Up Up and Away

by Nesta Tuomey

  Up Up and Away

  NESTA TUOMEY

  * * *

  She is a typical Irish beauty, a dark Rosaleen of poetic fancy but there the resemblance ends for Kay Martin is very much a girl of the sixties. Her ambition is to become an air hostess and when she gets her chance, in the words of her pragmatic Aunt Molly, she throws up her ‘secure, pensionable job to go skiting off in planes.’ Against the glamorous background of Celtic Airlines is Kay’s passionate love for handsome, sardonic Captain Graham Pender – a love that grows fiercer as the tensions surrounding them increase.

  © 2013, 1995 Nesta Tuomey

  Nesta Tuomey has asserted her rights in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988 to be identified as the author of this work.

  Published by Nesta Tuomey

  Originally published and printed by Emperor Publishing in 1995

  First published in eBook format in 2013

  eISBN: 978-1-78301-197-1

  All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on-screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, downloaded, decompiled, reverse-engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of the Publisher.

  All names, characters, places, organisations, businesses and events are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

  eBook Conversion by http://www.ebookpartnership.com

  CONTENTS

  DEDICATION

  ONE

  TWO

  THREE

  FOUR

  FIVE

  SIX

  SEVEN

  EIGHT

  NINE

  TEN

  ELEVEN

  TWELVE

  THIRTEEN

  FOURTEEN

  FIFTEEN

  SIXTEEN

  SEVENTEEN

  EIGHTEEN

  NINETEEN

  TWENTY

  TWENTY ONE

  TWENTY TWO

  TWENTY THREE

  TWENTY FOUR

  TWENTY FIVE

  TWENTY SIX

  TWENTY SEVEN

  TWENTY EIGHT

  TWENTY NINE

  THIRTY

  THIRTY ONE

  THIRTY TWO

  THIRTY THREE

  THIRTY FOUR

  THIRTY FIVE

  THIRTY SIX

  THIRTY SEVEN

  THIRTY EIGHT

  THIRTY NINE

  FORTY

  FORTY ONE

  FORTY TWO

  FORTY THREE

  FORTY FOUR

  FORTY FIVE

  FORTY SIX

  FORTY SEVEN

  FORTY EIGHT

  FORTY NINE

  FIFTY

  FIFTY ONE

  FIFTY TWO

  FIFTY THREE

  FIFTY FOUR

  FIFTY FIVE

  FIFTY SIX

  FIFTY SEVEN

  FIFTY EIGHT

  FIFTY NINE

  SIXTY

  SIXTY ONE

  SIXTY TWO

  EPILOGUE

  For Larry and my children In memory of my good friend Dan Treston and to all the hostesses and pilots I flew with – none of whom, of course, bears any resemblance to anyone in Celtic Airways!

  The plane is plugged in to the circulation of my blood.

  - Antoine De Saint-Exupery

  REVIEWS.

  Since Tuomey was herself an air hostess, we can only presume that nude swims with devastatingly attractive pilots are the order of the day. Sexy and romantic this is the perfect holiday read. Image Magazine.

  A gripping behind the scenes peek at the glamorous world of air hostesses and pilots – you won’t notice time passing with this one. Woman’s Way

  A good all-round romance in mile-high territory. RTE Guide

  UP UP AND AWAY

  ONE

  Kay Martin threw a frilly housecoat over her nightdress, slipped her feet into fluffy pink mules and hurried hopefully downstairs to meet the postman. As she jumped the last few steps of the stairs she was just in time to see the long awaited envelope bearing the distinctive purple and gold crest of Celtic Airways drop through the letter box.

  With a cry of triumph, Kay darted forward and snatched it off the faded Aubusson rug. Turning, she raced upstairs to read it in the privacy of her bedroom.

  “Yes! Yes! Yes! her heart sang with delight. Her preliminary interview for the coveted job of air hostess had been successful.

  ‘We have pleasure in informing you that a further interview has been arranged for you at the airport on Thursday 4th October.’

  Brilliant! She lowered the sheet of paper to give vent to her feelings.

  ‘We hope you will be able to attend,’ she read on when she had calmed, ‘and we would appreciate it if you would please telephone ext. 412 to confirm this appointment.’

  With shining eyes Kay thought how she had always wanted to become an air hostess. Ever since she was a little girl and had got her first glimpse of the airline’s advert on the airport road. Staring at the cardboard cut out of the glamorous smiling hostess in uniform, she had fervently sworn that the minute she was old enough, she would apply herself.

  In August when Celtic Airways ran their recruiting advert, that’s exactly what she had done, filling out an application form and posting it off with two photos as requested.

  Now her head filled with dreams, her heart high with hope, Kay crossed to her dressing- table to gaze at herself in the mirror, approving (in view of the confirming letter) of the dark, delicately arched brows, the thick cloud of dusky hair falling forward on her forehead, the deep-lashed ‘filmstar’ eyes of that verdant shade that often goes with the type of dark-haired, fair- complexioned Celtic beauty.

  Truly, as had often been remarked, Kay Martin was a typical Irish beauty, a veritable dark Rosaleen of poetic fancy - but there the resemblance ended, for Kay was very much a girl of the sixties. The look as though butter wouldn’t melt in her lovely mouth was totally misleading, as more than one of her suitors had found out to his surprise - and later gratification!

  Kay let her long thick eyelashes droop over the green and smiled seductively at herself in the mirror, ‘Welcome on board,’ she tried experimentally in her deepest most alluring voice. It had all the suggestiveness of an invitation to the kasbah. She giggled and dropped the pose, ‘Failte,’ she cooed, with what she imagined was soft Irish charm, ‘Heel-lo there,’ waggling her fingers close to her cheekbone, intent on knocking them dead.

  A heavy hand thumped on her bedroom door bringing her back to reality and her aunt’s maid looked in, her long face morose.

  ‘You still here,’ she grunted, carelessly dumping the dustpan and brush she was carrying on top of Kay’s freshly ironed blouse.

  ‘Peg!’ Kay cried in protest, jumping up and rescuing it before she could do it any more damage.

  Unmoved, Peg went about scooping up clothes, tissues and pieces of fluff, the accumulated rubbish of weeks, and throwing them on the bed. Her stockings were rolled below her knee and held in place with garters of shredding black elastic. When she bent over, the veined underside of her thighs was visible, irregular purple and red rivers on a white seabed.

  Kay tore her eyes away from contemplation of Peg’s secret places and stuffed the letter in her bag. She felt a pang of disquiet when she saw the time. Only a miracle could save her now from the supervisor’s sarcastic, ‘L
ate again, Miss Martin. Making quite a record for yourself these days.’

  But what did she care? Hopefully, she would soon be leaving her typing job far behind her. Nevertheless, she rushed to gather stockings and shoes from the growing pile of debris hurling from Peg’s undiscerning fingers. She dressed quickly and with an appalled look at the mess on her bed, dashed for the door.

  Tripping on a long-handled brush abandoned on the threshold, Kay cursed whatever evil genius had sent Peg to plague them all and flew downstairs. No time for breakfast. Again! Oh well, it was good for the figure.

  ‘No!’ she lied in answer to her aunt’s query if the postman had been.

  ‘I could have sworn I heard him. With her sleep-crushed gentian curls, the teapot clutched to the bodice of her long nightdress, Molly had the look of a nursery rhyme figure.

  ‘No, you must have imagined it.’ Kay struggled into her coat, avoiding Molly’s eyes. She felt more than a little guilty at having concealed the whole air hostess thing from her aunt but Molly took her guardianship so seriously, she would have a fit if she knew her niece was applying to the airline. Kay could just hear her, ‘Your poor mother and father would turn in their graves if they knew you were giving up a good pensionable job to go skiting off on planes.’

  Kay banged out the door and took the road at a run. Time enough for all that rigmarole when she had something definite to report. Panting, she reached the bus stop as the green double-decker crested the hill and came speeding towards her. She jumped on board and ran upstairs. There was really only one person she could confide in at the moment, Kay reflected. And that was Dave.

  Kay smiled as she thought of Dave Mason who was three years older than her and lived a few doors away on Carrick Road. When she asked him, he had obligingly borrowed a camera and taken shots of her in various poses to send in with her application to Celtic Airways. As the bus sped into town she promised herself that as soon as she got home from work that evening she would run down and tell him the latest development.

  Dave had just finished his tea, when she arrived. He was in his shirt sleeves and had discarded his tie. He came out with her to the porch and lounged there, lean and tall, his grey eyes quizzical, as she told him her news.

  ‘So it means you’re in with a chance.’

  Kay nodded. He was looking at her with an expression she found hard to define. Didn’t he think she would get this far?

  She pouted slightly as set sat up on the dividing wall, and swung her legs. Her skirt which she wore short in the fashion of the day, fell back to show smooth shapely thighs and a flash of lace.

  Of course, I probably haven’t a hope.’ She played down her chances, prompted by a superstitious notion that modest disclaimers now might insure against future disappointment. ‘I’d say anyone who wasn’t positively hideous and sporting a wooden leg would get beyond the first interview.’

  ‘Come off it, Kay,’ Dave chuckled cynically, ‘Stop putting on the modesty act. You’re damned pleased with yourself. You might as well admit it.’

  Kay shrugged good-humouredly. Sometimes Dave Mason’s ability to see through her feeble self-deceits reduced her to a state of furious indignation but now with the second interview in the bag, she could afford to be indulgent.

  .Well, perhaps just a little,’ she conceded.

  Time enough to be pleased when there was something to really rejoice over, she told herself. Not until the next ordeal was past and an acceptance letter in her hand would she entertain even one self-congratulatory thought, she vowed, shivering in anticipation of that glorious moment.

  ‘Chilly?’ Mistaking the cause, Dave picked up her discarded cardigan and casually draped it over her shoulders. Kay shook her head and lost in pleasurable imaginings absently bestowed on him a smile of such dazzling sweetness that the cynical gleam abruptly left his eye. He leaned forward.

  ‘Katie - . you’re really serious about this hostess thing. You’d give up your job and go into Celtic Airways, even though the appointment is only temporary?’

  Was he mad! ‘Of course!’ She allowed her hand lie in his, barely conscious of the warm pressure of his fingers. Vaguely she was aware of him voicing some unease that if she became an air hostess she might be seduced by the false glamour and glitter of an airline. But she hardly heeded him so busy was she planning what she would wear to the next interview. ‘Be prepared to spend a full day at the airport,’ the letter had advised. Kay gave a dreamy smile as her mind happily roved between outfits, picking and rejecting.

  TWO

  In Celtic Airways the day was well begun. The first flight out that blustery October morning, the dawn London, had taken off at half past six and within the hour, three more scheduled UK flights and one continental flight had departed on time. By eight-thirty the baggage handlers were rolling the trollies towards the Vickers Viscount bound for Paris, and the lights in the office of Celtic’s Chief Executive, Oliver McGrattan, were steadily burning.

  The Chief Executive’s office occupied half of the top floor of the building, one set of windows looking out on to the airfield where in the brightening landscape, Celtic’s recently landed New York/Shannon/Dublin Boeing 707 could be seen taxing majestically towards the ramp. The other windows faced the arrival and departure buildings, behind which rose the green and white control tower.

  High up on the walls were photographs of pioneering members of Celtic Airways long since dead or grounded, and lower down, the more recent additions, showing the smiling countenances of the Chief Executive and his predecessors.

  The floor was carpeted in a mink coloured carpet thick enough to muffle the feet of a hundred demanding passengers and the mahogany desk behind which Oliver McGrattan sat, was almost big enough to support a billiard table.

  At one end of the desk was a tray with a silver coffee pot upon it, four Tara bone china cups containing the dregs of recently drunk coffee and a china plate bearing two shortbread biscuits, all that remained of this working breakfast. In the chairs arranged in a semi-circle before the desk sat the three women chiefs from the hostess section, and the topic under discussion - the main reason for their attendance here so early this morning - was one closest to their hearts, their new longed for, long-awaited, long-promised hostess quarters.

  As the spokeswoman for the trio, the Hostess Superintendent, pointed out that the shabby prefabricated wooden huts which at present housed the hostess section of Celtic Airways and had done so for the past decade, were originally erected merely as a stopgap. A year or two had stretched to ten and now it was high time something was done about it. There was neither the space nor the facilities in these ramshackle old buildings for their rapidly increasing numbers and in view of the airline’s intention to recruit their biggest number ever this month, one hundred air hostesses, the situation was becoming crucial. By January, there would be four hundred hostesses in toto in the hostess section. Where would they put them all?

  Slightly dwarfed by the huge mahogany desk, Oliver McGrattan sat in his leather- padded chair with an enigmatic half-smile hovering on his thin lips, studying with attention his well-manicured fingers, easing back a cuticle and turning the gold signet ring on his little finger. For twenty minutes, he had said nothing, apparently intently listening to the views put forward by the women. Now he began taking surreptitious glances at his watch which he had strategically positioned on the blotter before him, and fussily sub-dividing the neat files of papers on his desk.

  ‘Thank you, ladies, I found all that most helpful, constructive and enlightening.’

  He glanced across at them and as they were silent he went on. ‘Unfortunately, you are not possessed of all the facts. Here is some more information for you. Since the purchase deal was signed last week with British Aircraft Corporation for the delivery of three new BAC One- Eleven short haul jets, the Board of Directors has put a six month embargo on all further capital expenditure.’

  There was a fresh burst from his listeners. Oliver McGrattan picked up his heavy go
ld Rolex watch and slipped it back over his bony wrist then paused, waiting for their silence.

  ‘Thank you, ladies. As I was saying in view of this latest development, I cannot possibly sanction such a costly low priority building. Please be assured, however, that I am wholly au fait with the situation and fully sympathetic to your needs. You may depend upon it when the time is right....’

  Blah, blah, thought Maura Kane, Chief Hostess over European Operations and the most junior member of the hostess team. She smoothed a strand of ash blonde hair behind her ear and cynically met the dismayed eyes of her colleagues. Once again McGrattan was fobbing them off.

  She repressed a sigh. It was too damned unfair. They might have known they would come away disappointed yet again. And why? Not because of any embargo but because only six months in the job, Oliver McGrattan was obsessively cutting back expenses, intent on showing a profit by the end of his first year. Truly it was a man’s world. You wouldn’t see the pilots putting up with such conditions, nor McGrattan himself.

  She glanced about the ultra-modern luxurious suite and felt her anger rise at the thought of the grotty conditions they were forced to put up with in the hostess section. Not even one shower between three hundred hostesses. In summer it was murder. What would it be like when the aforementioned speedier BAC One-Elevens replaced the turboprop Fokker Friendships, and hostesses were expected to double up on routes without a chance to freshen up between flights.

  Almost defiantly she put the question, barely waiting until the Chief Executive had finished speaking.

  ‘Not easy, I should imagine,’ he replied coolly, and shot her a look of dislike.

  Maura returned the look with interest. She and McGrattan had never hit it off. The new Chief Executive liked his women meek and biddable, not pushy and go-ahead and Maura made no apology for the fact that she was both. They were two attributes, she considered, you got simply nowhere without in this rat-racing world.

  ‘Now you’ve said it,’ Maura’s opposite number, the Chief Hostess over Transatlantic Operations, remarked crisply, ‘Can’t you just imagine what a boon those showers would be then.’