by Betty Beaty
‘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 Three 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 eighty 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 imm
ediately 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.
‘May I,’ he said with a curious dignity that made the quiet request authoritative, ‘come in a moment?’
Bewildered, Patsy nodded. She fumbled in her bag, because the catch was difficult and not because her hand was trembling, and managed at last to find her key, and then to find the lock, although that, too (because she was tired), proved elusive.
She hoped that the hall would be empty and that Mrs. Waterhouse would be at her sister’s. She couldn’t be teased or asked about Captain Prentice’s presence. She didn’t even find it amusing when he looked half smilingly at the same handsome antlers and the same stuffed trout as Geoff Pollard had done all those aeons ago, and she didn’t even find it irritating when he read the notices on their scribbling board, and the one addressed to her and signed Janet, which he read over at least twice, Good news! You’re out with Bill Maynard on Friday.
What she did find disturbing and then irritating and then maddening was the way his eyes slowly travelled from the board to her face, as he said slowly, ‘Is it good news?’
Patsy took off her cap and hung it beside his on the antlered stand. They looked oddly right and proper together. ‘Of course,’ she said, flinging open the sitting-room door, and then added, ‘Do sit down. I’ll make you a cup of tea. Or would you prefer coffee?’
‘Neither.’ The word was like the crack of a gun. ‘And please stop fussing around. I didn’t come in for tea or coffee.’ And then, grudgingly polite, ‘Thank you.’
Patsy stood in front of him on Mrs. Waterhouse’s newly-washed sheepskin rug and let her blue eyes say for her, ‘What, then?’
But all he said, rubbing his forehead rather wearily, was ‘Why?’
‘Why what?’
‘Why is it such good news that you’re out on Friday with Captain Maynard?’
Patsy drew in her breath and let it out in a sibilant sigh of pure exasperation at the crass stupidity of man.
‘Why?’ she breathed furiously, feeling her cheeks colour with anger. ‘You should ask why! After two weeks in Traffic ... your doing ... just like everything else miserable that’s happened since I came here.’
Just for a moment, Mrs. Waterhouse’s economical lighting arrangements cast a shadow that was like one of pain across his face. Just for a moment, it looked as though he would step forward and put his arm around her shoulders.
But she was too busy controlling the betraying tremble in her voice, the nerve that beat like a pulse near her eyes the terribly unmanageable wobbling that was affecting her mouth.
‘After all,’ she said, and her voice was very loud because it seemed to be steadier that way, ‘I’m not a Traffic girl ... why should I work in Traffic?’ And as she saw the look of pure undisguised impatience cross his face, she went on unforgivably, ‘Maybe it would be a help if I were. Then you might not be so ... so ...’ she gave up looking for a word, ‘... if I were like ... like...’
‘Like who?’
‘Monica Fairways.’
And when it was said, she watched his face with a kind of painful triumph. But all he did was to make a gesture of dismissal. As though the subject was so ridiculous as not to merit a reply. No, on second thoughts, not that. As though it was irrelevant? No, as though it was just none of her business.
‘And what,’ he went on stonily, as though the subject of Monica Fairways had not been mentioned, ‘what else have I been responsible for?’
But she wasn’t thinking about it at all now. All she was wondering, in a great wave of misery, was how on earth could he have fallen for Monica. Didn’t he know that she didn’t really care for him, that she wouldn’t look after him, be gentle and loving with him? How could he be so blind? Now all her grievances were crystallized into that one feeling of desolation.
And yet, as though she had no control over her tongue, she began a long string of her meaningless grievances that now she didn’t care anything about at all: the course, the training lectures, the spill on the training flight, the party in New York, the skiing accident.
She hardly allowed herself to think about the expression on his face. Dimly, she realized that its sternness was softened by a look that was as strange to it as such a hot and flaming anger was to hers. But it was a look she didn’t stop to identify.
‘So,’ he said, when she half paused for breath, ‘you think I’ve been especially hard on you. Does it ever occur to you why?’
But before he had time to pursue that line of argument along which he was obviously preparing to lead her to her own admitted guilt, she broke in, quickly and carelessly now, as though she hid acquired a terrible momentum of anger and simply could not give up, ‘I didn’t mean just me. You treat other people badly too. Bill Maynard, for one.’
There was a moment of salutary stillness. In it, Patsy could somehow feel the whole suppressed strength of the man, the iron control of a deep and surging anger. In that stillness, her own great rushing fury came to a miserable halt. All the froth and air bubble almost audibly drained away from her. And she was left with a cold and unhappy pool of misery. She wanted to cry, to go to bed, to sob in her pillow. Worst of all, she wanted to rush over and put her cheek against his jacket, and feel, just once, those hands on her head, those strong arms around her.
‘What,’ he said at last, ‘about Captain Maynard?’
‘Nothing,’ she said, and bit her lip. ‘At least...’ it all sounded so futile now. ‘But ... well...’ Her voice petered out.
‘Go on.’
‘You seemed ... at least, I thought you had a down on him.’
‘Did you now?’ He didn’t bother to contradict her. He didn’t need to. ‘You being an authority on flying?’
‘ You know I’m not.’
‘On training, then?’
She shook her head. Then she tilted up her chin. ‘Just on people I like, that’s all!’
‘Captain Maynard being one of them?’
‘Of course.’
‘I see.’
There was another long pause. With a kind of unhappy instinct, Patsy felt that he didn’t. Or whatever he was seeing wasn’t there at all. ‘I don’t think you do,’ she started to say, and then turned her head because her lips had started to tremble again.
Then she turned round. Captain Prentice was staring across at her. But this time, she saw and knew and welcomed the look on his strong and now gentle face. The look that sometimes she’d seen in her father’s eyes towards her mother. That blend of understanding and protectiveness and love that had made her tell herself years ago that she wouldn’t need a man to say I love you, she’d just look in his eyes, and if it was there, she’d be able to put her hand in his, and let it stay there. For her life and his.
But although only a few feet of Mrs. Waterhouse’s sheepskin rug separated them, there was a whole ocean of angry words. Her angry words. And so, with a little shrug of her shoulders, she looked across at him. And she opened her mouth to begin to say, ‘I’m sorry ... I’ve made an awful mess of this. But tell me what you wanted to say...’
When suddenly there was a little insistent rap outside, and the rattle of the brass handle. Mrs. Waterhouse put her grey head round the door, took in every detail of Captain Prentice from the three gold bars and the six foot two, to the firm jaws and the expression on his face, then
she said, ‘I’m so sorry, my dear, I’d no idea you had a visitor.’ She beamed at them both. ‘But as you have ... and very nice for the girls to have a lot of company, too...’ she smiled at Captain Prentice. ‘I’ve just made a nice pot of tea in the snuggery.’
But neither of them wanted it. Captain Prentice was just going anyway, and Patsy had a letter she simply must write. And when she turned her eyes back on his face again, the look had quite gone.
And so completely that she knew it could never have been there. Except as a trick of the lights, a figment of her imagination, or worst of all, because that’s where she’d wanted it to be.
The next morning, when Patsy presented herself for what was to be her very last day in Traffic, Miss Fairways was already there, smiling happily and lovelier than ever. Patsy, conscious that the evening before had not gone to Miss Fairways’ liking (nor hers either, for that matter), eyed her rather guiltily. But Monica Fairways did not break what appeared to be her invariable rule of never enquiring into other people’s affairs.
She glanced through the morning’s departures, telephoned Operations, answered queries at the counter, and hummed happily to herself in between times. At length, after she’d shown Patsy a new necklace that her mother had sent for her party, and told her about the dress that was just about ready, and about how the hairdresser had simply raved about her beautiful hair, she examined her face in the mirror, and asked with disarming innocence, ‘Do you think that Robert Prentice is in love?’
It was exactly what Patsy had been asking herself for the last she-didn’t-know-how-many-hours.
Her cheeks flushed and then paled. ‘In love with you, Monica, d’you mean?’
‘Well, you see,’ Monica drew her words out in a long puzzled sigh and adjusted a blue-black curl more becomingly on her forehead, ‘I don’t see anyone else it could be ... for him to be in love with, I mean.’ She turned around quickly with a slight smile carefully posed on her face, so that Patsy could see the exquisitely lovely picture that she was. ‘I mean, he does act sometimes as though he’s in love ... I know the signs. And as I told that big clumsy stewardess with brassy hair, it’s about time he was, and who else could it be?’
