The Spitfire Girls

by Jenny Holmes

  She took off her hat and coat. ‘I certainly hope so. Otherwise I’m going to wake up in the morning and find it was all a dream.’

  ‘Come here,’ he said, smiling. He needed to have his arms around Mary’s waist, to touch her and breathe her in. ‘Seriously, I can hardly believe it – you here with me.’

  She stood on tiptoe to kiss him. ‘It is a kind of magic. Then again, it feels like the most natural thing in the world.’

  Cameron lifted her off her feet and swung her towards the bed. She felt light and soft and the skin on her neck was warm when he kissed it. He lowered her on to the emerald satin eiderdown then lay beside her and propped himself on one elbow. ‘What would you wish for – if you really had magical powers?’

  ‘For you not to go away.’ Mary’s reply was instant. ‘For time to stand still and for us to stay right where we are.’

  With their limbs intertwined and Cameron’s face caught in the lamplight, they shared a sense of sinking into a sublime, surprising happiness.

  They were at ease. There was no urgency as kisses lingered and caresses comforted the hurts that the world had dealt them. The harsh words of Mary’s childhood lost their grip under Cameron’s gentle fingertips, the pain of his broken engagement eased.

  ‘Shall I turn off the lights?’ he asked as Mary’s fingers undid the buttons of his shirt.

  ‘No, I like to look at you.’ She traced the line of his collarbone then laid her head against his bare chest.

  Her hair fanned out against his skin as she nestled against him. He would love her and look after her for as long as she would let him; of that Cameron was certain. She would surprise and amaze him. New ways that they learned together, hour by hour and day by day, would lead to open horizons.

  ‘Aireby is not so very far away,’ Mary murmured.

  ‘No. And I have my car.’

  ‘We’ll carry on seeing each other.’

  ‘Often.’ He held on to her and kissed her. ‘And when you’re not with me in the flesh and I’m feeling blue, remembering this moment will make me happy again.’

  Mary cried at this.

  ‘Please don’t.’

  ‘I can’t help it.’ She kissed him again. ‘These are not sad tears,’ she whispered.

  She was wondrous. The curves of her body were new and exciting and she was open with him. They belonged together.

  Mary lay beneath him. Cameron would take the lead and she would trust him not to hurt her or do her harm. It was strange and at the same time the most natural and thrilling thing – to love this man who adored her, who would go away and come back again, please God, whose eyes would come alive at the sight of her, whose kisses made her life complete.

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  ‘Angela, wake up!’ Bobbie knocked hard on the door. ‘Can you hear me?’

  ‘What is it?’ Angela crawled out of bed and struggled into her dressing gown. ‘Bobbie; is that you? I look dreadful – can you give me five minutes?’

  ‘No, Angela – I need to speak to you now.’

  Angela staggered to the door. ‘What’s happened? Has Teddy been bothering you again?’

  ‘No; Lionel’s here.’ Bobbie was all of a dither. ‘He’s downstairs. Come quickly.’

  Angela grasped the edge of the door. ‘Lionel?’ she echoed.

  ‘Yes. He’s on shore leave – in the library, waiting for you.’ Bobbie had been making her way down to breakfast and had bumped into Lionel in the entrance hall.

  ‘Tell him I can’t see him,’ Angela gasped. Her hand flew up to smooth her hair. ‘Why is he here? Didn’t he get my letter?’

  ‘I have no idea.’ Bobbie only knew what she’d already told Angela. ‘I asked him to wait in the library where it’s quiet. You can’t send the poor man away without seeing him. Shall I run back down and tell him to wait while you get dressed?’

  Angela groaned then nodded. ‘I’ll be five minutes.’

  As Bobbie delivered the message, Angela flung on some clothes and ran a comb through her hair. Lionel; here at the Grange! Of all the things she might have expected from her day of rest – ironing, mending, hiking or writing letters – her ex-fiancé’s arrival was nowhere on the list. Fully dressed, she ran to the bathroom and splashed water on her face, patted it dry with a towel then checked her reflection in the mirror. Ghastly!

  Outside in the corridor she ran into Jean.

  ‘Lionel is downstairs,’ Jean began.

  ‘I know!’ Angela wailed. The sooner this encounter was over the better. So she ran full tilt down the stairs and into the library.

  Lionel stood in uniform with his back to the empty fire grate, hands clasped behind him. His thick brown hair had been flattened by his cap, which lay on the window sill with his gloves and scarf. Despite his tanned skin, he looked drawn and anxious.

  ‘Darling!’ Angela began. ‘Why didn’t you warn me?’

  ‘Hello, Angela.’ He took an eager step towards her then read her dismayed expression and stopped. ‘It’s early; I hope you don’t mind.’

  ‘No, of course not.’ Good manners took over. ‘Can I get you something to eat; some tea at least?’

  ‘No, thank you.’ He patted his jacket pocket. ‘I got your letter.’

  Angela stayed by the door. An avalanche of emotions threatened to overwhelm her. ‘I’m most awfully sorry if you’re upset.’

  ‘I was at first,’ Lionel conceded. ‘It came as quite a shock.’

  ‘I know and I am desperately sorry.’ The truth was that a face-to-face break-up was different; it was much more complicated and difficult than simply writing a letter. For a moment Angela resented the intrusion. ‘Are you sure I can’t get you some tea?’

  ‘Forget about the tea,’ he said brusquely. ‘I haven’t got long – I have to be back in Hull by midday.’

  ‘I see. Well, sit down at least.’ Angela drew up two chairs by the window. ‘Where’s your car?’

  ‘Hilary told me to drive in the back way. The car’s parked in the stable yard.’

  ‘Good; there may still be unexploded bombs out front.’

  ‘I told him I’d come to see you.’ Lionel sat awkwardly on the edge of his seat.

  ‘Really?’ Angela’s hackles rose. ‘And what advice did our mutual friend offer?’

  ‘I didn’t ask him for any. This is between you and me.’ Since Lionel had received Angela’s letter he’d rehearsed a dozen times what he wanted to say – where to begin and how to go on, how he wanted the conversation to end. But in the event the prepared lines fled and he was left tongue-tied. So he sat and frowned, gazing out through the window at Burton Wood and waiting for Angela to speak.

  ‘I was right, wasn’t I? Pa left me with no alternative.’

  ‘Right to carry on flying for the ATA or right to break off with me?’

  ‘Both.’ Crossing her legs, she tapped the arms of her chair and let a silence develop.

  ‘Correct on the first count, wrong on the second.’ Lionel averted his gaze and waited in silence for her reaction.

  Angela gave a short, exasperated sigh. ‘I did try to explain. How could we have gone on under the circumstances? I’m poor as a church mouse now – I have to make my own way in life.’

  ‘I thought you said you’d prefer that.’

  ‘I do. I’d far rather stand on my own two feet than rely on Pa’s allowance.’

  ‘Yes, I see.’ Lionel mirrored Angela’s actions by crossing his legs and tapping both armrests. ‘I’m sad on your mother’s behalf, however.’

  She nodded in acknowledgement. ‘But Ma has a choice too, if only she would see it.’

  ‘She hasn’t been educated to think like that,’ he pointed out. ‘She was brought up in an age where a wife was expected to accept her lot – like my own mother when the worst befell her. Come now; don’t look so surprised.’

  Angela’s mouth fell open as she envisaged the house in Dorset and Lionel’s seemingly contented, refined and delicate mother surrounded by her books and water
colour paints like a character from a novel by E. M. Forster. What exactly did Lionel mean?

  ‘Mother made the best of things, even after she’d learned the name and circumstances of the woman with whom Father was carrying on,’ Lionel went on calmly. ‘Of course, she withdrew from London. It would have been too humiliating to have stayed.’

  ‘I’m sorry; I wasn’t aware.’

  ‘Quite.’ Lionel stood up suddenly and took his silver cigarette case from his pocket. ‘A lot goes on that isn’t spoken about. I’ve learned from Mother to keep my emotions well hidden, which means that I’m afraid I come across as rather a stuffed shirt.’

  ‘No, I never thought that.’ Angela followed him across the room.

  Tapping the end of a cigarette against the case, he regarded her through narrowed eyes. ‘What did you think of me – steady, reliable Lionel but not very exciting?’

  ‘Reliable; yes, and a true friend.’

  ‘But boring.’

  ‘No,’ Angela insisted. ‘You were always kind and generous. And I’m not, you see. I’m a superficial girl except when I’m flying a plane and doing my job; that’s the only part of my life that I take seriously. Otherwise it’s been one long party.’

  Lionel flicked his lighter into action and shook his head.

  ‘Yes,’ she argued. ‘I love nothing better than to go out and have fun. You’ve seen how I’ve been over the years: the dresses, the make-up, the music. And deep down you must know that these are not the best qualities to look for in a wife. Believe me, darling, you’re much better off—’

  ‘Angela, don’t.’ Putting the lighter away then inhaling deeply, he stopped her with another shake of his head. ‘I don’t care how many parties you attend or how much money you have or haven’t got. It’s irrelevant to me. All I care about is that your father has been cruel to you and has hurt you desperately but you haven’t let him crush your spirit; instead, you’ve fought free of him. It’s made me love you more than ever, if that were humanly possible.’

  Taking a sharp breath, she turned away. ‘Lionel, you’re not being practical.’

  ‘What’s practicality got to do with how I feel?’

  ‘How you feel?’ She looked puzzled, as if the depth of Lionel’s emotions wasn’t something that she’d taken into account. ‘Listen, you may hurt for a little while but it will soon wear off—’

  He stepped in front of her. ‘Damn it, woman; what are you saying – that I’m as shallow as you claim to be? That love can be washed away without a trace, like words written in sand when the waves come in? It’s just not true.’

  ‘With time,’ she insisted. ‘You will forget about me; honestly you will.’

  ‘I don’t want to forget about you. Would I have come here if I did? It cost me a lot, you know. And I’m not here to grovel. If you tell me to my face that it really is over between us, then I will go away and you won’t hear from me again. But I won’t ever forget you.’

  ‘Give me that cigarette, would you, darling?’ Angela accepted it with a deep frown. Lionel’s words had thrown her off balance and she needed time to recover. ‘Never mind my father; what about yours? Shouldn’t he mind dreadfully if we were to continue?’

  ‘To hell with my father. It’s my life, not his.’

  ‘Fine words don’t pay the bills,’ Angela muttered through a cloud of smoke. But the sand shifted beneath her feet; everything she’d thought of as certain was sliding from under her. ‘I was sure I’d done the right thing,’ she murmured.

  ‘To throw away our chance of happiness?’ Lionel raised his eyebrows and spoke with a touch of sarcasm. ‘How can that be right?’

  ‘It seemed so when I wrote the letter.’

  ‘But now?’

  ‘I’m not so sure.’ In fact, she was not certain at all; not when she looked closely at Lionel’s face and saw passion burn in his brown eyes and heard it in his voice. What she’d judged to be his steadiness had suddenly become unshakeable strength and his presence exerted an unexpected power over her.

  ‘And if I tell you that I still love you?’ he asked quietly.

  ‘Then I believe you.’

  ‘That I will always love you?’ Lionel didn’t move towards her but stayed on the spot, watching her closely.

  Angela nodded once and was about to speak.

  ‘No, don’t say anything.’ Lionel advanced and took away her half-smoked cigarette then stubbed it out in the fire grate. Then he stroked strands of hair from her cheek with the back of his hand. ‘Not until you’ve had time to work out whether or not my visit changes things.’

  ‘It does,’ she acknowledged in a whisper.

  ‘Hush; I know it’s taken you by surprise. And I may not have succeeded in winning you back; I am prepared for that.’

  Angela inclined her head towards his hand then held it there, against her cheek. ‘Thank you.’

  ‘For what?’ His full heart almost burst. He simply wanted to hold her and help her to believe in herself.

  ‘For coming here. For being kind and true.’

  He bent his head to kiss her softly on her cheek. ‘Write to me, once you’ve had time to think.’

  ‘Give me one week.’

  ‘A week,’ he agreed. Taking up his hat and gloves, Lionel backed towards the door. ‘I’ll wait to hear.’

  Then he was gone and there was the sound of his footsteps crossing the hall, of Douglas saying a surprised hello, of their voices fading as they walked out on to the front terrace together, exchanging news.

  Up at 2,000 feet, behind the controls of her Spit, Bobbie breathed easily. On the ground she would still jump at her own shadow, dreading a chance meeting with Teddy and anxious to avoid the curious glances of everyone around her. During the weekend just past she’d even had to steel herself to accept the sympathy of Angela, Mary and Jean without breaking down, their kind words and actions serving as reminders of the awful event that she longed to wipe from her brain.

  So she’d kept to herself and had arrived at the ferry pool early this Monday morning; had been first in line to accept her chit then had dashed off to collect her parachute pack, helmet and goggles before a queue could form.

  Bobbie discovered that her job for the day was to deliver a brand-new Spit to a ferry pool in the Scottish Borders; it was her favourite route and one she knew by heart.

  ‘Atta girl!’ Stan had said in his friendly way as she’d climbed into the cockpit on Runway 3. ‘You’ll enjoy this one.’ He’d removed the chocks and given her the thumbs-up then waved her off with a grin – for all the world as if she were the carefree Bobbie of old.

  She’d waved back and now, heading north at 300 miles per hour, she had a clear sky ahead and untamed moors below and she was that girl again. She had space and speed; complete control.

  Bobbie sat in the tiny cockpit looking down on the world. She observed the coast to the east and beyond that the glittering sea, where a small convoy of ships were dark oblongs trailing their thin wakes through the brown water. The coastline was sharply indented and marked by a rim of white waves. Onwards, upwards; she flew the precious new Spit to its destination.

  With soaring spirits she lived in the glorious moment until, out of the blue, a fellow pilot flew up from behind. The P-51 Mustang came level with her on her port side, its wings almost touching the Spit’s. Gripping the stick with a sickening feeling of certainty and dread, Bobbie glanced sideways.

  Teddy waved at her from his cockpit then banked his plane steeply. She held her breath. He came at her again from behind; this time to starboard. He grinned and waved again, banked away and increased his speed, challenging her to keep up.

  Hold a steady course, don’t increase the revs; ignore him.

  Directly ahead of her, he flipped the Mustang into a spectacular backward roll, inviting Bobbie to join in and not to be a spoilsport, behaving as if they were performers in a flying circus, not part of the war effort at all.

  Bobbie refused to react. Let him play the fool. Don’t b
e intimidated. She watched the trail of vapour from the Mustang disperse and waited tensely for Teddy’s next move.

  He turned then came straight at her in a blatant game of dare, sunlight reflecting off his wings and fuselage. Who would give way first?

  I know your game! Bobbie held her nerve. You don’t scare me!

  Teddy flew level and straight, threatening a head-on crash until at the last, terrifying moment he thrust the stick forward to drop out of sight.

  Bobbie gasped and flew on.

  Below her, Teddy sat grinning at the controls of the Mustang. He was taken aback by Bobbie’s nerve but he wasn’t done with her yet; not until he’d forced a reaction out of her. He’d planned this little game before take-off, as soon as he’d noticed Bobbie’s name and number on the destination chart behind Gillian’s desk and found out that he too was heading north. A cocky game of dare would provide an unwelcome reminder of the balance of power between him and Bobbie; Teddy would easily prove himself the stronger of the two, both on the ground and in the air. ‘Just in case she gets a different idea into her head,’ he said out loud as he gained altitude and approached the Spit from behind.

  You mean to break me but I won’t let you! Gritting her teeth, Bobbie glanced over her shoulder. As the Mustang approached at high speed she saw Teddy for what he really was: a bragging playground bully who relied on lying and cheating to make his way to the top. With a supreme effort of will she held her course.

  Teddy flew up on the port side as close as he dared. He pointed at her then at his own chest before tilting his head back and miming the action of drinking from a glass. You and me; tomorrow night? he mouthed with a confident grin.

  Bobbie didn’t stoop to reply. She resisted the strong temptation to use the Spit’s manoeuvrability to outfly him. Sit tight. Don’t play him at his own game.

  He flew closer still, attempting to force her to veer to starboard. If Bobbie’s foot on the rudder pedal faltered even for a moment, their wing tips would touch, sending one or both planes off course and out of control. But her nerve didn’t fail as she stared straight ahead.