‘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.
Afterwards, the Lennox family sat around the dining table and tried to apply themselves to their Sunday meal, although Ella could scarcely choke down the lunch her mother had made.
‘The newspapers say our Allied troops in the north of France have been cut off. The panzer divisions managed to smash right through the defences on the Somme. Thousands are stranded there, backed up against the Channel,’ Mr Lennox remarked, setting down his knife and fork and giving up the struggle with the gristly piece of boiled beef on his plate.
‘Those poor souls. Surely there’s something more that can be done to save them?’ Ella’s mother folded her napkin and placed it beside her plate with a sigh.
‘They’re doing their best, Mother. But the fighting goes on day and night, and we’ve lost so many aircraft that it’s hard to know where to send the ones that are left.’
Her mother hugged her tight as Ella left to catch the bus back to Gulford later that afternoon. ‘Here,’ she handed her a parcel wrapped in brown paper and tied up with string. ‘It’s a tea loaf for you to share with Vicky and Jeanie. Make sure you eat properly, won’t you? Keeping your strength up so that you can do your job well is your patriotic duty these days.’
When Ella and Vicky arrived at the base next morning, Squadron Officer Macpherson met them at the office door. ‘It’s some good news at last, girls!’ Their commanding officer was positively beaming. ‘Mr Churchill announced last night that Operation Dynamo is underway. Every seaworthy vessel along the south coast has gone to help. They’ve begun evacuating troops from Dunkirk. Thousands are out already. They’re bringing our boys home.’
As the news broke of the ships that went to help snatch back British, French and Belgian troops on those desperate days at the end of May, Ella thought often of Bijou, picturing tiny boats just like her sailing to the rescue, and she hoped, against hope, that somehow Christophe had made it to the Pas de Calais and been saved. She prayed for a miracle, feeling guilty that she couldn’t be more pleased for the hundreds of thousands of men who were rescued that week, when all she wanted was news of just one. But still no news came.
And then, two weeks later, there came another bulletin that made her heart stand still. Paris had fallen: France was now in German hands.
‘Come on, Ella. Come with us.’ Vicky was pinning up her hair in front of the mirror in their bedroom. ‘You don’t have to dance if you don’t want to – although goodness knows there are more pilots queuing up to ask you than any of the rest of us. Just come along for one evening for some fun and some company of your own age, instead of sitting here with Jeanie and Dougie listening to the news and fretting.’
Vicky sat down on the bed beside Ella, brushing out her unruly curls. ‘Look, I know it’s hard being apart from Christophe and you miss him terribly. But he wouldn’t expect you to sit at home letting life pass you by. After all, it’s your patriotic duty to keep up the spirits of our own boys – that’s how I look at it. Go on. Come to the dance. You’ll enjoy it. And, Lord only knows, you need to have a bit of fun sometimes.’