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- Herausgeber: Allison & Busby
- Kategorie: Gesellschafts- und Liebesromane
- Sprache: Englisch
1927. Flight fever is running high and daring flyers are all anyone can talk about. And now the Honourable Miss Elsie Mackay, glamorous former film star and regular name in gossip columns, has a new ambition - to be the first woman to fly the Atlantic. Elsie's friend Stella Campbell once felt at the heart of world events, but now post-war hopes are frayed and marriage and motherhood have worn away her sense of self. In recent years, Stella's sister Corran has been wrapped up in her books and academic career, determinedly single, or so it seems. But when Corran's carefully guarded secrets start to emerge, will she choose to follow her heart? The Endeavour of Elsie Mackay takes the moving story of a pioneering Scottish aviator and weaves in the threads of other women straining to reach for their dreams on the cusp of an uncertain future.
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THE ENDEAVOUR OF ELSIE MACKAY
Flora Johnston
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In memory of Elsie Mackay.
And dedicated to Jane, Catriona and Sandy, who also heard her story from the original storyteller.
Contents
13th March, 1928
Cranwell Aerodrome, Lincolnshire
Afterwards, even those who were present couldn’t be sure what had taken place in the eerie grey morning light.
‘There were two of them in flying suits. You couldn’t make out who they were.’
‘No, there were definitely three. One was much smaller; that would be her.’
‘Ah, but I saw the woman driven away by a chauffeur in that flashy monogrammed car. I’ll swear she didn’t get in the plane.’
‘They’re only going to Dublin anyway. They’ve been ordered to move the machine to Baldonnel Airfield.’
‘Don’t be a fool. Did you see the weight of that aeroplane? Could barely get off the ground. She’s loaded for a much longer journey than Ireland.’
‘That’s because they’re headed for India; the captain’s chasing the long-distance air record.’
‘There’s a fortune on offer for the first aviator to fly west across the Atlantic and reach Philadelphia. If anyone can do it he can.’
‘Not in weather like this.’8
‘It will be the woman’s fault. Women have no business in aeroplanes.’
‘I tell you, I saw her drive away in the car. She’s a financial backer, that’s all.’
‘More money than sense, then.’
‘If she is on that plane she’ll be the first woman to fly the Atlantic. And good luck to her I say.’
They slipped out of their Grantham hotel in darkness, unobserved. The cars took different routes, for one had an important detour to make. Snow had fallen heavily all week, adding to the ethereal atmosphere as the first light of morning spread over the still, silent airfield. Bundled in their flying suits, the pilots – two or three – wheeled Endeavour from her hangar. Sleek black and gold against the white snow, she was a thing of beauty right enough. Her gold-painted wings had reflected the sun’s brilliant glory on hour after hour of test flight over Lincolnshire; now they glowed with quiet, steady warmth, softening the monochrome chill.
Those few people who knew what was going on huddled together, going over charts, their breath rising in clouds up into the air that would soon carry all their dreams. Such long months of planning, such careful weeks of preparation, such difficult days of frustration when it had seemed all their efforts might come to nothing.
It was now or never.
Flight fever was everywhere in 1928. Barely a week went by without another hopeful record attempt. Cinema newsreels showed smiling adventurers taking to the skies; newspapers printed column after column about the lives and families and dreams of these modern pioneers, glorying in each rare triumph, picking apart each all-too-common disaster. Trailblazers or reckless fools? No one could quite decide.9
There were no cameras at Cranwell today. No newspaper men, no sponsors, no families brimful of pride and fear. It was all so low-key, so unlikely in this weather, that most of those present believed the machine was simply being moved to its new location in Ireland. Any greater purpose was shrouded in secrecy as thick as that blanket of snow.
But for those who cared to notice, there was a tension in the air. A sense of significance in those final tightly clasped handshakes. They climbed into the machine, and out, and in again, until no one was quite sure whether two or three remained on board as she throbbed into life and slowly began to churn up the snow-covered runway.
It was said to be the longest runway in the country and Endeavour made full use of it, trundling along at first, faster and faster and faster, straining every strut and bolt as she gathered speed, tossing up a blizzard behind her. Far away, so very far away, nearly a mile along that runway she rose slowly, sweetly into the air and soared towards those heavy, snow-laden clouds. The group of mechanics waited as the roar faded, as she disappeared westwards, then stamped their numb feet and hurried towards the shed, eager for the warmth of the brazier and a much-needed cup of tea.
Endeavour circled, dipped a wing and was gone, carrying the mysterious aviators westwards to their destiny.
Now or never.10
PART ONE
Ambition
April to August 1927
I have been long of opinion that, instead of the tardy conveyance of ships and chariots, man might use the swifter migration of wings, that the fields of air are open to knowledge, and that only ignorance and idleness need crawl upon the ground.
The History of Rasselas, Prince of Abissinia, Samuel Johnson, 175912
Chapter One
Glasgow, April 1927
In the steamy warmth of the Garnethill kitchen, Alison could hear the low hum of voices that meant her son-in-law Rob was with a patient in his little consulting room. She glanced at the clock on the mantelpiece above the gleaming black range. Stella would be home with the children soon, and their return was always boisterous. She’d have to intercept them and usher them quickly into the kitchen.
She pushed aside the P&O brochure that had been spread open before her on the table and turned to place the kettle on the range to heat. Stretching up, she checked that the washing on the pulley was dry, then removed the items, folding them and laying them on the kitchen bed for now. They’d have to be cleared from there before the boys went to bed, mind you. Bread and jam, a pot of tea, and she was just collecting the crock of butter from the little scullery off the kitchen when she heard a door opening and a woman’s voice followed by Rob’s tones. Good, his patient was leaving. They could have their tea in peace, and maybe he would even manage to join them.
She laid the butter on the table, but just as she did so she heard 14the outer door bang and footsteps running through the close. Too late! Most of Rob’s patients were indulgent of his small family but he did have the odd crusty customer who wouldn’t take kindly to being barged aside by Duncan and Jacky. Alison hurried into the shadowy hallway, ready to scoop up her grandsons. Amid a flurry of noise and movement she was aware of Stella’s delighted exclamation, of a woman in fur coat and chic hat, an embrace and an urging to stay for tea, before Duncan barrelled into her and threw his arms around her waist with all his five-year-old energy. ‘Gran, Gran, Gran, we saw the monkey man, we saw the monkey man.’
And then the visitor was gone and Rob retreated to his consulting room, promising the boys he would join them in a few minutes. Stella hung up her coat and hat and sent the boys to wash their hands as she fetched beakers for their milk. Alison poured the tea, and both women sat down at the table. ‘That was Elsie, wasn’t it?’ Alison asked.
‘It was. She’s had trouble with a persistent sore throat and their own doctor has been no use so I suggested she see Rob next time she was in Glasgow.’ The boys reappeared and for a moment or two Stella was busy settling them with their bread and jam. Then she glanced across at her mother. ‘She’s exactly the sort of contact Rob needs, you know. She might help him find some wealthier patients.’
Alison was silent. She had heard her daughter on this topic before. It was hard not to, sharing a house as they did here in Garnethill, on the north-western edge of the city centre. It had seemed perfect when they moved in together soon after Jacky’s birth, pooling their resources to afford a property with a much-prized private bathroom and enough space for them all. It was on the ground floor of the tenement building, ideal both for Rob’s patients and for Stella manoeuvring the heavy pram. The children slept in the closet bed in the kitchen, and Alison had her own room with enough space for the few items of furniture she had 15saved from their family home in Thurso. The other small room was fitted out for Rob’s consultations. This left only the parlour, but as in many Glasgow tenements another double bed was hidden in the wall there, behind painted wooden shutters, and that would do for Rob and Stella. ‘We mostly live in the kitchen anyway,’ Stella had laughed, ‘and when we do want to use the parlour we close the shutters and no one even knows the bed is there.’
Rob had trained as a surgeon before the war, but the toll of those years at the front had left him with unsteady hands, occasional blinding headaches and an impatience with the establishment. He had thrown himself into helping recovering soldiers and sailors at the Princess Louise hospital for amputees at Erskine, but when his work there came to an end he decided to set up a private medical practice in Garnethill. Stella polished the plate he had screwed into the doorway, rubbing her cloth carefully over the letters Dr R. CAMPBELL M.B. Ch.B., and saw her hope and pride reflecting back at her in its blurry brass surface.
Three years later, however, Alison watched as her daughter became increasingly discontented. Garnethill hadn’t provided the influx of wealthy patients she had hoped for, and Stella was now beginning to speak about moving further out of the city into one of the new bungalows being built in leafy villages like Bearsden.
‘The boys will need a room of their own one day,’ she reminded Rob at regular intervals. ‘It would be nice to have both a parlour and a bedroom, don’t you think? That’s not such an unreasonable thing to wish for.’
Alison would have moved out to give the young family more space, but Stella didn’t want that either, relying on her help with the children and the housework. It would be interesting to see how they all got on if Alison took up her sister’s suggestion of a few weeks at sea!
Rob entered the room, pulling her back into the moment. ‘Tea? 16Yes thanks, I’m gasping.’ He dropped down beside his sons, who had long since finished eating and were playing with toy cars on the floor. Alison watched him as Stella buttered him a scone. He looked peaky again, she decided, as he ruffled Duncan’s fair hair and took his place at the table. Those dark shadows under his eyes usually meant the headaches he had endured since the war were bothering him. But he carried on, just as they all did, and if his patients noticed the slight shake in his hands or the strain in his voice, they were reassured by the warmth and empathy in his manner.
‘How did you get on with Elsie?’ Stella asked as she passed him his tea.
‘Fine.’
‘Fine? Is that all?’
‘Stella, I can’t discuss a patient’s business, even if she is your friend. Especially if she is your friend, in fact.’
‘Don’t be absurd, I’m not looking for medical details. What I mean is – was she happy? Do you think she will see you again?’
Rob passed his hand over his eyes. ‘How should I know? I always aim to leave my patients happy.’
‘Oh, don’t be so stuffy. Will she recommend you to her friends? You do need to find some wealthier patients, you know.’
Here she goes again. Alison felt the familiar surge of irritation and clattered the children’s dishes together, taking them through to the scullery. Really, Stella was being impossible at the moment, but it would only make matters worse if she were to wade into the discussion herself, as she was tempted to do. As she ran the plates under the tap, Alison thought again about the elegant woman in the fur coat and smart hat. The Honourable Miss Elsie Mackay. She wondered how much the friendship had to do with Stella’s current discontent – but on the other hand, she had to acknowledge that her daughter, worn down by the monotony of housekeeping and child-raising as many young women were, was rarely as full of life 17and sparkle as when she spent time with Elsie.
The strangest coincidence had brought them back together. Stella had often spoken of meeting Elsie in those far-off days in Paris in 1919, back when she was a typist with the peace conference and Elsie was a rising film star using the pseudonym Poppy Wyndham, darling of the newspapers because of her beauty, her charm and the romantic story of her elopement and disinheritance. Alison herself remembered seeing Poppy Wyndham in several pictures, including A Son of David where she played alongside Ronald Colman. Stella had treasured the crumpled card the actress had given her, and repeated her words: I feel sure we shall meet again. And five years later they had.
By that time Poppy Wyndham was no more. Elsie’s marriage was over and she had returned to her maiden name and the forgiving embrace of her father, who just happened to be one of the richest and most powerful men in British industry. James Mackay, Viscount Inchcape, was chairman of P&O, the biggest shipping company in the world, and divided his time between a grand townhouse in fashionable London and the seclusion of Glenapp Castle in Ayrshire.
Elsie turned her back on acting and found a new passion for interior design, taking responsibility for the creation and maintenance of the living quarters across her father’s extensive fleet. She had been in Glasgow for the launch of one of these ships on the Clyde when she and Stella encountered one another again. Alison was in Aberdeen with her sister Maggie, but remembered the letter she had received from her daughter.
I would never have gone out at all if I’d realised the crowds were so thick and the day so hot, but I thought it would amuse Duncan to see the ship being launched. As it was he had a tantrum and I had to carry him, and my morning sickness was 18worse than ever. I really thought I would faint, and I fought through the crowds to the side of the road where I had to sit down on the kerb or I’d have collapsed. Well, wasn’t this sleek silver Rolls-Royce driving past just at that time. The woman inside ordered her chauffeur to stop and jumped out to see if I was all right. She took us into her car – that cheered Duncan up – and once her chauffeur had dropped her beside her father she ordered him to drive us home. I knew who she was, of course, but she didn’t recognise me so I didn’t say anything. Later in the day she called round to see how we were, so I explained then and invited her in for a cup of tea!
From that day an unlikely but, as far as Alison could see, genuine friendship had flourished between them. Every few months when Elsie was in Glasgow, Stella left the children with her mother and met her friend for a stroll in the botanics or tea in the Willow Tea Rooms in Sauchiehall Street, while magnificent presents arrived for the boys at Christmas and on their birthdays.
With tea finished, the boys ran outside to play in the back green with the other children from the surrounding tenements. That was another gripe of Stella’s; she wanted to be able to open her back door and let her children out into their own private garden. Alison came back to the table, where Rob and Stella had both lit up cigarettes and Rob was reading the newspaper. Stella picked up the discarded P&O brochure and looked at the colourful picture on the front of elegantly dressed men and women playing tennis on a ship’s deck in front of two gleaming funnels. ‘What’s this?’
‘Maggie sent it to me. She has suggested we take a pleasure cruise in September.’
‘Goodness! Will you?’
‘I think I might. It’s a while since we had a holiday together.’19
Stella turned the pages. ‘Looks lovely. Is it this one?’
‘The Ranchi – to the Mediterranean.’
‘How funny. I believe that’s one of Elsie’s ships.’ She looked up. ‘Can you afford it?’
Alison tried not to sound defensive. ‘I can. We don’t need a cabin-de-luxe. You know I’ve been careful with the Thurso money, and it was always my plan to use some of it to travel. And besides, it will give you young ones some time without me under your feet.’
‘What, to go dancing?’ Stella threw a glance at her husband but his face remained buried in his newspaper. ‘Hardly. And besides, I certainly don’t feel young any more. Not at thirty-two.’
The grand old age of thirty-two. Perhaps it wasn’t Alison who needed a holiday, perhaps it was Stella. ‘Will you manage a holiday this year?’ she asked. ‘Rob?’
Rob looked up. ‘What’s that? A holiday? Oh, I dare say we’ll take the boys to Rothesay for a week or two. What do you think, Stella?’
‘We always go to Rothesay. Last year we went during Glasgow Fair and the steamers were packed and the guesthouses so busy, it was hard to keep track of the boys on the beach. I’d like to go somewhere different. If we wait until August it will be quieter and perhaps Corran would join us. It’s a few years since she’s done that.’
Corran, Alison’s eldest daughter, far away in Oxford with her books and her secrets.
‘That’s a good idea,’ Alison said. ‘And I have another one. If I do decide to take this cruise in September, how about the two of you take off for a few days yourselves before that and I look after the boys?’
‘Would you really? I mean, would you manage on your own?’
I managed to raise four of you with a husband away at sea and I already do the lion’s share of housework in this place. Not that you notice. ‘I’m sure I’ll manage, dear, and if not I can ask Luisa to come over and help.’20
‘Well, if you’re sure – that would be rather nice, wouldn’t it, Rob? We could go to a hotel.’
Rob looked dubious. ‘I’m not sure we can afford that.’
‘We’ll just have to afford it.’
Perhaps wisely, Rob said nothing. Instead he folded up his newspaper and got to his feet. ‘I promised to take some books over to Alex for young Danny Aitken – you know, the lad whose father I helped a few weeks ago. Do either of you want to join me?’
‘You go,’ Stella said to her mother. ‘I’ll stay with the boys and put them to bed. I’ve walked far enough today and my feet are killing me.’
Alison hesitated. It might be good for Stella and Rob to have an hour or two together; on the other hand, the mood Stella was in they would probably just bicker. She herself had been busy in the house all day and would welcome both the walk and the chance to see her son and daughter-in-law Alex and Luisa. ‘Thank you. I’d love to come.’
As she crossed the hallway to her bedroom to get ready, Alison marvelled again that she could visit Alex, her eldest son – her only surviving son – whenever she wanted. He had gone to sea as a boy of sixteen, and she had become accustomed to a relationship of long absences and occasional stilted letters (The grub is not too bad. China is hot. In Gibraltar and the Rock is fine), broken by precious spells of leave. But four years ago Alex had shocked them all, returning from a spell in the Mediterranean with a young Italian bride, Luisa. He continued in the navy at first, but Luisa was desperately unhappy without him. Alison had deep misgivings when her sea-loving son resigned from the navy and found himself work with the great shipbuilding firm of Alexander Stephen and Co. at Linthouse, overseeing the sea worthiness and sea trials of the vast liners and cargo vessels that they launched into the waters of the Clyde. How could Alex, with saltwater coursing through his veins, possibly 21relinquish a life of wide horizons and exotic ports for the crowded streets and noisy factories of Scotland’s biggest city? And yet, despite his mother’s scepticism, he did. ‘I’ve had enough of that life,’ he told her. ‘I’m ready to settle down with a home and a family now.’
As Alison pulled on her gloves she reflected that although the longed-for family had not yet arrived, Alex and Luisa appeared to be happy, with the rich cloak of their good-humoured love protecting them from the challenges of their mixed marriage. Luisa’s English, already serviceable, had improved greatly and she had many friends among the vibrant Italian community in Glasgow. Alison was very fond of her daughter-in-law, and it was with pleasurable anticipation that she walked down the hill into the city centre beside Rob to catch a tram out to Partick, where Alex and Luisa lived in a lovely two-bedroomed tenement, always beautifully kept.
The city was at last emerging from the gloom of winter, and hazy low sunlight glinted between tall buildings, softening their black sootiness. The sharp April wind blew the smoke and the odours through the streets, even if it didn’t quite disperse them. Alison had grown up on the shores of Loch Linnhe and then lived her married life in Thurso, breathing fresh sea air. Glasgow was full of people like her. As she walked through the city she liked to identify the different accents: Highland voices, Gaelic voices, Galloway voices, and that’s before you listened to the Irishwoman leaning out the window and calling for her bairns or the Italian couple chatting away behind the counter in their own language. All these people from their own vast landscapes, thrown together in these narrow closes and trying to survive in the smog.
She missed the open skies and she missed her garden, but Glasgow had some fine green spaces and she had her family about her. Still, perhaps it was time for a break. She had slipped the P&O brochure into her bag to show to Alex and Luisa. Would she go?
She rather thought she would.
Chapter Two
Glasgow
Rob offered his arm to his mother-in-law as they stepped down from the tram and made their way along Dumbarton Road. There were people all around them: workers hurrying home after a shift; clusters of lads hanging about on street corners; a young couple furtively embracing in the shadows of a close. As a rowdy group of men spilt out of the pub on the corner, the smell of beer drifted through the swinging doors, calling to his thirst. Maybe Alex would offer him a whisky.
Alex and Luisa lived on the second floor, and as they climbed the stairs Alison remarked on the sparkling cleanliness of the stair with its attractive wally tiles. ‘See how her doorhandle and letterbox shine too.’
Rob wasn’t sure if her praise implied a criticism of Stella’s housekeeping, but chose to ignore this as they knocked on the door. Silence was often the best policy when caught between his wife and mother-in-law. A shadow appeared briefly behind the stained-glass oval window, before Luisa opened the door with an exclamation. ‘Benvenuti! Come in, come in. There is tea. Come.’23
Tea!
Rob followed Luisa through to the parlour, where they were soon seated with cups of tea and some sort of sweetbread that Luisa explained she had obtained from Fazzi’s, the newly opened shop selling all sorts of Italian foodstuffs. ‘It is heaven!’
‘Alex liked a piece of clootie dumpling when he was a lad,’ Alison said, eyeing the sweetbread suspiciously. ‘I can’t imagine that’s changed.’
Alex grinned at his mother from his seat by the fire, his long legs stretched out in front of him, his face brown and weathered from his years at sea. ‘Why should it be one or the other?’ he asked. Then he turned to Rob. ‘Got those books? Thank you, Danny will be pleased. He’d just begun algebra at school before he had to leave to work in the yard. His headmaster wanted him to stay on but there was no question of that; he’s the eldest boy in a long family and they need his wages. But Danny’s determined to keep learning at night classes, so I said I’d see if I could find him some books.’
‘I’ve my old school algebra here and a geometry book too. Does he have a goal in mind?’
‘I asked him that. His headmaster thought he was bright enough for the Tech, but the lad knows that’s not possible. He has his eye on a move into the drawing offices. He has a neat hand and a sharp mind, but he lacks the training.’
Rob nodded, thinking back to the evening a few weeks earlier when he and Alex had been walking home after a drink together and had come across a distraught young Danny Aitken, whom Alex knew from the shipyard. His father, Geordie, had had an accident at the yard that day and had taken a turn for the worse in the evening. To complicate matters, his mother was in labour with child number seven. They had followed him to the crowded room-and-kitchen where Rob had been able to reduce the father’s 24fever while a local woman helped the mother. ‘How is his father?’ he asked Alex now.
‘Back to work, thanks to you.’ Alex hesitated. ‘There’s something I want to ask you about that, actually. Fancy a pint?’
I thought you’d never ask!
‘Rob and I are popping out for a quick one. All right, my love?’
Luisa was showing her mother-in-law an embroidered cushion that she had just completed. She looked up with a smile. ‘You boys have fun, but don’t be too long.’
Rob watched the tender kiss between Alex and Luisa, and thought of the prickly atmosphere that often pervaded his own house these days. Stella was always tired, that was the trouble. It was easy for Luisa with no small children to care for, although of course he would never say that out loud. Still, how good to get out for a couple of hours and share a drink with his brother-in-law.
The pub was packed, and they found themselves a space at the corner of the bar, deep conversation and laughter swirling around them. Rob breathed in the smell of beer mixed with cigarette smoke that had tantalised him earlier, and felt himself relax. ‘What was it you wanted to ask me?’
Alex lit up and slid an overflowing ashtray between them. ‘I have a proposition for you. From Mr Fred Stephen, you know, the director of the shipyard.’
‘Oh aye? What could anything at your shipyard have to do with me?’ He sipped his beer, savouring the taste, the feel of the cool liquid sliding down his throat.
‘I mentioned what happened that night with Geordie Aitken to Fred Stephen, and how he’s back working because of you. They’re a grand employer, you know, they like to do right by their men. They have all sorts of welfare schemes: a canteen, evening 25classes and the like. Turns out Mr Stephen’s been thinking for some time about how to improve medical care for the workers. We’ve an ambulance room for immediate treatment of men who suffer an accident at work, but there are other conditions that prevent a chap doing his job properly and may lead to him being dismissed, but that if they were caught sooner might be treatable. Mr Stephen would like to hold a clinic on site in the shipyard one day a week where workers with medical complaints can see a doctor, subject to permission from the foreman. Would you be interested? Your pay would come direct from Stephen’s, who would collect subs from the men. I think it’s a grand scheme!’
Alex’s enthusiasm was infectious but Rob hesitated. He knew just what Stella would think of this idea – yet another distraction to pull him away from the wealthy patients she was so desperate to cultivate. ‘I’d need to know a bit more,’ he said. ‘Salary, provision of medicines and the like.’
‘Of course. I’ll set up a meeting for you with Mr Stephen if you’re interested. Do say you’ll do it, Rob. You’re just the right man.’ He paused. ‘The workers at the yard – they’re good chaps, but it’s not everyone who could get alongside them. But I know you will. You went through the war with lads just like them.’
And that was it. He felt the hairs on his arms prickle. The war. That was the reason he missed his work at the Princess Louise hospital so much; that was the reason he found it hard to relate to the cossetted patients who now came his way. Those years he had spent as medical officer to his regiment, eating, drinking and sleeping among them, treating their physical ailments and listening to their troubles, following them into battle and doing his hopeless, inadequate best to deal with whatever came their way. The war had left its mark on him, trembling hands and blinding headaches only the more obvious consequences, but there was an honesty in his relationships with those men that he 26had found nowhere else other than in his days playing rugby. And that was a whole different story.
He drained his glass and signalled to the barman for another. ‘It’s tempting,’ he said. ‘I’m not sure Stella will like the idea, though. On the other hand, I can present it to her as regular income, if the pay is good enough.’
‘I can’t imagine money being a problem.’
‘How’s the shipyard order book looking?’
‘We laid down the hull of a magnificent new P&O passenger liner just last week,’ said Alex, who seemed to have found some sort of land-based fulfilment in the fashioning of the ships in which he had once sailed the seas. ‘There was a boom after the war as owners replaced vessels they’d lost. That could never last, and there have been some lean years since. But our yard has the expertise to produce the latest technology and so Lord Inchcape, the chairman of P&O, came to us. This will be the first British passenger liner fitted with turbo-electric machinery, and she’ll go like a dream when she’s launched.’
They finished their drinks and returned to the house, where Rob excused himself to use the bathroom. Like themselves, Alex and Luisa had their own private bathroom rather than the shared toilets on each floor that many of the older tenement buildings still had. Even this little room had daffodils on the windowsill and a delicate lace curtain to screen the tiny window from surrounding buildings, no doubt made by Luisa. Coming back through, he found the other three poring over the P&O brochure and discussing Alison’s proposed cruise.
‘What ports will you visit?’
‘Quite a number in Spain and southern France, but we also stop in Naples.’
‘Napoli!’ Luisa’s deep brown eyes sparkled with delight. ‘Bellissimo! I shall write to my father and he will meet you and 27show you our beautiful city. And my little brother Giovanni you shall come to know too. Oh, if only I could come with you.’
‘It will be interesting to hear what Luisa’s father has to say,’ Alex said soberly. ‘We know he can’t write freely in his letters.’
The excitement left Luisa’s eyes. ‘Indeed. The new laws in Italy mean he is no longer free to write what he thinks, whether in his letters to his daughter or in his newspaper. I hope he is not a fool to become involved in politics, but I fear he may. And yet, other friends tell me that life is much better since Mussolini came to power: the streets are clean, there is far less crime and even the trains run on time.’
‘If that’s true it’s a miracle. Do you remember, Luisa, that day I was supposed to rejoin the ship in La Spezia and my train didn’t appear?’
‘You thought you would be put on trial for not returning but I found a shopkeeper with a load of wine to transport in a trailer and you travelled among the barrels.’
‘Aye, and one of them had a slow but satisfying leak! I was in danger of being put on a charge of drunkenness rather than absence by the time I got there!’ They all laughed, and Alex held out his hand for the brochure. He flicked through, interested not in the destinations but in the ships. ‘The passenger liner is the future of shipbuilding. Cargo and freight are slow these days, but there are ever more people keen to sail on these luxury ships.’
The conversation continued and Rob leant back in his chair. Working at a shipyard? He had never imagined it. Alex and Luisa lived just a stone’s throw from the river, along which stretched a metal forest of cranes, engine sheds and workshops, the vital organs of this city. Every detail that went into the creation of the ‘Clyde-built’ ships, long the envy of the world, could be found along this riverside, from the drawing offices where designs were perfected to the squads of riveters who joined the vast iron plates together, 28the engine and boiler shops, the carpenters, turners, polishers and plumbers. The thundering, beating heart of Glasgow, so very far removed from the genteel streets where he and his family lived, and even further from the life to which Stella aspired. He remembered his visit to the Aitkens’ room-and-kitchen, a family of nine living out their lives in a tiny space. And they were lucky ones with regular wages coming in. Medical care was needed in the shipyard, and if he had the opportunity to provide it to men like those he had worked alongside in wartime, he would be glad to say yes.
Alison was on her feet, and it was time to return home to Stella and the children. ‘Alex and I will walk with you to the tram stop,’ Luisa said. ‘We like to stretch our bodies for bed.’
‘Stretch our legs. Before bed,’ Alex said with a wide grin. ‘We tend not to talk about the rest of what we stretch! Especially in front of our parents.’ He winked at Rob, who smirked.
Alison shook her head. ‘You young ones act as if yours was the first generation to discover sex.’
‘Mother!’
‘Well, really, Alex. Where exactly do you think you came from if that was the case?’ She pulled on her hat and stalked out into the hallway, leaving her son wrong-footed.
Rob grinned at Alex and followed her out, calling ‘I’ll let you know about the yard,’ as he left.
Chapter Three
London and Paris
Elsie gave a quick wave to the gatekeeper and leant back against the soft cushioned leather as her silver Rolls-Royce slowly exited Tilbury Docks. She preferred to drive herself home from work but today she was not returning home to Seamore Place but instead travelling south-east to Croydon, where she would board the Imperial Airways service to join her parents in Paris for a few days.
She hadn’t planned to come into the docks this morning, but had woken in the night with the horrible realisation that she had completely overlooked one tourist class corridor on her inspection of the newly returned Cathay. She could have telephoned the office to ask someone to carry out the work for her, but preferred to check everything herself. It was a habit she had absorbed from her father. And so there was an early start – nothing unusual there – a rigorous examination of the overlooked rooms with subsequent report left for Miss Taylor to type up and pass on to the maintenance team, and a hurried journey across country to the airfield.
As with driving, she would rather fly herself than be a passenger, but the Imperial Airways service was wonderfully convenient 30and on the whole reliable. It was one thing to jump in her de Havilland biplane and fly north to Glenapp Castle, landing in the field they kept cut short for the purpose, and quite another to obtain permission to fly into Paris – particularly today. Elsie had picked up The Times from the breakfast table as she left the house, and now she turned the pages to see if there was anything about the American man’s flight. Her attention was caught by their own advert for P&O pleasure cruises on the Ranchi, and she scanned the page for the competition: Canadian Pacific, White Star Line, and there was Cunard with her grand liners Aquitania and Berengaria. A page of dreams. Still, none of them had anything remotely approaching the marvel that would be the newest P&O liner, whose hull had been laid down on the Clyde just last month and whose elegant apartments and luxurious facilities, existing so far only inside Elsie’s head, would surpass anything yet seen in the ocean liner market.
But today aeroplanes rather than ships were on Elsie’s mind as she turned the pages. A friend had telephoned her last night to tell her that another attempt to win the Orteig Prize for the first non-stop flight between New York and Paris was underway. Yes, here it was, his name was Captain Charles Lindbergh and he had taken off from Long Island yesterday morning in his monoplane Spirit of St Louis. His machine had been spotted a couple of times heading for Newfoundland, but right now he was somewhere out there in the vast emptiness over the Atlantic Ocean. Elsie had once crossed the Atlantic by magnificent liner and knew what it was to stand at the rail and see nothing but sea and sky as far as the eye could reach, with more stars than one could imagine scattered over the night sky, but that couldn’t begin to compare with the isolation, and yes, the splendour, of a tiny monoplane striving across that wide, wild expanse. If he was still in the air at all, that was. Many before him had tried and failed, and even 31now the search was underway for the wreckage and bodies of two Frenchmen, Nungesser and Coli, who had been lost in the same enterprise just a couple of weeks earlier.
Elsie folded the newspaper and held it tight between her hands, so tightly that her knuckles were white. She didn’t know this young American, had never heard of him until the last day or two, but dear God let him make it. Surely soon someone would make it. The technology was there and the rewards for the future of aviation would be immeasurable. How fortuitous that if this flight were successful she would by some chance be in Paris at the very time he touched down at Le Bourget Aerodrome. She slipped her fingers into her bag where she kept her rosary and felt the beads. Chance or design? As her chauffeur pulled into the airfield at Croydon and she stepped out of the car into the soft warm May air, she found herself scanning the skies although she knew he would not fly near here. Up there – somewhere – in the only place where it was still possible to be free. Her mouth was dry as she crossed the grass towards the aircraft that would carry her to Paris, thinking not of her own flight but of the young man even now engaged in the supreme battle with his human weakness and all that the elements would throw at him. Godspeed!
She settled herself in one of the wicker chairs laid out along the aeroplane. There were about twenty of them flying today. She looked to the front to see if it was the pilot with the eyepatch – rather extraordinary when you came to think of it – but it was not. Elsie always watched take-off with great concentration, more aware than her fellow passengers of all that could go wrong at the critical moment. And then they were gaining speed and there was a lurch as the miracle happened and they left land behind, committing themselves to the air currents that, if given due respect, would carry them with infinite grace.32
‘There’s no better way to travel,’ she said to her father later that evening, as they returned after dinner to the luxurious suite in the Hotel Majestic on the avenue Kléber, which her parents had taken for the month of May. Her mother, easily tired after her long illness, had retired to bed, and Elsie and her father stood by the magnificent window, looking down on revellers below. Car horns were hooting and people were cheering, as they celebrated the landing of the Spirit of St Louis at Le Bourget. Charles Lindbergh had succeeded! The flight from New York to Paris had been completed in just over thirty-three hours. The world had become a little smaller, a little more connected, in this triumph of human endeavour.
James Lyle Mackay, Lord Inchcape, shook his white head dismissively and stepped over to the sideboard where he poured two glasses of port. He handed one to his daughter and sat down, while Elsie remained by the window. ‘It’s all very well for an adventurer like that young man, but it will be a long time before sensible Mr and Mrs British Public entrust their lives to some flimsy steel tube dressed up with canvas. You know I won’t set foot in one of those things, and most sane people think like me.’
‘That’s where a day like today makes such a difference,’ Elsie argued, coming to sit opposite him and leaning forward in her eagerness. ‘Lindbergh has shown that it can be done. Think what that means for commerce, for diplomacy, for administering the colonies. As a company, this is the perfect time for us to embrace the new technology of air travel. After all, you’ve always been keen to adopt other new ideas that have made our ships faster and more efficient and safer.’
‘Safer. That’s the thing. The safety record of P&O across our cargo and passenger fleet is second to none, and that’s why people sail with us. I won’t have our good name tarnished by being mixed up with such a daredevil and downright dangerous enterprise as 33your commercial air service notion. Every day I read of another air crash in the newspapers. I won’t have it, Elsie, and frankly I don’t know why I allow you to continue to fly that plane of yours.’
She shook her head in exasperation but said no more, instead crossing back to look out of the window again. She had probably been foolish to reopen the conversation at all – as if the old man had ever been known to change his mind – but she had been intoxicated by her sheer delight at Lindbergh’s success and had hoped that he might see that on this day another enormous obstacle to human progress had been overcome. What opportunity that offered to P&O, and how desperately she wanted to be part of it. But her father was implacably opposed to air travel. While she had at various times taken her brother and sisters up in her biplane, he had absolutely refused every attempt to persuade him. He had spent his life in thrall to the ebb and flow of the tide, born in the east-coast town of Arbroath and first accompanying his own father on an overseas voyage at the age of eight. Four years later his father had drowned in the Atlantic Ocean, lost in a shipwreck, but still young James had been drawn to the sea. Hard work and commitment had taken him far in the service of the Empire and he now ran a vast fleet of ships crossing the globe, and was never happier than when out on the waves on his own beloved yacht.
Looking down on the crowds, Elsie reflected that her first foray into flying had taken place when she was estranged from her father, in those foolish days when she had been married to Dennis and pursuing an acting career as Poppy Wyndham. Dennis had gained his own pilot’s licence during the war and encouraged her, always astute to publicity opportunities. She cringed when she remembered the magazine shots that still sometimes appeared, showing her applying her make-up in the cockpit like some foolish flapper. But in the painful months when her world 34fragmented into jagged shards and she knew she had to escape from Dennis and this self-made prison, the thought of flying had kept her going: that sense of elation as she soared into the air, far, far above the ant-like people below, escaping their petty concerns and rivalries. When she was reconciled with her father – and her fortune – she wasted no time in engaging Britain’s leading aviator Sir Alan Cobham to continue her tuition, soon becoming the first Scottish woman to gain her flying certificate.
Relieved that the whole Poppy and Dennis Wyndham episode was over, Lord Inchcape grudgingly accepted her passion for flight, although she sometimes wondered if his willingness to welcome her, a woman, into the firm as a full employee was in part an attempt to distract her from her aeroplane. Five years later, he surely knew that was something he could never do. She had gained immense respect among the flying community, being invited onto the advisory committee of pilots to the Air League and becoming a member of the council of the Scottish branch. But these accolades notwithstanding, her father refused to consider air travel as anything more than a hobby for the richest and brightest young things.
Turning away from the window, Elsie thought how maddening it was that with all his business acumen and enterprise he was unable to recognise the symbolic power of Lindbergh’s flight. It might take a few years but air travel would one day overtake the sea as the main means of transport, both passenger and freight, and she meant to be part of it. She looked across at him, dozing off in his armchair, and felt a tug of fondness. She loved him dearly. Everyone said how alike they were and she knew that many of her character traits came directly from him: ambition, fearlessness, capacity for work and a certain stubbornness. But he was an old man now – seventy-five – and although he held the reins of his business empire as tightly as ever, he was also planning for 35succession by bringing her brother, Kenneth, and brother-in-law Alexander into the running of the company. If only she had been a boy! She embraced her responsibility for the interior design and upkeep of the fleet, but how much more she could have done if she had been allowed into the boardroom.
Instead one day Kenneth would be in charge.
Elsie was more hopeful she could persuade him to do anything she liked.
The hysteria in Paris over Charles Lindbergh’s successful flight showed no sign of abating in the coming days. Elsie slipped into a picture theatre to watch newsreels of his arrival at Le Bourget, where crowds had overrun the airfield and stripped souvenirs from the Spirit of St Louis, while Lindbergh himself was hustled away to safety. As she left the picture house and strolled along the banks of the Seine, she noticed that the stalls were already selling Lindbergh souvenirs. She stopped and bought a small brooch that caught her eye, a cheap silver thing in the shape of the aeroplane with the words Spirit of St Louis stamped on it. She was sure her father noticed it at dinner that evening, but he said nothing.
The newspapers reported on a flurry of receptions and meetings with French dignitaries, and plans for a tour of Europe before Lindbergh’s return to America. Reading The Times among the palm trees in the hotel lounge, one item in particular caught Elsie’s eye. Lindbergh would fly to England in a few days, landing at Croydon Aerodrome. She folded up the newspaper.
It was time to leave Paris.
Chapter Four
Glasgow
Three-year-old Jacky’s favourite thing was to feed the ducks.
Stella handed him a bag of crumbs, warned him to step back from the edge, and settled down on a nearby bench. She loved the park at this time of year, when the green on the trees was still so fresh and the early summer sunshine held the promise of better days to come after a long, dark winter. She fished in her handbag and brought out the letter that had arrived that morning from Corran in Oxford, and which she had saved to read until now. What would her older sister think of her suggestion of a family holiday together in August? You never knew with Corran.
Corran’s letter was full of life in Oxford, where she was a classics lecturer in St Hilda’s College. She wrote about exam season and plans for May Week celebrations, about the lilac in the college gardens and about a meeting with a mutual friend. She was looking forward to the long summer holiday but as vague as ever about her plans.
I should manage to join you for a week or so in August, though. I’m longing to see Duncan and Jacky again. They won’t be such little boys now.37
Stella glanced across at her dreamy younger son, who was crouched on the wet ground, engrossed in the activity of the ducks. Jacky was named after his uncle, Stella’s beloved brother Jack, whose cruel slaughter somewhere near Arras remained a gaping hole in the heart of their family. Jacky bore his name but was the image of Rob, his father. It was Duncan, her fair-haired older son, whose every quicksilver movement bore the imprint of the wee boy his uncle had once been. She sometimes caught her mother standing over the two boys asleep in their bed in the kitchen, just gazing. Jacky usually slept curled up in a tight ball facing the wall, thumb in his mouth, probably because his older brother always sprawled as he slept, arms and legs outstretched, taking far more than his share of the space. Stella watched as Alison reached out a hand and tenderly stroked aside the blonde hair falling over Duncan’s face. ‘It’s strange to me that no one else looks at Duncan and sees five-year-old Jack.’
Stella tucked the letter away and stood up, calling to Jacky and taking him by the hand. ‘Time to collect Duncan from school. Daddy will be home soon.’ Rob was out doing house calls this afternoon. Tomorrow he would go to the shipyard to meet this Mr Stephen. Stella had shrugged when told of Alex’s proposal. It would be regular work, even if it wasn’t quite what they had in mind on moving to Garnethill. She knew Rob missed his work with the men at the Princess Louise hospital, knew too that he struggled to hide his frustration at the trivial concerns of some of his private patients. Maybe one day a week at the shipyard would be good for him.
Her mother thought she was too impatient with Rob, but there was so much her mother didn’t see. The whisky bottle that lived permanently in their bottom drawer, for example. Stella measured Rob’s frame of mind by how quickly the bottle was emptied and replaced. Any time she challenged him about it, he brushed her off.38
It was the war, of course. Always the war. It was the reason for everything. When he tossed and turned and screamed in his sleep, she would have brought him as much whisky as he liked if she thought for a moment it would help his distress. Sometimes Duncan peered round the door, his hair tousled and his eyes huge in his wee face. ‘Is Daddy dreaming about the soldiers again?’
So yes, she wanted Rob to be happy, to be fulfilled. As she met Duncan outside the school and watched the two boys run ahead to their close, she reflected that she just wished someone wanted that for her too. The boys encountered a closed door. Of course, Mother was out, spending the day with her church committee ladies. That was where her mother seemed to find fulfilment, through charity work. She had tried to involve Stella – and goodness knows there were plenty of desperate causes to help with in the Glasgow slums – but something in Stella rebelled at the complacency of these well-meaning middle-class church ladies.
She went inside and set about making a snack for the children. She knew how fortunate she was – look at poor Luisa, longing for a baby of her own – but she couldn’t help but hanker after the life she had once known. The life when she had been an independent person, respected for her knowledge and her qualifications, a young woman with a career. That woman had lived in Paris, working as a typist firstly at the peace conference after the war, and then at the British Embassy. An opportunity had even come up to serve with the League of Nations, but it would have meant a move to Switzerland. It came along just at the time she fell in love with Rob, and she was faced with a stark choice: marriage or career?
Unlike Corran, who had her own history with Rob, she chose marriage.
She didn’t regret it – she loved Rob and her children dearly – but in the long days filled with the chatter of the boys and the 39endless round of household chores, her mind would drift back to those months in Paris and she wondered where on earth that independent woman had gone. She missed the work, and even more she missed the fun she had had with her friend Lily, the light-hearted laughter and confidential chats they had shared in their room high in the eaves of the Hôtel Majestic. Now Lily travelled the world as a diplomatic wife, writing unsatisfying letters full of tennis and bridge parties. Maybe that was why Stella’s friendship with Elsie had come to mean so much to her. Elsie didn’t see her as Rob’s wife, as the boys’ mother; she saw her as Stella, the woman she had first met in Paris, and that helped her hold on to her sense of self.
Rob had his patients.
Corran had her books.
Elsie had her ships.
Stella looked out of the kitchen window onto the washing blowing in the back green, and wondered if she too would ever have anything more.
Children released from school were pouring out of the back closes to gather there, and soon her own two joined them. Stella made herself a cup of tea and stood by the window, half dreaming of that different time and half watching her boys. A taller child tried to bring some order to the chaos of boys and girls freed from the constraints of a day at their desks. Two armies were formed, and now the young recruits began to march.
Stella shivered.
Boys have always played at soldiers, she told herself. It doesn’t mean a thing.
But still, her heart was cold as she watched Duncan eagerly seize a stick and sprint to the washhouse, crouching down and aiming his weapon round the corner. Jacky and one or two of the other smaller ones, too little to be of interest to the commanding 40officers, had at least wandered off to play their own game at the side. Stella had reacted this same way the other day when Duncan proudly marched up and down the close, showing his parents the military drill he learnt in school. Rob had laughed and applauded but Stella had turned away. ‘He’s five, Rob. Why on earth is the school teaching five-year-olds to be soldiers? Haven’t we learnt a thing?’
‘Drill keeps them fit.’
‘Gymnastics would keep them fit!’
She turned away from the window. Rob and her mother would be home soon and there wasn’t a thing ready for tea. It was silly of her to worry. Duncan and Jacky were a new generation, one that thank God would never face the horrors that her own generation had endured.
But was that true?
Her work in Paris had all been about forging a new and lasting peace. If that was to prosper, then surely the same work must take place here among the schools and the closes and the back greens, just as much as in the corridors of power. She glanced back outside and saw to her relief that the organised battle had quickly descended into chaos. Someone had found a half-deflated football and both sides were haring after it as fast as they could. She felt the tension ease out of her.
The war was over for good.
Chapter Five
Glasgow
When Rob had agreed to come and see round the shipyard, he hadn’t considered the noise.
On his first day Mr Stephen gave him a tour of the whole sprawling complex on the south bank of the Clyde, and within fifteen minutes Rob was convinced he would have to decline the offer. Fred Stephen led him first into the engineering works, a vast brick and iron shed. Light poured in from the glass ceiling that soared above them, as magnificent as a medieval cathedral, but the cacophony that reverberated all around him was closer to bedlam than sacred praise, while furnaces glowed with the fires of hell. He could feel himself sweating, but it was the noise that affected him most, and the familiar hammer began to pound in his own head almost immediately.
‘See – we have these ambulance barrows in every shed,’ Mr Stephen bellowed above the clamour, indicating a wooden trolley with a red cross painted on the side. ‘Accidents are part of shipyard life, but this way we can navigate tight corners and get the casualty to help as soon as possible.’42
