Beauty Chorus, The (10 page)

‘Please sit down,’ Pauline said briskly. ‘I just wanted to welcome you all to White Waltham and congratulate you on joining the ATA.’ She looked at each pilot in turn,
making eye contact. ‘The work you do here is vital to the war effort. As you may have heard, we have sadly lost First Officer Johnson.’ She looked down at her hands. ‘It is a sad
day for the ATA, and for aviation. There will be a memorial service at St Martin in the Fields on the 14th, and I would encourage those of you not flying that day to attend.’

Pauline looked at the girls. ‘I have always maintained that flying is the best career a woman can have, but let this be a reminder to you. ATA work is thrilling, but dangerous. You will
fly unarmed and without instruments. We never, ever encourage our pilots to go “over the top” in bad weather, as Amy did. We would rather our pilots waited for it to clear up, however
long that takes. The planes are needed urgently by our fighting squadrons – but it will always be your choice whether or not to fly.’ She leant on the desk in front of her.
‘Frankly, I would rather my pilots returned home safely. We can always replace a plane, but we can’t replace you.’ She looked directly at Evie. ‘Now, I’ll leave you in
the capable hands of MacMillan’s team. Good luck and welcome on board.’

‘Crikey,’ Megan whispered, ‘if Amy crashed because she went over the top, what hope have we got?’

‘She didn’t crash.’ One of the male pilots leant over. ‘She ran out of fuel, pitched up in the drink a hundred miles off course.’

‘Have they … have they found her body?’ Stella asked.

‘No.’ He shook his head. ‘You should hear some of the stories going round the mess. People are saying she was ferrying a spy, or helping a German escape. Maybe she was shot
down by a Messerschmidt—’

‘Or friendly fire!’ the man at his side chipped in.

‘All of which is hearsay and tittle-tattle,’ MacMillan said firmly. ‘Right, welcome to the ATA. While you are with us, you will be flying with some of the finest pilots in this
country, and indeed the world.’ He paced in front of the blackboard. ‘We have men and women joining us from all corners of the globe. We are a civilian outfit, but we count many RAF
veterans among our number, men like Stewart Keith-Jopp. He may be over fifty and have only one eye and one arm, but he is one of the most capable and brave aviators I have ever had the fortune to
serve with. You will come to learn that disability is no handicap to flying complex machines. Neither is sex an impediment.’

‘Jolly good,’ Evie whispered drolly.

‘Now.’ He pulled down a roller map of the country over the blackboard and picked up a long wooden pointer. ‘There are at this time 800 airfields in the United Kingdom. We have
ferry pools all over the country. Those of you based in White Waltham will be clearing planes from the Brooklands, Langley and Woodley factories mainly, so you will get a lot of Vickers, Hawkers
and Magisters.’

What about Spitfires?
Evie thought as she tapped her pencil on the desk impatiently.

‘Each day you will report to your base and you will be issued with your chits. Most often you will be taxied to your first pick­up by the Anson. At the end of your day you will be
collected and brought back to base if possible. If not you will take a night-train home.’ Several pilots groaned. ‘I know, not much fun at the best of times, but we need you back at
base and operational as soon as possible. We have more work than we can handle at the moment. There won’t be much rest. In any one day you may fly three, four, five different types of
plane.’

‘How much time off do we get sir?’ one of the men asked.

‘Time off?’ MacMillan turned to him. ‘You haven’t even started yet. You’ll have two days off each fortnight if you’re lucky.’ He tossed a small blue
book onto each desk. ‘Let’s get on with work now shall we? Does anyone know what these are?’

‘Ferry Pilot Notes, sir?’ Stella read the yellow lettering on the cover.

‘Well done. This is your personal ATA manual. Guard it with your life because it might just save yours. In these few pages are all the instructions you will need to fly any one of the
aircraft the ATA ferries, from a Moth to a Lancaster.’

Evie flipped through the ring-bound 4 x 6 cards, each page crammed with small script describing the correct settings, speeds and configurations for countless types of aircraft.
They
weren’t joking when they said we’d be flying anything anywhere
, she thought.

‘Many of your flights will be clearing new planes from factories to safer MUs—’

‘MUs?’ Stella asked.

‘Maintenance units,’ he said. ‘There they will be fitted with finer elements.’

‘Such as?’

‘Armaments, radios …’

‘So it’s true?’ Stella slowly put her pen on the table. ‘We fly alone?’

‘Yes, Mrs Grainger.’ He held her gaze. ‘Will there be a problem with that?’

‘No, sir.’

‘You’ll fly at under 2000 feet at all times. Let Miss Johnson’s tragic accident be a reminder of the perils of going over the top.’ He cleared his throat. ‘Now, we
all know pilots are allergic to the written word, so we’ve made these manuals as simple as possible. All we need is for you to get from A to B safely – straight and level, no
aerobatics, no instrument flying.’

‘But what if we get caught in cloud, sir?’ Evie asked. ‘Some of us have instrument training.’

‘Do you have your rating?’

‘No, sir.’

‘I wouldn’t rely on it then. You have so much to learn so we are not going to teach you one unnecessary fact. These,’ he picked up a heavy white book, ‘are the Handling
Notes. There’s one for each type of plane you will be expected to fly, and you should read them before you fly a new type.’

‘Where are they kept, sir?’ Megan looked up from the copious notes she was taking.

‘In the engineering library. Each pool has one. The blue notes you keep with you at all times.’ He tapped the cover of the little book. ‘I repeat, at all times. Everything you
need is here.’

‘It seems awfully small,’ Evie said doubtfully.

‘Size isn’t everything,’ a pilot in the back row chuckled, setting off half the class.

‘Settle down.’ MacMillan tried not to smile. ‘You’ll see, Miss Chase. Pretty soon you’ll be able to climb into any cockpit, check the engine and go.’ He
rolled up the map and took a piece of chalk from the ledge. ‘As you know by now, you’ll start on Class 1 light types, but eventually some of you will progress through up to Class 5
four-engine planes and Class 6 flying boats.’ With a flourish he wrote ‘Engines and Technical Aeronautics’ on the board. ‘For now, let’s start with the basics. Your
three-week ground school will cover meteorology, maps, tech, engines and navigation. I’m going to leave you in the capable hands of Captain Gribble to get on with your tech classes
today.’

Evie rolled her eyes. When were they going to let them in the air?

‘How on earth are we going to learn all this in a few weeks?’ Evie said as the girls strolled into the mess after class. Her head was reeling with facts and
figures. ‘I’ve been Gribbleised.’

‘Evie? Is that you?’ An elegant girl in a Sidcot flying suit called from across the room.

‘Joy?’ They laughed and embraced. ‘Why, I haven’t seen you since the Magyar pilots’ picnic!’

‘It’s been too, too long, darling.’

‘Are you still dancing? Joy is the most marvellous ballet dancer,’ she said to Stella and Megan.

‘Gosh no, gave that up ages ago. What about you? Are you still seeing Clive?’

‘That rat? No,’ Evie tossed her hair. ‘Didn’t you hear? He’s engaged to some dreadful horse-faced aristo from Northumbria. Trying to buy himself a title. The only
good thing he did for me was encourage me to fly.’

‘I never thought he was capable of keeping up with you.’ She slipped her arm through Evie’s. ‘What about Peter? Is he still mooning over you?’

Evie shrugged. ‘I wish he’d find someone. He still has this silly idea that we’ll get engaged. I just don’t think of him like that, but I can’t bear to hurt his
feelings, especially not at the moment.’

‘I’m sure we can find someone to distract him,’ Joy said. ‘It seems like a different lifetime doesn’t it? Debs’ delights, skiing …’ Her face fell
for a moment. ‘But oh, this is such fun to have you here! You’ll know several of the girls already,’ she said, and glanced at Stella and Megan. ‘I’m so sorry,
we’re old friends. I’m Joy Preston, and this is Honor, Margaret and Joan,’ she added, as several of the women drinking orangeade and cups of tea smiled in welcome. Megan gazed
longingly at the corner where Lettice Curtis was playing backgammon with Frankie, hoping for an introduction.

Joy picked up her cup of tea. ‘Where are you staying?’

‘A ghastly little cottage over at Cox Green,’ Evie said.

‘Well, listen, a few of us are going out tonight to the Riviera, why don’t you all come along, meet the gang?’ She glanced over Megan’s shoulder. ‘You’ll come
for a drink won’t you, Beau?’

‘I might drop in later,’ he said.

‘Do you know him?’ Evie scowled as her gaze followed his retreating figure.

‘Beau? Yes, I’ve known him for yonks,’ Joy said. ‘He was, or is, engaged to Olivia Shuster, have you met her? I can’t keep up with them – the
engagement’s on, then it’s off …’ Joy sipped her tea. ‘Beau introduced her to me when we were skiing in Lech just before the war.’

‘What’s she like?’

‘Very pretty girl, bit spoilt.’ Joy said. ‘I believe they’re related on his father’s side somehow, second cousins or something.’ She leant in to Evie and
whispered, ‘Not many people round here know, but he’s a count.’

‘Really?’ Evie watched him as he walked across the airfield towards a Hurricane. She frowned as she thought of how he had compared her to Olivia.

‘Count Alexander Beaufort von Loewe,’ Joy said. ‘If you ask me, I think she wants to marry him for the title.’

‘Well it certainly wouldn’t be for his personality. I think he’s the rudest man I’ve ever met.’ Evie folded her arms. ‘What happened with them?’

‘I don’t know, but I heard she’s keen to win him back.’

‘I can’t imagine why. I’m not sure I do want to go dancing tonight if he’ll be there.’

‘Don’t be a spoilsport, darling.’ Joy dug her in the ribs. ‘If our Wing Commander’s not your cup of tea there are plenty of other lovely chaps around, and you have
to make the most of it while you’re training. Once you’re ferrying you won’t have time for parties, I promise you.’

8

As the girls spilled into the Riviera, laughing and talking, a young horn player rose to his feet, swinging out a Count Basie tune. The dance floor was jumping to the rhythm of
the drums as Evie slipped off her velvet cape and handed it to the cloakroom attendant.

‘I’ll be there in a moment, I’m just going to powder my nose,’ she said to the girls. She weaved through the crowd.
There are more men in uniform than dinner suits
these days
, she thought, as a tall, auburn-haired RAF officer stepped aside to let her pass. He raised his eyebrows hopefully, met her gaze, but she simply said ‘Thank you,’ and
walked on.

It was quieter in the ladies’ cloakroom, the dance music muffled as the heavy mahogany door swung closed. Only one of the cubicles was busy Evie noticed as she padded across the soft,
scarlet carpet. She could hear stifled sobs, and she paused, wondering whether she should say anything.
No
, she decided,
I always hate people to see me in a state.

She slipped onto the plush stool in front of the low lights of the dressing table and clicked open her evening bag, tipping the contents onto the glass table top. Evie considered her reflection,
and pulled a face. She sighed and rubbed at the dark circles beneath her eyes as she heard the bolt slide open on the cubicle. ‘Eugh, I look ghastly,’ she said as she picked up her
lipstick.

‘You don’t. You look s-simply lovely.’ A pale, platinum-blonde girl with red-rimmed eyes was looking at her.

‘Oh, hello. I hope I didn’t disturb you?’

‘No, I’m fine,’ she said unconvincingly.

‘Can I help?’

‘No.’ The girl shook her head as she sat down next to Evie. ‘But thank you.’

She was like a spirit, Evie thought – there was something ethereal about her. The bugle beads of her white dress shimmered against her luminous pale skin, her collarbones jutting as she
inhaled deeply. A large opal gleamed on her ring finger as she dabbed at her eyes.

‘I don’t know what’s got in to me,’ the girl said as she tugged the diamond clip from her bob and clipped back the loose strands of her hair. ‘Men do hate it when
you make a scene. He’s just s-so impossible.’ She glanced at Evie’s make-up. ‘Actually, could I borrow a dab of powder?’ Evie handed her the heavy gold compact.
‘Thank you.’ The girl skilfully covered the worst of her red nose. ‘I left my bag at the bar when I stormed off.’

‘Man trouble?’ Evie said sympathetically.

‘Just a silly argument with my fiancé.’ As she stared at herself in the mirror, the girl’s pupils dilated to deep pools of darkness. When she turned to Evie her eyes
were unnervingly black against her pale skin, rimmed with a thin halo of ice blue. ‘You know how it is.’

‘I’m sure you’ll make up,’ Evie said as she dabbed perfume onto her wrists, behind her ears, the warm scent of leather, spice, jasmine and amber filling her senses.

‘I don’t know. I think I might have blown it this time. He’s so difficult at the moment.’ She shook her head as if she were trying to dispel her doubt. ‘But
he’ll forgive me.’ She pursed her lips into a tight, determined smile. ‘He always does.’ She turned to Evie. ‘Is that Chanel?’

Evie held out her wrist. ‘Cuir de Russie.’

The girl stood and smoothed her gown over her narrow hips. ‘You are brave. I always go for something lighter and more feminine myself.’

Feminine?
Evie thought indignantly. ‘Well, good luck.’ She caught the cool, calculating look in the girl’s eyes as she appraised her reflection in the mirror.

The girl raised her hand, folded her long, bony fingers into her palm in a slow wave goodbye. ‘Perhaps I’ll see you later?’