‘Of course not, darling.’ She reached out and patted Gwen on the arm. ‘Just don’t go getting any ideas; she’s mine!’
Chapter 12
Despite there still being a few days left before they were due to report for duty, the rest of the Misfits began to arrive the very next day - none of them was truly comfortable being away from their precious machines for very long, or out of the sky, so they cut short their leave and came back.
As Gwen had feared, there were far fewer chances for Kitty and her to be alone at Bagshot Hall, especially with the other pilots around, but after Scarlet took one look at them, laughed, then moved to a new room, they at least had the nights to themselves.
Abby was the last to arrive, only an hour before the New Year’s Eve party was due to begin. She had been called to Windsor Castle to meet with the King and the Misfits rushed out to meet the large black autocar flying Royal colours that brought her, keen to know what their next mission would be.
She climbed out and settled her top hat on her head, the new gold braid of a group captain on it burnished to a high shine, then looked up at them as they loomed above her on the steps of the mansion. ‘Was there something you wanted?’
Owen all but growled at her. ‘You know bloody well what we want! What did he say?’
‘What did who say, Squadron Leader Llewellyn?’
The voice was deep, obviously male, and came from the vehicle behind Abby, and she grinned mischievously before stepping to one side.
The King unfolded himself with utmost dignity from the back seat of the Rentley-Joyce autocar, where he’d been hidden by the thick bulkhead. He helped his daughter Elizabeth out, then straightened the RAC uniform he’d donned for the evening in their honour while he raised an eyebrow at Owen, who wilted like a leek left in the sun too long.
Abby somehow managed to keep a straight face. ‘I certainly hope you were not referring to the ruler of the Kingdom of Britain as merely “he”, Owen.’
Owen smiled apologetically at the King. ‘It was the royal he, Your Majesty.’
The King’s frown deepened. ‘Now you’re just making things up to save your arse, Squadron Leader.’
‘I am indeed, sir.’
The King held his stare for a beat longer, but then grinned. ‘Good man! Wonderful initiative! I’ll have to cancel that demotion order.’ He started up the stairs towards them. ‘Maybe.’
The Misfits laughed at Owen’s glum face, even as they made way for the King, followed by a grinning Princess Elizabeth, to go past and into the mansion, all thoughts of possible orders forgotten. At least temporarily.
Over the last couple of days the temperature had dropped considerably and thick clouds had closed in after a brief clear spell. Lord Bagshot had considered hiring the same pavilion that had been set up for the farewell celebration in October, but with the weather threatening he decided to move the party to the ballroom of the mansion. It was crowded, with barely room to swing a dance partner, but none of the men and women of the squadron cared much. While the party was nominally in honour of the change of year, from 1940 to 1941, it was also a reunion - the entire squadron, fitters, service personnel and pilots, were together again for the first time in months. Several of the men and women from Badger Base hadn’t come back, though; they had been killed in the nightly Prussian bombings, a few while on duty and a couple more while on leave with their families in London. They were mourned and toasted, but their loss was not dwelled upon, as was the RAC way.
Word had circulated about the meeting at Windsor Castle and consequently there was an air of expectation and anxiety in the ballroom as people wondered whether their reunion would also be their farewell once more. It was becoming increasingly obvious that none of the men and women could relax and properly enjoy the party so, in the end, Abby and the King decided not to wait until midnight to make their announcement and called for silence.
The King climbed up onto the small stage holding the Misfit band, the Individualists, and faced the assembled squadron.
‘Good evening, ladies and gentlemen, I hope you had a good rest over the holidays, because your country has need of you again and I’m afraid you are going to have to be at your best for the mission ahead of you.’ He took a deep breath and surveyed the faces looking up at him, as if reluctant to continue. ‘We have received intelligence that the Prussians will be stepping up their assault on Malta as a prelude to driving us out of North Africa. So, by order of the Ministry for War, the squadron is hereby requested and required to bolster the defence of the islands. You leave on the tenth of January.’
The King’s choice of words was telling. It wasn’t him ordering them to defend the isolated, but extremely strategically important island, it was Regis Cummerbund, the Minister for War and his cronies. The man had been foiled in trying to disband them, but had done the next best thing - arranged for them to be sent far away and into extreme danger, to a place that had been under siege and continuous attack by the Prussians and their Italian allies for six months already. It would most likely be a far tougher mission than the one to Muscovy.
‘Great, another bloody suicide mission.’ The men and women in the ballroom had been rendered silent by the announcement, all thoughts of celebration banished, and Mac’s venomous comment carried to all of them. Despite the fact that they were all thinking the same thing, they had had the restraint not to say so, but Mac had been drinking heavily for hours and didn’t.
There was a stunned hush as everybody held their breath while they waited to see how the King would respond, whether Abby would reprimand him, but it was Bruce who reacted first. ‘Buck up, Mac. If we do die, at least we’ll die warm this time.’
The silence continued for a couple more seconds, but then Scarlet started sniggering, followed swiftly by Owen and soon the laughter had spread throughout the room.
Gwen kept an eye on the King to see if he had taken offence, but he seemed to have been entertained by Bruce’s rejoinder as much as anyone else. She was concerned for Mac, though; his drinking seemed to be getting the better of him and it would lead him into trouble sooner or later - if he’d spoken that way to anybody but the King, Cummerbund for example, then he might well have been out of the Misfits and possibly the RAC entirely.
Abby had taken the King’s place on the stage and she held her hands up for silence.
‘I know it’s not exactly the assignment we were expecting and we were all rather hoping we’d be home for a little while longer, but, like Muscovy, this is where we are needed the most. The difference this time is that we are all going. This time we leave nobody behind.’
That news started a pleased buzz throughout the room; the squadron had become a close-knit team at Badger Base and hadn’t liked being split up one bit.
‘There is one final bit of business before we get down to some serious drinking.’ Abby lifted her head to look over the heads of the crowd to a group of people who had been stationed by the French windows. ‘Everything ready, Sergeant?’
Gwen followed her gaze, along with everyone else in the ballroom, and with a start recognised the men and women as her own fitters.
‘Awaiting your word, ma’am,’ Sergeant Jenkins called out.
‘The word is given!’ At Abby’s signal Gwen’s fitters drew back the blackout curtains and dimmed the lights in the ballroom.
Nothing could be seen beyond the glass doors; it was pitch black outside, night having fallen a while ago, but then floodlights came on, revealing a gleaming grey and black aircraft sitting on the patio, its pink wingtips polished to a high shine.
Gwen’s world narrowed to just her and the machine. She was completely unaware that her legs were carrying her forwards, unaware that the men and women in the ballroom had opened a path in front of her or that they were applauding. She didn’t even notice when the doors were opened for her by Sergeant Jenkins and she stepped out into the cold; she was too busy absorbing the lines of the aircraft that she had drawn up plans for on the Arturo, s
eeing how it loomed over her, so much taller than Wasp, the huge airscrew glinting silver in the harsh electric lights, like a knife ready to cut the air.
She couldn’t understand how it was possible for Excalibur to be there; she was supposed to be just a drawing on a piece of paper still. It was like a dream and it wasn’t until she reached out to touch the tip of the wing and felt the cold of the metal beneath her fingertips that she knew for sure that it wasn’t.
A snowflake settled on her eyelash, startling her, breaking the spell, and when she finally tore her eyes away from the beautiful aircraft she found the King and the pilots grouped up behind her on the patio and the rest of the squadron crowded around the windows.
Every single one of them was grinning. At her.
‘I...’ She gazed around the group, still in shock, but her eyes narrowed when she realised that Kitty was with grinning as well. ‘You knew?’
‘Of course! Somebody had to make sure you didn’t wander into the wrong building.’
‘Everybody knew, Lieutenant.’ The King stepped to her side, then turned to gesture at the gathered squadron. ‘She’s a present from all of us, for bringing back together a squadron that was breaking apart and for giving it the tools it needs to remain true to its raison d’être as one of the primary defenders of this country. She’s also very much a present for ourselves and for the people of Britain, because we know that the Kingdom is safer with you flying her.’
Gwen looked from the King to the rest of the pilots, to the men and women behind them, then back to the King. ‘Thank you, sir. It’s the best present I’ve ever had.’
‘You’re more than welcome! Now, do you think we can go back inside? It’s bloody freezing out here!’
The King offered Gwen his arm and together they walked across the patio and back into the ballroom.
As Gwen’s fitters closed the doors, warmth enveloped them and the King pulled her to a halt and turned her to look back out into the gardens.
The snow was coming down thicker now, settling on the flagstones of the patio and the Duralumin of Excalibur, turning them white in the glow from the spotlight.
‘Merry Midwinter, Gwen, and happy hunting.’ The King smiled and looked down at her. ‘By the way, you’re not going to believe who the source of our intelligence on Malta is.’
About the Author
Simon Brading’s interest in aviation began when he was very young and at thirteen he joined the RAF section of the Combined Cadet Forces of Dulwich College with the aim of becoming a pilot. However, when he was 18, had reached the rank of Flight Sergeant in the CCF and was trying to get into a University Air Squadron, he was told that his eyesight wasn’t good enough to be a pilot, so he had to move onto plan B... something else.
He never lost his interest in flight, though, and hopes to add a PPL to his very basic and probably extremely expired glider license.
As well as the odd novel he writes screenplays and every so often does some acting.
www.simonbrading.co.uk
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About the Author
Simon Brading’s interest in aviation began when he was very young and at thirteen he joined the RAF section of the Combined Cadet Forces of Dulwich College with the aim of becoming a pilot. However, when he was 18, had reached the rank of Flight Sergeant in the CCF and was trying to get into a University Air Squadron, he was told that his eyesight wasn’t good enough to be a pilot, so he had to move onto plan B... something else.
He never lost his interest in flight, though, and hopes to add a PPL to his very basic and probably extremely expired glider license.
As well as the odd novel he writes screenplays and every so often does some acting.
www.simonbrading.co.uk
Also by Simon Brading
Displacers
The Pirate’s Heir
The Secret of the Ancients
The Whitechapel Plot
The Price of Greed
The Time for Vengeance
Dismal Futures Books
Empath
The Lifeboat at the End of the Universe
Twin Ambitions
Fight to Dance
Back to Basics
Misfit Squadron Series
The Battle Over Britain
The Russian Resistance
A Misfit Midwinter
The Lion and the Baron
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A Misfit Midwinter Page 11
