Evie by Julia Stoneham

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 westcoast 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