The Atlantic Sky Read online

  THE ATLANTIC SKY

  Betty Beatty

  CHAPTER ONE

  The long wire-mesh fence round the airport was like a thin silver barrier between the two elements of earth and air. Standing for a moment, poised betwixt and between, Patsy Aylmer watched the red square rear of the London bus disappear with the stream of traffic along the Great West Road into a factory-lined, house-enclosed horizon. And just at the same time, beyond that deceptively slender barrier a four-engined aeroplane swept down the broad runway parallel to the road, tucked up three almost extraneous wheels into its beautiful silver body, and rose higher and higher through seemingly empty strata of coloured, cloud-filled air into a wide and wonderful and altogether illimitable future.

  Just like herself, Patsy thought, peering once more at the tips of her sensible court shoes to see if they still glowed like conkers, patting her inconspicuous hat to make sure that her usually neat auburn hair had not disarranged its trim position, and last of all feeling in her pocket for that crisp and reassuring letter that said You will report at 11.45 hours on June 15th for an interview with the World-Span Stewardess Selection Board, just to make quite sure she wasn’t dreaming.

  Because it was all rather like a dream. Very slowly, as if to tell herself that this was a momentous few seconds in her life, she walked to the wooden building, with the portly airport policeman waiting just in front, and pulled out the letter.

  Not a flicker of interest crossed his face. ‘World-Span Aviation, second building on the right,’ he said, and then peering over her not very high shoulder, shouted, ‘Take it right round to Number Two Hangar,’ at the driver of a lorry laden with mysterious metal bits and pieces, more wonderful, it seemed to Patsy, than golden ducats and pieces of eight.

  A sleek polished car slid to one side of the lorry and the policeman saluted, a crew car bustled in, then a humpbacked passenger bus.

  ‘Second on the right,’ the policeman repeated brusquely to the girl, and then, as though dimly within his efficient and travel-blasé frame he had noticed a pair of very anxious blue eyes and a flushed face, and a not too sure voice, he said gravely, ‘All the best,’ and added a very large wink, and a thick thumbs up, just for good measure.

  ‘Thank you,’ Patsy said, her spirits suddenly rising to the sweetness of this early summer morning. She hopped on to the pavement as a red petrol bowser hooted her out of its path, and then she crossed a large stretch of macadam, very slowly, so that she could feel the monstrous size of the two aircraft parked only a hundred or so yards away from her. Now she was standing outside the double entrance doors of the two-storey building, and the red and gold letters that spelled out World-Span Aviation so clearly that they might almost hive been visible right round the globe told her that at last she had really arrived.

  But once she was inside, the long rubber corridors seemed lined with discreetly quiet oak doors. They peered at her with blank anonymous faces. She walked a little way down. Now even the reassuring sound of her own footfall had deserted her. Timidly she tapped on the third door. But there was no answer.

  She could hear now a girl’s voice, then a man’s. Very cautiously, she turned the handle and pushed.

  The scene was one of quiet absorbed busyness. The room was much larger than she had expected, and seemed filled with people all working independently. A huge map, stuck all over with small flags, covered one side of the wall. Opposite, there was a blackboard, chalked with names like Hackett, Stainforth. Perriman letters and numbers like 521/07x and 655/126, and a selection of times like 23.30, 09.17 and 10.17 in two mystic columns headed E.T.A. and A.T.A. And under it was a row of telephones which, even as she stood there, rang and were answered, rang and were answered in a rockabye rhythm. There was a long counter down one side, and just beside Patsy a couple of officers in dark blue uniforms leaned over it, talking with a kind of brusque authority (in a manner reminiscent of Granny’s nostalgic accounts of how the customer used to be treated in her young day) to a quiet man apparently on duty on the other side.

  But the open door and Patsy might have been no more than an extra chart upon the wall. No one looked up. No one stopped either talking, altering a map, drawing a line, or poring over a folder.

  Then half-way across the room, a brown head popped up, a deep voice called, ‘Come in if you’re coming, and shut that...’ then it trailed away.

  A pair of eyes became suddenly friendly. ‘Hello,’ the voice went on a bit lamely. ‘Hello.’

  ‘Hello,’ Patsy repeated shyly.

  ‘Looking for someone?’ The young man with the brown hair and the nice face walked across the room and smiled down at her.

  ‘Well, yes Patsy hesitated. ‘I mean yes in a way. Not for someone ... but for some place.’

  ‘I see,’ the young man pushed his hands in his pockets, and rocked himself gently back on his heels, watching her with amusement from under his thick, rather sandy lashes. ‘Some place such as?’

  Patsy was suddenly aware that he was in uniform. That he had two thin gold bands sandwiching a white one around the cuffs of his sleeves. He too, like the room, looked very official, very important. ‘Such,’ she said humbly, ‘as the Stewardess Selection board.’ Try as she would, she couldn’t help some of the awe (and the pride) that she felt at even getting so far as the interview creeping into her voice.

  As if he noticed it too, the young man smiled even more gently. He inclined his squarish, chunky-looking head, and said, ‘Then you’re jumping your fences a little. This is Operations.’ He spread his hands as though introducing her to all its vast complexity. ‘But it’ll be some time before you’re needing us.’

  ‘If I’m lucky,’ Patsy said wistfully.

  ‘No luck about it! Three months from now ... I’ll be at your service. Come to think of it, I’m at it now.’ He looked at the big clock on the wall. ‘Ten minutes overdue already. Conscientious type, Geoff Pollard. Never one to rush off watch. But now’—he walked over to the row of pegs on which hung half a dozen identical blue peaked caps, swept the second one from the left off its peg and on the his head in one practised flick of his wrist—‘it’s time for a hardworking Operations Officer to have a bit of a rest.’ He put his hand under Patsy’s elbow and steered her back into the corridor. ‘I’ll take you there.’

  Patsy scurried along beside him, taking about three short running steps to every single one of his. They passed down the corridor, across the hall, and on to the tarmac.

  ‘The policeman said, Mr. Pollard...’

  ‘Mr. Pollard?’ the young man said with some severity. ‘Who’s he?’

  ‘Why, you, Mr. ... er—’

  ‘Geoff to my friends. Once I’m out of the Ops room, I like to forget that man Pollard.’ He shuddered with distaste. ‘The name’s Geoff.’ And then with a disarming smile, ‘What’s yours?’

  ‘Patsy Aylmer. And the policeman said,’ she added firmly, ‘that it was the second on the right.’

  ‘Know what that aircraft is, Patsy?’ Geoff pointed to a silver shape just beyond the corner of the hangar. ‘That’s a Boeing. You ought to know...’ he looked down at her and grinned. ‘And as for the policeman, he’s right in one way and wrong in another. Just the same,’ he added disarmingly, ‘as you are.’

  He waved his arm. ‘World-Span’s little empire starts back there all right,’ he jerked his thumb over his shoulder. ‘But it continues in a series of huts and hangars and what have you just as far as your blue eyes can reach. And your place is in the admin part, about a hundred yards from our present position. All right?’

  ‘All right. And thank you.’

  ‘And now ask me why you’re a bit right and a bit wrong.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Wrong if you think I’m prolonging you
r journey more than is strictly necessary. Right’—he smiled—‘if you think I’d like to. And now here’—with the gesture of a conjuror producing the rabbit out of the hat—‘is the place itself.’ He thrust out a thick wrist and stared at his watch. ‘Check for time. Eleven hundred hours precisely. That all right?’

  ‘Fine,’ Patsy said. ‘The interview isn’t until a quarter to twelve. So I’ve lots of time.’

  The young man frowned portentously. ‘You don’t honestly mean,’ he said with pitying gravity, ‘that you intend to sit in there,’ he gave the last word a nameless fearfulness, ‘and contemplate your fate for forty-five minutes!’

  Patsy said that she did.

  ‘And what’ll you do? What’ll you think about?’

  Patsy said that she would think about this and that.

  ‘Mainly this,’ Geoff Pollard said. ‘Mainly whether you shouldn’t have worn your second-best suit, and maybe flat shoes and your sensible velour.’ He shook his head. ‘And you’ll try to think what they’re going to ask you and how you should reply. Well, the best thing you can do’—once more he placed a firm and practical hand under her elbow—‘is to take a step over to the restaurant just over there ... all very bright and cosy... and let your Uncle Geoff give you a hint or two.’

  Patsy hesitated. Now that she thought of it, three-quarters of an hour did seem a long time to wait for an interview. ‘All right,’ she said, and smiled up at him. ‘Coffee would be nice. And I was up early. And I daresay I’ll...’

  ‘Do a lot better for it,’ they both said at the same time. Geoff Pollard opened a large glass door on their left. And in they went together.

  ‘Now,’ he said, after they’d sat down at a table by the window and a waitress had brought them coffee. ‘What made you want to become a stewardess?’

  Patsy looked across at the man opposite her. His eyes, now she saw them close to, were a kind of greyish blue, his cheeks fresh and pink, and his even teeth looked as though they were scrubbed and polished after every meal and any other moment that he had to spare. ‘We—ell,’ she said slowly, ‘it’s not ... I mean, it’s rather difficult to say ... anyway just like that... don’t you think?’

  Geoff Pollard shook his head to show that he didn’t.

  ‘Well,’ she tried again, ‘I mean there are lots of reasons—’

  ‘Tell me just one.’ The Operations Officer’s voice was so peremptory that Patsy raised her eyebrows in mock protest.

  ‘I think I’d like flying ... and travel ... and people...’

  ‘Better,’ Geoff Pollard said. He paused for a moment to drink his coffee thirstily, before continuing: ‘You see if you can’t tell them why you’d like the job, I’ll guarantee they couldn’t tell themselves why you should have it.’ He grinned at her triumphantly. ‘Get me?’

  Patsy smiled and nodded.

  ‘And if you can’t say why you’d like to fly, then, believe me, you’d never be able to tell four hundred passengers why they can’t cross the Atlantic on what looks like a clear fine night when you’re not too sure yourself.’

  Patsy stirred her coffee thoughtfully. ‘When you put it like that,’ she said at last, ‘yes, I do see.’

  Geoff Pollard pushed his coffee cup to one side and leant confidentially across the table. ‘Want another question?’

  Patsy nodded.

  ‘Strictly from the Selection Board to Miss Aylmer? Right?’

  Patsy nodded again.

  ‘How old are you?’

  ‘Twenty-one. And two months.’

  ‘And you live in the country? What job are you doing now?’

  ‘It’s on the application form,’ Patsy said sweetly, and they both laughed. ‘I travel into Southampton every day,’ she ' went on. ‘And I work for a shipping firm.’

  ‘Are you engaged, Miss Aylmer?’

  Patsy’s blue eyes flew open.

  ‘Still the Selection Board,’ Geoff Pollard reminded her reprovingly.

  Patsy said shyly, ‘No.’

  ‘A boy-friend perhaps,’ he went on.

  Patsy shook her head and laughed.

  ‘No boy-friend,’ Geoff Pollard said cheerfully. ‘Good. Very good. I mean,’ he explained, ‘it wouldn’t be any good us choosing you, Miss Aylmer, and giving you an expensive training, if you’d be leaving us to get married in no time at all.’ He looked at his watch. ‘And now, Patsy, I hate to say it, but it’s time you were taking that little walk back across the tarmac.’

  Patsy stood up. ‘It was awfully kind of you,’ she said. ‘And I feel a lot better, and thank you...’

  ‘Oh, I’m coming too.’ He put his cap back on his head, and opened the restaurant door for her. ‘I’m one of those people who like taking their friends to the dentist, or to Stewardess Selection Boards ... But seriously,’ he smiled down at her? as they walked along the pavement together, ‘you’ll be all right.’

  ‘But I really don’t know much about airlines or flying—’

  ‘Or life for that matter,’ he said gently. And then much more briskly, he added, ‘But that’s exactly what they have a course for. To teach you. Now if I were the Selection Board, I wouldn’t worry about whether a girl knew foreign languages, or if she’d ever heard about international currency regulations, or ship’s papers, or stateless persons. She could learn that in ten easy lessons. What you couldn’t teach her would be how to smile the way you do.’ He hesitated, as they stood together outside the main doorway of the Admin Block. ‘It’s room Twenty-Seven, and that’s on the second floor, by the way’—and still in the same breath—‘or—well, how to make people feel good, as you do.’

  ‘As you do too,’ Patsy said gratefully.

  ‘Pity I’m not on the Board,’ Geoff Pollard said.

  ‘A great pity,’ Patsy murmured, her hand on the door. ‘But I am on the phone ... and one of these days, when you’re on the course, I’ll be giving you a ring ... and we’ll make each other feel good again, shall we?’

  Patsy nodded and smiled.

  Then Geoff Pollard opened the glass door and stood aside. ‘Good luck,’ he said. ‘And if you can’t answer, don’t pretend you know. Keep your head, speak slowly, and take your time. And if it’s any comfort to you, Assistant Operations Officer Pollard says you’re just the type that World-Span Aviation are looking for.’

  Patsy glanced over her shoulder for a moment, as he gave her a crisp salute, did a quick right-about turn, and then walked smartly back towards Operations. Then she walked up the new white marble steps in front of her. At the top, she turned to the right. Here, the numbers on the doors started at twenty-four.

  About half-way down Room Twenty-Seven. A white notice said Stewardess Selection Board and a red arrow pointed to the next door which was marked Waiting Room.

  She knocked gently. A girl’s voice said, ‘Come right inside,’ and Patsy opened the door.

  There was only one occupant. ‘Are you the eleven-forty-five appointment?’ she said, putting down her magazine, and eyeing Patsy with undisguised interest.

  Patsy said that she was. ‘And you’re...?’

  ‘I ...’ the girl said, and giggled rather nervously, ‘I get led to the block ten minutes before that. Any time now, in fact. They’ve just come back from their mid-morning break.’ She rolled her eyes dramatically. ‘I’ve seen them.’ Then she waved Patsy towards one of the empty armchairs. ‘Make yourself comfortable while you can. Cigarette?’

  Patsy shook her head and sat down.

  The other girl asked, ‘What’s your name?’

  ‘Aylmer. Patsy Aylmer.’

  ‘Cynthia Waring’s my name.’ The other girl blinked her bright bird’s eyes. ‘Londoner, born and bred. And I’ve been sitting here, beautifully posed, and for the last twenty minutes, wishing I lived in Timbuctoo. I’ve looked at myself at least fifty times since I came in ... and now I’m sure I’ve worn all the wrong clothes. What d’you think?’

  Patsy looked at the tall, very thin figure in the elegant simple suit. ‘I thin
k you look very smart.’

  ‘Like a stewardess?’

  ‘I’ve no idea what they should look like,’ Patsy said simply and earnestly. ‘I only wish I did.’

  ‘Well, I don’t feel like me. And heaven knows, I should know how to dress. I’m a model,’ she said, suddenly walking gracefully up and down the room, finishing with a slow pirouette in front of Patsy. ‘And I do know normally. But this!’ She struck a tragic pose with her arms flung wide. ‘What is one supposed to be? A nurse? A travel guide? A philosopher and friend? A waitress? An explainer of rules and regulations? A minder of babes? Tell me... d’you know anyone who is?’

  Patsy shook her head.

  ‘Not me neither. What I do know is that a girl who’s just gone in was a nurse.’

  They both mournfully digested the fact.

  ‘She’ll have a mu(ch-better chance than us then,’ Patsy said.

  Cynthia nodded emphatically. ‘And do you realize that even if they take you on ... there’s the course.’

  ‘Yes,’ Patsy said reverently, ‘the course.’

  ‘I hope you don’t speak any languages,’ Cynthia went on accusingly.

  ‘I write French and German. But I don’t speak them very well.’

  Cynthia shrugged her shoulders as though she might overlook it this time.

  ‘And then,’ Patsy pointed out consolingly, ‘I’m not nearly so... I don’t know how to put it... well, poised as you are.’

  ‘No, that’s true,’ Cynthia agreed, rather too readily, ‘and I know how to make an entrance as it were.’ She matched her words by walking over to the corridor door, opening it, and then carefully advancing towards Patsy. ‘Good morning,’ she said, and inclined her head graciously, first to Patsy and then to three areas of thin air on either side of her. ‘There are four of them on the Board,’ she whispered. Then resuming her pose, ‘Take a seat? Ah, thank you.’ She sat down, and crossed her beautiful legs carefully. ‘Notice I cross my elegant ankles only,’ she whispered to Patsy. Then she drew off her gloves. ‘Glorious day, isn’t it?’ she remarked to the left-hand blank space, and then smiled expectantly at the whole side of the room. ‘Now you see how it’s done,’ she said, not without the pride of a true artist.