Under a Spitfire Sky

by Ellie Curzon

Genres: World War II; Sagas; Historical Romance

Synopsis

It's 1944, and Florence is a talented engineer in the Women's Auxiliary Air Force, patching up planes to make sure that the brave Spitfire pilots of Cottisbourne airbase return safely day after day. When she befriends the new squadron leader - shy, handsome Siegfried - it seems that romance might blossom under the war-torn skies. But Florence is nursing a broken heart and a terrible secret, which might destroy her one chance of happiness . . . Meanwhile, a new plane is being developed that could turn the tide of the war, but Florence fears there is traitor is in their midst, putting Siegfried - and the whole country - in terrible danger. Can Florence save her Spitfire boys, and her own heart?

Release date: February 22, 2021

Publisher: Orion Publishing Group

Print pages: 320

Sample

Spring 1944, Dorset

Florence lay on her back under the Spitfire, turning the screwdriver to tighten the landing gear. It had been a mess, clogged with dead insects from the sky, and mud and grass from a landing that had skidded off the runway. But now it was clean and in fine working order again. And not only that, but with any luck it might be her last job of the day.

‘Bit of a bumpy landing, I’m afraid.’ Even by the standards of the base, the voice could only be described as plummy. Florence was getting used to plummy these days, of course, but this was plummy and then some. ‘Did my best to keep her on solid ground, but … reckoned without the bloody muddy puddles on the strip!’

She peered out from beneath the belly of the plane and saw a pair of shiny, polished shoes, a sharp crease running up what she could see of the blue-grey uniform trousers of one of the pilots. There was a dog there too, though all she could see of it were its glossy black limbs and the shadow of a wagging tail.

Florence laughed. ‘It’s a plane, not a lawnmower!’ She turned the screw one last time, then rubbed the metal again with a rag.

‘Good heavens, I didn’t realise—’ He cleared his throat. ‘My apologies for the bad language. I thought it was a chap under there!’

Florence pushed herself out from under the plane and shielded her eyes from the bright spring sun. She still couldn’t see much of the pilot, only a sense that he was tall and broad-shouldered.

‘Bad language? Oh – you mean bloody! I’ve heard worse than that, don’t you worry!’

The dog she saw now was a huge, shaggy thing, covered head to toe in a gleaming coat. At the sight of Florence its tail wagged even more wildly.

‘Matilda, settle down.’ The man stooped and offered his hand to Florence as she emerged from beneath the tail of the plane. ‘A lady tinkering under my kite!’

Florence took off the glove of her delicate right hand and took the pilot’s. ‘Tinkering? I’m a mechanic!’ But she laughed anyway. She wasn’t offended – she was always dealing with men’s surprise when she was working.

He helped her to her feet, not that she really needed his help, but Florence knew the gesture was meant in kindness.

‘How’s she looking then?’ he asked, patting the plane. ‘Ready to fly another day?’

Florence popped her screwdriver into the bib pocket of her dungarees. But she left her other glove on. ‘Yes! She’s fine. All tuned up and ready to go back into the air. Just make sure you aim for the runway next time!’

No longer a silhouette, the pilot had dark blonde hair the colour of thick honey, and eyes as blue as the sky.

Stop it, Florence.

She picked at her gloved hand instead, tugging away the grass that had got stuck in a gobbet of grease. She was a mechanic, he was a gentleman. And she was here to fix planes, not gawp at the pilots. Especially not a plummy sort like this fellow.

‘Squadron Leader Lane-Bannister.’ He held out his hand and smiled. ‘And Matilda.’

Florence shook his hand. It was a perfect sort of hand, clean and square with neat nails. ‘Sorry about the grease. I’m Florence. I’m a mechanic … as you can see. And you’re new.’

‘I am indeed. Fresh off the boat from up north. Here to lead Number 24 Squadron, for my sins,’ he replied. ‘I’ll do my best not to bounce her into the long grass next time. Still, keeps you busy, eh?’

‘Certainly does! Welcome aboard. And Matilda too.’ Florence crouched and fussed over the dog.

‘I rather think Matilda approves of our new billet. Lots of friends to give her lots of attention,’ Florence’s companion said as Matilda licked her hand in welcome. ‘You don’t sound like a local girl. Londoner?’

Florence went on stroking the dog. London was big enough that he couldn’t know where she was from. It wasn’t as if he was about to announce that he had a friend who’d lived on the same street.

Far from it.

‘Yeah, London …’ Florence decided not to add exactly where. ‘I live with my aunt in the village. I take it you’re billeted in Cottisbourne too? Or are you one of these flash types who drives to the airstrip?’

‘I’m in the little cottages behind the church,’ he replied. ‘With Mrs Spencer. Just a cycle ride away.’

‘Oh, that’s nice …’ Not far from me, then. Florence wasn’t sure she should tell him. But then again … ‘I know Mrs Spencer. She’s a friend of my aunt. She keeps that cottage as neat as a pin.’

And no doubt Auntie May would already know all there was to know about the squadron leader from Mrs Spencer.

‘Alas, she and Matilda have different attitudes to housekeeping.’ He patted the plane again. ‘How on earth did you come to be working with these things?’

‘Well, I came up here to look after my aunt, and I needed a job, and being from London, I wasn’t sure farming would suit me, so …’ Florence jerked her thumb towards the plane. ‘And my dad’s a mechanic on the buses, you see. I must’ve got it in my blood. Used to help my brother look after his motorbike. His pride and joy, that thing is.’

‘Well … good for you!’ She half-expected him to pat her on the head. ‘Blazing a trail, eh?’

‘Erm … I’m just doing what I’m best at.’ Florence shrugged. ‘I mean, the thing you’re best at is flying, right? How did you end up as a pilot?’

Although she could probably guess. Almost always, it was because before the war they had been a member of the idle rich, flying for fun. And now the flying was serious.

‘Oh, it’s a boring old story,’ the squadron leader replied. He ran one hand through his hair. ‘What little boy wouldn’t want to fly? And here we are.’

Little boy. She thought of Alfie, running around the garden, his short arms outstretched as the planes flew over their garden.

‘I see,’ Florence replied. She tucked an escaping lock of her fair hair back under the scarf she wore tied around her head. ‘Well, it’s nice to have met you. It’s nearly the end of my shift – but if there’s anything you’d like me to take a look at before I go …?’

‘Well …’ He glanced up at the plane. ‘I’ve been getting a bit of a breeze here and there. Would you mind awfully checking around the canopy? Something might need a bit of an old tighten somewhere?’

She didn’t like the sound of that. If the canopy was compromised then the poor bloke would freeze.

‘Of course.’ Florence took her screwdriver from her pocket. ‘Erm … I haven’t got my steps. Would you mind giving me a leg-up?’

‘Are you sure it’s no trouble?’ he asked. ‘I feel rather ungentlemanly asking a lady to tinker with my canopy!’

‘Trouble? It’s my job!’ Florence wondered if he had this problem every time he boarded a train or a bus, or received his post. Women, doing men’s jobs? Whatever next? She peered up at the canopy from where she stood. ‘The rubber seal might be on the way out. Easy fix, though.’

As her attention moved from the canopy, she noticed something on the body of the plane. An image of a man in armour driving a sword into the breast of a dragon.

‘Who’s the artist?’ Florence asked.

He blushed and admitted, ‘My younger sister’s idea, but the work’s mine. It’s meant to be—my name’s Siegfried, you see. She felt rather inspired, I think.’

Florence squinted at him. ‘Oh … I thought it was St George, killing the dragon. Who’s Siegfried when he’s at home?’

‘Well, he certainly didn’t have a girl like Matilda watching out for him,’ he said with a laugh. Siegfried. It suited him. ‘Leg-up, Miss Florence?’

‘Yes, please.’ Florence tucked the screwdriver back into her bib pocket and braced her hands against the plane. ‘Ready!’

She felt Siegfried’s sure hands cup her foot then he boosted her up towards the open canopy. Florence pulled herself up and climbed into the confines of the cockpit. She started to feel her way around the canopy, pressing with the bare fingers of her right hand on the inside, and with her gloved hand on the outside.

After some careful prodding, Florence found the problem. She hauled herself out of the cockpit and jumped down onto the tarmac beside Siegfried.

‘There’s a couple of splits in the rubber. Just tiny ones, can barely see them, but they’re there. When are you next taking her up?’

‘You’ll have to ask our chum Herr Hitler that,’ Siegfried told her with a smile. ‘In an ideal world, I won’t be, but it could be anytime at all. I take it there’s no danger? We have enough of that!’

Florence wanted to tell him it’d be fine, so she could go home on time. But the very mention of danger made her twitch. ‘I’ll do it now. We’ve got spares. It’ll take … half an hour, I think. I won’t rush it, don’t worry. And I’ve done it plenty of times before.’

‘Oh no, I couldn’t.’ Siegfried shook his head. ‘It’s only a bit of a cool breeze. There’s worse than that up there these days. I’ll have a look at it myself.’

‘You know, if the canopy’s compromised it’ll be a bloody big breeze you’ll be getting.’ Florence nodded over towards the hangar. A group of pilots were lounging outside it, smoking and playing cards. Siegfried’s wasn’t the only new face. They seemed to be getting younger with each new influx of personnel. ‘I’ll do it. It’s my job to keep the planes in good working order.’

‘Is there anything I can do?’ Siegfried took a pipe out of his pocket and tapped the bowl against his palm. It caught the edge of the gold signet ring he wore on his little finger with a melodic sound. ‘It doesn’t feel right standing here whilst a lady does the work!’

‘Like I say, it’s my job.’ Florence emphasised her words by prodding his chest. ‘And you’ve got your job. And the next time you’re called on to do your job, if I haven’t done my job, you’ll come a cropper. And we don’t want that, do we?’

‘Message received and understood, Miss Florence.’ He gave an apologetic shrug and offered the hint of a smile. ‘I’ve made it this far without too many croppers, I’d like to keep on with my winning streak. Matilda and I will stay out of your way. Let the worker work!’

Florence smiled at him. ‘I’m sure Mrs Spencer’s got your dinner on, hasn’t she? But … but if she hasn’t, while I’m sorting out your canopy, you can tell me about your dragon fellow if you like?’

He put the pipe back into his tunic then stooped and scratched Matilda behind her ears. Then he decided. ‘Yes, why not? Mrs S is visiting her mother tonight, so it’s dinner in the mess for me. I’m certainly not in a rush to enjoy those culinary delights.’

‘It’s not much cop, is it?’ But Florence ate as many meals as she could in the mess. It eked out the rations at home. ‘I’ll just grab my bits and bobs and it’ll be as good as new in no time.’

Florence half-bowed to him, then turned and headed for the hangar. She skirted around the resting pilots, who watched her walk by but didn’t speak to her. The hangar was shadowy and cool, and Florence had a rummage. They’d had a delivery in earlier that week and she was lucky to find just what she needed in the supply cupboard.

‘Wonderful job on my old girl, Mrs Blakeney!’ a young man who was lighting a cigarette called. His hair was the colour of copper, shining like a flame in the light of the sun. He looked so very young and she thought suddenly of Billy. What was her little brother doing now? Was he drinking tea and lighting a cigarette, sitting in the sun somewhere? His letters to her were filled with silliness and she knew he was protecting her from the reality of life at the front, but she saw her share of it here. Too many men didn’t come home.

The nub of the cigarette flared into life at last and the copper-haired young man added, ‘She’s purring like she’s brand new. Jerry won’t hear me creeping up on him now!’

‘Don’t mention it, Tom,’ Florence replied. ‘Glad I was able to tune her up. Happy flying!’

Then she made her way back to Siegfried’s plane.

Siegfried was chewing on the stem of his pipe, his face upturned to watch the scudding clouds in the blue sky. Sunlight threaded golden strands in his hair and at first, Florence thought he wasn’t aware of her arrival. He took the pipe out of his mouth then, though, and gestured with it towards the sky.

‘It’s a wonderful day today, don’t you think? A day for sitting beside a river somewhere.’

‘Oh, yes, isn’t it just?’ Florence replied. ‘You won’t know, of course, being new to the place, but there’s a lovely stream not far from here. Not a bad spot to sit when the weather’s nice.’

He settled his gaze on Florence and nodded. ‘It’s a beautiful corner of England.’

‘Yeah! I used to love coming up here to visit Auntie when I was little, but I never thought I’d leave London and end up here. It was so quiet when I first moved. I mean, apart from the night flights. Now I reckon if I went back to London, I’d find the place far too noisy.’ Florence had stowed what she could in her pockets and braced herself against the plane again. ‘Give me a push, will you?’

‘Which part of London’s your haunt?’ He took her foot again and counted, ‘One … two … three!’

On three, Siegfried boosted Florence up towards the cockpit. It seemed effortless and she swung herself into the cockpit as he withdrew his hands. She pretended not to have heard his question and got to work straight away, removing the screws that held the rubber on and levering it up with the screwdriver. Even though she lifted it off carefully, the splits worsened and the rubber fell to pieces in her hands.

‘Caught this just in time,’ she remarked.

‘Lucky for me!’ Siegfried laughed. ‘I’d hate to lose the old girl, because I imagine I’d go with her!’

Gallows humour. Florence had tried not to think about it too much. There was a war on, people tended to die in wars, and there wasn’t any point going about in sackcloth and ashes. But every so often, she’d hear a man joke about it and it struck her as terribly unfair. Young men with all their lives ahead of them, forced to crack jokes about their possible, imminent death.

‘Yeah, well, we don’t want that, do we?’ Florence started to rub down the edge of the canopy with her cloth, clearing away dirt and oil, and those ubiquitous dead insects that ended up coating the planes in a sticky black crust. As she worked, she asked Siegfried, ‘So this dragon business, what’s that all about then?’

‘Well, unfortunately the Jerries have claimed him as their own but he was a Norse chap really,’ he explained. ‘He was the son of a king and his pa died when he was still a nipper, so his ma gave him his pa’s magic sword and told him he’d grow up to be a hero. Nothing like putting your little ones under pressure.’

‘Or giving a child a sword.’ Florence had witnessed Alfie trying to sword fight with a feather duster. She didn’t fancy his chances with an actual sword, magical or otherwise. ‘But then I suppose a strapping Viking child could manage a sword. They’d rip the head off a teddy bear!’

‘Well, it was in bits really but the Norse magical smith Regin – also the young chap’s foster father – forged it into a blade for our hero and sent him off to slay the dragon.’ He stepped back and held up his hand to shield his eyes from the sunlight. ‘Not just any dragon either but Fafnir, once the brother of our magical smith. Fafnir stole the family gold and turned into a dragon so he could keep an eye on his booty!’

Florence glanced down at him. ‘That’s an extreme way of trying to avoid being burgled – turned into a dragon to guard his gold?’

‘Well, unfortunately for them the gold was cursed because they’d stolen it from a magical dwarf. It’s all very Norse.’ He put the pipe between his teeth again. ‘Anyhow, Regin asked Siegfried to slay the dragon and he obliged. As soon as Siegfried did, up pops Regin with the intention of killing our hero and stealing the treasure. So Siegfried lopped off his head, scooped up the gold and pottered off to romance Brunhilde, after a fashion. The end!’

‘I hope Brunhilde appreciated the lengths Siegfried went to,’ Florence said. ‘If she spent all his hard-won gold on shoes or bangles or whatever a Viking would, you’d have to feel pretty sorry for the bloke, wouldn’t you?’

‘It’s all very long and dramatic and unhappy,’ Siegfried lamented. ‘But there are dozens of takes on it. When I was a nipper I decided the best version of the story was for Siegfried to take the gold and go off adventuring. My boyish version had no room for Brunhilde, I’m afraid!’

‘Is there a version where Brunhilde kills a dragon too?’ Florence started to carefully slip the new seal onto the edge of the canopy, lining it up exactly.

‘Sadly not, but she wasn’t some wilting Gainsborough heroine,’ he assured. ‘She was a warrior maiden. A Valkyrie.’

‘I like the sound of that,’ Florence remarked as she smoothed the rubber seal onto the lip of the canopy. ‘A warrior maiden, eh?’

‘How’s the old girl looking now?’ Siegfried asked. ‘Good as new?’

‘Getting there… It’s fiddly, but I’m nearly done.’ Florence looked down at him and brandished her screwdriver for his benefit. She liked talking to the pilots, but often they didn’t seem to want to speak to her. She wasn’t glamorous like the radio operators with their painted-on stockings and set wavy hair. And it wasn’t very often that she’d get a potted version of a bizarre legend like the one she’d got from Siegfried.

Cottisbourne might have been welcoming but even so, it wasn’t keen on new arrivals, because they were a reminder that the base had lost some of its number. It meant a son or brother, a husband even, who wasn’t coming home. The village endured and the men on the base were still chipper but each time the planes were counted in, they all held their breath. It felt as though the whole of Great Britain had been holding its breath for five long years.

Florence focussed on her work and finally the new seal was secure. It was the best she could do to make sure that Siegfried would be safe. Short of not letting him fly at all. There was something gentle about Siegfried, something kind. She wasn’t sure why she had that impression, but at least he’d talked to her.

‘Right! Your plane’s all ready to go, and so am I.’ She climbed out again and jumped down. Then she extended her hand to Siegfried. ‘Time I got off home. Good luck when you next take her up. At least you won’t get any draughts.’

‘Miss Florence, thank you for giving me the benefit of your expertise.’ Siegfried took her hand and inclined his head politely. ‘Matilda and I wish you a very good evening.’

‘And to you too.’ Florence grinned at him. ‘I’ll see you again.’ I hope.

‘God willing!’ He beamed as he released her hand. ‘Cheerio, Miss Florence!’

Florence rode home on her bicycle, through the base, past the hangars and the low huts, out past the stores in the copse, along the concrete road and finally out through the gates. She bumped over the lane between the hedges, listening out for other vehicles. She didn’t often meet many, just the occasional car heading up to the base. Where the officers found petrol, she didn’t want to know.

She rode past a farm, then into the village, brick and plaster cottages lining the road. The last of the blossom stuck to the trees in front gardens, and on the village green. The church’s spire poked up above the oak trees, the weathervane catching the sun. Florence waved as she saw Mrs Spencer striding up the road and finally, as she headed onto the road out of Cottisbourne, she reached the row of cottages which she now called home. She took the bike along the path at the back, passed the bottom of the cottage gardens and went in through the gate. After locking her bike away in the potting shed, she wandered up to the kitchen door.

‘Auntie May? Alfie? It’s me!’ Florence’s heart leapt in anticipation of Alfie’s welcome. He always hurtled at her and wrapped himself around her legs, throwing her off her balance. And she loved it. As long as she was home before his bedtime, of course.

‘Come into the sitting room,’ Auntie May called in a sing-song voice. ‘There’s a wonderful surprise. An old friend to see you.’

An old friend? Someone from London? It had to be either a school friend who’d become a land girl or a neighbour’s child or cousin who’d been evacuated. Or, which seemed more likely, someone who Auntie May knew years ago in the village who Florence would politely pretend to remember.

‘Give me a sec, I’m just washing my hands!’ Florence gave them a scrub in the scullery sink, then threw aside the towel as she went into the sitting room.

It took a moment to place him exactly but his face set off terror in her.

Then she remembered.

Oh, God, no.

Teddy Bamber hadn’t changed one bit. He oozed smarm as much now as he had before, with his slick of Brylcreemed hair plastered against his skull, his sickly grey pallor rendered even more porridge-like against the grey-blue uniform of the RAF. Even his restless gaze, glittering and unblinking, was darting back and forth across the cosy room, taking in everything before him. The last time Florence had seen him he’d had a woman in nylons and fur in his arms as he’d swished her into his shining car. This afternoon the woman was long gone. Instead, perched upon Teddy Bamber’s knee was Florence’s son, Alfie.

Alfie’s usual chatter had dried up and his mouth had fallen open as he stared at the man. Florence’s instinct was to take her son from his knee, but she didn’t want to seem rude in front of Auntie May. If she could bear it for a few minutes, all would be well. He’d go soon, off to a base somewhere. She might never see Teddy Bamber again after today.

‘Teddy! What a surprise. I haven’t seen you in years. What’s brought you to Cottisbourne?’ And how the hell did you find me?

‘Duty to king and country,’ he said as he rose to his feet, scooping Alfie with him. ‘What a small world it is that we live in. And what a joy to see your pretty face again.’

It’s not a joy to see yours.

‘Oh, I see – which base are you flying from?’ Not Cottisbourne, please not Cottisbourne. But Florence knew the chances of him flying from anywhere else if he’d turned up here were vanishingly slim.

His grin was that of a shark, scenting blood in the water.

‘Cottisbourne,’ Teddy replied. ‘And what a beautiful little place it is. So untouched and unsullied.’

‘Yes … well …’ Florence could feel her cheeks burning at those words. The man had been billeted with her parents four years ago, and he must have overheard God knows what when news had come that Alfred had been killed. ‘Very different from London,’ Florence said, trying to sound conversational. ‘Very quiet. Peaceful. Everyone’s so friendly.’

Until you came along.

‘Very different,’ he echoed, still holding Alfie in his embrace. Florence wanted to take him from Teddy’s arms so badly it was like a physical pain, but all she could do was stand there, rooted to the spot. ‘Mrs Jackson has made me most welcome whilst I waited. And what a cheer to see your familiar and might I say rather pretty face. How I’ve missed those big . . .