The Spitfire Girls(50)

‘Just go, Jackson. Go!’ she snapped.

‘Lizzie, stop,’ he ordered. ‘You need to listen to me.’

She ignored him, and began to walk on. ‘I’ve heard enough!’ she called back.

But a heavy hand soon fell on her shoulder.

‘Get your hands off me!’ she exclaimed.

But Jackson’s hold stayed firm. ‘Lizzie, I was going to tell you about the new squadron. It’s one of the reasons I was looking for you, but it’s more than that. I need . . .’

‘What?’ she snapped. ‘What do you need?’

‘It’s your father,’ Jackson said. ‘I’m so sorry that I’m the one to break this news to you, Liz, but I wanted it to be me.’

Lizzie’s heart started to pound. ‘My father?’ What on earth did Jackson know about her father? ‘What are you talking about?’

‘He’s had a heart attack, Lizzie. I’m so sorry.’ He reached for her hand. ‘I was in the office when an urgent message came through for you from head office, and I wanted to be the one to break the news to you.’

Lizzie’s breath stuttered from her lungs. She felt her knees buckle as she stared back at Jackson, whose hand found her arm, this time holding her up. ‘Is he alive? How do you know? What . . .’

‘He’s alive. He’s in hospital. I’m so sorry – I know how much he means to you.’

Lizzie was struggling to take it in. He’d always seemed so strong, so invincible to her . . . but . . . a heart attack?

‘Thank you. For telling me,’ she managed.

‘Your father . . .’ he started.

‘You let me worry about my father,’ she said briskly. She raised a hand and took a step back. ‘Until our paths cross again.’

He nodded, a look passing over his face, an expression she couldn’t fathom. ‘Goodbye, Lizzie. And good luck.’

She watched him as he started to back away, wondering what was going on in his head. She waited, barely breathing, until he was out of sight, before collapsing to the concrete and sobbing like a child. She couldn’t lose her daddy, she couldn’t lose him while she was on the other side of the world! She needed him, she needed to show him what she’d done, how much she’d grown, what she was capable of. And more than anything, she wanted to be the one to care for him and nurse him back to health.

‘Don’t you die on me, daddy,’ she whispered. ‘Don’t you dare go and leave me.’



Lizzie marched into the post office, breathing heavily after walking so far. But she’d had time to clear her head, and she knew exactly what she needed to say. She quickly composed a telegram to her mother, telling her she’d been informed of her father’s condition and would be coming home as soon as she could. And then she took a deep breath and composed the words she’d been reciting for the last half-mile of her walk, wanting to make sure the entire army knew she was ready and capable of stepping up to lead a team.

GENERAL HENRY ARNOLD.

I’VE BEEN INFORMED A WOMEN’S FERRY SERVICE HAS BEEN ESTABLISHED IN MY ABSENCE. I TRUST THAT I’M STILL EXPECTED TO HEAD ANY WOMEN’S SQUADRON TO ASSIST WITH THE WAR EFFORT. I AM READY TO TAKE ON A LEADERSHIP ROLE AND DO WHATEVER IS NEEDED OF ME. INFORMATION REQUESTED IMMEDIATELY ON WHEN I SHOULD RETURN. ENDS.

I’m coming, Daddy, she thought, sending a silent prayer skywards as she stepped out of the post office. Don’t you go dying without letting me say goodbye. I’ve got way too much to tell you before you go.





CHAPTER THIRTEEN

RAF ELVINGTON AIRFIELD, YORKSHIRE,

JULY 1942

RUBY

Ruby pulled out her compact and quickly powdered her nose, wanting to look fresh on her arrival. She might want to be taken seriously as a pilot, but she was still a girl and she liked to look like one – and if Tom was there, she wanted to knock his socks off.

Next she took out her lipstick and reapplied it, pleased there were no other planes flying in formation with her or looking to her for guidance. She laughed to herself, thinking about the first time she’d led the way; she was known for her knack with maps and landmarks. One of the other pilots had flown up beside her, worried about all her zigzagging, only to see her applying her powder. Ruby had almost dropped it in fright, and all she’d been able to think of was how ridiculous she’d have looked if it had ended up all over the cockpit.

With her make-up done and her mid-air acrobatics over, she glanced at her markers, knowing she was close. In another fifteen minutes, she was looking down on the aerodrome, her heart pounding as she realised she’d actually made it. The weather had been terrible at times, but the visibility had proven to be sufficient and if she was successful in her landing . . . She pushed the thought of failure out of her mind. This wasn’t just for herself, but the rest of the squadron and the other women pilots who’d managed to get their Class V conversion. She could do it.

She was grateful that she hadn’t had any bored ack-ack units mistaking her for the enemy in the big bomber, and for the fact she hadn’t seen any stray Luftwaffe pilots who wanted to shoot her out of the skies. And she’d been able to make textbook decisions throughout the flight. By all accounts it had already been a success. She eased back and listened to the change in the engine; the more she flew the Halifax, the more she was becoming familiar with it.