The Spitfire Girl in the Skies Read online

  THE SPITFIRE GIRL IN THE SKIES

  Fenella J Miller was born in the Isle of Man. Her father was a Yorkshire man and her mother the daughter of a Rajah. She has worked as a nanny, cleaner, field worker, hotelier, chef, secondary and primary teacher and is now a full time writer. She has over thirty eight Regency romantic adventures published plus four Jane Austen variations, three Victorian sagas and seven WW2 family sagas. She lives in a pretty, riverside village in Essex with her husband and British Shorthair cat. She has two adult children and three grandchildren.

  The Spitfire Girl Series

  The Spitfire Girl

  The Spitfire Girl in the Skies

  THE SPITFIRE GIRL IN THE SKIES

  Fenella J Miller

  www.ariafiction.com

  First published in theUnited Kingdomin 2019 by Aria,an imprint of Head of Zeus Ltd

  Copyright © Fenella J. Miller, 2019

  The moral right of Fenella J. Millerto 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.

  9 7 5 3 1 2 4 6 8

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

  ISBN (E) 9781788548403

  Aria

  an imprint of Head of Zeus

  First Floor East

  5–8 Hardwick Street

  London EC1R 4RG

  www.ariafiction.com

  www.headofzeus.com

  To my beloved husband.

  Contents

  Welcome Page

  Copyright Page

  Dedication

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  Chapter Thirty

  Chapter Thirty-One

  Chapter Thirty-Two

  Hello from Aria

  One

  June 1940

  Glebe Farm didn’t seem like home any more now that her brother Neil was buried. Ellie wished she didn’t have to stay the full week of her compassionate leave but it would be unfair on her dad and Mabel to leave early.

  ‘Ellie, love, you’ve not eaten anything today. You’ll fade away if you don’t have something.’ Mabel was more than cook-housekeeper here now, she was the future Mrs Simpson and Ellie wasn’t sure she was ready for more changes in her life.

  ‘I’m sorry, every time I try and swallow my throat sort of closes up. I had some cocoa and a bit of the Victoria sandwich when I got up, so I’m fine.’

  ‘Why don’t you take the dogs for a walk, clear your head. Fred will be back from the bottom field for his lunch soon. He’ll not want to see you moping about.’

  Ellie bit her lip, somehow keeping back a sharp reply. Neil’s funeral had only been two days ago, for heaven’s sake, why was she expected to be rushing about the place so soon? It was none of Mabel’s business anyway, she wasn’t a member of the family yet.

  ‘I’ll do that. I’ll be back in time for lunch.’ Jack and Jasper, the two dogs they’d rescued from Battersea, were delighted to be taken for an extra stroll – not that they needed any exercise as they were always racing about the place catching rats, chasing rabbits and generally enjoying themselves.

  Every time she called Jack it made her think of the other Jack in the family. He was a fighter pilot as Neil had been, but he was flying a Hurricane not a Spitfire. Everyone believed the Germans were about to invade and he was going to be at the forefront of the fighting.

  George, her one remaining brother, was also a fighter pilot. However, he had severed the link between Glebe Farm and himself and was now firmly in the same camp as her obnoxious fascist grandfather, Sir Reginald Humphrey, and her estranged mother. She no longer considered either of them as part of her life and would probably never know if George was killed in the line of duty.

  Jack Reynolds was like her brother now – the only one she’d got. If anything happened to him she wouldn’t be able to cope. Pushing that miserable thought aside she whistled to the dogs and walked briskly down the lane towards the farmhouse. She’d seen the tractor with Dad and the two remaining ancient labourers returning to the farm. They were about to retire, were in fact already too old to be working, but Dad was keeping them on until they wanted to go.

  She waved to the team of land girls busy clearing the ditches. They didn’t work every day here, they were in teams and lived in a hostel in the village and were sent out in rotation to the farms in the area. Dad owned three of them so they tended to be working for him most of the time.

  There was always a hot meal at lunchtime and it was served outside on a trestle table. She didn’t go out and join them as she wasn’t in the mood for small talk. She hadn’t been hungry since that awful call to the CO’s office a few days ago when she was told that her beloved brother was dead. The fact that he had bailed out over Dover when his Spitfire had been hit should have meant he survived. He was machine gunned by a passing Messerschmitt and had been dead when he hit the ground.

  Somehow being killed like this made it even worse. His death had been an unnecessary act of cruelty – he should have been safe over his own home soil and dangling from a parachute. She wished she could join Jack fighting the Germans and killing those that had murdered her brother in cold blood. She was certain no British pilot would do such a thing.

  The kitchen was unpleasantly hot so she continued into the sitting room which was cooler. She wandered about picking up and reading an occasional sympathy card from those scattered along the windowsill and mantelpiece.

  Did one reply to these? She didn’t know the addresses of half of them. The parish magazine was no longer printed because of the paper shortage or they could have put a notice in that. Maybe the vicar would make an announcement? Anyway, she wasn’t going to do it.

  She couldn’t even write to her friends Daisy and Mary, as by the time her letter had been sent to a central postbox and then delivered secretly to the radar station they were posted at, she would be back. Telephone calls were also banned. Even her parents and fiancé, Greg, didn’t know what she was actually doing. They just thought she was involved with something to do with radio operations. It was all very hush-hush.

  She would leave tomorrow. She couldn’t stay here with nothing to do and too much time to think of what she’d lost. Keeping busy was the answer. Unable to settle, she made her way to her bedroom. Her eyes filled when she passed what used to be Neil’s room, next to it George’s room, neither of them would ever be used by her brothers again.

  Perhaps there was something of Neil’s left in his wardrobe she could have as a memento and take back with her. Of course, she had a photograph but something more personal would help with her grief. There was a war on, three families in the village had lost loved ones as well, she had to get a grip and stop wallowing in her misery. Dad and Mabel were quieter than usual but they were getting on with their lives.

  She put her hand on the door of Neil’s room but couldn’t bring herself to open it. Too soon. Instead she went into her own bedroom and stretched out on the bed. She could hear the murmur of voices coming through the open window.

  ‘Fred, love, I’m that worried about Ellie. She’s taken this hard. I don’t like to bring up the subject of her wedding, not when she’s so down.’

  ‘She was close to Neil, it’ll take her a while to get used to the idea. Greg said he was going to contact the vicar and get the banns read so they could be married as soon as they can coordinate home leave. With that bastard Hitler about to invade us I don’t see either of them getting time off in the next few months – so there’s no rush, love. Let things settle a bit.’

  Ellie was now sitting up on her bed listening. She couldn’t remember the last time she’d heard her father say so much. He was a quiet man, not given to talking unless he had something pertinent to say.

  He was right. The likelihood of there being a wedding in the next few weeks was zero. She wouldn’t even think about the possibility that the man she loved, the man she was going to marry as soon as she could, might lose his life in the forthcoming battle. Nevertheless, planning her big day with her father and Mabel would give them something positive to think about.

  What she needed was some paper and a pe
ncil to start making notes. It would have to be simple – with rationing there was no getting enough dried fruit and sugar to make a wedding cake. At least being a farm meant they had plenty of dairy products, eggs and meat. They were only supposed to keep back what would be theirs under the rationing rules but who could possibly know if they didn’t send it all to the designated shops? As long as they fulfilled their quota she was certain no one would come out and check.

  As she was rummaging through the debris on her dressing table she came across the information Jack had given her about the ATA. So many pilots had been killed or injured when the BEF was evacuated from the beaches of Dunkirk they now needed every able-bodied trained flyer on active service. This meant that the RAF pilots being used to ferry aircraft, mail and personnel from base to base had been withdrawn from the Air Transport Auxiliary. Although the bigwigs in the RAF were obviously not trying to actively recruit women pilots, the form was aimed at men.

  After scanning the paper, she found her fountain pen and quickly filled it in. Some details she had to leave whilst she found her logbook and copied out the hours she had spent instructing or solo flying and which aircraft she was familiar with.

  Surely, they would jump at the chance of having someone with so much experience, someone who had trained dozens of young pilots for the RAF? The only downside was that she was so young – they might think her too immature to take on such a responsibility.

  After blotting the form, she carefully folded it and pushed it into an envelope. There was little point in sending it to the main office, she would send it to Hatfield where she knew there were already a dozen or so women pilots. There were still three stamps left in her stationery wallet. This must be an omen. One for the application, one for a letter to Jack and one to use on the letter to Greg.

  *

  By the time the lorry had returned to his base at Hornchurch after Neil’s funeral it was as if nothing untoward had taken place. The men were smoking, joking and talking eagerly about getting to the mess for a few beers and a knees-up that evening.

  Greg wanted to mourn his best friend for longer than a few hours but his wasn’t the only squadron to lose members and the last thing that was needed was for the base to fall into a sombre mood. To win this war they had to stay focused, positive, push the negative things aside and get on with it.

  He was about to head for the Officers’ Mess on his multicoloured bike – a Christmas present from his darling girl – when someone from his squadron yelled at him.

  ‘There’s a party somewhere – hop in – we’ll give you a lift.’

  Why not? He might as well get legless, drown his sorrows, and what better place to do it than at a party? Neil had been his best friend. His loss was going to be hard to adjust to. Obviously the chaps in this squadron would miss him, but they hadn’t trained with him, known him since long before this bloody war started. Stiff upper lip and all that.

  The vehicle they were travelling in had been requisitioned – at least he hoped it had – for the evening and was crammed full of young men just like him, all eager to forget they might be next to go for a Burton.

  ‘Do we have to take any booze?’ Greg asked the man he was crushed against.

  ‘No, just drop a couple of quid in a kitty on the way in.’

  ‘Who’s holding this shindig?’

  ‘No idea. Open invitation to all the bods here.’

  The conversation was cut short as the driver spun the wheel and the vehicle lurched sickeningly, throwing him against the man sitting next to him. By the time they’d untangled themselves they screeched to a halt outside an impressive building.

  ‘Here we are, lads,’ the driver yelled. ‘Not sure when your transport will be returning – hope you’ve got permission to be out all night.’

  The CO had told the squadron to go out and get drunk but hadn’t specified when they should return. He hoped to God there wouldn’t be a German raid tonight as there’d be no one sober enough to fly.

  He followed the noisy group up the stone steps, under the portico, and into an entrance hall that reminded him sharply of his own ancestral home. But the resemblance was superficial as this place was in urgent need of repair – whoever lived here must be land rich and cash poor, unlike his own unpleasant family.

  There was a dozen or so partygoers milling about in the space but the sound of jollity and revelry was coming through the open double doors of the drawing room. No sign of a bar so he couldn’t find himself a much needed drink before he entered the fray.

  The drawing room, like the hall, was vast, elegantly furnished, but definitely run down. Two sets of French doors stood wide open onto a terrace. This was where the party was. The last thing he wanted was to smile and be sociable but that was how it was done in the RAF. Onwards and upwards – think about tomorrow not yesterday.

  As he was making his reluctant way towards the terrace a familiar voice hailed him. ‘Greg, how wonderful to see you. I hoped you would be here.’ The honourable Elizabeth Hamilton rushed forward and threw her arms around his neck. She was a deb he’d had a brief affair with a couple of years ago. He’d met up with her again at a village social just after he’d been transferred to the squadron and had spent an enjoyable day catching up over a picnic. She wouldn’t ask him how he was feeling, want to talk about his grief; she was exactly the distraction he desperately needed.

  ‘Elizabeth, I might have known you would be anywhere there was a party going on.’ He extricated himself from her arms without reciprocating her kiss but she seemed unbothered by his rejection.

  ‘I’m sorry about your friend, I know you have just returned from his funeral. The night is for forgetting, for having a jolly good time and I’ll help you do that.’

  The next few hours passed in a haze of loud music, too much alcohol and wild dancing. By the time it got dark he’d forgotten everything apart from the pleasure of holding a beautiful girl in his arms and twirling her around the ballroom. His misery at the death of his friend had been numbed by drink. Live in the moment is what they were advised to do and he was doing that with a vengeance.

  ‘I’m bushed, I need some fresh air and another drink.’

  ‘So do I, Greg, let’s get one and have a stroll around the garden. Now it’s dark, it’s lovely out there.’

  When she kissed him he responded and what happened next was inevitable. If they’d still been inside, in full view of his comrades, things would have been different.

  He tumbled her to the ground behind a concealing shrub and she was as eager as he to make love. For a few minutes he forgot Neil, Ellie, everything that mattered to him as his baser instincts took over. It had been too long since he’d slept with a woman and not even a bomb dropping could have prevented him from being unfaithful.

  *

  Jack got back to base by the skin of his teeth, just avoiding jankers for being AWOL. He’d been given a twelve hour pass to attend Neil’s funeral and that should have been plenty. The trains were running late, overcrowded, bloody hot, and you’d have thought he was travelling to the other side of the world, not a few miles to Croydon – or Kenley as this part of the base was known.

  No one from his squadron had bought it so they were on duty tonight. On his way to the dispersal hut he stopped to speak to the ground crew. They were totally loyal to the guy who flew their aircraft – they were both cheerful and uncomplaining too.

  ‘Everything at readiness, guys?’

  ‘All tickety-boo, sir.’

  ‘See you later, probably.’

  They didn’t salute, nobody bothered with that nonsense. Everyone got on together and worked as a team which was better than the rigid discipline you got in the other services. He half smiled when he thought of Ellie – they’d not had time to talk today but he’d managed to hand over the form he’d got from the ATA bloke. If she managed to get released from the WAAF he might see her occasionally if she flew into his base.

  He paused to put on his Mae West and nodded to the telephone orderly at his blanket covered table. He was there to take any calls and tell them when to scramble. The other bods ignored him and he made his way to the last vacant camp bed and settled down. He could do with a bit of kip and with luck nothing would happen until dawn.