Spitfire Girls Page 8

  ‘All the nation’s press will be there – Philadelphia has put the story on the wires,’ he explained.

  ‘It must be that ice-cream man,’ Edith muttered, bringing the aircraft in for a bumpy landing, its tanks still heavy with gasoline. Manoeuvring the unfamiliar monster around the narrow approach path, she could discern crowds of men in hats swarming along the tarmac. Because of the size of the aeroplane she had immense difficulty avoiding the human obstacle course, and came to a complete halt at an ugly angle. Edith did not care – this was Gander and the gasoline had not exploded. Her suit was soaked despite the cold of their journey. Philadelphia seemed still so near, and she wanted to change, to be dry, and to face up to her sin of the night before.

  ‘Is it true you plan to join the Royal Air Force in England, Miss Allam?’ asked a hatted reporter.

  Raine and the odd couple remained on board, cowering like children.

  ‘Are you transporting foreign nationals?’

  Asking the question was a man in black whom she knew to be anything but a reporter, and Edith bristled. She pulled out her papers, shivering.

  ‘They are some friends of mine,’ she said.

  ‘We are aware these people arrived last week to work for the German government. There’s plenty of folks who think the ‘Hindenburg’ was sabotage. Your three should have been out of the country two days ago,’ he muttered, his shiny black shoes glittering against the gravel underneath.

  ‘They wanted to stop and sample Fidler’s kasha,’ Edith said. Newfoundland’s icy gusts tore into her tired frame.

  The man in black examined her documentation. By now the reporters had encircled the aircraft. Two ground engin -eers inspected the machine.

  ‘Those guys are treating that airplane as if it came out of the War of the Worlds,’ she quipped.

  ‘It has,’ said the man in black, looking up from his reading. ‘Know thine enemies, my lady.’ He handed her the documentation without another word, and she could feel the damp suit clinging to her aching back.

  ‘Hey, Edith – are you leaving a fellow back home for a Kraut over there?’ Reporters crowded around, pushing and shoving.

  ‘I work for a firm called Press-Shots. Yes, I’m AWOL. Raine Fischtal, Hitler’s prize cinematographer, is sitting in a German airplane and she wants to get home. We’ve made a deal: if I can fly her there, I can take back with me a copy of her best new footage. It’s stuff our guys haven’t got because we’re too busy wasting celluloid on Hollywood gossip shots while Europe is sinking into the worst conflict the world may ever know. Did you ever hear of Valerie Cobb? Stella Teague? Val is starting a women’s flying corps in England, and Stella’s doing airlifts to poor people in the Baltics. I’m coming back home as soon as I get handed that film, then I may go over again. Valerie Cobb needs womanpower.’

  ‘You didn’t answer our question, Edie.’

  ‘My beau works for Press-Shots and he doesn’t look like any of you.’

  ‘What’s his name, hon?’

  Edith felt a hand on her arm. Raine was standing next to her, and she sensed a strange closeness that had not existed before the two girls had shared the equality of the skies. Now her other arm had been taken by the man in black, and as she was overcome by a sudden rush of exhaustion that stemmed from fear, they led her to warmth and privacy in a tiny shed. Out of nowhere a new flying suit was produced and she suspected it was all a dream: the garment was her size! Inside a hold was a lavish supply of lemons, oranges, cigarettes and chocolate, and a parcel of Canadian bacon snuggled up to a jar of maple syrup. As if drugged, Edith curled into a corner of the shed and forgot about Raine and the man who waited outside …

  In her dream hungry peasant women in long dresses and British men in rags clung to her and she refused them oranges. Children craved her lemons and she pushed the yellow fruit into velvet bags. Hartmut wore a uniform, and among the people he kicked was a black man in tatters. She wanted to go to the black man but he was filthy. Her belly was swollen with Errol’s seed and when it burst forth the infant was filthy and it disappeared under an avalanche of lemons and oranges. Hartmut laughed …

  When she awoke Edith found that all the goodwill had led to the worst she could possibly have envisaged: the big aircraft had been lovingly repaired by the Canadian ground engineers.

  The American Jewess was ready to take off again, and there was no turning back.

  13

  Edith knew Raine was expected back in Berlin at a specific time, and they were now running six hours late. It would never do, where the Reich was concerned, but the American could not make the aircraft move any faster. Night was falling as they headed out to sea, and then – to Edith’s astonishment – the Northern Lights appeared. It was the first time any of the four had witnessed the aurora borealis and from an aeroplane the effect was dazzling. Shooting forth from the distant north the lights seemed a harbinger of sudden dawn. Hartmut had gripped Edith’s shoulders, craning to see out of the front of the aircraft, and his touch sent a kind of crackling down her sides.

  Voices were hushed as they passed through the phenomenon, and the only sound was the hum of Raine’s camera and the rush of air past the magical quiet of the superb German engines. A faultless landing in Greenland brought guilt to the fore, as Edith noticed her heart’s urges waning. Even the images of her parents were receding with each air mile achieved. No press besieged her party in this remote stopover, and when they descended on Iceland for another refuel and checkup, she felt her identity had been transformed. No longer was she worried about the neighbours on Florence Avenue, or the ladies in the synagogue, or the money she would be docked from the Press-Shots payroll. Errol had become a gnawing disturbance deep in her womb, as if a knife had cut an open sore in a place she had previously ignored. Hopefully the sore would heal and nothing else would grow on its scab, because her dream had left her with visions of a hungry black man the size of an infant, who never grew even when he ate lemons and oranges.

  Knowing she was expected to head for Prestwick, and knowing her Germans expected a journey straight through to Berlin, Edith forced her mind to thoughts of Valerie Cobb. Dared she apply for inclusion in a women’s unit? She had heard that working-class kids from the East End were now being invited to join the RAF and that such rabble included females! Where would a spoilt American girl fit into the British hierarchy? She had better not ask for kasha, at the Cobbs’.

  ‘Was ist geschehen?!’ shrieked Zuki, the first of her dreaded payload to become aware of a change in course.

  ‘Got a problem?’ she asked, calmly.

  ‘Dammit – you are heading off towards Britain,’ he screamed.

  Raine’s camera had stopped whirring. ‘Is he right?’ she demanded, her eyes suddenly cold.

  ‘To be honest, I have a surprise for you,’ Edith admitted.

  Hartmut’s hand reached inside a large jacket pocket.

  ‘What have you got in there, Hartmut?’ the American enquired, turning around.

  ‘Nothing. Why are you disobeying our orders?’

  ‘I’m obeying my country’s orders. Every American pilot licensed in the USA has to make a stopover in Britain, whatever the registration of the aircraft.’

  ‘Rubbish – scheiss,’ snarled Zuki.

  ‘I have never heard of such a thing,’ said Raine.

  Hartmut bowed his head and was strangely silent.

  ‘Listen, crew,’ Edith told them. ‘Everyone in Britain is dying to meet Raine Fischtal. You yourself said the Britishers and the Germans are racial cousins. Press-Shots UK has arranged for a special reception in your honour, Raine. After all, our countries are not at war, honey.’

  ‘Britain has not forgotten the First War,’ Hartmut said, coming out of his trance. ‘You cannot tell me Raine is revered in the United Kingdom, of all places.’

  ‘Have they forgotten her Olympic film?’ countered Edith. ‘Now she’s got the best footage in the world of the ‘Hindenburg’, plus some extra goodies they’d al
l just love to see, and as far as the English authorities are concerned she’s hot stuff.’

  Raine’s radio operator began to argue and she turned, glaring at him. He stopped chattering.

  ‘Do we go on to Germany?’ she asked.

  ‘Of course, Raine,’ Edith said, quietly, touching the woman’s hand.

  Raine studied the American for a few moments, agonizing over the decision she would have to make. If the Reich insisted that a guest pilot be shot if any sign of insubordination occurred, this girl would have to go. How stupid of her to have got involved in this ridiculous caper in the first place! Of course, this girl could fly; they should have left her in Gander. The closer they got to Heimat, the more deeply Raine felt the gravity of the wartime threat. Some game between two strong-willed young women seemed fun in the land of ice-cream parlours and Saturday-night dances, but approaching the tormented mainland of Europe, their self-indulgent wager stank of blood.

  There was the coast of Ireland looming up ahead, and Edith poured with perspiration. Those emerald isles crept up on her, ever larger and more inviting. Scotland’s coast would next be in her sights, one of the most tortuous on the European map. Prestwick came and went, its faraway landing strip unbearably tempting to the aviatrix, now rigid with apprehension. East Anglia would not be far off, and she held her breath. Amazed that Hartmut had not pulled his gun, despite Zuki’s whinings, she braced herself for the approach to Mildenhall Field. As they came in for a landing, Zuki fumbled in his bag and began hiding his equipment, then crouching to make himself invisible.

  ‘Don’t be an idiot,’ hissed Edith, bringing the aircraft in for a perfect touchdown.

  ‘They’re frightened,’ whispered Raine.

  ‘We are not at war, Raine,’ she shouted.

  ‘Let’s make the best of this situation,’ urged Hartmut, smiling at the pilot.

  Edith knew he had come close to performing his nation’s orders and praised God for the remedy her femaleness had provided in the face of a loaded pistol protruding from his pocket. She smiled back at him.

  On the landing strip, wet with mist, a small handful of polite Suffolk mechanics greeted her arrival. There were no reporters scuffling, and no officials demanding papers. Raine and the Germans emerged behind Edith, their faces grim with uncertainty.

  ‘This aircraft is the property of the German government,’ Raine announced.

  One of the mechanics tipped his hat.

  Hartmut did not want to tear himself away from the men, and as he stood over their labours Edith stopped and noticed his hair, which seemed to glow even in the endless grey mist that hung over these Isles.

  ‘With all the fuss Hitler makes about Aryan purity, you’re actually the first blond German I’ve come across!’ she exclaimed, grinning at him.

  ‘Don’t tell me they’ve heard about Hitler where you come from, lass,’ said a mechanic, straightening up from his examination of the fuselage.

  ‘Roosevelt knows about him,’ said Edith. ‘And I do too.’

  A terrifying roar broke their conversation and the blinding lights of screeching cars swarmed from out of nowhere. Edith watched as Raine Fischtal, Zuki and Hartmut were bundled into the shiny vehicles and she was left alone.

  Raine’s precious film remained on board the aircraft and Edith climbed back into the cabin to remove the canister. She sat for some moments and felt the chill air leaking into the tiny spaces around the windows and chuckled at the thought of German imperfection. Technically, the two countries were not at war and she was an innocent bystander. Britain could be unpleasant to her three new friends but could not interrogate them like spies. In an odd way she did not want them to be hurt or abused. Confident that all was well with her world, the pilot emerged from the cockpit only to find two well-dressed men looking up at her expectantly.

  ‘Care for some Florida oranges?’ she asked, peering down at the pair.

  ‘Would you be Miss Edith Allam?’ asked the younger man, his face not dissimilar to that of a ten-year-old schoolboy.

  ‘Only two reporters? Do me a favour!’ exclaimed Edith, climbing down over the wing.

  The older newcomer offered her an elegantly gloved hand. ‘We require two things from you, madam. Your identification, and the Fischtal film,’ he said.

  Edith had become apprehensive and when she removed her papers from the bag a lemon rolled out.

  ‘I was serious about the orange,’ she said, handing him the documents and a lemon.

  The younger man wiped it with his handkerchief.

  ‘Don’t do that. You’ll ruin your hanky!’ she exclaimed.

  Both men stared at this strange girl.

  ‘Are you Lord Beaverbrook’s guys?’ she inquired.

  ‘We represent the Parliamentary committee which deals with matters of air readiness and with foreign nationals. You, of course, are our honoured guest. But, as you know, the three Germans will be under surveillance for … some time.

  ‘Some time?’ demanded Edith.

  ‘A day or two,’ the young one murmured, smiling weakly.

  ‘Who are you, anyway?’

  ‘I do beg your pardon. I’m Sir Henry Cobb, and this is Tim Haydon MP.’

  ‘Well, you can’t have Raine’s film. She and I did a deal that if I got her home in one piece, her lab in Berlin would let me take back a copy – it’s just some “Hindenburg” footage.’

  ‘We are aware it contains extensive material which might embarrass the Reich,’ Cobb asserted, ‘and which might strengthen Winston Churchill’s position. You know of Churchill, I take it?’

  ‘Yes I know of Winston – how the hell do you know what’s on Raine’s film?’ Shaking with rage, Edith snatched the lemon from Haydon’s grasp.

  ‘Press-Shots UK notified the newspapers of your exercise,’ Sir Henry explained, ‘and in the present atmosphere such information would automatically be passed on to the appropriate government authorities.’

  ‘In America it’s the other way around,’ Edith mumbled, her thoughts darting from newspapers, to Beaverbrook, and then to Valerie Cobb.

  ‘If I may say so, madam,’ Haydon presumed, ‘your so-called deal with Fischtal is one of the most childish and foolhardy things I have encountered in my entire career.’

  ‘Considering you look twelve, your career must have been pretty short,’ she observed curtly.

  ‘Lady pilots, I must confess, are a law unto themselves,’ nodded Sir Henry, smiling with what Edith felt was a kind of conciliatory warmth.

  ‘You can’t fool me, mister – your kid is Valerie Cobb.’ Edith grinned. ‘Okay. Here’s another childish deal. You get to keep a copy of Raine’s horror movie, if I get a copy from a London lab free of charge, and if Raine gets her original back. In addition, I want to meet your daughter.’

  ‘Of course,’ said Sir Henry. ‘On my word of honour.’

  Edith had read books about an English gentleman’s honour. He just had to be honourable – didn’t he?

  A large car had drawn up beside them and the two MPs fell silent as Edith was ushered into its plush interior. To her relief and amazement, in a day filled with miracles, they had prepared a receipt on official headed paper, in exchange for the canister, which under her fierce grip had by now pressed a ridge into her side.

  Haydon remained stony-faced, but Sir Henry smiled and waved as the car drove her away from her now-beloved German flying machine.

  Would she ever again embrace its magical powers?

  Would Raine ever see her film again?

  As they sped away Edith craned to glimpse the main building, eager for signs of her payload – but there were no traces of human activity to be seen.

  ‘Who the hell are you, and where the hell are you taking me?’ she demanded of the driver.

  ‘Daily Record, madam,’ he said.

  ‘Daily what?’

  ‘Newspaper.’ He steered with one hand and with the other held up a gigantic bouquet of flowers. ‘These are for you. From the proprietor, miss.
’

  ‘Take me back – I just want to meet Valerie Cobb,’ pleaded Edith.

  The driver’s hand dropped and the flowers disappeared out of sight.

  ‘If I give you a lemon will you take me to Valerie Cobb?’

  ‘What’s a lemon to a bloke like me, if you please, madam?’

  ‘I know damn well your government’s about to ban everything except turnips and tea,’ snapped Edith.

  ‘If you say so, madam.’

  She handed him a Hershey bar and a handsome Camel carton, and he accelerated into the Ipswich Road.

  ‘Thank you very much, madam. For your information, His Lordship has already arranged for you to meet Miss Cobb at the Daily Record. My job is simply to take you there.’

  Edith Allam buried her face in her hands and shook with helpless laughter at the folly of her deeds, and the strangeness of her present situation – as the car raced towards the capital of an England that had long forgotten its childhood, and was now bracing itself for a painful old age that might end in tyranny.

  14

  Burt Malone seemed to spend his life bailing people out of police cells. On this occasion he was being forced to argue with his own brother, whose severe hangover had made him fractious. Summer had not abated, giving the musty incident room an oppressive airlessness resembling a Mississippi August. Two stylishly dressed young people sat on a bench at the far aide of the room, one a dapper boy sporting a flashy hat, the other a girl too voluptuous to seem real. For a moment Burt pictured them as some weird optical illusion off a carnival display, or fallen off a river steamer, bringing with them that Mississippi oppression.

  When Frank Malone emerged his eyes avoided brother Burt’s glance as long as neither man spoke. One of the youths arose, and both men looked up. Her thick, glowing hair seemed to bring a reflected glow that lit the vomit-green walls.

  ‘Any news on Carnaby?’ asked the girl, trying for Frank’s attention.

  Burt wheeled around to face her, and his brother dashed to the counter.

  ‘Why don’t you come back tomorrow, sis?’ hissed Frank.