Spitfire Girls Page 9

  ‘Do you know the boy?’ Burt asked, smiling at the couple.

  ‘He’s a friend of a friend,’ she said.

  ‘Whose friend?’ pressed Burt.

  Now the boy was standing too.

  ‘Mine,’ replied the girl. ‘I’m Molly, this is Kelvin.’

  ‘We wanted to leave him his Blake but this guy won’t pass him the book,’ Kelvin Bray explained, pointing to Frank.

  ‘No, we just throw the book at him,’ the cop guffawed, as Kelvin wielded Blake.

  ‘That’s Edith Allam’s!’ Burt sputtered, reaching for the ancient volume.

  ‘He wouldn’t know how to read, son,’ Frank said, his breath unbearable in the hanging humidity.

  ‘Listen, officer, Errol Carnaby could tie circles around anybody when it comes to brains,’ Kelvin asserted. ‘Please just give him the book. This young lady has to get back home – or her fiancé will kill her.’

  ‘I know what the dagos are like, kid,’ muttered Frank.

  Molly’s eyes shot darts at the overweight cop.

  ‘Okay, it’s time for me to deliver the goods,’ said Burt, handing over a wad of bills to his brother.

  ‘Are you nuts?’ complained Frank, still leaning on the counter.

  ‘I should be hunting down that goddam Hindenburg film, and my missing photographer – instead I’m wasting a morning over some trumped-up charge.’

  ‘It ain’t trumped up, Burt,’ Frank said, straightening up. ‘This kid gave me trouble first thing last night, and there he was again at the stroke of twelve. Some shitty story about his mother being a cleaning lady.’ He turned to Molly. ‘Excuse me, miss.’

  ‘You’re excused. Now, pass the dough, honey.’ Molly grinned at Burt.

  ‘I’m bailing the kid out, little brother. Right now.’

  Scowling, Frank took the money, then sauntered off towards the cells.

  ‘By the way, his mother cleans our house – every other Wednesday night,’ chirped Kelvin.

  ‘How do you know Errol?’ Molly asked Burt.

  ‘He works for me – best projectionist in town. None of the movie houses will hire him, so I take what the others dump. I’ve got all the eccentrics in Philly – Stan, my editor, who stinks but has a genius talent, and this girl Edith who snaps and flies aeroplanes. I must be crazy.’

  ‘She’s become a celebrity – crossing the ocean with that film-maker woman,’ Kelvin offered.

  ‘We met her at Fidler’s – Fish-stall,’ Molly added.

  ‘You met the German broad?!’ Burt shouted, nonplussed.

  There was a noisy clatter of keys and latches, and Errol emerged, his clothes dishevelled and his eyes streaked with red.

  ‘Who says Jim Crow stops on the Mason-Dixon line?’ he joked, smiling at the crowd awaiting him.

  ‘Your mother came to us hysterical today – that’s how I knew you were here,’ Kelvin said quietly.

  ‘I know why you’re here,’ Errol murmured, looking at Burt. ‘Are you going to dock my pay?’

  Frank pushed the coloured man through the narrow passage into freedom, glaring at his brother.

  ‘Down south they’d call you a nigger-lover,’ whispered Frank.

  ‘This isn’t Down South, and I need my projectionist,’ bellowed Burt, taking Errol’s arm.

  ‘The question is – how has Enitharmon fared in my absence?’ Errol grinned as he spoke, loving Frank’s expression of horror mixed with fear.

  ‘What’s he talking about? We’ll take you in again, so watch your language,’ he snapped, swinging the keys in front of Errol’s weary face.

  ‘Let’s get out of here,’ said Molly, and the foursome headed for the door. An elderly Hasid stumbled in, limping. Burt started, remembering Raine’s footage.

  ‘You all right, old man?’ he asked.

  ‘They mean trouble every time,’ growled Frank.

  ‘How did you get to be in such a bad way?’ Burt was becoming agitated.

  Words failed the old man and he tottered to the counter.

  Burt wanted to stay, and the others began to look at him oddly.

  ‘Someone given you trouble?’ he enquired, his face close to the old man’s beard.

  ‘Talk to me,’ said Errol.

  ‘You know Yiddish?’ the old man exclaimed.

  Guffaws reverberated in the police station, and even the Hasid smiled, touching the giant Negro’s hand with affection. ‘I’m here to announce that for Rosh Hashanah the Messiah is coming.’

  ‘You’re two thousand years too late, Isaac.’ Frank chortled.

  Burt heaved a great sigh, and wondered if this sweet little man knew of the horrors befalling his brethren in places as enlightened as Berlin and Vienna.

  ‘Good Yomtov,’ Errol shouted as they left. In the distance they could still hear the cop and the old man arguing about the true Messiah.

  ‘What happened, schwartzer?’ Burt asked as they turned the corner into Broad Street. In the light he could see that Errol’s dark face had acquired a shiner.

  ‘Malone, your brother by some freak of nature, had had his night of joy on Florence Avenue and decided to pick on me after I ‘d been to visit Edith’s folks.’

  ‘Are they worried about her?’ asked Molly.

  ‘Let him finish,’ snapped Burt.

  ‘I am finished,’ muttered Errol. He stopped. As his body began to shake, tears came. He was ashamed.

  Burt looked away, thinking again of Raine’s film. Kelvin offered the tattered man an arm, and holding his Blake in one hand helped him continue his journey back to the comforting darkness of Burt’s studio. Molly would go home to her fiancé to be serenaded in the name of a religion that had already found its saviour. The gang of four, an Italian dressed for a wedding ritual, an Irishman dressed for its aftermath, a Negro and another kind of Irishman, staggered up Broad Street, oblivious to the raging headlines that presaged their interrupted futures.

  15

  More flashes popped and reporters shouted as an exhausted and very unwashed Edith Allam emerged from her chauf-feured car and was ushered into the luxurious corridors of the Beaverbrook empire.

  Pushing past the press men and marching down the halls from which their dangerous words would be printed for mass consumption, the American aviatrix followed her chauffeur, now smoking his new Camel cigarette. Down a flight of stairs, she was led into what appeared to be a hotel suite, its red velvet curtains and pink velvet walls reminiscent of a Philadelphia whorehouse she had infiltrated for Burt Malone’s picture library. Turning around to query the chauffeur, she was surprised to see he had been replaced by a genteel curly-haired woman bordering on the elderly, who sported a black dress and an apron and who seemed weighted down with plush bath towels. She moved silently about the room, making her way to a door which opened into a bathroom that took Edith’s breath away. Without speaking, the aproned woman leaned over a gleaming bathtub and drew water that created an instant cloud of steam. Was this really happening?

  Edith had heard that the British bathed in cold muck and relieved themselves outdoors. Literature had invented Oz, but that was somewhere in America. Had she crashed in the middle of the Atlantic?

  Unable to speak, she stared at the aproned matron, who did not seem interested in conversation anyway, and when she was left alone with real bath bubbles and heat and an elaborate wardrobe of designer clothes laid out on the antique sofa, she stripped off slowly, her slim body still smelling fragrant from cologne applied twenty-four hours previously to a scrubbed skin, within earshot of her Negro lover in a house on Florence Avenue. Stepping into this breathtaking bathtub, with its gold taps and pearl facings, its ‘B’ motif shimmering through the water from the bottom of the tub, and its palatial marble surrounds, she thought of Valerie Cobb and of the rumours that had been spread at her club back home. If the MP’s daughter lived with another woman, would it be dangerous to be in a room with her alone?

  On the other hand, could her friendship be the most valuable acquisition she might
make on the eve of war?

  Here in Britain, Edith felt the imminence of a world conflict, and as she soaked in the very hot water, her heart jumped at the thought of an association with Valerie, and it sank just as quickly on thoughts of Errol Carnaby. Running her hand along the insides of her thighs, she shuddered at the memory of his fierce penis breaking through her delicate barriers and expelling its endless contents that had brought her to the brink of ecstasy, and now in this splendid state of immersion she felt she might come with even greater intensity. Lying back and letting the hair on the back of her head become moist, she shut her eyes and thought of nothing, only her nipples hitting the air and becoming erect.

  Rustling noises made her sit up, and water splashed over the sides of her marble encampment. Another aproned lady had wandered into this pleasure palace. Did this one talk?

  ‘Excuse me, could you please tell me where I am?’ shouted Edith.

  As if instructed to flee if spoken to, Apron Number Two scurried away, shutting the door behind her. Craning her dripping neck, Edith noticed the arrival of fruit and cheeses. She laughed, scrubbing herself and rising out of the soiled, lukewarm water. Drying each leg, she rubbed more vigorously as she neared her groin, still wishing Errol’s semen away. Towelling her abdomen, she wondered if Valerie’s body was identical to hers. She stroked her breasts with the now-soggy towel, remembering Errol’s tongue. A stirring in her vagina became a spasm and she yearned to complete its urgings. Terrified another Apron might come in at any moment, she held the towel tightly and crossed her legs, sighing deeply …

  Walking to the sofa, Edith caressed the smooth nylons – where on earth did Beaverbrook get these things in such times? – and dressed herself in a Chanel. As if timing her every movement, a visitor knocked at the door. Edith turned the doorknob to reveal another female, clad in a suit tailored to hug her most intimate contour.

  ‘Valerie Cobb,’ she announced herself.

  This was the first voice she had heard since her lemon chauffeur. Here was a magnificent woman, and Edith took a deep breath. They shook hands, and the American forgot all fear of being alone in the other’s company.

  ‘Your legend has preceded you,’ said Valerie.

  ‘Same to you. Incidentally, it was nice to meet your father. He arrested my three friends and snitched Raine Fischtal’s film.’

  ‘It was Tim Haydon’s idea. Daddy is on our side, after a fashion.’ Valerie smiled broadly at the weary American.

  They sat facing each other on the two sofas. Edith noticed Valerie’s skin – it was not the English Rose complexion she had expected, but a tough surface lined with character and framed by dimples on either side of a powerful chin.

  ‘It astonishes me that a world-renowned photographer can also fly aeroplanes.’

  ‘American girls do lots of things.’

  ‘Is your father big on Wall Street?’

  ‘My father is not big anywhere, and my family lives in a little row house in West Philadelphia – that’s about it.’

  ‘So much the better. That means you will be able to recruit ordinary working-class girls into an air arm.’

  Edith stared at Valerie for a few moments and wondered if she was hearing correctly.

  ‘Are you saying you’d like me to find pilots?’

  ‘Before we go in to see Beaverbrook, who, believe me, we can count on to be on our side, let me fill you in on the latest. There will most likely be a war, and nobody is in the least bit ready. At the beginning, it looks as if male ferry pilots will be moving Magisters from Woodley, and we’ll be moving Moth trainers, taking things to places like Perth, Kemble, Lyneham or Llandow, and returning on sleeper trains. Sometimes pilots will report back after a three-day trip and a night train only to be sent off once more without a moment in their own beds. It will be a hell of a responsibilty, and a fiendish life for the duration of a war. If you can find a handful of good people to help us out, so much the better. Balfour and Lady Londonderry are on our side, and so is d’Erlanger, who is the head of BOAC. It is a promising picture. Now let’s go to the old man.’

  ‘Before we do, Valerie, can I tell you about America?’

  ‘Please do.’ She sat back, smiling.

  ‘We enjoy life, and things have been terrific since the Depression un-depressed. It’ll be tough getting boys – let alone girls – to join your squadron. Who the hell wants to go to war when you can spend your life at the movies and down at the corner soda fountain? But I’ll try.’

  Gazing at each other in the humid room, the fragrance of Edith’s bath bubbles still lingering in the air, the two women felt a mutual excitement that came from being blessed with the energy their mothers had lost in bearing them.

  ‘Let’s go to the old man,’ Valerie said, taking the American’s arm. For the time being, Edith had forgotten Errol, and all she wanted was to find an incinerator in which to burn the carry-all containing a meaningless bedsheet.

  Beaverbrook greeted her with indifference.

  ‘Who arranged all that luxury?’ she asked.

  ‘We treat our guests with generosity – please keep the dresses,’ he said brusquely.

  ‘Edith has access to an assortment of healthy people,’ Valerie prompted him.

  ‘You have brought the country an invaluable film, a trio of Germans, and a fascinating aircraft,’ conceded Beaverbrook.

  ‘Why is it fascinating?’

  ‘It has components never before seen in this country. His Majesty’s Government is amazed Germany allowed it to land in America and then be let loose with a foreign pilot.’

  ‘I’m glad you didn’t say woman pilot,’ Edith murmured.

  Valerie winked.

  Beaverbrook was pacing the room.

  ‘In any case,’ he continued, ‘We will be sending your German friends back in their own plane, so as not to provoke Hitler, and we will provide you with anything you choose. All we ask is that you come back with one load of Americans, and then cross over to Australia to bring us some of their lot.’

  ‘Australia!’ exclaimed Edith.

  ‘It’s a staggering opportunity,’ Valerie whispered.

  Beaverbrook observed the two females, stopping in his tracks to breathe a great sigh.

  ‘It is my intention to get as many ferry pilots from all over the world as possible,’ he asserted. ‘Did you know people are still saying that Germany thinks Britain is at the end of its pilot reserve because we are perceived as using women to ferry toy trainers from A to B?’

  ‘What are toy trainers?’

  ‘Tiger Moths,’ Valerie replied.

  Beaverbrook had missed the exchange, and was pacing the chamber once more.

  ‘Maybe there won’t even be a war,’ suggested Edith.

  ‘By the time you’ve mobilized this Australian–American exercise, which will be covered by the world’s press, there will be a war.’

  ‘You’re going to organize one especially for me?’

  Beaverbrook had finally noticed her. ‘Do you have a husband – children?’ he demanded.

  ‘Not really,’ she responded, remembering Errol and her souvenir sheet.

  ‘You either have a husband, or you don’t, woman,’ boomed His Lordship.

  ‘I am single,’ muttered Edith, snatching a quick glance at Valerie, as if seeking help.

  ‘Then go home, and find us some good pilots. When you return, there will always be a place for you in an air transport auxiliary.’

  ‘I thought Valerie had to test girls before they were allowed to join.’

  ‘I do, and you will,’ Valerie murmured tensely.

  ‘The Daily Record is paying you for your troubles, and for your photographs. Also for your story – a three-pronged deal.’ Beaverbrook turned to Valerie. ‘I don’t want the girl being tested.’ On that note His Lordship departed.

  Valerie and Edith were left in the sumptuous room, which seemed to echo even when they breathed.

  ‘Anyone who thinks we will be at peace a year from now
is mad,’ Valerie remarked, looking up at the ornate ceiling.

  ‘So you think I should do this job?’

  ‘Of course. In any case, I want to meet your lover.’

  ‘Pardon me?’

  ‘He was in your mind’s eye when Beaverbrook mentioned husbands. Bring him with you.’

  ‘He wouldn’t fit in here.’

  ‘Why not?’ Valerie demanded sharply.

  ‘He’s a Negro.’

  ‘Good Lord!’ Valerie walked to the door and stopped. ‘That is rather a calamity.’

  ‘Whatever you want to call it, he’s mine and the world will just have to accept him,’ Edith paused. ‘Do you like men at all?’

  ‘Do you?’

  ‘I just told you I have a lover who isn’t my husband.’

  ‘I’ve one as well,’ Valerie said dreamily. ‘Can your chap fly?’

  ‘What a question!’ giggled Edith, leaning against a large mahogany boardroom table for support.

  ‘It’s important,’ Valerie said, frowning.

  ‘Errol is a film projectionist who quotes Blake. He can’t fly. Maybe he could learn.’

  ‘Maybe he could. Bring him.’

  ‘Do you really think I could make it into your air squad?’

  ‘What I foresee is a group of fifty, clearing new aircraft from the main factories to the RAF installations. You may find it boring, after crossing the Atlantic and photographing the ‘Hindenburg’. But if there is an ugly confrontation with Hitler, we may even reach a point where some of us are eye-to-eye with the Luftwaffe.’

  ‘Honestly?’

  ‘We are so ill-prepared it disturbs my sleep. Most of the women pilots I know are as proficient as the men to hand at this very moment. If it is in a woman to kill, so be it.’

  ‘Women are killing in Germany and Poland!’ Edith’s intensity took Valerie by surprise.

  ‘How do you know this?’ she asked.

  ‘Raine Fischtal’s film – it shows women killing.’

  Valerie was glad she had followed her father’s orders this one time. She had wanted to meet the American girl. Her presence was a revelation – this is what the British woman will begin to be like in fifty years, she thought, smiling to herself. What will the American woman be like then? This girl’s species had evolved because it had not been shackled.