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The sun was just rising as I walked across the runway towards her. She was a beauty, sleek nose, stubby wings, her colours spotless – factory fresh. Conditions were perfect, the air so still, it cradled my breath for an age before it slowly drifted away.
The swallows were back, dashing low over tin huts and props and cockpits, putting my own flying abilities to shame as they snatched an early breakfast.
The copper head of Sammy Newton appeared round the nose of the Spitfire. Such a nice lad – thank goodness he was on my ground crew for final checks. He looked up, his map of freckles shifting as he smiled.
‘Ready, then?’ he said.
I nodded, hardly able to speak, my stomach already doing barrel rolls.
‘Now, remember, Mary,’ he said, ‘no altimeter, no air speed indicator – only the gyro and the compass to stop you from…
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Kate McClelland 