The Atlantic Sky (18 page)

But apparently they could and were. She discovered when she reported up to the Traffic Section next day that the redoubtable captain had yet further tricks up his immaculate sleeve.

For she was to be someone’s especial
protégée
for these two weeks. A kind of under training Traffic girl. And her instructor and protectress was to be none other than the beautiful Monica Fairways.

Perhaps Captain Prentice had some vague idea that (as Joanna Trent had once said) Monica Fairways was really quite a depressing sight. For, Patsy decided at the end of the first day, it would have been almost impossible to be with her for long without developing a marked inferiority complex.

She had such a lovely face and figure, such a charming voice, such a perfect smile, and so much assurance, that you knew after the first few moments that your hair was out of place, your make-up all wrong, and that you were too shy, insignificant, too unsure of yourself.

On the second day, she stood timidly beside Miss Fairways in Bay Number Three of the Passenger Hall, and obediently watched her check the passengers’ tickets and their passports and baggage slips. Patsy just telephoned here, or telephoned there, as Miss Fairways told her. She went errands. She fetched forms. But all the personal contacts Miss Fairways did herself. And she did them so well that it would have been superfluous to offer to help her.

After a day or two the passengers, the Traffic officers and everyone else seemed to accept Patsy’s unobtrusive presence as part of the new Reception Hall decor. Their glances slid off her as though she had been an extra marble pillar, and then lingered on the warmer, brighter loveliness of Miss Fairways.

But one thing Patsy
was
grateful for. Miss Fairways never asked any questions. Used to the friendly curiosity of air crew, Patsy was relieved that the Traffic girl appeared to have not the slightest curiosity as to why Patsy was there, where she came from, who her friends were, or what she was like as a person.

‘A stewardess?’ she murmured vaguely to Patsy, as they sat together in the staff canteen. ‘Oh, you have to
fetch
the coffee. It’s a cafeteria... and I’ll have biscuits too. Chocolate wholemeal.
Milk
chocolate wholemeal.’ And when Patsy obediently brought it over arid they sat thoughtfully over their steaming cups, Miss Fairways added, ‘I thought of being a stewardess ... one of these days. When I feel like it, that is. At the moment I’m happy
where I am. But Robert—’

Patsy put down her spoon rather loudly and clumsily.

‘... Captain Prentice, I expect
you
have to call him ... he was very keen for me to be one.’

He would be, Patsy thought.

‘When I said I was thinking of doing it, he said I should
certainly
try... you know, in that rather odd way he has?’

Patsy did indeed.

‘And then what do you think?’

Patsy didn’t.

‘I said it would be rather too cramping to my social life ...’ she smiled the comfortable smile of a girl who has an over-full programme, ‘... and
he
said
and a good thing, too
.’

And very softly, in between sips of coffee, Miss Fairways began to hum
Jealousy ... ’twas all over my jealousy
...

But it took a week for Patsy to discover
why
Monica Fairways never asked any questions. The Traffic girl was just not interested. There was only one subject that she found absorbing, and that was Monica Fairways, and she awarded it practically all her mind and heart with commendable singleness of purpose. There was, however, another which ran it a not-too-close second. And that was the subject of the men who liked Monica Fairways. And their number, Patsy discovered, was legion. Discarded admirers seemed to strew Miss Fairways’ elegant path. They waylaid her on her way to work, they telephoned her, they wrote. Indeed, they came.

For on the eighth day, just as Patsy had been half expecting, and at a slack time when Miss Fairways was leaning gracefully against a table, and deciding which polish best became the whiteness of her hands, Captain Prentice’s voice suddenly electrified them both.

‘Oh, hello. Good
morning,’
said Miss Fairways, straightening up very slowly, and walking the two paces to the counter. She didn’t move as a stewardess would have done (at least, not like a stewardess
by
the name of Aylmer) at the sound of Captain Prentice’s brusque good morning. But with a leisured welcome that was feminine and very assured. ‘What a lovely morning, isn’t it, Ro ... Captain Prentice?’ And it was then that Patsy made yet another discovery. If she found that Monica Fairways was interested mainly in herself, she was now discovering that Captain Prentice was possessed of a hitherto unsuspected duplicity. For instead of smiling pleasantly at Miss Fairways and openly acknowledging that it was indeed her, and her alone that he’d come to see, he turned very pointedly to Patsy and said, ‘How are you feeling now?’

Patsy did not attempt to suppress the feelings of acute antagonism that she had for him now. ‘I never felt better,’ she said airily, ‘thank you, sir.’

And it was amazing how much rebellion (when you really felt as strongly as she did) you could put into those few simple words.

And then very mercifully the telephone rang.
Patsy
made a hasty, and a rather (or even a very) rude grab at it, and turned her back as though it was a highly confidential call, leaving the two of them to a certain amount of privacy.

And opportunity that they seemed to make good use of. For when Patsy turned round again after keeping the poor caller (it was only from Ops to announce a postponement of an afternoon departure) for a long as she possibly could, Miss Fairways was pink and flushed and brighter-eyed than ever. And this time, she was humming
Love and Marriage.

But after that, he didn’t come around to Bay Number Thr
e
e any more. Patsy, over doing an errand in Operations, did just notice that he was out on service and also, though it concerned her not at all, that he was due back the following Wednesday. She was really too busy checking to see when the new roster was going to be up, and (most important of all) if her name was on it, and who with and when.

And Captain Prentice’s absence didn’t really seem to affect Miss Fairways very much. She told Patsy in great detail about a simply wonderful party she’d been to the night before. About her own plans for an even better party that she was planning to give m her own flat (could it be an engagement party? Patsy wondered, and the wondering for some reason was deeply depressing). And about the little convertible that her father was buying her for her next birthday.

But every day was shrinking Patsy’s fortnight in Traffic to smaller and' smaller dimensions. Then two days before it was gone altogether, the telephone rang on Miss Fairways’ counter, and when she answered it, she said to Patsy, ‘For you.’ And added, as though to tell her not to hurry, ‘A girl.’

‘That you, Patsy?’ Cynthia’s voice said when she picked up the receiver. ‘Listen, my child, I’ve just been over to Ops ... and before you get all worried, you
are
out on service. Friday ... yes, I knew you’d be pleased. With Bill Maynard... should be a’ nice trip. See you later, poppet. I’ll tell Mrs. W. to leave you a Thermos, if you’re going to be late. ’Bye now.’

Patsy put down the receiver with a little gratified smile. Even the fact that she and Miss Fairways were on a later shift that day couldn’t depress her.

And at half-past eight, when they both hurried out of the warm bright Reception Hall, and then stood for a moment in the doorway before embarking on the cold scurry to the bus stop, she was still feeling happier than she’d done for weeks. That was, until she saw a vaguely familiar car, and inside a very familiar profile.

Parked just along the concrete curbway to the right of the hall was Captain Prentice’s car, and as they drew level with it the door opened, and he said in quite a matter-of
-
fact tone of voice, ‘Hop in.’ And then, in case there should be any argument (although Patsy could have assured him that it was she and not Miss Fairways who wouldn’t want the ride), ‘Both of you.’

And it didn’t need Miss Fairways to very pointedly open the rear door and give Patsy a more than meaning look for her to get in there because anyway she had intended to sit herself there, all along.

But what it
did
need (and it surprised her tremendously) was for Captain Prentice to turn to Miss Fairways and say, ‘Where d’you live, Monica?’ Because if they were nearly engaged, or engaged, or in love, surely he’d know anyway.

‘South Elton,’ Monica Fairways murmured, ‘...
Robert.'
She snuggled up in her seat close beside him and murmured happily, ‘But I’m not in the least tired, and I’m sure Patsy
is.
After all, didn’t you say something or other about her having been hit over the head?’ She gave the words a kind of laughing edge to them as though it were the sort of treatment that Patsy should have regularly and often. ‘So we’ll drop her first.’

Captain Prentice swung the car competently out into the Great West Road. ‘Which way, Monica? The shortest way for South Elton is to the right, isn’t it?’

‘Well, it is, Robert. If you want the
shortest
way.’ Obviously he did. The car swung quickly to the right. ‘... but Patsy here looks quite tired and peaky...’

‘Which road?’ Captain Prentice said.

‘Andover Avenue. But it’s ages yet. Miles. In fact another ten minutes, at least. Tell me, Robert,’ she looked up at him, ‘did you have a nice trip?’

‘I wouldn’t call it nice. Smooth enough. Can’t you get to Andover Avenue if you turn left here?’

‘Well, you can, if you want. If you’re a bit short of petrol, or anything...’

The bright lights of the Great West Road died away behind them, cut off by the black corner of a building. Then there were the cold blue-white lamps of a side street, and then a turn to the right and they were passing a row of shops that were vaguely familiar. ‘If you let me off here,’ Patsy said suddenly, ‘it’ll do me very well. It’s only a couple of minutes to where I live.’

She leaned her hand over towards the door, to be ready to open it and hop out and hurry away the moment he stopped.

But he didn’t. ‘We’re taking Monica home first,’ he said imperturbably, passing a couple of streets away from Mrs. Waterhouse’s, crossing two traffic lights, and then going on and on for what really did seem miles.

‘Andover Avenue,’ Captain Prentice said at last.

‘No!’
Monica protested. ‘Hasn’t the time simply...’

‘Now which house?’

‘It’s a block of flats, actually.’ She pointed to an exclusive-looking red-brick building, towards which he immediately steered the car and stopped.

He got out of the driver’s seat to open the door for her. ‘Thank you, Robert,’ she said. Just before she disappeared through the heavy glass doors, she called, ‘Now you know where it is,
do
drop in.
Any
time.’

Robert Prentice nodded, ‘Good-night,’ he said.

She waved. ‘Good-night, Robert.’

Captain Prentice got back into the car. ‘Come in the front seat,’ he said to Patsy. ‘I can talk to you better.’

It didn’t even cross her mind not to obey. Obediently, she did as she was told. '

For a little while, as Captain Prentice slid the car away from the curb, turned it round and then proceeded a hundred and eig
h
ty degrees to his original track, there was an oppressive silence between them. Which Patsy at last broke, with, ‘I’m sorry to bring you out of your way. But it’s not very far to Mrs. Waterhouse’s now.’

And as if that very remark had galvanized him into some contemplated but not quite triggered-off action, he began, ‘Patsy...’ And she hardly heard the rest of what he said for thinking how pleasant and how special her name sounded. When said by him. When said by him in that particular tone of voice. And then she heard him say something about wanting to talk to her.

She folded her hands in her lap and listened. But nothing came. She waited for a few more minutes, until the wretchedly fast car had gobbled up their time together—until Mrs. Waterhouse’s was only three or four streets away. Then she said, ‘What about, Captain Prentice?’

And almost immediately as soon as she called him by his name, he stiffened slightly, and said that they hadn’t come very far after all, had they? A remark which as they were almost home seemed to refer as much to her nearness to the airport as anything. But her brain was much too jumbled to think at all clearly, so she waited for a moment until Mrs. Waterhouse’s was only a few hundred yards away, and then said brightly to show that she wasn’t really aching to hear what he had to say, ‘We’ve arrived.’

‘Have we?’ he said, and gave a dry little laugh.

When she got out, he waved away her thanks and opened his door and stood looking down at her. That way she could see that there really
was
something to be said, and that as he was Captain Prentice it
would
be said.