by Molly Green
‘What on earth are you talking about?’
‘On the test check,’ Raine said in a dull tone. ‘I was with the examiner. I couldn’t see until the last moment because the weather was so awful. Thick cloud – I couldn’t make out anything.’
‘I know,’ Stephanie said impatiently. ‘My driver had to crawl along.’ She studied Raine. ‘So what happened to you?’
‘We nearly got caught in the barrage balloons.’
Stephanie put her hands to either side of her face. ‘Oh, God, I’ve always dreaded something like that happening.’ She looked up. ‘Aren’t we supposed to be warned about that sort of thing?’
‘The instructor said Balloon Command should have warned us, but they didn’t,’ Raine said, the terrible image of those balloons still floating in front of her. She swallowed as she relived those long few seconds.
‘Where were you?’
‘Over Welwyn Garden City.’
‘I’ll definitely remember that in future.’ Stephanie paused. ‘Well, look on the bright side,’ she said. ‘At least you missed them.’
‘It was a fluke,’ Raine said. ‘We were upon them before I knew what was happening. All I could see were the balloons and I had no idea where I was, or where to land. The plane missed them by no more than a few feet.’
Stephanie shuddered. ‘What plane was it?’
‘A Puss Moth.’
‘Well, at least that’s a nippy little plane, though it’s not particularly powerful,’ Stephanie said. She was silent for a few moments. ‘I don’t know what I’d have done. I hope not panic.’
Raine said nothing, desperate for that to be the end of the conversation. She wanted to be left quietly on her own for a while.
As if she knew what Raine was thinking, Stephanie said, ‘Well, I’ll leave you to it then, and go and unpack. We’re bound to have a big day ahead of us tomorrow.’
‘Here you are, miss. Your boiler suits.’
The clerk handed her two blue boiler suits. Raine held one against her and bent her head to see how far up from her ankle they were – about the same as the depth of bathwater they were allowed: a full five inches. What should she do? Say anything? Or would everyone think what a fusspot she was when there were other matters far more important to deal with?
‘Ah, I think you need the next size,’ the clerk said, following her gaze. He reached behind him in a cupboard and brought out another suit. ‘This might do. It’ll be a bit big but longer in the length.’
Raine smiled her thanks. She needed to change swiftly and report for duty. Her training started in fifteen minutes and she couldn’t wait to get cracking.
Now, wearing her boiler suit, Raine felt as if she belonged to the ferry pool. She discovered she was to be on the same training course as three of the pilots she’d had lunch with the day before – Joan, Sandra and Beth – plus Stephanie and five others.
The course was only six weeks but the instructor in charge, First Officer Peck, hardly drew breath. Raine felt every tiny space in her brain was crammed with information about technical matters such as engines, navigation using only maps and compass, meteorology (if the weather didn’t look too good it was up to the individual to decide whether they should attempt the flight or not), which towns used barrage balloons and how to steer clear of them. She grimaced during that particular session, and quickly recounted what had happened to her above Welwyn Garden City as a warning to the other pilots, several of whom threw her sympathetic glances.
The various subjects went on and on, and if she took in anything more, Raine thought her head might burst. Annoyingly, Stephanie seemed to breeze through all the classes, almost treating the whole thing as a bit of a lark, but the others struggled at first, especially Joan, who constantly wore an expression of fierce concentration.
As the course drew to a close Raine realised just how excellent a trainer First Officer Peck was. Although he went at a breakneck speed he often stopped, his eyes landing on each pilot, to say, ‘Are you all with me?’ when a lecture was particularly technical. But he never gave any sign that he thought they were a bunch of women who shouldn’t be there in the first place and would never understand the technical side of flying. He never minded when someone asked a question and would answer fully and seriously. She now felt much more confident to fly other aircraft beside the Moths that she and the others in her training class had already started delivering. And not only had she regained her confidence, but it had also stoked her enthusiasm to welcome the chance to fly larger and more powerful aircraft.
Next came the practical work of cross-country flying until they were familiar with the landscape, checking rivers, railway lines, aerodromes, factories – anything that might be a useful landmark – and recognising spaces to make the dreaded forced landings.
‘You’ve been a first-class group of students,’ First Officer Peck told them, ‘so I wish you all the very best for the future.’ He paused and glanced around at the pilots. ‘And I’m pleased to tell you we’ve just heard the news that women are now allowed to fly fighter aircraft.’ He smiled at the outbreak of cheering. ‘I’m sure you’re all aware that that includes the Hurricane and the Spitfire.’
Raine clapped with the others until her hands burned. This was what they’d all been hoping for. She was sure it was Pauline Gower’s efforts that had instigated this change of heart.
The day finally came when everyone gathered in the lecture room waiting for their commander to tell them whether or not they had passed their course and could now proceed to train on the Class II aircraft – the fighters.
Raine stood with her fellow pilots, her stomach churning. Her biggest fear was that she’d be the only one to fail the course. If that happened she wouldn’t be allowed to move up to the next class with the others.
‘I’m delighted to tell you that you’ve all completed this first phase satisfactorily.’ Pauline smiled at the cheer from Stephanie. ‘You will be able to wear your first stripe as third officers, but first you may sew on your wings.’
She called out each girl’s name and when that pilot stepped forward Pauline handed her the gold embroidered wings, saying, ‘Well done,’ to enthusiastic clapping.
‘Lorraine Linfoot.’ Pauline smiled as Raine accepted her wings. ‘Lorraine, you’ve worked incredibly hard to achieve this as you have far fewer solo hours than anyone else here, so give yourself a pat on the back.’
Raine gave a modest smile to more cheering and clapping.
‘I’m proud of you all,’ Pauline continued when the clapping died down. ‘I want you all to know you’re already making a difference to exhausted pilots with your deliveries, but you’ll certainly be even more valuable to us when you can start ferrying the fighter planes. And I will tell you now, nothing in the world is like flying a Spit. You’ve heard this many times from many pilots, but it only becomes reality when you’re in that cockpit – it’s a perfectly marvellous experience like no other.’
Raine hugged herself. Soon, soon, she’d be in that Spitfire.
Pauline glanced around the group of eager faces.
‘Just remember, ladies, the most important thing of all – take good care of your plane with every delivery. Take no chances, no risks. Treat it as tenderly as you would your own child, and consequently the plane will take care of you.’ Another pause. ‘Are there any questions?’
‘Just one,’ Sandra, the tall, elegant pilot said. ‘Where do we go to be fitted for our uniforms?’
‘You’ll be fitted next week for your basic uniform although some girls choose to go to Moss Brothers or Austin Reed,’ Pauline said. ‘In fact, Winston Churchill is one of Austin Reed’s regular customers.’ She smiled at the small group.
‘I’m ordering mine from Savile Row,’ Stephanie put in, ‘as in my opinion they’re the best tailors – if one can afford them, that is.’
Raine wondered if the woman realised quite how tactless she sounded at times. She obviously came from a family with more money than sense, judg
ing by today’s flight suit. No overalls for Stephanie. Today she was in pale blue. Yesterday’s had been cyclamen pink.
Pauline frowned at Stephanie’s remark. ‘We pay for your basic uniform and boots,’ she said, ‘but if you choose first-class tailoring, you would naturally pay the difference.’
Even Austin Reed was bound to be expensive if Mr Churchill shopped there, Raine thought, but if she only had to pay the difference, that’s where she’d go. It was where her father had always had his suits made. He’d taken her there once before when she was a child, but since the crisis over his finances he’d had to look elsewhere. But he always maintained he’d never found another suit that came up to the same standard as an Austin Reed one.
She shrugged. That was then – this was now. She had two days’ leave coming up and was determined to go to London. Even if she found an Austin Reed uniform to be beyond her purse, it would still be heavenly to have a proper break.
Chapter Fourteen
Raine squeezed between the standing soldiers in her compartment, all of them smoking and laughing and chatting together, to take the seat that one of them had given up for her. She thanked him profusely and opened her book. Apart from giving her admiring looks when she’d first set foot in the compartment, the soldiers went back to being absorbed in their conversation. Two middle-aged women opposite, both firmly holding a small child on their laps, gossiped and every so often hushed their children who were starting to whinge.
‘You’d think she’d’ve joined up by now, wouldn’t you?’ Raine heard one of them mutter. ‘We all have to do our bit. Look at us, practically bringing up our grandchildren while our girls are working themselves to death in the factory.’ The woman stole a sly glance at Raine.
‘Well, she looks old enough, don’t she?’ the other one said more loudly. ‘Going to London to meet her fancy man, I shouldn’t be surprised.’
Her temper flaring, Raine snapped her book closed. She looked across at them.
‘Excuse me, ladies—’ she started, her tone cool.
The two women’s heads shot up and stared at her in surprise.
‘I’m not sure whether you’re discussing me, but I thought I’d tell you anyway that I’m going to London, not to meet any fancy man, but to be fitted for my pilot’s uniform.’ She let that sink in, gratified to see their reddening faces. ‘You see, I’ve already joined up and I’m serving in the Air Transport Auxiliary.’
‘What does that mean, love?’ the first woman bent towards her, her large stomach ready to squash her little grandson.
‘It means I pick up aeroplanes and deliver them to our fighting boys wherever they are, so they don’t have to waste time doing it.’
There. She’d said it, but it had probably fallen on deaf ears. She opened her book again and bent her head, pretending to read, but the words jumbled in front of her. Blasted women.
‘Excuse me, dear …’
Oh, what now? Raine looked up, trying hard to hold back her impatience.
‘You mean you fly them? You’re the pilot?’
‘Yes,’ Raine said shortly, going back to her book, but she was quickly interrupted again.
‘A lady pilot,’ said the other. ‘Well, I’m blowed. I never knew women could fly aeroplanes.’ She looked at Raine with open admiration. ‘It must take plenty of courage to go up in one of them things, let alone fly it.’
‘It doesn’t take courage or bravery,’ Raine said coolly. ‘It’s simply doing a job that needs to be done, and I wouldn’t do anything else in the world.’ She sent them a pointed glance. ‘There are quite a few lady pilots doing exactly the same as me. And believe it or not, we’re every bit as good as the men.’
‘Well I never.’
‘I’m sure we didn’t mean no ’arm, dear.’
Raine caught the heavy-set woman’s eye. ‘Maybe not, but it’s probably not very wise to assume that any young man or woman not in uniform is avoiding the war effort.’ She gave them a smile to signal the end of the conversation.
Why was she so worried about what a couple of strangers thought of her? An image of her mother’s face floated into her mind. Disapproving, it seemed, no matter what she did, however hard she tried. Forget them, she told herself sternly. Not long now and I’ll be in London.
At King’s Cross it was pandemonium. It looked as though the whole of London had decided to descend upon the station. Shouldering her way through the crowds, dodging couples saying tearful goodbyes and trying not to choke in the belching steam of a nearby train that had just arrived, she was finally on the tube to Victoria. One of the station masters told her she could easily walk it from there and she relished the idea of stretching her legs.
Following the crowd Raine picked her way through scores of mattresses and blankets and pillows people had left in ‘their’ spot along the platform. That’s where they would spend tonight and the next and the next … She shuddered, reminding herself how lucky she was to have a proper bed at night. As did her parents and sisters.
The stale smell invaded her nostrils as she mounted the subway steps, pushing along with dozens of people desperate to get out into the air. With relief she stepped onto the pavement, blinking in the summer morning sunshine, not quite prepared for the sight that met her. There seemed to be more rubble than buildings everywhere she looked.
Walking along Victoria Street her heart sank at the sight of so much destruction. A church was now a completely burnt-out ruin. It must have taken a full blast of several incendiary bombs. She swallowed. A pretty little church where people had gathered to pray, attend weddings and christenings and funerals was now the saddest echo of memories. Her eyes filled with tears.
She joined some office workers who were carefully picking their way through the debris as though it was quite normal. She supposed it was. It crossed her mind that Austin Reed might not have survived, but as she eventually turned into Regent Street, there it was. A handsome building with its enormous upper-storey Regency windows. Thank goodness it was still intact, although she noticed some glass panels above the entrance were smashed.
The interior was much larger than she’d remembered. All quiet elegance in Art Deco. Calmness itself. Except for one middle-aged gentleman, the other three assistants were all women, arranging their particular counter, polishing their glass tops. It was as though the staff were cocooned in their own little world, paying no attention to the war that was happening right outside their doors, their focus only to serve the customers in the traditional manner they always had. There was only a handful of customers, mainly elderly gentlemen wandering around the display cabinets eyeing the accessories. The male assistant stepped from behind his counter.
‘Are you looking for anything in particular, miss?’ He spoke quietly and almost reverently.
Raine smiled. Act as though you do this every day.
‘Yes. I’m Lorraine Linfoot, a pilot in the Air Transport Auxiliary – and I understand I can be measured here for my uniform.’
‘Yes, we have an account set up for the young ladies from that worthy organisation.’ He gave a slight bow. ‘Mr Duncan, at your service, though I do wonder sometimes about you all in those aeroplanes.’ He cupped his chin in his hand and stroked his jaw. ‘One of the young ladies told me you fly those aeroplanes on your own – without a man in the cockpit.’
‘It’s true.’ Raine wanted to giggle. ‘We fly them all by ourselves.’
The tailor blinked, without the trace of a smile. ‘So you’d be wanting the skirt and tunic?’
‘Yes, please, and also the trousers.’
Thank goodness Pauline had persuaded her superiors that the women should be allowed to wear trousers for flying – so much easier to deal with than a skirt that would ride up above the knee, making flying totally impractical and hadn’t helped on her disastrous flight test. She made up her mind there and then only to wear the skirt when she wasn’t on duty but in uniform.
‘The ATA provides you with a forage cap,’ Mr Duncan was saying
as he went back behind his counter and took out a notebook.
He was a few minutes and Raine began to tap her feet. She just wanted to get herself measured up, then go and have a proper look around the city. See what further damage poor old London had succumbed to.
‘Shall I have Miss Brown measure you right away?’
Raine nodded. ‘Yes, please.’
‘I’ll show you the fitting room and send her in.’
Miss Brown was slow with her measuring. She was very serious, taking her time to be exact, and Raine had to bite her tongue to stop herself from asking if she could speed up. It wasn’t as though she had to be anywhere, but she was longing for a cup of tea.
‘There – all done.’ Mrs Brown stretched up and rubbed her back. ‘I’ll give this to Mr Duncan. He’s the one who cuts it out.’
Raine thanked her and pulled open the fitting-room curtains. She stepped out at exactly the same time as two young men in RAF officer’s uniform came through the entrance.
She startled. One of the men was Alec Marshall, the cocky pilot. As soon as he caught sight of her he stopped in his tracks and removed his cap.
‘Well, if it isn’t Miss Crosspatch,’ he said, his face wreathed in smiles.
The tailor glanced towards the other two assistants who were now busy. He frowned, then turned to the two prospective customers. ‘I won’t keep you,’ he said.
‘No trouble at all,’ Alec replied, still smiling. ‘I know this young lady, so perhaps when we’re all done she’ll allow us to take her for coffee.’ He pulled his gaze away from Raine and glanced at the other officer. ‘All right with you, Baxter?’
How dare he call her ‘Miss Crosspatch’ in public! She glared at him but he simply grinned back. He was trying to trap her in front of his friend. Mr Duncan stood looking bemused at the little group.
The pilot called Baxter shook his head. ‘As you two already know one another I’ll bow out. I want to go to the V and A. Maybe meet later at the RAF Club?’
