Much to my amusement, there were still some RAF aircrew who resented a woman in the cockpit, believing we should be at home darning socks and making jam. But as with all my female colleagues, I took the sneers and put-downs in my stride. We had more important things to worry about.
For some weeks now, large-scale military exercises had been taking place on the south coast in readiness for the much-talked about Allied invasion of Europe. The trains were full of troops moving about the country and roads too were congested with military vehicles. I knew from Florence’s husband Billy, and Isabella’s father, Elijah, that they had both been deployed there, though naturally their exact whereabouts was secret.
I was not normally a pessimist, but I worried about the chances of a successful outcome to this planned invasion. I worried about Billy and Elijah in particular. I kept my concerns to myself and put on an upbeat appearance at all times. I suspected that most people were doing the same. We were all so tired of rationing, of listening to the news and clinging to the hope that the war would soon be over. How absurd it now seemed that in the first few months after Neville Chamberlain addressed the nation to announce that we were at war with Germany, people had said it would be over by Christmas. That was four and a half years ago.
Funnily enough, I wasn’t the least bit pessimistic when I was airborne. It didn’t matter what plane I was flying – other than the dreaded Walrus – once I was up in the air, I felt elated. Even when it was freezing cold, or conditions made flying extremely risky, such as flying through dense clouds and relying solely on the instruments, I never lost that sensation of feeling utterly free. At the controls in the cockpit I felt all-powerful. Which I knew was dangerous; it could lead to a careless mistake that could cost me my life.
Which very nearly happened that morning.
Having cycled the four miles to work in the rain, I received my instructions from our commanding officer, Margot Gore. Margot was one of the most organised people I knew and was hugely respected by us all at No. 15 Ferry Pool, Hamble- on-Solent. Nothing passed her notice and she saw at once the expression on my face when I read the chit she handed me – I was to deliver a Walrus to RAF West Raynham. ‘Everybody has to draw a short straw now and again,’ she said pleasantly.
The reason most of us dreaded flying this single-engined amphibian plane used by the Air-Sea Rescue, was because take-off was akin to riding a bull at full gallop, and once in the air it rolled like a galleon on the high seas, rendering me as sick as a dog. No other aircraft had this effect on me. And no other plane forced me to crawl on my hands and knees through the hull to reach the cockpit. This involved pushing my way through a plethora of anchors and cables and anything else that was cluttering up the space, as though the aircraft was used like an old barn in which to store things. The alternative was to climb inelegantly up the outside of the hulking great beast.
By the time I was ready for take-off, the fine drizzling rain of earlier had ceased, but the wind had risen. I always imagined the Walrus as a cussed brute that sulked its way reluctantly off the ground and up into the air, but not before the control column had repeatedly bashed against my chest as the wheels went over the bumps of the runway.
All had been going well, when, and approximately ten minutes from my destination, I suddenly felt, and heard, an almighty clunk beneath me. The instrument panel gave no indication as to what had happened, but something was obviously amiss. When the engine began to cut out, I knew I had to land as quickly as possible. Checking my position, I calmly accepted that I wouldn’t make it to the airfield.
The essential thing was to find somewhere clear of any buildings. I’d previously carried out a number of emergency landings, it wasn’t new to me, but I’d never done one in a Walrus before. And a Walrus with a failing engine. Keeping the brute steady, I looked out for a handy field that was obstacle-free. I spotted a field fringed with trees and a large hay barn to one side, just as the engine made yet more ominous sounds of conking out and a plume of smoke appeared. Beggars can’t be choosers, I thought, the field would have to do. I pumped away to lower the wheels and prepared to land.
I was about six feet from the ground when a cross-wind buffeted the Walrus. With its double wing structure, this was the last thing I needed and sure enough, the aircraft damn near performed a pirouette before heading straight towards the barn.
Chapter Fourteen
Palm Springs
October 1962
Romily
‘What happened next?’ asked Red.
‘As you can see, I survived,’ Romily said matter of factly.
‘It must have been a hell of a hair-raising experience.’
‘Yes. But it was one of many close calls. We were all like cats ticking off our nine lives.’
‘So why tell me that particular incident?’
His question poked at an achingly tender spot. ‘It’s . . . it’s the most memorable,’ she answered.
‘Why’s that?’
She hesitated with her reply and tore her gaze away from the campfire. All the while she had been talking she had been unaware of where she was; she had been lost in the past, transported back to a time when she had never felt more alive. Flying with the ATA had been as exhilarating as it had been exhausting. Yet it had never entirely assuaged the pain of losing her beloved Jack, as she’d hoped it would.
Jack’s oldest friend, Roddy, sadly no longer alive, had once made Romily promise him that she would let go of Jack and live life to the fullest.
Would he think she had?
Compared to most people she had lived an extraordinarily full life, but what did that really mean?
With the soft cashmere of Red’s sweater resting against her neck, the sleeves tied beneath her chin, she could smell the heady scent of his cologne, a citrusy fragrance combined with bergamot and sandalwood. It made her look at the man sitting a few feet from her. In the peaceful silence of the desert, the dancing shadows of the dwindling firelight gave Red’s face the look of being carved. He had a strong and determined profile, a pronounced square jaw and lines deeply etched around his eyes and mouth. His hair was thick and bordering on unruly, much like him, she found herself thinking.
He was a man who doubtless did things his way. A man who was spontaneous and resisted conformity. Why else was he sitting here in the middle of nowhere with her?
‘Because of what happened next,’ she said finally in answer to his question. Then taking hold of a stick, she poked at the glowing embers of the fire. ‘We should go,’ she said. ‘It’s late.’
‘What?’ he exclaimed. ‘You’re going to leave me hanging just like that?’
‘That’s the job of a storyteller,’ she said, ‘to leave the reader wanting more.’
He smiled. ‘Well, take it from me, this guy definitely wants to know more.’