Beauty Chorus, The (5 page)

‘You’re mad!’ I laughed, my heart racing.

‘We make a good team, Amy.’

I was what used to be called a handsome woman. The truth is he made me feel as beautiful as my publicity shots, the ones that showed my long arched eyebrows darkened with kohl, my strong
features softened cleverly by the lens. For him I had my teeth fixed, learnt to elongate my vowels. I healed my broken heart by flying, just as I did when Irene killed herself. I lost my little
sister, but I have found a sisterhood among the girls here. While other women wept secretly in dark wartime cinemas, we took our passions and bereavements, our anger and frustration, and gave them
wings.

The girls talked excitedly of how I ‘just mucked in’ at the airbases, but what else do you do in these circumstances? There were three stooges when I passed through White Waltham
for the last time, waiting to go in for their briefing with Pauline. When they saw me in the Ops Corridor, their chatter stopped. They looked like the three wise monkeys sitting on the cane-backed
chairs. One dark and small, muffled against the cold in a mink coat, diamonds glittering in her ears. The girl next to her was practically a child, bright eyed and fresh cheeked. Her mouth actually
fell open when she saw me. Finally a cool blonde – when she smiled, her eyes remained closed, like a blacked-out house. Like mine.
She has lost someone close
, I thought,
she is the
walking wounded
.

‘Miss Johnson!’ The young one leapt up keen as mustard, dark curls bouncing as she reached out her hand. ‘Oh! How marvellous to see you! We were just saying, you’re
the reason we are all here.’

‘Thank you.’ I smiled cordially. ‘Do call me Johnnie, everyone does.’ God they looked young, and untested. That will change, I thought; they will age years in only a
few months. We all found ways of coping with the waiting and the stress – some drank, but knitting did it for me. No wonder that the black, secret nights of love, lust and gaiety became the
counterpoint of our dangerous, solitary days. This is why the girls danced all night to Fat Tim at the 400 Club. Why they lost themselves in the beat and swing of the big bands, the heat of the
dance floor and the comfort of a stranger’s arms. As they say, the generous heart gives in wartime. It beats faster, reminds you that you are still alive when death is all around you.

It is no wonder that, before we take off, most pilots withdraw, go silently into our own worlds. Some of the women hammed it up, had a fit of the feminine vapours, trailing the contents of
their handbags as they went to their planes. ‘Oh my dear, I can’t possibly fly today, I have the most awful headache.’ Male officers swooping after them, picking up handkerchiefs,
escorting them to their aircraft. Sometimes I think seeing a young slip of a girl step out of a huge plane is still many men’s worst fear. I never had any flak from the boys, but I know some
had. The thing is if you looked closely at these powder-puff girls, once they were in the cockpit they were as focused as the rest of us. They had the look of an oiled prize-fighter dancing through
the crowds to the ring.

As I go back to my last flight, this is where I am now, in my own world. The smoke as I exhale is invisible against the luminous milky sky, drizzle soft and cold on my cheeks, sound muffled.
I clamber into the high, glazed cockpit, run through my final checks, the metal and the glass dials cold beneath my fingertips. It takes me a moment to realise one of the refuellers is hovering
shyly by the door, a piece of paper in his oil-blackened hand.

‘Is everything alright?’

‘Yes, I’m sorry to disturb you, Miss.’ The lad is blushing furiously, can hardly look at my face. ‘Could I have your autograph for my daughter? She’s a big
fan.’

‘Of course, jump in.’

He swings in to the office – you get used to flying alone but it’s good to have some company in the cockpit for a while. I switch my cigarette to my other hand, and take the pen
and paper from him. ‘What’s her name?’

‘Elizabeth.’

He’s beaming with relief. Maybe he thought I’d bite his head off.

‘How old is she?’ I lean against the charts, write ‘To Elizabeth, with love, Amy Johnson.’

‘She’s only ten, but she wants to be a pilot just like you when she grows up.’

‘Good for her.’ I hand him the autograph.

‘Thank you, Miss.’ It’s as if I’ve handed him a cheque for a million pounds. ‘She’ll be cock-a-hoop when I get home.’ He backs out, smiling
broadly.

‘Hold on.’ I root around in my pigskin flight bag. I pull out an enamel brooch with wings, and offer it to him. ‘For Elizabeth. Tell her there’s no better career for a
young woman.’

4

Evie raced along the tree-lined Bath Road, across Maidenhead Thicket, with the Aston pushing 85 mph. It was a short fifteen-minute hop from her father’s house, but as
usual she had slept through her alarm and she was late. She looped around the village green, past the inn and on to Cherry Garden Lane. In spite of the bitter cold, she had the roof down, and as
the fresh air gradually revived her she began to come up with a plan. If she liked the look of the job, why rough it in digs when there were all those empty bedrooms at home?
The best of both
worlds
, she thought
. Fly all day and a few home comforts at night.

After a mile, she spotted the airfield. She steered the Aston Martin15/98 around in front of the offices and pulled to a halt. People were piling out of ATA coaches and walking briskly through
the mist to an assortment of small wooden huts around the perimeter of the airfield. Her gaze followed a black-and-white-chequered van as it rumbled past the anti-aircraft guns at the centre. As
she watched, an Anson taxi plane touched down nearby, and she heard the airscrews slow and stop.

Evie untied her Hermès headscarf and tossed it onto the passenger seat.
Well at least Daddy was joking about the HQ being a wooden hut on the runway
, she thought as she scanned the
offices. A long two-storey building led to a curved office wing and a small terrace overlooking the airfield. But this was not what she had imagined at all. Where were the elegant white Art Deco
buildings? The dashing men in uniform?

She heard a tannoy system crackle into life. ‘Hello, hello. Will the following pilots go to Anson 9972 …’ As she watched, several people carrying parachutes trooped through
the mist and fumes to the waiting plane.

‘Are you lost?’ An airman strolled towards her out of the sun. His cap was tilted over his eyes, and as he raised his face Evie tried not to stare at the white dressing covering his
left cheek. He was smoking, his left hand tucked into the pocket of his great coat. She sensed his lean strength – but there was something about the careful way he carried himself that seemed
awkward. It was as if every step was an effort. His eyes travelled slowly upwards, taking in her high heels and mink coat. ‘The Café de Paris is about fifty miles that way.’ He
indicated the Maidenhead Road with a nod of his head as he ground the cigarette beneath his boot.

‘Do I look like I’m lost?’ Evie put her hands on her hips. She was nervous, and, frankly, this man wasn’t helping.

‘Oh no, all the chaps are wearing mink this season.’ He stepped closer, tipped his cap backwards. Now she could see his clear blue eyes she was even more unsettled. ‘You
certainly don’t look like you belong here. Are you visiting one of the men?’

‘You think I’m a camp-follower?’ she said, trying to sound brave, and worldly.

‘We get a lot of girls hanging around the bases.’ He began to walk away, but Evie followed him.

‘I’ll have you know I’m a pilot, and a damn good one.’ She had to half run to keep up with him. ‘Is this the ATA headquarters?’

‘Yes, why?’

‘I just expected something more.’

‘In the old days all they had was a shed at the east end by the de Havilland hangar.’

‘Daddy wasn’t joking then,’ she said as he pushed open the door for her. ‘Would you kindly show me the way to the Recruitment Office?’ To her annoyance he began to
laugh.

‘What’s so funny?’ The dark-haired officer striding down the Ops Corridor did a double take when he saw Evie.

‘Nothing.’ Beau took off his cap and ran a hand through his blond hair. ‘Just another Daddy’s girl turned up to give this ferrying lark a go.’ When she saw the burn
on his left arm, she recoiled, realising too late that the man had seen the shock on her face. His face hardened. ‘Looks like Pauline’s scraping the bottom of the barrel, old
boy.’ He turned on his heel and marched off towards the mess.

‘I see you’ve met Beau.’ The other officer offered her his hand.

‘Why is he called that?’

‘Because he is … or he was, so handsome. Our Wing Commander Beaufort managed to get his Spit home after the Battle of Britain, but it was on fire by the time it hit the deck. If the
ground crew hadn’t dragged him out so quickly …’ The officer shook his head. ‘It’s only been a few months, he’s doing well considering. Until they say
he’s fit for combat he’s giving us a hand here.’

‘Well, I’ve never met such a rude man in my whole life,’ Evie said indignantly. ‘I wonder if you can help me. I have an appointment with the Recruitment Office. I’m
Evelyn Chase.’

‘Welcome to White Waltham, Miss Chase,’ he said with a smile. As he guided her towards the office, his hand pressed against the small of her back. ‘I can assure you not all of
us are as prickly as Beau. I’m Edward Parker, Operations Officer, but everyone calls me Teddy.’ The corridor was heaving with office staff and pilots. Some were in uniform, but most
wore an odd assortment of civilian flying gear.

‘This all seems a bit …’

‘Rough and ready? It’s an unofficial ATA motto – get going and get comfortable later. Most of the chaps have been working so hard they haven’t had a chance to get their
uniforms yet.’ He pointed at a man in a grubby-looking mackintosh. ‘See that chap? He’s still wearing the clothes he was wearing when he came for interview. He’s been flying
non-stop ever since.’

Evie glanced outside as the door blew open. ‘What are all the funny little huts on the airfield?’

‘There’s all sorts out there – stores, engineers, you name it. We call it the Chinese Village. As the organisation is expanding so quickly we need offices pronto.’ Teddy
rubbed his hands together. ‘Well you picked a chilly day for your test. Good weather for camping, eh?’ He caught the eye of a pretty girl walking past carrying a pile of paperwork.
‘Mikki, can you show Miss Chase where she should be?’

‘Yes, sir.’ She ticked Evie’s name on a list. ‘Follow me, Miss.’ She led Evie along a corridor lined with a long, polished wooden shelf where groups of pilots were
checking their orders for the day. ‘You’ve caught us at a busy moment. The chits have just come out,’ she said over her shoulder as they pushed through the crowd.

‘What do you do?’

‘Me? I try and keep this lot in order. I take care of admin, paperwork, anything that needs doing. There you are.’ She indicated an empty Windsor chair next to a couple of girls.
‘Perhaps you’d start filling out your application forms while you’re waiting?’

‘Morning, ladies.’ Teddy winked at the girls already waiting as he sauntered past. ‘If you need anything,’ he said, gazing at the row of neat, stockinged ankles,
‘anything at all, my office is just up the corridor.’

‘He’s a bit much, isn’t he?’ Stella said under her breath as he walked away. She scanned the paperwork. ‘Next of kin? That’s ominous.’

‘I don’t know, he seems friendly enough,’ Megan chipped in.

‘Are you from Wales?’ Evie asked her.

‘Oh God, is it the accent?’ Megan blushed. ‘Everyone here talks so beautifully.’ As the girls introduced themselves, her eyes opened wide. ‘No!’ She grabbed
Stella’s arm. ‘You know who that is, don’t you? It’s Amy Johnson, isn’t it? Miss Johnson! Miss Johnson!’ She leapt to her feet, her new shoes skittering on the
lino.

‘Do you think she’s always this enthusiastic?’ Evie sighed. She was still feeling nervous but tried not to show it.

Stella laughed, stretched out her legs. She was still aching from the night in the shelter and the slow, cold train ride down. ‘She’s just a kid.’ She eyed Evie curiously.
‘So what are you doing here?’

‘I’m beginning to wonder myself.’ Evie tucked her coat around her as Amy Johnson strolled over.

‘Are you waiting to see Pauline?’ Amy asked.

‘What’s she like?’ Megan gazed at her, awestruck. ‘I’m that nervous.’

‘Pauline’s a doll, you’ll see,’ Amy said kindly. ‘I’m based down at Hatfield with her. I just stopped off to see my dog, Christopher, before my next
flight.’

‘Is Hatfield a good pool?’ Evie asked. She wanted to make sure she was posted to the best base.

‘If you liked boarding school you’ll be in your element.’ Amy smiled. ‘Perhaps they’ll let you stay here. I heard a rumour they need more pilots.’

‘Hello, Amy,’ Frankie Francis said as he strolled by, his parachute slung over one shoulder.

‘Who’s that?’ Megan’s eyes were on stalks.

‘Frankie?’ Amy laughed. ‘All the girls love Frankie, but I’d concentrate on flying for now if I was you.’ She picked up her flight bag. ‘Best of
luck.’

Commander Pauline Gower had seen all sorts of girls come through here. Frankly, she didn’t care about their personal motives as long as they were good pilots. She leant
back in her chair and screwed the cap on her fountain pen, placing it on the leather-topped desk in front of her. Her wide mouth broke into a reassuring smile.

‘So, girls, what brings you to the ATA?’

For a moment there was silence. Megan looked expectantly at the older women. ‘I want to do my bit for the war. I want to fly,’ she spoke up finally.

‘We all do,’ Stella said firmly.

‘And what about you?’ Pauline patted the neat dark waves of her hair as she glanced at her notes. ‘Evelyn Chase. Are you Lucky’s daughter?’

‘Yes, Commander.’ Evie met her gaze steadily.

‘He’s a friend of my father’s,’ she said. ‘What’s he doing now?’