Grable was referring to Edwina or her plane. I caught June’s eye and we giggled.
“And she’s up,” said Huntley. “Got her in your sights, Keith? Don’t track her—just get the big picture for a moment.”
The Spitfire climbed and leveled off, banked, and did a circuit of the airfield. Then back around straight at us, quite low. As she passed overhead, Edwina waggled her plane’s wings.
“Saucy,” said Huntley, glancing at Annie to make sure he hadn’t crossed the line. “I like it. This is going to be good.”
Around again until she was perfectly trim in the sky above us; then the plane simply revolved in the air. It was a lazy, almost sensual movement.
“Victory roll. Oh God, two of them.” June threw back her head and laughed. “Trust Edwina!”
And then as Keith cranked, and Huntley and Griff swore under their breath in admiration, the Spitfire started to climb. “I bet she’s going to do the Immelmann turn,” said Griff. And to me: “That’s an ascending half loop followed by a half roll, resulting in level flight in the exact opposite direction at a higher altitude. It is a dogfight maneuver and beautiful to watch if it’s done right.” As soon as he uttered the last words, he looked doubtful as the Spitfire, having completed its half loop, started to roll and then, instead of maintaining its height, went into a deep dive.
“Oh, sorry, she’s doing something else. But why . . . ?” Griff’s confusion disappeared in concern. “Jeez, looks like she might have stalled it.” We watched the Spitfire continue to drop. “C’mon, c’mon, get her nose up and level her. Level her, for God’s sake.”
But, contrary as always, Edwina did nothing of the kind. The Spitfire fell through the sunlit air like a stone. “What’s she doing?” Griff turned to Vera and June, but they had no answer for him. They were both staring openmouthed up at the sky and the falling plane.
Huntley put his hand on Keith’s shoulder. “I think she’s pulling some sort of stunt. Keep filming, Keith, whatever you do, keep filming.”
I looked around me. Annie was staring intently at the plane. Sir Basil, Letty, and Grable were standing together, their gazes fixed upward. Only Zofia articulated what was happening. “She’s losing control . . .” she cried, and I noticed how strong her accent was. “Pull up,” she yelled. “Get that damned nose up.”
And as if Edwina had heard her, the plane started to level out.
“Thank God, she’s got it back again,” someone said. The Spitfire was hardly flying level, but it had stopped its terrifying plummet. Now it was coming toward us, flying just above the treetops.
Sir Basil’s voice, harsh with disbelief, lifted above the cries of distress. “What the hell are you playing at?” he cried out as the plane careered overhead. Neither a lady nor a bitch, and certainly no longer a creature of power and grace, the Spitfire was simply a metal tube with wings as it veered sharply to the right.
“It’s too late. She’s going to crash. I’m calling an ambulance,” Vera Abercrombie answered, and she started to run toward the office.
With our heads thrown back, we watched in horror as Edwina’s plane plowed through the top of a tall elm tree and, unbalanced by its heavy boughs, plunged sideways and downward.
It was the percussion of her headlong impact with the ground that propelled us forward toward the gate in the hedge that separated airfield from farmland.
“No fire yet,” Griff shouted as he lengthened his stride. “We’ve got to get her out . . . before . . . the gas tank . . .” He sprinted ahead of us and was the first to the gate. As he vaulted over it, Keith pulled up its hasp and threw the gate wide.
“Prop it open,” Sir Basil shouted as he passed Keith, running surprisingly swiftly for a man of his age.
Spurred on by adrenaline and sick with apprehension, I was way ahead of the Attagirls in their bulky flying suits as I raced into the field with Bess bounding along at my side. Debris from the sheared-off tree littered the stubble of its surface ahead of us. I dodged through a thicket of saplings and came out the other side completely unprepared for the sight of the broken body of the plane.
It lay before us, its remaining wing sticking helplessly up into the air and its long nose tilted into the earth of the field, surrounded by the shards of broken propeller shafts. The tail, titled at a madcap angle, was still vibrating from the impact.
Griff was already up on the sound wing, head and shoulders into the cockpit to unbuckle Edwina’s harness. She’s alive, I thought as her head turned toward him before lolling sideways on her rag-doll neck. Unconscious but alive! It seemed to take Keith forever as he levered himself up beside Griff to help haul the limp body out of the wreck. I caught up with Sir Basil, his face scarlet, sides heaving, “Ambulance . . . on its way,” he called out to Griff. “Is she . . . ?”
Griff and Keith braced their legs. I heard Griff count to three as they lifted her up out of the cockpit. Her body looked tiny in their arms. The bright sheen of platinum hair caught in the rays of the sun as it shone through the wreck of the tree the Spitfire had ripped through moments ago.
As Edwina was lowered to the ground, Sir Basil knelt and lifted her wrist. It almost looked to me like she said something. Or at least tried to, because Griff dropped his head to hers.
Seconds passed; then Sir Basil looked up. “There is no pulse. I’m afraid she’s gone.”
“Get away from the plane.” June was the first of the Attagirls to arrive. “Come on back, all of you.” She took Huntley by the arm as he tripped over a fallen tree branch. Keith was sleepwalking, mesmerized by the wreckage.
We obediently retreated back from the hot, ticking m
etal of the plane, carrying the lifeless body of one of the ATA’s most talented flyers as the ambulance came around the stand of trees and bumped across the tilled earth of the field, its bell ringing frantically, as if in some way it would bring Edwina Partridge back to life.
FIVE
THE AMBULANCE DROVE UP THE TRACK IT HAD CREATED ON ITS arrival. Behind it trailed a silently stricken group. It had taken minutes for us to race across the field’s uneven stony surface; now we trudged back as if we were bringing up the rear of a defeated army.
Zofia, walking next to Grable, reached out an arm to her shoulder and half turned the taller woman toward her. They stopped, side by side. Zofia closed her eyes, and her lips moved as if attempting to articulate a question that eluded her. Grable shook her head in incomprehension and put both her arms around Zofia’s shoulders and drew her toward her. Zofia rested her forehead briefly on Grable’s shoulder and then lifted her face. “We need tea,” she said as I came up to them. “A cup of hot sweet tea. Isn’t that what you English do when things go terribly wrong?”
That wasn’t what she was going to say, I thought. She was going to ask a question.
Grable’s smile was a sad one. “I think I would rather raise a glass of brandy to Edwina,” she said. “It’s what she would have done if it had been one of us.” She looked around at the quiet women who had gathered around them. “Come on, girls, drinks are on me. Sir Basil? Vera?”
“Yes, absolutely.” Sir Basil’s face was less ruddy from his run, but I could still see the thin network of capillaries that ran across his white cheeks. I wondered if he was reliving those many moments, long ago, when his close friends had been shot down in the first war.
“And she was flying a Spit.” Letty put one arm around June’s shoulders and the other around Annie’s, not to comfort them, I thought, but to emphasize that they were comrades and friends, still in the world and still flying. She hugged them to her. June lowered her head and Letty lifted her hand and smoothed back her friend’s ruffled hair.
We broke into three groups, the Attagirls walking silently ahead, followed by Vera Abercrombie and Sir Basil. Keith, Huntley, and I had slowed our pace. I felt like an interloper, and so evidently did Griff. I looked back to see him standing alone on the path, gazing at the topless elm tree.
“Brandy,” Vera agreed as she turned from watching the ambulance round the corner of the drive and disappear in the direction of Southampton. “Come on.” She glanced at Sir Basil and inclined her head toward the mess. “Then I’d better call Charlie Morse at White Waltham.” She turned her mouth downward and raised her eyebrows in a God-help-me kind of way. “And I need to talk to the ground engineer who worked on the Spitfire.”
Sir Basil reached out his hand, as if to slow down her self-imposed momentum. “Want me to talk to Mac? You are going to be busy with all the red tape; it’s the least I can do.” Vera stopped and pulled the hem of her tunic down and squared her shoulders. “Yes, Basil, thank you.” She glanced at me out of the corner of her eye as if realizing that this had been a day about recording Edwina’s skill as a pilot.
“I can’t believe it,” she said almost to herself. “Not Edwina!”
June, walking ahead with the others, stopped, turned, and came back to her commanding officer. “There can’t have been something wrong with the plane,” she said to Vera. “It sounded in top form: perfectly tuned and as sweet as a nut.” Her voice was pitched low, for only Vera to hear. Vera lifted a hand to quiet her, and June nodded. “Yes, yes. I completely understand we have to find out what happened, and why.” And they walked forward together, away from the group, their heads close together in discussion.
I found myself hanging back until Griff caught up with me. He looked shaken, but not unduly so. He glanced at me, shook his head, and gave a long whistle.
“Did she speak after you pulled her out of the cockpit?” I asked him.
“Mm-hm.” He nodded.
“Did you understand what she said?”
He frowned down at the ground. “She said, ‘I should never have asked why he . . .’”
“Why he what?”
“That was it. She was barely conscious, Poppy. She was dying.”
“She said ‘he,’ not ‘she’?”
“I suppose she could have said ‘she’—” He stared at me, his mouth open. “You are not suggesting for a miserable second that this wasn’t an accident?”
I felt ashamed of myself, truly ashamed. I hadn’t liked Edwina: she was antagonistic, and she seemed to take a perverse enjoyment in making those around her feel uncomfortable. I had been jealous when she had monopolized Griff, and now I felt small: petty and childish. Griff was not my boyfriend in the serious sense of the word. I didn’t own him. And he had enjoyed flirting with Edwina . . . at first. It was second nature to the man.
“No, of course not. It just seems a strange thing for her to say, that’s all.”
He stood with his hands in his pockets and then gave me a quick sideways look. “She could have said anything and it would have sounded incongruous.”
“Yes, I suppose so,” I said, but my uneasy stomach told me otherwise. I had seen dead bodies often in the last year, many of them pulled from the rubble of bombed-out buildings, but the one I would never forget had not been killed by a bomb; she had been murdered. I had waited in the dark for help to come with the same awful, sinking, nauseous feeling that I had now.
Trust your intuition; don’t let anyone tell you different. Ilona’s voice in my head righted me in a second. I had watched a young woman who was more at ease at the controls of a Spitfire than she was on the ground pulled out of the cockpit of her wrecked aircraft, which had been maintained by a respected ground engineer. What had happened to her up there in the remote blue of a world she was completely at home in?
“Come on, Poppy, you’re in shock. There is something wholly terrifying about seeing someone die that way.” Griff put his arm around my waist and walked me forward to the ATA mess, with Bess trotting at our heels, her long ears folded down her neck like a sad rabbit.
* * *
* * *
WE LIFTED OUR glasses. “To Edwina,” we said and drank. The silence after our toast resonated around the room like a drumroll. Long after the first sip we looked straight ahead or down at the floor.
“At least . . .” June cleared her throat, her eyes down. “At least she went doing what she did best. God, that sounds so trite.”
But if she was doing what she did best, I asked myself, why did her plane simply fall out of the sky?
I was thinking the same thing myself, darling, Ilona’s cool voice replied. Drink up, sweetie, it will do you good.
I obediently lifted my glass to my lips. I am not rightfully keen on brandy; I have no idea why anyone would want to drink it unless they were suffering from frostbite on a glacier in the Arctic: the taste is quite foul. I swallowed a small mouthful quickly. The stuff burned down my throat and clouted my fragile stomach with such a wallop, I had to stifle a gasp. But the effect, after I had inhaled a quick draft of cool air, was undeniably resuscitating. I felt my chilled body warm, and two seconds later an easing of tension as my shoulders settled themselves back below my neck, where they usually sit. Here goes, I thought, and took another mouthful.
Griff gave me a gentle pat on the back as my eyes watered. “Try not to belt it,” he whispered. My cough broke the silence: there was a babble of voices around me as the world that was Didcote tried to find normal.
Huntley put down his empty glass. It was the first time he had spoken since the crash. “I don’t want to sound callous, but we have to leave you.” He tilted his head toward Keith and me and looked at the door. “Got to do something about our film.”
“You are not going to show Edwina’s—?”
“Accident? No, of course not. The Crown Film Unit celebrate heroes, people to aspire to. We w
ant young women to see all of you and say: ‘That’s for me, that’s what I want to do.’ Right?”
We made our way to the door. “Van’s outside.” Huntley opened the door for me.
I turned around to see Griff gazing wistfully after us. “I’ll see you later, Griff, maybe for dinner at the inn?” It was the first time I had been the one to say when I would see him next. It was a good feeling. I should take the initiative more, I thought as I followed Huntley and Keith out into the last rays of the setting sun.
* * *
* * *
“I JUST TALKED to Fanny on the phone.” Huntley had repeatedly run his fingers through his hair and now it was standing up in tufts. “He was all for scrapping the film completely. I convinced him to let us see what we could do to pull something interesting and compelling out of what we have, without using Edwina’s story. He’s given us twenty-four hours. Poppy, you are our scriptwriter, what do you think?”
We were sitting in the inn’s lounge around a log fire, the boys were drinking beer, and our innkeeper, Mrs. Evans, had made me tea. I had to admit that I was grateful to be here in this snug parlor and not with the Attagirls in their barn of a mess.
“Edwina’s story was dramatic, and she was glamorous,” I said. “But she is not the only woman of the group who had adventures. In fact, all of our Attagirls have had their moments: incidents that might be just as fascinating to young girls who are ready to volunteer and think that nursing or working in a factory would just be one long round of slog. Edwina was a sensation, but the rest of them are more of the girl-next-door type; I think that is the perspective we might want to emphasize.”
Keith nodded and Huntley put down his beer. “Give us a for instance,” he said.
“All right, take June Evesham as an example. I had no idea until yesterday evening that she grew up as a working pilot and that she is a very talented aviation engineer. It was a lonely life growing up and working on an airfield in the Australian outback. Her dream wasn’t to fly; it was to travel. When her father died, she sold the business, said good-bye to Australia, and set off to discover the world. She was in Europe and North Africa in 1939, supporting herself as a travel writer. Annie told me that some of her books are in the Didcote mess library. When war broke out, she never thought of volunteering as a pilot until the ATA was formed and she was recruited. See what I mean?”
