by Molly Green
‘I’m certain of it now.’ Her father flung down the morning’s newspaper in disgust. ‘This will all be stale by the time we hear what Chamberlain’s got to say.’ He stood, his expression heavy. ‘I hoped right up until we heard about Poland that it could be staved off, but that’s it, now.’ He blew out his cheeks. ‘I’d better tell your mother to make sure she’s here in two hours’ time.’
He left the room, shaking his head in disbelief.
‘Do you really think that’s what the Prime Minister’s going to announce?’ Suzanne said, her face pale.
‘I don’t see what else it can be, now Germany’s invaded Poland,’ Raine said. ‘We promised Poland if that ever happened, Great Britain and France would stick together against Germany. It’s too serious a promise to break.’
At five minutes to eleven Raine’s father switched on the wireless again to warm it up. As soon as the pips came, no one spoke. In the gravest tone, the Prime Minister began to speak.
‘This morning the British Ambassador in Berlin handed the German Government a final note stating that unless we heard from them by eleven o’clock that they were prepared at once to withdraw their troops from Poland, a state of war would exist between us.
‘I have to tell you now that no such undertaking has been received, and that consequently this country is at war with Germany.
‘You can imagine what a bitter blow it is to me that all my long struggle to win peace has failed.
‘The Government have made plans under which it will be possible to carry on the work of the nation …’
Raine’s mind was working furiously. She didn’t hear much of the rest of Mr Chamberlain’s speech until she heard him say:
‘… in the days of stress and strain that may be ahead. But these plans need your help. You may be taking your part in the fighting services or as a volunteer in one of the branches of Civil Defence. If so, you will report for duty in accordance with the instructions you receive. You may be engaged in work essential to the prosecution of war for the maintenance of the life of the people – in factories, in transport, in public utility concerns or in the supply of other necessaries of life. If so, it is of vital importance that you should carry on with your jobs.
‘Now may God bless you all and may He defend the right, for it is evil things that we shall be fighting against – brute force, bad faith, injustice, oppression and persecution – and against them I am certain that the right will prevail.’
There was a crackling noise, then the words ‘air-raid siren.’ Her father switched the wireless off.
Maman was the first to break the silence with a stifled sob. ‘Where is my baby? Where is Véronique?’
‘She’ll come back any minute when she hears the siren,’ Robert said. ‘You know she doesn’t like being hemmed in.’
‘Does she dislike us so much?’ Simone raised her eyes to her husband.
‘Of course not, darling. She just loves being outside and you can’t protect her forever.’
‘I need to know she is back,’ Simone said, her eyes beseeching him. ‘You will have to go and find her.’
‘I’ll go,’ Raine said, leaping up.
‘Stay here.’ Simone’s tone was harsh. ‘You will not leave the house.’
Taking no notice of her mother, Raine made towards the door. At the same moment Ronnie breezed in, soaked from head to foot, her face glowing from her cycle ride.
‘What’s the matter? Why are you all looking so serious?’ She looked from one member of the family to another.
‘Only that Mr Chamberlain has declared war on Germany,’ her mother said in a tight voice. ‘And we were worried about you, Véronique, naturellement.’
‘I’m all right.’ Ronnie shrugged off her light jacket and threw it on the back of a chair. ‘Well, at least there’ll be some excitement going on around here for a change.’
‘How can you talk like that?’ Simone snapped. She turned to her husband. ‘Can’t they understand anything, Robert?’ she said, her voice imploring him. ‘All those lives lost only twenty years ago. How many more will be erased before they all come to their senses?’
‘We’re not talking about anyone with common sense as far as the Nazis are concerned,’ Robert answered. He got up to offer his wife a handkerchief which she practically snatched and held to her eyes.
‘I can’t bear this to ’appen again.’ Simone’s voice was muffled.
‘Don’t take on, darling. You must keep strong for all our sakes.’
Taking her handkerchief from her face, she looked up at him, tears streaming down her cheeks. ‘I’m only thankful I’ve got girls. All the poor mothers who have sons. It will be terrible for them.’
‘We all have to play a part,’ Raine said, gazing across at her mother. ‘Just like Mr Chamberlain said. All of us means exactly that – girls and women as well as boys and men. And I intend to do my bit.’
‘And just what do you intend to do, Lorraine?’ her mother challenged.
This was the opportunity Raine had been waiting for. It was such a shock to hear they really were at war, that telling her mother she was now a qualified pilot would get everything over with in one go. But her answer to her mother’s question was swallowed up in a wailing sound, which sent shivers across her shoulders. An air-raid siren.
Simone screamed and rushed to the window. ‘They’re bombing us already!’ She began to sob. ‘Oh, why did we have to leave our lovely house with the basement to keep us safe?’
Raine saw her father flinch at Maman’s accusatory tone.
‘It will only be a practice,’ he said, ‘though I’m afraid we’ll have to get used to the sound. But it won’t happen for a while, I’m sure, until the Germans decide how to respond now we’ve told them it’s war. And the village shelters aren’t far.’
Simone rounded on her husband. ‘How do you know what that creature is thinking?’ she demanded. ‘And what is the use of a shelter in the village if we are trapped here and killed?’
‘Calm down, my love. I imagine it was quite a surprise to the Germans. Hitler was always so sure that Britain would be persuaded to become one of his allies. How little does he know the British mind.’
Peace in our time. Would anyone ever forget the Prime Minister’s triumphant words? Raine thought grimly. Neville Chamberlain and Herr Hitler had signed an agreement to say the two countries would never go to war with one another again, when now, almost exactly a year later, Chamberlain had told the nation that war had been declared on Germany. It was too terrible to imagine. And yet she understood how Ronnie was feeling. At least we know for sure, she told herself, aware of a frisson of excitement. Surely now she’d be able to put her pilot’s licence to good use.
Raine quietly left the room. She needed to get some air and think what to do next.
Mr Gray, the village air-raid warden, came to the house a few days later to announce that gas masks were being sent to the village hall, and families should come to be fitted and collect theirs the following week.
‘I will not wear anything so ugly,’ Simone declared when she saw the masks lined up on the trestle tables in the village hall next to a pile of cardboard boxes for each one to be carried in.
‘It might save your life, Maman,’ Raine said grimly, trying hers on.
Ugh. The rubber stank and there was a strong smell of disinfectant.
Simone wasn’t the only one muttering. Most of the men seemed to accept that they were a sensible precaution, but several of their wives decided they didn’t like the look of them at all.
‘Keep it on for a few minutes, dear,’ one of the ladies who was helping people with their size said to Raine. ‘It’ll get you used to it.’
Raine didn’t think she could last that long. It was difficult to breathe and the smell was making her feel queasy. After a long minute, she pulled it off and went to the door, drawing in deep gulps of air.
Simone refused even to try it on. She simply took the size the woman recommended her and put
it in its cardboard box.
‘I will look at it when I am home,’ she said, but Raine knew she would do nothing of the kind.
‘How are you two getting on?’ Raine asked her sisters.
There were muffled replies and both of them removed theirs.
‘They’re hateful,’ Ronnie said. ‘It’d take a catastrophe for me to wear mine.’
‘That’s the idea,’ Raine said.
Suzanne promptly rushed to the cloakroom and came back white-faced.
‘That was horrible,’ she said. ‘I felt I was suffocating.’
‘Let’s just hope we never have to use them,’ Raine said.
When several weeks went by and still nothing happened, people began to call it a phoney war. They became more casual about keeping their gas masks with them at all times. But as far as Raine was concerned, there was one big difference. There were no more civilian pilots, no more flying clubs. Anyone who was a pilot was serving their country – and that, of course, didn’t include female pilots. She gritted her teeth. Maybe she should join the WAAFs, after all. At least she’d be amongst people she respected and admired. But still something held her back.
She’d finally heard from Doug. He sent her a private letter care of Biggin Hill aerodrome.
28th October 1939
Dear Raine,
I’m so sorry I left so abruptly. You must have wondered what had happened to me. I had a crisis at home and then when I’d got myself back together again there was a war on!
I heard you got your pilot’s licence so my heartiest congratulations. You see I do know a bit of what’s going on even though I’m quite a long way from you at the moment – can’t say where. You’ve probably left Biggin Hill by now and joined the WAAFs. That’s what I wanted to tell you – that I’ve joined up – RAF, of course.
Raine chewed her lip. So Doug was a fighter pilot doing his bit for his country. She prayed he hadn’t been called on to do anything too dangerous. He’d become like a brother to her over the months he’d taught her to fly and she’d been hurt, then worried, when she hadn’t heard anything from him for such a long time. She read on:
I think very fondly of you and I’m so proud of you. We’re bound to meet sooner or later, particularly if you’ve joined the WAAFs as at least you’ll be close to the action.
However I do have something interesting to tell you. A civilian organisation called the Air Transport Auxiliary (ATA for short) has just been formed and its function is to ferry aircraft to airfields around the country for the RAF. They’re taking pilots who are too old this time around, or injured from the last war, so not fit for combat but they can still deliver a plane safely. And this is the real news – apparently they’re planning to form a women’s section of experienced pilots. I’ll let you know when I hear anything more.
Write to me if you get the opportunity. Address at top and it will be forwarded to me.
With much affection,
Doug x
Raine read the last part of the letter about the ATA again, her heart practically leaping out of her chest. Here was the reason she hadn’t joined the WAAFs. This ATA was going to admit women pilots! She’d try to find out more about it at work tomorrow. Because if she didn’t get some regular air miles in her log book soon, she wouldn’t stand a chance. She swallowed hard. All she had worked for, all she had dreamed, would be shattered. There had to be a way for this ATA organisation to take her. There simply had to.
Chapter Seven
October 1940
‘Miss Linfoot, please come to my office right away.’
Raine jumped as her desk extension rang. She’d been in her usual reverie, looking out of the window watching planes landing and taking off, longing to be up there with them. At first it had been exciting peering up at the dogfights going on right over her head at Biggin Hill, seeing the RAF boys shooting down the Luftwaffe in what Winston Churchill called the Battle of Britain. But when she’d witnessed her first sight of a Spitfire spiralling down in flames, the pilot having had no chance of baling out, or surviving a ball of fire on impact, she’d immediately thought of Doug. He’d be up there somewhere. If it wasn’t today, it would be tomorrow.
At least she and the family were far enough away not to have suffered like Londoners who had gone through night after night being bombed. Thankfully, Hitler now seemed to have turned his attention elsewhere. Heaven knew in what condition the Luftwaffe had left their beloved capital. And knowing what constant danger Londoners were living in, if anything, made her even more resolute to be part of the action.
Raine had been in the pay section for a year and had become more and more frustrated stuck in an office. Although she’d taken over the role of a fully-fledged pay clerk, she wished for the hundredth time that she’d been born a man. Then she would have been welcomed with open arms as a pilot. It was all so ridiculous. Women were every bit as good as the men. But even the ATA was cautious, it seemed. Doug told her they’d only taken eight very experienced female pilots a few months ago – all of them with several hundred flying hours or more. There was no point yet in applying with her few. He’d suggested she seriously think about joining the WAAFs, but she didn’t want to. She’d have to sign up with them. Commit herself to however many years the war was going to last in a non-flying position and perhaps lose the opportunity of flying with the ATA – what she’d set her heart on. No, she wouldn’t risk it.
But she’d go mad if something didn’t turn up soon. Even Maman had joined the Women’s Voluntary Service and was busy collecting aluminium utensils from friends and neighbours for the war effort. ‘We will turn your pots and pans into Spitfires and Hurricanes, Blenheims and Wellingtons,’ Lord Beaverbrook had recently announced on the wireless, and Maman had jumped up and told the family she would talk to the WVS immediately.
And she had. Raine couldn’t help smiling at the memory of her mother approaching every single family in Downe. Almost every housewife had gladly handed her something aluminium for the war effort, not wanting to be thought of as unpatriotic, especially when faced with a Frenchwoman who was asking so delightfully for her help.
Sighing heavily, Raine picked up the huge aluminium teapot and poured yet another twenty mugs of tea, letting the liquid slosh over the rims without pause. She’d asked for a transfer to one of the other administration departments and was sent to Maintenance Command section under Flight Lieutenant Fox. It had been a bad mistake on her part.
‘Miss Linfoot, are you there? Please answer.’
Foxy’s tone was never a polite request but an order. He was of medium height, stockily built, dark hair slicked back with plenty of Brylcreem. His cocky swagger when he came into the office and his condescending attitude made it obvious that women had no place in the department unless they were behind a typewriter. At least once a day she berated herself for ever having learnt how to type. As for Foxy, she detested working for him. His handwriting was appalling and he always took umbrage when she gave him a letter for signing, having guessed the words and the gist of it as she’d gone along.
‘I didn’t write it like this,’ he growled more than once.
She’d answer that it had read a little ambiguously, so she’d tried to make it clear.
‘Hmm,’ he would grunt, but to her surprise he never insisted she retype it.
That was by no means the worst thing. She’d only been at the job a week when he’d pounced as she was leaving his office. He’d barred her way as she had her hand on the door handle and grabbed her.
She’d twisted her neck away from his repulsive lips. ‘Please don’t.’
‘Come on. You’re no prude. You girls – prick-teasers, all of you, with your pouty red lips and your pussycat bows, forever tossing your hair—’
‘What nonsense!’ Raine’s voice was ice as she pushed her hand hard against his chest. ‘But I am here to do a job without any unpleasantness from anyone.’ She glared at him. ‘So don’t ever touch me again, sir,’ she emphasised with sarcasm, ‘or
I’ll report you.’
‘You report me?’ He laughed in her face. ‘The general dogsbody. Who do you think they’d believe – you or me?’ His laugh became a sneer. ‘Make one move in that direction and I’ll have you removed … for good.’
She could only grit her teeth. She’d get nowhere if she threatened him. He was her superior and he could easily make her life a misery. She’d stepped back and made her exit as dignified as she could, knowing his eyes were on her. Since then, he’d always made a point of looking her up and down every time she had to speak to him, but he’d left her alone and she’d hoped that was the end of it.
Now, a fortnight later, he was asking to see her on her own again. With Foxy she realised she’d overstepped the mark in threatening him. But she hadn’t been able to stop herself from trying to frighten the rat. She should have known that threatening such a bully would never have worked. Blowing out her cheeks, Raine picked up her notepad, hoping, praying he only wanted to dictate a letter, although Foxy dictating was as bad as deciphering his writing. He’d march back and forth across the floor, mumbling and gabbling, then would say nothing for a whole minute – just turn and stare at her. She wrinkled her nose as she knocked on his office door.
‘Please, sit down.’
Something in his tone alerted her. He wasn’t about to dictate any letter. He leaned back in his chair, steepling his fingers, and studied her. His gaze lowered to her legs, then back up her body to her face. She loathed everything about him – those pinprick cold grey eyes piercing through her, as though sucking out all her problems, laying them bare and grinning at them, but she would not be intimidated. She tried to imagine him naked – she’d read somewhere that it helped when you were in such a situation – and almost giggled at the image dancing in front of her.
‘Have I egg on my chin or something?’
‘What?’ She managed to recover herself. ‘Oh, sorry, sir, I was—’
