The Last Letter from Juliet - Melanie Hudson Page 0,45

of total harmony and synchronisation. She was heaven on earth and I loved her.

I started her up. Once awoken, like me, she trembled with an urgency to be in the air. Leaving the canopy open as we always did for take-off in case of the need to bail out, I gave the signal to the ground crew to remove the chocks and excitement had to be replaced by a steely nerve and calm practicality. Taxiing was tricky. Her long nose, pointing upwards, meant the need to weave right and left to check that that the taxiway ahead was clear – and by goodness, she got into a strop if she had to sit on the ground too long – but I didn’t keep her waiting. The runway was a simple grass strip which meant, with a lean out of the cockpit to have a quick check ahead of me, after a short taxi, I turned the aircraft into wind and prepared myself for the most significant moment of my life.

Letting off the brakes, the kick Marie warned me of threw me back into my seat, and after a gentle pull back on the stick, moments later I found myself airborne, the iconic curves now invisible to me. All I could see was the black, curved instrument panel and a whole heap of sky around me – but my goodness she was responsive. Given half a chance, I really would have opened her up and burned off into the sunset, but not today. As McCormack had said, today was not about heroics. Today was for two perfect circuits and a landing.

There have been times in my life when I have needed to go to a happy place – to cheer myself with a memory – and the memory that always comes back to me is this one. If the day ever comes that I can no longer remember my first flight in a Spitfire, that is the day I want to die. Unlike any other love affair, the Spitfire has never broken my heart and the memory has never been bittersweet – her love was reciprocated and equal in every sense – it was just me, the machine and the sky, flying in harmonious perfection, together, as one.

Anna was no longer puce, but a sickening shade of grey/green when I climbed out of the Spitfire and crossed the grass – beaming – to join her. It was clear that McCormack – who was beginning to doubt Anna’s ability to go solo – was arguing the toss with Marie who was asking for the crowd to be dispersed before Anna took to the skies. It took us half an hour to persuade her to fly, but finally, after many deep breaths and a ‘You’re a damn Canadian, for Christ’s sake! Show these Brits what you’re made of and pull yourself together,’ sharp slap from Marie, the shaking Anna, mustering every ounce of courage she would ever need in her life, climbed into the Spitfire cockpit and started her up. Despite our bonhomie, Marie and I were also shaking while Anna weaved her way across the grass to position herself for a take-off run. She seemed to sit there, considering her take-off, for an age.

‘Come on, Anna … get that sonofabitch into the air, you damn Canadian woozy!’ Marie shouted across the airfield.

I wasn’t sure that would help.

But Marie was right, Anna did need to get going. We knew the Spitfire hated to sit on the ground once the propeller was running and could over heat if the pilot dallied for too long. It was a tense and uncomfortable couple of minutes, but the stoic Anna finally rallied, let off the brakes, powered through and took to the skies like a beautiful, graceful swan. And when she landed ten minutes later and the propeller had stopped and the chocks were in, Marie and I dashed to the Spitfire, lifted Anna into the air and bounced her around the airfield like a conquering Olympian. I have never, in my life, been so proud, of anyone. Every part of Anna’s body and soul had been petrified of flying the Spitfire alone that first time, and she knew that she carried the weight of responsibility – for womankind, no less – to prove that women could fly every bit as well as men.

And by God, she did it, too.

From that moment on the three of us called ourselves the Spitfire Sisters – true Attagirls. We were