J.T. Edson - Blonde Genius

“Can’t I do anything else?” Rosalie pleaded.

“That will be ample,” Miss Benkinsop assured her. “You can leave the rest to myself—and Amanda.”

“All right, Miss Benkinsop,” Rosalie assented.

“Much as I hate to cut short our little chat, dear,” Miss Benkinsop went on. “There isn’t much time for us to complete our arrangements—”

“I understand, ma’am,” Rosalie replied.

“Oh, one more thing,” the headmistress said, before her caller could hang up. “Miss Pedlar has volunteered to referee the hockey match between Mata Hari and Lucretia Borgia Houses—” Ignoring the slight gasp of alarm from the Music Teacher, she went on, “I’m sure you’re just itching to come over and do the same when Pauline Cushman House meets Belle Boyd* House in the finals of the net-ball league.”

“Well—” Rosalie said doubtfully, although she knew just what the headmistress had meant by the emphasis on the word ‘itching’. However, a refusal would not be fair to Peach-pips. They had both been equally guilty of pouring itching-powder borrowed from Amanda’s fag and Penelope’s little sister—into every pair of ‘hoisting knickers’ they had found in Miss Dinks’ room. “I’ll be there.”

Despite her misgiving about officiating at what would be a strenuously contested needle-match, involving two Houses whose rivalry was as severe as it had been between their namesakes, Rosalie felt relieved and almost light-hearted as she hung up and left the telephone kiosk.

“Well, ladies,” Miss Benkinsop said, returning the receiver to its cradle. “You heard.”

“Shall I get the Debating Society together. Miss Benkinsop?” asked Miss Hammerschlagen, jumping eagerly to her feet and being joined by an equally enthusiastic Penelope.

“No,” the headmistress replied and saw disappointment on at least two faces. “I feel that this is a task calling for a small party, as we don’t have a formal invitation to visit. “Amanda and I will he sufficient.”

“Can’t I come wiv you, Miss Benkinsop?” Penelope pleaded. “It’ll make me feel ever so much better about losing the Debate.”

“Three of us would be best, ma’am,” Amanda put in, knowing her friends sentiments and being willing to help if possible.

“Very well,” Miss Benkinsop smiled and, for once, overlooked Penelope’s somewhat unmannerly whoop of delight.

“Here!” said Miss Dinks, having realised why her undergarments felt so uncomfortable but was satisfied that justice had been done. “How are you going to get to Cyprus by tonight?”

“I’m open to suggestions, ladies,” Miss Benkinsop stated.

“You’ll have to fly,” Miss de Vere pointed out, sounding exactly like Miss Frithinigton-Babcock.

Although a superb instructress of the Drama Class, Miss de Vere did tend to become too involved in her work. When speaking to her, one never could be sure in whose voice she would reply. It was, however, a talent for which Miss Benkinsop and other members of the staff occasionally found use. So they were willing to overlook the Drama Teacher’s little idiosyncrasies.

“Can we get tickets on a commercial flight at such short notice?” Penelope inquired.

“It’s not likely,” Miss Benkinsop admitted.

“Why not charter a special flight?” Miss McCoy suggested. “Or borrow a plane and have Amanda fly you there?”

“In either eventuality, it would take too long and require too many formalities,” Miss Benkinsop pointed out.

“I’ve a gentleman friend who’s a pilot in the R.A.F.,” Miss Pedlar remarked, hoping to gain a remission from the task of acting as referee at the hockey match.

“I can just see him being able to give Miss B. and the girls a lift to Cyprus,” Miss Dinks sniffed, equally determined that the Music Teacher should not go unpunished.

“Well, we are all taxpayers,” Miss Frithington-Babcock said gently.

“I don’t think that would help,” Miss Pedlar replied. “Anyway, he says that old Pongo Porter—”

“Whom did you say?” Miss Benkinsop interrupted eagerly, hoping that she had heard correctly.

“Pon—Group Captain Porter,” Miss Pedlar corrected. “His Station Commander. He’s a proper tartar—” Once again Miss Benkinsop cut in upon the Music Teacher’s words. While such a breach of good manners would have been unthinkable in less trying circumstances, the rest of the staff considered that it was acceptable at that moment.

“Girls,” Miss Benkinsop said to Amanda and Penelope. “Go and pack your things. Make all arrangements you think necessary, Amanda, well be leaving for Cyprus after all.”

(*Pauline Cushman and Belle Boyd were leading lady spies on he opposing sides during the war between the United and Confederate States of America.)

CHAPTER ELEVEN

During World War II, Group Captain P. M. T. Porter, D.S.O. and Bar, D.F.C. and three bars, had been a gay—just a trifle irresponsible—gallant and capable fighter pilot. Winning promotion at an advanced rate, by his ability during the Battle of Britain and later, he had also settled down.

Now, with age and seniority, he was filling time until his advancement to Air Commodore by commanding a base responsible for top-secret development and high level maintenance. The erstwhile happy-go-lucky Flying Officer had been replaced by a tough, efficient administrator. Among his staff, he was regarded as being fair, but red hot on disciplinary matters.

Seated at his desk, the Group Captain threw a glance at the picture of himself and his wife. It had been taken on their wedding day and was inscribed with the words:

“To Pongo, with all my love, Dawn.”

The red telephone on Porter’s desk buzzed. Scooping it up, he expected to be in touch with some very high ranking officer, or Government official. Certainly he would never have thought to hear the words which smote his ears.

“Hello, Pongo. Amelia Benkinsop here. I’d like you to do me a little favour.”

“I don’t think I’d better ask how you got this number, Amelia, old girl,” Porter growled, then grinned. Lord! Her voice took him back to the good old days of the War. “What can I do for you, arrange a flying display for a Parents’ Day, have the W.A.A.F. hockey team come down and give your First Team a go?”

“Well, no, although we’d welcome either. What I need, in rather a hurry, is for myself and two of the girls to be taken to Cyprus and fetched back—tonight.”

“Tonight?”

“I do admit that it’s rather short notice, Pongo,” Miss Benkinsop apologised. “But it is rather important.”

“But how about passports, visas and all that kind of rot?” Porter croaked.

“Well, they are something of a problem, although not an insurmountable one.”

“I don’t have a kite going there—”

“I thought perhaps a training, or air test flight could be arranged. It has happened before, hasn’t it? Of course, a Spitfire would hardly be suitable on this occasion.”

A faint grin plucked at Porter’s lips. Once, shortly after the Battle of Britain had ended, he had flown from Biggin Hill to Henley in his Spitfire—carrying Miss Benkinsop on his lap as a passenger.

“By the way, Pongo, I met Dawn in town a few weeks ago. We had lunch and reminisced about the old days. She was saying that she often wondered if you really had gone up to Fighter Command Headquarters that weekend just before you became engaged.”

“If it was anybody but you who’d said that,” Porter stated. “I’d suspect a bit of blackmail.”

“Perish the thought, Pongo. Although it was rather naughty of you to fib to her like that.”

“How important is it for you to get to Cyprus?” Porter asked, glancing at a board on his office wall.