A Sister’s Courage. Molly Green

Чтение книги онлайн.

СКАЧАТЬ You see I do know a bit of what’s going on even though I’m quite a long way from you at the moment – can’t say where. You’ve probably left Biggin Hill by now and joined the WAAFs. That’s what I wanted to tell you – that I’ve joined up – RAF, of course.

      Raine chewed her lip. So Doug was a fighter pilot doing his bit for his country. She prayed he hadn’t been called on to do anything too dangerous. He’d become like a brother to her over the months he’d taught her to fly and she’d been hurt, then worried, when she hadn’t heard anything from him for such a long time. She read on:

       I think very fondly of you and I’m so proud of you. We’re bound to meet sooner or later, particularly if you’ve joined the WAAFs as at least you’ll be close to the action.

       However I do have something interesting to tell you. A civilian organisation called the Air Transport Auxiliary (ATA for short) has just been formed and its function is to ferry aircraft to airfields around the country for the RAF. They’re taking pilots who are too old this time around, or injured from the last war, so not fit for combat but they can still deliver a plane safely. And this is the real news – apparently they’re planning to form a women’s section of experienced pilots. I’ll let you know when I hear anything more.

       Write to me if you get the opportunity. Address at top and it will be forwarded to me.

       With much affection,

       Doug x

      Raine read the last part of the letter about the ATA again, her heart practically leaping out of her chest. Here was the reason she hadn’t joined the WAAFs. This ATA was going to admit women pilots! She’d try to find out more about it at work tomorrow. Because if she didn’t get some regular air miles in her log book soon, she wouldn’t stand a chance. She swallowed hard. All she had worked for, all she had dreamed, would be shattered. There had to be a way for this ATA organisation to take her. There simply had to.

       Chapter Seven

       October 1940

      ‘Miss Linfoot, please come to my office right away.’

      Raine jumped as her desk extension rang. She’d been in her usual reverie, looking out of the window watching planes landing and taking off, longing to be up there with them. At first it had been exciting peering up at the dogfights going on right over her head at Biggin Hill, seeing the RAF boys shooting down the Luftwaffe in what Winston Churchill called the Battle of Britain. But when she’d witnessed her first sight of a Spitfire spiralling down in flames, the pilot having had no chance of baling out, or surviving a ball of fire on impact, she’d immediately thought of Doug. He’d be up there somewhere. If it wasn’t today, it would be tomorrow.

      At least she and the family were far enough away not to have suffered like Londoners who had gone through night after night being bombed. Thankfully, Hitler now seemed to have turned his attention elsewhere. Heaven knew in what condition the Luftwaffe had left their beloved capital. And knowing what constant danger Londoners were living in, if anything, made her even more resolute to be part of the action.

      Raine had been in the pay section for a year and had become more and more frustrated stuck in an office. Although she’d taken over the role of a fully-fledged pay clerk, she wished for the hundredth time that she’d been born a man. Then she would have been welcomed with open arms as a pilot. It was all so ridiculous. Women were every bit as good as the men. But even the ATA was cautious, it seemed. Doug told her they’d only taken eight very experienced female pilots a few months ago – all of them with several hundred flying hours or more. There was no point yet in applying with her few. He’d suggested she seriously think about joining the WAAFs, but she didn’t want to. She’d have to sign up with them. Commit herself to however many years the war was going to last in a non-flying position and perhaps lose the opportunity of flying with the ATA – what she’d set her heart on. No, she wouldn’t risk it.

      But she’d go mad if something didn’t turn up soon. Even Maman had joined the Women’s Voluntary Service and was busy collecting aluminium utensils from friends and neighbours for the war effort. ‘We will turn your pots and pans into Spitfires and Hurricanes, Blenheims and Wellingtons,’ Lord Beaverbrook had recently announced on the wireless, and Maman had jumped up and told the family she would talk to the WVS immediately.

      And she had. Raine couldn’t help smiling at the memory of her mother approaching every single family in Downe. Almost every housewife had gladly handed her something aluminium for the war effort, not wanting to be thought of as unpatriotic, especially when faced with a Frenchwoman who was asking so delightfully for her help.

      Sighing heavily, Raine picked up the huge aluminium teapot and poured yet another twenty mugs of tea, letting the liquid slosh over the rims without pause. She’d asked for a transfer to one of the other administration departments and was sent to Maintenance Command section under Flight Lieutenant Fox. It had been a bad mistake on her part.

      ‘Miss Linfoot, are you there? Please answer.’

      Foxy’s tone was never a polite request but an order. He was of medium height, stockily built, dark hair slicked back with plenty of Brylcreem. His cocky swagger when he came into the office and his condescending attitude made it obvious that women had no place in the department unless they were behind a typewriter. At least once a day she berated herself for ever having learnt how to type. As for Foxy, she detested working for him. His handwriting was appalling and he always took umbrage when she gave him a letter for signing, having guessed the words and the gist of it as she’d gone along.

      ‘I didn’t write it like this,’ he growled more than once.

      She’d answer that it had read a little ambiguously, so she’d tried to make it clear.

      ‘Hmm,’ he would grunt, but to her surprise he never insisted she retype it.

      That was by no means the worst thing. She’d only been at the job a week when he’d pounced as she was leaving his office. He’d barred her way as she had her hand on the door handle and grabbed her.

      She’d twisted her neck away from his repulsive lips. ‘Please don’t.’

      ‘Come on. You’re no prude. You girls – prick-teasers, all of you, with your pouty red lips and your pussycat bows, forever tossing your hair—’

      ‘What nonsense!’ Raine’s voice was ice as she pushed her hand hard against his chest. ‘But I am here to do a job without any unpleasantness from anyone.’ She glared at him. ‘So don’t ever touch me again, sir,’ she emphasised with sarcasm, ‘or I’ll report you.’

      ‘You report me?’ He laughed in her face. ‘The general dogsbody. Who do you think they’d believe – you or me?’ His laugh became a sneer. ‘Make one move in that direction and I’ll have you removed … for good.’

      She could only grit her teeth. She’d get nowhere if she threatened him. He was her superior and he could easily make her life a misery. She’d stepped back and made her exit as dignified as she could, knowing his eyes were on her. Since then, he’d always made a point of looking her up and down every time she had to speak to him, but he’d left her alone and she’d hoped that was the end of it.

      Now, a fortnight later, he was asking to see her on her own again. СКАЧАТЬ