Spitfire Girl Read online

  Contents

  About the Book

  About the Author

  Also by Lily Baxter

  Title Page

  Dedication

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Copyright

  About the Book

  It is 1940 and Britain is at war with Germany. In London, eighteen-year-old Susan Banks longs to do her duty. Her secret ambition is to learn to fly – to serve her country and realise her dream. But she knows it is out of the question for a girl like her; a foundling, unwanted and unloved and dependent on strangers for her welfare.

  Just as she fears she will be trapped forever in a life of servitude and loneliness, she meets Tony Richards, a flying instructor based in Hampshire. And when she is forced to flee London, she heads out into the country. She is taken in by the kindly landlord of the local inn and his daughter. As Susan works hard to earn her keep, and her friendship with Tony – now recalled to duty – blossoms into love, she dares to hope that things are at last looking up for her. But then she receives devastating news – Tony is missing in action. And Susan wonders if she’ll ever see the man she loves again and realise her dream of becoming a Spitfire girl …

  About the Author

  Lily Baxter lives in Dorset. She is the author of Poppy’s War and We’ll Meet Again. She also writes under the name of Dilly Court.

  Also by Lily Baxter

  Poppy’s War

  We’ll Meet Again

  For Gay and Tim

  Chapter One

  Primrose Hill, London – December 1940

  It was midnight but the sky over London was alight with fire and flame. Susan stood on Primrose Hill, watching in horror as the bombs fell from the sky and showers of shrapnel cascaded down like fireworks on bonfire night. Audible even at this distance, the roar of the German aircraft engines and the ear-splintering explosions were enough to terrify the bravest soul, let alone the small creature shivering at her feet. ‘It’s all right, Charlie,’ she said, bending down to scoop him up. She cuddled him in her arms, rubbing her cheek against his soft fur and inhaling the warm puppy smell as if it were the most expensive French perfume.

  Charlie made soft grunting noises as he snuggled up beneath her chin, raising his head in an attempt to lick her face. She could feel him trembling even now and she turned resolutely in the direction of home. ‘Let’s get you back into the warmth, little chap. But I want you to be a very good boy and keep absolutely quiet.’ She retraced her steps along Elsworthy Terrace, turning right into Elsworthy Road. In the red reflected glow of the fiery sky, the Edwardian terraced houses bore an air of shabby gentility, not least the one where Susan lived and worked. She climbed the front steps and let herself in, making as little noise as possible. She would never normally have been wandering around this late at night, especially in an air raid, but Charlie was not yet fully house-trained and his needs were more pressing at this moment than her own safety.

  How long she could keep his presence a secret from Mrs Kemp and her daughters was not something she dared think about. London might be falling about their ears, but for the first time in her eighteen years she had something that belonged to her and her alone. She tucked the Labrador puppy under her jacket and headed for the back stairs which led to the lower ground floor. Feeling her way in the darkness, Susan’s fingers touched the cold glass of one of the framed watercolours that lined the narrow hallway. She was glad that she could not see the enigmatic faces of the Japanese warriors who glared stonily into space. Stepping carefully, she negotiated her way around the mahogany half-moon table where a rather angry-looking Buddha sat cross-legged next to the old-fashioned candlestick telephone, which was just another relic from their past that the family refused to give up. The late Graham Kemp had been a minor official in the British Embassy in Tokyo, although to hear Mrs Kemp speaking about him anyone would think that he had held a far superior position. Their glory days, living the lives of ex-pats, might be long gone but the family continued to believe that they were in all ways a cut above the rest.

  Jane Kemp, as Susan had found out to her cost, was a snob and a bigot. Her daughters were not much better. They made it perfectly clear that a girl such as herself, an orphan raised in a children’s home, was less than nobody. She was a servant and as such should be invisible. She was paid a weekly wage that barely kept her in stockings and shampoo, but she was supposed to be grateful for her bed and board and the two uniforms she was compelled to wear when on duty. As she only had one half-day off a week, this meant that she was almost constantly garbed in one or other of the unflattering outfits provided by her employer. Susan loathed the brown cotton dress and beige apron and cap which she wore in the mornings. For afternoon wear she had a black number with a frilled white apron and headband, which was little better. Neither of the garments could be classified as being in the height of fashion, and the accompanying black lace-up shoes were both ugly and uncomfortable.

  Cuddling Charlie, she made her way carefully downstairs to the large, old-fashioned kitchen, which could not have changed very much since the house was built shortly after the turn of the century. A deal table stood in the centre of the room and the original cast-iron range still held pride of place, although Mrs Kemp had recently, and somewhat unwillingly, invested in a more modern gas cooker. It was second-hand, but Susan much preferred cooking on instant and controllable heat. The range was large, temperamental, and guzzled wood and coal like a hungry giant. It needed constant feeding and cleaning, and once a week she had to apply a coating of blacklead to the cast iron in order to prevent it from rusting. It was a dirty, thankless task and one that she would have been happy to relinquish.

  When she first came to the house in Elsworthy Road, the Kemps had employed a cook-general and a charwoman. The cook, a kindly woman who had been with the family all her working life, had given in her notice at the outbreak of war, choosing to retire to the country and live with her married daughter. The cleaner had taken up well-paid work in a munitions factory.

  Susan set Charlie down on the floor, and checking first that the blackout curtains were drawn, she turned on the light. A forty watt bulb emitted a feeble glow but Mrs Kemp now had the excuse of doing her patriotic duty by saving electricity. Before the war it had simply been her parsimonious nature that had led to such economies. Susan went to the larder and taking the milk jug from the marble shelf, she poured a small measure into a saucer and placed it on the floor in front of Charlie, but before he had a chance to lap it up a ball of grey fur hurtled across the room and sank its claw into the puppy’s nose. Charlie yelped with pain and fell over backwards in his attempt to get away from the growling Siamese cat.

  ‘Binkie-Boo!’ Susan said crossly. ‘You horrible creature.’ She bent down to comfort Charlie, but she did not attempt to wrest the saucer from the malevolent feline who was now lapping contentedly, having won that round. She took a fruit bowl from the dresser and put it at a safe distance from the irascible Binkie-Boo before filling it with milk. Charlie slurped it down in seconds, eyeing the cat warily.

  Susan stood guard, ready to pounce on Mrs Kemp’s spoilt darling should he
decide that small Labrador puppies were fair game, but, having slaked his thirst, Binkie-Boo stretched, exposing his sharp claws as if it were necessary to remind anyone that he was armed and dangerous. He sat down and proceeded to wash himself.

  Susan shook her head. ‘You’re the most horrible, pampered animal I’ve ever come across,’ she said conversationally. ‘But, on the other hand, if I hadn’t had to take you to the vet this morning, I wouldn’t have found Charlie.’ She smiled down at him and he wagged his tail in response. She picked him up and headed for her own room, which was tucked away behind the pantry and the gardener’s lavatory. It was small and simply furnished with a single bed, a chest of drawers and a bentwood chair, but it did boast a window that overlooked the large back garden with the grassy hump of Primrose Hill beyond.

  She put Charlie on the bed and sat down beside him, stroking him until he curled up in a ball and closed his eyes. ‘No one must know you’re here,’ she said softly. ‘I mean it, Charlie. You must be very, very quiet. Mrs Kemp doesn’t like dogs and she would be horrified if she knew I’d brought you into the house.’ She sat for a moment, frowning as she remembered the scene in the vet’s waiting room. There had been at least a dozen dogs with their owners, and all the animals appeared to be healthy, even if some were obviously quite old. What was even stranger was the fact that none of them had emerged from the consulting room. Their owners hurried off alone, and some of them were in tears.

  Susan had had to wait until almost last, and the only occupants of the waiting room had been herself with Binkie-Boo in his wicker cat basket, and a large cardboard box containing one very small, yellow Labrador puppy. It was still there when she came out after Binkie-Boo’s consultation with the vet. Having explained the cat’s symptoms, or rather Mrs Kemp’s version of her pet’s condition, Susan had known exactly what the response was likely to be and she was not disappointed. The vet had raised his eyebrows and said that he had rarely seen a healthier specimen. Nursing a large scratch on his hand inflicted by the indignant Siamese, he had advised a light diet and a total ban on giving the overweight animal the cream skimmed off the milk. ‘There is a war on, you know, young lady,’ he said, glaring at her as if she were the culprit.

  She had left the consulting room with Binkie-Boo who was still emitting low threatening noises, having suffered the indignity of a thermometer inserted into part of his anatomy that he obviously considered personal and private. Susan had put the cat basket down on the floor, and after juggling with her gasmask case she had taken her purse out of her handbag. The receptionist handed her the bill, which Susan paid with money given to her by Mrs Kemp. ‘Demand a rebate for cash,’ she had said. ‘Make sure you get it.’

  Susan had been here before. She angled her head and the receptionist met her unspoken question with a smile. ‘Don’t even ask,’ she said, counting out the change.

  ‘I gave that up ages ago.’ Susan slipped the coins into her purse. ‘There’s one thing though. What happened to all the dogs? At least a dozen went in and none came out. Is there some awful canine epidemic?’

  ‘You could say that.’ The receptionist’s smile had faded. ‘It’s the same all over London. We’ve put dozens of perfectly healthy animals to sleep. It’s the war. People either can’t afford to keep them or they’re afraid of the air raids and they don’t want their pets to suffer. I don’t understand it at all.’

  Susan glanced anxiously at the sleeping puppy. ‘Not that one, surely?’

  ‘I’m afraid so. We found homes for the rest of the litter, but he’s the littlest. You might call him the runt. If no one wants him by the end of the day, I’m afraid he’ll go the same way as the others.’

  That had been enough for Susan. She had emptied her purse on the counter, regardless of the fact that sixpence three-farthings belonged to her employer. She would say she had dropped the threepenny bit and the smaller coins and they had rolled down a grating. She would rather face an irate Mrs Kemp than leave the little fellow to his fate.

  Charlie snuggled deeper into the eiderdown, making soft grunting noises, and Susan stood up slowly, not wanting to disturb him. She knew that she had done the right thing. She had been horrified to learn that people were destroying their pets in fits of temporary madness. She would share her last crust with Charlie. He belonged to her now, and she would do anything to protect him. She turned with a start as she heard someone calling her name. She hurried from the room, closing the door behind her.

  In the kitchen, Virginia Kemp was standing by the table staring down at the empty dishes and the telltale splashes of milk on the floor. ‘What have you been doing, Banks? I thought the vet said that the beastly cat should have less cream. Are you trying to kill him?’

  Binkie-Boo stalked over to Virginia, arched his back and rubbed himself against her legs. He looked up at Susan and she was certain that he was smirking. She snatched up the offending articles. ‘I’m sorry, miss. I forgot to pick one up earlier.’

  Virginia shrugged her shoulders. ‘You’ll be in trouble if Mummy sees that mess on the tiles when she comes in.’

  ‘Yes, miss. Was there anything else?’

  ‘Mummy wants tea and biscuits. It looks as though it’s going to be a long night. Pam and I will have cocoa. No sugar for her, she’s too fat as it is.’ She turned on her heel and made for the back door. ‘Bring it out to the shelter, and don’t forget the blackout.’ She switched off the light and let herself out into the darkness.

  Susan waited until the door closed before switching the light back on. She sighed. None of them seemed bothered by the fact that she was left alone in the house. No one had banned her from the Anderson shelter, but on the one occasion she had ventured into the corrugated iron construction dug into the ground and covered with turf, she had felt unwelcome and slightly claustrophobic. Anyway, she would rather take her chances indoors than spend the night with Mrs Kemp and the two furies, as she had nicknamed them. Pamela was not too bad. She was all right when she was on her own, but when she was with Virginia it was a different matter. Susan could only hope that one day soon there would be conscription for women and she herself would be called up to join one of the women’s auxiliary forces. As far as she could see it would be her only way out of the present situation. Ever since her birthday in August she had given serious thought to enlisting in the Women’s Auxiliary Air Force, but had abandoned the idea when she found out that she would never be allowed near an aeroplane. Inspired by reports of Amy Johnson’s remarkable exploits, Susan’s secret ambition had been to learn to fly a plane, but of course it was out of the question for a girl like her.

  She set about making a pot of tea and heating milk for the cocoa. When it was ready she loaded up a tray and took it down the garden to the shelter. Primrose Hill was a dark hump silhouetted against the red glow in the sky. She could smell the acrid smoke from hundreds of burning buildings, and she could hear the crump of ack-ack guns interspersed with the roar of aeroplane engines and the percussive explosions as bombs rained down on the East End and beyond. It felt like the end of the world. The noise must have reached Mrs Kemp’s ear as she was moved to invite Susan to join them in the shelter but she demurred, using the excuse that she had not locked the back door, and she was not certain that she had turned off the gas. She retreated with Mrs Kemp’s caustic words ringing in her ears. ‘Stupid girl. I don’t know why I keep you on.’

  She spent the rest of the night curled up on her bed with Charlie nestled in the curve of her body. She awakened early next morning to take him out into the garden before he could disgrace himself. A dusting of frost iced the grass and the bare branches of the apple tree at the bottom of the garden. Late chrysanthemums were shrivelled with cold, bowing their heads into their dying leaves, and a pale buttercup coloured sun struggled to part the featherbed of clouds. Apart from the lingering smell of burning, and the faint crackle of fires raging somewhere to the south, it might have been a perfect winter’s morning.

  Susan set Charlie down
on the grass, hoping that he would take the opportunity to relieve himself. He pottered about, nose to ground, sniffing the smells undetectable to human noses, and she waited nervously, keeping a wary eye on the Anderson. ‘Hurry up, Charlie,’ she whispered. ‘Get a move on, please.’

  He wagged his tail and cavorted round her feet, but then he seemed to realise what he had come out to do and obliged. He had barely finished when the shelter door opened and Pamela stuck her head out. Susan swooped on Charlie and slipped him into the pocket of her dressing gown.

  ‘Oh. It’s you.’ Pamela squinted at her shortsightedly. ‘Bring us some tea, will you, Susan?’ She ducked back into the shelter, leaving the door ajar.

  ‘Yes, miss.’ Susan retreated hastily to the kitchen, taking Charlie out of her pocket and setting him down on the floor. ‘That was a near one, boy. Thank goodness Miss Pamela is too vain to wear her specs.’ A giggle rose to her lips from sheer relief. ‘We’ll have to be more careful in the future.’

  While she waited for the kettle to boil, she crumbled some bread into a bowl and covered it with milk. She placed it in front of Charlie, glancing anxiously at Binkie-Boo, but he was still ensconced on his velvet pillow, seemingly uninterested in the proceedings. However, Charlie’s enthusiasm for his breakfast roused the cat from his state of lethargy, and in one sinuous movement he rose from his bed and stalked across the quarry tiles with obvious intent. This time Susan was ready for him and she moved Charlie out of the way before pouring the cream off the top of the milk into the bowl. ‘There you are, fat cat,’ she murmured. ‘Eat up and enjoy it, because you won’t get any more.’ She took Charlie to the safety of her room. ‘This is going to be difficult,’ she said as she closed the door, shutting him in.