Oh yes, very jammy. They have had a head start in this game, arriving with air licences and plenty of logbook hours paid for by Daddy, no doubt. As soon as she has her Wings, Vee will be as much a pilot as they are, but it seems to be taking her longer than the other new cadets. And since that business at Bradwell Bay nothing has gone quite right. Landings have been heavy and navigation inaccurate; too much trim at Debden, a completely wrong bearing for Ratcliffe. Even her written marks have dropped. And there is no good reason for any of it, except that she finds herself looking out, all of the time, for fighters from 302 Squadron.
Another cold blast and Sonia appears from the doorway; hair intricately rolled, lipstick like shellac and the belt of her new jacket pulled a fraction tighter than it needs to be. Gold wings gleam above the breast pocket.
‘Sonia! Your uniform! That came quick.’
Vee does her best to maintain a congratulatory smile as Sonia joins her in the queue, trying not to beam.
‘Yes, didn’t it?’
‘From Blackstones?’
Sonia picks a loose thread from the dark blue slacks that fall in effortless folds. ‘No. From town, actually. Managed to persuade my father’s tailor to do it.’
Vee knows that Sonia doesn’t mean to sound superior, she just can’t help it.
‘Buck up, Vee, you’ll get yours soon.’
Vee nods but knows her smile is unconvincing.
‘Next!’
The shout from the Ops office lets her look down at her overnight bag and kick it along the floor as the queue moves forward.
‘Do you know where you are off to today, Vee?’
‘Another cross-country, I suppose.’ Vee shrugs and smiles at Sonia. She keeps her voice neutral. ‘What have you had since you qualified?’
‘Only an Albacore, and Tigers, of course. But I’m training on a Master now.’
‘For fighters?’
Sonia nods and does not even seem smug. How splendid she will look in her stylish navy jacket, lowering herself into the cockpit of a Spitfire. Vee can imagine Sonia pulling back the Perspex hood as if it is the driver’s door of her father’s Bentley.
They edge into the Ops office where the air is toffeed with tobacco smoke. Sonia takes a slip of paper with her name on it from a woman in a tweed suit. Another woman scratches chalk on to the movements board and a telephone trills through the clatter of typewriters. Vee puts an elbow on the high counter and listens to Captain Mills bark into the receiver.
‘A Halifax… and four Hurricanes? You must be joking. I shall have to ring you back.’
Then he slams the receiver down and returns the pipe-stem to the corner of his mouth. Staring at the paperwork in his hand, he comes back to the counter.
‘Next!’
Still he does not look up and Vee stares at the spot of white light on his high forehead. ‘Sir.’
‘Yes? Katchatourian, is it?’ The name is pronounced with an odd emphasis on the last syllable which makes Vee want to both laugh and wince. But she keeps her face blank as he glances, at last, over the top of his round-rimmed spectacles.
‘I’ve got something here…’
Papers shuffle on the counter. There is a flash of gold; embroidered feathers encircle the shining letters ATA.
Vee’s stomach flips. ‘For me?’
‘No. For the gentleman behind you.’
‘Oh.’
‘Do get your brain in gear. Of course they’re for you. And I’ve got this for you as well…’ An authorisation card comes towards Vee with her own monochrome face looking a little too pleased with itself. ‘And this…’
The white paper slip, a blue copy sheet underneath, is indented with black type. A chit. Her first.
Pilot: Katchatourian, V,
Swordfish P.4532,
Gosport to White Waltham.
Jesus Christ. A Swordfish. She has never seen one but she knows that they are big. Bigger than a Walrus, even. Captain Mills is still shuffling paper.
‘Are you sure, sir… I mean, will someone at Gosport go over the Swordfish with me?’
‘Go over it? What on earth do you mean?’
‘I haven’t…’
‘You’ve got your Ferry Pilots Notes with you?’
‘Yes.’
‘Well, you should not need to be told that those are all you need. Read the page which is clearly marked Fairey Swordfish and get on with it.’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘Except that you might not be able to get on with it just yet.’
‘Why not, sir?’
‘You’re a qualified pilot now. You tell me.’
‘Erm…’
‘What sorts of things might prevent you from flying today?’
‘A problem with the taxi plane?’
‘No…’
He taps the pipe-stem against his teeth.
‘Or enemy action on the route? If I check with Maps and Signals…’
‘Or, Third Officer Katchatourian, you could simply look out of the window?’
She slides a glance through the cross-hatch of tape on glass. It is true that the vis today is a bit iffy. Mist rises above patches of melting snow on the landing ground. But the spire of Shottesbrooke church is more or less visible through the murk.
‘I can see the church all right. Sir.’
‘So, in your judgement, you would take off in this, would you?’
‘Erm…’
‘Well?’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘And that, Katchatourian, is why it has taken you a little longer than most to get these Wings.’ He is talking with the pipe-stem in the corner of his mouth but if Vee can hear what he is saying, Sonia might too. She will not give him the satisfaction of looking round to check. ‘There is a fine line, you know, between courage and recklessness. Make sure you stay on the right side of that line.’
Vee is stung. She stiffens. ‘Yes, sir.’
‘Good.’ Captain Mills gives her a long unblinking look. ‘I’m glad that is clear. So I would find yourself a ladies’ magazine or a bridge partner for now. And hope the sky perks up soon.’
She cannot bring herself to reply. A nod will have to do. She clutches her Wings, chit and authorisation card then turns her back.
Sonia is waiting in the corridor. ‘I say, Vee! Congratulations!’
‘Thanks.’
‘Aren’t you thrilled?’
Vee nods and stuffs the scrap of fabric and gold thread inside her coat pocket. She is smarting too much to be thrilled. Achieving this goal has had her entire focus since she first saw the advert for ATA cadets in Flight magazine. But success has simply left a bad taste in her mouth.
Vee swallows. ‘I’d be rather more thrilled if there was a bit more blue sky.’
She is getting the hang of making light of everything, no matter what emotions are seething below the surface, as all the proper pilots seem to do.
Sonia picks up her bag. ‘Quite! I’ve got a Walrus from Whitchurch today, as well as a lesson in the Master. I’ll be lucky to get either of them done in this sky.’
Vee follows her into the high-ceilinged mess room where pilots sit on the unmatched chairs to shuffle cards or flap at newspapers or lean over outspread maps. The tea trolley, pushed apparently by a schoolgirl, clinks around the furniture.
Sonia takes the threadbare settee in the alcove and Vee perches on the wooden arm, tapping her foot against the floor. Across the room, the chief instructor, Captain McKay and an Australian pilot are bent over a tiny backgammon board, grey heads almost touching. They are not even keeping half an eye on the weather. Perhaps they do not expect to fly at all today and it is only a quarter to ten.
Glossy pages squeak as Sonia flicks through Country Life but she is not looking at the magazine.
‘What is he like th
en, your Polish chap?’
Vee snorts but her foot taps faster. ‘He’s not my chap. I only met him once.’
‘Yes, but you must have liked the look of him or you wouldn’t have mentioned it.’
Vee’s face wobbles into a stupid smile. ‘Oh, you know.’
She can’t even begin to put it into words without sounding soppy. But the truth is that every time she thinks of Stefan, she imagines the horizons of her world widening just as they do when she leaves the ground and takes flight.
Sonia pats Vee’s hand and drops her voice to a whisper. ‘I don’t blame you, darling. RAF pilots are so much sexier than this ATA lot.’
‘But Tony is one of “this lot”.’
‘Well, he’s an exception.’ Sonia stretches her nails, which are precisely the same shade of red as her lips, across a photograph of a wood-panelled drawing room. There is a diamond flash from her left hand. ‘Do you think Mr 302 fancies you?’
‘Goodness! How should I know?’
Vee tries to tame the muscles in her face but her smile will not stop wavering.
‘Oh Vee! Don’t be a prig. You must be used to men looking you over. Very used to it, in fact. And you must have gone a bit further with some of them than just moony looks.’
The mess, apart from their embarrassingly loud conversation, seems suddenly quiet.
Vee stands up. ‘Tea?’
‘All right. Two sugars.’
As she goes to the trolley, Vee realises that just the mention of Stefan spoken out loud has made him seem more real in her mind. She can no longer pretend to herself about the strength of her longing to see him again.
Sonia cannot be convinced that Vee has had no love life to speak of, but moony looks have been about as far as she has got. It is not as if she has never fancied men before. That was just it, they were men; chaps with moustaches and sports cars who, like her, used to hang around Hanworth aerodrome. But they never looked twice at the serious girl with the peculiar name. And Vee suspected that if she ever got close enough to one of her heroes to speak, she would not like him all that much. It was just that those aerodrome men gave off an aura of knowledge about the world, and a promise of grown-up excitement that was lacking in the boys who sometimes tailed after her.
Yet Stefan already seems to her so much more intriguing and exotic than the Hanworth men. The thought of him gives her that same queasy lilt of excitement and he did not even have a moustache. Miraculously, Stefan seemed interested in her too, although the oddness of the way he had looked at her meant that she is not entirely sure why.
She hands the teacup to Sonia.
‘So come on, Vee, spill the beans. What is he like, this Pole?’
The idiotic smile returns. ‘Don’t go on, Sonia. I don’t know if he even liked me much. He kept giving me funny looks.’
‘Funny looks? Well, that’s a sure sign.’
‘Of what?’
‘That he was mentally undressing you out of your flying overalls.’
Vee splutters her tea from the rim of the cup. ‘Shhh!’
‘Seriously. Getting those things off is a bloody nightmare.’
Vee laughs too loud and the room looks round. She takes a long drink of tea but Sonia will not let up.
‘Why don’t you track him down and find out for sure?’
‘How can I?’
‘Well, it wouldn’t be too hard to check 302’s movements. I know a few people who could help with that.’
‘I couldn’t possibly.’
‘Why not? Don’t want to look too keen?’
‘No! Well… yes.’
‘Listen, darling, the time for all of that Victorian nonsense is long gone. We none of us know what might be around the corner. So if you see something that you really want, you must grab it.’
Vee has a sudden apparition of herself pulling Stefan Bergel to her and wrapping herself around him, pressing her mouth against his. She tries to laugh but for a second she can’t quite breathe. Sonia might just be right.
Vee rolls her shoulders and catches sight of her watch. Ten twenty-five. The chit for the Swordfish seems to pulse in her pocket. For something to do she takes the empty cups to the trolley and as she puts them down, the piled crockery tinkles. But the tinkling does not seem to stop, and it is soon swallowed by a vibration of air that builds to a low rumble. Metal window frames rattle.
Vee goes to the bay window and wipes a hole in the condensation on the glass. Freddie Dunne is there too, leaning both hands on the cill as he peers up at the cloud.
Vee follows his gaze. ‘Is that the taxi plane do you think?’
Freddie does not look at her as he shakes his head. ‘Bigger than that.’ He shouts over at Captain McKay who has glanced up from his backgammon. ‘Not Jerry is it?’
Captain McKay snorts. ‘That’s a Lanc. Can’t you tell? We’re expecting one in from Sherburn.’
The rumble deepens to a roar and Vee’s ribcage judders. The Lancaster bomber must be circling, as low as the pilot dares, looking for a way through the cloud. But then the aeroplane growl lightens and fades. The pilot, whoever it is, has thought better of it.
Captain McKay is pressing fresh tobacco into his pipe. ‘Must look even worse from up there than it does from down here.’
Freddie crosses his arms. His face is unusually red for a youngish man and he has a slight limp which, Vee assumes, is why he flies for ATA rather than the RAF.
He turns to face Captain McKay. ‘I say, do you think I should go up and have a closer look? I mean I know the cloud base seems damn low, but I hear that it is pretty clear over at Langley. Perhaps if I take the Tiger up for circuit it would give us all a better idea of the actuals.’
Captain McKay does not reply. Then he gives a quick nod. ‘Go and see what Ops say.’
A few other pilots wander over to the window. There is muttering amongst the dark uniforms – men and women, young and older, British and foreign. Vee feels a hot flush of anger. If she was to suggest making a test circuit, would it be taken as proof of her recklessness? She presses her nails into her palm at the realisation that any decision she now makes as a pilot will be inhibited by Captain Mills’ ‘fine line’. Perhaps that is what he intended. Irritation makes her restless and she goes back to the alcove but cannot bear to sit down.
Then, Freddie Dunne comes back into the mess with a parachute pack hanging from his shoulder and goggles already over his eyes. As he picks up his gloves, he shouts out, to no one in particular.
‘Captain Mills thinks it a capital idea.’
Vee folds her arms as vexation pulses through her. Capital? Does he, indeed? Clearly, Freddie fits into the pilot-shaped template in Captain Mills’ estimation better than Vee ever can.
‘Bon voyage, Freddie!’ Sonia calls over to him as she stands to adjust her jacket. ‘Why don’t we all go outside and cheer him on?’
Vee shrugs but follows Sonia into the raw breeze. Several other pilots are bored enough to come with them and at the edge of the paved roadway, Vee steps up on to the long, low wall alongside a couple of South African pilots and Frank Spratley who before the war worked in a car showroom in Birmingham. They all want to know how Freddie will get on, and they are all, Vee thinks, annoyed with themselves for not making the same suggestion first.
She puts her hands in her trouser pockets and hunches her shoulders as she looks at the sky. A brooding cloud flows into the distance. Grey rain drapes the horizon and patches of melting snow give off spectral yellowy light. Nothing looks quite real.
Just across the holding bay, a mechanic tugs again at a Tiger’s blade. The engine stutters but does not take. There is a whiff of coal smoke as well as petrol in the breeze. Vee shivers on to her toes and wishes she could be strapped into that cockpit with everyone watching. She would make sure to get it right.
Finally, puffs of blac
k smoke belch from the Tiger’s nose and the plane bumps over the grass, skirting the grid of chocked aircraft. But then it idles so long at the head of the strip that Frank Spratley takes his cigarette out of his mouth.
‘What ho? Has he changed his mind?’
The South African first officer shrugs theatrically. ‘Perhaps three feet off the ground is as high as he dares!’
But their laughter is buried by a thin wail as the Tiger sets off then rises into the jaundiced air. Vee follows its slow corkscrew towards the ceiling of cloud.
Spratley’s cig goes back into his mouth. ‘Rather him than me.’
The engine’s thrum fades as the plane arcs away and for a moment Vee can’t tell if there is an echo. But then she realises that there is another engine in the sky, one with a deeper, more insistent register.
Sonia has heard it too. ‘Is that the taxi plane coming in?’
Spratley shakes his head. ‘Single engine. Mark Nine Spit, at a guess.’
They all fall silent, eyes and ears straining at the low cloud. Spratley’s cigarette bounces up and down as he speaks. ‘And they’re on the same circuit. Which is not the brightest idea in the world…’
The first officer steps off the wall as a pair of wheels break through the grey vapour, and then a swoop of curved wings.
‘Damn it, Spratley, you’re right! A Mark Nine.’
But in a blink, the Tiger Moth is also there, dropping just below the Spitfire. Both planes are on the same trajectory to the landing strip. Vee feels herself inside a wave of other pilots as they lurch together off the wall. The planes pass each other, and for a second, time seems both to freeze and to lengthen.
Spratley points his cigarette into the air. ‘Did they touch? My God, it looked that way.’
For some reason, Vee starts to run. By the time she reaches the edge of the mown strip, both planes have made a hasty landing and are travelling across the grass in opposite directions.
As soon as the Tiger comes to a stop, Freddie bounds out and strides towards the buildings. He flings off his helmet and goggles as he passes Vee.
When We Fall Page 4
