When Gwen was shaken awake by Kitty for the dawn patrol the next morning she was hungover and her mouth tasted like she’d eaten the grass clippings they spread on the airfield, but she was happy. Happier than she’d been for a long time, since her husband had died at least.

The celebration had gone on past midnight and there had been a lot to drink - Abby hadn’t been lying when she’d said that the mess was well-stocked.

When Gwen had gotten over her anger, and wiped away her subsequent tears of relief, she’d been installed on a stool at the bar, then one by one the pilots had come up to introduce themselves properly.

Abby was first and she brought with her half a pint of Best Bitter, Gwen’s favourite. ‘I’m sorry for the pantomime earlier, but we had to do something special, not just for you, but for the rest of the pilots as well. The squadron has flown together for months and you know what that can do to a group of people, how close they can start to feel.’ She sighed sadly. ‘As you know, we were very lucky and didn’t lose anybody for a long time, but I always knew that it would happen eventually; this is war after all, so I decided to have some kind of ritual ready, so that the new pilot could feel like they were truly becoming one of us and the other Misfits could feel the same.’ She shrugged and gave Gwen a half-smile. ‘You’re the first to experience it. How was it?’

‘Annoying.’

Abby laughed, but Gwen wasn’t joking; the feelings of rejection were too fresh in her mind and she hadn’t had nearly enough to drink yet to forget them. She considered her words carefully, though, not wanting to say something out of anger that she would regret later. ‘I seriously thought that you were going to throw me out and I took it very badly because of how I got here and what would happen to me if you did.’

The smile left Abby’s face immediately and her hand went up to her mouth as she realised what Gwen was saying. ‘Oh god, I hadn’t thought of that... I should have said something, it was damn silly of me to treat you like that. It was supposed to be part of the fun, but I can see how you... Oh god.’

Gwen shook her head and sighed. ‘Don’t worry about it; I’m sure if it had been anyone else it would have been perfect - even though you put me through hell for a while there, I can still appreciate the symbolism and sentiment. And as for the bad feelings... I’m sure they’ll disappear after a few more of these!’ She raised her glass in salute then tipped it up, not stopping until the bottom was pointing straight at the red trophies over the bar. The last few drops fell into her mouth and she smacked her lips and grinned. ‘There. I feel a bit better already!’

Abby laughed again. ‘I’m glad! And I really am sorry. Well, having said all that, may I present myself? My name is Wing Commander Abigail Lennox and I am the commander of this little disaster we like to call Misfit Squadron. I’m thirty three years of age and I have a son, Jimmy, who you’ve already had the dubious pleasure of meeting. I was a civilian until 1937 when I was tasked with putting together this little group of fools by Whitehall and awarded my rank at the same time. More than a few people weren’t too happy about that, although I like to think I’ve earned it since then. I trod on a few more toes while I was putting together the Misfits and one wag at RAC HQ came up with the name “The Abbess” which unfortunately stuck and spread, but anybody who knows me knows I don’t like that and don’t call me that, at least not to my face, although I’m sure they call me worse things after long missions.’

Abby took a breather to wet her whistle, swigging her own drink, but not swallowing nearly as much of it as Gwen had. ‘Anyway, I’m sure you’ll find out a lot more about me as we go on, but before I leave you in Bruce’s hands I want you to know that, while it’s true that you’ve stepped into my sister’s shoes and cockpit, nobody is expecting you to be her. Be your own pilot, be your own person and be one of us.’

The woman smiled and nodded then slipped off her stool and went over to pat Bruce on the shoulder.

The Australian sauntered over to Gwen, bringing with him another pint of Best and a huge smile. ‘G’day, Gwen!’

The next couple of hours had gone by very quickly and very enjoyably. During the course of the evening each of the pilots had introduced themselves one by one in order of their call signs, even the ones that she already knew well, like Kitty and Scarlet. Each of them had told her some of their story and every one of them had bought her a drink so by the time the last one had finished Gwen had been feeling decidedly unsteady on her feet.

Hence her pounding headache the morning after.

As Gwen rolled out of bed and started to dress, she tried to recall everything that she had been told, wanting to make sure that she remembered the things that her new squadron had wanted her to know about themselves.

Bruce “Walkabout” Walker, Badger Three and pilot of Bandicoot had been a pilot with the Austral-Zealand Air Force until it had been incorporated into the Royal Aviator Corps a couple of years before the start of the war with Prussia, which was when he had come to Abby’s attention. He had fought in the Indochine skirmishes against the Nippon-Chinese Alliance, a series of battles that had been brief, but incredibly bloody.

Montgomery “Monty” Fletcher had been part of a flying circus, doing stunts and sometimes playing the bad guy for fake dogfights. He’d had an accident during one show early in his career and his hair had burned off and only grown back in patches, so he kept his head shaved. His aircraft, Ballerina, had been red many years ago, but even before the start of the war that colour had become synonymous with the Crimson Barons and so he had repainted her orange. He was continually tinkering with his aircraft, keeping up to date with the latest innovations, and would have monopolised more of Gwen’s time, asking her about the modifications that she had made to her Harridan, if Abby hadn’t come over and forcibly dragged him off his stool to make way for the next Misfit.

Lady Penelope Bagshot was the pilot of Cheetah and led B flight. She was married to a racing car driver, Lord Bagshot, twenty years her senior, and had painted her aircraft in homage to that fact - Cheetah’s nose and the front of her fuselage was painted in black and white checks while the rest of her was British racing green. Her husband was a colonel in the army, but she had refused to stay at home and wait like a good wife. She was a lifelong friend of Cece’s, they had gone to school together, and when she had heard that Abby was putting together a squadron she had pestered the wing commander for a place in the squadron, insisting that she deserved it because she had been constructing her own aircraft for years (using considerable sums of her husband’s money).

Badger Six was William “Mad Mac” MacShane, a Scotsman from a small village near Oban. While the other pilots mostly brought her bitter, he gave her a glass of whisky from Argyll, some of his own private stock - something which he jealously guarded and which a few of the pilots standing nearby eyed with open desire when he poured it, then her with envy when she tasted it. If she’d thought she’d had trouble with Scarlet’s accent at first, it was nothing compared to the difficulty she had understanding Mac. He was an inventor, obsessed with speed and had used Loch Etive, next to his village, as a runway for successive variants of Swordfish, his aircraft, originally a seaplane. He had screamed up and down the valleys of northwest Scotland for years, refining his machine, making it faster and faster, until Abby had recruited him. As soon as he had joined the RAC he had removed the floats in favour of a proper undercarriage and since then he had concentrated less on making it fast and more on making it a good gun platform. According to Lady Penelope, whose wingman he was, he was ferocious in the air and would often laugh his head off in the middle of a fight, although he had never done anything to endanger either her or the rest of the squadron.

Derek “Twitcher” Niven, led Kitty in the second interceptor pair and couldn’t have been more different in character than the bloodthirsty Scotsman, Mac. He was cold and calculated in the air, never taking a fight he wasn’t sure he could win or a shot he wasn’t sure would hit. Whenever he wasn’t flying, he either had his nose in a book or was out in the nearby forest, studying the wildlife; he was a biologist and an ornithologist, as well as a mechanic, and his aircraft, Swift, had many distinctive features borrowed from his subjects, including a distinctive crescent-shaped wing similar to the bird she took her name from.

Badger Eight was Kitty, of course, and she hugged Gwen, gave her some Kentucky Bourbon that was her favourite drink, and told her the story of how she had been in England - she had fought on the Republican side in the Iberian Civil War and had fled to the Kingdom of Britain when that had gone from bad to worse. Spain was where she had first come across the Crimson Barons, an encounter that hadn’t gone at all well for the Republicans and she had lost all but one of the six Americans she’d joined up with in a single dogfight.

Badgers Nine and Ten came together, they were Owen and Wendy Llewellyn, husband and wife, “Sheepish” and “Firepower”. They had met in the Misfits, immediately fallen in love and had been married while the squadron was in France.

Owen was Welsh, one of the scientists who had originally developed the radar system that protected the British Isles, and when that project had finished he had been recruited by Abby and tasked with creating a system compact enough to go in an aircraft. He was second in command of the squadron, as much because of the role assigned his aircraft than for any question of rank; rank really didn’t seem to matter much, if at all, in the Misfits.

Wendy was English and had been recruited separately by Abby. She was a gunsmith as well as a pilot and was responsible for the upkeep of the squadron’s weapons as well as the creation and manufacture of new ones. Her aircraft was the biggest in the hangar and she was one of the biggest pilots, the biggest women that Gwen had ever seen in fact.

Badger Eleven, Charles “Chalky” Isaacs wasn’t quite an albino, but his hair was so blonde as to be almost white. He had been an astronomer and astrologist before the war and was a believer in alchemy and numerology and quite a few other “ologies” that Gwen had never heard of. His aircraft, Vulture, had been developed as a platform for his telescope to get him above the pollution of the cities and into the cleaner air high in the atmosphere, closer to the stars. It was incredibly stable with long wings for gliding and a balloon system somewhat similar to Dreadnought’s, although his used inert helium instead of the more volatile hydrogen that doubled for fuel in Wendy’s aircraft. When he joined the Misfits he had removed his telescope and replaced it with cameras that allowed him to take photographs from so high up that the Prussians usually never knew he was watching them.

The last pilot to take the seat next to Gwen had been Scarlet. Her aircraft, Hummingbird, was a kind of gyrodyne that had the ability to takeoff vertically and hover due to its overhead rotor, but it also had normal wings and an airscrew that allowed it to fly normally and gave it more speed than other rotor-equipped aircraft. She was from County Galway on the west coast of Ireland and had originally developed Hummingbird as a crop sprayer for her family’s farm, but it had been a simple matter to remove the tanks and the spraying equipment and increase the power of the small machine to make it a fast, and relatively quiet, low-level scout.

Gwen was relieved to find that she remembered almost everything that the pilots had told her, because events after Scarlet had gotten off the stool became increasingly hazy as the night had gone on as she had been dragged in among the rest of the pilots and plied with more drink.

They had all gathered around the small piano and she had joined them in singing, accompanied by Lady Penelope, who turned out to be quite talented and had a repertoire that extended well into the recent trends in music. Between songs the Misfits had taken it in turns to tell stories and jokes, most of which she didn’t recall very well, but she did have a vague impression of telling the tale of the sortie that had given her her first two kills and she seemed to recall that the memory hadn’t been quite as painful as it once had - it was still a tragedy to have lost two colleagues, but it had also led to her being where she was, in the place where, according to them, she was meant to be and where she could do most good in the war.

A wave of dizziness hit her, making her feel suddenly quite queasy and her calm walk down the corridor to the bathroom became something of a rush.

She had a murky recollection of staggering to the barracks through the gardens, which had been beautifully illuminated by the light of the full moon, with the aid of Kitty and Scarlet, who had gotten her uniform off her and tucked her in.

She had one final image of Kitty bending over her to kiss her on the forehead, but then nothing else until the American had woken her that morning.

All in all it had been a very good night and, no matter how bad she felt at that moment as she emptied the contents of her stomach in one of the bathroom stalls, she didn’t regret it one bit.

She began to regret it a little when she was up in the air half an hour later - she’d drunk plenty of water and forced down a bacon sandwich, her father’s favourite cure for a hangover, but that wasn’t stopping her from feeling decidedly queasy in the early morning turbulence.

However, even if she couldn’t enjoy the sensation of flying as much as she usually did, she could still take in the view of the sun rising over the beautiful countryside below and that was enough to take her mind off of her nausea and stop her from having to use the greaseproof paper bag Abby had given her before takeoff. She had no idea how she would handle the extreme manoeuvres of a dogfight, though, but fortunately there was no sign of enemy aircraft and eventually they were ordered back to base by Sapper without having done anything other than wound down their springs.

On the way home Gwen cracked open her canopy and the fresh air helped to make her feel much better. However, what was waiting for them at the airfield turned her stomach over almost as much as the alcohol had.

‘What on earth is that thing on the grass?’

Mad Mac’s voice was even harder to understand over the radio, but apparently Abby was more used to it than Gwen. ‘It’s a duel Harridan, Mac. That’s the Hawkings’ private aircraft.’

There were faint clicks as most of the pilots slotted lenses in place to get a better look at the machine sitting on the side of Badger Base’s airfield.

Gwen didn’t need to, though; she knew exactly what they were seeing; she had seen it before. The dual Harridan was a wide aircraft that was essentially two fighters attached at the wingtip and with the twin tails joined by a single long tailplane. It was a bit like Kitty’s aircraft, but much wider, and it had two cockpits. It also had twelve guns, the armament of two Harridans.

‘The designers? What the hell are they doing here? We don’t fly bloody Harridans.’

‘Maybe they’ve come to get some tips?’

Bruce’s dry comment got laughs from most of the squadron, but nobody else offered up any explanation for why two of the most important figures in the aircraft industry had turned up on an airbase that they shouldn’t have even known about.

Gwen knew exactly why the Hawkings, creators of the Harridan fighter that she had illegally modified, were there, but she just sighed to herself and said nothing as the squadron fell silent and began peeling off to land one by one.

Gwen landed first with Abby and got out after they were pushed into the hangar, but while the wing commander went to greet the guests she lingered in the hangar and watched the other aircraft coming in. Once both A and B flight were inside, the dual Harridan was brought in as well and placed just inside the doors, which she hoped meant that they wouldn’t be staying for long. She joined the other pilots as they went to stand next to the machine, alternating between inspecting the curious aircraft and gazing out into the sunlight where the wing commander was talking with the two visitors.

When Abby came back in and called out her name she hung her head and trudged towards the hangar doors; she’d half hoped that the Hawkings hadn’t actually known that she was there and she would be able to stay out of sight of them until they left, but that wasn’t to be apparently.

She could feel the curious eyes of the rest of the squadron burning into her back as she walked out into the sunshine and knew that they were following her at a discreet distance, but undoubtedly staying close enough to make sure that they could hear everything that was said.

The Hawkings were standing in the bright sunshine in their customary white flightsuits, beaming from ear to ear as they watched her approach. She came to a halt a few steps from them and was about to greet them formally in an effort to maintain her dignity, but they pre-empted her by quickly closing the distance and crushing her in a hug.

The three of them remained like that for long seconds, long enough for Gwen to hear Bruce’s stage whisper in the background as he made sure that the whole squadron and all of the fitters who had come to watch knew exactly who she was.

‘Gwen... Gwen... Gwenevere! She’s only bloody Gwenevere Hawking! Daughter of Harriet and Sheridan Hawking, who built her first aircraft at seven and helped design and test the Harridan! Blimey!’

The Harridans eventually pulled back, but they remained in contact with her as if frightened she would disappear again; she hadn’t seen them since her wedding day, more than a year ago and hadn’t exactly kept up with her correspondence.

Her parents were in their mid-forties, but looked younger, although there were far more lines on her father’s forehead than before - evidence of how hard they had been working for the war effort, trying to improve on their design and bring out new marks of Harridans.

‘Mum, Dad, how are you?’

As always it was her mother, Harriet, who answered personal questions. ‘We’re fine darling, much better now that we’ve heard you’ve landed on your feet! We couldn’t believe it when we were told you’d ended up here; it’s perfect for you! We’re so glad Abby has taken you on.’

‘Yes, well, it wasn’t exactly smooth air getting here.’

Her father, Sheridan, grimaced. ‘We heard about that. Why did you do it, Gwen?’

Gwen shrugged. ‘Because I knew my ideas would work.’

‘We knew they would work too, darling.’

‘Then why not incorporate them! The Harridan could be so much better!’

Her mother shook her head. ‘Yes, but it could also be a lot more dangerous. Your modification was very good, we had a look at it, but the only problem with something like that is that it might get damaged and you could end up with asymmetrical wings, completely ruining the airworthiness and getting you killed.’

‘That was a risk I was willing to take and it ended up saving my life, not getting me killed. Why not let each pilot modify their aircraft how they want? We could save so many lives!’

Sheridan sighed. ‘Because it wouldn’t and you know it. Not everybody is as talented as you are, Gwenevere and many people would do something that would prove disastrous, simply because they thought it would be a good idea or had seen a similar modification on someone else’s machine. And if one thing worked for someone, whether by design or by luck, it would spread like wildfire; you know how superstitious pilots can be.’

Gwen grimaced. ‘I suppose.’

‘And besides, we did consider something like your modification fairly early on, but discarded it immediately; the Harridan is designed to take a lot of punishment, but you’ve seen what a damaged spring can do and you put four more of them in your aircraft - a hit to any of them would likely have destroyed you. At the very least it would have ripped apart your wing.’

Gwen shuddered - a couple of months into the war, while she’d still been in training, Whitehall had circulated a gun camera video of an enemy fighter suffering catastrophic damage to its spring. The razor-sharp metal had burst out of the top of its case, instantly shredding the cockpit and the pilot.

Her mother spoke softly. ‘We know the Harridan is not as fast or manoeuvrable as a Spitsteam, darling, but it was never meant to be and you know that; you were in the drawing room with us. Its strength has always been that it can be mass-produced quickly and cheaply and repaired easily, which means that it can be put in the air much quicker than the Spitsteam and right now that is what matters - better that we turn out three hundred Harridans a month for the RAC to face the Fliegertruppe with, than forty or fifty Spitsteams, which are grounded for hours or days at the slightest scratch. That means, though, that anything that takes away from the simplicity of the design destroys that function.’

Her father chimed in. ‘Later on, when the Kingdom has some breathing room, when Britain can put a thousand, two thousand, three thousand aircraft in the air, we can change the design, or even scrap it altogether and start again, but right now the RAC just needs fighters in the air.’

Gwen nodded. What her parents were saying made complete sense and it was the main reason why there was only one squadron like Misfit Squadron - it just wasn’t feasible to spend weeks making a handful of the best aircraft possible when the Fleas were sending hundreds of bombers and fighters across the channel every day. There needed to be decent fighters to meet them and while the Harridan wasn’t spectacular, at the very least it was decent.

There was a long silence as none of them quite knew how to get away from the awkward subject and back to the comfortable family reunion of before.

It was Abby who finally stepped in to ease the tension. ‘It’s just as well Gwen is here, then, where we can put her genius to work. And she has been busy since she arrived - would you like to see the aircraft she repaired and modified before we go to the mess for tea?’

Sheridan and Harriet looked at each other before beaming widely at Abby. ‘We’d love that!’

Gwen knew that the pilots were staring at her, and her cheeks were burning as she walked past them, but she refused to meet their eyes, instead she just concentrated on the heels of her parents as Abby led them into the shade of the hangar.

She felt like she was back home again, a little girl, taking her famous genius mother and father to inspect her latest effort in the hangar they had built for her on their estate. She had sought their approval in everything that she had created and had received it from them both, but while it had been unreserved from her mother, from her father it had always been accompanied by an if or a but, which, in hindsight, had made her a better mechanic, but had definitely hurt, especially when she was younger.

She stood behind them while Abby introduced her parents to Sergeant Jenkins, who had been overseeing Wasp’s rewinding and rearming, then followed a few steps behind as she took them on a circuit of the aircraft, pointing out the modifications that Gwen had made and telling them how much better the machine handled. She was gratified to hear her parents expressing their admiration and appreciation, but wondered how much was real and how much was just for Abby’s benefit.

The tour didn’t take long and then it was off to the mess.

The usually informal and quiet midmorning snacks and second breakfast for the pilots turned into more of a noisy social affair, with the Hawkings surrounded by Misfits, who threw questions at them about the development of the Harridan and the hand Gwen had had in it. Through it all, Gwen sat at the back of the group, maintaining her silence and feeling her cheeks getting hotter and hotter every time something was said about her until they must have rivalled Scarlet’s hair.

The torture lasted only about half an hour, though, until her parents stood and began to say their goodbyes; apparently they were expected in Whitehall and their trip to the Kent Downs had been an unannounced detour. Gwen accompanied them as they made their way out onto the airfield and waited with them while fitters hurried to retrieve their Harridan from the hangar.

Finally they had a few moments alone with nobody else in earshot; Abby had tactfully held the rest of the Misfits back to give them some privacy.

‘Are you alright, Gwenevere?’ Her father had always refused to call her Gwen and she had given up insisting when she was ten.

‘I’m fine, Dad. I really like it here.’

‘Good.’ He nodded, expressionless as ever and she couldn’t tell if he was happy she was with the Misfits or not.

‘We were sorry to hear about Richard, darling, but why didn’t you come home? We would have taken care of you, you could have gone back to work with the company.’

Her mother reached out to push some of the hair away from Gwen’s forehead and she reached up to brush away the hand automatically, but regretted doing so almost instantly. ‘I couldn’t come home; I needed to feel like I was doing something - I went to join up the same day I got the telegram.’

Her father frowned. ‘But why aren’t you an officer? Surely with your experience...’

‘I didn’t tell the recruiters about my experience; I wanted to earn my place, Dad.’

Her father’s frown deepened; he had never understood her reluctance to use their name and the reputation they had built to get ahead, never understood her insistence on succeeding or failing on her own merit.

Gwen sighed. ‘I’m fine not being an officer, especially in the Misfits; Abby treats us all the same.’

‘Even so...’

Harriet laid her hand on her husband’s arm. ‘Leave it, Sheridan. You know her; she’s happy being a pilot and it doesn’t matter what rank she is. It’s not as if she needs a higher wage anyway, or is going to make a career out of the RAC.’ She smiled at Gwen. ‘As I said, we’re glad Abby’s taken you on; we know her quite well, actually; she approached us when she was putting together the squadron, asking if you wanted to join. We didn’t think it was a good idea at the time, but circumstances change and you’re a good fit now.’

‘You... She...’ Gwen stared at them, looking back and forth from one to the other.’

‘You were in the middle of your romance with Richard and you weren’t going to go off to join the RAC. Of course then the war broke out and he ended up enlisting, but we weren’t to know that, were we?’

Her instinct was to bawl them out for not having asked her what she wanted, just like she had so many times before when they had made decisions for her, but she realised they were right; when she and Richard had been courting they had had no time for anything else apart from each other and she certainly wouldn’t have left him, not even to join Misfit Squadron.

She swallowed the lump in her throat along with her angry words and nodded. ‘You’re right, of course, but I still would have liked to know.’

Her parents nodded, but she knew that they would just keep doing the same thing over and over; they had never seemed to get their heads around the idea that she was an adult - to them she was still the precocious child for whom they had had to make decisions for over a decade because legally she hadn’t been old enough to make them herself.

All three looked around as the dual Harridan was wheeled out of the hangar. Their time had had run out, but it was almost a relief; their love of aviation that brought them together and made them close, but they weren’t the kind of family that ever really had personal conversations.

‘By the way, we had an airman put a few things on your bed for you - we know that the Misfits are allowed to wear their own flightsuits so we thought you might like your old one.’

Gwen’s eyes lit up. ‘Thanks, Mum! I was going to ask if you could send it, but it completely slipped my mind.’

‘There’s also a tin of those ginger biscuits you like so much - I made a batch of them yesterday evening.’

Gwen laughed. ‘Now that’s the best news I’ve had in months!’

Her mother returned the laugh, but her father stepped in quickly, frowning at them and pointedly looking at the chronograph on his wrist. ‘I hate to break this up, but we were supposed to be in Whitehall twenty minutes ago.’

Harriet Hawking scowled at her husband. ‘The minister can wait for us; he’s made us wait enough times.’ She sighed even as she scolded him, though, and turned back to Gwen. ‘Much as I hate to admit it, your father is right; we should be going.’ She reached out and pulled her daughter into a hug. ‘Please write a bit more often, darling. We hated not hearing from you.’

‘I’ll try, Mum.’

Sheridan folded them both into his arms, his lanky six foot two frame towering a head over them. ‘We’re proud of you, Gwenevere, never forget that.’

All too soon the hug ended and the two Hawkings walked hand in hand to their curious aircraft.

As always it was her mother who climbed into the right-hand fighter, the “driver’s seat” as she liked to put it.

Of the two Hawkings, Harriet was the better pilot. Sheridan could fly perfectly well, but he was too mechanically-minded and always tried to impose his own will on an aircraft rather than working with it. That intractability was one of the reasons why he clashed so often with Gwen; they both had a stubborn streak in them that often caused them to refuse to admit when they were wrong or see when someone’s idea was better than theirs. However, in Gwen that trait had been tempered with her mother’s flair and artistry and, among other things, the mix of the two had made her a much better pilot than both of them, which was why Gwen had been the one to test the early Harridan models.

It was also why they had built their dual Harridan (with Gwen’s help) - they had wanted something that they could fly together, but that was more defensible than a normal dual-seat aircraft (like the already-existing Harridan trainer, which suffered in performance as a result of the added weight).

It was a closely-guarded secret that the two aircraft could be separated at the pull of a lever, even in the air, allowing them to fight as wingmen rather than a single aircraft if necessary. Thankfully, the need had never arisen, although if it did, the Fleas would have a very nasty surprise in store because the two Harridans were only similar to normal fighters in appearance - underneath their metal skin they were entirely different machines. Because the Hawkings didn’t have to go on long patrols and were never in the air for more than an hour, range was not a consideration for them and they had adjusted their spring to deliver much higher power over less time. The airscrews had been made larger in order to deliver that power and had a third, even coarser pitch than the two (“fine” and “coarse”) that were available on a normal Harridan. The wings also had a different aerodynamic profile to the stock machines to make them far faster and far more manoeuvrable.

The overall effect of their modifications was analogous to the difference between a sprinter and a marathon runner - they could outfly any opposition, including the Misfit aircraft, as long as they were quick about it. But they could also run from anything in the air if they had to.

The Harridan taxied the short distance to the end of the runway, then with a deep thrum accelerated away from the watching squadron, almost all of whom, pilots, fitters and support staff alike, had gathered to see off the almost mythical pair.

In a matter of just a few seconds, the Harridan was leaping into the air and there was a gasp that made Gwen smile as it climbed impossibly, pointing its nose almost vertically into the sky, before sliding towards its wing and making the tightest turn that most of them had ever seen. It dived back towards them and Gwen shook her head at her mother’s showmanship as it sped past at just over head height, making several of the less experienced fitters duck, before once again climbing into the sky, waggling its wings in farewell as it headed towards London.

Gwen watched the machine until it was out of sight, then turned to go back to the mess, but stumbled to a halt when she found the Misfits lined up, staring at her.

She was glad to see that there were no accusing looks on their faces, but a few did seem hurt, particularly Kitty and Scarlet, which just made her love them more.

‘Why didn't you tell us?’ Predictably it was Bruce who spoke first; of all the Misfits he seemed to have the most problems with keeping his feelings to himself.

‘Because, as the wing commander rightly told me when I first arrived, my “pedigree” doesn’t matter; it’s what I am and do that does.’

The pilots turned to Abby as they realised what Gwen had just implied and this time the looks were mildly accusing.

Abby just shrugged. ‘It wasn’t my place to say anything. If Gwen wanted you to know, she would have told you and I’m sure she would have done when she was good and ready.’ She met the eyes of the pilots one by one then jerked her head in the direction of the mess. ‘Right, fun’s over - we’re on twenty minute standby until further notice, go get the chairs out and rest.’ She turned to Gwen. ‘You have ten minutes to get changed, then I want you with the rest of the squadron.’

Gwen smiled and nodded then broke into a run for the barracks.

Set out neatly on her bed were a long linen bag holding her flightsuit, the box with her helmet in, the tin with the biscuits and the black-lacquered wooden chest that she had gotten in Japan.

Ignoring the rest of the items for the moment, she took her leather flightsuit out of the bag and laid it on the next bed over to check it. It was in perfect condition, exactly how it had been the day she had last taken it off and hung it up - it hadn’t dried or wrinkled and the liquid pockets around the legs and abdomen were still full and firm; obviously her parents had been taking care of it. The same was true of her helmet; the leather was soft and the lenses were clean and unscratched within their protective felt bag.

Abby hadn’t given her enough time to properly savour the moment so she stripped quickly and stepped into the flightsuit, but grimaced when she had trouble getting it over her hips; she seemed to have put on a little bit of weight. She loosened the many straps, then pulled it up, putting her arms into the sleeves before folding the front over and fastening the brass clips along one side all the way to her neck. She jumped up and down a couple of times to seat every properly before cinching the suit tight again, smiling as she felt the familiar, almost claustrophobic, but comforting contact on her whole body.

The helmet went on next and then she went to stand in front of the mirror.

If her standard issue flightsuit had been right, her custom one was perfect, although she wondered what the other Misfits would make of the sheer pinkness of it. If there had been a prize for which of the Misfits had the flightsuit that looked least like military issue she would have given Kitty a run for her money. The suit was tight in all the right places, supporting her body against G forces in a way that accentuated her figure like no corset ever had, giving her curves that made her look womanly instead of dumpy, at least to her eyes.

She admired herself for a few precious seconds, then turned to the black chest.

In its many compartments, it held her most personal items, things that she had had to leave behind when she’d joined the RAC, like photographs of happier times, a bottle of her favourite perfume and numerous keepsakes from Richard, her parents and the people she had met around the world.

It wasn’t just the contents of the chest that were important to her, though; the chest itself was one of her most treasured possessions - it had been given to her by the Empress of Japan herself when Gwen had been presented at court in Kyoto with her parents. In return she had given a working model aircraft of her own construction to the Empress’s young son who had been nine at the time, just like her.

The box was three feet wide, two feet deep and two feet tall, smooth and shiny and decorated on top with golden cogs woven with branches that were heavy with pink and white cherry blossoms. It was so perfectly made that it had no discernible slits, apertures or hinges, but rather it was opened by pressing four concealed buttons, each the size of a fingertip, that were in unpredictable places around the box. Each individual button started a clockwork sequence which opened a single compartment to the sound of three soft, incredibly beautiful chimes. Pressing two or more of them at the same time opened successively larger compartments to more chimes, but it was when all four buttons were pressed at once that the box revealed its true secret - the main compartment of the box slid open to a rendition of “Sakura,” a traditional Japanese folk song, played not only using the chimes, but a miniature shamisen hidden in the lid as well, while the four golden cogs turned slowly to represent the passing seasons and the cherry blossoms on the top fell, then bloomed once more.

She would normally take the time to admire the chest and perhaps have it play for her, but today she limited herself to opening a single deep compartment in the side from which she took two small wooden cubes. These boxes contained her two brass instruments - the chronograph that attached to the left arm of her suit and the compass that attached to her right arm, each far more expensive and elaborate versions of the very basic ones that went on her RAC issue suit.

On her way out of the room she briefly paused once more to gaze at herself in the mirror.

The night before, the pilots had welcomed her into their squadron and made her feel like she was one of them. Now, thanks to the thoughtfulness of her parents, she also looked like she belonged.

Thank you so much for reading. ‘The Battle Over Britain’ is Simon Brading's first novel in his ‘Misfit Squadron’ series. More information on where to obtain the book as well as other information about Simon and the series can be found on his website. Also, Simon would love to hear from you about this, or any of his work — please get in touch on Bluesky. We invite you to read Chapter Nine by clicking the right-arrow down there on the right. If you missed out on Chapter Seven you can go back and read in now by clicking the left-arrow below. Alternatively, you can go back to the beginning, the Prologue, with the beginning-arrow also over on the left.