‘Well, you are no longer at work,’ her mother flashed. ‘Why do you not come and help me with collecting the aluminium for your precious aeroplanes?’
‘I’m a qualified pilot,’ Raine half rose from the table in frustration that her mother simply had no idea what drove her daughter, ‘not a scrap metal collector.’
‘Lorraine, sit down,’ her father interrupted. ‘And don’t demean your mother’s efforts. Eat your meal – a feat in itself with all the rationing.’
Raine sat down, biting back a retort, knowing when her father called her ‘Lorraine’ he wasn’t going to tolerate any more backchat, as he called it.
‘There will be no further discussion on the subject of invasion in front of your sisters.’ Maman popped a morsel of meat between her perfectly painted lips. ‘I will not have it.’
How can her father ever have said she was like Maman? Raine gritted her teeth.
‘Very nice stew, Simone,’ her father said mildly as he placed his knife and fork neatly together. ‘Did you have to queue very long for the meat?’
‘You don’t need to change the subject, Dad,’ Ronnie spoke up. ‘Suzy and I aren’t babies. We do listen to the wireless.’ She turned to Raine. ‘What are you going to do now you’ve left Biggin Hill?’
‘Find out if there’s any way I can increase my flying hours,’ Raine said without hesitating.
‘You’ll find the answer,’ Ronnie said, ignoring their mother’s glare. ‘You always do.’
Later, Raine went upstairs to write her letter to Miss Gower in private before Suzanne came back from her music lesson. She sat on the edge of her bed with a sheet of writing paper and a book underneath to act as a desk. Uncapping her pen, she began to write.
Dear Miss Gower,
I understand you are seeking pilots, both male and female, to join your ferry pool at Hatfield and I would like to apply.
I have twenty hours with a ‘C’ pilot’s licence – mostly in Tiger Moths at Hart’s Flying Club near Biggin Hill in Kent, but since the war started I haven’t had much opportunity to increase the hours.
I would be very pleased to come for an interview any time at your convenience and in the meantime, I look forward to hearing from you.
Yours sincerely,
Lorraine Linfoot (Miss)
She read it through once, swiftly, and decided it couldn’t be improved. The message was simple. She was a qualified pilot and would love to join the ATA. The only thing holding her back was that blasted two hundred and fifty hours minimum flying time.
She folded the letter and stuck it in an envelope, then licked the flap and pressed it firmly down. Using the note Linda had slipped her, she carefully copied the address. She’d go to the post office first thing in the morning. If only she could increase her flying hours … but with a war on, and the expense, and now no job to pay for them, and no civilian flying clubs open even if she could, she was seeing her dream slowly drift away.
‘Maman said you were in our room.’ Suzanne crept in. ‘I hope I’m not disturbing you.’
‘Course not. How did your lesson go?’
‘Not so well today.’ Suzanne flopped on her bed. ‘I couldn’t seem to concentrate.’
‘Why not?’
Suzanne breathed out a long sigh. ‘All this war stuff. And I’m old enough to do something towards it.’ She looked at Raine. ‘Like you, being a pilot. That ought to be really useful.’
‘You would think,’ Raine said, pulling a face. ‘And there’s an organisation called the ATA – the Air Transport Auxiliary – who will actually accept women pilots, but I haven’t enough hours clocked up.’
Suzanne’s eyes were warm with sympathy. ‘Do you know who’s in charge?’
‘Yes, it’s a Miss Pauline Gower. In fact, I’ve just finished writing a letter to her to apply.’ Raine waved the envelope in front of her sister. ‘But I don’t hold out much hope. She wants girls … women with a lot more experience than I’ve got – even though I know damned well I could be trained to do the job.’
Suzanne gave her a hug. ‘Well, at least you’ll have tried. And you know what? I have a strong feeling this Miss Gower might make an exception for you.’
Raine hugged her back. ‘You’ve always been my greatest fan,’ she chuckled. ‘But I’m concerned about you. Maman will go mad if you don’t keep up your lessons. Which you would have to forego if you really wanted to do something worthwhile in the war.’
‘It’d be worth it,’ Suzanne said soberly. ‘I can pick it up again when the war’s over. People are saying it shouldn’t last more than another year.’
‘It’s barely started as far as Great Britain is concerned,’ Raine said. ‘Our boys are still fighting off the Luftwaffe, so I think we’re in for a long haul. They said at the start of the Great War that it would be over by Christmas, which was only a few months away … and look how long that one lasted – four terrible years for those poor soldiers in the trenches. Who knows how bad this one will get before Mr Hitler realises he’ll never get the better of us.’
It was only five days later, on a crisp autumn morning, that the postman handed Raine a typed addressed envelope. She didn’t dare think it might be from Miss Gower. She glanced at the postmark: Hatfield. She couldn’t help her lips curving in a smile. This letter could change her life.
‘Looks like it’s good news,’ he said, giving her a wink.
‘I hope so.’
She stood outside the garden gate watching the postman cycle off whistling, and contrary to her father’s instructions to always use a letter opener, she ripped the envelope open where she stood and withdrew a folded sheet.
Until I open it I can believe Miss Gower is inviting me for an interview, she thought, the letter trembling a little in her hand. But if it’s not – sorry, you haven’t enough experience … Raine momentarily shut her eyes. But suppose it’s good news … I’d then know …
Dear Miss Linfoot,
Thank you for your letter. I was most interested to read that you are already a qualified pilot with a certain number of flying hours.
Raine’s heart leapt with excitement. She read on.
It is urgent that we recruit more ferry pilots and we are able to take a certain number of experienced women pilots. Unfortunately, I’m afraid all the places were immediately filled. However, I have put your name on a waiting list and will contact you if the situation changes. In the meantime, I suggest you join the WAAFs, as at least you will be in your chosen environment.
Yours sincerely,
Pauline Gower (Commanding Officer)
Raine stumbled to the front door, tears pouring down her cheeks without a sound, and rushed up to her bedroom. She threw herself on the bed and sobbed. How ridiculous, now the country was at war, to turn qualified pilots away, whether they happened to be female or male. There must be hundreds of women like her who wanted to do their bit for their country.
After thumping her pillow and using a few choice words, she finally got up and found a handkerchief to blow her nose. Then she went to the bathroom to splash her face. She stared at herself in the mirror, her eyes pink and puffy. She actually looked beaten. What on earth was she going to do?