Rollo and I might have had our share of romance before we started on this adventure but once we set off from London, our relationship was all business-like and practical. It had to be. We had so many dangers and challenges to face on a daily basis. We could be airborne from four to eight hours per day (although we had decided beforehand there would be no night-flying unless in an emergency), we were confined to a very small space in a cockpit open to the mercy of the elements and the quality of visibility the weather granted us. Concentration was another factor. It was so easy to drift off into daydreams with the constant hum of the engine, especially over monotonous terrain. Then there were our ablutions. Urination and bowel movements all had to be attended to before we set off on each leg. A few days into our trip, I had to cope with menstruation cramp. My period pains were never too bad but I often wondered how other women managed. It was something I very rarely hear talked about even now after all the feminist advances of the 60s. How did women deal with their menses on climbing expeditions, playing in sports tournaments, flying into space? How did you manage, Amy Johnson, when you first flew solo all the way to Australia? Did you plan the journey around the weather or the moon?
Even when the flying was over for the day, exhausted yet elated at safely reaching our destination, we had to think about accommodation, stocking up on our food and water, making sure we had access to petrol, finding out about the weather, checking over the aircraft, filling in the log book, reviewing the route for our onward leg. We were lucky though. Apart from a couple of days holed up in Marseilles waiting for a storm to pass, it was plain flying all the way to Cairo where thanks to one of Rollo’s old university chums we dined at the British Consulate on ox-tail soup, roast beef and potatoes. For the first time in ten days, I felt myself relax. We drank fine wine, we danced, we made love, we slept in a four-poster under mosquito nets. Yet we still managed to be up and airborne by mid-morning for the final part of our journey.
After stopping off to re-fuel in Suez, the plan was to strike a path north-east up to Palestine and the Holy City of Jerusalem. But after about a half-hour up in the air with me as pilot and Rollo taking photographs with the aerial camera, he signalled for me to keep going due east over the Sinai. As far as I knew there was absolutely nothing in that direction for a hundred miles or so until the port town of Aquaba on the Red Sea but Rollo kept on with his signalling. I gave him a shrug, banked the aircraft into an easterly path, continued out over barren desert. The landscape was quite mesmerizing. Endless shimmering plains and mountain ranges, pale yellow and pink, set off against a cloudless blue sky. No movement, no birds, no sound except for the puttering of our engine. As time passed and the angle of the sun changed, shadows would come into play, creating different contours across this blank canvas in the most fascinating of waves. I was not religious although flying could definitely bring out the spiritual side of a person – or provide insights into universal truths as my father used to tell me – but looking down at the markings in the desert it was as if God Himself were drawing pictures in the sand. I was sure Rollo felt this too as he swung from side to side with his camera in a frenzy of photo-taking.
I was keeping the altitude steady for him, cruising at about 75 knots when I spotted some kind of encampment below. I indicated the site to Rollo, thought we might give the place a lower pass. He responded with an excited thumbs-up, then pointed downwards for us to land. I wasn’t sure about this at all. The desert dust could clog up our engines, I had no idea about the suitability of the terrain for a landing or how we would be received by a tribe of nomads. I shook my head at him but he continued with his pointing. In the end, I gave in – after all, he who pays the piper picks the tune.
I picked out a flat, hopefully rock-free area far away enough I hoped from the encampment not to arouse any fears from its residents. To my relief, the Moth bounced down easy and solid on the ground and I brought it up to a halt pretty quick even without a headwind. We climbed down from our cockpits, stretched our limbs, dusted ourselves off. I looked towards the encampment, nothing more than a collection of black-cloth tents.
‘Right on time,’ Rollo said, as a small group came riding out to meet us. He tore off his helmet and goggles. His skin was pink along his hairline, round his eyes, his forehead and cheeks desert-dusted.
‘That face will be enough to scare them off,’ I said laughing, although I wasn’t sure why. Six riders were coming towards us, two of them with rifles strapped across their back.
‘We should walk towards them,’ he said. ‘Hands above our heads. Show them we’re unarmed.’
‘Good idea.’
‘I have a pistol. In my boot. Just in case.’
The riders, all men, completed a couple of circuits of the Moth, before drawing up in front of us. We stood there with our arms up in the air, while they just leaned over in their saddles staring back. Eventually, one of them gave us a wide toothy smile, said something presumably in Arabic which sounded friendly enough and we all relaxed. Then came an exchange of hand-gestures indicating that Rollo and I were invited to eat back at the encampment. Arms were outstretched and we were pulled up roughly on to horseback.
It was only when I took off my helmet back at the encampment did the Bedouin men realise I was a woman. The discovery led to a lot of laughter, some lewd gestures made for Rollo’s benefit. I was then led outside the main tent to sit under one of the raised flaps with the rest of my sex. The older women had their hair tied up with headscarves, a few of the younger girls wore long plaits right down to their waist, some bore elaborate brown markings on their skin. Their clothes were mainly dark and baggy set off with the occasional colourful embroidery to add a prettiness. They all tried to touch me, feel the leather of my jacket, rub their rough hands along my cheeks. All this was done in a friendly, feminine way and I did not once feel intimidated. After the inspection was over, they attended to the needs of the men. Plates of goat meat, flatbread and a moist paste made from ground beans (I learned later that this was called hummus). Dates, coffee and a clear alcohol (known locally as arak) were also served. It was then the turn of we women to eat. I looked inside the tent at Rollo. He was thoroughly enjoying himself, seated within a pile of cushions, sharing out his cigarettes, trying to explain the workings of a Fairchild F-8 Aerial camera to a fascinated audience.
There was a quiet period after lunch when a heavy heat descended, the men dozed, the women cleared up the dishes. I walked out to the plane, laid down with my back against one of the wheels, fell asleep. I was woken with the arrival of Rollo accompanied by three of the Bedouin men.
‘We’re going joyriding,’ he said. ‘Short hops.’
‘Do you want me to fly them?’
‘No need. They won’t go up with a woman.’ He gave me his Leica camera. ‘Take some snaps. Back at the camp. Memories of lunch.’
And that was what I did. No-one seemed to mind either as I walked around by the tents clicking away. There was no posing, everyone just getting on with what they were doing, tending to the livestock, grinding beans, churning butter in sacks swung on tripods, baking bread on hot stones, trusting me, allowing me to get up close. What marvellous faces the men had, so burnished and weather-beaten, their eyes narrowed from sun-glare and tobacco smoke. The women, smooth-skinned despite the sun, sometimes girlish in their shyness, at other times imbued with an aura of peaceful resignation that seemed to come from living so close to the rhythms of nature. When I was finished, I was taken for my own private ride, not on an airplane but on a camel. I bounced along atop that beast with so much laughter, nervousness and childish excitement. It was one of the most wonderful occasions of my life. To laugh, not at some silly joke or at someone else’s misfortune, but out of pure joy.
Night came and the temperature cooled quite dramatically. Rollo and I were given blankets, a reed basket of bread, cheese, dates, a goatskin pouch of arak, and escorted back to the Moth by two men with lanterns although the moon and the stars would have been sufficient to lig
ht our way. After much hand-shaking and back-slapping we were left alone. We lay down in our blankets by the side of our trusty plane, stared up at the most magnificent canopy of stars I had ever seen.
‘It is so quiet,’ I said.
‘Good not to hear the old engine. Rattling away.’
‘I keep having to remind myself where we are. Out here in the middle of the desert, in the middle of nowhere, jammed into a corner between Europe, Africa and Asia.’
‘Happy?’
‘Very.’
We made love, slowly and gently, sinking into such a closeness, a smallness, consumed by the majesty of the nature that surrounded us – the galaxies, the continents, the desert, the mountains, the stillness, the silence. Two tiny souls, clinging together for warmth and tenderness in the loneliness of a vast universe. Afterwards, we swigged arak from the pouch, shared the last of our cigarettes.
‘I don’t want to go on,’ Rollo said.
‘What do you mean?’
‘I feel we have already reached the apex. It is so perfect. This place. Do you mind?’
‘Not seeing Jerusalem?’
‘This is our holy city. Right here. The two of us.’
Rollo was not a man of many words but these ones moved me deeply. How could they fail to?
We followed the exact same route back to England. For the most part the journey was uneventful except for a few weather delays and when the wind ripped away Rollo’s maps over France. Altogether it took us 22 days to complete the whole trip. It was one of the most adventurous and exciting undertakings of my entire life. We were pioneers of the sky in the same way astronauts today are the pioneers of space or captains of yesteryear were the pioneers of the seas. I have flown to the Middle East since on passenger jets. I have even been to see Jerusalem. I have had the privilege of being asked to join the pilots in their cockpits to wonder at the array of instruments at their disposal when back then I had no more than a compass, an altimeter and my instinct to guide me. Whenever I have looked out from the air-conditioned comfort of my window seat (always a window seat) at the vast expanse of cloud and sky over the Mediterranean or the Sinai or North Africa, I imagine myself and my dear Rollo bobbing around in our little Gipsy Moth, and I am consumed with tears of profound happiness.
On our return to England, Rollo took all the film we had shot back to the lab at Farnborough. A few days later he turned up with the prints of the photographs I had taken with the Leica.
‘These are damn good,’ he said as he handed them over. ‘Hidden talents.’
Chapter Twenty-Three
The Kenwood Ladies’ Pond
No Men Allowed Beyond This Point. What bliss, Laura thought. A summer’s day at Kenwood Ladies’ Pond on Hampstead Heath. With Victoria and many other fine women of all ages, shapes, sizes, race and class who were happy to host a variety of exposed breasts, unwaxed legs and several famous faces (writers, TV presenters, journalists, actors like herself) without any fuss. She preferred the cooler, misty, less crowded days of the other seasons but what better way to spend a hot London afternoon than in the safe company of one’s own sex, especially when the opposite gender had emerged as her enemy. Or one particular man. Quentin Holloway. Although she was sure she could throw a few others into the mix if she put her mind to it.
She had already taken her brief plunge into the cold waters among the frogs, ducks, lilies and pond slime. She wasn’t much of a swimmer, considered these dips more as a baptism in nature rather than for any physical benefits. Unlike Victoria who swooped off with those wonderfully long, languid strokes of hers, hardly breaking the surface, returning breathless, pink-glowing, exhilarated, her feet and calves smeared with mud. The two of them then stretched out like stiff dummies on their respective blankets, still with their one-piece bathing suits in proper position. Gone were their topless days, suspended by a tacit mutual agreement some time ago. After the sun had succeeded in warming them up, drying them off, they plundered the contents of the picnic basket. As usual Laura had brought the food – cheeses, breads, olives and spreads – leaving Victoria to take care of the wine and bottles of mineral water. Birds sang, insects danced, sunlight glistened on the leaves, all worries had ceased for Laura until Victoria reminded her by saying:
‘That Quentin Holloway is a manipulative bastard.’
Laura looked up from the little bouquet of daisies she had been happily assembling. Victoria went on: ‘You should have nothing to do with him. Absolutely nothing.’
‘I agree.’
‘You need to surround yourself with positive people. People who support you rather than put obstacles in your way.’
‘I’m on your side with that. But it’s a tricky situation.’
‘People like that are poisonous. Toxic.’ Victoria popped a Kalamata olive into her mouth, washed it down with a gulp of white wine. ‘Men,’ she said bitterly.
One simple word but Laura knew the leaden history it carried for her friend, recently and unwillingly accorded the status of single mother. She stroked Victoria’s forearm in sympathy, the fair hairs still matted from the swim. ‘Yes, men,’ she said, although the word generally held more kindly thoughts for her. She had enjoyed those couple of hours spent the previous day watching Jack up on the big screen. Despite it leading to her photo being splashed around the less glamorous sections of the media. ‘To be fair though, Quentin’s behaviour has nothing to do with his gender.’
‘You don’t think so? I’d say his desire to control access to the estate – and therefore to control you – is very much a male characteristic.’
‘You really are in a mood about this.’
‘I don’t like to see you messed around.’
‘Trust me, I don’t want to be messed around either.’
‘At least, he didn’t suggest you should sleep with him.’ Victoria visibly shivered. ‘At least, not yet.’
‘Perish the thought.’
‘So what are you going to do about his play?’
‘I haven’t decided yet.’
‘Oh, Laura.’
‘It’s not that simple. The Georgie Hepburn thing is so perfect for me.’
‘Even if it means allowing this Quentin character to manipulate you?’
‘I wouldn’t have minded so much if his play had been any good. But it’s awful.’
‘What’s it about?
Laura outlined the plot to Maimonides. ‘It’s all centred around something called a doctrine of negative attributes.’
‘Hmmm. Doesn’t exactly grab my attention. What does your pal Sal think?’
‘He’s fast asleep in LA. I’ve emailed to tell him I’ll Skype later.’
She re-filled her wine glass, turned over on her back, closed her eyes against the glare. Female voices all around, the subdued banter of well-behaved children (all above the age of eight, such were the rules of entrance for the Kenwood Ladies’ Pond Association), the splash of the water, the drone of a jet flying off to who knows where. The uprush of air as Victoria lay down beside her, their shoulders, upper arms and hips touching, warm and sticky.
‘Sleepy?’ her friend asked.
‘Just thinking.’
‘Penny for them.’
‘Do you know what’s funny about this whole Quentin thing?’ She could feel herself slurring her words as she spoke – the sun, the wine.
‘Tell me.’
‘One of the qualities I admired most about Georgie was her integrity. And now here I am with one of her own family challenging my own integrity. It feels like some kind of test. Maybe that’s what Quentin’s doing. Testing me.’
‘What is the poor girl to do?’
‘The question I really need to ask myself is… what would Georgie Hepburn do?’
Laura actually found herself dressing herself up for the Skype call. There had been a whole wardrobe of sun-frocks strewn across her bed until she found the right one. Not too colourful, just the right amount of cleavage, show off her skin glowing and sun-kissed from the hours a
t the pond. She did up her face, again not too much, she wanted to look as if she had just come off a beach, toasty and tingling, ready for some late afternoon sex. What the hell was she thinking? Sal was a happily-married man as far as she knew. Or at least according to his Wikipedia entry. She wrapped herself in a simple silk shawl. She could always let it drop if the occasion demanded. She clicked her mouse, listened to the harsh ring-tone, watched the diagram of little pulses joining her name to his, wriggled up straight, wetted her lips with her tongue. Then came the connection, the picture, Sal’s large frame settling down in front of his screen, his usual deliberate movements slowed down even more by the slight video delay. He wore a light-blue, short-sleeved shirt completely unbuttoned, tufts of grey hair, tanned chest. He obviously hadn’t dressed up for her.
‘Hey,’ he said.
‘Hey,’ she echoed as he drew up closer to the screen. She saw that his hair was wet. ‘Got you out of the shower?’
‘Naw. Swim.’
‘Me too. Earlier. London’s boiling hot.’
‘Here too. You OK?’
‘Fine.’
‘How was lunch with my pal Quentin?’
She told him what had happened.
Sal wagged a finger at her. ‘I said he wasn’t to be trusted.’
‘What should we do?’
‘Exactly as he wants.’
‘I can’t ask actors to put on a shitty play.’
‘I thought actors did that all the time.’
‘That’s not funny.’
‘Anyway, it’s only a run-through.’
‘He wants it filmed as well.’
‘Yeah, I got that. So what’s the problem?’
‘I feel as if I’m being blackmailed.’
‘You are being blackmailed.’
‘It’s not what I wanted this project to be. I wanted to get away from all these compromises. From feeling used. Manipulated. I wanted Georgie by Georgie to be full of integrity.’
‘It will be, it will be. We just gotta get over this little hurdle.’
‘Isn’t there anything else we could do?’
A Woman of Integrity Page 10