Chapter Text
“Fossil, collect a transport and head over to 666. I want you to report back whatever is going on to me personally tonight. They’ve requested you specifically to answer some jumped-up questions they wouldn’t share on the ‘phone.”
“Yes ma’am. Will I be away long?”
“Overnight. The 2iC will be your point of contact.”
It was the first time she’d headed to 666, but cross-country courses had always been a favourite part of her flying and it was a beautiful day for it, the wind a gentle tail breeze, the clouds settled at 6,000 feet.
The first flight she went on she couldn’t ever talk about, though talking got easier as the joy became more familiar. Still, the only thing she would say to anyone who asked about that inaugural flight was, “I owe Mr Simpson and Mr Lacey a very great deal and I don’t know what I’ll ever be able to do for them.” Both of them fighting now, in their own ways, and she hadn’t kept in touch – had been too caught up in growing up first in schooling and then in war time – but she still crossed her thumbs for them when she got into a plane.
Turning her mind back to the aircraft, she set up on final neatly and cranked down the flap with a sure hand before almost touching her wheels on the fence as she came in across the short apron.
***
“It’s the darndest thing.” Algy grumbled, “I can’t find it for love nor money.”
“If that’s your sister’s last attempt at a hand-knitted blue jumper, then it’s in my chest of drawers, along with mine. It’s very comfortable.”
“No, it’s not that.” Algy frowned as sternly as he ever could manage at his partner “although, now you mention it, you’ve had that for a while and I haven’t heard you sniffle for weeks. It must be time to hand it back soon....”
Biggles looked at him briefly then turned the conversation away from the (very comfortable) jumper with a joke. “So, if it isn’t that, what have you lost? A Spit?”
“Exactly.”
There was a pause, not quiet thanks to the sounds of an aerodrome in war occurring just outside the office, but still noticeably less loud. “You’ve lost a ‘plane. One of the best fighters in the world. You’ve lost it.” Biggles’ voice was flat and incredulous as he looked up from the daily orders.
“Don’t sound quite so impressed, old boy. It was there yesterday when I went up at lunch and it isn’t there now – I had to take up a different one for morning flight. It was supposed to be taken away for maintenance by the ATA this afternoon too. Guess that won’t be happening now. It hasn’t been seen since it was serviced after I landed.”
Biggles frowned. “We can’t have planes just disappearing into thin air, Algy! Don’t laugh – you know what I mean.”
“I know.” Algy tried to look contrite. “It’s on the ATA books now. Alright if I call them?”
“Yes. I’m sure I can trust you…come here?” They usually were abstemious on the aerodrome, but it seemed too good to pass up the opportunity to show more than trust. Things were progressing along quite pleasantly for all involved when an unfamiliar engine sounded outside. “Leave it” James suggested, not removing his hand from Algy, “there’s hundreds of men on this base all paid to keep it running.”
“I’ll be sure to remind you of that tonight when you won’t come to bed.” Algy returned. He gently untangled them, clasping James’ hand instead of allowing it to wander.
James made a most undignified sound. Algy would have called it a sullen huff if asked so it was probably just as well he kept his own council. “There you go. Now if it’s something important you won’t look like you’re up to anything.”
“I’m not up to anything” James sulked. “You won’t let me do anything fun.”
Algy chuckled. “I shouldn’t reward this sort of behaviour” he mused, leaning in to continue their earlier activities. Through a supreme act of self control they kept things well away from the gutter. This was just as well as it wasn’t long before brisk footsteps could be heard making their way towards the office.
“Stop it” Algy chided gently. He couldn’t bring himself to say it with any real heat, which probably explained James continuing to ignore his words. They both sprang apart when the footsteps stopped outside the door. Biggles seated himself more formally at his desk, fixing his tie, while Algy swept his hair back and stood looking out through the window, buying some space.
A heaver Knock. Knock. Knock. sounded on the door opposite Biggles' office.
“Dash it all” Algy muttered, “they’re looking for me.”
Biggles chuckled silently, pulling a decidedly unsympathetic face, one which earnt him a rude salute in return as Algy stalked past. “Are you looking for me?”
The trim figure in a well-used flying suit turned and revealed itself to be a slight young lady with severely cut dark hair and intelligent eyes looking out of a lean face.
“Fossil, sir. You sent for me?”
Algy grinned, stepping out. “See you later Sir”
“Good initiative Lacey.” Biggles responded, reflecting there weren’t many who would be confident enough to call in another organisation then ask their CO for permission to do so.
“I don’t normally play favourites” Algy continued, stepping into his own office and ushering her in, “but I hoped you wouldn’t mind.”
Petrova smiled back. “Mr Lacey! How are you? It’s been....” She stopped herself short, “sorry! How are you, Sir?”
Algy grinned across at her. “Sit down, now. I’m fine, though in a bit of a pickle at the moment. I see chauffeuring wasn’t entirely to your tastes?”
War broke out and the aerodrome that she and Gum lived near turned into a training ground for men; Petrova had an idea. The ATA and WAAF were in their very infancy and she was keen to be in from the start, to be one of the originals. She was eager to fly! When she could instruct, freeing up men to fight, she had always thought the same thing, ‘with more men flying, the chances of Mr. Lacey getting shot are far less.’
“Flying is far preferable, sir. You helped me a lot with that – I never will be able to thank you enough.”
“Well, maybe you’ll be singing a different tune after you’ve heard my problem.” Algy smiled. Petrova inspected his face closely. The light was behind him and maybe that had something to do with the shadows that were around his eyes and jaw, though she suspected there was more to it than that. He had grown thinner. His cheek bones were more pronounced and his collar gaped a little, but his hair was the same as she remembered it and his warm smile was identical to the one which had greeted her a decade ago.
“I don’t think so, Sir. I’d be honoured to help.”
If she had been the sort of silly girl to lose her head over a nice man, his bright smile would probably have been enough for her to do so.
“I rather hoped you’d say that! You see, I’ve lost a ‘plane. A Mk. II Spit. I was to have taken her out for her last flight with us this morning before your people removed it and gave me one which worked even better. The last time she was seen was when she was put away yesterday afternoon. Have you moved it at all? Mk II’s aren’t exactly as rare as hen’s teeth, but they’re not common, either...”
“No, we haven’t moved it. Do you want me to ask some questions, instead of you?” Unspoken was the real question: Why would you bring me across just for a question a phone call could have answered?
“As sharp as ever.” Algy nodded. “Firstly, much against my will, I’ve got some people answering to me and they expect I shall answer to them as well. I can’t very well abandon them.” Petrova had to repress an automatic smile at his blasé acknowledgement of having his own office. It was exactly as she remembered his attitude towards any overt public recognition.
“Secondly we’re rather short of fighter pilots right now, and fighters as well, so I’m kept up in the air more than you would expect. Thirdly, the men know who I am and there’s less chance of stray remarks coming from them when I’m there, while they don’t know who you are at all. Finally, the plane is officially in ATA hands, and I need to do this by the book, which means involving some of you civvies.” He smiled to show that he, at least, meant nothing hurtful by the term, and Petrova smiled back.
“That’s a compelling argument, Sir. Should I be on the lookout for anything in particular?”
“Nothing I can think of, apart from...” he was stopped by an urgent knocking at the closed door.
“Algy! Open up! I need you!”
“Come in, Ginger.”
Petrova stood as a rushing body entered the room and stopped three feet from the desk. “Oh. Sorry.”
“Ginger, this is S/O Fossil, Petrova, F/O Hebblethwaite. What’s the rush, Ginger?”
The man glanced unconcernedly at Petrova before grimacing at Algy, clearly preoccupied by the war. “Another pilot down, coughing something chronic in the infirmary. You’re the only one free – can you be up in half an hour? and can you visit him before you go up?”
“Of course, to both. I’ll just sort out Petrova, then off to the infirmary. Tell Biggles I’ll only stop by if there’s anything unusual to report before I go. Will you let him know?”
Ginger dashed off again, ducking under the friendly cuffing of another pilot as he hared across the grass.
“Was that the apart from?” smiled Petrova.
Algy nodded. “They’re rather enthusiastic, and tight-knit. Most other squadrons have several sharing an aerodrome or nearby. We’re a bit more isolated, and it shows.” His brow uncreased as he shouldered her flight bag “If you follow me I’ll get you bunked down – this could take a few days – and see your CO knows it’s all clear this end for you to stay. I am sorry for not telling your CO it would take a while but really, she’s a bit of a handful, isn’t she?” He winked at her hastily hidden laugh. “I shall come and find you after dinner, so you’ll have plenty of time to make friends.”
They shook hands at the admin block then went their separate ways.
Algy raced through a quick visit – just enough to reassure him there wasn’t anything acutely wrong with the young man and enough to reassure the pilot he’d be covered – and then had to scramble to head up. Just time to pen a short note to James and stick it in the envelope under his dresser before heading up to battle.
***
Dear Pauline,
I don't know if you got my last post – it may have been one of those sunk or it may not have – but as it was mainly gossip and talk about flying I don't think I'll bother trying to recall any of it.
Petrova sighed and stared out of the window. She'd briefed Mr. Lacey (as she still thought of him) on everything she'd found out that afternoon, meeting him after dinner. It hadn't amounted to much, though dinner as the only resident female had been an interesting affair.
As you would expect it's raining at the moment, so I'm curled up in the mess, with a small dog curled up in front of the fire to keep me company. No men, they’re all messing about with engines, or visiting a neighbouring squadron. No women on this base. Don’t make that face!
Apart from the terrible weather there's little to report. Flying is still so much better than dancing or acting ever was. For heaven’s sake don’t let Garnie or Nana read this or they’ll go about feeling awfully responsible and guilty and that’s the last thing you or Posy need to deal with right now. There's some talk about moving us ATA pilots to a different aerodrome (again) but I'm not too concerned either way. Gum keeps me welcome whenever I can get back to him, which is far more often than any of the WAAF posts or half the ground based ATA positions. Poor old Gum is getting quite old now, even you and Posy would notice the difference. Oh! I don’t mean that to be heartless, just, you don’t know him as well as I do. There’s nothing one can do about old age though and he is perfectly comfortable and happy.
But enough of that gloomy talk! Currently I room with a very nice girl, so I hope they move us together. She says she hopes so too as I’m only in a couple nights a week and she’s the envy of her friends having all that space for herself! I’ll let you know if my address changes, anyway.
The dog shifted in his sleep and she glanced up, smiling as he snuffled. "Chasing rabbits, are you, old boy?" With a sigh about four times bigger than his little terrier body, the dog rolled onto his other side and fell silent.
Petrova frowned at the rest of the page, knowing she had to fill it and not really sure how. It had been an effort to get this much on paper.
I did see your new film last week! It reminded me how long it’s been since I saw you. You looked quite grown up and sleek. Very lovely. How much you must be looking forward to this ending, and finally being able to go onto the stage properly. I really should get some photographs taken to send to you; if you’d changed that much no doubt I have too. Maybe once this is over we'll all settle down in America, or perhaps not – Manoff will no doubt go back to touring Europe, though whether he continues picking up stray orphans is another matter. I don't see Posy being pleased by that idea!
There was a scrunch of tyres and she glanced up in time to see the tail-end of a Bentley turn through to the offices across the way. There were two hands waving from the back windows and she could see two heads in the front as well. Surely no-one could afford a car like that but some top brass? She considered making herself more presentable but the steady drizzle and the cold – the fire was a suggestion more than anything – stopped her. They could take her as was, if they even came in.
The last picture you sent showed so much blue sky! It's funny but people always laughed about the English opening their conversation with talk about the weather. Yet everyone does it now. It would be lovely to explore some new sky.
Again her restless gaze searched out the glass that separated her from a dreary front. She was still considering the car when the door opened and the dog put his head up. The next moment he ran, claws scuttling over the floor, little snorts coming from his eager mouth. Petrova uncurled herself a little to see who had elicited this response.
A tallish, foppish sort of man crouched in the doorway, petting him and removing a monocle as he did so. "How goes it, Towser? Not too dull for you, I hope? These philistines wouldn't let you come but then the way he drives it's probably a good thing...."
"Enough of that sort of talk or I'll report you to Biggles" muttered a familiar voice.
"You'll tell Biggles anyway" jibed a third. Petrova was fairly certain it’s associated shock of hair was Ginger’s. There couldn’t be that many on this Base.
“Algy’ll tell me what?” Unwrapping himself from his rain coat, the fourth man moved easily to the bar and helped himself to four beers.
“That we’ve company” Algy accepted his drink and crossed to Petrova. “We didn’t mean to disturb you” Mr Lacey apologised, holding her tea so she could snuggle under the rug again, “I hope we didn’t ruin your letter.”
“Not at all. I was really just waiting for the weather to clear enough for me to run over to bed. This is done now.” She nodded at the letter. She felt a little awkward sitting in the mess with actual RAF officers trying to use it, but it was such a small base that there weren’t a large number of places to be, and when the aerodrome had emptied out….
“Well, have a drink while you wait?” Biggles was still near the bar. Petrova smiled shyly, “No thank you Sir. I’m enjoy this tea.”
Biggles rolled his eyes but came over. “I thought you were quite nice and sensible. No need to stand on ceremony if we’re off duty.”
“She’s a jolly sight more sensible than most of this sorry excuse for pilots” Algy observed mildly. Ginger, Bertie, and Towser continued to race around the far end of the mess. It was hard to know who was making more noise, Ginger yelling, Towser barking, or Bertie making hunting cries.
Biggles nodded. “Indeed. Towser has unfortunately absorbed much of his master’s personality. I do look forward to signing off on that Spit being taken away, Miss…”
"Fossil. Sorry, terrible manners of me, I know." Clearly he really did trust Mr Lacey with things. Most COs would demand reports in detail on such a mission but obviously he had given him the job to do and left him to it.
"Not nearly as bad as pretending not to be the CO." Algy tried.
Biggles shrugged, "if that's the worst thing I'm remembered for I'll be lucky. I hope to see you soon, Miss Fossil." Finishing his drink Biggles stood, obviously decided it wasn’t worth talking to the three hunters, and nodded at Algy, “see you later old boy.”
Algy raised his glass, flickering a smile. Petrova, finishing her tea, missed the whole thing.
“How was the rest of your evening?”
“Nice and quiet. The chaps are off visiting or doing things I’m not supposed to know about, so I thought I’d be better off in here. And I am!” Smiling, she tilted her head at the other two, “go on. Tell me more about the fabulous four and dog.”
Algy chuckled. Ginger’s young and irresponsible, Bertie’s a little older and irrepressible and Biggles is the leader who’s seen it all before.” He glanced at an exhausted, muddy, Towser. “And Towser is the loved and sadly neglected dog”.
Petrova smiled. “You have a way with words but clearly not with numbers – what about yourself?”
“I’m no one special. I do the menial tasks and am allowed to tag along.” He grinned, “and I talk to all the pretty women. It’s a tough life to be sure.”
She blushed but replied in kind. “You do so well.”
“You make it easy.” He glanced at his watch and sighed, “which makes it harder to break myself away. However I’ve a meeting with the CO. Will I see you after lunch?”
“I think so. This doesn’t look like clearing soon.”
They both glanced outside. “The English Pilots problem.” Algy joked, “just don’t let Biggles bully you into flying until you’re comfortable. He gets quite territorial sometimes.”
With a final grin he strode off and she watched him go with a puzzled frown. Did that last comment refer to the need for WAAFs to be welcomed here for duties currently taking up men or was it to do with the new Spits due?
Algy leaving seemed to remind the other two that it was getting late. They came over to collect their drinks, and Bertie glowered out the window before throwing himself into Algy’s chair in disgust. “Dash it!” he grumbled, spying Algy already at Biggles’ door. “They’ll be closeted together for hours.”
Petrova’s mind flickered a half question. Did Biggles want Algy all to himself again, having got used to it just being the two of them?
Well, she wasn’t looking to settle down so their precious bachelor pad was safe for the moment.
***
Ginger didn’t mean to sit next to Petrova at breakfast the next morning, it was just the nearest spare chair. He certainly would have thought more about something to say if he’d known he’d be sitting there. For a while the chatter was general and it was easy, but as others left and the two of them were finally served, he realised he was going to have to say something. Clearing his throat and hoping he wasn’t as pink in the face as he felt, he tried. “Went to the movies last night.”
“Oh? What did you see?”
“That new thing of Pauline Fossil. She’s jolly good.”
“Isn’t she?” Petrova beamed, “She’s my sister. She’s frightfully talented and jolly hard working.”
Ginger gaped. “You’re…sisters?”
“We’re adopted, so there’s no real surprise in one of the three of us not being theatrically inclined.” She said this without heat, but Ginger knew he was colouring anyway. Thankful suddenly for all the wet Sundays pasting news into his scrapbook, he blurted out, “Were you the one who was going to be in that new garage someone was setting up? For female mechanics?”
Petrova coloured a shy pink. “That was Mr Simpson. He boarded with us and always took me on drives and things. He did set it up, someone left him some money and he invested in us girls. Quite a few of us got qualified before the war. They’re all doing all sorts now, driving and fixing and flying and things. One of them’s driving barges down the canals, and a couple are on the trains doing things there. They’re all simply wonderful.” In her eagerness to extoll the talents of her friends, Petrova leant precariously over her powdered egg, face alight with genuine joy in their exploits.
Ginger suddenly found plenty of questions. He’d not been aware of barge driving as a job that might need doing, and he had always liked talking about mechanical things. Breakfast lingered on very companiably.
***
The weather continued as badly as she had foreseen which gave a perfect opportunity for sitting around and chatting with the ground crew. There was one who told tall stories, and the rest told even taller ones. Petrova enjoyed listening to them, but she had to try and steer the conversation as best as she could towards the missing Spitfire.
“Aww, you always talk about work, luv?” Jim drawled around his smoke, “it’s not every day we get female company.”
Petrova had to smother a grin, “let me guess, especially one so fine looking?” her voice mimicked Jims perfectly and they all broke into peals of laughter.
“But of course we should tell you exactly why we’re the guys for you!” They all settled down and dragged Jim’s crate a little further forwards into the limelight of their dimly- lit hanger to a chorus of “this is all true”, “a good story!” and variously ribald comments.
“So the other day – well, yesterday – there was only one flight that did anything exciting. Lacey led it, and he dumped his Spit with me and my boys and headed off. Something about needing to see the CO.”
“They do spend a lot of time together, don’t they?” another commented absently, smirking, “maybe there’s a lovely lady the Boss keeps in his cupboard…”
“As I was saying” Jim interrupted, “there I was with this Spitfire just sitting there, and nothing really wrong with it.” He grinned at Petrova and she couldn’t help notice his charm. (It wouldn’t be the first time a boy-man had caused a funny sensation in her chest, but there was nothing more, not after he had been posted as missing. That was still very much in her thoughts, although they had never been…in love.)
Jim shrugged, “well, what could I do? I knew Rosie was gasping to see his girl, and he’s been a hell of a good guy to have about the place, so I let him know. Of course, there’s another few lovely ladies out her way as well, so I thought to tag along. It was a tight fit, and in the end I’m glad we decided against it. He – and here, ‘Trova, I’m telling you what dedication we support here – did a loop over her farm and ended up almost ploughing it.”
Petrova, and a couple of the others who hadn’t heard the story before, didn’t manage to hide a reflexive wince. “He…”
Jim grinned, “almost totalled this Spit he wasn’t supposed to have. Thankfully he ended up managing to right it enough to land on the undercarriage, but it was a one-time landing. So you see the Spit’s ok and he’s taken her out for a night on the town. It all worked out very well.” He leant towards her and casually ground the cigarette beneath his heel, voice dropping half an octave “which is why you should trust this squadron. We look out for our girls.”
“Do better to look after your planes, Jim.” Petrova patted his cheek with a motherly air, “best way to a pilot’s heart.”
“HA! That’ll teach you to try and impress a girl, Jimbo!”
“At least I didn’t almost kill myself and the plane in front of her” Jim snarled back.
“Might do us all a favour if you would. Be a bit quieter round here if you managed to leave”
“You just want my bunk, mate.”
“Pshaw! No-one would want that wooden slab you call a bunk.”
The banter happened so quickly that Petrova couldn’t follow all of it and had to assume it made sense to someone, because it was so full of squadron jokes that it didn’t to her. She was busy trying to remember the whole story so she could tell Mr La- Sir, as soon as they were next both free.
***
“You always knew that once you’d tamed this lot down a bit there’d be women muscling in.” Algy stated calmly, seating himself on his favourite perch in this office – Biggles’ desk corner.
“That doesn’t mean I have to welcome them with open arms. There weren’t any women hanging about in France getting underfoot.”
“And look how many men ran off just to find one.”
Biggles snorted, and was promptly ignored by Algy.
“So what are they trying to send you, apart from ferry pilots?”
“There’s a list as long as my arm. I’ve tried to tell them we aren’t a training squadron but they just don’t listen. It sounds as though there’ll be women shoved into every nook and cranny. Picnics on the lawn, croquet and tea in the afternoon, I shouldn’t wonder.” Grey eyes looked up despairingly before the weary head dropped into fine hands.
Algy reached over and patted his friends shoulder. “You never know, they might prove very good cooks.” He jested. For his attempt he was greeted with a hollow groan.
“Very theatrical. Alright then, let’s have a look and see what we can do. You realise they’ll have to be billeted separately? Who’s their CO? Because you can’t be expected to think of everything a woman needs – why, you aren’t even married!”
Biggles scrabbled around for some paper, while shooting his friend a menacing glare, “I don’t need to be married, thank you very much. I’m sure everyone understands that.”
Algy smirked and leant closer, his breath drifting across the neatly pressed shirt collar. “I hope not everyone understands that.”
***
The first time Mr Simpson proposed a Sunday drive, just the two of them, she had felt a momentary pang that she should have gone and be primped and bring the others. She didn’t actually think about it till they were on the road and he easily assured her they wouldn’t appreciate it and suggested she look in the back and check her jeans were still there.
It was a bit windy and overcast and when he said they were going to an aerodrome she was worried there would be little to see since they were civilian students, Thankfully she was wrong.
“Did you see the Tiger Moth side slip on final to just the right height?” she asked excitedly as they drew up.
“I was a little busy parking.” He answered with a grin. “Now hop out, there’s a chappie over there who I know. I think you’ll like him.”
She peered at him suspiciously, “we’re actually going to be allowed to touch the aeroplanes?”
“Hopefully. You know all the ground rules of an aerodrome better than I do, I should say, so I won’t remind you of them and I won’t race you there.”
They walked across slowly; Petrova was looking everywhere at once. “It’s just as they described it! There’s the fire – there’s the lights and the mown-down strip and here’s the hangars.”
Mr Simpson nodded. “My wife thought you’d be rattling off facts and figures like nobody’s business. Do you think you want to meet this friend now?”
There was a thin man coming towards them, smiling. “John! I wasn’t sure you’d be here so soon.”
As he stood next to Mr. Simpson Petrova realised the stranger was actually thinner than him but not much taller, standing with his head level with the top aerofoil of the Tiger Moth. “We managed to sneak away straight after lunch.” Mr. Simpson answered with a conspiratorial smile.
“Flying over lunch!” the man chortled a little as he turned to Petrova. It made him look even friendlier, “now young lady, I hear you’re interested in mechanics?”
She smiled a little tremulously, keen ears following the airborne Tiger Moth through its paces. “Yes sir. I’m going to be a chauffeur in three and a half years, and then I’m going to learn to fly.”
He nodded seriously. “That’s a good ambition. Less of the sir though – Mr. Lacey will do me fine. Now your Mr. Simpson has told me that you read all sorts of journals as fast as you can so I don’t want to bore you with the basics that you already know. Would you like to walk me around this aircraft and tell me what you know?”
Excitement prevented her from hanging back shyly, or from considering him anything other than exceedingly friendly. For the next four hours, until they had to leave for dinner, Petrova and Mr Simpson (who was almost as fast a learner as she was) were talked through the intricacies of the Tiger Moths Mr. Lacey had in the hanger, and also the Sopwith Camel which he had a model of on the shelf.
When, without thinking at the end of the afternoon, Petrova dropped a curtsey as she thanked him, Mr. Lacey blinked. “Of course you are trained in dance.” He commented, “you keep your proficiency in that until you can earn as a chauffeur, Petrova.” He seemed about to ask something else – Petrova hoped it wasn’t a request to dance in her overalls – but he made a comment which seemed to take Mr. Simpson by surprise instead. “I was going to be a concert pianist until I became a pilot. You see, we are a diverse bunch.”
It wasn’t until a few months later, when she had talked with Mr. Lacey three more times, when she asked Mr. Simpson how they’d met. “Algy and his friend have a habit of finding people who need a bit of a hand and trying to give it to them.”
She wondered at that, until she found a set of old newspaper clippings, one of them mentioning two aviators and two boys who had found several thousand dollars’ worth of treasure and been made handsome remuneration from HM government.
***
“Pity you couldn’t have come ‘ere earlier, ‘Trova. The old man’d be nicer then.” Jim drew another leisurely drag deep into his lungs, crossing his ankles on top of a battered tool box as his companions snorted. “What? Biggles? He was being nice?! Are you sure we’re talking about the same man?” Petrova had to hide a smile. Though she had seen many different COs in her travels between aerodromes, Biggles would have to be the most reserved. But that didn’t make him the worst, and he was far from the harshest. She had heard him asking the transport driver all about his father with the sincere interest of a man who cared for his charges, and the in-depth conversations he had with Mr Lacey were always producing smiles in tired faces.
“Oh well” she smiled, “this way I have more of an excuse to stay here with you instead.”
“Oho! Jimbo!” the wolf-whistles were loud enough that they attracted the attention of the ever-mobile Ginger, who stuck his red haired self around the hangar doors. Patrova met his eyes when they all looked up to see who it was and he looked away at the same time as she did.
“I wondered what all the fuss was about!” the newcomer grinned, “I should have known you’d be in the middle of it, Jim.”
Jim grinned right back, tired eyes and all “Can you blame me? ‘Trova was talking about the Big Bad Biggles, but… I can’t really remember what she was saying.” He trailed off a little as he remembered how close Ginger was to the man under discussion, but brightened when the youth appeared unfazed, sitting next to Petrova, “you could tell me again.” He invited, trying to ignore the faint scent of femininity underneath the more familiar smells of oil and petrol.
“She could tell you some of it! The rest would have to wait till we knew you were all growned up”
Ginger’s face grew as red as his hair. “I’m not actually the youngest in this room, you know.”
“I suppose that would be me” Petrova laughed.
“Miss Fossil, even if were that fact not true you would always seem the youngest in the room. You good looks-“
“Beuaty-“
“Charm-“
“Personality-“
“-and general joi d’vivre would ensure that.” Jim grinned. “Wouldn’t they, chaps?” The general vote, of course, was that they would.
“Thank you all very much” Petrova grinned, perhaps just a little flushed from the attention. It was different to being on stage and these men mattered - they might very well become her new companions, if what her bossy superior had hinted at was anything to go by. Her grin took in Ginger as well, his slightly more timid smile at least reaching his eyes. “I haven’t actually told them anything really. I was just going to say that Biggles asked me to meet him in his office in-“ she glanced at her watch “ten minutes. So naturally I came here to see if anyone knew why.”
Ginger shook his head along with the rest of them. “but I’ll come and see if you need back up.” He volunteered staunchly, “you know what he thinks of me.”
“Better of you than you deserve” Rosie laughed, clapping Ginger’s back. “there you are, ‘Trova. A knight in shining armour for you.”
“And a true gentleman.” Petrova added, her words the flaming red cherry for his blush. After all, it wasn’t like he was going to come back. Or that her and Ginger – she really should find out his first name – were going to do anything much.
“We’d best get going then.” The eponymous pilot murmured, “you know what a stickler he is.” He looked pleased when she laughed along with everyone else.
***
Seated behind his desk, smoking a pensive cigarette, Biggles looked at the clock. Still another four minutes before his next meeting. Standing, he ran a critical eye over the desk and other pieces of furniture as though he were readying it for an inspection. The large map on the wall was good enough, if a little covered in pinholes, but the map pigeonholes below it were in need of straightening out. Their contents were no long folded precisely, or in the same order that had been written above them. A simple task that simply was forgotten in the haste of using the information obtained from the now-recalcitrant paper. The windows were clean enough their sunlight showed up dust motes dancing over the books he kept on the shelf behind his desk. His desk that he would rather not consider, all things being equal. Instead he spent the couple minutes he had hanging his jacket up more neatly, reshaping his hat, and removing the pen and cigarette case which had settled themselves onto the spare chair. As an after-thought he opened the windows slightly to allow some fresh air to seep in through the fug of smoke and long-occupied room. Everything else was in neat, although numerous, piles and that would have to do for now.
His uniform, of course, was immaculate.
With a slightly pleased air, he finished off his cigarette, the faint smile around his lips becoming more pronounced as the knock at the door neatly dovetailed with his extinguishing of the smoke. “Come!”
Ginger smiled at Petrova, frank face comforting in the extreme. “I’m sure he’s just thought of a hundred questions about logistics to ask you.” It was the first time she had been in this office but she knew she’d never forget it. Unlike every COs office she had been in this had no pretences at anything other than the busy office of a war maker. There were no figurines or decorations; in fact if it weren’t for the copious amounts of paper, and the old wooden desk the room would be a stark, functional white cell. The only relief came from a painting hanging on the wall – strangely coloured and of an image she guessed was from the east, although she couldn’t be sure. There was the hint of an elephant, or maybe a tiger, in the background swirls of colour.
Ginger shut the door behind them. “Here you are, Chief.”
Biggles gestured at the chair, “please, have a seat.” He glanced at Ginger, “thankyou, Ginger.”
With a slightly suspicious grin, the man disappeared, giving Petrova another look on his way out. “Lacey has given me an excellent report of your conduct so far. As you probably noticed, the Spitfire was recovered yesterday and has been replaced by a far better model.” Petrova nodded, although in truth she hadn’t known about the change. “He seems very fond of you….” It was impossible to read Biggles’ expression and his words seemed more of a pronouncement, “which in part led me to consider the next problem.” His fingers tapped an uneasy pattern over the desk in front of him as she watched, stormy grey eyes considering her face while he presumably weighed his words.
It would be some time before she understood that it was merely a ruse – he was no more weighing his words in the heat of the moment than he was spontaneously coming up with ideas of how to command or what positions to give people. Biggles, to an even greater extent than the apparently irrepressible yet sternly moral Algy, was careful and considered in his approach to all problems, her presence included.
“I hope the solution is satisfactory sir….” At twenty-nine she had more than mastered the art of speaking politely, even if Nanna had long since stopped complaining about it.
“I hope so too, Fossil.” A sudden swirl of movement saw him pacing behind his desk and again Mr Lacey’s stories of acting in mess hall shows flashed through her mind. “For the problem is a difficult one” difficult for himself, at the very least. He knew what Algy was like with women. What Ginger and Bertie were like. “We are a growing force in this part of the world. Twenty years of development have done some to encourage people to look kindly on us and last years’ dogfights have greatly helped us along the path to respectability and reverence. However in the current climate, it is important to have the most support we can. To move with the times. The possibilities of action provided for under the WAAF system are ones we need, especially with the war coming this way more and more.”
“Sir…”
He held up a hand, “I know you’re ATA at the moment, Fossil. However you’re also approaching the age they stop women from flying. There’s really no reason to, if you ask me, but one can’t argue with that. Bureaucracy reigns, especially in wartime. So I’m offering you a proposition. Join the WAAF and set up a delegation of women here. Photo Interpreters, workers, clerks…whatever women you see fit.” His smile was actually quite sweet and disarming, for a confirmed grumpy old man “I know nothing about women so it had better be done through someone who does. It’s about time Hebblethwaite or Lissie got something to do rather than swanning about making more work for the rest of us.” He seemed so very innocent when he added, “you don’t mind working with one of them, do you?”
Petrova shook her head, body neatly composed as Madame would have liked it. “It’s no problem, sir. I’ll go and speak with my superior and…”
“I’ll talk with her if you like. There are ways around being grouched at by her. Something to do with being male.”
She still, three weeks on, wasn't sure if his last comment was a joke or not.