by Betty Beaty
Usually they said, ‘He looks rather young, doesn’t he?’ or maternally, ‘So nice, and just a bit shy,’ or curiously, ‘Is he married?’ and then, if she shook her head—meaningfully, ‘And do you fly with him every trip?’
But this time, they had little to ask. They accepted Captain Prentice as exactly their idea of an airline commander. He was altogether big enough, broad enough and stern enough to give them all that added feeling of security that they might get from an extra engine. Certainly he was brief and detached and coolly polite, but that was fine. Over-chatty captains simply terrified them. Shouldn’t you be up at the front doing your job, you could almost hear them thinking aloud, itching to move him on and back to attend to the vital business of their own safety.
And the Captain’s round took in no more of the galley than a brief glance from the doorway, and a nod to acknowledge (but by no means soothe) her look of wary apprehension.
And then, as the four jets ground their way over two thousand miles of thin cold ocean air, Patsy’s thoughts fastened themselves inevitably, now that the passengers had slept and were fed and warm and content, and the crew were fed and warm and content, and happily getting on with their job, on her own pressing problem.
What, she thought, was written (or just about to be written) on that flimsy white piece of paper headed Captain’s Confidential Report, which was the bottom one of the pile of five, and which had on the left-hand corner in black typescript ‘Aylmer, Patricia, Number 1753, stewardess’ and which invited the captain to give an uninhibited description of her looks, her bearing and her character, with a freedom that anywhere else would surely have resulted in the invocation of the libel laws.
As she took up the last cup of tea (surely he would see it was scalding hot and made to perfection and without a drop in any saucer) he was sitting alone at the front with his brief-case open on his lap. The First Officer had gone to the back for a shave, and the automatic pilot was engaged. Captain Prentice had pushed back the metal pilot’s seat to allow him more leg room.
It was a quiet time now. The ocean crossing was behind them, and there was a sense of relaxation on the flight deck. Under the Astroliner’s wings were the green hills of Wales, intersected by the thin grey mining valleys.
But Captain Prentice, just as she had known in her bones he would be doing, was poring, pen in hand, over his sheaf of Confidential Reports, every now and then adjusting the controls of the automatic pilot. He looked up at her with a look of bemused concentration, and then frowned slightly, as one often does when the object of one’s thoughts suddenly materializes.
If she peeped sideways (which she only did once or twice) she could see the hateful form, and if she twisted her head right round (which she did of course) there was the name Aylmer. And even now, the vicious point of the pen was poised over the first little block of words which said ‘Loyalty’ ... and then, to assist the captains to be brief, ‘Exceptional, Above Average, Average, Below Average ... strike out the words inapplicable’ urged the little form. And magnetically and destructively, she knew his pen was going to make a jab at the first three.
‘Ah, Miss Aylmer, the tea,’ he said, almost as though to draw her eyes away from the form. ‘Thank you.’ Then, with great deliberation, he screwed up his fountain-pen, and put his brief-case on the throttle pedestal. ‘How many trips have you done now?’ His eyes were slightly narrowed, as though if he concentrated hard enough he would be able to see the relevant and just assessment pinned somewhere near her barely earned half-wing.
‘This is my third, sir. Not counting the supervision, that is.’
‘I see.’ The slightly raised eyebrows added, ‘More than enough time to learn, too.’ He took an absent-minded draught of tea—now no longer piping hot—and put it down again as though he hadn’t noticed what tie was drinking. ‘Now I remember,’ he said. ‘You did your supervision with Captain Maynard and myself.’
Patsy nodded. Then, with a frightened, get-it-over-and-done-with rushing into the quiet privacy of the two of them up in the nose of the aircraft together, she asked, ‘Are you going to give me a bad report, sir?’
A sudden shaft of sunlight, streaming out from behind a great white clump of cumulus, seemed to cast a curious light and shadow on his face, so that for a moment it appeared to have softened into a near-smile. But when he looked up at her, there was not a trace of it left around the firm set of his mouth.
‘A bad report, Miss Aylmer?’ he said, with what appeared to be marked distaste. ‘What precisely d’you mean by that? Not,’ he said, raising his dark eyebrows mockingly, ‘an inaccurate one?’
‘Oh, no, sir. That is, I don’t know, sir...’
Captain Prentice’s eyebrows raised themselves a further fraction.
‘You mean by that, I presume,’ he said pleasantly, ‘that you hope it’s not too accurate?’
‘Yes,’ Patsy said flatly. That was more or less what she meant. And there really appeared to be no point in arguing with this man, who could twist your words and make you always in the wrong.
‘A point I always pride myself on,’ he said musingly, and then more mockingly, in words that were half familiar, ‘You will get what you deserve. No less, and certainly no more.’
The words had a terrifying ring, and yet when he glanced at her, most certainly a smile was crinkling his eyes that now looked really quite humorous. Then, seeing she didn’t understand, he said briskly, ‘A quotation, Miss Aylmer ... but in my own words, if I were giving you an adverse report, I should show it to you. All right?’
‘Yes, sir.’ Or almost all right, she thought, making her way down the aisle and stopping to pass the Captain’s Progress Report past two empty seats and on to the people behind. ‘Yes, nearly there,’ she smiled down at an old lady who was beginning to look tired with her long journey. ‘We’ll soon be crossing the Bristol Channel.’
Every time she saw Captain Prentice, and she seemed to see him much more frequently in those last twenty minutes, she was sure that he was going to stop her and say, ‘One minute, Miss Aylmer ... I think you’d better take a look at this,’ thrusting the fateful form right under her nose.
But he didn’t. The only words he spoke to her were the ones as she followed the last passenger down on to the tarmac at London Airport, and they were harmless and non-committal enough. ‘Thank you, Miss Aylmer,’ he said, as he stood for a moment under the port wing. But most of the captains thanked their crew after a long trip, so it didn’t mean anything extraordinary, and then just before he turned away Geoff Pollard walked slowly across the apron, gave Captain Prentice a salute and grinned at Patsy and said, ‘Bang on schedule, eh?’ including both Captain Prentice and Patsy in a congratulatory smile.
‘Hello, Geoff,’ Patsy said shyly. Captain Prentice half walked away, but he was still within earshot. ‘What are you doing out here?’
‘That’s a fine welcome, I must say!’ Geoff pushed back his uniform cap a little further on his head. ‘I came to meet you, that’s what I’m doing. Shall we walk up to Customs together? The crew car will take your bags.’
Patsy fell into step beside him, as they both started across the tarmac. ‘It’s the first time you’ve met me off a trip,’ she pointed out logically. ‘That’s why I wondered.’
‘Is it now? Well, remind me to do it again ... no,’ he put his hand to his head. ‘That reminds me. I can’t. Fact is, Patsy, I’d got something to tell you.’
‘Something bad?’ Patsy asked, falling into the usual assumption of people in her job that any news was bad news.
‘So-so. Some might say bad, some might say good. Or, to be more accurate, good riddance.’
‘Come on, Geoff!’ Patsy begged. ‘Tell me.’
‘Well—’ A curious forlorn look suddenly stole over Geoff’s usually cheerful face—‘the fact of the matter is ... I’ve been posted.’
‘Posted?’ Patsy echoed in surprise. ‘Wherever to?’
‘Take out your file marked Sympathetic Expressions,�
� Geoff said, turning up his eyes to the clear morning sky. ‘Iceland. Iceland.’ He hunched his broad shoulders together and shivered. ‘Keflavik.’
‘Oh, Geoff, I am sorry! And I will miss you. We’ll all miss you.’ She put her small hand on his arm, and squeezed it hard.
‘Come, come!’ Geoff grinned at her. ‘In uniform, too. And before Captain Prentice’s very eyes.’
‘But Iceland is a bit dreary, Geoff,’ said Patsy, dropping her hand.
‘I'll tell you one little bit of consolation ... it’s promotion.’
‘It is!’ Patsy’s blue eyes flew wide open and she smiled. ‘Oh, good! So you don’t mind all that much?’
‘Only for one reason,’ he said, looking down at her, and his eyes were very solemn.
Patsy waited for him to go on, but he said nothing until they reached the main Customs entrance. There he stopped, and began diffidently, ‘It’s rather difficult to explain The crew car suddenly came to a noisy halt beside them, and the crew started to disembark from it and unload their baggage.
Geoff looked at the bustle round him, and apparently decided that if it was difficult before, now it was impossible. He looked at his watch and mumbled something about being on duty in a couple of minutes’ time.
‘Of course, Geoff,’ Patsy said quickly. ‘And I’ll spread the news at Mrs. Waterhouse’s.’
‘There’s to be a party,’ Geoff called over his shoulder on his way to Operations. ‘The boys I work with are going to speed me on my way. I’ll tell you when I see you.’
CHAPTER SEVEN
An hour later, Patsy pushed open Mrs. Waterhouse’s front door, and dumped her bag for a moment on the hall tiles. She saluted the glassy-eyed fish in its case on the wall, and slipping a large box of maple sugar fondants (much beloved by Mrs. Waterhouse) on to the table in the deserted kitchen, she walked slowly up the stairs to her bed-sitting room.
Just as she turned the door-knob, Cynthia came gliding out of her room in a long crimson housecoat, and murmured, ‘Saks, ten dollars in the “as was” tray.’ And then blinking her bright eyes, ‘What price poor Pollard’s posting?’
‘Pretty grim,’ Patsy said, falling into the way of dispensing with all greetings as though in fact they hadn’t done any travelling at all. ‘I saw him at the airport. Just on the apron. When did it come through?’
Cynthia shrugged her shoulders. ‘A couple of days ago, I imagine. When I came in yesterday he told me, and the party was organized then.’ She looked down at Patsy’s hand still holding her case. ‘Chuck it into your room ... and then step right this way, madam. I’ll have tea ready for you in a moment.’
And when Patsy obediently did what she was told, Cynthia had already poured the water into the pot, and from her position over the gas ring irrelevantly announced the fact that she’d been listening to birds.
‘And what have they been whispering?’
‘Oh, this and that, you know.’ Cynthia lit a cigarette, drew Patsy’s attention to the fact that her holder exactly matched her housecoat and then went on. ‘I heard quite a bit about Geoff’s posting, of course, in the crew rest-room.’
‘Go on,’ Patsy said. ‘Mind if I help myself?’ And she reached for the teapot.
‘Joanna Trent was there ... and she came out with rather a surprising theory.’ She looked sideways at Patsy. ‘At least I was surprised. But now I come to think of it, I can’t for the life of me say why.’
Patsy smiled. ‘Then you tell me, and maybe I’ll be surprised and maybe I can say why.’
‘I wonder,’ Cynthia said cryptically. She walked over to the mantelpiece, and draping an arm gracefully over its white marble looked down at her nails with elaborate concentration. ‘And here’s me been acting as an extra outsize gooseberry all these days!’ She opened her eyes wide. ‘And you and Geoff must have wished me on the other side of the world!’ She walked over to Patsy’s chair and looked down at her with sudden gentleness. ‘And you never let on for a moment that I was in the way.’
Patsy pushed her cap to the back of her head and rumpled her hair. ‘It must be this after-trip weariness you’ve so often told me about ... but please, what are you trying to say?’
‘I’m just telling you ... that you’re going to get engaged to Geoff. Now don’t look so stunned! Joanna Trent says so. Oh, lots of people say so. The whole airline in fact knows but me!’
‘And me,’ Patsy said drily. ‘For goodness’ sake, Cynthia, you should know better. You’ve nearly always been with us—’
‘May I be forgiven!’
‘—and so you know there isn’t the slightest truth in it.’ Patsy jumped up quickly and started to walk up and down the room. ‘And anyway, you know Joanna Trent just talks and talks and—’
‘All right, my child, don’t get all stewed up! You’ve convinced me.’
‘But what if Geoff’s heard it?’
‘Oh, Geoff’s no fool. He won’t worry.’
‘Or—’
‘Or who?’
‘Oh, no one really. I just—well, don’t want it to get around.’
‘Too late, my child. It has.’
Patsy looked worried for a moment. Then she suddenly smiled. ‘Oh, anyway,’ she said, ‘it doesn’t matter. Geoff’ll understand. And I don’t suppose the rest are interested enough to take much notice.’
‘That’s the girl! Let’s fill up your cup, and forget the old grapevine. It’s here to stay, so we might as well get used to it. I must say it had me fooled, though I thought I was too wise a bird. More sugar? Now, if you’re not absolutely dying for your bed, how about thinking about the dresses we should wear for poor old Geoff’s farewell party?’
But Cynthia might have spared herself all thought of it. For three days later, on the very morning of the party, she was called out from stand-by to take the service to Montreal, because Eleanor Sykes, the stewardess on the flight, had got a heavy cold and was forbidden by the M.O. to fly.
‘What a bind, isn’t it?’ she said, arranging her cap in the crew room. ‘Janet’ll be missing it, too (though a fat lot she’ll care), with that double New York-Bermuda shuttle she’s on. There, Patsy my dear, will I do?’
Patsy nodded. ‘Have a good trip,’ she said. ‘I expect I’ll catch up with you, anyway.’
Patsy caught the next bus home, and then wrote some letters, and in the afternoon went for a fitting in Regent Street for her summer-weight uniforms. The house was odd and silent without the other two girls. Already they had welded themselves together, under Mrs. Waterhouse’s care, to the next best thing to a family. She ran her bath and laid out her fresh and crisp party clothes and then dressed herself with care.
‘The Pollard limousine!’ announced Geoff, as she answered the door ten minutes later, after his long insistent ring. ‘For the last time, at your service.’
‘Oh, you’ll be back, Geoff,’ Patsy said. ‘You’ll be coming for leave, and I expect you’ll see lots of us then.’
‘I keep thinking of that,’ Geoff said, and grinned. ‘May I say how pretty you look tonight?’ Quite beautiful,’ he added so softly that Patsy looked at him sideways and very anxiously. ‘Don’t look so worried,’ he went on, ‘it’s the effect of the moon.’ They both looked up from Mrs. Waterhouse’s doorstep to the full moon that was just riding above the tops of the houses opposite. ‘And the party spirit, and my last night, and all that.’
‘Well, let’s go,’ said Patsy, pulling up her coat collar, and running down the steps towards Geoff’s car. ‘The party will be waiting for you.’
‘Let them,’ Geoff said, as he followed her. He looked back at the solid edifice of Mrs. Waterhouse’s old-fashioned house. ‘You know, I’ve developed quite an affection for this place. I’ve had fun.’ He gave the building a mock and strangely wistful salute, and then started the noisy engine with gusto.
‘Are there many coming tonight?’ Patsy asked, talking brightly because she was disturbed by his unhappy profile.
‘I imagine.’ Geoff nodded h
is head, keeping his eyes on the road. ‘Most of the bods that are in. If they feel like coming.’
‘Cynthia was sorry to miss it. She was simply wild at being called out this morning.’
Geoff murmured politely that he was sorry, too.
‘And Janet, too, she'll ... she’ll miss you...’
But Geoff appeared to be absorbed in his own thoughts. Very soon, the traffic had thinned out, and they were speeding along the Great West Road towards the airport.
‘They’re having it in the lounge of the flying-club,’ he said, turning in at the gate before the one they usually used. ‘Just up past Control.’ He drove along for a couple of hundred yards and then stopped the car abruptly. ‘Here we are ... mind the skirt of your dress on the door there, it’s a bit jagged. Here, give me your hand. That’s better! And mind your shoes, it’s muddy.’
Faintly and jauntily across the cool evening air, a three-piece band was competing with the mutter and roar of distance-muted engines. Across the four lighted squares of windows, the dark shadows of a few couples moved in time to the racy rhythm.
‘Looks quite a party!’ said Patsy, taking off her coat, and hanging it on the side of the large entrance hall under the pegs labelled ‘Gals.’
World-Span Aviation and partner had somehow seemed to get together especially to give the ever-popular Geoff a good send-off to Iceland. The small room was soon packed with aircrew and ground staff all talking and laughing or leaning over the buffet or dancing to the untiring, perspiring band. Although it was her own Company and she belonged, and although she was Geoff’s special protégée and although World-Span employees were a friendly bunch, Patsy was conscious now and again of feeling extremely shy, as she did in recurring bouts at all parties.
Geoff obviously had, as he termed it, to circulate, and—as seemed to happen at a number of aircrew get-togethers—almost all the boys entirely forgot to dance with the girls. Patsy had a long conversation with a middle-aged man from Traffic, who like herself looked lonely, and she wandered over to the buffet, and from there admired the sight of Monica Fairways, radiant in crimson velvet, talking animatedly to Captain Prentice.