The East End Girl in Blue

by Fenella J Miller

  Also by Fenella J. Miller

  The Spitfire Girl

  A Spitfire Girl in the Skies

  A Wedding for the Spitfire Girl

  The Spitfire Girl: Over & Out

  The Girls in Blue

  THE EAST END GIRL IN BLUE

  Fenella J. Miller

  AN IMPRINT OF HEAD OF ZEUS

  www.ariafiction.com

  First published in the United Kingdom in 2021 by Aria, an imprint of Head of Zeus Ltd

  Copyright © Fenella J. Miller, 2021

  The moral right of Fenella J. Miller to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act of 1988.

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without the prior permission of both the copyright owner and the above publisher of this book.

  This is a work of fiction. All characters, organizations, and events portrayed in this novel are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.

  A CIP catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.

  ISBN:

  eBook: 9781838933487

  Paperback: 9781800246133

  Cover design © Lisa Brewster

  Aria

  c/o Head of Zeus

  First Floor East

  5–8 Hardwick Street

  London EC1R 4RG

  www.ariafiction.com

  For my son Lincoln. He won’t read this book but he is still the best son in the world.

  Contents

  Welcome Page

  Copyright

  Dedication

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Acknowledgements

  About the Author

  Become an Aria Addict

  1

  Hornchurch RAF base, August 1940

  ‘LACW 1377 reporting for duty, ma’am,’ Nancy Evans said to the NCO with a smart salute.

  The salute was returned. ‘There’s no need for all that. You don’t salute an NCO or call her ma’am. I’m Deirdre Brown. What’s your name?’

  ‘I’m Nancy Evans. Cor, this is a turn-up for the books. Ever so posh in here, ain’t it? I never thought to be working in the Officers’ Mess.’ She gestured to the splendid lawn and flower beds and the big cars parked outside the windows. ‘I never came in through the front door, but it’s like one of them grand homes you see in books. White pillars and all that and steps to come up.’

  ‘The officers are lucky here. This is a proper building made of bricks and jolly smart.’ Deirdre led the way from a small office where they’d met, into the wide passageway with a public phone on the wall.

  ‘You come highly recommended, Nancy. I know you’re new to catering but I’m certain you’ll get the hang of it.’

  ‘Don’t seem nothing to it, really. I’m quick on me feet, know how to cook, and when I’m serving them officers I’ll mind me Ps and Qs, don’t you worry.’ Nancy had attended the cook and butcher’s course at Melksham and already had her LACW – leading aircraftwoman – tape sewn on her sleeve.

  ‘You’ve got two stripes, which puts you above most of the girls in here. Once you know the ropes you’ll be in charge when I’m off duty.’

  ‘Blimey – what me giving orders like? I don’t reckon I’ll be much good at that, but I’ll give it a go.’

  She was more used to a caf serving a nice fried breakfast than the things officers would be eating. The bar, where they were now, was spotless. There were half a dozen tables with plain wooden chairs all around – none too smart and none what matched – up one end. There was a dartboard and shove-halfpenny board and that was all apart from a battered piano.

  ‘Will I have to serve drinks and that?’

  ‘No, they have barmen doing that. We just have to keep the place clean, empty the ashtrays, collect the dirty glasses and so on. The men often sit outside with their drinks so you’ll have to go out there as well to find the glasses. It isn’t waitress service; they come into the bar to order for themselves.’

  ‘Righty ho – that ain’t too hard.’

  The dining room had five long tables, which would each seat a dozen or more. They were laid up nice and proper with white cloths and everything. ‘Is it like this every night?’

  ‘No, there’s a bigwig here tonight so we’re doing something special. You’ll have to work as a waitress for dinner when there’s a formal meal. Normally, it’s self-service and no tablecloths.’

  ‘What about cooking and that? I ain’t clear if I’m helping in the kitchen or just doing the clearing up.’

  ‘We cook and serve the breakfasts and lunches, make sandwiches and so on, but the RAF catering corps supply the chefs for dinner. You’ll have two different shifts – one is cleaning and you’ll work from 8 a.m. to 6 p.m. and on alternate days you will have the cooking shift, which starts at 5 a.m. and finishes about 2 p.m.’

  Her last words were drowned out as a squadron of Spitfires roared overhead, closely followed by a flight of Defiants. Them poor blokes, the pilots, were on constant alert and some were living in tents at dispersal. They was protecting the poor buggers in the Merchant Navy who were being bombed something rotten by the Germans. They never got a decent meal at the moment. She was grateful her Tommy was safe working in a hangar. She was used to that racket, as she’d spent the last year on RAF bases.

  ‘The squadrons are all over the shop – do I have to go to Manston or Rochford?’

  ‘No, the NAAFI vans take the food there. You just have to go to the dispersal points on this airfield. Okay, I think you’ve seen everything now. Do you drive?’

  This would have been a bloomin’ stupid question before the war but now lots of girls in the WAAF – the Women’s Auxiliary Air Force – had been trained to drive. She was one of them, as delivering the larger items, ordered by the mechanics for the aeroplanes, when she was still working in the stores was impossible on a bicycle.

  ‘I can – learned a few months ago.’

  ‘Good, then today you can take the sandwiches and thermos flasks to those waiting to be scrambled. Those nearest get half an hour to dash across to the mess hall and grab something to eat. Then the next squadron comes and so on. Only those with their kites parked on the far perimeters have food delivered.’

  The kitchen was a hive of activity. Half a dozen girls, wearing white overalls and with white squares tied like turbans on their heads, was busy preparing the midday meal. The girls cleaning wore navy blue button-through overalls and clogs. Nancy had already been issued with hers and she’d turned them up and they were neatly stored in a locker waiting for her to change.

  ‘Do I change to deliver the grub?’

  ‘Yes, put on your white overalls. You’re going to be making the sandwiches and filling the flasks. You have to take them in a couple of hours so you’d better get a move on.�
�

  She recognised some of the girls as they shared a dormitory. The women’s hostel was up Sutton Lane, off the camp completely, nowhere near the blokes. The barracks for the men was a mile away. The other girls were a cheerful bunch and were happy to tell her where everything was kept. Just before twelve o’clock the sandwiches were ready, neatly wrapped in greaseproof paper and carefully labelled with the contents. The thermos flasks were full. Four had sugar in and two didn’t. It was lucky that those two had red tops so she’d know the difference.

  Everything was piled into large wicker trays. Being short made it difficult for her to grip the basket handles properly but she staggered out with the first one and shoved it in the back of the van. On her return with the second a couple of officers saw her struggling.

  ‘Allow us to assist you, fair maiden. It wouldn’t do for you to drop the sustenance meant for our comrades,’ the tallest of them said with a lovely smile as he removed the sarnies and that from her arms.

  ‘Ta ever so. I nearly dropped the bleedin’ lot last time.’

  They walked away laughing and she wished she could talk proper like them and not swear all the time. Her best friend, Jane, were always telling her off for using bad language. Nancy scrambled onto the driver’s seat. The seat wouldn’t budge and her legs was too short to reach the pedals properly.

  She reckoned she’d manage if she sat right on the edge and never met nothing and didn’t have to brake hard.

  *

  Tommy Smith hadn’t needed to go on any training courses when he’d transferred from maintaining a bomber to Hornchurch, where he now had a Spit allocated to him. His pilot, Sergeant Pilot Harry Jones, was a good bloke and an excellent flyer. It was a pleasure to keep his kite in working order. He’d been fortunate to be allocated a Spitfire and not a Defiant. The Spits were everybody’s favourite kite.

  ‘Oi, Tommy, isn’t that your fiancée driving that van?’ Ronnie Atkins poked him with a spanner and gestured towards the van heading for the tented dispersal points at the far side of the airfield.

  ‘You’re right, it’s Nancy. I didn’t know she was back from her course – this must be her first day on duty.’ He scrambled down from the wing of the Spit and stepped out from the hangar so she could see him.

  She waved but didn’t stop. He’d catch up with her when they were both off tonight. Sometimes he and Ronnie had to work all night to do maintenance and repairs and have the kite ready for when their pilot was on duty again. Harry’s Spit was in tip-top condition, unlike some of the others that had returned from the last sortie full of holes. Today was just routine maintenance. This was essential and had to be carried out whenever the flyer was off duty.

  ‘She’s delivering char and wads,’ Ronnie said. ‘Do you think she’ll have any over for us? My belly thinks my throat’s been cut.’

  ‘Doubt it – the blighters will be as starving as us. If we crack on then we’ll get this finished in a couple of hours and we can go to the mess and get something to eat.’

  He was in the cockpit a bit later when Nancy’s lovely face appeared beside him – she was standing on the wing. ‘I got me stripe, passed with flying colours, I did. Here, I saved you and Ronnie a couple of sarnies. They ain’t got no labels on so I ain’t sure what’s in them. I made them meself so I know they’ll be tasty.’

  He pushed himself upright and leaned over and kissed her. She responded enthusiastically and there was a series of catcalls and whistles from the other buggers in the hangar.

  ‘What time do you finish tonight, Nancy love?’

  ‘I’m not sure as I ain’t been put on a roster yet. Them what wear these white overalls finish at two o’clock, but I never started when they did so I reckon I’ll be working until six at least.’

  ‘We’ve got to get spares when we’re done here, but then, unless we’re needed somewhere else, I’m knocking off from teatime until Harry’s on duty. Pity you’re not working in our mess hall, then I’d know when you’d finished.’

  She jumped nimbly from the wing despite being no more than five feet tall. Her lack of height hadn’t held her back.

  ‘She’s a bit of all right, your girl, Tommy. You set a date yet?’

  A flight of Spits thundered overhead. He hoped the poor buggers had had time to eat their sandwiches. The bloody Germans meant business. He reckoned that Hitler intended to bomb them into surrender and it was up to the RAF to stop them.

  He watched them vanish over the rooftops on the hunt for incoming bombers and Messerschmitt 109s, the fighters that accompanied them. Since Dunkirk there’d been a lull for a few weeks, which had given them time to repair and recoup. The offensive had begun at the beginning of the month and he was proud that the first German ME109 to be shot down on British soil had been by Harry on the 8th of July.

  Everyone knew this was the start of the Battle of Britain and there wouldn’t be much free time for anyone. Tomorrow some bigwigs from the East India Fund were going to present eight spanking new Spits to No 65 Squadron. There was going to be a bit of a shindig and he prayed there’d be no enemy attacks to spoil it.

  The lucky buggers who’d be taking care of the new kites had to be in their best blues and on parade for the ceremony. He and Ronnie would be in their overalls as usual doing whatever was needed. Every time Harry took off, he wondered if he’d come back in one piece. The three of them had only been together for a few weeks but were now firm friends.

  He’d wanted to be a pilot but an accident when he was a lad had damaged one ear, making it impossible for him to fly because of the pressure involved. At least he was a valued member of a team and doing his bit for the war effort.

  When they could hear themselves speak, he answered his friend. ‘September – nothing grand – we’ve only got a twenty-four-hour pass. The padre’s agreed to do the ceremony in the chapel here. Can’t wait – I don’t want any other bloke pinching her from me. She’s surrounded by officers and they’ve always got an eye out for a pretty girl.’

  ‘She’s not interested in the Brylcreem boys, Tommy – don’t worry about that. I’ll be your best man if you want.’

  ‘You can be a witness; we’re not having any fuss. Hopefully, we’ll be able to go in the NAAFI and have a bit of a knees-up afterwards.’

  ‘Lucky sod. How old are you? Bit young to be tying the knot, aren’t you?’

  ‘I’m twenty-one on the first of September, which is why we’re waiting till then. Nancy had to get permission from her folks as she’s a few months younger than me. Come on – you lazy devil – we can eat and then get this finished. Don’t forget we’ve got to be back on duty to see Harry off safely tonight.’

  ‘Let’s hope it’s quiet. At least we get a few hours’ kip when it’s dark as they don’t fly then.’

  They wolfed down the sandwiches but had to do with water as there’d been no tea left in the flasks. A second flight of kites tore down the grass strip and into the air. There was a big flap on somewhere. How many of the blokes would come back?

  The only good thing about being ground crew was that he’d see this conflict out unharmed and could look forward to a long life with his sweetheart. The blokes had spent weeks making protected spaces for the Spitfires with piled-up sandbags. He sat in the cockpit and Ronnie guided him out of the hangar. This was the closest he got to being a flyer.

  *

  Tommy nipped back to his billet, joined the queue for a shower, then, all spruced up, he headed for the mess hall. Harry’s kite had been returned to the perimeter, was refuelled and rearmed, and was ready to be scrambled when that dreaded telephone call came through to dispersal.

  The bowsers would be waiting with the fuel and the blokes who rearmed the kites would also be ready. Things were hotting up now and the last couple of nights Harry’s flight had been scrambled twice. So far this month no one had been killed or seriously injured – but one pilot had written off his plane and another had ditched in the sea and been picked up by the Royal Navy.

  Jus
t as he arrived at the mess hall Nancy called his name. He turned and held out his arms; she raced into them. As there were officers about, he only gave her a brief hug and then, with his arm casually about her shoulders, they headed to the far end of the buildings to the NAAFI – the canteen run by the Navy, Army and Air Force Institutes.

  It would be quieter there as you had to pay for your scoff and it was part of the deal in the mess hall.

  ‘What do you think, love? Are you going to like being in catering instead of working in the stores?’

  ‘It’s okay, but I liked me other trade better. Mind you, I ain’t complaining as I changed so I could be with you.’

  ‘I know, and I really appreciate it. I’ve not had anything to eat today apart from your sandwich. Do they feed you in the kitchens at the Officers’ Mess?’

  ‘Ain’t time to eat but I reckon when they have one of them posh dos we might get the leftovers.’

  ‘Find a table. Do you want your usual?’

  ‘Yeah, anything fried with chips – don’t care what it is.’

  The food might not be free but it was better than what you got in the mess hall. He was happy to pay so he could sit and talk to Nancy in relative privacy.

  ‘Cor, that’s grand, Tommy love. Just the ticket. Put it down and let’s tuck in.’

  There wasn’t much talking as they ate. He loved a girl with a healthy appetite. Although, to be honest, he didn’t know where she put it all – she must have hollow legs because there wasn’t an ounce of fat on her anywhere.

  ‘That were smashing – ta ever so. I don’t suppose they’ve got any afters? I could do with a nice bit of spotted dick or roly-poly with custard.’

  ‘As this is my treat, I’ll go and look. Can you get rid of the dirty plates?’

  They didn’t have either of her choices but they had bread pudding and she was just as happy with that. When they’d finished she fetched the tea.

  ‘It’s a lot noisier here. Them blooming Spitfires and other planes are taking off and landing every five minutes. I can’t see that I’ll get a wink of sleep tonight if it goes on.’