A Woman of Integrity

by J David Simons

  The Hepburn Archives

  Extract from an unpublished memoir

  When is a person dead? When the heart stops? When the breath ceases? When the brain shuts down? When the body is recovered? When the coffin is buried? When the pyre is lit? When he or she no longer exists in our hearts or our memories? I have no idea when Rollo died. I could have been grieving for him while he was still alive somewhere, cast adrift on a piece of wreckage, washed ashore on some Scandinavian coastline. Unlikely I know, but not impossible. Of course, the law had a different attitude. Rollo was declared dead once the police and the coroner had submitted their reports. It was necessary for the winding-up of the estate. Rollo had made a will. As had I. As had most of the aviators I knew. It made sense with death forever nudging at our wingtips. He left a large estate, most of it inherited, and I was named as one of the beneficiaries. He had no parents, brothers or sisters, but my share was small enough to ensure distant cousins wouldn’t contest a scandalous bequest to his lover. He had also bequeathed me his Percival Gull Four, the plane he had disappeared in. I now possessed sufficient funds to buy myself a new one but I decided against it. I never wanted to fly again.

  Now that my ladder’s gone,

  I must lie down where all ladders start,

  In the foul rag-and-bone shop of the heart

  —WB Yeats

  My own desire to be grounded became irrelevant anyway. With the threat of war looming, all civilian flying was suspended and most of the aircraft in private hands were impounded by the Air Ministry. I considered a number of landed options if I was to make myself useful in the war effort. I thought about being a plotter, working in a data control centre marking out the positions of enemy aircraft crossing over into Britain. Well, I was irked to discover I was too old for that. The RAF only wanted eager young girls with lots of stamina, nerve and a head for figures, a bit like female equivalents of stock market traders. I toyed with being a barrage balloon operator but I realised I simply wasn’t strong enough for all the hoisting and pulley work. Instead, I volunteered for the Observer Corps.

  It made a lot of sense really, standing at my operations post scouring the sky with binoculars in the middle of the Sussex countryside, the dutiful part of me trying to identify the type and number of German aircraft moving in from the coast while I still held on to the absurd notion I might spot Rollo too, coming back through a crack in the sky from who knows where. It was usually a case of ears first, eyes second as I listened out for the threatening grumble of enemy bombers. I would then point out the location of anything I spotted to my partner on duty who would use a sighting arm to calculate the height and direction of the incoming aircraft. We would then call in the information to our district ops centre. There they would use our data along with that collected from other observation posts together with anything that had come in from the coastal radar stations to decide whether to scramble our own planes, alert anti-aircraft sites, the barrage balloon operators and the ARP. It was important work but it was also a soothing task for me as well, spending hours each day focused on the sky with its drifting clouds and starlit firmaments.

  I remember working a shift towards the end of a cold afternoon in January 1941. All the observation posts were on high alert as London had been badly bombed a few nights before but I had nothing to report and called in an “all clear” to the operations centre.

  ‘Amy Johnson’s gone missing,’ the communications officer on the other end of the phone told me. ‘News just coming in. Unlikely she’d be anywhere near you, Georgie. But be on the look-out anyway.’

  ‘What was she flying?’

  ‘Airspeed Oxford. On her way to RAF Kidlington, I believe.’

  ‘How long has she been gone?’

  ‘She set off at ten thirty this morning.’

  I looked at my watch. Three o’clock. I made the calculation knowing the Airspeed. Amy would be running out of petrol just about now. If she was still all right, she’d be searching out an airfield to land and refuel.

  I made the change-over on my own shift and headed off home. I hadn’t seen Amy for years. Our paths used to cross often in my early days of flying when we were both hanging out at the Hanworth Park base. But more often than not she was off trying to break long-distance records, flying to India, Japan, Australia or the United States with that daredevil husband of hers, Jim Mollison, until they got divorced a couple of years ago. She had joined up with the Air Transport Auxiliary (ATA) when the war broke out. I hadn’t heard much about her since. I called up a friend of mine at the Ministry of Aircraft Production as soon as I got in.

  ‘Amy’s plane came down over the Thames Estuary,’ he told me. ‘Parachute spotted in the water though. Naval vessel nearby. But there’s a heavy swell over there on the Essex coast. That’s all that’s been radioed in so far. Fingers crossed she’ll be rescued.’

  She never was. Drowned at sea was the official report. Neither her body or her plane were ever recovered.

  It seems Amy had been ferrying her Airspeed Oxford back from Prestwick in Ayrshire, stopping overnight in Lancashire before going on to deliver her plane to the RAF base at Kidlington. The weather had been pretty murky that day and the likelihood was she got lost in the clouds, ran out of fuel as she was looking for some clean air. In the end she probably thought she was baling out over land rather than sea. I think it was as simple as that. There were a lot of rumours about her death, I suppose that is what happens when you are famous and beloved by a nation. Some said she was shot down mistakenly by our own gunners. Others said they had seen someone else jumping out of the aircraft alongside her – an important passenger or perhaps even a lover. And why shouldn’t she have a lover? She was a single, attractive, 37-year-old woman. But that ‘mysterious passenger’ was more likely the pigskin overnight bag she often carried or even the door of the aircraft which she could have jettisoned to get out of the cockpit. Just pity the poor seaman from HMS Haselmere who drowned trying to rescue the ‘mysterious passenger.’ And pity poor Amy. An astonishingly courageous woman who was such a source of inspiration to me and many other aspiring pilots.

  Her death had a profound effect on me, shaking me out of my own flying lethargy. By May 1941, I had surrendered my observation duties and signed up with the Air Transport Auxiliary.

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  A Dress Rehearsal

  ‘Laura, you look divine…’

  ‘But did you see him in Othello…?’

  ‘I’m sure she’s had something done, she couldn’t possibly…’

  ‘And who do you think he slept with to get that…?’

  ‘I loved you in that Japanese thing. Was it true you and Jack…?’

  ‘Half the audience just got up and left…’

  ‘Lady Caroline is it now? I always said your cleavage would get you a peerage…’

  To Laura’s relief, the cast had arrived on time, in full complement, and to much squealing, kissing and hugging. Several years, decades even, had passed since many of them had met, the intervening period being cruel to some, kinder to others. Caroline might have obtained a title along the way but Laura was aware she had been the most successful in the acting stakes. There were some people like ex-lover Jack who were just born to succeed, for whom nature or society or some divine force conspired to create a glorious path to inevitable stardom. Laura had realised early on she was merely one of a supporting cast who occasionally received a helping hand. A reward for good deeds done in a previous life? A simple victim of positive circumstance? A belief in an equitable universe providing a fair return for hard work? Who knew? Perhaps it was all down simply and purely to luck. During her early career, Edy had got her a part at the last minute when another actress had pulled out, the film she had thought was awful turned out to be a huge critical success. But Laura’s appreciation of her own good fortune meant that while internally she obsessed about her success, on the outside she always appeared modest. This humility endeared her to her peers when they might have be
en forgiven for harbouring more envious or bitter thoughts.

  She made a little speech, apologised for the poor quality of the script: ‘Too many flashbacks,’ she said. ‘I always think flashbacks dilute the dramatic tension.’ No-one seemed to care. As the morning moved on to her direction of the first read-through, she was genuinely moved by the display of real effort, professionalism and affection shown towards her by these colleagues and friends as they worked on the play.

  She had arranged that Quentin should arrive in time for lunch. Which he did with a strut down the aisle in the company of a slobbering labrador. He also brought with him a basket containing jars of caviar, crackers and cheeses which he placed on the tables already laid out with salads, sandwiches and cold sausage rolls.

  ‘To supplement the feast,’ he announced, applauding the cast seated on chairs across the stage.

  ‘Our playwright,’ Laura told her fellow players who enthusiastically returned Quentin’s clapping, some even giving a slight bow as if it were Noel Coward himself who had just appeared with the victuals. Now that there had been this interruption, she stood up and declared: ‘Lunch is served.’

  The film crew also turned up (three strapping young Australians with a couple of digital cameras and an array of lighting equipment) as did Victoria (for support and to wind-up Caroline). On being introduced to Caroline, Quentin became all gushing: ‘Oh, my, my. I remember you. Caroline Fletcher. You were Charlie in that sitcom… what was it called again?… Tightly Knit.’

  Caroline laughed. A bit too loudly, Laura thought, the rest of the cast turning to look. ‘The only thing tightly knit was my sweater,’ she said, thrusting out her bosom by way of emphasis.

  ‘Well, well,’ he said. ‘But who are you to be today?’

  ‘I shall be Hannah. Your Holocaust survivor.’

  ‘Ah yes, Hannah. A woman scarred by her past.’

  Caroline pressed a hand against her surgically enhanced chest. ‘As I have been,’ she said.

  ‘I’m sorry. I don’t understand…’

  Seeing Quentin’s confused look, Laura intervened by introducing Victoria.

  To Victoria’s astonishment, Quentin grasped her hand, kissed it. ‘Such a bounty of natural beauty,’ he said.

  ‘He thinks he can charm me,’ Victoria told Laura afterwards.

  ‘I saw your harsh demeanour crumble.’

  ‘I’ve warned you already. He’s a manipulative bastard.’

  ‘I know, I know. I’m trying to get through this the best I can. I just wish it wasn’t such an awful play. I’m embarrassed for myself. I’m embarrassed for the actors.’

  ‘Don’t worry. They’re only too happy to have some paid work.’

  Laura left Victoria at the buffet table, pulled Quentin aside.

  ‘I thought I’d explain the schedule,’ she said.

  ‘Shoot,’ he said as he fed his hound another caviar-smothered cracker.

  ‘We’ve had one read-through this morning. After lunch, there will be a proper rehearsal, then a break, then the final performance which will be filmed. Two cameras – one static to take in the whole stage, the other mobile for close-ups, different angles, back-stage and so on. I’d also like the film crew to interview you about the play. I’ve prepared a list of questions. Sal will then edit the whole lot down into your final production.’

  ‘You’ve done a swell job, Laura.’

  ‘Wait until you see the final result.’

  ‘I’m sure it will be just fine. And thank you for the tea.’ He toasted her with a cup of his favourite Assam from the Numalighur estate. ‘That was thoughtful.’

  It wasn’t until late afternoon that the final performance was ready to begin, by which time Laura was exhausted. She gave the last instructions to the camera crew, then sat centre stalls with Victoria on one side, Quentin on the other with his hound straddling his feet. She could see he was anxious, seated stiff, tiny eyes unblinking, fixed on the stage, his breathing rapid. Such a strange man with his cravats, dyed-blonde hair, old-fashioned manners and misplaced American slang. She suddenly felt sorry for him. She wondered if he would see how bad his play really was. Or would he just be blinded by his own vanity? In the end, what did she care? As long as she got access to the Hepburn estate. ‘Action!’ she shouted.

  It was the first time she was witnessing the whole play properly unfold. Up until that point, she had just been working on little chunks of it, out of sequence, never really getting any sense of the total production. As her friends on stage began to disappear into their roles, as the various characters and their complexities began to emerge, what she had dismissed as a dull manuscript was coming alive before her eyes. She started to realise that this was not such an awful play after all. It wasn’t vanity that had blinded Quentin to its merits but rather her own anger towards him that had blinded her. She looked across at him. He was all perched up on his seat like an eager puppy. She leaned into Victoria.

  ‘What do you think?’ she whispered.

  Her friend shrugged. ‘I hate to say it. But it’s rather good.’

  ‘I’m not imagining things?’

  ‘No, really.’

  ‘Pinch me. I’m dreaming this.’

  ‘Seriously, Laura. Relax. It’s fine. Absolutely fine.’

  She turned her attention back to the stage. The cast seemed to be enjoying themselves. They really were superb, she had chosen well. Even Caroline, as the filled-out Holocaust survivor, was turning out to be an inspired choice. The cameraman scuttling about among them added a certain gravitas to the event, some spot-on lighting contributed to the drama. She was finding it hard to admit but everything seemed to be falling into place. There was a rhythm, an intensity, a tension, as the play moved towards its climax. And when it did, Quentin was on his feet, shouting ‘Bravo! Bravo!’ while the cast clapped, congratulated each other. Victoria beside her was muttering: ‘Well, what do you know? What do you bloody well know?’

  When everyone had calmed, Quentin ordered in champagne from the bar next door.

  ‘This has been absolutely delightful, Laura,’ he squealed.

  ‘It went better than expected.’

  ‘A dream come true. To see Maimonides performed on stage like that. With such a wonderful cast. How can I thank you?’

  ‘Well, you could sign the consent form.’

  ‘Of course. Of course. Just lay it on me.’

  As Quentin appended his signature, one of the Australian film crew came over.

  ‘Sorry to bother you, Laura. But we need to be paid.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘Cash on the day.’

  ‘How much?’

  ‘Six-fifty.’

  ‘Six-fifty an hour?’

  ‘Six hundred and fifty pounds. As agreed.’

  ‘With Sal?’

  ‘Yeah.’

  ‘I thought he was paying you.’

  ‘Naw. He said you would sort us out.’

  ‘Will you take a cheque?’

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  The Hepburn Archives

  Transcript from BBC Radio 4 interview

  Broadcasting House, London

  16th May 1982

  Interviewer: Sir Peter Delamere

  Interviewee: Georgie Hepburn

  PD: I’d like to talk about your flying career now. I’m sure not many of our listeners know this but you were one of the very first women to take to the air. What inspired you to do that?

  GH: It seemed very natural for me. After all, my father had been a fighter pilot in the Great War.

  PD: You make it sound very matter of fact. But flying in those days was an extremely dangerous occupation.

  GH: I suppose it was. But I wasn’t one of those pilots who was constantly trying to break records or test the boundaries of aviation mechanics. I was a kind of flying courier. Delivering mail, ferrying personnel, towing banner advertisements, things like that.

  PD: But what about that flight you made to the Sinai with Roland Paxton-J
ones? That was well-documented as a famous pioneering trip at the time.

  GH: Oh that. Yes, that was quite an adventure. One of the greatest things I ever did in my life. Many good memories.

  PD: And you and Roland became quite the celebrated couple after that.

  GH: Oh, I think Amy and Jim – Amy Johnson and Jim Mollison – were the Flying Sweethearts in those days.

  PD: Aren’t you being a bit modest here, Georgie? After all, Roland was the wealthy playboy, you were the glamorous actress.

  GH: I never thought of it that way. By the time Roland and I were together, his playing-the-field days were over and I was no longer acting. He was an aerial photographer. I was a flying postwoman. Nothing celebrated in that.

  PD: You do credit Roland with being one of the most important influences in your life.

  GH: Absolutely. The flying was just part of it though. Rollo gave me my first camera. In fact, I still have it. A Leica Mark II.

  PD: And tragically, he was killed in an airplane accident.

  GH: He wasn’t killed, Peter. He just disappeared.

  PD: I believe that neither his body nor his plane were ever recovered. That must have been very hard for you. Not to have any kind of closure.

  GH: On the contrary. When there is no concrete evidence of death, it gives one hope.

  PD: Even after forty years?

  GH: I know it’s illogical but yes, even after forty years. It’s hard to explain to those who have never suffered from such an experience. It is like that famous philosophical question – if a tree falls in the forest and no-one is around to hear it, does it make a sound? If an event like Rollo’s supposed death goes unobserved, goes unproven, did it really happen? So yes, there has always been a hallowed space deep inside of me that still harbours a little hope, irrational as it may seem.

  PD: I see. Now those kind of tragedies… perhaps I should say events… were quite a normal occurrence in those early days of flight. Much more so, of course, than they are now. Amy Johnson being the most famous.

  GH: It was an occupational hazard, I suppose.