Spitfire Girl

by Lily Baxter

  She murmured something beneath her breath as she entered the shop. She would have refused outright, but she sensed that his over-protective attitude might have something to do with his mother’s tragic death. Perhaps seeing her sprawled on the road had triggered unhappy memories. It was hard to imagine how he must have felt when he saw his mother mown down in front of him. She struggled to put the image of a bereft ten-year-old boy from her mind as she approached the counter. ‘How’s it going, Mr Richards?’

  ‘Almost done.’ He took the cigarette from his mouth and placed it in an ashtray. ‘There you are, ducks. As good as new.’ He lifted the hatch and wheeled the bike out.

  ‘How much do I owe you?’ Susan asked anxiously.

  ‘That’s all right, love. No charge.’

  ‘It doesn’t seem fair.’

  He smiled. ‘We’ve had the pleasure of your company in the Anderson shelter; that’s payment in itself, Susan.’

  She was about to protest but Tony took the handlebars and started towards the door. ‘Don’t worry, he’ll probably charge you double next time.’

  ‘Cheeky young blighter,’ his father said fondly. ‘Hope to see you again soon, Susan.’

  ‘Yes. Thank you for mending my bike.’ Susan leaned over the counter and kissed him on the cheek. He smelt of cigarette smoke, Brylcreem and lubricating oil. He was nice, she decided. If she could pick someone out of the blue to be her father, it would be a man like Mr Richards; kindly, generous and loving. She had seen precious little of any of those qualities since she had been taken in by the Kemps. She turned away and realised that Tony was watching her with a smile of approval.

  ‘Come on, Susan. We mustn’t keep Charlie waiting.’ His tone was neutral but she found herself wishing that she had not told such a preposterous untruth.

  They walked along in silence for a while. Susan was trying desperately to think of something to say by way of explanation, but she had given Charlie a human persona and it would sound childish if she were to admit that she had simply panicked. It would lead to all sorts of questions about her family and she would be forced to tell him that she had lied about her name. She had dug herself into a pit of deception and there seemed to be no way out.

  ‘Tell me about your job,’ she said in desperation. ‘The bits that aren’t classified, of course.’

  ‘It’s quite simple,’ he said easily. ‘We take volunteers who already have a pilot’s licence and at least two hundred hours’ flying time and train them to fly anything from a Gypsy Moth to a four-engine bomber.’

  ‘And you teach women as well as men?’

  ‘I don’t at the moment. The women ATA pilots are stationed at White Waltham, but I believe they do a damn fine job.’

  ‘And do they fly Spitfires?’

  He met her eager look with a smile. ‘Is that your favourite?’

  ‘I should say so. Not that I know much about aeroplanes,’ she added hastily. ‘But I’ve read about them in magazines and the newspapers. Spitfires have such a lovely shape.’ She felt herself blushing again. ‘I suppose that sounds silly.’

  ‘Not at all. I think they’re amazing.’ He eyed her curiously. ‘Is Charlie interested in flying?’

  Stifling the urge to giggle at the thought of a puppy with wings like a bird, Susan shook her head. ‘No. He’s a feet on the ground sort of chap.’

  ‘What does he do? I mean, is he in one of the armed forces?’

  ‘No.’ She hesitated, thinking quickly. ‘There are physical reasons why he can’t be.’

  ‘I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to pry.’

  He sounded so embarrassed that Susan wished she had never started the conversation in the first place. She came to a halt outside the Kemps’ house. ‘This is where I live, Tony.’ She held out her hand to take the bag of vegetables from him. ‘Thanks for everything. I hope you enjoy your leave.’

  He hooked the string bag over the handlebars, staring in awe at the imposing frontage. ‘This makes our flat above the shop look like a doll’s house.’

  ‘I’m sure your home is very cosy.’ At a loss for anything better to say, Susan held out her hand. ‘Thanks, again.’

  He shook it solemnly. ‘It was a pleasure.’ He pulled a notebook from his jacket pocket, and a fountain pen. Taking the cap off, he scribbled something on the pad. ‘If you and Charlie are ever in Hamble, I can recommend some good pubs. The Bugle puts on a super lobster dinner, or you can sit and look out at the water in the King and Queen or the Victorious. It’s a pretty little place, even in wartime, and you’ll see plenty of Spitfires. I’ve written down the phone number of the Victorious. The landlord’s a good sort and he’ll pass on any messages.’

  Susan took the paper from him. She knew she would never go there, but it sounded like heaven. ‘Thanks, Tony. If Charlie and I are ever down that way we’ll definitely be in touch.’ She pocketed the slip. ‘Goodbye, and take care of yourself.’

  He tipped his cap. ‘It was nice meeting you, Susan.’

  She watched him as he walked away, and a feeling of sadness almost overwhelmed her. She had met a man that she really liked and she had made a dreadful mess of things. Not only had she lied about her name and made herself seem more important than she really was, but she had let him think that a yellow ball of fur was a human being. She hurried up the side entrance that led into the garden. She stowed the bike in the shed and headed for the back door. She opened it, hoping and praying that Charlie’s presence had not been discovered.

  She was met by the ferocious jangling of the bell labelled Drawing room. She sighed. Mrs Kemp would be demanding afternoon tea, and she had not had time to bake scones. It would have to be bread with just a scraping of butter and a generous amount of jam, which thankfully had not yet been rationed. Susan took off her raincoat and hurried to the drawing room to face her employer’s wrath. She paused by the hall table to straighten her cap, checking her appearance in the mirror situated on the wall just above the Buddha’s head. Her heart sank as she recognised the unmistakeable cut-glass tones of Mrs Kemp’s friend, Mrs Girton-Chase. Mrs Kemp never missed an opportunity to show off in front of this particular guest, whose family tree was rumoured to go back to William the Conqueror, although she now lived in a home for retired gentlefolk overlooking Regent’s Park. Susan thought privately that Mrs Girton-Chase’s illustrious family were probably glad to get rid of the old witch. She braced herself to knock on the door and enter.

  Mrs Kemp glared at her. ‘Where have you been, girl? And why aren’t you wearing the correct uniform?’

  Her chance meeting with Tony and her concern for Charlie had put everything else out of her mind. Susan clasped her hands behind her back. ‘I’m sorry, madam. I’ve only just got back from the shops. I had to queue for ages and then the air raid warning went.’

  ‘Excuses,’ Mrs Girton-Chase said, shaking her head. ‘You can’t get the staff these days, Jane.’

  Mrs Kemp chose to ignore this pronouncement. She pursed her lips. ‘Change your clothes immediately, Banks. And then bring tea. I fancy scones with plenty of jam. I don’t suppose you were able to get any cream?’

  Susan reached for the doorknob. ‘No, madam.’

  ‘She should scald the milk.’ Mrs Girton-Chase pointed a gnarled finger at Susan. ‘That’s what you should do, my girl. Heat the milk to blood temperature and leave it overnight. In the morning skim off the cream. Use your initiative, if you have any.’

  ‘She doesn’t,’ Mrs Kemp said, dismissing Susan with a cursory wave of her hand. ‘Orphanage children are a lost cause, Margot. I thought I was doing my civic duty, but sometimes I wonder if it was worth all the trouble.’

  Susan left the room, closing the door behind her. She had heard it all before, but Mrs Kemp’s harsh words still had the power to hurt her. Sometimes she wanted to stamp her foot and shout at her alleged benefactor. A few home truths would not go amiss, but they would probably fall on stony ground. Mrs Kemp was convinced that she was right in everything she said and did.r />
  Susan went to check on Charlie before she did anything in the kitchen. What difference would it make in the great scale of things if Mrs Kemp had to wait an extra five minutes for her tea? Nothing mattered as much as the welfare of her small charge. She found him curled up on her bed with her woollen bedsocks for company. There were several small puddles on the linoleum but nothing worse. He opened his eyes and yawned, exposing a pink tongue and tiny pointed teeth. He wagged his stumpy tail and leapt up to greet her joyfully. She picked him up, cuddling him and whispering baby talk. She could feel his heart beating as she held his warm, soft body in her arms, and he made small whimpering noises as he licked her cheek. Reluctantly, she set him back on the bed while she changed into her black dress. He sat there watching her expectantly, and she had not the heart to leave him again so soon. She tidied her hair and secured the frilled headband before picking Charlie up and making her way to the kitchen.

  Binkie-Boo was thankfully absent. His afternoon siesta was usually taken in the drawing room with his mistress, and although she had not seen him, Susan thought he was probably ensconced in one of the armchairs. Even Mrs Girton-Chase would think twice before shooing the Siamese off any seat he chose to make his own. Binkie-Boo showed no mercy when annoyed, and sometimes he hid behind an item of furniture in order to strike out with his talons at any person unlucky enough to come into range. Susan had the scars on her legs to show for such attacks. She took Charlie out into the garden and left him to romp around on the lawn while she set about making scones and a pot of tea for two. She had a narrow escape when Virginia burst into the kitchen to announce that she and Dudley would also require tea. ‘And bring the rest of the fruitcake,’ she added as she hovered in the doorway. ‘If you’ve scoffed it I’ll be furious.’

  ‘I haven’t touched it,’ Susan said, forgetting her place in a moment of anger. ‘I don’t even like fruitcake.’

  ‘Don’t speak to me in that tone of voice, girl.’ Virginia tossed her head. ‘There may be a war on but there are plenty more like you in the orphanage who would give their eye teeth to live in a house like this.’ She swept from the room without waiting for a response.

  Susan stuck her tongue out. It was a childish gesture, but it went some way to relieve her feelings. ‘Horse-face,’ she muttered beneath her breath. ‘Stuck-up bitch.’ She thumped the dough down on the floured board and was rolling it out when the drawing room bell jingled yet again. She sighed, knowing that she could not win. Whatever she did was bound to be wrong. She would take it on the chin, as she had done for the last four years. The family might treat her like dirt, but she knew that she was better than that. One day she would walk out of the house and leave them to cope without their personal slave. It amused her to imagine them trying to look after themselves. Neither Virginia nor Pamela had even so much as washed out a pair of stockings, let alone lifted a duster. Mrs Kemp would not know a saucepan from a frying pan, and left to their own devices they would have to live on bread and cheese – just like a family of house mice. The image that conjured up made her giggle. She put the tray of scones into the oven to bake and filled the kettle. The bell rang again, twice, but she ignored it, taking her time to lay up a tray with plates, knives and cups and saucers. She took embroidered linen table napkins from the drawer, making sure that they were the small ones used only for afternoon tea or a light luncheon. Mrs Wilson, who had been cook-general until she retired, had been a kindly soul. She had taught Susan the rudiments of cooking and had shown her how to lay a place setting and how to fold table napkins for a dinner party. She had been the only person in the household who had treated her with any degree of humanity and compassion. Susan had loved Mrs Wilson and still missed her.

  While the scones were cooling, Susan went outside to find Charlie. He made ecstatic noises and bounced up to her, his eyes shining. She took him inside and gave him a bowl of bread and milk, which he demolished in seconds. She watched him anxiously. ‘I’m not sure what you should be eating, Charlie. I’ll have to go to the library and find a book about dogs,’ she told him, and at the sound of her voice he wagged his tail.

  The bell rang again and she hastily piled the warm scones onto a plate together with a dish of jam. Butter had become a luxury with only two ounces a week allowed for each person, but there was plenty of homemade blackberry jam in the store cupboard. Mrs Wilson had been delighted to pass on her knowledge of making preserves to Susan, and she had become adept at making pickles and jam, as well as baking. Cooking was something she enjoyed doing, which was more than she could say for the rest of the dreary household chores.

  She picked up the tray and took it to the drawing room.

  ‘About time too,’ Mrs Kemp said, frowning. ‘If you’d taken any longer it would be dinner time.’

  ‘You just can’t get the help these days,’ Mrs Girton-Chase reiterated. She eyed the scones. ‘I hope they’re not heavy. If they are I will suffer all night with dreadful indigestion.’

  Dudley and Virginia had been sitting side by side on the window seat, but he sprang up to take the tray from Susan. ‘Allow me, my dear,’ he said, covering her hands with his and winking. ‘I prefer a piece of crumpet myself.’

  ‘Put the tray down, Dudley.’ Virginia rose with the grace of a panther about to leap on its prey. ‘That will be all for now, Banks.’

  Susan beat a hasty retreat to the kitchen.

  There were some narrow squeaks during the next few days, but the closest happened just a week after Susan had brought Charlie home. Pamela had been sitting at her dressing table one morning, putting on a dash of lipstick, when she spotted Charlie gambolling about on the lawn, but by the time she found her glasses and put them on he had disappeared into the house. She came down for breakfast complaining that the pet rabbit belonging to the children next door must have escaped from its cage and found its way into the garden. ‘There isn’t much left for it to eat at this time of year,’ she said, munching a piece of toast. ‘But you’d better go and see if you can find it before it does any damage, Susan.’

  ‘Yes, miss.’ Susan refilled Pamela’s cup with tea. ‘Will there be anything else?’

  Pamela shook her head. ‘No, thanks. I’ve got to go now or I’ll be late opening up, and Mr Margoles is coming to do a stock-take today.’ She took a swig of tea, patted her lips on her napkin and rose from the table. ‘What’s for dinner tonight? I hope it’s not stew again.’

  ‘I don’t know, miss. I’m going to the shops this morning. Perhaps the butcher will have some sausages left, if I get there early enough.’

  ‘Do that. Leave everything and don’t wait for my lazy sister to get out of bed. Let her get her own breakfast for a change.’ Pamela grabbed her handbag and hurried from the dining room. ‘I’m counting on you, Susan,’ she called from the hallway. ‘Don’t let me down.’

  The sound of the front door opening and then closing again confirmed that she had left for work. Susan cleared the table and set places for Mrs Kemp and Virginia. They would get up when it suited them, and she would have to wait until they deigned to come to the table. It was nothing new. She was quite used to their little ways. She took the dirty crockery to the kitchen and fed what was left of Pamela’s porridge to Charlie. He lapped it up eagerly, but then hearing sounds of life in the bathroom, which was directly above them, Susan picked him up and took him to her room, exhorting him to be quiet. ‘I’ll take you out after dark,’ she promised, closing the door and locking it. As far as she knew no one ventured into her private domain, but there was always a first time. She had been living in fear of someone discovering Charlie and it had been a near thing this morning. It was fortunate that Pamela could not tell the difference between a pet rabbit and a puppy.

  An hour later, having gained permission from Mrs Kemp to do the shopping before she had completed her household chores, Susan set off on her bicycle. She queued for an hour at the butcher’s only to be told when she finally reached the counter that the last of the sausages had just been s
old, but she could have some liver and kidneys as offal was not yet rationed. She bought a pound of pig’s liver, four lamb’s kidneys, and a pound of tripe, which she loathed but Mrs Kemp liked it cooked in milk and served in an onion sauce. She went next to the greengrocer’s and was about to go on to the baker’s when she saw Mr Richards standing outside his shop. He was chatting to a prospective customer who was examining a second-hand bicycle with the air of someone who considered himself to be an expert. She was going to walk past but Mr Richards spotted her and beckoned. It would have been rude to ignore him, and she propped her bike against the shop window.

  ‘Won’t be a minute, Susan,’ Mr Richards said, taking the cigarette from his mouth and exhaling a plume of blue smoke. ‘If you’d like to wait inside the shop we can have a nice cup of tea and a chat. That is if you’ve got time.’

  She could hardly refuse without seeming churlish, and anyway she still owed him for mending the puncture. ‘That would be lovely, Mr Richards.’ She went into the shop and waited while he finished dealing with the customer, who walked off without apparently completing the purchase.

  ‘He’s thinking about it,’ Mr Richards said cheerfully as he re-entered the premises. He rubbed his hands together. ‘It’s a bit parky out there. Come through to the back, love. I could do with a cuppa, and I expect you could too. Those queues are a blooming nuisance.’ He hurried through to a small kitchen at the rear of the building and Susan followed him, making her way between racks of spare parts and bicycles, some in the process of being repaired and others obviously brand new. There was an air of ordered chaos on this side of the counter, but the tiny kitchen could definitely do with a woman’s touch. The Belfast sink was stained with tea and there was a musty smell in the air, mingling with a definite odour of sour milk. Mr Richards picked up a bottle and sniffed it, pulling a face and then tipping the semi-solid contents down the sink. ‘It goes off quickly,’ he said apologetically. ‘I’ve got some powdered milk somewhere. Would you like to fill the kettle, while I go through the cupboards?’