The Atlantic Sky Read online

  ‘Don’t look now,’ Cynthia said suddenly, gripping Patsy’s arm, ‘but don’t my sharp eyes perceive a rather fearsome sight?’ And then as Patsy looked around her uncomprehendingly, ‘Under the wing, the left-hand one ... beg pardon, under the port wing.’

  Patsy looked. There, standing with his hands thrust into the pockets of his raincoat, was Captain Prentice.

  Seeing him, too, Mr. Crosbie became more and more mother-hen-like. ‘Hurry up at the back there!’ he said, flapping to the rear of the brood. ‘Straight up and into the aircraft ... not so slow at the front!’ And he hurried again to lend the weight of his presence to the vanguard. ‘Haven’t kept you, I hope, Captain? We’ve been awaiting our call to come aboard over there in the doorway.’

  Captain Prentice, who up till now had said nothing, indicated that they had not, in fact, kept him waiting. He continued, however, to stare so disapprovingly at his eager passengers that everyone felt that they must be in the wrong about something, and Air Crosbie tactfully herded them up the steps and into the aircraft, and out of his sight.

  ‘Well,’ Cynthia said, looking around her approvingly. ‘One of the new ones today!’ She tried one of the fresh upholstered seats and stroked the arm-rests affectionately.

  ‘Sit down, sit down!’ Mr. Crosbie said irritably. ‘Don’t just hang around the entrance! Now the last one in ... yes, that’s right, you, Miss Aylmer, shut the door. Come, come now. You’ve been taught how to do it. Better... better. Ah, quite good! Now while you’re at it, what would you do next?’

  ‘Er—strap the passengers in, Mr. Crosbie ... sir?’

  ‘Quite right!’ Mr. Crosbie rubbed his thin hands together, while the girls settled themselves in their seats, and rather clumsily fastened their lap straps. There was a faint shudder through the airframe. It grew and swelled and burst into a steady roar. Then another shudder that burst into a roar in exactly the same way. Then another. Then a fourth. The floor now rocked and pulled and the power of the vibrations sent exciting tremors up through the soles of their feet.

  ‘Engines being started,’ Mr. Crosbie said, unnecessarily and portentously. ‘Miss Aylmer, up you go and report at the front. Now just before you go ... what’s the drill?’ ‘Report to the captain and say “Passengers strapped in and rear door shut, sir,” ... sir.’

  Patsy walked up the carpeted aisle. Gingerly, she pushed open the door to the flight deck, and quiet as a mouse crept past the navigator’s chair. ‘Hello,’ the engineer said vaguely, and then turned back to his panel.

  In front of her were two men seated in the pilots’ seats at the very front of the aircraft. Their heads and shoulders looked enormous outlined against the sky-filled windscreen. One of them half turned and murmured something to the other, and she saw it was Captain Prentice.

  ‘Passengers,’ she mumbled quickly, almost jumping the tiny space to his side, ‘strapped in and rear door shut, sir.’

  ‘Speak up,’ Captain Prentice said, not unkindly. ‘What are you trying to say?’

  Patsy took a deep breath and, as loudly as she could, repeated what now began to sound like a rather idiotic formula.

  ‘Oh, that!’ A faint glimmer of mocking amusement appeared for a moment in his eyes. ‘But you’re on the wrong side of the house.’ He jerked his head at the other pilot. ‘I’m the check pilot. The captain always sits in the left-hand seat. So go and say your little piece to Captain Maynard.’

  Patsy did a quick left about turn. She took a deep breath ready to repeat the magic words again.

  ‘Hello,’ Captain Maynard said, and smiled. His eyes were full of a kind of amused sympathy. ‘Everything all right at the back, eh?’ he said. ‘And what’s your name?’

  ‘Aylmer,’ Patsy said gratefully.

  ‘Fine, thanks, Miss Aylmer. That’s all. Off you go back!’

  ‘And don’t forget to strap yourself in while you’re about it,’ Captain Prentice said, with a brief, cool smile.

  Patsy carefully closed the flight deck door behind her. The other girls watched her return as though she were now initiated as the temple high priestess.

  ‘Was it all right?’ Cynthia asked, leaning forward from the seat immediately behind. Patsy nodded and smiled and indicated that it was.

  ‘You and I are the pair to do the waitressing.’

  Patsy clenched her hands as the engine note subtly changed, then roared to a great rushing burst of speed and sound, and they were away down the runway. It felt just like rushing downhill as a child, with arms outstretched yelling, ‘Can’t stop! Can’t stop!’

  Now, far below them, in the patch of sunlight, Patsy could see their own dark shadow cross a ploughed field. She watched the silky twist of the Thames in the sunlight, and the tiny cars crawling along the roads.

  ‘Next ladies, please!’ Mr. Crosbie called.

  Cynthia nudged Patsy. ‘Us,’ she said.

  They stood up, and walked together to the galley, where they loaded the tray with, cutlery, a side plate on which perched a paper napkin, a tiny salt-and-pepper set, a glass of water—and, for more realistic practice, a plate of cold meat and potato salad which they would eventually be allowed to eat for their own airborne lunch.

  ‘Now, Miss Aylmer,’ Mr. Crosbie said, ‘before you serve the passengers I want you to take refreshments to the flight deck,’ and he helped her to prepare another tray with two plates of sandwiches and five cups of coffee.

  Very carefully, Patsy walked down the aisle. Very carefully, she pushed open the door. Very carefully, she served the navigator, the engineer officer, and the radio officer, in that order, and then very thankfully laid the tray on the table-like throttle pedestal between the pilots.

  Then she had time to notice that all the windows were shielded with green shades, and that Captain Maynard was wearing a pair of dark glasses.

  ‘All right,’ Captain Prentice said. ‘We’ll have a break.’ And Captain Maynard pulled off the dark glasses, and wiped the sweat off his forehead.

  ‘Tell Mr. Crosbie,’ Captain Prentice went on, ‘that we shall be doing some asymmetrical—’

  ‘In other words,’ the other pilot put in with a grin, ‘two engines stopped on one side.’

  ‘—instrument approaches,’ Captain Prentice continued as though he hadn’t spoken, ‘to fifty feet above the runway ... and then climbing up again.’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  ‘I don’t want to make it any more difficult for Captain Maynard by having the trim of the aircraft upset by more people than are absolutely necessary clumping around in the tail.’

  ‘No, sir.’

  That was all. No smile. No thanks for bringing up the coffee and sandwiches. No interest at all in what was going on at the back.

  When she returned to the cabin, Cynthia was half-way through serving out her trays.

  ‘Ah well, Miss Aylmer,’ Mr. Crosbie said when she gave him the message. ‘You sit down for the present. And after Miss Waring finishes with the port side passengers, you shall have your turn—’ he said it as though it was a privilege she wasn’t going to miss, ‘with the starboard.’

  Ten minutes later, when Cynthia, too, had collected her verbal pat on the back from Mr. Crosbie, and was eating her own lunch in her seat, Patsy found herself alone in the galley, putting the cups on her share of the trays.

  And it was then that she realized that the galley was moving from side to side. She looked out of the window, and the wings seemed to be see-sawing up and down.

  She poured out the coffee, and then suddenly a frightening feeling of nausea came over her. It was too hot in here, that’s what it was. Firmly she took the tray and walked out into the cabin.

  But somehow, the aisle had become a cake-walk. The coffee slopped into the saucer. She clutched at the back of a seat with her free hand, but it seemed to twist away from her. Then there was a frightening dip down that appeared to take her with it. These awful deep plunges Were like nothing she had ever experienced before. She saw grey and white cloud scud pa
st the portholes.

  At last things were steadier, and she managed to provide Myra Yorke with the tray.

  The other girl gave her a sympathetic sideways glance, and asked her if she felt all right.

  ‘I’m fine,’ Patsy said. ‘Really I am.’

  The second tray was easier. I’m getting the hang of it, Patsy tried to tell herself, but half-way through the third tray, the wobbling started up, and again the aisle started tipping. This time, the coffee slopped all over the tray. Patsy felt herself go dizzy, and Just at that same moment an enormous lurch seemed to tip the whole of the cabin sideways. The plastic cup keeled over and plummeted down to the carpet. The plate slipped off and scattered meat and potatoes all over the aisle.

  Patsy started at an enormous dark brown stain that looked as though it was growing bigger and bigger. She bit her lip hard as she bent down over the debris. ‘I’m sorry,’ she mumbled. ‘I don’t know what happened—’

  Mr. Crosbie came over immediately. Instead of the look-what-you’ve-done-you-silly-girl attitude she expected, he said kindly, ‘It was difficult for you, Miss Aylmer. Very difficult indeed.’

  They were together on their knees in the aisle, mopping up as best they could, when the door of the flight deck opened, and Captain Prentice came in.

  He did not offer to help. He looked down at the coffee stain, the bits of broken potato and meat on the immaculate upholstery. All he said to Patsy was, ‘It would have to be the newest Astroliner in the fleet,’ and then curtly to Mr. Crosbie, ‘We’ll be landing in five minutes.’

  No inquiry about whether they’d completed their programme for the flight. The only other thing he said was, ‘Get everybody strapped in ... after you’ve cleaned up the mess.’

  ‘Yes, sir,’ Mr. Crosbie said apologetically. ‘Sorry about the accident, sir. It was a bit bumpy, and poor Miss Aylmer—’

  But Captain Prentice was already on his way back to the flight deck.

  Slowly they descended lower and lower over London and landed.

  It was with a feeling of relief that she put on her coat at five-thirty and hurried out to the airport gates, and stood alone, waiting for the 81 bus. She was even glad that Cynthia was spending the evening with some Maidenhead friends who had picked her up at the Admin Building and driven her off in the opposite direction from Mrs. Waterhouse’s. Just now, Patsy wanted to be alone, and Cynthia’s cheerful nonchalance over everything would have only underlined how much she herself cared.

  It was chilly. Patsy shivered a little as she pulled up the collar of her camel-hair coat. Then suddenly a small black sports car stopped at the bus stop, and a voice asked, ‘Going Hounslow way?’

  ‘Yes, I am,’ Patsy said.

  ‘Then hop in.’ The voice paused. ‘It’s Miss Aylmer, isn’t it?’ And Patsy recognized Captain Maynard.

  Patsy nodded, and then as she got into the car, said ‘Thank you,’ and awkwardly, not knowing what to call him, ‘Captain Maynard.’

  ‘Out of the flight deck ... Bill,’ he said, as he let in the clutch and drove off. ‘And yours out of the galley?’

  ‘Patsy.’

  ‘Liking it, Patsy?’

  ‘Very much.’

  ‘Except for today, eh?’ he asked. And then, when she said nothing added, ‘Sorry about the bumpy ride. Prentice told me I’d caused an accident at the back.’

  ‘You mean the spilt tray?’

  ‘That’s right. One of the girls found my flying a little ... how shall we put it? ... uneven.’

  ‘Me,’ Patsy said. ‘It was my fault. Everything went over the new upholstery ... the carpet. Captain Prentice was very much annoyed with me.’

  ‘Pardon my contradicting.’ He smiled ruefully. ‘My fault. I was on flying boats before. That was only my second trip on Astroliners.’ He gave her a quick sympathetic look. ‘So I’m new too.’

  ‘But I don’t see how it could have been your fault,’ Patsy said.

  ‘That’s because today was your very first trip. You’ll soon learn it isn’t only the weather that makes the flight bumpy. It could be the pilot.’

  ‘Oh, I’m sure—’ Patsy began, but he cut her short. ‘I don’t usually get confidential like this with stewardesses under training. With anyone else for that matter. But I believe you were worried. About spilling the tray, I mean.’ He paused. ‘Were you?’

  ‘Well,’ Patsy said, feeling her colour rising, ‘I thought—’

  ‘So you were! Well, you can forget all about it, because you certainly weren’t to blame. I missed the runway. Captain Prentice said that if we’d had a full load of passengers, we might not have been able to climb up and go round again on two engines.’ He laughed. ‘Don’t worry! He’s paid to say things like that to keep pilots on their toes.’

  He looked away from the road for a moment to give her a brief glance. ‘What’s the matter? Did you feel sick?’

  ‘Well—’ Patsy began, but he relieved her of the necessity of going on any further by asking, ‘D’you live near here?’ ‘About a mile.’

  ‘Then I’ll take you. Can’t be far out of my way.’

  Patsy was murmuring something about not bothering, but he cut her short with, ‘Up here?’ and then, when Patsy nodded, he added with a smile, ‘So you see, whoever else is worried, you mustn’t be.’

  As the sports car turned into Mrs. Waterhouse’s road, Patsy was thinking how unexpected this pilot was—so concerned about other people’s feelings, so considerate and understanding, not glued to his dignity like Captain Prentice, but frank and easy and unaffected. And yet he must be three or four years older than the Training Captain.

  Perhaps, Patsy said to herself, as the car glided to a smooth stop outside her landlady’s front gate, it was in those three or four years that airline pilots got around to learning such excellent human qualities.

  But there wasn’t much time for Patsy to ponder the vagaries of pilots’ personalities, with rather special emphasis on those of Captains Maynard and Prentice. For the very next day they had to report at a shop in Regent Street to be measured for their uniforms, and then only a paltry week separated them from the dreaded word Examinations.

  ‘Just look at it!’ Cynthia said, after the last lecture ever, standing in front of the notice-board on which was Mr. Crosbie’s neat training programme. She pointed with her thin finger at the column starting October 3rd which was entirely taken up with the word in thin red spidery letters. ‘There we go ... Oral. Examining Officers, Mr. Crosbie and Mr. Simmons, that was the one with the scrubbing brush moustache at the Selection Board ... remember? And the place of execution is the Chief Catering Office itself. Doesn’t it sound grim?’

  ‘They may have got other jobs, don’t you think?’ Patsy suggested cheerfully.

  Like all examination periods, the precious time sped by. It was the shortest week Patsy could remember. And after a micro-second of a weekend sigh of relief that it was all over, came the longest Monday morning on record.

  During the usual kitchen practical, hardly anyone spoke, except to compare answers, argue a little, and then gloomily go on with washing the floor, or peeling the potatoes, or cutting the sandwiches. Already Patsy’s fingers were too few for the mistakes she knew she’d made. She confided sadly to Cynthia the short, stark news: ‘I’ve failed.’ But all the comfort she got was, ‘Well, that makes two of us.’

  At lectures, Mr. Crosbie was late. Normally, this would have meant that the whole room would be bubbling over with laughter and chattering. But not this afternoon. Instead, there was a strained quietness. People fidgeted with pencils. When Myra Yorke knocked over her books, there were hisses of explosive irritation.

  The atmosphere was further heightened when Mr. Crosbie eventually arrived, carrying a sheaf of papers, and wearing a very long face indeed. He said, much more brusquely than usual, ‘Good afternoon, ladies,’ looked at them through his thick spectacles—and sighed.

  No pin was actually dropped, but you could have heard one if there had been.
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br />   ‘Silly mistakes!’ Mr. Crosbie said, rapping his baton on the desk. ‘Silly mistakes!’

  He went through the pile, his voice getting slower and more sorrowful as he proceeded. And then, when it was perfectly obvious that their worst expectations had been fulfilled, the frown on his face suddenly switched into a smile, the pale eyes turned surprisingly mischievous, and the well-known brisk voice said,' ‘Well, ladies ... all in all, not too bad! I’ve watched your practicals. I know I’ve got the stuff into your heads, even though exam nerves don’t always allow it to come out on paper. All any of you need is a little experience.’

  There were a few seconds of incredulous silence. Then Myra Yorke asked, ‘You mean ... we’ve all passed?’

  Mr. Crosbie nodded his head munificently. ‘All,’ he said, and smiling at the relieved sighs and the scarcely subdued cheers, he proceeded to read out the marks.

  Patsy had obtained a not very spectacular position in the order, but one that was at least safely in the middle. She and Cynthia went back to Mrs. Waterhouse’s that night in a state of blissful contentment. When Janet enquired what the exam was like, Cynthia declared airily that there had been nothing to it.

  Then, just after six, Geoff Pollard rang up Patsy. ‘Congratulations,’ he said. ‘Pollard is proud of his protégées.’

  ‘How ever did you know so soon?’ Patsy laughed. ‘I was thinking of phoning to tell you ... and to thank you,’ she added softly.

  ‘How did I know? Oh, come, come. You’re speaking to Pollard of Operations. The hub of World-Span. The fountain of all airline knowledge. Phone me indeed ... and as for thanking... Now, there’s a table booked at Manzinetti’s. Yes, your favourite. A table for two, three or four, according to how many stewardesses feel like taking supper with Operations Officer Pollard. How long does it take you two or three girls to get ready?’

  That evening Geoff was in high spirits, and Cynthia and Patsy had that light-hearted gaiety of complete relief after a quite-difficult job had been completed.

  ‘Now, girls,’ Geoff said, just after eleven as he escorted them up Mrs. Waterhouse’s path to her front door, ‘that man Pollard can’t forget his job ...’