Vicky passed Ella her hairbrush. ‘Come on, make yourself presentable. Jeanie’s mince and tatties will be getting cold. Christophe will be alright and we’re going to make sure our boys are there to help. One concerted effort from all the Allies together and the Germans will be put back in their box. It’ll all be over by the summer and then you and your Christophe can get married and live happily ever after in Paris with your six children. And don’t forget, bags I chief bridesmaid.’
Ella smiled wanly, then obediently ran the brush through her hair, unpinning and untangling the plaited knot in which she wore it for work to keep it safely out of the way, and smoothing out the wavy tresses which were still damp from the rain.
‘Come an’ get it before Dougie eats yours too!’ Jeanie shouted up the stairs, and the two girls trooped down for their supper.
Next morning, Ella propped her bike against the side of the hangar, reporting for duty as usual and going to find Sandy to get her orders. It was still chilly, even though Easter was past and the first lambs were shivering on uncertain legs in the fields. But at least the mornings were starting to get a little lighter now. In January and February, she’d cycled to the airfield in pitch-darkness, through air so sharp with winter’s bitter frost that her hands would freeze around the handlebars, even in the woollen gloves that her mother had knitted her, and her nose and cheeks were nipped red with cold. She had chilblains on her fingers and toes where she’d warmed them too fast on the rubber hot-water bottle that Jeanie gave her to put into her bed at night to take the damp chill off the sheets. Even with the extra blankets that Mother had given her from home, it was hard to get warm enough to drop off to sleep at night. But she soon warmed up when she got to work, kept busy with her tasks carrying out daily inspections on the aircraft stationed at the base, refuelling the planes and, on freezing cold mornings, plugging in the batteries to start the Hurricanes’ engines. Sometimes, the planes had to have their engines revved during checks and Sandy would make Ella and one of the other WAAF flight mechanics sit on the tail fins, one on each side, to weight the aircraft down and prevent it from taking off. ‘Hold on tight girls,’ he’d yell, climbing into the cockpit, ‘if one of you falls off the other will be flying out over the Bass Rock before you know where you are!’
‘Morning, Ella,’ Sandy nodded to her now as she entered the hangar. ‘Are the other girls here yet? Can you go and round them up please? We’ve an important briefing this morning.’
It was as he’d predicted. The two squadrons were being deployed, it was rumoured, to airbases in Europe. ‘So let’s get everything done perfect this morning and give the boys a good send off, eh?’
By lunchtime, the Hurricanes were lined up and ready for the off. As she finished refuelling the last one, Ella kissed her gasoline-scented fingers and patted the aircraft. The pilot, waiting to climb into the cockpit, grinned at her. ‘How about one of those for me as well? No point kissing Gertie here, she can’t kiss you back as well as I can.’
Sandy shook his head. ‘Sorry pal, that kiss is no’ for you. She’s sending it to her boy in France. So make sure you take good care and deliver it for her. And then go and give those Germans what for, for the rest of us.’
The noise of engines split the air, reverberating off the corrugated tin huts, then climbing to a roar as the aircraft began to taxi. Ella and the other ground staff waved them off, and even Squadron Officer Macpherson came out to salute before turning to herd her chattering WAAFs back into the office.
As the last plane climbed into the sky, the pilot looped back low over the airfield one final time before climbing and setting his course south and east. Ella stood, watching as the Hurricane dwindled to the size of a tiny toy and then disappeared into the clouds. ‘Keep him safe,’ she whispered, her chapped fingers knotted together as if in prayer. ‘Keep them all safe.’
3 rue des Arcades,
Paris
10 April 1940
Ma Chère Ella,
How I miss you, and all our carefree times both here and on the island. They seem very long ago and far away now, although in my mind they are more real than the nightmare that goes on all around us.
I’m writing in haste as I have just one day of leave and have come home to say ‘au revoir’ to Maman, Papa and Caroline (who all send you their love). I’ve now completed what passes for basic training and am being deployed to join the French 2nd Army.
Caroline’s work at the museum continues, despite all the upheavals, and you will be pleased to know that several more packages, similar to the one that we delivered together last summer, have found their way to safe homes. It seems strange that people still come and visit the museum when all around life is in disarray, but I suppose it gives them a sense of stability in a turbulent world, to come and lose themselves amongst the art that remains in our peaceful galleries.
Papa has tried to persuade Maman to go the Île de Ré where she will be safer, but she refuses to leave when he and Caroline must remain here for their work, and she says she wants to stay as close to me as she can, even if it is only here in Paris.
We are all trying to put a brave face on things. But the truth – which I can admit only to you – is that we are frightened. France never wanted this, with memories of the last Great War still fresh in the minds of our fathers. We lost so many men then, the country has scarcely had a chance to recover. The army that we have scrabbled together is padded out with old men and boys. But now we have no choice. And so I pray to any and all the gods that we will all be kept safe and that I will see my family again very soon.
And I pray the same thing for you too, my darling Ella. Thank you for sending us your brave pilots. I will look up into the sky and know you are there helping to protect us. With your help, and our determination, surely the Maginot Line will hold fast and freedom will triumph for all who have suffered through this cruel and insane oppression.
Je t’embrasse très fort, ma chère Ella, as do Papa, Maman and Caroline.
With all my love, always,
Christophe
‘It’s started.’ Vicky had snatched a moment away from her radio to pass on the news. ‘I’ve just had word from London. They’re sending up our boys from the bases on the Continent. The Germans are attacking on all fronts. Aircraft and tanks, apparently. There’s fierce fighting in Belgium, that’s where it seems to be concentrated as far as I can make out, but there’s a lot of activity in northern France too.’
‘Have you heard anything about the Ardennes?’ Ella’s throat constricted with fear and the words came out as scarcely more than a whisper. She knew, from what little she’d been able to glean from the news reports, that the French 2nd Army had joined the other battalions holding the Maginot Line in that region.
‘Nothing specifically from there, no. Just Belgium in general at the moment. Sorry, got to get back before Miss Macpherson notices I’m not actually on a lav break after all. I’ll send word the minute I manage to hear any more.’
‘Right lass,’ Sandy said gruffly, eyeing Ella from beneath his craggy eyebrows. He’d noticed the colour drain from her cheeks. ‘Give me a hand with fixing yon prop, will you?’
May had brought kinder weather and today there was some warmth in the Scottish sunshine. A few cowslips were showing their shy faces in the grass alongside the runway and, whilst the breeze off the sea still had a keen edge, it blew more gently than usual between the grey-green flanks of the latest squadron of aircraft lined up at RAF Gulford.
‘Come on, Ella, and bring those tools with you. Let’s get this old lady ready to fly again.’
Ella was desperate for news, but there was none. Or, at least, there was none directly from Christophe, no word from Caroline either, no note, no letter.
There was plenty of news in the papers and the newsreels at the cinema. It had happened so fast in the end: the Battle of France had lasted about six weeks, which were filled with panic and chaos and reports of intense fighting.
Ella and her parents huddled around the radiogram when she came home for the day on the last Sunday in May. The King was attending a special service at Westminster Abbey and a national day of prayer had been declared for ‘our soldiers in dire peril in France’, desperate measures which said as much about what was happening across the Channel as any news bulletin’s sketchy reporting could.