Carla and Other Stories , livre ebook

Title Page
CARLA
And Other Stories


By
Caro Buckley



Publisher Information
Carla and Other Stories published in 2013
by Andrews UK Limited
www.andrewsuk.com
This book is sold subject to the condition that it shall not, by way of trade or otherwise, be lent, resold, hired out or otherwise circulated without the publisher’s prior written consent in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published, and without a similar condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.
The characters and situations in this book are entirely imaginary and bear no relation to any real person or actual happening.
Acorns & Conkers © Kay Sexton 2006, 2013
Carla © Kay Sexton 2013
Dancing with the Made Unmade © Kay Sexton 2013
Welford Calling © Kay Sexton 2013
The right of Caro Buckley to be identified as author of this book has been asserted in accordance with section 77 and 78 of the Copyrights Designs and Patents Act 1988.



Welford Calling
Marge knew something was wrong as soon as she stepped out of the cockpit of the C-47. It was clear from the way the four Yankee ground crew stared at her. It wasn’t the first time she’d found herself the object of ground crew scrutiny and, as usual, she glared at them until they looked away. The Air Transport Auxiliary had all kinds of pilots: good ones, bad ones, injured ones, mad ones, and women. It was the women that got all the attention, of course, but if any woman was going to be given little or no attention, it was Marge Cresswell. She pulled her pilot’s cap down over her curly, sandy hair and swung down from the plane that had been repaired by the ATA mechanics before being returned to its owners at the American Air Force base at Welford.
There was another Yankee heading towards her at a fast clip, wearing full uniform. “Hey, Marve!” This American yelled, “Good of you to bring our Dakota back.”
Marge knew that the C-47 was familiarly known as the Dakota, but who was Marve? Then she got it. She straightened her back, noting that the Yank was tall, broad-shouldered, tan and pretty special looking. And he knew it. As he got closer, his steps slowed, until he was moving at a funeral pace and his outstretched hand approached her like a feather wafting on the breeze, slow, uncertain and tentative.
She snapped her own hand to her cap-brim in a salute. “ATA Second Officer Cresswell, delivering your mended plane, sir.”
“Ah ... uh... okay.” The American saluted casually. “Are you Mrs Cresswell? Come along for the ride, did you?”
“No sir, I am Air Transport Authority Second Officer Cresswell. You were told to expect me, I think?”
“Yeah ... No. We were ... uh... expecting a pilot called Marve Cresswell?”
“Marge, sir. Short for Marjorie.”
“Well damn!” The Yank pushed back his cap and scratched his jet black hair. “You Brits have women pilots now?”
Marge maintained her composure. At least he’d called her a woman. The British ground crew called her Buff, which sounded like a reasonable nickname until you realised it stood for Big Ugly Flying Fucker and was otherwise applied to the enormous American B-52 Bombers.
“This is gonna be awkward,” the American said.
“It’s not the first time it’s happened,” Marge said, dismissively. “If you’re worried about my accommodation, there’s probably a farm nearby that’s got Land Girls - they’ll find a place for me to sleep. If not that, a girls’ school or hospital will often have a bed for an ATA. We are part of the war effort you know. We don’t expect luxury.”
He grinned. “Lady, you’ve got a helluva chip on your shoulder. As it happens, we planned to have you stay with us in Married Quarters when we thought you were a guy, and that holds good now you’re ...” He paused and shrugged, “... not. But it’s still gonna put a crimp in proceedings.”
Marge waited to see if he’d elaborate but he just stood there, grinning at her.
“Well,” she said eventually, “I do have an onward flight tomorrow: a Lockheed Constellation up to Lowestoft, so I’ll need to be in the air at dawn. Perhaps you could take me to my quarters?”
“Yeah. Sure. I’m Vic, by the way.” The American pivoted on his heel and began strolling back to the Nissan Hut that housed the airport command centre. Marge decided the Americans were deplorably unmilitary and marched as smartly as she could beside him. He glanced sideways and winked. “My darlin’ bride is gonna just about get the surprise of her life when she sees you.”
“Oh? Is it the trousers? We fly in trews in case of baling out. Parachutes are not terribly skirt-friendly.” God, she sounded like the headmistress of a particularly stuck-up school.
He winked again. “Oh no, Eleanor like trousers, believe me - she’s kinda keen on anything in trousers. Not sure what she’s gonna make of you though.”
Marge stared straight ahead so he couldn’t see her gritted teeth. The last thing she wanted was to spend the evening making small talk with some vacuous American and his dim-witted wife.
Eleanor looked like Veronica Lake except brunette. She had honey skin, huge heavy-lidded dark eyes and a lock of hair the colour of Bisto gravy that hung over her right eye just as the movie star’s did. She wore a tight white poplin dress with black polka dots and a black sailor collar that plunged down to sculpt a cleavage of such daring extent and such a glowing golden colour that Marge was almost unable to believe it was real.
Vic and his wife could have been siblings, Marge though, except his errant lock of hair curled, and his eyes were blue.
Eleanor did look put out when Vic introduced her to, “Our brave British ally, the pilot who delivered our repaired Gooney Bird, ATA Marge Cresswell,” But she was polite enough to take her husband into the kitchen to ‘help sort out the British stove’. Unfortunately they forgot to shut the serving hatch so Marge could hear everything.