The Infinite Air (14 page)

Despite the small snippets of praise coming her way, this was beyond Jean’s current reckoning. So many people at Stag Lane were so famous, so self-confident. So rich and so well dressed. Nobody said the word ‘colonial’, but that was how she saw herself. When she opened her mouth she didn’t sound nearly as eloquent as she thought she had back in Auckland.

Amy returned later in the summer, radiant with success, mobbed by her fellow club members. She had assumed a new aura of glamour. Her eyebrows were plucked finely, her hair floated stylishly in a long bob. Men flocked around her, offering her drinks, cigarettes, opening
doors, as if they could absorb her success. Jean would have liked to speak to her, but when she approached there was always someone else there ahead of her. And, somehow, she felt her voice stuck in the back of her throat before she even tried to open her mouth.

Amy was honoured by the King. When she returned from Buckingham Palace on the afternoon of the ceremony, the new medal on her breast, there were more rounds of drinks and applause. ‘Johnnie, Johnnie,’ everyone shouted, the swirl of noise rising like the shriek of seagulls. Jean, standing outside the circle, her flying helmet in her hand, felt as if she were standing at the edge of the water back home, a child with no particular direction. She turned and walked out of the clubhouse.

THE SUMMER PASSED, MONTHS OF HEAT AND WORK.
Jean had watched the oak leaves round Edgware Road turn from pale sprigs to dark green canopies, and now autumn was upon them, the leaves beginning to fall. Late one afternoon, she and Travers were doing circuits and landings on Stag Lane, gliding in without using the engine and putting the Moth down in a three-point landing. The two wheels and the tail-skid touched the ground gently at the same moment, the plane coming to rest in a climbing position. It was a manoeuvre that required practice and skill. If the speed was too high when the control column was pulled back on approach, the Moth would stall; if it were too low, it would land on two wheels and hurtle down the runway. The aircraft had no brakes to slow it down. If either seemed about to happen, Travers pressed the engine throttle forward to avoid a catastrophe, and round she would go again.

That afternoon, she had completed the final three-point landing of the day and begun to taxi towards the hangar. Travers’ voice carried down the tube to the earphones on her leather flying helmet. ‘Wait, Miss Batten,’ he said. ‘Stop the plane.’ He began to climb out of the front cockpit, the dual control column under his arm.

‘Over to you,’ he shouted. ‘She’s all yours.’

She watched as he walked away, without seeming to look back. There was an unnatural stillness in the air, punctuated only by the staccato note of the propeller turning over. Everyone had gone, the doors of the factory were closed. From the nearby fields a light evening mist was advancing slowly, like a sluggish, milky tide.

Jean taxied the Moth back to the edge of the aerodrome, and turned it into the wind. For a moment, she sat quite still, taking in this moment that would never happen again, her very first solo flight. She reached out her gloved hand and gave the engine full throttle. The Moth taxied forward, gaining speed, and the tail rose. She eased the joystick back. After a very short run she was airborne. This time there was nobody to hear her shout of exhilaration. The sound of her voice was carried away, but inside she felt a joy so intense she could hardly breathe. Three words flashed through her mind:
Never look back.

As she banked the Moth in a left-hand turn, circling the aerodrome in preparation for landing, she looked over the side of the cockpit to the landscape beyond. In the twilight she could see the silver outline of the R101, the airship being built at the Cardington base, to the north of Stag Lane. The huge craft, moving through the descending mist, appeared as a great whale swimming in a calm sea.

Travers was waiting for her on the ground. For a moment his hand rested lightly on her shoulder. ‘Very good, Miss Batten. If I may say so, a quality performance.’

CHAPTER 14

THE CRASH COULDN’T HAVE COME AT A WORSE TIME.
Nellie’s cash was down to twenty pounds. How many more solo flights would Jean need, she wondered, before she got her A licence?

‘Another two flights,’ Jean reassured her. ‘Not long now, darling.’

She and Nellie had taken to calling each other darling with a tenderness that had grown between them since their arrival in London. At least three young men at the club had now invited Jean for outings, to go to town, see a film, have a drink perhaps. People were at last beginning to notice her silent presence. There were moments when she was tempted. But when she thought about Nellie, alone in their rented room near quiet Edgware Road, counting their pennies, it seemed unfair. Besides, she had never gone out with a young man. At Madame Valeska’s, she had put what she called a professional distance between her and those who mooned around her. Pity poor Freda, who hadn’t had that sense. She wondered now and then what had become of her friend. And those offering the invitations were mere boys, eighteen or so. If she wanted to be seen with a man, he needed to have a little maturity, she told her mother, who agreed. ‘You’re not to waste your time with beginners, darling,’ she said. They’d had a thin soup and some green beans for dinner, and an extra cup of tea for warmth, when this discussion took place. The time had come for some change in their situation, and only Jean’s licence could make a difference.

But just when the licence seemed within her grasp, she flew too low as she was coming in to land. The plane’s undercarriage clipped and caught on a low boundary fence, tipping the machine on its nose.
She pitched forward, her head connecting with the compass, before releasing her straps and tumbling onto the ground. Jean made a little mewing sound, crouched on hands and knees on the grassy field. It was hard to imagine worse humiliation. Around her gathered a group of fliers, concerned at first that she was safe, then laughing when they saw her plight. Among them was one of her admirers. With a small shriek she threw herself into his arms, sobbing wildly.

Travers came to lead her away. ‘A bit bold today, were we, Jean?’

‘Will I have to pay for the damage?’

‘You got lucky, not a mark on the plane. You came off worse. Come on, dry up those tears.’

‘I’m sorry. I’m British. I shouldn’t cry.’

‘British?’ He looked at her and laughed. ‘You shouldn’t have got over-confident. You’re going to have a cup of tea, and then you’re going to get up in another plane. You understand?’

She nodded. ‘So will I have to pay for the extra time?’

He regarded her with deeper concern, appeared about to say something, then led her in silence to the clubhouse. Inside, he drew her close to the fire, took her hands and rubbed them between his. ‘You’re very cold, you’re in shock,’ he said. At the bar he ordered hot milk with a dash of brandy and two egg sandwiches. When she had eaten, he told her that when his students did something reckless or foolish, there was a price to pay. He couldn’t make an exception of her. What she had done was serious, she must understand. ‘In a few minutes you’ll be in the air again, repeating today’s exercise. You’ll have to pay for your time, all right?’

‘I’ll have to go home and ask Mother,’ Jean said.

‘No, you won’t,’ he said, his voice gentle. ‘I’ve already cancelled the payment on your first flight.’

This kindness, so unexpected and generous, restored her. In the air, she said it to herself, the mantra, the words she had promised herself:
Never look back never look back.
All the same, she stayed away from the clubhouse for the next few days, preferring to leave the field as soon as she had flown.

She mightn’t have gone back at all, had another woman, a very distinguished woman, not had a spectacular mishap the same week. The Duchess of Bedford had set a record, years before, flying to Cape Town in a Fokker F.V11 with an accompanying pilot. A picture of her hung in the clubhouse, taken when she was young, wearing a sweeping gown, cut low at the neck, masses of hair piled up on top of her head with a tiara perched above — a romantic-looking figure. Now she was plump and elderly, her face weatherbeaten. She saw no reason why she couldn’t fly to Cape Town alone in a Gipsy Moth, but first she had to learn to fly one. If that young Johnnie woman could fly to Australia, she saw no reason why she couldn’t make such a journey, she told everyone. It wasn’t as if she didn’t know the way. Setting records was one thing, she remarked, but they were something of a Pyrrhic victory if somebody else did the work.

Reporters gathered around the Duchess’s red and gold Moth as she prepared to leave. She climbed into the cockpit and taxied across the aerodrome, giving waves and salutes. Rain had been falling in the night and the ground was sticky underfoot. Before she got to the boundary fence, she was stuck deep in mud, did a ground loop and was left hanging upside down from her safety belt. Jean watched in horror as the crowd surged forward to help. She could break her neck if she falls, someone muttered beside her. The Duchess did fall, without breaking her neck, but letting forth a stream of invective. Her face was puce, as she staggered to her feet. ‘Go to buggery hell,’ she shrieked, kicking the plane. ‘Bastard thing.’ The reporters scuttled away, pocketing their notebooks.

Jean knew how the Duchess felt. But when she had fallen out of the plane, she had been wearing thick flying trousers. The Duchess, on the other hand, was wearing a skirt and thick red bloomers, revealed for all to see.

Jean made a mental note. Never wear clothes that will reveal one’s private affairs to the world. Never use bad language in a public place. These were things she didn’t need her mother to teach her. She would, she decided, prefer to look like a film star, who also happened
to fly planes. Surely, she could do both. If possible, she would like to avoid being gossiped about as well. The ground staff loved to pass on rumours to their favourites, and she could tell she was becoming one of them. She always said ‘please’ and ‘thank you’, words often overlooked by her fellow fliers.

The awful news that the R101 had crashed in France on its first overseas flight, killing forty-eight passengers, had cast a pall over everyone. When Jean did go back to the clubhouse, it was not to relive the Duchess’s misfortune, but to join in a long minute of silence for those lost. They reminded each other of the perils of the air, and the dangers they faced when they trusted it to hold them aloft. For the first time Jean felt close to her fellow fliers. Her own scrape with the fence seemed risible.

The Prince of Wales was still turning up at Stag Lane, usually in his Bentley, despite his father commanding him not to go solo again until his flying improved, to take his princely duties more seriously, and not to place his life at risk. The young women who worked in the fabric and glue factories came streaming out to see him every time he turned up, until their forewomen sent them back to work. He basked in these impromptu welcomes.

A hapless group captain, a man by the name of Fielden, had been charged with the responsibility of keeping the wilful Prince safe and not letting him fly alone. One morning, when the pair was practising circuits and bumps, and as the royal Moth was about to take off, the Prince looked appealingly at Fielden and said, ‘Bother, I’ve left my handkerchief in the clubhouse.’

‘I’ll nip in and get it for you, sir,’ Fielden said, knowing he must oblige. He jumped down from the plane and ran inside. The Prince opened up the throttle, took off, made a circuit, then landed. Fielden leaned against the clubhouse, his face pale.

Jean, who witnessed this incident, found herself laughing out loud as the captain made his way back to the centre of the field, waving his arms.

‘Good Lord, how do you punish a Prince?’ said a man in a flying
suit, who was standing nearby. He was sleek in his appearance, well built, tall enough to look imposing as he stood by Jean, his head thrown back with a merriment that matched hers. ‘Hey,’ he said, looking down at her, ‘I’ve seen you around. What’s your name?’

When she told him, he held out his hand. ‘Victor Dorée, pleased to make your acquaintance.’ His eyes seemed friendly, his hair combed back from his forehead. Handsome, she described him to Nellie later that night.

‘You look like a girl who enjoys mischief,’ he said, as they appraised one another.

‘Absolutely not. I’m the least mischievous person you could ever meet.’

‘I don’t believe you. Have a drink with me at the club later on?’

‘I’m a strictly lemonade kind of girl,’ Jean said, her voice demure.

‘Never mind, lemonade it is. Five o’clock. I’ll see you there.’

In the clubhouse, the Prince was downing drinks with Fielden and a friend. Because he was the Prince, it was impossible to refuse to join him in each round. The men were getting louder and more raucous by the moment.

‘Bit hard to find a quiet spot,’ Victor said.

‘Are you a student?’ Jean asked. ‘I haven’t seen you before.’

He looked amused. ‘I keep my plane here in a hangar. I’m a lucky chap. My mother bought it for me for my birthday. We live across the road. You live near here?’

She explained that for the moment she did, although she came from New Zealand.

‘New Zealand. I meant to go there, just didn’t get round to it. I learned to fly in Australia, 1928. Great place. Suppose you’ve been to Australia?’

The Prince was now the worse for wear. Fielden came over and spoke in Victor’s ear. Victor shrugged and gestured towards Jean. ‘We’re a bit busy here,’ he said.

‘Just five minutes, give me a hand, and don’t make a fuss. You know the drill.’

Victor signalled for Jean to stay where she was, but she couldn’t
resist moving closer. Victor and Fielden were each taking the Prince by an arm, supporting him as he hobbled towards the door. Outside stood a laundry van bearing the royal insignia. The Prince was heaved inside, his shoe flying through the air.

‘Pick it up, Jean,’ Victor called. ‘Quickly now.’ The door of the van slammed shut, and the vehicle took off at speed.

‘You weren’t supposed to see that,’ he said. ‘Curiosity killed the cat.’

‘What’s the penalty?’

‘For throwing His Royal Highness’s shoe into the pillow slips? The Tower, I wouldn’t be surprised.’

‘What will they do with him?’

‘Drop him off at the back door of Buckingham Palace. Hey, what about we go up town and have a meal? Come on, don’t look so worried. I’m not Bluebeard.’

‘It’s just that tomorrow I’m going for my licence, first thing. I have to get it, Victor. I won’t get a second chance.’ It felt easy and natural to talk to him, even though she wasn’t ready to tell him all about her life. His eyes rested on her.

‘Well then, we can celebrate tomorrow night.’

‘Perhaps. My mother, well, if I do succeed I think I’d like to spend the evening with her. It’s been quite lonely for her over here, waiting for me to get this licence.’

‘Bring your mother with you.’

‘Really?’

‘Yes. C’mon, I’ll give you a lift home, show you where I live.’ In his car, she settled back into the seat beside him. The leather smelled new, gamey and rich. He slowed down to show her his house, what could be seen from the road, sumptuous and stylish. It sat in what she would later learn were ten acres of gardens and orchards. As if reading her thoughts, he said, ‘My old man’s in the linen trade.’ He eased the car into gear. ‘I’ve got four brothers. Some of us still live at home.’ He laughed. ‘I’m not ready to cook for myself yet.’

‘I can walk from here,’ Jean said. Already she was opening the car door. ‘Please, stop.’

Taken aback by her distress, he shifted his hand from the gearstick onto hers, holding it lightly for a moment. ‘All right then. I didn’t mean to frighten you.’

‘Don’t follow me. Promise.’

‘I promise. But don’t forget tomorrow night. The offer’s open. Your mother, too.’

He sat there with the car idling, while she walked away. She knew he wanted to follow, but thought him a man of his word. If he glimpsed the rooming house she and Nellie occupied, she felt she might never see him again.