London. April 1943

I first met Joe on the way to London. The train was quiet and thankfully I'd been left alone. From Inverayne to Aberdeen, then Edinburgh, changing trains twice, I spoke to no-one. We were pulling out of Edinburgh when Joe burst in, an explosion of swearing I hoped would keep going into the next carriage. Wielding a suitcase that had seen better days and a suit that matched, he made his way towards me, as if something about me was drawing him on. He was short, about my age, but solid as a horse. He'd have made a good rugby player or a boxer, maybe. About 5'3', his hat perched back on his crown, oversize ears, teeth like broken piano keys. His suitcase landed on the luggage rack next to my trumpet case and he crashed down, sweating and out of breath. I watched him over the top of my paper. I'd a copy of the Melody Maker with me but had read the same passage three or four times. I pretended to be engrossed. No eye contact, no invitation to start talking. Joe needed no invitation. 'Christ,' he said. 'Very nearly missed it.'

I nodded, acknowledging it appeared that yes, he had nearly missed it, and returned to my paper. 'Aye. I was in some boozer having a last pint and it was further from the station than I thought. I tell you, running with a stomach full of heavy is no a good idea.'

He belched, as if his point needed emphasis. I almost reached for my gas mask. I lit a cigarette to cover the smell. 'Good man,' he said, leaning over and taking one. In my ear, I could hear Lizzie, my sister, saying, 'Tell him where to get off.' I offered him a match.

'So where you going?' he asked. 'London, is it? All the way?'

I nodded. 'Yes, London.'

'Me too. You're no in uniform so I'm guessing you're on your way tae get one. Just turned eighteen then?'

'No, nineteen. Well, at the end of the month.'

Two weeks after my eighteenth birthday I'd signed up. The day of my last exam. Five minutes after 'pens down', a couple of slapped backs, shaken hands and I was through the gates and down the hill, no stopping me on my way to the recruitment office. No Army or Navy for me, though my best mate, Willie Rennie, wanted me to join with him. 'Come on, we'll fight them together, show them what the boys of Inverayne can dae.'

No chance. It was the RAF all the way.

A pilot.

Sharp blue uniform.

Spitfires.

The few.

It's always the pilots that turn a girl's head, and for that you had to volunteer.

My older brother, Dod, had signed up in 1939. He made it as far as France. Dunkirk. Never came back. No room for the dead. No coffin for Dod. French soil for him. Never did find out when or where, just the fact of it. The Chapman boy with a telegram. Your son. My brother. I couldn't join the Army, not after Dod. Couldn't let them conscript me. A hole in the sand. Mortars. Dead and buried. I chose the endless sky. Home at the end of the day. A job done. A pint and your grub. Your own bed. Being a younger brother, I had Dod's hindsight. It had to be the RAF.

'Fit wy are ye ... I mean, why are you going to London? You're not