by Nesta Tuomey
‘But what happened?’ she asked in dismay. Molly was such a hardy soul. It never occurred to her she might come in some day and find her gone.
‘She fell on the stairs,’ Florrie said, ‘The lights were out. She must have tripped on the carpet.’
Kay bit her lip. Of late her aunt had become obsessed with saving electricity. Half-way up the stairs lights had a habit of going out, switched from below by an unseen hand. ‘It’s like a lighthouse,’ had become Molly’s constant cry. ‘The whole house is like a beacon.’ Now it seemed she had fallen first victim to her own parsimony.
‘Where was Bill?’ Kay wondered.
‘He rang me when it happened,’ Dave told her, ‘He’s in bed now,’ he added, as behind them Florrie discreetly followed suit. ‘He was very upset. Naturally the whole thing was a bit of a shock.’ He frowned. ‘Pity you weren’t here. She kept asking for you, Kay. She seemed to think you’d be home early.
‘I had to meet someone.’ Kay blushed at the glance he shot her, suddenly conscious of her rumpled appearance, her breasts flopping loosely under her blouse.
His lips tightened. ‘I’d better go,’ he said shortly. ‘I was just waiting until you got in.’ ‘Thanks for all the help, Dave,’ Kay accompanied him to the door.
‘That’s okay,’ he said curtly. ‘You can let me know if you want me to bring you to the hospital. I’m fairly free tomorrow.’
‘Poor old Molly,’ Kay sighed.
‘Oh she’ll rise above it,’ he retorted.
Kay was struck by Dave’s admiring tone. Clearly it revealed his deep regard for her aunt.
It also seemed to say, ‘Don’t think it’s for you I’m doing all this.’
At the door he took an envelope from his inside pocket, ‘You might like to have this,’ he suggested offhandedly, and walked away down the path without a backward glance.
Feeling unaccountably low, Kay went back inside. Just because Dave Mason had unofficially elected himself family guardian, she told herself, it didn’t mean he had to be so irritatingly aloof, did it! Inside the envelope, she found the press photograph of herself and Dave taken at the Hunt Ball, and understood the meaning of all Captain Pender’s obscure references to photographs.
At Dave predicted, Molly made a good recovery. Looking rather bruised but in strong voice she had returned from hospital a few days later. Luckily, her ankle wasn’t broken, merely twisted in the fall.
Kay managed to get rostering to agree to her taking her two days stand-off together and so was there to help her aunt settle back home. Winifred and her family came down that same day from Kilshaughlin. From the moment she set foot in the house, Winifred was at her most obnoxious, demanding to know where Kay had been at the time of the accident, and acting as thought she were some kind of unpaid companion who had deserted her change. When Dave’s part was mentioned she sniffed, ‘He seems to be around a lot,’ as though suspecting him of some ulterior motive.
Kay was glad when her aunt said heartily, ‘God bless, Dave. Only for him I don’t know where we’d have been.’
The children were more than usually unruly after the car journey and raced around getting in everyone’s way. ‘Is this the spot where Gran fell?’ they shouted from the hall, and bumped their way down the stairs on their bottoms. Beyond wearing a pained expression as though they weren’t her children, Winifred made no attempt to stop them. It was left to Cahal to go out and remonstrate with them.
‘Now, now, surely that’s not the way to behave in someone else’s house,’ he admonished, but he soon gave it up as a bad job and returned to his corner to sip the pale concoction he called tea and brood over a newspaper.
They drove away at last with Winifred issuing instructions to Kay to ‘Mind mother and not be going off all the time enjoying yourself.’
Two days later, Kay returned to the airport to find that the lists were posted and all their group, excepting Cecily and Sandy, were offered permanent employment with Celtic Airways. How the feckless Orla had escaped the axe was a mystery to all.
‘Oh Orla is in cahoots with Lucy and Eva and all that crowd,’ Sally declared, ‘And she has oceans of charm.’
It was true that Orla O’Neill had been granted more than her fair share. She would have won hands down any day over poor awkward Cecily. She also had the luck of the devil and a sense of timing which came to her rescue on many an occasion. Although she had had nothing yet to do with Captain Simon Cooney, it was on the cards she would before long.
While Kay was sorry for the two hostesses who were being let go, she was thrilled for herself and Sally. It was a great relief knowing they would be able to stay in the job they loved. Besides which they had got their uniform money back in a lump sum and were now eligible for a pension. Not that either of them ever imagined for a moment they would be claiming it!
Rejoicing with Sally, Kay gave thanks for the lucky break that had come her way a few weeks earlier. A passenger who had been aboard the London/Shannon she and Florrie shared had written in a warm letter of commendation, lavishly praising the pair of them. Phrases life ‘unfailing good humour’ and ‘prompt life-saving action (obviously referring to the epileptic) sprang at her off the page. Across the bottom, the Hostess Administrator had scrawled, ‘Good work, girls!’
If Kay had wanted to give herself a boost in those impermanent, uncertain times (and in the preceding weeks she and Florrie had seriously considered it), she couldn’t have penned a better letter herself or timed it more opportunely. When the others had read it she brought it back herself to Miss Kane’s office. A good career move as Dave would say.
‘Well done, Miss Martin,’ the Chief Hostess praised her with a smile. ‘That sort of letter is worth its weight in gold.’
Kay smiled back and gave thanks that Captain Cooney’s chemistry, irresistible though it seemed to some, had found no corresponding reaction in hers. She was very conscious of the fact that if Captain Pender had been the property of the Queen Bee and the ruling was, ‘Hands off, Pender’ there might be a very different ending to the story.
Remembering, Kay grinned and stirred in Graham’s arms.
‘Happy?’ he asked, lifting his face from her shoulder. It was the first word between them in a long space of time.
‘Oh yes,’ she sighed contentedly.
He placed a kiss on her belly-button and drew her skirt modestly over it. While he brought their seats upright, Kay put her hands behind her to fasten her bra but couldn’t quite match the hooks. She let them go as he glanced at her, feeling suddenly shy to be so engaged.
‘What lovely hair you have.’ He watched with a faint smile as instinctively she took out her comb and did a brief tidy-job.
‘No, I haven’t. I think I’ll get it all cut off,’ she protested in disgust, seeing what a heavy petting session had done to her unruly mop.
‘Don’t do that.’ He took the comb from her and gently raked back the dark tendrils from her forehead. ‘You look like a Botticelli angel... a tired angel.’ he said in some amusement as she began yawning uncontrollably.
‘I’m sorry,’ Kay said through jaw-splitting yawns. ‘I was on a Frankfurt today and it was... it was...’ She gave up the struggle and let the yawn take over.
‘Time to bring you home.’ He pinched her chin lightly and turned to switch on the engine.
This time as they sped down the mountain road, Kay was untroubled by worries as to how Graham would take his leave of her. Although achingly tired, her spirits were light for unless she were mistaken tonight had marked the beginning of a new phase in their relationship, and despite their slow start, the romance was now most definitely on!
TWENTY EIGHT
‘Drop everything and come over here right away,’ the Chief Executive grated down the telephone.
With a sigh Maura replaced the receiver and silently promised herself that one day she would make the little so-and-so suffer. It was the second time that day Oliver had summoned her to his office. Anyone would think she was
some kind of office girl, the way he was making her dash back and forth between buildings. Why couldn’t he just once come to her office, she asked herself.
Since the beginning of June, Maura had not had time to draw breath. With the huge increase in domestic flights, as well as scheduled and unscheduled charters, it was a tough time for everyone and especially those in the hostess section. From the European administration standpoint their work was trebled. She and Elinor were really kept on their toes ensuring the smooth functioning of the section.
One of Maura’s chief concerns was dealing with hostess flight reports into which the girls wrote any problems arising on their trips. No matter how busy she was these were top priority. In an airline, faulty ovens or blocked galley sinks were bad news at any time but chaos ensued in the busy season if not attended to promptly. Hardly a day passed but Maura was on to the Catering Manager or Maintenance Engineer about some problem or other. Likewise passenger complaints had to be swiftly attended to before they blew up into major issues. And there were other irritations apart from Oliver McGrattan.
The Check Hostesses were giving trouble.
Since the busy summer rush had begun they were having to abandon their dignity to pitch in alongside everyone else. Yesterday, they had come in a body to complain that Rostering had given up all pretence at trying to arrange a roster that was decent and fair, and that some of them were on a continual flight path to London or Lourdes, while others seemed perpetually working night charters. There was some truth in it. Some hostesses, Maura knew, always seemed to manage a better roster than others but for all their complaints the checks were not that badly done by. For instance, Parisian, Sylvie Duval, got more Paris overnights than anyone else, Ciara always had Sundays off, Mona had a knack of being rostered her two stand- off days together, an almost unheard of thing in June, and the Hostess Superintendent’s niece seemed to think it her right to beg off work one day in every five. Already Eva had phoned in sick twice this month. The heat had brought on her migraine or the smell of kerosene made her nauseous.
Maura hadn’t bothered to listen. She was fed up with the lot of them, she told herself. A bunch of prima donnas! The ones really deserving sympathy were the junior hostesses. They were the worst hit by the summer.
There was a brisk rap on the door and Beattie entered. Maura forced a smile to her lips. Of all the checks, Beattie was riding her the hardest. Lately, the German girl had a path beaten to her door, continually pointing out all she was doing compared to everyone else. Now she had another grievance.
‘This is my second forty-eight hour week since the start of June,’ she complained, ‘I intend taking it up with the union.’
It was typical of Beattie to involve the union, Maura thought. There was no reason on earth why they couldn’t settle it between themselves.
Controlling her irritation, she said, ‘Leave it with me. I’ll get it straightened out with the Crew Planning Superintendent.’
‘Very well but if they do not give me satisfaction, I will bring it to the attention of the union,’ Beattie threatened again and, to Maura’s relief, went off muttering about bribery and corruption in the roster office.
With Beattie there was always some intrigue going on but, of course, she was within her rights. Regulations clearly stated that hostesses normally work a forty-five hour week with one longer forty-eight hour stretch just once in each month of the busy season. Maura buzzed her secretary to say she would be gone for a while and reluctantly headed over to Oliver’s office.
When she got there it was to find all he wanted to give her was a memo about hostess uniform. Something he could easily have sent over by messenger. Was he trying to provoke her? Maura wondered, holding on to her temper with difficulty as she listened to him lecture on about the airline’s image.
‘No matter how hot it gets hostesses are not, absolutely not permitted to go without stockings. Nor may the take off their uniform jackets so long as the aircraft doors are open. That goes for hats too,’ Oliver instructed fussily, ‘Sloppily dressed crew give the airline a bad name. Passengers begin doubting its pilots and next thing we know, there’s a drop in bookings.’
God! he was a real old woman, Maura thought, familiar with the argument. As if planes were going to fall out of the sky because hostesses went stockingless.
‘Oliver?’ she questioned sweetly, ‘Tell me? Is it all right if they wear see-through panties under their skirts?’
He stared at her, frowned, then said coldly, ‘Is that meant to be funny?’ Humourless crud! ‘I don’t know,’ Maura snapped. ‘You tell me.’
She went back to her office seething with annoyance and rang Elinor Page.
‘Come and have a chat,’ she begged. ‘I think I’m going mad.’
As always talking to Elinor cheered Maura up. They sat together, smoking and speculating about the Chief Executive.
‘How in God’s name he ever got this far without being murdered I’ll never know,’ Maura groaned.
Elinor chuckled. ‘Aren’t you lucky you’re not married to him. Just think of being tied to that wimp and having to ask for money to buy your underwear.’
Maura grinned, remembering her remark about the see-through panties. Elinor roared with laughter when she told her.
‘That’ll give him dirty thoughts,’ she crowed.
‘If he was human it might,’ Maura grinned, her good humour restored.
A few days later, Oliver summoned her again. Maura kept her irritation down and calmly went on dealing with passenger complaints, okaying a replacement voucher for two new pairs of stockings to a woman who snagged her nylons on the back of a seat and a cleaning voucher to a man who had coffee spilt on him during turbulence. When she felt sufficiently calm enough she started the walk across to McGrattan’s office.
‘Please take a seat,’ his receptionist told her. ‘Mr. McGrattan has someone with him. He won’t be long.’
Maura sat in the outer office kicking her heels, her temper rapidly rising. What the hell was he playing at? She was just about to leave when he stuck his head around the door and beckoned her forward.
‘Maura,’ he fixed her with his piercing stare, ‘I have someone here I want you to meet. Someone who could be a great help to you.’
Entering the office, Maura saw with surprise a slim trouser-suited woman with blonde- streaked hair to her shoulders relaxing in a chair before Oliver’s desk.
Sheila Mueller extended her hand and said a laconic, ‘Hi, there.’
Maura returned the limp handshake and sat down in the chair Oliver fussily dusted before pushing forward.
‘Mrs. Mueller is over from the States,’ he explained smoothly. ‘She’s doing research for a book she’s writing and I want you to give her all the co-operation you can.’
‘This is my first visit to your country,’ Sheila told Maura. ‘I’m finding it fascinating. Do you always play jigs and reels on your Atlantic flights - so Irish.’
‘Yes, and we carry a leprechaun in the cockpit,’ Maura replied, straight-faced.
Oliver shot her a furious glance, then laughed heartily. ‘Miss Kane has a strange sense of humour as I’m sure you’ll find out. Well, ladies, I’ll leave you to get on with it. I have a director’s meeting in five minutes.’
Sheila Mueller rose to her feet. ‘Bye, Ollie,’ she drawled. ‘See you at the cocktail hour.’ She turned to Maura and gave a little pouting shrug, ‘I’m ready. Lead on McDuff.’
Maura stared. Did this dyed blonde expect her to show her the hostess section now this minute in the middle of the summer rush?
She did.
‘Isn’t the great man cute,’ the American woman said on their way over. ‘Who?’
‘Ollie - the Big Chief,’
‘Cute as hell,’ Maura agreed, leading the way into the prefabs and registering the shocked surprise in Sheila’s eyes at the shabby wooden buildings.
‘This is where the air hostesses hang out?’ she squeaked incredulously. Maura nodded. Yes in
deed, she felt like saying.
For the next week, Mrs. Mueller turned up like clockwork every morning at nine thirty, big tinted glasses shoved high on her forehead, an American airline bag slung on her padded shoulder. She shadowed Maura around the prefabs, commenting on everything in wondering tones and jotting notes in a refill pad. Whether the book was fiction or a documentary wasn’t clear but from all the notes she took, Maura decided dourly, she could have been writing it on the spot. When she took her to lunch in the canteen they sat together behind the shrubbery and Sheila cast an appreciative eye at the pilots, declaring them to be ‘real cute’. Maura ached for the week to be over. It was a relief when Judy Mathews did lunch-duty one day and Elinor Page the next.
Having Mueller parked half the day in her office was the worst of all, Maura decided. She sat there smoking endless cigarettes, fogging up the small room, and openly listening to all her telephone conversations. To the Chief Hostess’s jaundiced eye, she appeared to be taking them down verbatim. When Mrs. Mueller finally transferred her attentions to other members of the hostess staff, Maura heaved a sigh of relief.
Judy and Elinor were polite but took no nonsense from her. Amy Curtis allowed the American woman a brief interview but was otherwise engaged.
‘She’s quite a dame your chief,’ Sheila remarked admiringly after her session with the Superintendent. ‘Real ladylike. ‘Kinda reminds me of Mother Mary Benedict who had charge over us in Seattle.’
Maura repressed a grin. When she passed this titbit on to Elinor, the Administrator rolled her eyes and chuckled, ‘A convent girl, by Gad!’
Everyone was glad when the end of June also signalled the end of Sheila Mueller. It had been a tough enough month without the added stress of being overlooked every minute of its final quarter.
Maura smiled insincerely when the woman stuck her head into her office to cry, ‘So long, Maura, and thanks a thou for all your help.’