The Flying Girls

by Olivia Spooner

Genres: General Fiction; Historical Fiction; World War II

Synopsis

A gripping drama from the #1 bestselling author, inspired by the pioneering female pilots who served with the Air Transport Auxiliary during World War II.

Initially viewed with scepticism, these women became a crucial, high-skilled, and often unsung force that ferried 309,000 aircraft - from trainers to heavy bombers - from factories to Royal Air Force frontline bases, freeing up male combat pilots.

The flying conditions were often dangerous - the so-called 'Attagirls' were required to fly 'anything to anywhere', usually with no radios or navigational equipment, and in high-risk conditions.

Release date: November 3, 2026

Publisher: Hachette New Zealand

Print pages: 352

Sample

Opening the newspaper, Alma scanned the page, flipped to the next, ran her eyes over various articles, and turned the page again. Just as she was about to sag with relief, she spotted it and her hands grew clammy.

Captain Chambers will arrive from Christchurch Aero Club this morning to conduct a flying test for Alma Simpson, who is looking to gain her ‘A’ licence. Alma has been training well and her instructor, Flight Lieutenant Bryan Ewens, says he is confident she will be successful.

Alma closed the paper and marched out of the office, through the main hangar and onto the small concrete strip where Bryan Ewens sat in a low deckchair, a cup of tea in one hand and his pipe in the other.

‘You spoke to the papers,’ she declared, hands on her hips. ‘Now everyone will be waiting for me to fail.’

Bryan raised his eyebrows. ‘No one is waiting for you to fail,’ he said mildly, putting his pipe to his lips.

‘Of course they are,’ Alma said, glaring at him. ‘I was trying to keep this test quiet.’

‘I’m fairly confident everyone knows about it already,’ said Bryan. ‘This is Blenheim, after all.’

He had a point. In fact, Alma was pretty sure she had heard her neighbour, Mrs Thompson, breathing down the phone line a few days earlier when Alma had been discussing the test with Edith. Eight neighbouring households shared the same phone line, and the switchboard operator would use different rings to signal which house the call was for. If the code used wasn’t for your house, you weren’t supposed to pick up, but that didn’t stop nosy parkers like Mrs Thompson from listening in. If Mrs Thompson had heard about Alma’s test, half the South Island would be aware of it by now.

Alma brushed a strand of hair from her face and sighed. ‘Why did you have to say you were confident I would pass? It sets expectations even higher.’

‘Exactly,’ said Bryan, his lips curving into a slight smile. ‘You perform best under pressure.’

Bryan had joined the Marlborough Aero Club as a flight instructor a year earlier and had been immediately inundated with requests to train would-be pilots. Alma knew that the moment he arrived he would be in high demand, so she’d been determined to get to him early.

Older pilots at the club had tolerated Alma’s presence over the years, but they were generally unhappy with her level of enthusiasm for flying. To avoid the possibility that she would be asked to leave, on the day Bryan was due she’d hidden in the cockpit of a de Havilland Gipsy Moth parked in front of the hangar.

It wasn’t until Bryan had been given a full tour of the club and was inspecting the various aircraft that she’d leapt out of the Gipsy’s cockpit and onto the wing.

‘Hello,’ Bryan had said, startled.

Alma’s first thought, as she jumped to the ground, was that he looked and sounded far older than his twenty-four years: a proper, serious grown-up with his thin moustache, immaculately trimmed hair and deep voice.

‘I was waiting for a chance to speak with you, Flight Lieutenant Ewens,’ she said, sticking out her hand and hoping he didn’t notice how much it was trembling.

When he returned her handshake without hesitation, she felt the first stirrings of hope. She was well aware of a general reluctance to support any female who wanted to pursue flying, and she’d heard enough comments muttered under pilots’ breaths to know they believed it was an activity that should be reserved for men.

Alma forced herself to speak. ‘My name is Alma, and I have just turned sixteen. I’ve been flying with my father many times, and my mother has finally agreed to let me become a pilot. I’m determined to sit my test the day I turn seventeen, and though I realise that is a year away, I would like to book lessons with you now, if I may … please.’

He studied her solemnly and her hopes were raised further still. Most pilots dismissed her as a nuisance before she even opened her mouth.

‘You want to book me to be your instructor next year?’ he said. ‘That is rather a long way off.’

Alma shuddered. ‘Don’t remind me.’

Bryan pursed his lips. ‘When is your birthday?’ he asked, pulling a small notebook and pen from his pocket.

Alma looked at him warily. ‘April seventeenth.’

Bryan wrote the date and her name in the notebook. ‘Well, Alma, I promise I will make sure you are ready to sit your test by your seventeenth birthday.’

Bryan had been true to his word, though Alma knew it hadn’t been easy for him at times. She’d been a little overzealous, too demanding with her constant questions, but he’d never lost his temper or suggested she should spend time on something else. Alma wanted to pass today’s test for herself, but also for Bryan. To show him that the effort he had put into teaching her had been worthwhile. She also needed to gain her licence to prove to her parents that the cost of her lessons had been justified. It wasn’t a cheap pastime, as her mother so often reminded her.

‘He’s here,’ Alma exclaimed, pressing a hand to her chest now and staring up at the horizon.

Bryan frowned and rose to his feet. Moments later, a tiny speck appeared to the south, and they heard the faint drone of an engine. ‘How on earth did you know it was coming?’ he said, shaking his head.

Alma shrugged. Often she knew a plane was going to appear before she heard or saw it. Something inside her shifted and she just … well, she just knew.

Trying to appear outwardly calm, though inside she was a bundle of nerves, Alma waited for Captain Chambers to taxi to a stop, turn off the engine and climb from his Moth.

‘Wait here,’ Bryan ordered, and Alma stood patiently as her instructor strode over to greet Captain Chambers. The two men spoke for a few minutes before at last Bryan gestured for Alma to approach.

‘Well, well,’ said Captain Chambers, ignoring Alma’s outstretched hand. ‘Another girl wanting to fly. I failed a lady from Whanganui last week. She was dreadful. I was convinced she was going to crash before she’d even taken off.’

Alma wasn’t sure if she should, or could, respond.

‘Alma is a very capable pilot,’ said Bryan coolly.

Drawing courage from Bryan’s support, Alma straightened. ‘Should we get started?’ she suggested. ‘I’d hate to keep you any longer than is necessary, Captain Chambers.’

Alma led him into the office where they were to conduct the theory part of her test. She sat opposite him at the desk and he handed over the examination forms, which she filled in promptly and without difficulty. After she passed the papers back while ignoring his look of scepticism, he marked her answers in silence.

‘Good,’ he said gruffly. ‘Full marks. Time for the oral component.’ He pulled out a folder, leant back in his chair and began to fire one question after another at Alma in rapid succession. Questions she was well prepared for, relating to air traffic rules, lights and signals, and airmanship. She answered calmly and concisely, determined she would not be rattled.

‘Right,’ said Captain Chambers, getting to his feet. ‘Let’s see if you can fly, shall we?’

Bryan, who’d been waiting outside, accompanied them to the Moth that Alma would be using for her practical test, and gave her arm an encouraging squeeze as she climbed into the cockpit. ‘You’ve practised this many times, Alma. You can do it,’ he said, encouragingly.

‘Thanks,’ Alma replied, taking a long deep breath to steady her nerves.

While Captain Chambers watched from the ground, Alma took the Moth up to the designated minimum altitude of 6000 feet before looping back to the airfield, cutting the engine at 4500 feet and gliding in to land within 150 yards of the marker Captain Chambers had laid out.

Taking off again, and ensuring she stayed below 600 feet this time, she made a series of five figure-of-eight turns between two posts set 500 yards apart, then she shut off the engine just before touchdown and stopped the plane within 50 yards of the hangar, as was the requirement.

The test passed in a blur, Alma so focused on her flying that for a while she forgot her examiner was watching. As she climbed from the plane, Captain Chambers declared with an air of surprise that Alma’s flying had been ‘faultless’. Remaining composed, Alma waited until she had shaken Captain Chambers’ hand (he was the one to initiate the handshake this time) and his plane was back in the sky before flinging her arms around Bryan and hugging him enthusiastically.

‘I never had any doubt,’ said Bryan, taken aback by this uncharacteristic show of affection.

‘I’m officially a pilot. An actual pilot!’ Alma had an overwhelming urge to run up and down the airstrip screaming.

‘You’d best call home,’ said Bryan, smiling. ‘Your family will be eager to hear the news.’

‘Yes! Of course.’ Alma hurried to the clubhouse and picked up the phone.

‘Oh, I’m so relieved,’ said Mum. ‘Well done, Allie. You must ask Bryan to come for tea tonight to celebrate.’

Alma felt embarrassed at the idea – she and Bryan had never socialised outside the club – but she was too dumbfounded and pleased by her mother’s reaction to object. Her father had always been supportive of her desire to fly, but her mother had been lukewarm at best.

‘Congratulations, Allie,’ said Dad that evening, handing his daughter a parcel. ‘This is from your mother and me.’

Alma’s mum was hovering in the doorway, as was her habit. Alma wondered why she didn’t come and sit in the lounge with the rest of them. Bryan, who’d arrived ten minutes earlier, was seated in the armchair usually reserved for her father, a beer in his hand.

‘Thanks,’ said Alma, placing the bulky package on her lap. When she undid the string and tore off the paper, she gasped. ‘Oh my gosh!’ Tears pricked her eyes as she lifted out a burgundy leather jacket. ‘It’s perfect.’

‘I saw it on sale when I was down in Christchurch last month,’ said Mum. ‘You need something to keep you warm up there. Your current coat isn’t fit for the job at all.’

Alma had grown so used to the chill of the open cockpit she barely noticed it anymore. Now she would never be cold again – and she’d look stylish to boot.

‘It’s like the one Aroha Clifford used to wear,’ Alma said softly.

‘Yes,’ Dad said. ‘I know how much you admired her.’

Miss Clifford had died a couple of years earlier, shortly after giving birth to her first child, and Alma had been devastated by the news.

‘Thank you,’ she said, the words feeling inadequate. ‘It’s beautiful.’

‘Now that you have your licence, you’ll be able to focus on other things,’ said Mum, coming to perch on the arm of the sofa and patting Alma on the shoulder.

Alma’s stomach lurched. ‘I need to concentrate on logging twenty-five solo flying hours so I can get my endorsement to carry passengers.’

Mum’s hand stilled. ‘And then what? It’s not as if you plan on flying others around the country, I hope.’

Alma’s chest hurt. ‘I … I thought you and Dad might like to be my first passengers.’

‘Your father can already fly, he doesn’t need to be your passenger. And I have no desire to get in a plane.’

‘I’m never going in a plane if Alma’s flying,’ said Mary from the other end of the sofa.

There was a roaring in Alma’s ears and she gripped the hem of her cardigan. What was happening? They were meant to be celebrating the first step in her career and instead they had turned on her!

‘Well, now,’ said Bryan, sitting forward. ‘Alma is an excellent pilot, and gaining her licence today is really just the beginning. There’s still plenty to learn. And I, for one, would be very happy to be her passenger, as I have been already on several occasions.’

Alma knew he was trying to defuse the tension but she was too hurt and too angry to be mollified. Plenty of young men were being supported and praised for learning to fly; she’d seen it over and over again. Alma, on the other hand, was made to feel as if she were encroaching on territory that wasn’t hers. As if she were making inappropriate and unnecessary demands.

Jumping to her feet, Alma held up her new leather jacket. ‘Why did you buy this for me if you don’t want me to fly? What is the point of it?’

‘Now, Allie, we’re not against you flying altogether,’ said Dad. ‘I’m sure you’ll continue to fly from time to time.’

‘We’ve indulged this expensive hobby of yours for long enough,’ Mum added tightly.

Alma couldn’t believe it. She had offered to leave school the previous year in order to work and earn money so she could pay for her own flying lessons, but her parents had insisted it wasn’t necessary.

‘What do you want me to do?’ she said, throwing up her hands. ‘Find a husband? Is that what you think I should focus on? I’m seventeen years old!’

‘Allie,’ warned Dad. ‘Watch your tone.’

Alma couldn’t remember a time when she hadn’t been in love with flying. She had an entire box of newspaper clippings, plus photographs and articles about Aroha Clifford, Jean Batten and Amelia Earhart pinned to her bedroom walls. Almost every conversation she’d ever had with her family – with anyone – had been about planes. ‘All I’ve ever wanted to do is fly. You knew that. I never hid it from you. Why can’t you accept it?’

‘Alma, we have a guest,’ Mum hissed. ‘I’m sure Lieutenant Ewens doesn’t appreciate this childish behaviour.’

Alma’s eyes filled with tears. ‘Flying is everything to me,’ she whispered. ‘It’s who I am! Without it, I’m nothing.’

There was no better place in the world than dear old England, Sissy thought, pleased to be able to thank the doorman in English rather than her stilted French. She took her time removing her new coat, knowing it was bound to be receiving appreciative glances from the other diners in the Savoy, then hurried over to her favourite table, where Andrew was waiting.

‘Bonjour, chérie, comment était Paris?’ he asked, sounding more French than half the Frenchmen she’d met.

Sissy pulled a face at her cousin as she sat. ‘Don’t be such a show-off, Mr I-Speak-Four-Languages.’ She tried to sound grumpy as she waved to get the waiter’s attention, but she was thrilled to see Cousin Andrew at last. She’d spent the last six months in Paris attempting (and mostly failing) to learn French, and had missed him dreadfully. It was disappointing he hadn’t leapt out of his chair to greet her as she’d expected.

‘I’d get up and shower you with love, Thistle,’ said Andrew, as if reading Sissy’s mind, ‘but I’ve had a wee accident.’ He stuck his leg out from under the table to reveal that it was encased in white plaster from knee to foot.

‘Good grief, Lulu, what on earth happened?’ He’d been given the nickname Lulu when she was six years old and no one in her family had called him Andrew since. Similarly, she’d been called Thistle since before she’d learnt to crawl.

‘Got a little carried away at a party at Harry’s,’ said Andrew.

‘Harry Caldwell?’ asked Sissy.

‘No, no, Eton Harry. We were at his crumbling old castle up in Inverness.’

Sissy rolled her eyes. ‘I should have guessed. What was the theme this time?’

The waiter arrived, and without glancing at the menu, Sissy ordered the turbot – which she’d been craving since leaving England – and a martini.

Andrew, who prided himself on being a gluttonous meat eater, ordered two steaks and a bottle of Bordeaux. ‘You’ll share it with me, won’t you, Thistle?’

Sissy nodded. ‘It’ll be a pleasant change. Everyone in Paris is drinking pastis and I really don’t know why. I won’t miss it one iota. Now, what was the theme of Harry’s party?’

Andrew gave a wry smile. ‘You’ll be horrified.’

‘I’ve no doubt, but tell me anyway.’

‘Aeronautical.’

‘Aero-what?’

‘Flying, Thistle. You know it’s all the rage. Harry had the stupendous idea of building a flying machine off some plans from somewhere or other. We took turns trying to get the thing off the ground, but we weren’t having much success, so we decided to launch it from the roof of the stables to see if that would help. We had a jolly good time hoisting it up there. I mean, I knew it was a bad idea, but I was dreadfully drunk. And it worked – sort of. Harry was airborne for all of five seconds before he glided quite wonderfully to the ground. So then of course the rest of us had to have a go, but when it was my turn the damn machine fell apart and I crashed to the ground rather dramatically. The family doctor had to be fetched to fix me up.’

‘You poor thing!’

Andrew shrugged. ‘It’s not too bad. The plaster will come off next week.’

‘Has dear Susie been an attentive nurse?’

Andrew shifted in his seat and cleared his throat. ‘I called off the engagement last month.’

‘Last month! Why didn’t you write and let me know?’

‘I thought you might be upset with me. She’s your friend, isn’t she?’

‘We were friends for a short while at that wretched school, but she was so nice, Lulu. I could never get her to complain about anything. It was frightfully tedious.’

‘Well, you could have warned me, Thistle. The last thing I want is to marry some girl who is always agreeable.’

‘Oh, I know! I would have said something eventually if it looked like you might actually go through with it.’

Andrew had regularly needed to extract himself from romantic entanglements over the past few years. He’d always been popular with the fairer sex, being both good-looking and outrageously wealthy. Plus he was an orphan, which made him quite irresistible and caused all the girls to fawn over him as if he were quite the tragic figure.

Andrew had been two years old when his mother died during childbirth. Sadly, the baby girl she’d been carrying hadn’t survived either. Andrew was raised by a strict nanny in the huge family manor house in Berkshire, near Windsor. He rarely saw his father, who became a pilot in the RAF and was killed during the Battle of Amiens.

Five-year-old Andrew had come to live with his aunt – Sissy’s mother – at Stonelow, Sissy’s family home in Gloucestershire, and Sissy had immediately hero-worshipped him like an older brother. Within weeks it was impossible to imagine life at Stonelow without him. Sissy followed Andrew around and would sneak into his room in the middle of the night when she couldn’t sleep to curl up beside him. Somehow he would always sense her presence and he’d drowsily drape an arm over her. She would lie there in the dark, listening to him breathe, and feel like she was the luckiest girl in the world to finally have a big brother.

It came as a shock when he announced out of the blue, aged seventeen, that he would be moving back into his dead parents’ house, which had been empty, but for a housekeeper and a gardener, since he’d left it. Though he claimed he’d been perfectly happy weekly boarding at nearby Cheltenham College, he’d decided he wanted to attend Eton for his final two years of schooling as it was where his father had been a student. Since Eton was closer to his family estate, it made sense for him to move.

Though they’d been distraught, Sissy’s parents had let him go with the strict proviso he visit regularly. Sissy had been absolutely furious with her parents and with Andrew, and it had taken her months to forgive them. Thankfully, Andrew had done as they’d asked and returned to Stonelow for Sunday lunch at least once a month since, though for Sissy, life was never quite the same.

‘How’s Oxford?’ Sissy asked, undoing the clasp on her new handbag and pulling out her cigarette case. ‘I started smoking again in Paris. It’s impossible not to really.’

‘Quite right,’ Andrew replied, pulling a lighter from his pocket and leaning forward. ‘I never understood why you gave it up in the first place.’

Sissy coughed as she inhaled. ‘I don’t really enjoy it, Lulu, but such is life. Now, Oxford: how are you going?’

Andrew wrinkled his nose in thought. ‘I find it is far too full of entitled boys who want to have fun. Most have no proper interest in their studies at all.’

Sissy burst out laughing. ‘Dear cousin, you are an entitled boy who has more fun than anyone I know.’

‘Yes, but I also love to learn, Thistle. The more I read about, well, anything, the less I know. There simply aren’t enough hours in the day to learn about the world and, well, I suppose what I’m trying to say is the more I study, the more stupid I’m convinced I must be.’

Sissy rested her cigarette on the ashtray and reached for her cousin’s hand. ‘Lulu, you are the smartest person I have ever met. It’s obscene how clever you are. Stop talking nonsense.’

‘I wonder if perhaps Oxford isn’t for me, Thistle. The dons are convinced they’re brilliant and should be revered, but … does knowing so much about something really give you the right to be treated as a god?’ He shook his head. ‘I’ll shut up now; I suspect I’ve had too many whiskies while I’ve been waiting for you. You are almost an hour late, Thistle, which is not unusual, but can be a tad annoying.’

The waiter arrived with Sissy’s martini and she took a hasty sip.

‘I must say, you are in a bad mood, Lulu,’ she said, recognising the storm-cloud expression on her cousin’s face. ‘What’s this all about?’

Andrew sighed and sat back in his chair. ‘I’ve been rejected by the RAF,’ he said in a faraway voice, the one he used whenever he was upset.

‘Rejected? Why on earth?’ For as long as Sissy could remember Andrew had talked about joining the RAF like his father. He’d been determined to start his pilot training the moment he finished at Oxford.

‘My eyesight.’ Andrew squeezed his eyes shut tightly and stayed that way, his face all screwed up.

‘Stop that,’ said Sissy, smacking him on the hand. ‘We are in the Savoy, for heaven’s sake.’

Instantly Andrew relaxed his face and gave her one of his blank stares.

‘And you can stop that too, Lulu. I know you’re upset but you are not to shut me out.’

Sissy had a flash of memory of Andrew as a sensitive young boy. He would hide himself away in his room and stop talking for days if he was troubled. Often these episodes coincided with the anniversary of his father’s death. Sissy privately thought any father who recklessly flew off into battle knowing full well he would leave his child orphaned should he be killed wasn’t much of a parent at all – not that she would ever dare share that opinion with her cousin.

Their food arrived and Sissy waited until Andrew was tucking into his steak – knowing it would perk him up – before she spoke. ‘What’s wrong with your eyes?’ she asked quietly.

Andrew chewed and swallowed. ‘My eyesight has got worse since I started at Oxford. When someone calls out to me from across the street, I can’t make out who it is. As for. . .