Hinchliffe screwed up his face and shook his head as though it was a bad idea. “No. I don't think so.”
Things were getting urgent if he was to have a go at the Atlantic record. The world had been abuzz since May 21st when Lindbergh had landed at Lebourget, near Paris. The French had gone wild with excitement. Now, everyone was hell-bent on being the first to fly the Atlantic from east to west. Atlantic fever was palpable in Europe. Time was running out.
“Yes, the new regs are coming into effect next year,” said Brancker.
“My days with Imperial are numbered. Flight records or private flights are all I have left.”
“They were only too glad of you when there were hardly any pilots left. I may be the Director of Civil Aviation, but I don't make the rules!”
“More's the pity.”
“You're better with one eye than any of these new young pilots with two. Remember, dear boy, whatever you decide to do, I'm at your disposal. We pioneers must stick together. There are tons of girls out there looking for someone like you to help promote 'the cause'. I have one such gal in mind. In fact, I spoke to her only yesterday—she's an heiress—'bout thirty, and she's loaded! They say she's the richest woman in Great Britain—certainly the best dressed—and undressed too, I shouldn't wonder! She's dying to get in on this whole thing. She's a wild one—and a real looker!”
“You think she's worth considering?”
“Oh, most definitely!” Brancker gave him a sly wink. “But seriously, she's been a disaster, I suppose, a bit of a tearaway, but she's not a bad gal. She was married for a bit. She's a well-known stage actress too—”
“I don't follow all that stuff,” Hinchliffe said, his interest waning.
“No, she's accomplished in a lot of ways. She's an interior designer for her father's ships, she's an engineer of sorts—and she's a pilot!”
Hinchliffe's interest perked up again. “Hmm, maybe I should talk to her, then.”
“As I said, I spoke to her yesterday, and mentioned you. And she got very excited.”
Hinchliffe nodded.
“She's very determined—I'll say that for her,” Brancker added.
Suddenly, they were interrupted by a woman's cough at the doorway. And then a silky voice.
“Captain Hinchliffe?”
There was a great rustling as whiskey-sodden, red-faced gentlemen lowered their newspapers in unison, to peer down their noses at this obtrusion—a woman at the door of the gentlemen's bar no less!
“Captain Hinchliffe?” the voice repeated.
All conversation ceased. What they saw was an exotically dressed beauty. She stood with one patent leather, two-eyelet, polka-dotted shoe over the threshold—an intolerable, some would say, sacrilegious, act! This vision, this gorgeous feast for the eyes, after adjusting the chic kerchief collar of her black silk crêpe dress, ignored their hostility and loped purposefully toward Hinchliffe. They watched her hips and her swaying box skirt as she moved. Brancker adjusted his monocle, fascinated and full of admiration.
“Captain Hinchliffe, my name is Elsie Mackay.” Her voice was public school, Cambridge perhaps, a hint of refined Western Scotland in the mix.
“Your father owns most of the ships in the Atlantic, I believe?” Hinchliffe answered coolly.
“Only those of the P&O Line,” she corrected.
Brancker climbed down from his bar stool and Elsie kissed him on both cheeks and shook Hinchliffe's hand.
“Well, look you two, don't mind me. I have to get back to an airship budget meeting at the office,” Brancker said. Hinchliffe gave him a sideways look, realizing her arrival at this moment was no accident.
Brancker slunk out of the bar like a man who'd just lit a fuse. Elsie leaned in closely toward Hinchliffe and whispered. He felt her warm breath on his cheek. Her long eyelashes fluttered.
“I hear you want to take a shot at the Atlantic?”
Hinchliffe glanced at the door where Brancker had exited. “I wonder where you heard that,” he said.
“I also heard Charles Levine dropped you.”
“No, I dropped him.”
“Why?”
“He wanted to take some woman along. Some feminist dame!”
“You have something against women flying aeroplanes?”
“No, three's a crowd, that's all. We'd have all ended up in the drink, and I don't wanna be in the drink!”
“That's logical, I suppose.”
“It all turned out to be just talk.”
“Talk's cheap,” Elsie said. Then her 1920's eyes opened wide and bore into him, seducing and imploring. “Have lunch with me. I have a serious proposition for you.”
Hinchliffe hesitated. He scratched his chin.
“What harm could it do?” she whispered with a disarming smile.
“It could kill me, I suppose.”
He could think of a million reasons. He caved.
“Tomorrow. 1 o'clock. The Ritz. I've booked a table,” she said.
“You're pretty damned sure of yourself aren’t you?”
“I know what I want, Captain Hinchliffe. And I know how to make things happen,” she purred.
They decided to leave the bar as the other patrons were getting restless and the barman was looking uncomfortable. As they made for the door, Elsie turned and addressed them.
“Gentlemen, I'd like you to know that I’m the proud holder of a Royal Aero Club Pilot's license! Maybe one day, I'll buy you all a drink.”
No one said a word.
5
LUNCH AT THE RITZ
Tuesday, June 14, 1927.
The following day, Hinchliffe arrived outside the Ritz a few minutes early. His car was spirited away by the hotel valet. Before entering the building, he noticed a Rolls Royce slowing at the curb. He thought as much—it was Elsie. Her chauffeur opened her door and she slipped out, smiling up at Hinchliffe on the steps. She was dressed from head to toe in another splendid outfit. She'd obviously spent a lot of time on her getup this morning. Hinchliffe wasn't used to this. Millie wasn't a fashion-crazed flapper who spent hours on her hair and nails. She was a natural beauty. At this moment, he appreciated his wife even more.
All heads turned as they made their way into the dining room, where the maître d' recognized Elsie. Judging by the fuss he made, she was a regular patron. He led them to a quiet table off to the side hidden away behind green ferns and palms, with views of the park.
“I thought we could use a little privacy,” Elsie said.
Hinchliffe stood as a waiter pulled out a chair for Elsie. They sat down and the maitre d' gave them menus with recommendations for the fresh trout, which they both accepted, after a starter of vichyssoise.
Elsie studied the wine menu. “I'd like to order a bottle of champagne.” She noticed Hinchliffe frown. “No, not a premature celebration. Let's drink to the possibilities.” She gave him a disarming smile and raised her eyebrows. “And to a new friendship, perhaps?” she said, as she placed a napkin in her lap.
A champagne bucket was brought to the table and the cork popped. Frothy bubbles fizzed into flutes. Hinchliffe was relieved to see the fizz didn't run over. He knew that French superstition from his days on leave in the Paris estaminets. He noticed a fellow with a five-o'clock shadow across the room eyeing Elsie through the ferns. She'd seen him too, but refused to acknowledge the poor sap's presence.
“One of yours?” Hinchliffe enquired.
“God no! No one of importance to me, I assure you.”
Hinchliffe didn't see why it mattered. “Just an admirer, then.”
Elsie looked into Hinchliffe's face as they chinked glasses, “To the possibilities,” she said. He could see she was studying his eye-patch and scar. “Care to tell me about it?” she asked.
“No.” Was all he said. He saw a wave of sadness pass over her face and a glimmer of compassion in her eyes.
She left it alone.
The vichyssoise arrived. Before they took up their spoons, Elsie held the g
old crucifix at her throat between her fingers and closed her eyes. Hinchliffe assumed she was saying grace to herself. “You'll need more than a few prayers, you know,” he said. She knew what he meant. She exchanged glances with the waiter who'd obviously heard the remark. She ignored Hinchliffe's rudeness. He continued, “What experience have you had, Miss Mackay?”
Her eyelashes fluttered, barely noticeable, as though not sure if his question contained a hint of sexual innuendo. He watched her slip her sensitive fingers up and down the stem of her glass feeling its smoothness. She must have decided after looking into his stern face, it did not. She looked slightly disappointed. He could tell she was taken by his rugged good looks. He now sensed hunger in those eyes.
“I do most of my flying around Europe—for my own amusement,” she answered.
Hinchliffe visualized her flitting around from one hot playground of the rich to another. She certainly was a beautiful woman though, he had to admit.
“I see,” he said blandly.
The waiter whisked away the soup bowls and Elsie continued. “I intend to be the first woman to make the crossing,” she said firmly.
“Whatever for? You certainly don't need the money.”
“It's my destiny.” She struck an idealistic pose, her magnificent eyes looking heavenward. “It's time women came out into the twentieth century, is it not?”
This irritated Hinchliffe. He'd heard too much of this nonsense lately. It was all the rage and it bored him. “I hadn't thought of making this flight on behalf of the women's movement, Miss Mackay,” he said dryly. He thought of Millie at that moment. He was sure she'd agree. As far as he was concerned Millie was an independent woman, who lived her life the way she chose. Not a bad life, either.
Elsie pulled back. “Oh, no, … I...”
They hesitated while their trout was served.
“If I were to do it, Miss Mackay, it would be for the sake of aviation … not to mention the money!”
“I'm prepared to finance everything!” Elsie said.
“Miss Mackay, do you have the slightest idea how difficult it would be to fly to America? This isn't a hop, skip and a jump to gay Paree or Cannes, you know.”
“I'll pay you a salary of eighty pounds—paid directly into your bank account every month.”
Hinchliffe tried not to think about her tempting words. “I don't think you have any concept of what you'd be getting yourself into.”
“I'm not interested in the ten thousand pounds prize money,” Elsie said. Hinchliffe sat stony-faced. This really was tempting. “That would be all yours,” she said.
“Thirty or forty hours of sitting in a freezing-cold, ear-splitting, nerve-wracking flying fuel tank with no toilet—that's what you'd be looking at, Miss Mackay. I doubt a little rich girl could handle that.”
“Listen, mister, by that time, we'll have got to know each other pretty well. I can pee in a jar like the rest of 'em.”
A hint of smile passed over Hinchliffe's face at the thought of that. “I'll need to go too, you know,” he said.
“I was a nurse in the war. I've seen it all. So don't you worry yourself about that,” she said.
He leaned back in his chair, reassessing her. This endeared her to Hinchliffe more than anything she'd said or offered. He had the greatest respect for wartime nurses. He wished Brancker had told him this earlier. But he decided he'd press her just a little more for the hell of it.
She continued. “I'll buy the plane of your choosing.”
“I still doubt you have any notion of how rough the great north- westerly winds can get. Flying from east to west isn't the same as flying this way—nothing like!” Hinchliffe jabbed again.
“You think I don't know all that? I suppose what Lindbergh did last month wasn't so special?”
“No, I wouldn't diminish what that man did at all. He did a marvelous thing.”
“And so will we!”
“But he wasn't the first. We shouldn't forget Allcock and Brown or Major Scott in his airship,” Hinchliffe reminded her.
Elsie nodded her acquiescence.
Hinchliffe peered across at the man behind the ferns. Judging by his furtive glances, his interest in Elsie had not diminished.
Must be one of her old boyfriends.
“The prize money will be all yours. As to the fame and glory, we'll share that. But I'll pay you a fee on top of all that,” Elsie declared.
Hinchliffe stopped and stared at her. He had to hand it to her, she was pretty damned determined.
“How much do you want?” she asked flatly.
He decided to throw her off with a silly number. “Ten thousand.”
“Anything else?” she asked, unfazed.
“A ten thousand-pound life insurance policy.”
This did faze her slightly. “Whatever for?”
“Do you know how many people have—”
“Yes, yes, of course I do! I've read the list. I know all their names by heart. But let's be positive, shall we?”
“I'm married with a second child on the way.”
This Elsie didn't know. Another hint of disappointment registered in her face. “I'd expected a little confidence, but I don't have a problem with that, Captain Hinchliffe. Now, do you know another pilot who could work with you as a substitute copilot, in case something happens to me?”
“Indeed, I do,” Hinchliffe answered.
“Good. I'll pay him sixty pounds a month.”
“I'm sure he'd be happy with that.”
“Now, about this plane—”
“I had a Stinson Detroiter in mind. It's a six-seater. The passenger seats could be removed and replaced with fuel tanks. It's got a pretty good record and its performance would suit us well—if we do this.”
“You'll need to rush over there and buy it then. We don't have much time. This whole thing is urgent now. Everyone wants to do it. We've got to beat them all to it,” she said.
“I reckon if I get over there immediately, we could have it here by the end of next month.”
“How do you know?”
“I've already talked to the factory on the phone in Detroit. They have a couple of planes ready to go, subject to a few modifications we'd need.”
She gave him a knowing look. “You're pretty damned sure of yourself, aren't you?”
Hinchliffe grinned. Elsie looked excited.
“Oh, one thing, Captain Hinchliffe, please make sure it has a bloody heater.”
“Yeah, I'd make sure it had heater and a starter,” Hinchliffe told her.
She looked at him as if to say, 'You knew that all along. You've been toying with me, you swine!'
“How's your wife going to feel about all this?”
Uncertainty washed over Hinchliffe's face. “I'll need to talk to her,” he replied.
“Maybe I should pay her a visit,” Elsie said.
Hinchliffe looked even more uncertain at that. He looked across to check on Elsie's admirer between the ferns.
He'd vanished.
6
THE QUARREL
Tuesday, June 14, 1927.
Sinclair and his wife, Kate, had lived in the small cottage’s guest wing since Sinclair had lost his job two years earlier. Everyone got on well together, particularly due to Hinchliffe and Sinclair's war connection. It suited Hinchliffe. They didn't get under each other’s feet, and he liked having them there when he was away. Kate and Millie got on famously and were best friends. Joan loved having her 'uncle and auntie' around, too. Sinclair had made a substantial area into a vegetable garden which helped out with the food bill. He grew cabbages, carrots, turnips, potatoes, runner beans, rhubarb, tomatoes, and many other things. At the back of the garden, he'd set up a number of beehives and harvested honey and beeswax at the end of summer. He was adept at catching rabbits too, and had set up a chicken coop behind the outbuildings for the production of eggs, and sometimes meat for chicken pies and roasts. They paid rent when Sinclair was working. He worked in the Coach & Horses
in the evenings sometimes and on the local farm when needed. The economy wasn't exactly booming.
When Hinchliffe returned from the city after lunch with Elsie, Sinclair was tying up tomato plants in his garden and Millie was attending to her hanging plants under the pergola. She'd been quiet all morning. Hinchliffe had told her about his meeting with Brancker and his brief talk with Elsie, and how she'd invited him to lunch at the Ritz. This had got Millie's hackles up. In her condition, she felt vulnerable and the whole Atlantic thing had begun to drag her down. She'd been stewing about things and waiting for Hinchliffe's return from his lunch with the beautiful millionairess.
She and Hinchliffe had had discussions for the last year about an Atlantic attempt. He'd presented the positive side. He'd not played down the danger, but he clearly felt his back was against the wall with his eye problem and his flying career at the airline about to come to an end. Lindbergh's success the previous month had brought everything to a head. It was now or never. Hinchliffe thought that one successful venture like this could solve all their problems—for life!
By the time he got out into the garden to Millie, her mood had hardened. As he approached her, she threw a pile of weeds and old pots into a wheelbarrow with a thud, not looking at him.
“Millie, what's up, love?” Hinchliffe asked.
“I've gone along with you and all your flights, but this'll be suicide!” she snapped.
“Look, Millie, I'll minimize the risk, you know that.”
“You can't control the weather, Hinchliffe! You know you can't. I'm not happy—not happy at all!”
“Branks has offered me anything I want. I'll get up to the minute weather reports from the met office at Cardington—and not only that, I'll be heavily insured.”
This only made her more angry. “To hell with insurance! It's you I care about. It's having a father to our children I care about! Not money!”
Then there was the issue of the lovely millionairess. “Who is this woman you're talking to?”
It wasn't as if she didn't know. Hinchliffe had carefully explained everything yesterday. He hadn't even made up his mind to pursue it one hundred percent, even at this moment. He was on the edge.
The Ghost of Captain Hinchliffe Page 3