Evie, page 8
‘Better not let Ferdie hear you describe him as a cripple, old man!’ Roger laughed. ‘But you’re right, there is no excuse.’
‘But it doesn’t mean there isn’t an explanation,’ Alice ventured. ‘No parents. No siblings. No relatives other than an “unfit” uncle. Shoved from pillar to post. As a young man he possibly saw Evie’s mama as a sort of “mother figure”. There’s a whole tragic story here.’
‘And unfortunately it’s not over yet,’ Roger said, acknowledging the bowl of stewed gooseberries and junket that Eileen had just placed in front of him. ‘It’s a possibility that Giorgio has already been repatriated to Italy along with the thousands of his compatriots who were over here.’
‘What? And left Evie behind?’ Alice exclaimed. ‘I don’t think so! He adores her, Roger! Remember how devastated he was when Norman took her away from the hostel!’
‘Maybe she’s gone to Italy with him?’ Edward John suggested.
‘That would be more difficult than its sounds,’ Roger told him. ‘The POWs are being transported in Royal Naval vessels. No civilians. If the pair of them were married she could get shipped out to join him but she’s still legally married to Norman and he’d scupper any idea of divorce. Absolutely not what he has in mind! Enquiries are being made as we speak concerning Giorgio’s whereabouts, both in the POW HQ and at the Italian embassy. No news from either so far, and you can imagine the bureaucratic pandemonium going on in those offices at the moment. Thousands of men to be accounted for. As for Evie, I’ll wager she doesn’t have a passport and she’d need a lot of documentation – birth certificate, medical certificate, marriage certificate, application for Italian citizenship and heaven knows what else, if she wants to enter Italy on a permanent basis … Can you imagine Evie being capable of organising all of that, because I can’t!’ Roger sank his spoon into his junket. Edward John was silent.
‘I expect we’d have to help her out if it came to that,’ Alice said, wondering exactly what, how, when and where such assistance might be required. There was a pause. ‘But if he has gone home to Italy, where on earth is she?’
‘I keep thinking she might head back to the hostel and take refuge there,’ Roger said. ‘For that reason I’ve asked Hester and Dave to pay particular attention to the place.’
‘Hester’s checking it.’ Alice assured him. ‘I think she’s rather enjoying it. She ties threads of cotton across a different doorway each day so that she’d know if anyone had been moving about inside. And she leaves the curtains and shutters open so she and Dave would see any lights at night.’ They smiled at the idea of Hester Crocker – super-sleuth.
‘And what are you getting up to this weekend?’ Roger asked his stepson. The boy had been kicking his heels rather aimlessly lately. Edward John shrugged and stared into space.
‘Might go for a ride tomorrow,’ he said eventually and without much enthusiasm.
‘Good idea,’ Roger said. ‘Tosca could do with a bit of exercise. You’ve been neglecting her.’ Edward John continued to stare, then excused himself from the table and left them. Alice and Roger exchanged glances, Roger pulling a ‘down in the mouth’ face.
‘D’you think it’s that blessed girl?’ Alice asked him. ‘Pamela thingamy?’
‘Shouldn’t be surprised,’ Roger said. He left the table and lifted the tray of coffee things that Eileen had left for them on the sideboard. ‘Let’s take this in the other room. It’s warmer there.’
West Coast Air Services Inc., Georgina discovered, was a small, international aviation company specialising in internal flights and used, mainly on a contract basis, by commercial organisations and government departments who needed to fly their VIPs between sites, installations or conference centres, and, occasionally, by journalists accessing trouble spots. The company, registered in Canada, was expanding fast, riding the wave of post-war recovery across Europe, through Africa, the Far East and into Australasia. It was about to open its New Zealand offices in Wellington. ‘WCAS flies off in Windy Wellington’ was the headline Georgina had seen in the local paper. Georgina called the newspaper office, was given WCAS’s number and after half an hour of hard talking and on the basis of her flying qualifications, was grudgingly given an interview.
The staff Georgina initially encountered gave her a hard time. They were all young New Zealanders. To them she was an interloper, a ‘stuck-up pom’ trying to impress them with her flying experience. When it became clear that they had never heard of the ATA, Georgina had to explain to them what it was. It’s affiliation to the RAF was a card Georgina played reluctantly but with instant effect. She heard someone in the inner office say, ‘Who? Who did you say? Where is she?’ And then there he was, standing in the doorway, smiling his memorable smile, holding his arms out to her. ‘Good grief! It can’t be! It bloody is! Georgie!’
‘Fitzie!’ They hugged. He held her at arm’s length, looked her over, threw back his head, laughed and hugged her again. She stood, smiling, as he introduced her to his colleagues in his usual, larger-than-life, colonial way.
‘Pilot Officer Georgina Webster!’ he announced. ‘ATA. And one of the best women fliers who ever resisted my not inconsiderable charms!’
‘Bayliss,’ she corrected him, laughing. ‘Georgina Bayliss. I married Christopher.’
‘So you did! How could I forget?’
‘And you married your Lucinda.’
‘Ah, but I didn’t you see! Lu saw the error of her ways and withdrew her hand before the wedding day. We parted good friends, though. So? Where is your Christopher?’ He pretended to scan the room for a sight of her missing husband.
‘He’s here. Well, not exactly here. He’s near Dunedin this week. At least I think it’s Dunedin. He’s working. A two-year contract with the Forestry Commission.’
‘And you?’
‘I came too,’ Georgina told him, aware, suddenly, of how lame this sounded and how unlike the Georgina Webster whom Fitzie had known two years ago – a competent aircraft pilot who was capable of flying any RAF planes that needed ferrying from factory to airbase, landing strip or repair workshops.
Neil Fitzsimmonds, a member of a powerful manufacturing family, whose various enterprises were situated on the west coast of Canada, had been completing an engineering degree in London when the Second World War was declared. He was due to return to Vancouver to take up the executive position for which he was being groomed but, like many young Canadians, he became drawn to the defence of the England he saw being blitzed on a nightly basis by the Luftwaffe.
Despite several years of civilian flying, Fitzsimmonds’ qualifications were unacceptable to the RAF. His options were to return to Canada, enlist in the Royal Canadian Air Force and then apply for a foreign posting, or remain in Britain and join the ATA as a ferry pilot. He chose the latter, soon distinguished himself, and was promoted to instructor.
Some of the ATA pilots took their flying very seriously, for others, mainly well-educated young women, flying had been, prior to the war, little more than an expensive hobby. At White Waltham Airbase it was Neil Fitzsimmonds who honed their various skills until they were considered fit to deliver the Hurricanes, Spitfires, Mosquitos and even Lancasters to and from whichever airfield needed them. Georgina herself fell somewhere between these two extremes and while her attitude to flying was a responsible one – she soon became one of the most proficient and respected pilots in the group – she also enjoyed the camaraderie and enthusiastically embraced the often over-exuberant social life. While some of her co-fliers confined their passions to the planes they flew, others pursued the pleasures they had been enjoying before the outbreak of the war and for which there were plenty of opportunities.
Georgina, whose licence to fly had been the result of a course of lessons given to her on her eighteenth birthday, proved to be both keen and quick. Such had been the shortage of ferry pilots that she was soon allowed to take her place amongst them.
From the beginning, Fitzsimmonds was attracted to the fact that Georgina stood out from amongst the other young women at the base. She had a quality about her that he found intriguing and perhaps challenging. He was fascinated by her unselfconscious elegance which distinguished her from the group even when she entered into the noisy fun everyone was having. She was slender but not gaunt and while most women at that time wore their, often bleached, hair in elaborate, frizzy curls, Georgina’s was sleek and dark, cut in a short, fringed bob which, together with her solemn eyes and high cheekbones made her look faintly French.
‘It won’t curl,’ she told Lucinda, with whom she shared a room in various ATA quarters and who was urging her to try a ‘perm’. ‘It simply won’t!’
Neil Fitzsimmonds – whom everyone on the base called Fitzie, became intrigued by Georgina’s history. Eldest child of an affluent family of pacifist farmers, the Land Army was an obvious choice when she was conscripted for war service. Despite some initial hostility from one or two of the Land Girls, Georgina was soon accepted as the warm, level-headed person she was. Although her close friendship with the warden was, to begin with, based on the fact that both of them were from middle-class backgrounds, there was no room at the hostel for the class system and any references to it were almost always in the form of jokes or teasings.
‘So, why did you leave the Land Army and join this caper?’ Fitzsimmonds had wanted to know over a pint of bitter in a pub near White Waltham Airfield one cold night. So she he told him about the young pilot she had met during her early days in the Land Army.
‘He was a bit of a pain,’ she began. ‘Good-looking, very gung-ho RAF. You know the type.’ Fitzsimmonds did. ‘His father owns the farm I was working on. He took me out a couple of times when he was home on leave. He wasn’t much fun. The thing was, although no one spotted it, he was cracking up. He’d flown Hurricanes during the Battle of Britain, you see. Then, when the big raids on Germany started, Fighter Command was, of course, used to escort the bombers. He was shot down once and crash-landed twice. Lost a heap of friends. One incinerated in front of him. He got his hands burnt trying to pull him out of the wreckage of a Spit. Anyway the next thing was I found him, quite by accident, hiding in the sheep byre on the farm. He was filthy and starving and, well, raving. Fact was, he’d been AWOL for three weeks. His father knew this but for some reason, didn’t tell anyone. The MPs came and arrested him. I tried to stop them. Physically. It was disgusting. Someone who’d done all that, being man-handled as if … well … as if he was a coward. I visited him in hospital. He had to be drugged to begin with. But the thing was, Fitzie, it completely changed my mind about pacifism. That was why I joined the ATA. I just felt someone should have to pay for what they’d done to him. To all of them. The ones who died and got burnt, shot up or driven mad like he was. But when he began to recover and I told him I was going to fly for the ATA he was furious! It turned out that I’d rejected pacifism at the same time that he embraced it! He wanted me to stop flying and when I refused he didn’t want to see me any more. When they let him out of hospital he went off alone and lived like a hermit in a woodman’s cottage in his father’s forest. I didn’t see him for ages. Last time I did he said I knew where he was if I wanted him. But it would have to be on his terms. And I … well, on those terms … I didn’t want him.’ She paused, smiling uncertainly at Fitzsimmonds, her grey eyes searching for his reaction.
‘So here you are,’ he said, trying to lighten the mood. ‘Miss Ferry Pilot 1944! ’Nother beer?’ Georgina shook her head.
‘Can’t,’ she said. ‘Got an early flight. A Mosquito to Brize Norton.’
Fitzsimmonds had walked her back to her quarters, putting an arm round her when she shivered in the easterly wind. At the door of the hut which housed the female pilots he kissed her, finding her mouth warmer and more responsive than he had dared hope.
The relationship had progressed very slowly, due not to any reluctance on either side but to the pressure of work under which the ATA operated. Fitzsimmonds’ skills as a manipulator of women were considerable. But he realised that the conquest of Georgina required careful thought. Anything flashy, shallow or hasty would be immediately perceived as precisely that. While he was considering his options it was she who took the initiative, making it clear that what she wanted was not the one night in a cheap hotel with the noise of planes landing and taking off from a nearby airstrip, which was all that seemed available to them, but a week of leave, together, at a borrowed cottage near Porlock Weir.
Everything had been arranged and then, forty-eight hours before their seven precious days were due to begin, Fitzsimmonds received a telegram.
‘Can’t make it Fitzie. Stop. Sorry. Stop. Will explain one day. Stop. It’s to do with Dresden. Stop. Chris is right. Stop. Am resigning ATA commission. Stop. Love Georgina. Stop.’
The reunion in Wellington was to be a brief one. Fitzsimmonds was flying out on the following morning. He was unable to give Georgina the job she was hoping for but it was agreed that if a vacancy occurred the company would consider her formal application.
He took her to lunch. They found a Greek taverna close to the quay, sat at a rickety table under a cloudless sky, ate dolmades, drank ouzo and reminisced about the war.
‘Great flying day,’ Fitzie said, squinting into the bright sky. Then he was on his feet, throwing some notes onto the table, taking her by the arm and hailing a cab.
They took off over the city and were soon clear of the surrounding suburbia. Fitzsimmonds banked to the north and followed the coastline. Georgina was as astonished and as delighted as he had intended her to be.
‘Okay?’ he asked her.
‘Beyond okay!’ she laughed. ‘Way beyond!’
‘You take her,’ he said, hauling himself out of the pilot’s seat as she slid into it. He watched her find her way round the unfamiliar controls and felt the little craft respond and steady in her skilled hands. For a long time neither spoke. For Georgina the experience lifted her mood, releasing her from the feelings that had been depressing her since she and Christopher had arrived in Wellington. The physical sensation of flying again, of doing something she was good at and being valued for it, washed, disarmingly over her. She became increasingly aware of Fitzsimmonds beside her, the unconsummated familiarity of him came disconcertingly back to her. The warm arm against hers. His jawline. The way his hair grew. The remembered way he lit two cigarettes and passed one to her. All the elements of the strong attraction they had once felt for one another began to exert their various influences over both of them as the small plane slipped smoothly on, through the blue afternoon. When he leant across and kissed her she responded.
Because his hotel served ‘the best fillet steak in Wellington’ they ate there, on a roof terrace onto which his suite opened. Looking back on that day and the night which followed, Georgina realised she had been intoxicated. Not with wine, although that would have played its part, but by Fitzie himself. By the way he regarded her, amused her, appreciated her, studied her and made her feel significant. When, eventually, he led her to bed he turned her to face him as though seeking affirmation that her feelings, regarding this turn of events, matched his.
‘Unfinished business, Georgie,’ he said with a small inflection that didn’t quite turn the words into a question but made it open to that interpretation.
As they parted next morning, he into the hotel car that was to take him to the airport and she into the cab he had called for her, they both knew that it was over. That the coincidence which had reunited them was unlikely to recur by chance and that neither of them would deliberately seek it.
‘As unfinished business goes,’ he had said, smiling sweetly, ‘that was the very best!’
‘Beyond the very best,’ Georgina had told him.
As he reached the car he turned, smiling and executed an exaggerated RAF salute to which Georgina responded in kind.
There were two letters in her pigeonhole when she arrived back at the beige apartment. One was a thick blue airmail envelope, addressed in Alice’s handwriting to Mrs Christopher Bayliss. The other was from Christopher and postmarked Dunedin. This, Georgina feared, was going to give her the news that his return to Wellington had been delayed, since he would have been unlikely to write, had he been arriving, as planned, next day. Because of this Georgina decided to read Alice’s letter first and she was halfway through a detailed account of events, exclusively relating to the ongoing complications involving Evie and Giorgio, when footsteps approached the apartment door and Christopher burst through it. She gaped at him, speechless with surprise.
Chris dumped his overnight bag on the floor, crossed the room to her, pulled her to her feet and into his arms. Nuzzling her ear, he began to pour out apologies for the way they had parted two weeks earlier.
‘I was a bastard, Georgie, an absolute bastard. I just wasn’t thinking about what it’s been like for you, stuck here, on your tod with nothing to do and no one to do it with!’ he searched her face which expressed a mix of shock, surprise and, although Christopher was unaware of it, or of its cause, guilt. ‘Anyway, anyway, anyway,’ he murmured happily, ‘everything is alright now! We’ve got our posting! No more beige! From now on we’ll be together! You’ve read the letter, of course, so you know …’ His letter lay unopened on the table. He picked it up, stared at it and then at her. The letter had arrived on the previous day but lain, since then, in the pigeonhole from which, only half an hour before, she had collected it together with today’s mail.
‘I only just this minute got it,’ she said, carefully not lying. ‘Yours and this one from Alice!’
‘Don’t read it now,’ he said, taking his letter, unopened, from her hand. ‘I’ll tell you what it says. Come on! Let’s go out and celebrate!’ With their arms around one another they dawdled through the streets. He gave her his news and the details of his posting. They were to be based on a softwood project near Milford Sound on the South Island. Their house, a wooden bungalow, overlooked a beach. There were horses, a sailing dinghy they could borrow and skiing on the Southern Alps. There was a lively community of farming and forestry people, many of whom he had already met. The posting would be his for at least twelve months.
