Sisters at War

by Milly Adams

  She stopped, and sent Wendy and Cissie on. ‘I’ll talk to Timmo,’ she said. She returned to the car. ‘If you’re coming, come, Timmo. If you’re not, bugger off and never come back.’

  He came, slouching into the church behind her. She pointed to the rear pew. ‘Wait for us there, if you would.’ She smiled, and leaned forward, hating the smell of his Brylcreem. ‘If you touch one hair of Wendy’s head from now on, you won’t live, let me tell you that. Do I make myself quite clear? I have friends as well as you and you might think you’re tough, but take a look at this lot. See the merchant seamen, the pilots.’ She turned, and he scanned the guests. ‘They’ll cut you into pieces and feed you to the pigs, especially when they know you deal in the goods they risk their lives to bring to England. See that bloke over there: he’s a fighter pilot. The other is on the fighting trawlers. They’re not good at obeying rules, but they’re good at killing. There are others, in London, friends of our local policeman. You will not be safe if you hurt that woman. Wendy will be staying tonight. You will not. Stay with Sid, for all I care. You will fetch her at ten in the morning, ready to catch the eleven o’clock train and not a moment sooner.’

  She joined April in the vestibule, kissing Cissie and then drawing Wendy to one side. ‘I’ve had a word with Timmo. He will be staying with Sid overnight, and you’ll be up in the attic, alongside the children, but in your own room. Then you can catch the eleven o’clock train tomorrow with him. A fair compromise, I believe.’

  Wendy looked nervous. ‘Is ’e mad at me?’

  ‘Why ever should he be? He’s got business with Sid so they can sort that out, probably over many illicit pints of beer.’

  She waited until the wedding march began, and then sidled into the pew next to Constable Heath, whispering to him as he stood with his wife. As they turned to see the bride moving down the aisle, she pointed out Timmo, who watched her do so. He also saw Constable Heath, who was on duty, so still in his uniform, nod in his direction.

  Gerry Heath said to Bryony, his eyes still fixed on Timmo, ‘Can’t be doing with that sort of bloody nonsense. You were right to say I know people in the big smoke. They’re on the shady side of nasty and they owe me a few favours from my days there. There’s always Tommy Templer, you know, the uncle of Stan Jones, the lad who wrote down Ben Rowan’s telephone number at Dunkirk. I know for a fact he has interesting contacts. Between ’em all, they’ll keep an eye, and make it known they are too, then it’s up to the sister whether she stays or not. In the meantime she should be safe. But, Bee, don’t get your hopes up. A lot of these lasses are tied to their pimps, sort of love ’em, it seems.’

  The music had stopped. Gerry Heath looked to the front. Bryony did not. Her gaze held Timmo’s and his was the first to fall. It was only then that she concentrated on the service. Now it was up to Wendy, and there was nothing at all she could do about that.

  Later on the terrace she stood with her uncle. His arm over her shoulder, he said, ‘It will be all right. He’ll come home.’

  She leaned into him. ‘I’m not a child. You can’t say that, any more than I can, as Cissie would say. It will be what it will be, Eddie. Everyone here knows that even in the West Country they’re not safe. How many bombs fell on Exeter just a few days ago? Nine, wasn’t it? So who knows who’s safe, who isn’t? Enjoy your marriage, Eddie. I’m sure Mum knew all along, and would approve.’

  He sighed, and tightened his grip. ‘If she did, she never spoke out, which is not something we can ever now accuse you of. Gerry Heath told me of the slight to-do with that less than delightful pimp of Wendy’s.’

  She laughed slightly. ‘I wouldn’t have said any of it if I hadn’t been sure I could keep him under surveillance. Gerry said he’d be given the warning when he was back in London. I gather it’s a conversation that involves concrete.’ She shuddered.

  Eddie laughed. ‘Well, it will keep him within what rules that world works by. Your father would be so proud of you, Bee. Not just for the ATA, but for who you are.’

  Behind them the gramophone was playing Glenn Miller, and earlier Wendy had been showing the children how to Charleston to a jazz number. Bryony replied, ‘He’d be proud and grateful to you, Uncle Eddie.’

  ‘I didn’t do a good job with Hannah, though.’ They both looked out into the darkening day. Soon the blackout would be drawn and the lights flicked on.

  ‘It’s up to her,’ she said. ‘It has been for a long while and I’ve only just realised.’

  April called to them, ‘First Officer Standing, and our newly promoted Third Officer Miller, time to join the party for the toasts, and then you youngsters can party on, Bee, while Barry Maudsley runs us to the Bear Inn. However, do not, if you don’t mind, add to that hangover as you’re on duty tomorrow. You’ll need all your wits about you. I’ve had a word with the other two girls too. And now, we’re off, Eddie Standing, because you need to be on the milk train with the girls.’

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Bryony, Trixie and Joyce arrived at the ferry pool at 8 a.m. the next day, having only just caught the milk train, and as they leaned their bikes against the brick wall, the girls promised themselves they would never drink home-made wine ever again.

  Trixie groaned, and nodded, ‘The after-effects hang about so. You have my permission to shoot me if I ever dare so much as moot the idea.’

  ‘You’re on,’ Bryony laughed. Joyce was beavering ahead of them, clutching her cap, which threatened to blow into worlds unknown. One of the reasons Joyce had loathed flying the Tiger Moths was the damage the open cockpits did to her hair, because some always escaped their helmets and the ends dried and split.

  They headed for the common room. As always, some of the pilots were smoking, some reading, some playing cards. Joyce grabbed the remaining armchair, offering an arm each to Trixie and Bryony. ‘So generous,’ Trixie muttered, nudging Joyce. ‘Don’t worry, you’re not bald yet. It will come though with all the primping and preening you do. Leave it alone, for pity’s sake.’

  Bryony drew from the pocket the folded sheet of paper and pencil. She finished off her note to Adam, then sauntered to the table, whispering to Katherine, one of the card players, as she played an ace.

  ‘Pen?’ Katherine nodded towards the pen lying next to her mug of coffee. Now Bryony pulled out an equally folded and crumpled envelope, and wrote his service number and address. Somehow her letters always found him, and his found her. She always flew with his last one in her pocket, as well as the plasticine in the matchbox. It kept him close.

  Over at the end of the room, the hatch on the counter flew open and they were called to pick up their ferry-chits. ‘Come and get ’em.’

  The queue formed quickly, and dispersed as quickly, with Eddie arriving in the nick of time, having cadged a lift from a friend of Barry Maudsley who was doing a delivery to the area. At the counter Bryony whispered, ‘After you missed the train, I didn’t think you’d make it, and you could have had an extra day.’

  He grinned. ‘Maybe, but we need everyone at the moment. April understands.’ Bryony dropped her envelope into the box on the hatch. Someone would deliver it to the mailbox. She wasn’t sure who, just a someone who should be given a medal for making life easier for them all. She checked her chits, grabbed her parachute, helmet, and a small holdall with cash, knickers and a book, just in case there was any hanging around.

  She joined the others as they half ran out to one of the milk-run taxis. She was destined for Katherine’s whilst Eddie hurried to David’s Anson. Bryony had three flights. The first was a twin-engine Oxford to pick up in South Wales, bound for an aerodrome near Kidlington, or in other words, from A to B, a Hurricane from B to C and a Maggie from C to D, which was in Scotland. Sometimes there was an air taxi back from D, but today Bryony would have to take the train and there was no point in trying to meet Adam because he wouldn’t be back off convoy yet.

  Her thoughts jogged along with the parachute that banged against her side as she ran t
o the Anson, scrambling up and shoving in close to Trixie.

  ‘Welcome, Bee’s big bum,’ Trixie muttered.

  ‘Go and wash your mouth out with soap.’ Bee drew out Adam’s letter. She was word perfect but loved his chaotic handwriting. Part of the joy was deciphering it. ‘Each read an adventure,’ she said. Trixie nodded, reading her letter from Brian.

  They were taxiing for take-off as Joyce lamented, ‘Just when are we going to ferry operational aircraft?’

  Bernice, sitting on the other side of the aisle, laughed, ‘Lust is a maiden’s downfall. You must wait, my dear, and who knows, the Spitfire might come to us if we stop chasing.’

  ‘Mighty big might,’ grumbled Penny as they flew in rain to South Wales, with the cloud descending all the time.

  Bryony and Penny, who had also got on the plane with Bee and Trixie, disembarked and Katherine called, ‘Remember, there’s a safety minimum, girls. No showing off today, the visibility is becoming increasingly iffy.’

  Penny protested, ‘It’s June, for goodness’ sake.’

  ‘It’s Britain,’ replied everyone in the plane, and then continued with crosswords, gossip, books or letters.

  Bryony checked the meteorology report before she took off in the Oxford, and though drizzle and low cloud were forecast for most of the route to the Oxfordshire airfield, there was a promise of improvement. The journey wouldn’t take long. She and Penny traipsed out to their aircraft, with Penny taking off five minutes ahead of her, while a mechanic tweaked one of Bryony’s Oxford engines, ‘Just a tad,’ he said as she paced slowly backwards and forwards, her parachute dragging at her shoulder.

  Bryony had learned patience, or a vestige of it anyway, and the destination aerodrome wasn’t going anywhere. The drizzle became heavier and cloaked the hills, making them look half the size but she knew there were some bloody high summits tucked away, just aching to spring a surprise. Soaked, she climbed on board into the dry, slinging her parachute on the seat and sitting on it. It gave her extra height and stopped the need to strain to see forward. She dug her maps and notes on the route from her pocket, laid them on her lap, and checked through, again.

  Finally the mechanic signalled the all-clear. The trundle to the runway across the grass felt soggy but the Oxford otherwise handled well. At least it was the aircraft’s wheels wading through it, not her boots. Was it raining on High Ground as Adam surged through the waves? Probably; it always seemed to be, according to him. She turned into the wind, checked the instruments, then the sky above and all around. All clear. She opened the throttles, checking, checking, increasing speed until she was airborne, and then she headed into the curtain of rain, which was growing denser by the second. She gained another one hundred feet, then another. Denser still. Bloody Wales.

  She peered ahead. The end of the narrow valley was hidden by cloud. Was it up and over, then? Or should she return? All right, it was iffy, but they had a schedule to keep. She opened up the throttles, pulling back the control column, forcing the old dear to climb steeply. ‘Come on, ducky, stop showing your age. If it was the hokey-cokey being played by a tall, dark and handsome, you’d have your knees up in a shot.’

  She was now in dense cloud, which always frightened her. Well, she’d be irresponsible if it didn’t. She kept her eyes on her instruments, forcing her mind into neutral. She repeated the route in her mind, and the height of the hills. ‘Constancy, Mrs Oxford, that’s what we need. Just let’s fly at a constant. That’s what Hannah doesn’t understand.’ She was surprised at herself. What was Hannah doing in here with her?

  She checked her rate of climb. Again she thought of Hannah. Was she happy with her German? Was she happy on an island where she had chosen the enemy above her own family? Were people treating her well? What about Uncle Thomas and Aunt Olive, did they ever interfere? Had her mother approved? Perhaps; one never knew with her mother. Was the German kind to Hannah? Something twisted in Bryony’s heart. Well, Hannah, I hope he is, and that it’s all worth it.

  She continued to pull back, and back, on the control column, feeling the Oxford beginning to protest but then she burst out into the sun, with the Oxford’s shadow darting along the top of the cloud. She checked her watch, working out the ETA, and knew that soon she should be landing. But if not at the exact airfield, there would be somewhere else, as long as she had fuel, and she had plenty.

  Heading south-west, away from the hills and the barrage balloons, she throttled back and put the nose down, descending steadily through the cloud. She kept one eye on her instruments, the other on her path through the density. The visibility should have improved, or perhaps she should have headed for the Bristol Channel? No hills on the sea. It always made Adam laugh when she said that. She wondered if Eddie was on her route today, or heading north. He could have had another day with his wife but no one took an extra day if it could possibly be helped. Poor April.

  One thousand. Seven hundred. The cloud would end soon, and at five hundred it did. She was spot on, coming into the airfield from the south. There was another plane, a Hudson, coming down out of the clouds ahead and to the north of her. As she looked, it waggled its wings. ‘It’s Eddie, you dear old Oxford. He must have been on a different taxi.’

  She patted her control column, laughing. He always waggled his wings when he came out of cloud. She waggled back. They sometimes met like this, but not often. He was ahead of her so she pulled her nose up, to indicate he was to land first. He waggled again. She smiled, and circled round, and came in behind him. As she did, she saw a Maggie turning on to the runway preparatory to take-off, just as Eddie came round into the wind. She snatched a look back at the Maggie. It seemed to be holding hard, and giving way, as it should, because any incoming had the runway. ‘That’s right,’ she said aloud, ‘hold hard.’

  Instead, out of nowhere, the Maggie suddenly gained speed, roaring along the runway and she screamed a warning, glancing from the Maggie to Eddie, who had already committed to the landing. As she watched, Eddie took evasive action but too late. Surely it was all too late. She didn’t breathe as he hauled the Hudson around, trying to find lift. ‘Go on, for God’s sake, go on,’ she urged.

  She throttled back, held her course, seeing – as clear as day – Cissie running across in front of her lovely Dragonette. She shook her head, and there was the bloody Maggie pulling away, gaining height, while Eddie, in the Hudson, was left clawing, clawing, then, as she watched, one of the Hudson’s engines sputtered and died. A wing dipped, and the Hudson slowly, so slowly fell from the sky, cartwheeled, and crashed on to the airfield. ‘No!’ she shrieked. ‘No. No.’

  The Maggie flew on. It should be rammed. Instead she brought the Oxford into the wind, descending, descending, copybook, through the oily smoke, Eddie’s smoke. Her legs were trembling, her hands shaking. The fire engines were racing, the ambulance too. She shouldn’t be landing. She should abort and find somewhere else but there was nowhere else when Eddie was down. She landed, taxied off the runway on to the grass, out of everyone’s way. The mud caught and threatened to tip the aircraft. She released the brake, and then applied it gently, and with the help of the mud the plane stopped. She threw open the cockpit, ripping off her helmet and racing across the grass, running faster than she’d ever run in her life.

  The ambulance was there before her, and the fire engine.

  She pushed, shoved and kicked her way through the gathering crews. Someone grabbed her. ‘Hey, what’s your game?’ She wrenched free and carved her way to the front. Eddie was on the grass. He’d been thrown yards from the Hudson, which was a crumpled mess on the grass, the muddy, soggy, wonderful bloody grass. He stood a chance because the ground would have absorbed some of the impact. She was beside him. Someone pulled her away. She shrieked, ‘He’s my Uncle Eddie! He’s my uncle, let me bloody well go!’

  They saw her uniform and let her go. She screamed at the squadron leader who was leaning over Eddie. ‘You should train your bloody pilots. That Maggie didn’t look before t
ake-off. You’re a bunch of bloody incompetents, Neanderthals, and bloody murderers.’

  She sank down beside Eddie, taking his hand. The medic working on him looked up and grinned. ‘Tough old bugger then, your uncle, bit like you, I reckon. He damn well bounced, and then near drowned in the mud. Ask him how he is, why don’t you, and give the boss a break?’ She looked at him, astonished, and then down at Eddie, who lay mud-covered but with eyes half open. ‘Do stop shouting, Bee. I’ve the worst hangover ever,’ he murmured.

  She burst into tears, and the medic took the opportunity to tell her that Eddie’d live, that he had a broken arm, a broken wrist, probably a pelvic injury and she should let her uncle’s hand go so they could get the old bugger onto a stretcher. ‘It’s time he retired.’

  Bryony nodded, wiping her face on her sleeve. ‘He got married yesterday. He will retire, or if he doesn’t one of us will drive a stake through his heart, which should just about bring him to his senses.’

  The medic roared with laughter. ‘Is it worth me sending him to hospital, or shall I just give you a hammer, and there are several stakes in that fence over there. It’d save us all a lot of bother.’ He nodded towards the perimeter fence.

  Eddie said, ‘Can I interrupt the pair of you? Would you get me to a hospital, Oxford would be good, anywhere quick. I swear I will retire, so you can leave the stakes and the hammer where they are. Come on, Bee, you have your day to finish but before you go, telephone April. Perhaps they can stay at Pearl’s.’ As she watched, he passed out.

  The medic nodded at the ambulance. They carried over the stretcher. ‘As I said, tough old bugger. I’ll get him to Oxford. Catch up with him there. He’s not out of the woods, but I’d place a firm bet on him surviving.’