The Spitfire Girls(90)
‘How bad was it?’ she asked in a low voice, as the black-and-white images crackled over the screen.
‘They’re saying that women have stolen men’s jobs, that you have a terrible accident rate, and that it costs a fortune to train a woman to fly a military plane.’
Lizzie gulped and sat silently as a tear ran down her cheek, then another and another. She held tight to Jackson’s hand, not needing to tell him how wrong it was; he knew it as well as she did.
They officially had a lower accident rate than men flying the same missions. There was no difference at all in the cost to train them; in fact, they cost less, as they didn’t even receive the same quality uniforms. But no one was going to care about that. All they’d see were the headlines screaming ‘Women Stealing Men’s Jobs’ or something equally obscene. The women pilots would be told to go back to homemaking and knitting, instead of being lauded for the serious contribution they’d made to the war effort.
She would fight every slanderous word until her last breath, but for the first time she wondered if this was one fight she didn’t have a hope of winning. The only thing she could do was ensure the bill received support, and to do that she’d need to exercise an extremely bold bluff.
‘I’m going to tell Hap that if the WASPs can’t be in the Army Air Forces, like every other army pilot, then the WASP programme will come to an end,’ she murmured.
Jackson nodded, and she knew she had his support. The only problem would be if her gamble failed, but she had to believe they were too important to the army for them to risk losing her or her programme. And if they didn’t think that, then the demise of the WASPs would be on her head. She couldn’t see any other way forward through this mess.
She stared at the screen and wished she hadn’t. What on earth?
Lizzie looked around her and saw the horrified faces of her pilots as they watched the film. They’d come to see a movie about their incredible work, about women flying enormous military planes and taking on roles that should have impressed anyone, and instead they were being portrayed as silly girls more interested in flirting with officers and gossiping. She groaned at the immature actress on screen giggling and making love-eyes at a man in uniform, wishing she’d just stayed on base for the evening.
She’d never been so embarrassed in her life.
‘This is ridiculous,’ Jackson said, loud enough for everyone around them to hear.
Lizzie shut her eyes and blocked it all out. It was like the world was conspiring against her, and she wasn’t going to stand for it: just as she’d refused to take no for an answer before she was sent to England. This was not going to signal the end for the WASPs, and she was not going to let this ridiculous film make a mockery of their work.
‘Let’s go,’ she said to Jackson, standing.
He looked surprised, but he stood.
‘We don’t need to sit and watch this nonsense,’ she said in a loud voice to the women around her. ‘Stay for a laugh if you like, by all means, but remember that this is fiction and does not for a moment reflect the incredible work of the WASPs.’
And with that she walked out, holding her head high. She’d collapse and cry in her own bed later, but now she needed to set an example to her girls.
‘Elizabeth?’
She was surprised to see one of her office assistants standing outside the venue, holding a sheet of paper in her hand. The paper was trembling.
‘Gina, what is it?’ Lizzie asked.
But when the other woman just handed the envelope to her, her face ashen, Lizzie felt all colour drain from her own.
She unfolded the page quickly, scanning the words fast. It only took her a few seconds before she was reading the words again. And again. And again. Until Jackson took the paper from her and wrapped her in his arms, holding her as her legs gave way beneath her.
ELIZABETH. YOUR FATHER HAS HAD ANOTHER HEART ATTACK. NOT EXPECTED TO MAKE IT THROUGH THE NIGHT. PLEASE COME HOME.
‘No,’ she whispered. ‘No, Daddy, you can’t die on me.’
Jackson swung her up into his arms, carrying her as she clung to him like a child. ‘Gina, report to base and get a telegram to General Arnold. Tell him I will be taking over duties for Elizabeth for the next few days,’ she heard him say.
Stay alive for me, Daddy. Please, just hold on.
‘I’m taking you home, Lizzie,’ Jackson murmured into her ear, striding across the road and somehow getting her into the passenger seat as she numbly let him move her, incapable of saying a word.
I still have so much to prove to you, Daddy, she thought as she stared out of the window, her forehead pressed to the glass.
The past few hours had felt like a blur. Lizzie knew she’d sat in the car with Jackson, pointed out her parents’ home to him, held her mother in her arms and then let Jackson hold her, kissing her forehead. But the only moment that felt real was right now, lowering herself to the chair beside her father and staring at him lying there, his eyes shut, his breathing raspy.
‘Hey, Daddy,’ she said, trying to sound bright even though every part of her was cracking apart. ‘Daddy, it’s me, I’m here.’
She wanted to scream at someone to call an ambulance and get him to hospital, to do something, anything to help him. But she knew it was too late. Her mother had made the decision to keep him at home, where he wanted to be, rather than spend his last days or hours or minutes hooked up to machines in a hospital, surrounded by strangers.