Kerry Barrett - The Hidden Women

The conversation moved on. And if it hadn’t been for that look between my parents, I’d probably have forgotten all about the mention of Lilian Miles in my research. But that little glance, and the way Dad had suddenly sat up when he remembered Lil had done something with planes, stayed with me. I wondered what it meant and why it had captured his interest so much.

‘That’s your brother isn’t it? And is that his wife?’

Rose was peering over my shoulder at the photograph I kept stuck on the inside of my locker.

‘He looks like you, your brother.’

I gave her a quick, half-hearted smile and reached inside my locker for my jacket.

‘And is that their little lad she’s holding?’ Rose went on, undeterred by my lack of responses. ‘What a sweetheart. He looks like you as well. You’ve all got that same dark hair.’

Rose was one of the most infuriating people I’d ever met. Back when we’d been at school together my mum had told me to be nice.

‘She just wants to be your friend,’ Mum would say. ‘She’s not as good with people as you are.’

Back then, I’d been one of the class leaders. Confident and a bit mouthy. Able to make anyone laugh with a quick retort, and to perform piano in front of all sorts of audiences. But that was before.

I’d not seen Rose for a few years and I was finding her much harder to deal with now. For the thousandth time I cursed the luck that had sent my old school friend to join the Air Transport Auxiliary, and at the same airbase as me.

I pulled my jacket out with a swift yank and slammed the locker door shut, almost taking off Rose’s nose as I did it.

‘Got to go,’ I said.

I shrugged on my jacket, heaved my kitbag on to my shoulder, and headed through the double doors at the end of the corridor and out into the airfield. It was a glorious day, sunny and bright with a light wind. Perfect for flying. I paused by the door, raised my face to the sun and let it warm me for a moment.

The airfield was a hubbub of noise and activity. To my left a group of mechanics worked on a plane, shouting instructions to one another above the noise of the propellers. Ahead of me, a larger aircraft cruised slowly towards the runway, about to take off. It was what we called a taxi plane, taking other ATA pilots to factories where they’d pick up the aircraft they had to deliver that day.

My friend Flora was in the cockpit and she raised her arm to wave to me as she passed. I lifted my own hand and saluted her in return. A little way ahead, a truck revved its engine, and all around, people were calling to each other, shifting equipment and getting on with their tasks. I smiled. That was good. It was harder to organise things when it was quiet.

Glancing round, I saw Annie. She was loading some tarpaulins on to the back of a van. Casually I walked over to where she stood.

‘Morning,’ I said.

She nodded at me and hauled another of the folded tarpaulins up on to the van.

‘I’m going to Middlesbrough,’ I said, dropping my kitbag at my feet. I picked up one of the tarpaulins so if anyone looked over they’d see me helping, not chatting. ‘Finally.’

She nodded again.

‘I’ve left the address in your locker with my timings,’ I went on. ‘She’s waiting to hear from you so send the telegram as soon as I take off.’

‘Adoption?’ Annie said.

I nodded, my lips pinched together. ‘Older,’ I said. ‘Three kids already. Husband’s in France.’

Annie winced. ‘Poor cow.’

‘I know,’ I said. ‘Her mum’s helping.’

‘How far along is she?’

‘About seven months. She reckons she can’t hide it much longer. I’ve been waiting for one of us to be sent up there.’

Annie heaved the last tarpaulin on to the van.

‘Best get going then,’ she said.

I gave her a quick smile.

‘Thanks, Annie,’ I said.

A shout from across the airfield made me look round. ‘Lil!’

One of the engineers was waving to me from beside a small single-engine Fairchild.

‘Looks like mine,’ I said to Annie.

She gave my arm a brief squeeze. ‘It’s a good thing you’re doing here,’ she said.

‘You’re doing it too.’

Without looking back at her, I picked up my bag and ran over to the plane.

‘Am I flying this one?’ I said. We all took it in turns to fly the taxi planes, but I did it more often than some of the others; I loved it so much.

The engineer – a huge Welsh guy called Gareth who I was very fond of – patted the side of the plane lovingly.

‘You are,’ he said. ‘She’s a bit temperamental on the descent so take it easy.’

I rolled my eyes. ‘Gareth,’ I said. ‘I know what I’m doing.’

I opened the cockpit door and flung my bag inside.

‘Right,’ I said. ‘Take me through all the pre-flight checks.’

I’d been in the ATA for two years now, and I was cleared to fly every kind of plane – even the huge bombers that many people thought a woman couldn’t handle, but I never took anything for granted. I always went through checks with the engineers and did everything by the book. I liked feeling in control and I didn’t want to put my life in anyone else’s hands. Not again.

The taxi flights were quick – normally twenty minutes or so as we headed to the factories to pick up our planes. Today was the same. So it wasn’t long before we’d landed at South Marston, and I was ready to take off in the Spitfire I was delivering to Middlesbrough.

I climbed up into the plane and checked all the instruments, even though I’d flown hundreds of Spitfires and it was as familiar to me as the back of my own hand.

I loved flying. I loved feeling the plane doing what I asked it to do, and the freedom of swooping over the countryside. I’d spent two years hanging round the RAF base near where I lived in the Scottish borders before I joined up. I’d learned everything I could about flying, without actually piloting a plane myself. And then, as soon as I was old enough to sign up I’d applied to the ATA. I’d loved it straight away and I knew I was a good pilot. I’d raced through the ranks and completed my training on each category of plane faster than anyone else.

And yet every time I went on one of my ‘mercy missions’ as Flora called them, I was risking it all.

Putting all my worries aside, I focused on the plane. I watched the ground crew as they directed me out on to the runway, then thought only of the engine beneath me as I took off northwards.

Once I was up, I relaxed a bit, and took in the view. The day was so clear, I could see the towns and villages below. I imagined all the people going about their lives – hearing my engine and looking up to see me as I passed. Because it was a brand new plane, there was no radio, no navigation equipment – nothing. I liked the challenge that brought. It meant my brain was always kept active and I had no time to brood.

Middlesbrough was one of our longest flights and by the time I landed it was afternoon and the heat of the summer day was beginning to fade.

I slid out of the cockpit and headed to a man with a clipboard, who appeared to be in charge.

‘Spitfire,’ I said. ‘Made in South Marston.’

He nodded, without looking at me. ‘Where’s the pilot?’ he asked. ‘I need him to sign.’

‘I’m the pilot,’ I said, through gritted teeth. ‘Do you have a pen?’

Now the man did look up. He rolled his eyes as though I’d said something ridiculous and handed me a pen from his shirt pocket.

I scribbled my signature on the form he held out. ‘Is there a flight going back?’

‘Over there,’ he said, gesturing with his head to where a larger Anson sat on the runway. ‘But there are a few of you going. Be about an hour?’