The Infinite Air (15 page)

5 DECEMBER 1930. A HINT OF SNOW
in the air. The sky lowering itself towards the aerodrome. The trees in the fields black in the sour landscape. Mud ankle-deep at the edge of the airstrip. The roaring test engines, which she’d got so used to she didn’t hear them, that day sounded like beasts inside the factories.

At the end of the test the examiner saying, ‘Well done. You’ve passed, Miss Batten.’

Her mother standing outside the clubhouse, a scarf wrapped around her face to keep out the perishing sharpness of the cold. Jean’s joy, as she flew into Nellie’s arms.

She danced up and down on the spot. ‘Mother, I’ve done it! I’ve passed.’

Nellie’s voice was unexpectedly wan. ‘I’m so proud of you, darling. Come away, we have to hurry.’

‘But Mother,’ Jean cried, for the first time wanting to boast about her achievements, ‘I’ve got people to see.’ She meant Victor, of course. He would be waiting for her, might even have watched her victorious flight. Travers had already given her a warm handshake, and what passed for a kiss on her cheek, brushing her with his moustache. He would be ordering her hot cocoa right now. And the Duchess, who was not really as formidable as she looked, especially since her
tumble and the aborted trip to South Africa, would be there. And Amy Johnson, and today Jean would say hello to her in a bright, one-of-us kind of voice.

‘Your father’s found out what you’re doing. We have to pack up and leave here.’ Nellie had begun to stride away, back towards Edgware Road.

‘I don’t care if he knows,’ Jean said, trotting at her heels. ‘I’ve got my licence, Mother. It doesn’t matter.’

‘He’s cut off your allowance, Jean.’ Nellie waved a letter in the air. ‘We have no money. Do you understand?’

THEY DECIDED IT MUST HAVE BEEN IDA
who had told Fred. Spiteful, Nellie said. She always was a woman drenched in vinegar, they should never have trusted her. And thank goodness they hadn’t told John, so they didn’t have him to blame. There were two return tickets to New Zealand in Fred’s letter. The ship was sailing at the weekend.

Jean said she would do something, go to the High Commission, ask them to help her, anything but return home now. Nellie shook her head. ‘Face reality, Jean,’ she said. ‘Don’t you think it’s a bitter enough pill for me?’ They spent the evening packing up their few belongings. The point of seeing Victor Dorée was lost. The memory of his easy laugh, the warmth of his hand on hers, lingered as Jean tossed and turned. There really wasn’t any help for them, whichever way you looked at it.

CHAPTER 15

IT WAS FREEZING IN QUETTA,
Frank Norton told Jean. The city was high in the Indian mountains of Baluchistan, almost cut off from the rest of the country, except for bone-crusher metal roads, and a modest airstrip operated by the Royal Air Force’s 31 Squadron. Right now it was midwinter up there, with the snow waist deep some days. You wouldn’t think it in a country that got so hot. Frank had joined the SS
Rotorua
at Bombay on his way home to visit his family in New Zealand whom he hadn’t seen for years. He’d worked in a shop when he was younger and saved his fare to England so he could join the RAF. Already the sun had tanned his face to a leathery texture. His hair had begun to recede, making him appear older than his twenty-nine years.

Nellie had fallen into conversation with Frank on deck and introduced him that evening to her daughter. ‘He’s a flying officer,’ she said. ‘I’ve suggested we could have dinner together. You could talk about flying.’ The three of them met in the second-class dining room. The roast lamb and potatoes, with gravy and tinned peas, reminded them just how few weeks were left before landfall at home, something Jean was dreading.

Frank appeared to have an easy warmth about him. He flew Bristol Fighters, and that was enough to hold her attention. Nellie drifted off to join a group of women playing mah-jong, apparently not bothered that Jean was left unchaperoned. Later, she would say, with a small gulp of distaste, that it had never occurred to her that an attraction might develop. Frank wore such a badly fitting set of dentures, a subject on which she was something of an authority.

Jean and Frank talked about engine maintenance, and weather patterns, and how to maintain height if hit by a storm. Then Jean asked him about local conditions in Baluchistan, as she would be flying over the area when she flew from England to Australia.

Frank looked at her in astonishment. ‘You’re serious? How old are you?’

‘Twenty-one.’

‘Really? Most girls your age are settling down.’

‘I’m not settling anywhere until I’ve done what I’ve set out to do. And when I’ve done that trip, I’m going to fly to New Zealand.’

Frank roared with laughter, slapping his thigh. ‘In a Gipsy Moth? That’s priceless. You any idea what the weather’s like over the Tasman?’

‘Well, of course I have. You think I’m totally ignorant? The hard part’s finding the money.’

‘Have you got a plane?’

‘Not yet. But I’m sure it’s just a matter of convincing someone that it’s worth sponsoring me. I did go and see someone at the high commission in London. They weren’t very helpful. You’d think public officials would be a little more far-sighted. They were rather a stuffy lot.’

‘The bar’ll be closing soon,’ Frank said. ‘How about we get a nightcap?’

‘I don’t drink alcohol.’

‘Oh, well, you’ll have to get used to me. I do.’

‘Mr Norton, there is no requirement for me to get used to you.’

He stumbled for words, his expression crestfallen. ‘I beg your pardon, Miss Batten. I hoped we might spend time together on this voyage. If you’ll forgive me asking, are you by any chance engaged?’

‘I thought I’d made that pretty clear. No, I’m not.’

‘We dock in Colombo tomorrow. I’d be honoured if you would allow me to escort you round some of the sights.’

‘Why, Mother and I would be delighted, I’m sure.’ Jean held out her hand and wished him goodnight.

‘Time for that nightcap, I suppose,’ he said, his expression wistful.

IN THE MORNING HE MET THEM AT BREAKFAST,
his face flushed but eager. Jean and Nellie had walked around the deck several times and observed Ceylon appear on the horizon, the ship berth, the noise and apparent chaos of the dockworkers. Jean had on the white silk dress she had first worn at Madame Valeska’s dancing school, and the night she met Kingsford Smith.

‘Mother, wherever did you find this old thing?’ Jean said. ‘I thought you’d thrown it out.’

‘Waste not, want not. You look beautiful. It’s just right for the tropics.’

Frank stammered when he saw her. He had, he explained, been arranging rickshaw transport for the day. They could go wherever they wished. Then Nellie, all of a sudden, decided that she was going to spend the morning with her newfound mah-jong friends. She would meet them at lunchtime.

In this way, Jean and Frank came to spend the morning in the marketplace among brilliant sarongs, the mingled scents of cinnamon, fragrant teas made from dark-leaved camellia, and freshly picked orchids. They wandered past the domes and minarets of the city, peacocks scattering at their feet, butterflies catching in their hair. ‘I’d like to ride an elephant,’ Jean said. ‘One of those dark, wild-looking ones.’

‘Then why don’t we do it?’ Frank said.

When they put the idea to Nellie, who was eating cucumber sandwiches and sipping tea with her friends on a shady verandah, she waved them off with a dismissive gesture. ‘Me, ride an elephant? My dears, I’m here to relax. Just go. Remember the ship sails at eight.’

Jean found the elephant easy to ride although its keeper warned of its savage eye. Frank said it was worse than a Bristol in a high wind. He would have a sore beg your pardon for a week. His breath held a stagnant earthy odour, close to her ear, as they bumped along,
perched in the canopied seat above the elephant’s head. The animal thrashed its trunk in Frank’s direction when they dismounted. The keeper, a man dressed in only a loin-cloth and a turban, motioned him away. ‘Run,’ he cried. ‘Go, you go quickly.’

They retired to a teahouse, where Frank ordered a cold beer. ‘Thirsty work,’ he said, taking a long swallow and emptying his glass. Jean sipped lemonade and watched while he ordered a second beer. ‘We should go back to the ship,’ she said.

‘Soon,’ he said. They were alone in the teahouse, mosquito nets creating a gauzy film between them and the bright trees beyond. Dusk was approaching, the sky full of primrose light. Frank said, ‘This has been the best day of my life.’

Jean agreed that certainly it had been very nice, she’d had some new experiences and it had all been great fun. A warning voice in her head told her that the conversation should go no further.

‘So you haven’t got a boyfriend?’ Frank asked. Then before she could answer, he grabbed her right hand, holding it tightly to his chest. ‘Feel my heart,’ he said. ‘We’re meant for each other, you and me. We don’t have to get married straightaway. I can wait.’

Jean burst out laughing. ‘Are you proposing to me?’

His face flushed. ‘What do you think I’m doing?’

‘It’s the heat. You’ve had too many beers. Come on, Frank, let me go.’

In the morning, after the ship sailed, Frank came to see her as she sat reading on the deck. Nellie reclined nearby, reading English newspapers she had picked up in port the day before. ‘I’ve come to apologise,’ he said, addressing Jean. ‘I can’t bear that I shouldn’t see you for the rest of the journey.’

‘We’ll see,’ Jean said. ‘Thank you anyway.’ She felt cool and in control of herself.

‘I should have thought. I expect you do have a boyfriend anyway. You didn’t say.’

She looked away from him. Was Victor Dorée her boyfriend? She thought not.

‘Dinner tonight?’ he asked, after an excruciating pause.

‘Tomorrow, perhaps.’

‘What was all that about?’ Nellie asked. Jean hadn’t told her about the proposal.

‘That man drinks too much,’ Jean said.

‘He hasn’t made a pass at you, surely? He’s old enough to be your father.’

‘He’s twenty-nine.’

‘I thought he was older. Well, you know how it is, men go a bit crazy when they’ve been out East for a while. Do you want me to speak to him?’

‘No,’ Jean said. ‘It would be embarrassing. I’m sure it’ll be all right.’ There were more ports to explore, more dinners, more conversations about flying to be had. She was impressed with what Frank knew, the way he could describe the areas she planned to fly across. For his part, if he continued to drink on the journey, he was careful not to do so when he was near her. Some mornings she saw that he was flushed and tired but she said nothing. On the last night before their arrival in Auckland there was a dinner and dance. Nellie washed and dried Jean’s white silk dress. Other people dressed up, but Jean didn’t need to: she caught the eye of everyone at the party just as she was. Frank was dressed in his dining-out mess uniform, a single-breasted blue-grey jacket, tapering to a point below the waist, over a matching waistcoat. His black shoes were spit polished.

‘May I have the honour?’ he said, bowing to Jean and offering his arm. It was a long time since she had danced, but when the music began she realised she how much she had missed it. He was a better dancer than she expected. The other passengers applauded as they danced a tango in a circle that had cleared around them. ‘I love you,’ he said, close to her ear.

She didn’t reply. She already knew this, and felt a passing sadness for him.

NELLIE AND HER ESTRANGED HUSBAND DID NOT MEET
in Auckland. A note from Fred greeted them at the ship when they disembarked.
I wish to see Jean immediately on her arrival
, it said.

Auckland was more down-at-heel than Jean remembered. Although it was summer, the parks looked neglected, shop windows were boarded up, and some had been smashed. An air of desolation hung over the street corners. A queue had formed outside a soup kitchen near the wharves.

Her father was waiting for her when she arrived at his flat, looking out the window with his back to the room. ‘Why?’ he said, without turning around. ‘Why did you do it, Jean?’

‘Because,’ she began, and stopped. ‘Dad, I bought you some tea in Ceylon. It’s delicious.’ This was not exactly true. Frank Norton had bought the tea, but she had chosen it for her father. She held out the package towards his back. ‘Because,’ she began again, ‘it’s all I can think of doing in my life. I might as well be dead if I don’t fly.’ He turned around, his face closed. When he saw her, his expression softened and he reached out his arms as if to embrace her. Jean hesitated, then took both his hands, touching them lightly.

His arms fell to his sides. ‘I’m so afraid for you,’ he said. She saw that he had tears in his eyes.

‘I’m not going to stop,’ she said. ‘As a matter of fact, I want to get my commercial licence so I can fly for money.’

‘Then you’ll need good navigation skills. Wouldn’t you agree?’

‘Of course.’

‘I’ve enrolled you at the navigation school at Richmond,’ he said. ‘I don’t want you getting lost.’