Spitfire Girl by Jackie Moggridge Read Free Book Online Page B

Port? I recalled the red sour-sweet liquid served during Holy Communion. Of course. Port wine. Amidst a sad and dusty collection of bottles I found one that held a similar coloured liquid. I poured two large tumblers full, put them on a rusty tin tray and walked carefully to the dining-room.
    ‘Port, Ma’am,’ I announced with dignity, whilst suppressing the impulse to giggle.
    They stared at the tumblers and exercised their already well-exercised eyebrows. ‘Sorour. Those are not wine glasses.’
    I returned along the well-beaten path to the kitchen, transferred, with moderate wastage, the liquid to more elegant glasses and tried again.
    I watched them proudly as they sipped luxuriantly at the warm cosy-looking liquid. Suddenly, consternation shattered this idyllic scene and a fine spray of liquid burlesqued across the spotless linen tablecloth as one of the officers spat out the ‘Port’. The other, mouthing horribly, retired hurriedly to the bathroom. On further investigation the port transpired to be vinegar.
    My tears helped to soothe their ruffled feathers and brought an uneasy armistice. Dire threats of ‘putting me on a charge’ subsided to more general recriminations. I retired to the servants’ bedroom. They washed their own dishes that night.
    Fiasco followed fiasco for two interminable weeks before my orders arrived to report for recruit’s training. My two officers, haggard looking, wished me a vehement farewell as I entrained for discipline. I had, however, learned something of the peculiarities of service life. So, no doubt, had my late mistresses.

8
    I reported to the Women’s Royal Auxiliary Air Force recruits’ training centre and was immediately absorbed into the slightly anarchic routine. Gaggles of highly individual females were to be seen entering the gates. A few weeks later, the processing completed, columns marched uniformly out again. I was canalized with moderate success. My service wardrobe was completed, thus eliminating the embarrassing necessity of appearing in a hybrid para-military pose. Also, at last, I received my service number from the orderly room clerk who, unaware of its significance, was surprised at my effusive thanks.
    The barracks were solid two-storeyed edifices that served as an object lesson to the frivolously minded. Like guardians of Victorian sternness their stone floors, functional bathrooms and crisp no-nonsense beds cowed most of us to obedience more effectively than direct authority. Feminine giggles and squeals echoed hollowly in the long dormitory and reduced those responsible to self-conscious titters. A week or two was to pass before we could resist the silent intimidation of those walls, kick off our shoes and affix pinups to locker doors.
    The next few days were spent in rooting out any lingering affection for anarchy or independence. We were numbered, ranked, and drilled until even our expressions became uniform. Lectures on the omniscience of ‘King’s Regulations’ and visits to the medical inspection room conveniently occupied any untoward spare time.
    The final obstacle was the selection board who decided the future activities of those possessing special qualifications. Arming myself with my flying licence, log-book and correspondence from the Ministry including the letter that referred to my ‘obtaining a suitable position with the Waafs’ I presented myself to the board.
    The interviewing room was sadistically long. Two unsmiling Waaf and three male officers appraised me stonily as I walked the miles from the door to the green baize table. I saluted awkwardly and stood to attention. I could feel my skirt trembling.
    ‘You may sit down,’ motioned the senior Waaf officer. I sat uneasily on the edge of the chair.
    ‘You are a pilot,’ accused one of the Waaf officers.
    ‘Yes, Ma’am.’
    ‘Have you your licence?’
    I passed it across the desk.
    ‘You realize there are no flying posts in the Waaf?’ smugly interjected one of the