Ruth had been right. People welcome a visitor (or in their case, visitors) when they arrive with a bottle.
‘Come in, come in. This is most kind of you.’ Malcolm ushers them in, his long grey cardigan swinging as he flaps his arms in welcome. Jo is pleased to see his colour is much better than when she last saw him, and that the bandage has been replaced by a medium-sized plaster.
Malcolm’s house is a small brick cottage, squeezed between two rather grand, white-painted Georgian houses. The bright red front door opens straight into a sitting room and Jo feels as if she has stepped into a softly lit woodland. The chairs and sofa are covered in ivory linen patterned with ferns, the carpet and table lamps are pale green, and the walls are lined with faded botanical paintings. In the small grate, a fire burns.
Catching her looking at the paintings, he says, ‘Those are my mother’s work, Joanne. She became quite an accomplished artist in the end, and even if it reallywasn’t what she wanted to do with her life, I do believe she found solace in painting.’
Before Jo can ask what it is she had wanted to do, Malcolm is circling them, encouraging them to take off their coats, and to take a seat, whilst exclaiming over the gift of whisky. He really does seem delighted to see them, and Jo wonders how often he has visitors.
Ruth settles into a chair by the fire, casting Jo a look that so eloquently says,I told you so, that she wants to laugh. She takes a seat on the sofa, leaving the chair opposite Ruth’s for Malcolm. It is clear it is where he had been sitting, and Jo spots one of his familiar notebooks resting on the arm.
‘Now, make yourself at home, and I will get glasses.’ Malcolm disappears through a door that leads into the kitchen.
As she and Ruth wait in silence, Jo looks around the room. White-painted bookcases are set either side of the fire and, on the bottom shelf of the right-hand bookcase, she spots a long row of notebooks. There must be forty or fifty of them. Jo catches Ruth’s eye and nods significantly towards them. On the walk to Malcolm’s house, she told Ruth about the mystery of the book Malcolm is writing (although not about reading the notebook that Malcolm left in the shop). If nothing else, she is determined to find out what Malcolm’s book is about.
Ruth, who had also been gazing around the room, now bobs up from her chair and heads towards a small group of black-and-white photographs displayed on a mahogany side table. These are the only photographs or ornaments in the room.
‘Oh, my goodness me. No wonder she foundlife dull.’ Ruth glances up from the photographs to the botanical paintings.
Jo has no idea what she is talking about and, before she can ask, Malcolm is back, carrying a silver tray loaded with cut-glass tumblers, the whisky bottle and a plate of biscuits.
‘Best not drink on an empty stomach. I thought some shortbread might be a nice accompaniment.’ He puts the tray down on a low ottoman, which is covered in a faded green and cream tartan blanket. ‘Ah, I see you have spotted the photographs of Mother.’
He leans down and picks up a glass, already generously filled with whisky, and hands it to Jo. He takes the other two glasses and walks over to Ruth. ‘Here you go, Reverend Ruth.’
She takes the glass from him and half turns back to the photos. ‘Your mother was a Spitfire Girl?’
A warm smile spreads over Malcolm’s face. ‘She was indeed.’
Jo is now on her feet. The first picture she looks at shows a young woman in flying gear climbing out of what is clearly a Spitfire. ‘That’s yourmum?’
‘It is indeed, Joanne. And here we have her beside a Short Stirling.’ He points to an image of a small figure standing underneath the nose of an enormous aircraft. Another photograph shows a group of women in uniform being presented to a dignitary, who is instantly recognizable as the woman who would become the Queen Mother.
‘Wow, so she was … did she fly these planes? Was this in the war?’
‘Yes, she was in the ATA. Air Transport Auxiliary,’ Malcolm says, settling into his chair and stretching out his long, grey-corduroy-trousered legs towards the fire. Jo is startled to see bright purple and orange striped Moroccan-style slippers peeping out from beneath them. They are embroidered all over with tiny golden birds. As if aware of her glance, he tucks his feet quickly out of sight.
‘To start with, the ATA was made up of men, perhaps those too old to be fighter pilots, who would ferry aircraft to where they were needed around Britain. Eventually they started recruiting female pilots, and then they advertised for novices and began training a small number of women. My mother was one of those. The upshot was, I think my mother had a rather marvellous war. She said afterwards she was one of the few people who was sad when the war ended.’
Malcolm picks up a shortbread biscuit and stares at it for some moments. ‘Yes, it must have been a very exciting time.’ He looks up at them. ‘You see, fighter pilots would be trained on just the one aircraft. Mother, now, she had to fly anything she was given. It could literally be any one of ninety or so planes.’
‘But how did the ATA women know how to fly all of those?’ Jo asks.
Malcolm leans over and offers her some shortbread, ‘Sometimes they didn’t.’ He shakes his head as if in disbelief. ‘All they had was a ring-bound book, with one page for each aircraft. Mother said you sat in the cockpit, read that and then crossed your fingers. Some of the girls offered up a prayer, but Mother had given up on God, after her father was killed in 1939. She said God should have known he was too ancient to fight again, and that losing part of his face and most of his belief in humanity in the First World War should have been enough for any God.’
Malcolm glances at Ruth, ‘I do apologize.’ He pauses and adds, ‘But maybe you too have lost your faith?’
It seems Jo is not the only one who knows that Ruth Hamilton is the Runaway Vicar.
‘Not that,’ Ruth replies, softly. ‘There have been times, but no. Not now.’
There is a long pause, then Malcolm continues, ‘The women were not taught to fly with instruments, and they had no radio either, so it was a case of following the roads and rivers, and trusting that the weather didn’t close in. Mother lost friends that way,’ he reflects. ‘A sudden storm or mist coming in off the sea and it was easy to become disorientated.’
‘Malcolm, she must have been the most amazing woman,’ Jo says, in awe.
‘Ah, Joanne, she was.’
‘You weren’t tempted to take up flying yourself, Malcolm?’ Ruth enquires.
