Silver Wings for Vicki E-Book

Helen Wells

• Herausgeber: Career Girls
• Kategorie: Lebensstil
• Sprache: Englisch

Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2018

Beschreibung

Silver Wings for Vicki is the first in a sixteen book series featuring young air-hostess 'career girl' sleuth Vicki Barr. Set in the days when flying was glamorous, the story follows Vicki as a trainee and her early days as a stewardess. It's old school romance in the skies with pretty hostesses falling for dashing pilots – and, of course, there's a crime to solve! 

Leseprobe

Silver Wings for Vicki

Helen Wells

Published by Career Girls, 2018.

Copyright

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©2018 Career Girls. All rights reserved.

This book or any portion thereof may not be reproduced or used in any manner whatsoever without the express written permission of the publisher except for the use of brief quotations in a book review or scholarly journal.

Published by Career Girls, 2018. 

First e-book edition 2018.

E-BOOK ISBN: 978-1-387-82984-2.

Table of Contents

Title Page

Copyright Page

CHAPTER I | Vicki Makes Plans

CHAPTER II | Beginner’s Luck

CHAPTER III | Discoveries

CHAPTER IV | The New Crowd

CHAPTER V | In Training

CHAPTER VI | Great Day

CHAPTER VII | Three Is a Team

CHAPTER VIII | The Mysterious Mr. Burton

CHAPTER IX | Troubles

CHAPTER X | The Night Run

CHAPTER XI | Going to a Party

CHAPTER XII | The Fourth Man

CHAPTER XIII | Street of Shadows

CHAPTER XIV | Smugglers

CHAPTER XV | Home in Triumph

CHAPTER I

Vicki Makes Plans

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THERE IT WAS, BIG AS life, in the Fairview Sunday paper. Vicki’s hands shook a little as she spread out the newspaper on the grass under the apple tree, away from The Castle and Ginny’s teasing. She read again:

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TO GIRLS WHO WOULD LIKE TO TRAVEL TO MEET PEOPLE ... TO ADVENTURE

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VICKI ROLLED OVER ON her back and gazed up into space. Her eyes were as blue as the June sky overhead, this peaceful Sunday morning. Adventure! She sighed longingly. Yet no one could have appeared less adventurous than Vicki Barr. She was small, with a delicate, almost shy face, and soft ash blonde hair. She seemed very fragile. But the fragility belied strong, wiry muscles and an amazing capacity for beefsteak. The dreaminess, if you looked closely, was more intentness, the absorbed look of a girl busy thinking up action—or mischief.

Her airy grace, the smallness and blondeness of her, made Vicki seem about as durable as a cream puff. Actually she was as sturdy as a young tree. She smoothed the skirt of her blue pinafore and sighed again. “If I apply for this flight job,” she thought resentfully, “I know exactly what they’ll tell me. Sorry, Miss Barr, but we think you look too young, too shy, and perhaps not strong enough.”

With a glint in her soft blue eyes—not at all the sort of glint that goes with poetic eyes in a tangle of lashes—Vicki turned back to the advertisement.

“If you are twenty-one to twenty-eight, and single—if you are a registered nurse, or if you have at least two years of college or of business experience in dealing with people—then here’s the most appealing job in the world! Apply tomorrow!”

Vicki had only two years of college, no business experience, and worst of all, she was under the age requirement. She nibbled sadly on a blade of grass.

She wanted this job so much, so very much! Wasn’t there any way around the requirements? Vicki put her mind to work.

Only two years of college. And her father, who was professor of economics at the near-by state university, was eager for her to complete the full four-year course. Persuading the professor to let her drop out of college would be a hurdle in itself.

Hm-m, no business experience. That was really difficult. But she had helped in the community-fund drive every autumn, sometimes garnering more pledges in her un-businesslike way than even her father. She had helped run the day nursery on Saturday mornings—or didn’t dealing with small fry count as dealing with people? Well, then, she had sold perfume at Frazier’s last December when all the girls had taken jobs to make some Christmas money.

As for being too young, she could only pray for a lucky off-chance. Exceptions were sometimes made. “It doesn’t hurt to hope. Or to try. They can only say no, and they might say yes!”

“Must weigh,” said the ad, “from 100 to 125 pounds, and be between 5 feet and 5 feet 6 inches tall.”

It made Vicki feel like something for the butcher’s scale, but for once, being small was an asset.

“Above all,” the ad pursued, “do you get along well with people? Do you sparkle?”

Vicki pulled a strand of silvery-gold hair across her upper lip, making a mustache of it. She held it there and stroked it. The mustache was an infallible sign that Vicki was brooding. Sparkle? Well, did she? Vicki asked herself.

Freckles, the Barr family’s spaniel, trotted up to her, ears swinging. He was a young gentleman, white with golden-brown spots, and flirtatious. He sniffed Vicki, sneezed, and backed off in indignation. Vicki stroked the silky ears but the dog reared back on his hind legs.

“You’re wearing perfume again!” scoffed a young voice from The Castle’s side steps. Vicki saw, from under the heavy-hanging apple boughs, her younger sister’s short, browned legs running toward her. Vicki cautiously folded up the newspaper and sat on it.

“Freesia!” sniffed twelve-year-old Ginny. “Poor ol’ Freckles. You know dogs hate perfume.” She picked up the spaniel, who promptly licked her face. Ginny was plump, sturdy, and—with her light hair in tight braids, braces on her teeth, corrective glasses, and orthopedic oxfords—distinctly unglamorous. Ginny looked exactly as Vicki had only a few short years back.

“Say, what are you doing here, lolling and daydreaming?” Ginny demanded.

“Secret.” Vicki’s voice was soft and gay.

“Tell me. I’ll tell you a secret in exchange.”

Ginny put down the squirming spaniel.

“But it’s really a secret, sweetie, understand?”

Ginny nodded her round little head and Vicki opened the newspaper to the full-page advertisement.

“Jeepers, it’s tomorrow!” Ginny exclaimed.

“Right here in Fairview! Every girl in town will be there, fighting to get in. Are you going to try for it?”

“Don’t shriek so, baby! Ye-es, I’m—I’m going to try.

“Well, I hope they say yes,” the twelve-year-old declared loyally; then added matter-of-factly, “But I bet they say no. You aren’t the practical type, like me.”

Vicki’s small face turned pink. “Libel!” she retorted indignantly. “Who saved you when you trespassed on that meadow and the cow chased you? Who thought up an explanation about the time you spent all the money in your penny jar for lipstick?”

“You have your moments. But most of the time—” Ginny grinned blandly behind her spectacles.

“Really, Vicki, you go floating around looking like a piece of bric-a-brac—dreaming with that idiotic mustache under your nose.”

Vicki said with big-sister hauteur, “What was your secret?”

“Oh, that.” Ginny examined her shoe. “Vicki, don’t be mad when I tease you—you know I’d give anything to be just like you. It’s just that you’re so—so—” The little girl broke down.

Vicki pulled her gently down on the grass and put her arm around her. “You are a genuine, absolute sweetie-pie,” she whispered into Ginny’s ear.

Ginny hastily studied the newspaper, then stared perplexedly at her lovely sister. “How would you ever dare apply for something bold and brawny like this?”

“Listen,” Vicki murmured. Far above them they heard the hum of a plane. Both girls looked up. A speck of silver streaked along in the blue.

Very softly Vicki said, “The sky ... There is a beautiful world up there. Clouds like frozen fountains, and endless blue, and the planets swinging in space.”

“Vicki, have you gone crazy?”

“And the people! Exciting people, doing things that take them flying all over the world—presidents and scientists and soldiers and actors, men in gold turbans, engineers going far away to build, people living out the secret dramas of their lives—”

“I told you not to eat chocolate cake for breakfast! I knew it wouldn’t agree with you!”

Vicki lay back on the grass, her slender bare arms under her bright head. “People have to dream, darling—dream, and make their dreams come true. Why, that’s how the world goes on.” Half to herself she added, “Dreams are expensive. But I’m willing to work hard for mine.”

Ginny said flatly, “Here’s my secret. I broke my new bike. Don’t tell Dad.”

“Very sad and I won’t tell Dad. Ha! A poem.”

But Ginny waited uneasily for something more.

“I think it’s the brake, Vic.”

Vicki gave her a sidelong glance. “Of course, I’m the impractical type, you understand.” She laughed and sat up. “It’s out of sight in the garage, I presume? I’ll take a look.” She rose and walked across the lawn. It was an effortless walk, like a dancer’s. Ginny’s gait was a bounce, and Ginny was humble. She watched in respectful silence as Vicki expertly slung the bicycle around, hunting for the trouble.

“You’ve jammed the brake, that’s all,” Vicki reassured her, “and bent these two teeth in the gear a bit. Hand me the pliers—no, the Number Two pliers.” As she tugged on the brake, she grunted, “Just a useless, helpless dreamer. For this, you have to name all your children after me. Vicki One, Vicki Two, and Vicki Three.”

“Suppose they’re all boys?” Ginny retorted.

“Will you go chase yourself?” said Vicki. “No, by gum, I’ll chase you myself!”

They zigzagged across the wide lawn, under the trees, around and around the birdbath, Ginny shrieking. The chase ended at the open kitchen door. Professor Barr’s handsome, blond head popped out. Atop it towered a chef’s cap.

“Would you rather have sauce Marguery or drawn lemon butter on the sole?” he asked, clutching a cookbook.

“No fish!” Ginny exclaimed.

“Which sauce is the more—m-m—epicurean?”

Vicki asked.

“Ah, the Marguery!” her father answered. He grinned engagingly. “You take milk—or cream, if your mother doesn’t catch me—flour, butter, sherry—seasoning, of course, but just a hint—” He smiled happily, his face pink with heat from the stove and satisfaction. “And your orders for dessert?”

“Chocolate cake,” said Ginny. “Or what Vicki left of it.”

“A pedestrian imagination.” Professor Barr shook his head.

“Profiterolles au chocolat,” suggested Vicki.

Her father’s tall figure, tied securely in a chef’s apron, moved out into the doorway. “I’m afraid that’s beyond my powers. After all, I’m only a Sunday cook.”

“Baked bananas with maraschino sauce, then?” Vicki offered demurely, and Ginny breathed insults.

The Sunday chef leafed through the cookbook. “Yes, here it is—” he cocked a knowing eyebrow at his elder daughter—“my little gourmet. But—ah— wouldn’t you like a nice, simple bread pudding? I make a very successful bread pudding.”

“I’d prefer Nesselrode pudding.” Twin devils danced in Vicki’s limpid eyes.

“Stop egging Dad on,” called Mrs. Barr from the steps. Her cap of short curls enhanced her young face and active figure in the red sports dress. “Isn’t it bad enough that he gets butter on the kitchen walls, honey on the gas cocks, and sugar crunching underfoot? How do you do it, Lewis?”

Ginny said, “It’s a good thing you let him cook only on Sundays.”

“We’d have no kitchen left, and no digestions, if we let Dad lose his amateur standing,” Mrs. Barr remarked laughingly, as she rescued Freckles from a bee.

“Permit me to make three points,” Professor Barr said, in his best lecture-room manner from the kitchen porch. “One, I am as good an amateur chef as any man in the Gourmet and Skillet Club. Two, this is my only hobby, recreation, or sin, as you prefer. Three, I will make Nesselrode pudding or bust in the attempt. Luncheon will be delayed indefinitely.” He waved them away. “Ladies, go enjoy yourselves. Hey, Vic! Here’s one recipe you don’t know—bombe glacé, smarty.”

And the chef returned to the kitchen, whistling. They heard him turn on a radio speech, then the egg beater whirred.

Ginny glared at Vicki. “You always get your way.”

Their mother, overhearing, remarked, “Incidentally, Vicki, what is Nesselrode?”

“Oh, candied nuts and fruits and goo,” Vicki replied absently.

“And where did you get acquainted with such fancy things?” Ginny demanded.

Vicki colored to the roots of her ash-blonde hair. “I read through Dad’s cookbook one day when he wasn’t home, so—” she grinned—“so I could be Dad’s own little girl.”

Ginny snorted. But Mrs. Barr nodded her curly head in approval and Freckles, always agreeable, wagged his stubby tail. Vicki was wondering whether she could count l’affaire Nesselrode as “dealing with people.”

She longed to talk to her mother about that challenge in the newspaper. It excited her so much that she felt like running and shouting. Betty Barr would understand: she still was a good horsewoman, and she sympathized with other people’s enthusiasms.

But as for telling her mother— Vicki realized pensively that her chances of being accepted as a stewardess would be moderate at best. The competition in Fairview alone would be formidable—and the competition was nationwide.

No use alarming her parents too soon with her adventurous ideas.

So Vicki sat quietly on the sunny steps, but in imagination she was in a soaring plane with two men from the State Department. One of them glanced at the placard that read Miss V. Barr. He beckoned her up the aisle and said, above the four roaring motors:

“When we land in Shannon, please help us to get on to London at once.”

And the imaginary Vicki, in trim blue cap and suit, bent over him and said, “I’ve already made all arrangements for you, gentlemen.”

The other hypothetical diplomat smiled up at her and waved a document bearing a heavy seal and ribbon.

“Your slip shows.” Vicki jumped. This was not the imaginary statesman but Mrs. Barr reproving Ginny.

“Oh, Vicki,” her mother said, “did you see this very interesting advertisement—the full-page one? I only wish I was within the age limit.”

Vicki’s heart thumped in response. Yes, her mother would understand—would approve! If— If.

“But what would Dad say? He’d never let you leave home,” Ginny said wickedly, to her mother and aiming at Vicki.

Vicki did not dare stay any longer. She made the worst face she could at her small sister, and wandered off under the trees.

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VICKI LOVED THE CASTLE on its crest of hill at the edge of town. She had always felt it rare good luck to live in a place which all of Fairview drove out to admire. Not that the Barrs could afford a great deal on a professor’s salary, even counting Mr. Barr’s consultative services to businessmen’s groups. But Cousin Bill had left the property to them, the biggest and best surprise the Barrs would ever have. When the Barrs moved in, it was rather a white elephant of a place, run down and gloomy. But, working with small means and plenty of enthusiasm, they had contrived to make the house a miniature castle indeed.

For The Castle—though not very large—had a tower, high Norman-casement windows, sloping red-tiled roof, an upstairs balcony, a buttressed oak entrance door. The grounds, too, resembled the park of a castle: a sweeping lawn setting the house well back off the road, spreading shade trees, a rock garden, a rose and peony garden, stone birdbaths and benches. Behind the house apple and cherry trees grew. Then the grassy hill rolled downward, became a little wood, and led steeply down to the lake. Professor Barr had built a boathouse down there, and a small dock.

Vicki glanced up at her own windows, with their prized balcony. The shadowy, pale-blue curtains in her room stirred a little.

“I would be stark, raving mad to leave The Castle,” she thought in a rush of feeling.

Nevertheless, at nine o’clock Monday morning Vicki was in the lobby of Fairview’s biggest hotel. Her silver-blonde hair was severely coiffed, to make her look older, she hoped. She had worn her gray  suit, crisp white blouse and gloves, in an effort to tone down her Dresden-china prettiness and appear capable. Perhaps the very high heels were too frivolous, but they gave her a more dignified height—Vicki did not own a pair of sensible shoes, anyway.

“Where,” she shakily asked the desk clerk, “are they interviewing for Federal Airlines?”

Directed to Suite 305, she went into an elevator. Five of her old classmates were already in the car, dressed with great care and eying one another.

“Hi, Vic,” two or three of them greeted her in weak tones.

“Hi, yourselves,” said Vicki. “Are you all praying like me?”

One big girl gulped, “This is the first time I ever applied for a job. I’m scared.”

“You have lots of company,” Vicki assured her. The elevator door closed. They were all in too desperate and exalted a state of mind to be very sociable now.

The door to Suite 305 was wide open, and jammed with girls spilling out into the corridor.

Vicki’s enormous blue eyes opened wide and she was tempted to go right home. What a crowd! She recognized them from Fairview High School—this year’s, last year’s, year before last’s graduating classes—Molly and Meg Murray from the village of Patoka, nearby—a bevy of girls in baggy pastel sweaters and skirts from the state university—lively

Jeanie Stone accompanied by two other girls, all with fresh, farm complexions—Jessie Naylor, very businesslike since acquiring her secretarial job—two pretty, efficient-looking redheads from the factory—

“They all look so determined and reliable!” Vicki thought, almost frightened, “Not—not fluffy, like me!”

She stood up as tall as she could and assumed a solemn expression, but that did not make her feel any braver. Pride alone kept her from fleeing out of the knot of girls in the corridor. Pride, and a young woman distributing numbers, one of which she handed to Vicki. With the numbered ticket in her hand, Vicki froze to the hotel carpet, trapped. She moved not on her own power but only as the line moved, slowly, silently forward. One by one the girls took seats inside the room.

Once seated, the secretary gave them application blanks to fill out. Vicki wrote hers on her wobbly knees, scowling over each question before she answered. Apparently Federal Airlines wanted to know everything except when she had had her first tooth. There were routine questions about name, address, relatives, citizenship, health, education, community activities. Then—and Vicki wrote in:

EXTRACURRICULAR—Dancing lead in school shows.

HOBBIES—Dancing. Candid camera.

LANGUAGES—Spanish, fluent. French, halting.

BUSINESS EXPERIENCE—None.

NURSING TRAINING—None.

FLYING EXPERIENCE—None.

Discouraged at three “nones,” Vicki’s pencil hesitated over the page. The next question sternly pressed her forward:

CHARACTER REFERENCES.

How dignified “Professor Lewis Marvell Barr” would look! Then she saw the phrase “other than relatives.” After some rueful thinking, Vicki gave the names of her English teacher and the family doctor.

WHAT DO YOU READ? Considering the stacks of books and magazines that kept flowing into The Castle, Vicki could honestly list a good many titles, and a good variety.

ARE YOU WILLING TO WORK ANYWHERE IN THE WORLD? Vicki wrote joyously Yes!

The secretary collected applications as they were  finished. Instantly Vicki was sure she had given the wrong, the most ill-considered answers. Well, all she could do now was to wait.

The all-morning waiting was agony. Meg Murray sailed into the inner room smiling and confident, and came out crestfallen. Her sister Molly went in and stayed such a long time that girls began to look knowingly at each other. Molly came out smiling much too brightly, and passed the line with her head held defiantly high. “No luck,” the murmur went around. Three of the college girls went in and came out again so fast that some of the others, disheartened, dropped out, and Vicki moved up in the row of chairs. One of the farm girls emerged looking happy and expectant.

“How’d it go? Who’s interviewing? Are they tough? Tell us!” they all whispered at her. The excited girl could only stammer, “Not tough, nice. I don’t know anything for sure, yet. Good luck, kids!”

By now Vicki was second in line, hidden behind a tall girl. Vicki re-powdered her nose, wet her lips, and tried to smile. The effect, she had no doubt, must be sickly. Then the protective wall of head and shoulders disappeared into the inner room, leaving Vicki exposed to that noncommittal, closed door.

The low voices within told her nothing. She tried to recall all the intelligent, relevant arguments she had planned to offer as proof that the exact person Federal Airlines needed was Miss Victoria Barr. But her mind went even blanker than before. Out of the blankness the secretary said:

“Miss Barr, will you go in?”

Vicki walked into a confusing blaze of daylight. At a desk before the window sat a stunning young woman. Her hands were pressed over her eyes in a gesture of weariness. At Vicki’s step she looked up instantly and smiled.

Vicki heard her own soft voice saying, “Shall I come back later—perhaps after you’ve had lunch?”

“No, thank you.” Brilliant, searching, gray eyes smiled at her, and Vicki had an impression of sleek dark hair, artful make-up, a trim figure, style, and utter poise.

“My, what a frail-looking little blonde you are! But I’ll bet you’re really the wiry, hard-as-nails kind.”

Vicki grinned. “And I can out eat any two boys.”

“So that’s why you spoke of lunch! But seriously, it was very thoughtful to suggest coming back later. That’s exactly the sort of attitude I’m looking for in these dozens and dozens of girls.”

Vicki was astonished—elated!

“Sit down, Miss—” the young woman glanced at Vicki’s application form, “Miss Barr. I’m Ruth Benson, assistant superintendent of flight stewardesses for Federal Airlines. All the other  supervisors interview, too.” She leaned back more comfortably in her chair. “You see, we go out on interviewing trips before each new stewardess class starts. We set up in fifteen or twenty cities and hold interviews, as here. Sometimes we have publicity in the local paper, or sometimes girls write in to the airline asking for positions. We notify them of interviews, because the date’s set in advance, and invite them.”

Miss Benson said all this as if they were having a leisurely, friendly chat, not holding a business interview. However, Vicki realized she was under shrewd surveillance. She was careful to sit quiet in her chair, not fussing with hair or purse, hands relaxed in her lap.

“Sometimes”—Miss Benson chuckled a little—“I think that every girl in the United States wants to be a flight stewardess! Well, I did, myself.” In reply to Vicki’s quick look of interest, she said, “Yes, I flew for six years, and loved it. Why do you want to be an air stewardess, Miss Barr?”

Vicki leaned forward eagerly, lips parted—then remembered, just in time, that a business company was not interested in some girl’s personal desire for flight and adventure, but in gaining a useful employee.

“Because I’d love to fly, and because I like people. I think I could be of service to air travelers and to the airline. Air transportation is growing so fast—I want to work into it and grow with it.”

Miss Benson nodded her sleek head. “Refreshing to hear a girl who doesn’t say ‘Because being a stewardess is such a glamorous job.’ It’s a demanding job. You must be able to handle all sorts of people, tactfully, in any sort of situation.”

She asked Vicki questions about her friends, her life in Fairview, her family, probing for indications of tact and courtesy and poise. Vicki, her delicate face flushed, tried to answer briefly and modestly. They talked about school subjects for a while. Miss Benson approved of Vicki’s having had psychology, English, sociology, public speaking, because those things would help in the constant contact with people of all temperaments. Nursing training was usually an essential qualification, Miss Benson said “—because a flight stewardess often has to care for children and sick persons—” though an R.N. was not required by Federal at the moment.

Had Vicki, perhaps, been a nurses’ aide, or did she know first aid, or had she studied physiology or hygiene? Fortunately, Vicki had had training in both hygiene and first aid. Her nutrition and cooking courses would come in handy too, for serving meals aloft. Music, art, current events—all helped a girl keep up her end of conversation with all types of travelers. Miss Benson wished Vicki were better at  languages, “because passengers are of all nationalities, and flight routes may take you into all countries. Good idea to brush up on geography, too, if your business is going to be travel.”

“Very good,” Ruth Benson said at last. “Very personable. You’re a bit shy but that’s pleasanter than being too aggressive. As long as you are resourceful enough— Now, stand up and walk around the room for me. I didn’t really see you when you came in.”

Vicki rose and circled the room, a small, graceful figure. In her imagination she was rather desperately humming a tune, and walking in time to it. That helped her keep her poise.

“Mm-hmm,” said Miss Benson, and gestured Vicki to sit down again. “Yes, I think you could wear a uniform with some distinction.” She scribbled something on a report sheet.

“May I ask a question?” Vicki ventu [...]