Sisters at War Read online

  Contents

  About the Book

  About the Author

  Also by Milly Adams

  Title Page

  Dedication

  Acknowledgements

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  Find out more about Milly Adams

  Dear Reader

  Interview with Milly

  Copyright

  About the Book

  May 1940, England

  Bryony and Hannah are sisters, but they couldn’t be more different. And the war has created a rift between them.

  Hannah is young and headstrong. No one will stop her from doing what she wants, and she wants to stay in Jersey. But Bryony is happiest amongst her family and loved ones, and at Combe Lodge everyone is pitching in. The family home has filled with evacuees and Bryony has joined the ATA, helping to ferry planes across the country, whatever the risk.

  When Jersey is occupied by the enemy, Bryony knows she needs to reach out to save her sister. But is she too late?

  About the Author

  Milly Adams lives in Buckinghamshire with her husband, dog and cat. Her children live nearby. Her grandchildren are fun, and lead her astray. She insists that it is that way round. She is also the author of Above Us The Sky.

  Also by Milly Adams

  Above Us The Sky

  For those who served on trawlers in the Second World War, especially James William Rudder Meadows who died on 9 April 1941.

  For all the Air Transport Auxiliary men and women, especially Maureen, my cousin.

  And of course my mum, who served during the war in Queen Alexandra’s Imperial Military Nursing Service (QAIMNS) as a nurse and Dad, who was a fighter pilot in the RAF.

  May the wind always be beneath their wings.

  Acknowledgements

  I am old enough to have grown up hearing anecdotes and family history of the Second World War, throughout which my father was a RAF pilot. Somehow our parents’ memories become ours. His admiration for the ATA pilots was immense, and also his knowledge of the work of the ATA men and women. Add to that the fact that another family member, a woman, my cousin Maureen, flew with the Air Transport Auxiliary and you have a reason for me to write this book.

  I flew a Spitfire simulator in the ATA Museum section of the Maidenhead Heritage Centre. My father always said it was a woman’s aeroplane, and it did feel so. I am not a natural. I crashed through a barn on landing, but it was fascinating to see the memorabilia and generally bone up on the subject. I read around the subject, obviously, and enjoyed Spreading My Wings by Diana Barnato Walker, The Female Few by Jacky Hyams, Spitfire Women of World War II by Giles Whittell, and Spitfire Girl by Jackie Moggridge

  As for Jersey: a beautiful island, and again I was steered by a friend of a friend’s memories and experiences of the war and found A Doctor’s Occupation by Dr John Lewis amusing and interesting. Charles Cruickshank’s The German Occupation of the Channel Islands kept me on the straight and narrow.

  Trawlermen are a race apart, their courage often ignored if indeed it is known. They should have an honourable and enduring place in our wartime history. I am indebted to a little book I found – Terriers of the Fleet: The Fighting Trawlers by ‘First Lieutenant’ written during the war, which gave me a close-up view of their world. Him indoors, my husband, an ex-submariner, has an understanding of things maritime which far surpasses my own and he led me through the tumultuous seas with aplomb.

  Thank you all. You have my immense admiration and gratitude for your pluck and sacrifices.

  All mistakes are my own.

  Chapter One

  Early May 1940

  A bird, that’s what I should have been, a bird, Bryony Miller thought as she sat at the controls of Combe Lodge Airline’s de Havilland Dragon Rapide, high above the white-capped sea. She was outbound from her home, Combe Lodge, near Exmouth, heading for Jersey, her leather jacket undone, overalls stained with engine oil. She loved the sense of escaping the earth, and the soft purr of this particular twin-engine biplane, though her business partner, Uncle Eddie, called it an infernal drumming, and said she was not to be such a silly sod.

  She laughed out loud, hearing his voice as though he was next to her, and she patted the control panel. ‘Purr away, my little Dragonette. Uncle’s a nasty horrid man who’s left me running our little airline and home, while he prances about in a wartime uniform. Quite frankly, he’s more than old enough to know better.’

  That too would have made him groan. She searched the early summer sky wondering if he or any other Air Transport Auxiliary pilots were flying replacement aircraft towards the French coast where British forces were fighting the Nazis. Usually the Ancient and Tattered Airmen, as the civilian ATA force was commonly called, flew military aircraft from factories to maintenance units for arming. But perhaps they were now replacing lost planes on the front line?

  Certainly things must be desperate, because they had started to admit a thimbleful of women, but only a tiny few. Bryony searched the sky again. There was only one other aircraft and that was heading north, probably bound for Exeter Airport.

  She peered down, seeing what looked like a mass of toy boats heading to and from the Channel Islands. They would be carrying holidaymakers, or returning islanders, and of course potatoes to the mainland of France or Britain. There were some fishing smacks too that would return to harbour at day’s end.

  She continued and before long Jersey was in sight. It was then that she turned her head, raising her voice, calling to the six passengers sitting behind her in the three rows of double seats separated by a narrow aisle, ‘If you peer out of the left-hand windows, you can see in the distance the coast of France and ahead is Jersey. But stay seated please, and no dancing in the aisle or you’ll tip us, and we’ll head down to Jersey, all in a spin, literally. What’s worse, Old Davy who’s sitting next to Adam Cottrall won’t get back to tend his pigs. The pigs, however, won’t go short, because if we hit the deck someone will just feed us to them.’

  Above the laughter, and just behind her, a hand shifted her leather helmet, and Adam, leaning forward, said, ‘You could land us whatever the conditions, Bee. Uncle Eddie taught you well.’

  Adam was the man she loved, but having grown up with Bryony he treated her as some sort of scruffy little brother in overalls, just as all her male friends did. Well, hardly surprising, as she was usually bum up and head down deep in the bowels of an aircraft engine. Or so her mother seldom failed to remind her, in that voice.

  Old Davy called, ‘I can hear you buttering up our Bee, young Adam. Ain’t she looking after you proper while you’re home at Combe Lodge on sick leave? Tell you what, our Bee’s not getting any younger you know, twenty-three if she’s a day, and you’re the right age for her, twenty-six, ain’t you? It’s time someone took her off the shelf. You could call her Eve and the two of you could walk off into the sunset.’ He paused, then said slowly and loudl
y as though the other passengers were deaf, daft or just asleep, ‘Adam and Eve, got it?’

  Bee knew, as she drew ever closer to the coast, that Old Davy would be looking round the cabin for appreciation, and receiving it, more’s the pity. Not getting any younger, indeed. All the time she was thinking these thoughts she was alert to the wind, to the engine sounds, to the Dragonette’s feel: to be complacent could mean disaster. She looked around, up and down, then glanced at the control panel. All was well.

  Buoyed by the laughter, Old Davy continued with gusto behind her. ‘Well Adam, my old lad, you with the fishing smack, or is it a pleasure boat, never know which . . .’

  ‘The Sunflower serves as both,’ Adam said.

  ‘Well, whatever it is, what with your boat and Bee’s half share of the airline, the pair of you could have a right good business when this darned war is over and you could call it . . .’ He paused as though waiting for someone to guess, but no one did. Please, please, thought Bryony, let them have gone to sleep. She crossed from sea to land and followed the road leading to her Uncle Thomas’s farm and the landing strip.

  ‘You could call it Adam and Eve’s Juicy Apple.’ His cackle almost choked him but didn’t.

  Lieutenant Manders laughed, but without amusement. ‘Lord knows when it will be over. Our expeditionary force to Norway couldn’t do a thing to help when the Germans occupied them, we just got our bottoms smacked.’

  His wife hushed him. ‘We’re here for a holiday darling, just as that nice Mr Churchill advised us all to do. Besides, it will help your leg. Well, your non-existent leg.’ Her voice held breathtaking bitterness. ‘Some people call this the phoney war, but we know different.’ The bitterness had deepened.

  Adam muttered in Bryony’s ear, ‘The lifting of some air travel restrictions got us back in the air and earning a few pounds but Manders is right, I doubt it will last. The Nazis are just steamrolling over everyone, and . . .’

  She looked around again, then up and down. In Jersey, as in the countryside near Exmouth, the trees were in full leaf, the daffodils long finished, the potatoes being transported in trucks to the port of St Helier. She had knotted the daffodil leaves at home, and her dianthus were blooming, the digitalis too. What’s more, the box hedges she and April, Adam’s mother, the housekeeper at Combe Lodge, had planted had all survived the winter. It was easier to think of things growing, of nature continuing unabated, than the uncertain state of their world. Adam was waiting for a reply. She said, ‘Quite the little ray of sunshine aren’t you, Adam Cottrall. You’re clearly getting better and back to your positive self.’

  He touched her shoulder. ‘Indigestion, I expect, thanks to your revolting hard-boiled eggs for our breakfast this morning. But I have to say, the toast was good.’

  Soon he’d be telling her she had earned a trip to the pub for a quick one with the rest of the lads. She made herself laugh. ‘I know you’d rather have your mum’s fluffy scrambled eggs but she’s too busy cooking meals for the hotel to pander to hypochondriacs like you. Just be grateful I keep some sort of an eye on you and let’s not pretend I enjoy it.’

  What else could she say, with Old Davy’s idiocy hanging in the air? Well, she could say: yes, let’s stick together, not for the sake of the company but because I’m a woman and adore the earth you walk upon, and always have.

  She glanced all around and below, then at her instruments, and gradually eased back on her speed and height once they passed Haven Farm Bridge, which marked the extent of her Uncle Thomas’s land. She called, ‘Make sure you’re all strapped in, please, as we’ll be landing very shortly. Adam, I can hear you wheezing even over the Dragonette’s purring, so keep that jacket on when we land, or I’ll have your guts for garters.’

  Adam groaned, ‘Ever the lady.’

  The Dragonette’s shadow flashed over fields. ‘Everyone – Adam will have a quick look around to check your straps.’ Behind her, Adam coughed, and then again and again. Soon he was gasping for breath. When at last he could speak his voice was weaker and she could hear the strain in it as he checked the straps and kept up small talk.

  He returned to his seat and squeezed her shoulder once more before settling back. She straightened her helmet, descending into the wind, checking and rechecking her instruments, her height, her speed, easing the yoke, gently, gently. She saw Uncle Thomas and Aunt Olive arrive at the field, with Rosie, Hannah’s mongrel. The doc’s Land Rover skidded in through the gate. He always came if there was a landing, just in case of trouble.

  Hannah, her seventeen-year-old sister, was not amongst the welcoming party and Bryony felt thankful, though relaxed when she remembered that there would be no histrionics just for once. After all, it was Hannah who had telephoned her, requesting a return flight to Combe Lodge, so she could start at art college.

  The Dragonette landed, feather-light, holding steady as it rumbled along the grass with no yawing until it finally stopped. Bryony switched off, and eased her shoulders in the silence. It was always a relief to be safely down. She stretched and removed her helmet, her dark auburn hair falling free. Sweat had dampened her temples. She returned the waves of the doc, and her aunt and uncle before hanging up her helmet. Only then did she slip back through the cabin, where the passengers were undoing their straps.

  Adam had the cabin door open. He slipped on to the wing and then the ground, settling the footstool he’d been carrying firmly on the mown grass. Bryony followed, feeling the warm breeze and the soft Jersey air. She held up a hand to Lieutenant Manders, who was sitting on the wing. He slid down, and his wife followed with his crutches, then Old Davy, and finally the last passengers, Mr and Mrs Devonshire. Adam handed Bryony a couple of suitcases while he took the rest. Old Davy toted his own carpet bag.

  Lieutenant Manders and his wife struggled over the grass towards the welcoming party with Bryony alongside. Adam had been in Norway too, or almost. A shell had landed near his armed trawler just off the coast and blasted him off the deck into the cold sea, hence the double pneumonia and sick leave.

  Bryony heard the doc drive off, saluting her with a couple of hoots. Aunt Olive met them, hugging Mrs Manders as though she was an old friend, patting her shoulder. ‘There there, this week will build you both up.’ She smiled at Bryony, took the cases, whispering, ‘Darling Bee, I’ll take over here, you wait for Mr and Mrs Devonshire.’

  Rosie was sitting at Bryony’s feet, her tongue lolling to one side, her tail wagging. Bryony laughed, and squatted to stroke her while Aunt Olive led the Manders to the gate where Clive, the conscientious objector, was waiting with the trap. He had been sent to Jersey with the other COs to work the potato fields, and earned unofficial pocket money by acting as a taxi service for Uncle Thomas’s holiday cottages.

  Old Davy caught up. He lived in a cottage not far from Haven Farm and would walk. He pulled Rosie’s ears, and as Bryony rose, Adam called, ‘You walk on, Bee.’ She and Old Davy reached the gate, where he gave her a smacking kiss and slapped her bum. ‘You’re a great girl, Bryony. If I was younger . . .’

  Bryony grinned. ‘Or if I was even older and more dusty from the shelf . . .’ He cackled and left.

  Mrs Devonshire reached her, holding on to her hat to prevent it reaching St Helier ahead of them. She and her husband were heading for a hotel there. Mr Devonshire arrived, and took his case from Adam saying, ‘Thank you, Miss Miller, we will use you again, if, please God, things go well in France. I gather that’s our taxi?’ He pointed to Jack Blanchet’s Morris parked on the side of the road.

  Bryony nodded. ‘Now remember, I’ll be here this time next week to return you to the mainland. Have a lovely holiday.’ The couple hurried away. Adam stood with her, waving until the transport was out of sight. She could hear that his chest was worse, and wished she hadn’t agreed to let him come. They began to tramp back to the landing strip, where Uncle Thomas was chocking the Dragonette’s wheels. Though the wind was strong the sun was hot and halfway there Bryony stopped, lifting her face
. ‘You need to sit on Aunt Olive’s terrace, Adam. It’s sheltered and you can breathe in the clean air. You’re not even half recovered. Your chest is still bad, and your arm’s not healed from the shrapnel.’

  He said, ‘Never mind me, you need to brace yourself. Hannah’s just slouched in the gate and looks as though she has something on her mind.’

  ‘What? But we’re doing her bidding.’

  Uncle Thomas finished chocking and came to them, hugging Bryony. ‘Bee, my lovely lass, all well? Good to see you, Adam – feeling more the ticket, are you? Don’t look it, I have to say, but brace for a choppy landing, both of you. Hannah’s attacking from the rear. Been in a foul mood these last two days, but what’s new?’ He grimaced and fled back to the aircraft to lock the doors and check this, that and the other; clearly anything to avoid his youngest niece.

  Bryony sighed, raising her eyebrows at Adam. ‘I’m getting too old for this.’

  Adam laughed. ‘Old Davy would agree.’

  Bryony wagged a finger. He laughed again, saying, ‘It’s her age, I imagine, though she does seem to summon up a storm with monotonous regularity. Remember when you shipped her and your mother out here in the first place?’

  Bryony snapped, ‘Mum needed to spend some time here with Aunt Olive, for her health and—’

  ‘I know,’ he soothed her. ‘You thought it would put distance between Hannah and Sid the Spiv if she accompanied her. Now you’re bringing her home, just as she wanted, so what’s the problem with her now?’

  ‘Exactly. On the telephone she sounded cheerful, and just look at her, for heaven’s sake.’

  Adam whispered, ‘Would you have said yes if she’d said she was returning to Sid?’

  Bryony glared at him. ‘Shut up.’

  He nodded. ‘Exactly. So do you really think she’s going to college, or have you been manipulated and reeled in like a gasping fish?’

  ‘Shut up,’ Bryony snapped again.