Page 22 of The Island Girls

Rebekah led the way down Banks Road and pointed out some of the most expensive property in the world. ‘John Lennon bought a house for his Aunty Mimi just around the corner, you know,’ she told him.

‘That would have been a bit different from her place in Liverpool, I’m sure.’

‘Apparently, John loved the peace and quiet here. And he was right, don’t you think? It really is one of the most beautiful places in the world to relax,’ she said.

‘If you couldn’t have your little cottage on Brownsea Island, then I suppose one of these mansions would do.’ He shrugged and shot her a quick smile. ‘But I much prefer the real deal. Your place is perfect.’

‘Yes, if only it really was mine. It’s just the accommodation that goes with the job, but wouldn’t it be lovely to have a permanent home somewhere so magical as Brownsea?’

As they made their way out into the open of the peninsula road, the ferry to Cherbourg was chugging out of the harbour and seemed to tower above all the smaller boats around it.

‘From what I’ve learnt about the flying boats that were here in the war, that ferry is charging straight down the main runway,’ Paul said thoughtfully.

‘Are you particularly interested in the war?’ she asked.

‘It’s intriguing. I came here to gather information and sort through archives on the pottery, thinking it would be all about business transactions and staff members, but I had no idea what an important role the pottery played as part of the flying boatservice during the war. Did you know that they used the Harbour Heights Hotel for their guests?’ he asked and Rebekah shook her head gently. ‘If they had to overnight before an early-morning flight, they’d stay at the hotel then be driven down to the marina at Salterns. Most of the male staff from the pottery were called up and went away to war, but some of the women were retained to work for BOAC – the British Overseas Airways Corporation. It became British Airways in the end.’

‘Really? I had no idea about that part.’ Rebekah was stunned. She knew that Pig had some memories of flying boats in the war, but Pig was just a fisherman’s daughter. Perhaps she’d not known the full extent of this civilian service.

‘Poole Harbour was one the first places in the world to be called an “Airport”,’ he said, with emphasis. ‘Up until that time, the few planes there were in the 1930s were just based on random small landing strips around the country. But with the war and the sudden growth of the RAF fleet, all of those airstrips became RAF bases for the fighter planes and bombers, and the flying boat services were all moved from Southampton to Poole where it was thought it would be safer. So, for a short while, Poole Harbour was the only international civilian airport in the country –portbeing the operative word, of course, for the flyingboats.’

Paul regaled her with the fascinating history he’d learnt all the way back to the hotel, where they picked up his car and drove back into Poole town centre again.

He found an empty space in the Poole Pottery staff car park.

‘I’ll go inside and see to a few things while you get your odds and ends done. Meet you back here about six o’clock?’ Paul suggested. ‘I’ll leave this side door ajar, so you can just come up the back way to find me.’

Rebekah picked up the backpack that held her library books and headed up the High Street before she realised a flaw intheir plan: she couldn’t buy refrigerated groceries and have them hanging around for several hours in Paul’s car while they went on a tour of the Purbecks. She glanced at her watch – 3.50p.m. Just enough time if she was quick. She dashed around Sainsbury’s and collected all the basics she might need for the next week, then hurried as fast as she could manage with her heavy bags back down to the quay. She reached the ferry just as the last passengers were boarding the final trip around the harbour for the day.

‘Sorry, Phil, I’ve not managed my time very well this afternoon,’ she explained to the ferry’s deckhand. ‘Can you please take these for me and get them into the Brownsea reception? There’s a bag here that’ll need to be popped in the fridge. I’ll pick them up when I get home on theEnterpriselater,’ she said.

‘Right you are, Rebekah, not a problem. Lovely evening. Doin’ something nice, are we?’ he asked with a smile.

‘I hope so,’ she called back over her shoulder. Relieved of the heavy grocery bags, Rebekah enjoyed the walk all the way back up the High Street to the library where she had just enough time to return her books and pick out a selection for the next few weeks: the latestHarry Potter, Helen Fielding’s first novel – the serialisation of which in the national newspapers had been hilarious – and Thomas Hardy’sWessex Tales. Something fantastical, something to make her laugh, and some gritty Victorian realism set firmly in the heart of Dorset.

Rebekah made her way back to where she’d agreed to meet Paul at six o’clock and pushed open the door he’d left ajar for her. She found herself in a back corridor of the pottery offices. All was eerily quiet. The factory floor probably didn’t operate on a Saturday anyway, but she knew the showroom and café did, as she’d been in there herself for a cup of tea several times, but they would be closed for the day by now. She made her wayalong the corridor in the rough direction she thought she might find Paul but was soon distracted by all the historical photos that lined the hallway. Some were in colour and showed the various pottery collection designs through the latter part of the twentieth century, but others were black and white.

There was one of the paintresses, all sitting in rows. Judging by their clothes, it must have dated from the 1930s. And then one caught her eye as it seemed to have nothing to do with the pottery at all. The photo had been taken on Poole Quay, and there were several women wearing dark uniforms of slacks and jumpers and matching caps with an insignia. A lone man was pointing out into the harbour and the women followed his gaze. It was obviously a staged photograph and looked to date from the Second World War. One of the women was strikingly beautiful. She had fair hair that curled under her cap, and high cheekbones. Something about her was familiar.

Rebekah read the inscription printed beneath the photo. The date was 1943 and it read:

Bosun Frank Hewitt points the way to a flying boat from Poole Quay, watched by British Airways Seawomen, Nora Bevis, Eileen Wigg and Margaret Symonds.

She wondered if Margaret might have been related to Peggy, but it was unlikely. The name Symonds was fairly common, after all. But the faraway look on that one woman’s face – she presumed this was Margaret from the order of the names in the inscription – drew her in to the picture. Why did she not look as though she was giggling, as the other girls were? She was probably the same age, but something about her expression made her look older. Wiser. Deeper.

‘Fascinating, aren’t they?’ said a deep voice that gently brought Rebekah back to the present.

‘They’re beautiful. And they must have been very skilled, too.’

‘There’s very little detail about them that I can find – and I’ve tried to look. Just their names and addresses, their roles, and their pay rates recorded in a random book I found. They weren’t part of the pottery business, but the connection was strong between the pottery and BOAC.’

‘It would be wonderful to find out more about these women. Who were they, do you think? And what happened to them?’ she mused, but Paul had no answers for her.

Paul led the way up to the office along the corridor, where he was just packing up his things.

‘I heard the door open and guessed it was you,’ he explained. ‘I just need to pack up and then we can set off. Did you get everything done?’ he asked her.

‘Yes, thanks. Even sent my groceries home on that last ferry to the island. What about you?’

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