Spitfire Girl

by Lily Baxter

  Her only thanks for taking a tray of tea to the shelter was a scolding from her employer. Mrs Kemp emerged from the Anderson, her head bristling with curlers and her face naked and pale without makeup. She glared at Susan. ‘Why aren’t you dressed, girl? What would the neighbours think if they saw you parading round the garden in your nightclothes?’

  ‘I’m sorry, madam,’ Susan said meekly. ‘Miss Pamela asked me to fetch tea.’

  ‘Don’t blame my daughter. For goodness’ sake make yourself decent.’ Mrs Kemp snatched the tray and disappeared into what looked like the bowels of the earth.

  At that moment Susan could quite happily have filled the hole in with soil and left them there to rot, but she merely sighed and trudged back to the house. Thank you did not seem to be words in Mrs Kemp’s vocabulary, but after four years of waiting hand and foot on the family Susan had become resigned to being treated like a serf. One day, she thought, I’ll pack up and go. It was just a question of where and when.

  She went to her room and put on the hated brown dress, which would have made the most beautiful woman in the world look dowdy. She brushed her fair hair until it shone and secured it in a snood before pinning the cap to her head. Fastening her apron round her waist she gave Charlie a final pat before leaving him once again. He attempted to follow her but she placed him on the bed with a firm instruction to stay there until she returned. Of course he did not understand a word she said, but there was little else she could do. She hurried to the kitchen and began preparing breakfast.

  Despite the carnage and destruction of part of the city, life went on as normal in the Kemp household. Having complained that the porridge was lumpy and the toast not done to her liking, Mrs Kemp retired to the drawing room where she spent most of her time perched on the window seat, watching the world go by, or seated in an armchair by the fireplace reading back copies of the National Geographic Magazine and Woman’s Journal.

  Pamela left early to open up the small bookshop in Swiss Cottage where she was manageress, and after a leisurely breakfast Virginia set off for the golf club. Having inherited a small annuity from her father, she had no need to go out and earn her living. She had let it be known that she was unofficially engaged to Dudley Thomson and was soon to be married, although Susan often wondered if Virginia had let him in on the secret. Dapper, urbane and suffering from flat feet and asthma, Dudley Thomson had been declared unfit for military service. He was assistant manager in the local branch of the Westminster Bank, and rather fancied himself as a ladies’ man. After a distressing episode when he tried to kiss her under the mistletoe last Christmas and had allowed his hands to wander to her breasts and buttocks, Susan took care never to be left alone in his company. Even so, her obvious antipathy to him seemed to have little effect on Dudley’s ego. When he visited the house, which was too often for her liking, he treated her with cheerful bonhomie, adding the occasional pat on her bottom as confirmation of their close friendship. She suffered in silence, knowing that any attempt to denounce him would simply stir up trouble in the household. She suspected that he had put Pamela through a similarly humiliating experience, as she blushed whenever she saw him, and she too avoided being left alone in his company. That, in Susan’s book, could not have been a coincidence. Given half a chance, she suspected that Dudley would have made a play for the younger, prettier sister, but Virginia had seen him first and her claw-like fingernails were firmly dug into her prey. Dudley might wriggle like a rabbit caught up in a hawk’s talons, but he was well and truly hooked. Susan could only hope they would live unhappily ever after.

  The breakfast table cleared and the washing-up done, she was free to get on with her chores. She began by making beds and slopping out chamber pots, which the family still insisted on using even though there was a perfectly good lavatory on the first floor adjacent to the bathroom. She dusted the rooms and swept the floors with the Ewbank carpet sweeper. It was not her day to polish the heavy mahogany furniture in the dining room, or to blacklead the range, but she needed to go shopping for groceries.

  She had found an old bicycle that had lain neglected and rusting in the garden shed for years, and she had resurrected it. Now cleaned up, polished, oiled and with tyres inflated, it was a useful means of getting about, although Mrs Kemp made it clear that it was not to be used for recreational purposes. There was to be no gallivanting about on Susan’s days off, such as trips to Hampstead Heath or further afield. Walking was good for one; it developed the leg muscles and deep breathing helped the circulation and kept the heart strong. Susan often wondered why Mrs Kemp never took her own advice. She rarely left the house and even then it was usually by taxi unless she was accompanying Virginia and Dudley on one of their jaunts into the countryside in his motor car. Mrs Kemp still believed in chaperoning her girls, even though Virginia was pushing twenty-four and Pamela had just attained her majority. Sometimes, but not very often, Susan actually felt sorry for them, but then she remembered Virginia’s caustic comments and Pamela’s constant carping, and her sympathy evaporated like morning mist.

  It was late afternoon by the time Susan finished shopping. She had queued for hours, first at the baker’s and then at the butcher’s. She had waited in line at Waitrose for their meagre rations of butter, cheese and bacon at one counter, and at another for tea, sugar and biscuits. Mrs Kemp insisted on having a digestive or a custard cream with her cup of tea, and Pamela had a sweet tooth; she was addicted to chocolate and missing her pre-war habit of eating at least one bar of Cadbury’s fruit and nut every day. Pamela at the best of times was not a happy soul, and deprived of chocolate she became positively suicidal.

  Susan emerged from the greengrocer’s carrying a string bag filled with potatoes and a large Savoy cabbage. The basket on her bike was already full, and she had to balance carefully as she set off with the string bag hanging from the handlebars. She was vaguely aware that a large red ball had rolled into the road just ahead of her, but she did not see the small child who ran after it until too late. She applied the brakes sharply, skidded and fell off amidst a shower of King Edwards, which went rolling into the gutter to join the ball and the cabbage. Howling piteously, the little boy ran to his mother.

  ‘Are you all right?’

  Nursing a scraped elbow and a bruised ego, Susan struggled to her feet aided by a helping hand. ‘I’m fine, thanks.’

  ‘You’re bleeding.’ The young man, wearing what Susan took to be RAF uniform, pulled a clean white hanky from his trouser pocket and placed it gently over the injured limb. He bent down and picked up the ball, handing it to the sobbing boy’s mother. ‘You should keep that child under control, madam. He could have caused a nasty accident.’

  ‘When I want your advice I’ll ask for it, mister.’ The woman grabbed her son by the scruff of the neck, slapped him round the legs and dragged him into the nearest shop. His yells echoed down the street.

  ‘She should have been holding his hand,’ Susan said shakily. ‘The kid might have been run over.’

  ‘Are you sure you’re okay?’

  ‘Yes, thanks. I’m fine, just a bit sore.’ She lifted the bike, glancing ruefully at the front tyre. ‘It looks as if I’ve got a puncture.’

  ‘This might sound like a line, but my old man’s got a cycle shop in the next street.’ He grinned, and his hazel eyes twinkled.

  Susan leaned the bike against a lamp post and bent down to retrieve the vegetables from the gutter. ‘Thanks, but I’ve got to get home.’

  The sudden wailing of the air raid siren was followed by the sound of running feet as people hurried to take shelter. Taking the string bag from her, the young officer helped her pick up the last of the potatoes.

  ‘My dad really does own a shop round the corner. We’ve got a shelter in the back yard. Come on.’ Without waiting for her to answer, he thrust the bag into her hand and taking the bicycle handlebars he started pushing it in the opposite direction.

  Susan was left with no alternative but to follow him. She kn
ew the cycle shop well, having spent much of her hard-earned wages on bits and pieces for the bicycle, but she was still suspicious. Mrs Kemp had imposed a curfew on her from the start and she was not allowed out after eight o’clock in the evening, making it almost impossible for her to mix with people her own age or to have a boyfriend. Mrs Kemp had made it clear that she frowned on young women having followers, and that included her daughters. Pamela dutifully obeyed her mother’s rules, but Virginia took pleasure in flouting them.

  Susan quickened her pace in order to keep up with him. ‘It’s probably a false alarm,’ she said anxiously. At this moment she was more concerned with what Mrs Kemp would say if dinner was late than she was about getting caught in an air raid. And then there was Charlie. He might start whimpering or scratching on the door. ‘They don’t drop bombs this far from the docks,’ she added breathlessly.

  ‘John Lewis store bought a packet recently. Baker Street caught one too, and Pimlico.’

  ‘I ought to go straight home.’

  ‘Don’t worry; my intentions are quite honourable, young lady.’ His chuckle was infectious and he hurried on despite her protests.

  All around them people were scurrying towards the public shelter and the entrance to the tube station. The blood-curdling sound of the air raid warning echoed through the rapidly emptying streets, and the sense of urgency and panic was infectious. It was a relief when they came to a halt in front of the cycle shop, but Susan was still wary. It seemed a humble place for a young officer to call home, but her new friend did not hesitate. He pushed her bike down a side entry and opened a gate leading into a back yard. They arrived just as a bald-headed man emerged from the building carrying a mug of tea. His lined features creased into a delighted smile. ‘Hello, Tony. This is a nice surprise. I wasn’t expecting you until later.’

  Susan was well acquainted with Mr Richards and he turned to her with a friendly smile. ‘Hello, love. Bike come to grief again, has it? Or has my boy been touting for business on my behalf?’

  ‘Nothing of the sort, Dad. She had a bit of an accident and the front tyre’s got a puncture.’ Tony hugged his father, causing him to slop tea onto the concrete. ‘But never mind that now. Let’s get you into the shelter.’ He held his hand out to Susan. ‘Come on, Miss … sorry, I don’t know your name.’

  Susan hesitated. For the first time in her life she was faced with an attractive young man who was treating her like a grownup. She was desperate for him to think well of her, but he was an officer and she was little more than a skivvy. All the doubts and insecurities she had suffered in the past came flooding back to spoil the moment. She was a nobody. She had been unwanted and unloved. Banks was the surname of the policeman who had found her abandoned on the steps of a Methodist chapel. The only identification she had possessed was a piece of paper pinned to her shawl with SUSAN printed on it in pencil. ‘It’s just Susan,’ she murmured. ‘How do you do?’

  ‘Tony Richards. How do you do, just Susan? I take it you do have another name.’

  She took a deep breath. She was desperate for him to think well of her. ‘Of course.’ She forced her lips into a smile. ‘It’s Kemp. Susan Kemp.’

  Chapter Two

  She had told a whopper. She could almost feel the hand of God about to strike her down, but she had done it now. She had stolen her employer’s name and claimed to be a member of the family who despised her. She eyed Tony doubtfully, wondering if he had seen through the lie, but he was smiling.

  ‘Hello, Susan Kemp. I’m delighted to make your acquaintance.’ He took her by the hand. ‘I’ve a feeling this is the start of a beautiful friendship.’

  ‘Never mind the sweet talk,’ Mr Richards said, shaking his head. ‘You’ll be a goner if the Jerries drop a bomb on Swiss Cottage and you’re standing here acting like Beau Geste.’

  Susan looked from one to the other. ‘Who’s Beau Geste?’

  ‘It’s a great movie.’ Tony ushered her into the shelter. ‘I saw it in Southampton last week. Maybe you’d like to come and see it with me, if it’s still on locally?’

  Susan blinked as her eyes grew accustomed to the half-light. She took a seat close to the entrance. ‘Maybe. But I hardly know you.’

  He sat down beside her. ‘There’s only one way to remedy that, Susan.’

  She cast an anxious glance at his father, but Mr Richards was busy polishing his spectacles on the tail of his shirt. ‘Are you home on leave?’ she asked by way of changing the subject.

  ‘He’s a pilot,’ Mr Richards said proudly, without giving his son a chance to speak. ‘A First Officer in the Air Transport Auxiliary.’

  Tony shook his head. ‘I’m a flying instructor, Dad. There’s a difference.’

  ‘He’s still a pilot,’ Mr Richards said proudly. ‘You’d be flying sorties if it hadn’t been for that back injury.’

  Tony shrugged his shoulders. ‘It’s much better than it was after the crash landing,’ he said casually. ‘I’m more or less back to normal, although it’s bad enough to prevent me from being aircrew.’

  ‘You’re a real pilot,’ Susan said, gazing at him in awe.

  He grinned. ‘I earned my pilot’s licence before the war. Flying was always a passion of mine, so now I teach.’

  ‘And you’re alive.’ Mr Richards huffed on the lenses of his glasses and gave them an extra polish. ‘You might not be here today if you’d still been flying a Wellington. You’re doing a fine job as it is.’ He cleared his throat noisily.

  ‘It must be amazing to fly a plane,’ Susan said, changing the subject. She could see that Mr Richards was embarrassed by his overt show of emotion. ‘Just to be up there in the sky, free as a bird; I can’t think of anything more exciting. I’m sure your work is vital.’

  Tony pulled a face. ‘It is, I suppose, but it’s not glamorous. I train pilots to fly all types of aircraft for the Air Transport Auxiliary, and that’s all I can tell you, I’m afraid. The rest is classified.’

  ‘It’s still really thrilling,’ Susan said, clasping her hands together in genuine admiration. ‘I think it’s wonderful.’

  Mr Richards put his glasses on and stood up. ‘There you are, Tony. You’ve got another admirer besides your old dad. Speaking selfishly, I’d rather have a live son than a dead hero.’ He paused, cocking his head. ‘That sounds like the all clear. Must have been a false alarm. I’d best get back to the shop. This war’s costing me a fortune in lost business.’ He stepped outside, pausing on the threshold. ‘Give me ten minutes or so and I’ll have your bike fixed, Susan.’

  ‘No, really. I don’t want to take up your valuable time,’ she protested, jumping to her feet. ‘I really should go home. I can push the bike and bring it back tomorrow or the day after.’ She did not want to admit that she could not pay for the repairs. She had not a penny to her name until Friday when Mrs Kemp somewhat grudgingly paid her wages.

  ‘Don’t worry, ducks,’ Mr Richards said, patting her on the shoulder. ‘It won’t take me long. I could mend a puncture in my sleep.’ He had gone before Susan could think of a valid excuse for leaving.

  Tony stood up and stretched. ‘Let’s get out of here. I hate these damned places. I’d almost rather take my chances out there than spend the night in here.’

  Susan needed no second bidding. She stepped outside, taking a deep breath of frost-laden air. ‘I feel exactly the same. I hate being underground.’

  ‘It seems we’ve got a lot in common.’ He followed her out into the back yard which was littered with empty crates, piles of rubber tyres and skeletons of bicycles, some without wheels, and others minus their saddles. ‘It’s a bike graveyard,’ he said, following Susan’s gaze. ‘I’ll have a bit of a clear-up for my dad while I’m home. He’s got enough to do with running the shop and looking after himself.’

  ‘Does he live on his own?’

  ‘Mum died when I was ten. It was a hit and run accident. They never caught the driver.’

  ‘I’m sorry. That must have been awful for b
oth of you.’

  ‘I saw it happen. One minute she was holding my hand as we crossed the road and the next …’ He turned his head away. ‘It was twelve years ago. Sometimes I have difficulty in remembering her face.’ He shot her a sideways glance. ‘That’s terrible, isn’t it?’

  She slipped her hand into his, giving his fingers a gentle squeeze. ‘Not really. You were very young.’

  ‘You’re a nice girl, Susan Kemp.’ He met her gaze with a serious look in his hazel eyes. ‘How old are you, if you don’t mind my asking? I’m twenty-two and I wouldn’t want to be accused of cradle-snatching.’

  ‘I’m eighteen.’ She felt a hot blush rise to her cheeks and she withdrew her hand. Was he flirting with her? She had no experience in this sort of thing and already she was out of her depth. She backed towards the gate. ‘I really do have to go now.’

  ‘Wait. You’ve forgotten your shopping.’ He disappeared into the shelter and came out again holding up the string bag. ‘This is heavy. I’ll walk you home.’

  ‘There’s no need, honestly.’ She unlatched the gate that led into the passageway. ‘I’ll go and see if your dad’s finished with my bike.’ She headed for the front of the shop with Tony close on her heels.

  ‘I haven’t said anything to upset you, have I, Susan?’

  ‘No. Not at all. I just have to get home to Charlie.’ She had spoken without thinking and the moment the words left her lips she regretted them.

  ‘Who’s Charlie? Your boyfriend?’

  She had already lied about her name; another little fib would make no difference. ‘Yes,’ she said, taking the easy way out. ‘That’s right.’

  ‘Then I suppose taking you to the pictures is out of the question.’

  She had reached the shop entrance and she hesitated. ‘I’m afraid so.’

  ‘Fair enough.’ Tony opened the door and held it for her. ‘But I’ll still see you home. This bag is heavy and we don’t want you taking another tumble. You might not be so lucky next time.’