He waved to the crew to haul away the wheel chocks.
‘Hold on to your hat, Cadet. I’m taking her up.’
I took off my cap and shoved it under my leg. With the others watching, we trundled out onto the grass. I sneaked a look at Charlie. He was squinting into the morning sun, his face like thunder. I hoped he’d calm down once he had a chance to fly.
Captain Ferguson let the engine idle for a few minutes to warm it up, then headed the Avro down to the end of the runway and turned her nose to the east.
‘What shall I do next, Cadet?’
‘Throttle her, sir?’
‘You Australians have such a charming way of putting things,’ he said. ‘Let’s get up in the blue.’
So we did. The Avro roared down that runway like a dragon, all the canvas shuddering and the wires whistling in the wind. One small bump, then another, the nose pitched up, and we were off. We cleared the old stone wall around the field with six feet to spare, and then a cypress windbreak on the farmland beyond. A hundred feet up in the air, two hundred. I felt like weeping or laughing or both. Flying at last!
Captain Ferguson banked to our left and brought us back around over the hangars. Another two Avros lined up far below, trainees and instructors on board, ready to take off. Everyone else stood gazing up at us, hands shielding eyes against the sun. Charlie’s pale hair was easy to spot. He wasn’t flying yet. I lifted one hand to wave, but thought better of it.
We circled up higher and higher, and the wind grew colder as we went. I was going to need a lot more clothes. Those girls back home would have to get busy with the knitting.
‘Altitude?’ asked Ferguson, after about twenty minutes.
I checked the altimeter on the panel in front of me. ‘One thousand feet, sir.’
‘Air speed?’
‘Sixty miles per hour, sir.’
‘Fast enough for you, Cadet?’
It was faster than I’d ever travelled in my life. Our BE2s at Point Cook only managed that on their best days.
‘How fast will she go, sir?’
‘Let’s see, shall we?’
The captain banked to the right, dropped the nose a little so we soared around in a long elegant swoop and levelled out. He shouted to me, ‘Why don’t you give her a bit more throttle?’
I didn’t need to be told twice. I cranked it up and the Avro took off.
‘Excellent,’ came the reply. ‘You can take us down now.’
‘Me, sir?’
‘Well, I got us up here. You can’t expect me to do everything.’
‘Oh, dear God.’
‘What was that?’
‘Nothing, sir.’ The joystick suddenly jolted in my hand. He had handed over control. To me. Hundreds of feet up in the sky.
I peered over the side. The aerodrome was about two miles away, to the east. I very gingerly put a little pressure on the rudder bar and the plane swung slowly around in the right direction. A tiny push on the stick brought the nose a little lower. I could see green fields through the spinning propeller. Sweat trickled down my back.
‘I’m still here, Cadet,’ said Captain Ferguson. ‘I have every faith in you, but I will not let you kill me. So you have faith in yourself, but also remember that I am here to make sure we both get down safely, in spite of anything you might do.’
That was exactly what I needed to hear. I grinned.
‘I’ll try not to kill either of us, sir.’
‘Glad to hear it, Cadet.’
Slowly but surely we circled back down towards the earth. Every moment I felt as if I learned a thousand lessons: how much pressure to use on the rudder, how to correct any tiny mistakes, when to level out and when to keep the nose down, how the plane felt in the wind, how your body can be both freezing and sweating at the same time, how you can feel terrified and happy all at once, and so intensely focused that there’s nothing else on earth or in the air but you and your aircraft and the clear blue sky.
And then the grass. Closer than I planned—pull the nose up a little, the flaps down, the landing gear touching once, twice, three times. And landed. I felt as if I might throw up. Or cry. In the end I did neither.
‘Good work, Cadet,’ said Ferguson. ‘We live to fly another day.’
Banjo came running out, arms waving. ‘You did it!’
Behind him stood Charlie, hands in pockets, glaring at me.
March, 1917
Air Base Waddington
Lincolnshire, England
You’ll never believe it, Sis. I can fly!
We got here four days ago and I’ve been up several times every day since. We have to start and land the planes ourselves, and fly around with the instructor doing any tricky bits (he sits in the back with his own set of controls, thank goodness).
But then, this morning, I’d just landed and Captain Ferguson jumped out (well, he didn’t really jump because he’s got a sore leg) and said, ‘Right-oh, Cadet, off you pop.’ So I had to take off and fly and land all by myself.
I won’t admit it to anyone else, but I flew around in circles for much longer than I needed to because I was too scared to land. If I’d had more petrol in the tank, I might still be up there now.
My first solo flight! I’m glad I’ve got it out of the way. I was dreading the thought of it, but Captain F made it seem so ordinary that I was in the air before I could start worrying. I’m the first of our lot to fly solo, but the others will all have a crack at it in the next few days.
Charlie, of course, has flown solo back home so he’s raring to go. Banjo, on the other hand, has been feeling sick about it all week. But they’ll both be fine. Captain F won’t let anybody try it unless he’s sure they’ll succeed. He teases us, but I’ve noticed he is really very cautious. No wonder. He’s lost an eye and half his foot getting shot down over France—by the Red Baron, no less.
So now he’s training us to fly safely. I don’t think I ever met a better bloke. You’d like him.
But that’s enough from here. Tell me everything from your side of the world.
A
XX
I woke up early on my birthday. Silly, really. I don’t know what I expected, but I felt the morning held a kind of promise. It was Sunday, so I didn’t have to work. The whole sun-drenched day stretched before me. A magpie sat on the fence outside my window, carolling and carrying on, as they do.
I sneaked out of the bedroom without waking Flossie. The whole house smelled of toast and bacon. Ma and Dad were in the kitchen, drinking tea as usual.
‘Glad you’re up,’ said Dad. ‘I have to go to work soon. Didn’t want to miss you.’
Ma vanished into the pantry and reappeared bearing a parcel all wrapped up in brown paper and tied with string.
‘Happiest of birthdays, dear,’ she said, and kissed my hair. I squeezed the parcel. Clothing of some kind. A new dress, perhaps, to wear to work?
‘Thank you, Ma.’
Dad leaned over and squeezed my elbow. ‘Your mother’s been sewing in secret for weeks. Wait till you see them. A triumph!’
‘Shush now,’ she said, blushing.
Them?
I picked at the string impatiently, then just wrestled it off sideways and unfolded the paper. Inside was something made of heavy brown fabric—tweed, and not a cheap material either.
‘A skirt? It’s lovely, Ma, thank you ever so.’
‘Not quite,’ she said.
I held it up.
‘Bloomers!’
Dad erupted in laughter. ‘All the modern girls are wearing them now.’
‘For me?’ I held them up against my waist. ‘Am I allowed to wear them in public? Really?’
Ma grinned. ‘Only in certain circumstances,’ she said. ‘We don’t want to shock the whole neighbourhood.’
‘Which circumstances?’ I asked.
‘Ah,’ said Dad, rising from his chair. ‘That’s the second part of the birthday surprise.’
He took my hand and led me out into the hallway
and through the back door. Ma followed closely behind. There, leaning against the fence, was the most astonishing thing I had ever seen in my entire life.
‘A bicycle!’
None of us could believe it. Bertie and Flossie ran around in circles all morning, laughing. None of us knew how to ride it, either. I kept trying, watched closely by the little ones, but it wouldn’t stay up.
‘Silly machine!’ said Flossie.
‘Make it go,’ said Bertie. Over and over.
‘It can’t be that hard,’ said Dad. ‘Lots of people ride them nowadays.’
Many bruises later, and a helping hand from Dad running along behind, I figured it out. I gripped the handlebars and soared down Station Street, peddling as fast as my legs would go.
‘Hoorah!’ shouted Flossie.
‘Mags has got a bicycle,’ sang Bertie. Over and over.
‘Miss Robinson?’ A voice cried out to me across Guild Hall, just as we were leaving a meeting. Ma and I paused, craning to see who had called. The crowd parted. Miss Pankhurst rushed across the room, hands outstretched. To me.
‘I hope you don’t mind,’ she said, drawing close. ‘I so wanted to meet you. I hear you have a bicycle.’
‘She does,’ said Ma, with a sniff.
‘How thrilling,’ said Miss Pankhurst. ‘Can you really ride it? And do you wear bloomers?’
‘Of course,’ I said. ‘It would be impossible otherwise— my petticoat wouldn’t last a moment.’
I’d only ever seen her at a distance, standing on a stage giving rousing speeches or shouting down hecklers. She was tiny and very pretty, impossibly glamorous really, apart from being one of the most famous people in Melbourne, and a member of one of the most notorious families in the Empire. It seemed miraculous that she was standing there talking to me. About bicycles.
‘How wonderful.’ Miss Pankhurst took one of my hands in hers and gave me a charming smile. ‘You’ve convinced me. I’m going to buy one too.’
‘You should,’ I said. ‘Every young woman needs a bicycle.’
‘Do you know,’ she said, pressing my hand, ‘I’m sure we’re going to be the best of friends.’
Ma fumed all the way home on the tram.
‘Presumptuous.’
‘Now, Ma. Everyone is fascinated by bicycles. Maybe I can teach her to ride.’
‘I know what she’s up to.’
‘What?’
Ma stared out the window. The street lamps threw yellow halos up into the foggy night.
‘Be careful, that’s all I ask.’
‘If you’re worried she’ll break her neck —’
‘No,’ Ma said with a sly grin, ‘that doesn’t worry me at all.’
‘Then what are you up in arms about?’
‘Miss Pankhurst is trying to gather the younger women in the Peace Army around her,’ said Ma. ‘She thinks some of us are not active enough.’
I snorted. ‘You? Not active? You spend every evening at meetings.’
‘Hardly,’ she said. ‘But I fear Miss Pankhurst wishes to overthrow the government. I only want to stop the war.’
‘Perhaps she’s lonely,’ I said. ‘It must be very hard on her, being all the way over here when her mother is still in London.’
‘Mrs Pankhurst was happy to be rid of her, I understand.’
‘Ma!’
‘They disagree on matters of politics,’ she said.
And I thought our family was fiery. Imagine Sunday lunch at the Pankhursts’, with your mother and sisters all celebrated suffragettes who’d been to prison and everything, but now disagreeing with each other over the stupid war. The newspapers were always reporting on their family arguments. Being the youngest would be even more rotten.
‘I feel a bit sorry for Miss Pankhurst, really.’
‘Don’t you worry about her,’ said Ma.
‘Anyway,’ I said, ‘I can’t imagine that I’m part of her fiendish plan.’
‘Time will tell,’ Ma said.
Miss Pankhurst’s—I was allowed to call her Adela—bicycle was much fancier than mine, and the shop that sold it to her even gave her riding lessons. So two weeks later, she was ready. We met on Princes Bridge and steered our machines down the path to the riverbank. Half of Melbourne seemed to be there, strolling in the sunshine.
‘What fun we shall have,’ Adela said. ‘Let’s go!’
She wobbled a little at the start, but then charged through the Domain as if she was being chased by a tiger.
‘You do have brakes, remember,’ I called after her.
‘Brakes are for cowards,’ she shrieked.
Gentlemen jumped out of her way, shouting indignantly and waving their hats. One woman tried to hit her with a parasol. Adela dodged around an ice-cream cart and swerved to miss two small children in sailor suits, who sang out to her happily.
I followed close behind, and eventually the crowd thinned out and our pace settled down. Adela hadn’t ridden as much as me, and her legs were tiring.
I sped past her and up towards the gate to the Botanical Gardens. A warm wind tugged at my hat and hair. I leaned over the handlebars and pumped my legs even faster.
This must be how it feels to fly, I thought. No wonder Alex loved it. But this didn’t depend on an engine or a mechanic, just my legs and lungs and my own strength.
‘I can’t afford a carriage,’ I sang, as loudly as Gladys Moncrieff on stage at the Princess Theatre. ‘But you’d look sweet, upon the seat of a bicycle built for two!’
I felt as if life might burst right out of me, like fireworks, here in the middle of the city. I could go anywhere. I could have my own adventures.
And one day, maybe I would ride a camel or visit Paris or write a book. Anything.
Everything! Why not?
April, 1917
Station Street,
Coburg
Hey!
What do you mean you’re being taught to fly by a man with one eye? Is that entirely safe?
I’m not sure I want to hear any more about flying until you’ve graduated and I can be sure you’re not a risk to yourself and others.
We’re all agog here about the news from Russia. Did you hear? You probably didn’t take any notice because it’s not about aeroplanes, but there were all these riots and the government has been completely overthrown. The Tsar has abdicated. Shocking. Well, I’m shocked, anyway. Imagine if our king just stopped being the King? I didn’t think it was possible. Dad reckons it’s about time, and there should be more of it. I don’t think he means it. Not really.
But I wonder what difference it will make to the war? What if the Russians stop fighting on our side? Nobody seems to have any idea what will happen next. The world is such a strange place lately.
Closer to home, Bertie decided to climb the lemon tree and pick all the fruit at once. He was very proud of himself, but you can imagine how happy that made Ma. We have been making lemonade for days, but at least we have rows of lovely bottles in the pantry and enough lemonade to last for years.
Don’t crash your plane, please.
Mags
It seemed to take forever for Banjo to make his solo flight. He didn’t mind.
‘Better safe than sorry,’ he said, more than once. I was flying regular solo flights by then, and Charlie had flown an Avro twice by himself.
But at last the moment came when Banjo’s instructor walked away from the aircraft and motioned to him to take her aloft. Charlie and I stood and watched as he ran though the start-up and taxied out onto the runway.
Banjo gave us the thumbs up signal, and the plane thundered down the runway, bounced twice, and lumbered into the sky just in time to clear the far fence.
‘Phew,’ said Charlie. ‘That was close.’
‘He’s nervous,’ I said. ‘I was too. Still am.’
‘Really?’
‘Aren’t you?’
‘Not at all,’ said Charlie. I didn’t believe him for a moment.
He pulled a battered cop
y of The Times out from under his arm and unfolded it. ‘You won’t be nervous when we’re in action, will you?’
‘I don’t know,’ I said. ‘I really don’t know.’
He sniffed. ‘You’ll be fine.’ He didn’t sound at all convinced.
Banjo’s plane buzzed in wide circles above our heads.
‘Look here,’ Charlie said. ‘Our chaps have been in the thick of it. Place called Bullecourt.’
‘Where’s that?’
‘No idea,’ he said. ‘Sounds like a bit of a mess. Huns reckon they captured a thousand of our blokes.’
‘Rubbish.’
‘Can’t be true,’ he said. ‘Can it?’
‘Surely not. They just want to put the wind up us.’
He rustled the newspaper, trying to read while the wind flapped at the pages. ‘Forty-seven and 48 Battalions—that’s your cousin’s lot, eh?’
‘Yes,’ I said. ‘Young Ralphie’s with the 47th.’ I tried to grab the front page but he pushed me away. ‘Does it say anything about casualties?’
‘You don’t want to know,’ said Charlie. He glanced up into the sun.
‘Look out,’ he said, shoving the newspaper under one arm. ‘I think Banjo’s coming in.’
‘Already?’
The Avro was low in the sky on the western edge of the airfield. Banjo banked sharply to line up to land. Then the plane seemed to falter. The engine spluttered.
‘Don’t slow down now, Banjo,’ I said out loud.
‘Dear God,’ said Charlie. ‘It’s stalled.’
There was silence. No engine noise, nothing.
‘Banjo!’ I shouted. ‘Level her out! Glide back in.’
But he couldn’t hear me. And it was too late.
The plane seemed to hang on its side in mid-air for a few heartbeats. Then it dipped, flipped upside down, and plummeted to earth.
‘No!’
We ran, all of us. The ground crew charged past in a truck and the rescue car screamed out of the garage. We all raced towards a crumpled heap of wood and wire at the far end of the field.
By the time Charlie and I got there, the crew had pulled Banjo’s body from the wreckage. The first aid chap shook his head.
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