The Last Letter from Juliet - Melanie Hudson Page 0,41

in the least! And at least we’d be flying again, Janie. That’s all that matters, surely?’ I ran a finger over the advertisement. ‘Being grounded is damn well killing me!’

Janie tipped her head sideways.

‘What will Charles make of it, do you think?’

I shrugged. Charles wouldn’t give too figs.

‘He’ll be fine about it. Definitely. He’s quite a modern man, you know.’

‘But what about his family? Didn’t you say they’re a bit straight-laced. They might not be impressed. You’re a married woman now – lady of the manner and all that. It was one thing to fly under the banner of your dear old Pa, but they might not like this, Juliet …’ Janie took the advertisement out of my hand and looked at it. ‘It’s all so very …’

‘So very, what?’

‘Well, it’s very … I don’t know, masculine, I suppose.’

I laughed.

‘Oh, Janie. There’s a war on. Absolutely everything women do these days is masculine. It’s the only upside of having this damn war in the first place!’ I took the advertisement back.

‘Can I have this?’

She shrugged. I took it as a yes and tucked the scrap of paper safely into my handbag.

‘Mark my words,’ I said. ‘Pretty soon, they’ll realise just how much they need us.’

‘Us?’

‘Women! Janie. Women! WAAF, Land Army, factories … you name it, women are doing it all nowadays, and doing it well, too.’ I leant in and whispered. ‘And I for one fully intended to make the most of it!’

Chapter 15

Juliet

Attagirls!

Some days come along in life that are so significant they stay with you for eternity. Such days remain as bright and clear in my mind’s eye now as on the day itself and usually fall into two categories – days so terrible I would rather forget them, or days so wonderful I want to remember them forever. The day I flew a Spitfire for the first time fell into the latter category. It was the day I fell in love all over again and it was made all the better for sharing the experience with my wonderful new ATA friends, the ultimate Attagirls, Anna and Marie.

‘I don’t think I can do it,’ Anna said, her right hand to her forehead, shading the sun. We watched Marie as she completed her first circuit of the airfield. Anna’s left hand still in mine. I squeezed her hand gently.

‘Yes, you can. I know you can. You’re every bit the pilot I am.’

She looked at me. Her face puce.

‘All right,’ I admitted, ‘perhaps you’re not quite as confident as me, but you haven’t had the same amount of experience in the seat, that’s all.’

We’d met several months before, Anna, Marie and I, in London at Austin Reeds Taylors. We were being kitted out for our ATA uniforms – navy worsted suits and forage caps. Anna and I were to be based at the all-women ferry pool at Hamble, but Marie was set for White Waltham, which had male pilots too, much to Marie’s delight. We cut quite a dash in our gold-trimmed uniforms, a uniform guaranteed to provide limitless male attention and a seat at the best tables in town.

Anna was Canadian. A more practical, kind, straight-talking woman you would never meet. We had a great deal in common, Anna and I. Her father had taught her how to fly on the family farm and had also died suddenly just a few years before. Marie was American. When we asked her where she was from, she simply answered, ‘Money’. She placed everyone she met into one of three categories – a Honey, a Hottie, or a Sonofabitch. Her family originated in Texas, where she learned to fly, but she had spent a great deal of time in Manhattan and socialised with the kind of people a woman of her wealth and status was attracted to. Bored to death with her life as a socialite and desperate to do her bit in Europe, from across the Atlantic she had heard the cry for ATA pilots and, sensing the adventure of a lifetime was just an ocean away, had jumped aboard The Beaver bound for Liverpool and risked a perilous journey across the Atlantic, dodging German U-boats, in order to join the cause.

Marie was something of a celebrity in certain flying circles (mainly due to an episode crash landing her Gypsy Moth in the African bush and spending a night with a Masai herdsman) which was an image that did not quite ring true with her perfect coiffure and manicured nails –