The Hidden Women Page 2

  ‘No brothers or sisters?’ I asked. Again I was struck by how similar his story sounded to Dora’s – and how different it was from my own chaotic, busy childhood home.

  He shook his head. ‘Just me.’

  I looked at his impish face, and felt so sad for the little boy he’d once been that I almost threw my arms round him and hugged him. My sister Imogen would have done. But thankfully, I remembered I was Helena Miles who did not do things spontaneously, unless you counted walking out on my boyfriend when I was pregnant.

  Instead I opened the folder and showed Jack his rough family tree.

  ‘So, this is your dad’s family,’ I said, tracing the line with my forefinger. ‘Your grandfather was a pilot in World War Two, and your great-grandfather fought at the Somme.’

  Jack was looking at me in wonder. ‘Really?’ he said. ‘Tell me more.’

  Putting all thoughts of Sarah Sanderson’s maternal line out of my head, I sat with Jack all afternoon and explained what I’d found out so far. I always did the initial research, then passed my findings on to specialists – in Jack’s case we’d send him off to speak to an expert on World War One about his great-grandfather. And I was in the process of tracking down someone to speak to about his grandad too, who’d been too short-sighted to join the regular air force but who’d flown for the Air Transport Auxiliary, transporting planes from factories to airfields all over Britain. It was a great family story all round.

  Jack was thrilled. He asked all the right questions and wrote endless notes in his scrawling handwriting, on a notepad he pulled from his tatty bag. At one point, he got so excited talking about the trenches that he threw out his arm and knocked over his cup of coffee. I leapt for the folder he had been reading and got it out of harm’s way just in time.

  He was very sweet and enthusiastic and every time he smiled he made my hands tremble. But oh my goodness, he was the clumsiest, scruffiest, bulldozer of a man I’d ever met. My carefully ordered notes were pulled out of the folders and spread across the table as the edges of the papers folded over and curled. There was the coffee incident, as well as biscuit crumbs scattered everywhere, and a similar hairy moment when Jack’s biro leaked all over his hand and he left sticky blue fingerprints on a photocopy of his great-grandfather’s service record.

  Eventually, to my absolute relief, Jack looked at his watch – which appeared to have Mickey Mouse on it – and stood up.

  ‘I’m late,’ he said. ‘I have to dash.’

  ‘Okay,’ I said, possibly a bit too eagerly. ‘I’ll show you out.’

  Jack pulled on his leather jacket and surveyed the table, which was covered in notes and screwed-up tissues where he’d wiped the biro off his fingers, and biscuit crumbs.

  ‘God what a mess,’ he said. ‘I’ll help you clear up.’

  ‘No need,’ I said, desperately wanting him gone. ‘I’ll do it.’

  But I was too late. He was already scooping up all my notes – no longer in any sort of order – and stuffing them back into a folder.

  ‘Really,’ I said, gritting my teeth. ‘I can do it.’

  I went to take the folder from him and there was a small tug-of-war as we tussled over it for a second, then it fell to the floor scattering papers everywhere.

  I closed my eyes briefly and when I opened them, Jack was on his hands and knees picking up bits of paper.

  ‘Ooh look,’ he said, flinging one sheet at me from his position down on the floor. ‘This says Lilian Miles on it. Have you been doing your own family tree and got them mixed up?’

  I looked at the paper he’d given me. It was a document about the Air Transport Auxiliary.

  ‘No, it’s yours,’ I said, bristling at the suggestion that I’d get papers muddled. ‘Frank Jones is mentioned – look.’

  I pointed at the bottom of the page, where I’d highlighted Jack’s grandfather’s name.

  ‘It’s saying he’d been cleared to fly the class of planes that included four-engine bombers,’ I said.

  ‘And so had Lilian,’ Jack said, showing me the name at the top of the page. ‘No relation of yours?’

  I chewed my lip, thoughtfully. ‘Perhaps,’ I said. Then I shook my head. ‘It must just be a coincidence.’

  Which was exactly what I said to my parents about what I’d seen at our regular Friday evening family dinner.

  ‘And there, right at the top, was the name Lilian Miles,’ I said, helping myself to more pilau rice – we always got takeaway on Fridays because neither of my parents could cook and Miranda, my sister who’d done all the cooking when we were growing up, was usually knackered from work.

  ‘I thought it had to be a coincidence,’ I carried on. ‘But isn’t it strange?’

  Dad shrugged. ‘No idea,’ he said. ‘Like you say, probably just a coincidence.’

  ‘But what about Great-Aunt Lil?’ Miranda fixed Dad with a look that told me she wasn’t impressed with his response.

  Mum smiled at the mention of Lil. She was very fond of her.

  ‘Yes, what about Lil?’ she said.

  ‘What about her?’ Dad asked, snapping a poppadom in half with a crack and scattering crumbs across the table. I fought the urge to sweep them up with my hand.

  ‘Could the Lilian Miles on the list be our Lil?’ Miranda asked.

  ‘It won’t be her,’ I said. ‘There were lots of women named Lilian back then; trust me, I’ve seen a million birth certificates in my time.’

  ‘But not lots of women named Lilian Miles,’ Miranda pointed out.

  ‘Is it just a coincidence?’ Mum said. She looked thoughtful. ‘Robert, what do we know about what Lil did in the war?’

  Dad had just shovelled some more rice into his mouth but he sat up a bit straighter when Mum spoke.

  ‘Planes,’ he said eventually, once he’d swallowed. ‘Definitely something to do with planes. I remember her buying me a toy when I was a kid.’

  ‘Do you think it could be her, Nell?’ Miranda said, using my childhood nickname. ‘Maybe you could investigate?’

  Mum and Dad exchanged a glance. Just a quick one and I had no idea what it meant. But I saw it and it intrigued me.

  I shook my head. This was exactly what I’d been worried could happen.

  ‘We’re not allowed. We can’t use company time or resources to research our own families. I had to sign a thing, when I joined, saying I wouldn’t do it. And we can only access all the genealogy sites from work.’

  ‘But how would they know what you were looking up?’ Miranda said. She was like a dog with a bone when she got something in her head.

  ‘They’d know,’ I said darkly, though I thought she was probably right. Fliss could check what searches we did. In fact, we could all see everyone’s searches because we all shared a login. But we never paid much attention to what the others were researching and I supposed no one would know whether I was looking up my own family or someone else’s. ‘More naan?’

  The conversation moved on. And if it hadn’t been for that look between my parents, I’d probably have forgotten all about the mention of Lilian Miles in my research. But that little glance, and the way Dad had suddenly sat up when he remembered Lil had done something with planes, stayed with me. I wondered what it meant and why it had captured his interest so much.

  Chapter 3

  Lilian

  June 1944

  ‘That’s your brother isn’t it? And is that his wife?’

  Rose was peering over my shoulder at the photograph I kept stuck on the inside of my locker.

  ‘He looks like you, your brother.’

  I gave her a quick, half-hearted smile and reached inside my locker for my jacket.

  ‘And is that their little lad she’s holding?’ Rose went on, undeterred by my lack of responses. ‘What a sweetheart. He looks like you as well. You’ve all got that same dark hair.’

  Rose was one of the most infuriating people I’d ever met. Back when we’d been at school together my mum had told me to be nice.r />
  ‘She just wants to be your friend,’ Mum would say. ‘She’s not as good with people as you are.’

  Back then, I’d been one of the class leaders. Confident and a bit mouthy. Able to make anyone laugh with a quick retort, and to perform piano in front of all sorts of audiences. But that was before.

  I’d not seen Rose for a few years and I was finding her much harder to deal with now. For the thousandth time I cursed the luck that had sent my old school friend to join the Air Transport Auxiliary, and at the same airbase as me.

  I pulled my jacket out with a swift yank and slammed the locker door shut, almost taking off Rose’s nose as I did it.

  ‘Got to go,’ I said.

  I shrugged on my jacket, heaved my kitbag on to my shoulder, and headed through the double doors at the end of the corridor and out into the airfield. It was a glorious day, sunny and bright with a light wind. Perfect for flying. I paused by the door, raised my face to the sun and let it warm me for a moment.

  The airfield was a hubbub of noise and activity. To my left a group of mechanics worked on a plane, shouting instructions to one another above the noise of the propellers. Ahead of me, a larger aircraft cruised slowly towards the runway, about to take off. It was what we called a taxi plane, taking other ATA pilots to factories where they’d pick up the aircraft they had to deliver that day.

  My friend Flora was in the cockpit and she raised her arm to wave to me as she passed. I lifted my own hand and saluted her in return. A little way ahead, a truck revved its engine, and all around, people were calling to each other, shifting equipment and getting on with their tasks. I smiled. That was good. It was harder to organise things when it was quiet.

  Glancing round, I saw Annie. She was loading some tarpaulins on to the back of a van. Casually I walked over to where she stood.

  ‘Morning,’ I said.

  She nodded at me and hauled another of the folded tarpaulins up on to the van.

  ‘I’m going to Middlesbrough,’ I said, dropping my kitbag at my feet. I picked up one of the tarpaulins so if anyone looked over they’d see me helping, not chatting. ‘Finally.’

  She nodded again.

  ‘I’ve left the address in your locker with my timings,’ I went on. ‘She’s waiting to hear from you so send the telegram as soon as I take off.’

  ‘Adoption?’ Annie said.

  I nodded, my lips pinched together. ‘Older,’ I said. ‘Three kids already. Husband’s in France.’

  Annie winced. ‘Poor cow.’

  ‘I know,’ I said. ‘Her mum’s helping.’

  ‘How far along is she?’

  ‘About seven months. She reckons she can’t hide it much longer. I’ve been waiting for one of us to be sent up there.’

  Annie heaved the last tarpaulin on to the van.

  ‘Best get going then,’ she said.

  I gave her a quick smile.

  ‘Thanks, Annie,’ I said.

  A shout from across the airfield made me look round. ‘Lil!’

  One of the engineers was waving to me from beside a small single-engine Fairchild.

  ‘Looks like mine,’ I said to Annie.

  She gave my arm a brief squeeze. ‘It’s a good thing you’re doing here,’ she said.

  ‘You’re doing it too.’

  Without looking back at her, I picked up my bag and ran over to the plane.

  ‘Am I flying this one?’ I said. We all took it in turns to fly the taxi planes, but I did it more often than some of the others; I loved it so much.

  The engineer – a huge Welsh guy called Gareth who I was very fond of – patted the side of the plane lovingly.

  ‘You are,’ he said. ‘She’s a bit temperamental on the descent so take it easy.’

  I rolled my eyes. ‘Gareth,’ I said. ‘I know what I’m doing.’

  I opened the cockpit door and flung my bag inside.

  ‘Right,’ I said. ‘Take me through all the pre-flight checks.’

  I’d been in the ATA for two years now, and I was cleared to fly every kind of plane – even the huge bombers that many people thought a woman couldn’t handle, but I never took anything for granted. I always went through checks with the engineers and did everything by the book. I liked feeling in control and I didn’t want to put my life in anyone else’s hands. Not again.

  The taxi flights were quick – normally twenty minutes or so as we headed to the factories to pick up our planes. Today was the same. So it wasn’t long before we’d landed at South Marston, and I was ready to take off in the Spitfire I was delivering to Middlesbrough.

  I climbed up into the plane and checked all the instruments, even though I’d flown hundreds of Spitfires and it was as familiar to me as the back of my own hand.

  I loved flying. I loved feeling the plane doing what I asked it to do, and the freedom of swooping over the countryside. I’d spent two years hanging round the RAF base near where I lived in the Scottish borders before I joined up. I’d learned everything I could about flying, without actually piloting a plane myself. And then, as soon as I was old enough to sign up I’d applied to the ATA. I’d loved it straight away and I knew I was a good pilot. I’d raced through the ranks and completed my training on each category of plane faster than anyone else.

  And yet every time I went on one of my ‘mercy missions’ as Flora called them, I was risking it all.

  Putting all my worries aside, I focused on the plane. I watched the ground crew as they directed me out on to the runway, then thought only of the engine beneath me as I took off northwards.

  Once I was up, I relaxed a bit, and took in the view. The day was so clear, I could see the towns and villages below. I imagined all the people going about their lives – hearing my engine and looking up to see me as I passed. Because it was a brand new plane, there was no radio, no navigation equipment – nothing. I liked the challenge that brought. It meant my brain was always kept active and I had no time to brood.

  Middlesbrough was one of our longest flights and by the time I landed it was afternoon and the heat of the summer day was beginning to fade.

  I slid out of the cockpit and headed to a man with a clipboard, who appeared to be in charge.

  ‘Spitfire,’ I said. ‘Made in South Marston.’

  He nodded, without looking at me. ‘Where’s the pilot?’ he asked. ‘I need him to sign.’

  ‘I’m the pilot,’ I said, through gritted teeth. ‘Do you have a pen?’

  Now the man did look up. He rolled his eyes as though I’d said something ridiculous and handed me a pen from his shirt pocket.

  I scribbled my signature on the form he held out. ‘Is there a flight going back?’

  ‘Over there,’ he said, gesturing with his head to where a larger Anson sat on the runway. ‘But there are a few of you going. Be about an hour?’

  I breathed out in relief. An hour was more than enough. ‘Fine,’ I said. ‘Can I grab a cuppa?’

  He pointed his head in the other direction. I picked up my bag and went the way he’d indicated. But instead of going inside the mess hut, I slipped round the side of the building and out towards the main gate. I hoped the woman would be here – I didn’t want to risk missing my flight back; that would lead to all sorts of trouble.

  ‘Just going for some cigarettes,’ I told the bored man on the gate. He barely acknowledged me as I sauntered past and out on to the road. It was quiet with no passing traffic. Across the carriageway, a woman stood still, partly hidden by a tree. She was wearing a long coat, even though it was summer, and she was in her late thirties. Her hair was greying and she had a slump to her shoulders that made me sad. She looked at me and when I raised my hand in greeting, she smiled a cautious, nervous smile. Confident she was the person I was meant to meet, I ran across the road to her.

  ‘April?’ I said.

  She nodded, looking as though she was going to cry.

  ‘I’m Lil.’

  ‘Lil,’ April said in a strong north-east accent. ‘I need to
go. I went early with my others and I’m sure this one’s no different. I can’t be here when the baby arrives. I can’t.’ Her voice shook.

  I took her arm. ‘I’ve got a family in Berkshire,’ I said. ‘Lovely woman. She’s wanted a baby since they got married ten years ago but it’s not happened. Her husband’s a teacher – so he’s not off fighting. They’ve got a spare room for you.’

  April flinched and I looked at her.

  ‘He was a teacher,’ she said. ‘The man. The baby’s father.’

  I stayed quiet. Sometimes mothers wanted to talk and sometimes they didn’t but whatever they wanted, it was easier for me to stay silent.

  ‘He was so nice,’ April went on. ‘Charming. Kind to my boys. Helpful to me. You know?’

  I nodded.

  ‘And then one day he wasn’t so nice,’ she said. ‘And I know I should have told him to stay away, that I was married. I should have made it clearer. But I missed Bill, you see. And I know it’s my fault.’

  She paused.

  ‘It’s my fault.’

  ‘It’s not your fault,’ I said, wondering how many times I’d said that and why it was easy to tell others that and not myself. ‘And it’s not the baby’s fault.’

  I unzipped my bag and pulled out an envelope.

  ‘Your train tickets are in here,’ I said. ‘And the name and address of the family. You need to change at Birmingham and they’ll meet you at Reading station – they know what train you’ll be on.’

  Looking a bit stunned, April took the envelope. ‘Why do you do this?’ she asked. ‘What’s in it for you?’

  I shrugged. ‘It’s the right thing to do,’ I said.

  April looked doubtful but she didn’t argue.

  I glanced at my watch.

  ‘I have to go,’ I said. I took her hand and squeezed it. ‘Good luck.’

  Chapter 4

  Helena

  May 2018

  After dinner I cornered Miranda in the kitchen as we washed up.

  ‘What was all that about?’ I asked her.

  ‘Should we club together and buy the parents a dishwasher,’ she said, squirting washing-up liquid into the sink.