by Fiona Kidman
A superbly written novel offering an intriguing interpretation of one of the world’s greatest aviators, the glamorous and mysterious Jean Batten.
Jean Batten became an international icon in the 1930s. A brave, beautiful woman, she made a number of heroic solo flights across the world. The newspapers couldn’t get enough of her; and yet she suddenly slipped out of view, disappearing to the Caribbean with her mother and dying in obscurity in Majorca, buried in a pauper’s grave.
Fiona Kidman’s enthralling novel delves into the life of this enigmatic woman, exploring mysteries and crafting a fascinating exploration of early flying, of mothers and daughters, and of fame and secrecy.
FOR IAN KIDMAN
AVIATOR, ADVISER AND DEAR COMPANION
And so the sky keeps,
For the infinite air is unkind.
FROM ‘THE WRECK OF THE DEUTSCHLAND’
BY GERARD MANLEY HOPKINS
CONTENTS
Title Page
Dedication
Epigraph
PART ONE: Prelude to a Flight 1909–1934
CHAPTER 1
CHAPTER 2
CHAPTER 3
CHAPTER 4
CHAPTER 5
CHAPTER 6
CHAPTER 7
CHAPTER 8
CHAPTER 9
CHAPTER 10
CHAPTER 11
CHAPTER 12
CHAPTER 13
CHAPTER 14
CHAPTER 15
CHAPTER 16
CHAPTER 17
CHAPTER 18
CHAPTER 19
CHAPTER 20
CHAPTER 21
CHAPTER 22
PART TWO: Flight 1934–1937
CHAPTER 23
CHAPTER 24
CHAPTER 25
CHAPTER 26
CHAPTER 27
CHAPTER 28
CHAPTER 29
CHAPTER 30
CHAPTER 31
PART THREE: Following the Sun 1938–1970
CHAPTER 32
CHAPTER 33
CHAPTER 34
CHAPTER 35
PART FOUR: Home 1980
CHAPTER 36
Postscript
Acknowledgements
Other Titles by the Author
About the Author
Copyright
PART ONE
Prelude to a Flight
1909–1934
CHAPTER 1
1934. THE YOUNG WOMAN, IN A SLEEVELESS WHITE silk dress, stood at the window of a small apartment gazing out over the warm organic colours of Rome, its ancient earth and stone. It was evening, and across the roofs of buildings she saw another woman sitting at a window, level with her, looking out as she did. This other woman sat quite still most of the time, reading a book perhaps, for she glanced down at her hands now and then as if turning a page. She wore her hair in a chignon, and from the poise of her shoulders, Jean guessed that she was one of those elegant older women whom she saw making their way to the shops in Trastevere. Jean wished that she would look up, give her a wave, although perhaps that would be considered improper here in Rome. Just some acknowledgement would have satisfied her. She longed for her mother at this moment; the stranger had the same familiar imperious tilt of the head.
The apartment where Jean Batten stood was the home of Jack Reason, secretary to the air attaché in Rome. The walls were pale and sun lit up the room during the day. Otherwise, it was a plain place with little ornamentation beyond a vase or two, a pretty enough rug and some light raffia furniture, as if the owners were used to shifting house often and everything they owned could be easily transported to some other posting. It had surprised her at first that in spite of the ancient buildings beyond, and the difference of the city, she was surrounded by the odours of tobacco and talcum powder, bacon fat and disinfectant — the smells she and her mother had been accustomed to in London, in cheap, temporary lodgings.
The trouble had begun in Marseilles, on the first day of the flight. Just a year before she had destroyed a plane in Baluchistan, a plane that had not belonged to her. That had been misfortune, she believed, pure and simple, but this time there was no avoiding it had been her fault. The Gipsy Moth had ended up squatting in a field of grass on the edge of the Tiber, its undercarriage shattered, the wings crumpled. As she had glided through the night, with only a torch to show her the way, twisting and weaving, like a firefly in the night, she had somehow avoided tall wireless masts on each side.
It had been after midnight when she was taken to the Pronto si Corso, a Red Cross station of sorts. The petrol tank had been empty, but then it had been for some time, and that should not have happened. How could she have been so utterly stupid? How could she have failed her mother, whom she loved more than her life, and who had given her so much? But that didn’t bear thinking about. That was the dark bird perched on her shoulder, the haunted dream that made her cry out in her sleep some nights, the creature she had to kill. Her mother knew the bird was there, and only her mother could drive it away. But she was not here, she was in London, waiting to hear that Jean had made the next stage of her journey. What she would receive in the morning was news of a disaster, one that could have been so easily averted, had Jean but listened to the men in Marseilles. Perhaps it was the city of Marseilles itself, unpredictable and dangerous, full of seafarers and gypsies, because she had not wanted to stay in the old port town for a night. But that was not true. She was scared by very little on the ground, it was only in the immensity of the air that she sometimes understood danger. And that was what had driven her on, the need to conquer fear. She had done this to herself, succumbed to her own craziness, a strange light-headed madness that leapt out of control. She should have known.
Behind her, Molly Reason entered the room. She was a plump woman in her late forties or thereabouts, with frizzy hair parted in the centre and anxious eyes, as if her guest made her nervous. She wore a floral frock, pleated over her bosom in a way that made it look heavy. Her husband had been called directly after the crash, and now he had taken charge and installed Jean in their apartment.
‘Excuse me, Miss Batten,’ Molly said. ‘The doctor is here to see you.’
Jean turned from the window, trying to conceal her regret at having her thoughts interrupted. ‘The doctor? What doctor?’
‘The one who attended you last night. He’s come to check that you’re in better health.’
As if Jean had already agreed to see him, the doctor followed Molly in.
‘Doctor.’ Jean extended her hand. ‘It’s very kind of you, but as you’ll see, I’m perfectly well. Certainly much better than I was last night. Or was it early morning? I’m very sorry you were woken up so late to attend to a foolish girl like myself.’ She forced a small laugh.
When they had met, her left eye was as swollen as a Black Doris plum, while her lip hung loose over her chin. The doctor had been summoned to the aid station, where she had been taken by a group of men who had found her, sodden from stumbling in the rain through marshland. As he stitched her lip together the pain was intense, but she would not cry, would not scream. This was her night of folly and whatever she might feel, she did not wish to reveal it. She knew her mother would say, ‘Chin up, dear. Grin and bear.’ Nellie had no time for complaints. She had, she said, suffered in her time and now that was behind her, and she and Jean could conquer the world together.
‘She’ll be as good as new in no time, won’t she?’ Molly Reason said to the doctor, in better Italian that Jean expected.
He looked at his patient with an appraising eye and spoke rapidly. The older woman lifted one shoulder in acknowledgement and seemed at a loss.
‘What did he say, Mrs Reason?’ Jean asked. She knew she owed it to the doctor
to at least listen to his advice, for he had stayed up all night holding cold compresses to her eye, helping the swelling to go down.
Molly Reason hesitated. ‘He says the signorina is immensely beautiful, and if she looks after herself, her appearance will soon be restored. He says her hair is the colour of falling night, her skin like almond petals. He recommends, Miss Batten, that you spend a few weeks resting, and hopes that you’ll remain in Rome while you recover.’
‘A few weeks. That’s ridiculous. I have to fix my plane and fly to Australia.’
‘Well, the world is full of good intentions.’ Mrs Reason seemed to assert herself. ‘But it’s hardly the first time you’ve set out for Australia, is it? I suggest that you climb into bed and get some rest. The doctor says you’re still in shock.’
With that she turned to leave the room.
‘Mrs Reason,’ Jean said, ‘have you not spoken with your husband today?’ She chose her words with care, knowing that the other woman was not happy about her unexpected guest. Quite early in the morning she had left the apartment for Matins, and had not returned until much later.
Molly paused. ‘He didn’t go to church this morning,’ she said, with starch in her voice.
‘That’s because we’ve been hard at work. The Italian Air Force transported my plane to the aerodrome this afternoon. They’re already making a list of the parts needed to repair my machine. Mr Reason has been very kind.’
‘My husband telephoned me after lunch. I understand there are no wings available for your plane anywhere in Rome. You won’t get far without wings.’
Jean glanced down at her pretty dress, swirling around her knees, and laughed again, this time with real humour. ‘Don’t you believe it. I know where there are wings. I’ve seen some in the hangar.’
‘You haven’t got them yet,’ Molly said.
ON REFLECTION, THE TROUBLE HAD REALLY BEGUN the week earlier. It had been an inauspicious beginning. She and her mother had risen and breakfasted at the small inn in Kent where they were staying in readiness for Jean’s flight from Lympne aerodrome. Nellie sat opposite her, encouraging her to eat well because, as she said, she didn’t know where she would get her next decent meal and she must keep up her strength. Her mother, the most handsome of women, was tall and strong boned. She ate what she liked and always looked as if she exactly fitted her skin. When they walked along the street together, Jean, small and neatly put together, barely came up to her mother’s shoulder. Heads turned to look at the pair, alike yet so different. Nellie Batten had regular features that her daughter had inherited, a big sensual mouth, heavy-lidded eyes, a strong chin that she held at an angle as she strode along, her back very straight. To look at her, one would think she had the capacity to laugh but she seldom did. There was a time when she had walked the boards of theatres — very small theatres, she said with a hint of wistfulness that was outside her usual demeanour. New Zealand theatres. As if that said everything. Little theatres in little towns.
‘Darling,’ Jean had said, ‘you know my next meal will be in Rome. I’m sure I’ll eat fabulously well.’
At that point they had been joined, rather later than he was expected, by Jean’s fiancé Edward Walter, who had come from London to say goodbye, and to try once again to persuade her not to go. He was still rubbing his eyes, apologising for sleeping through his alarm. Jean watched him across the table while he ate his way through fried kidneys and three eggs, stopping long enough to remind her that he had bought her the axe, so that if she came down in the sea she could hack the wings off her plane to make a raft.
‘I’ve packed it, Ted,’ she said.
‘Well, thank goodness for that. You know I wanted you to take a life raft.’
‘Much good that will do me if I’m truly lost at sea. You know how little room there is in the cockpit — goodness knows, you’ve flown often enough yourself. I’ve got all the essentials.’ She hesitated, on the point of reminding him that he was a weekend flyer, an enthusiast rather than a real pilot, and that although he, too, owned a Gipsy Moth he had never flown further than the next town, or even over the English Channel. Nor did she itemise what she did consider the essentials, although her mother had given a small conspiratorial smile as Jean mentioned them. She had helped her daughter buy face cream and talcum powder, several changes of underwear, a white silk dress for the evenings when she landed. In her breast pocket she carried powder and lipstick and a small bottle of perfume, along with her comb. ‘Make sure your hair is always neatly parted when you land,’ Nellie had advised her. ‘Make sure you look as if it’s effortless.’
‘I’d like you to take the revolver I offered you,’ Edward said. ‘It’s in the car.’
‘Ted, no. I managed without a gun in Baluchistan. If I start shooting people they’ll shoot back, rather than help me. You’re being dramatic.’
‘That’s not what I had in mind. If you go down in the water, and there are sharks, what then?’
Jean studied him, noting from the angle of his head the bald patch that had begun to spread, the pink gleam of his scalp. He was good-looking enough, with that air of a refined Englishman about him that had attracted her at first, but although his face was lean his chin was collecting soft folds that made him look older than his thirty-three years. ‘You mean I should commit suicide?’ she said.
He pushed his plate aside with an angry gesture. ‘Now you’re the theatrical one.’
Jean got to her feet. Not for the first time, it crossed her mind that this man she had promised to marry might become someone with whom she could share too many breakfasts. His first wife seemed to have tired of him very quickly. An ageing stockbroker who might expect what? A wife who gave dinner parties and talked about shares and bonds? She twisted the ring on her finger, a half-circle of very good diamonds.
‘We should get going, it’s nearly dawn already,’ she said.
Nellie nodded. ‘Yes, come on, darling. You’re off to Australia today. If you’re going to get there faster than Mrs Mollison.’
Jean sensed that, at any moment, her mother might launch into another recital of Amy Johnson’s achievement in flying from England to Australia in nineteen and a half days. Nellie always referred to the other aviator by her married name, as if to indicate that a domestication had taken place since her marriage, even though Jean’s rival continued to set records. The record for a woman’s solo flight from one side of the world, and the only such flight at that, had stood since 1930, four years earlier. Nellie’s eyes blazed as if in anticipation of the triumph to come. How long is it going to take you, she was in the habit of asking Jean, although the question was always rhetorical. To which her daughter would reply that she hoped, all going well, it would be ten or twelve days.
And now, instead of breaking records, here she was in Rome, alone to all intents and purposes, with Molly Reason needling her about her plight.
‘My husband says that Signor Savelli, who owns the Gipsy Moth, is not keen on parting with the wings of his plane.’
Jean looked across the rooftops, rose coloured in the deepening day. For an instant she thought the woman sitting at the window inclined her head ever so slightly towards her. ‘I assure you,’ she said, tilting her chin, ‘that before today is done, I’ll have wings.’
CHAPTER 2
1909. WHEN JEAN WAS BORN HER MOTHER, Ellen Batten, who was known as Nellie, pinned a newspaper picture of Louis Blériot and his monoplane above her cot. Just eight months before, the Frenchman had flown across the English Channel, the first person to achieve this feat, in the time of thirty-six minutes and thirty seconds in a two-seater monoplane. A year to remember, the family said — Blériot’s triumph, and the birth of Jean.
The story of the aviator was often told in the Batten household, when they all lived together in Rotorua. It would come up in conversation each time there was some new and amazing exploit by an aviator. ‘It struck me very forcibly,’ Nellie would say. ‘Perhaps because of my condition, I was very impressionable
at the time. But you know, when I read about that man, launching himself across the sea, right on the moment of sunrise, and what he had to say about the loneliness of it all, it struck my heart. As he told it, he was alone, isolated, lost in the midst of the immense ocean, not able to see anything on the horizon or a single ship. Such courage. Just imagine, his wife was on a following ship, and she couldn’t see him either. What must she have thought?’ She would pause then, and marvel. ‘Yet he did it,’ she always said, completing the story. ‘He made it across the water and survived.’ When her daughter was older, she would add: ‘How I wish I could do that.’
During that time in Rotorua, they believed they were happy: Fred the dentist, with a flourishing practice, and his exuberant wife, Nellie, two little boys, and Jean, the baby. True, there had been a loss along the way, a boy who had died, and, sometimes, later on, Jean wondered if that might have been when the family’s problems began, the first hint that sorrow might besiege them. But when she was born, tiny and frail, her parents rejoiced in a girl, swaddling her with care and constant attention, lest this one be lost. Jean imagined, later, that she must have been born prematurely, for just two nights before the birth her mother had danced at a ball. Nobody knew my secret, she boasted. They couldn’t tell that I was having a baby. On the night of her birth her father played the flute in the room next door to where her mother laboured. They called their daughter Jane Gardner Batten, in honour of Fred’s mother, but somewhere along the way her name eased itself into Jean, and it stuck. It was the name she called herself when she began to talk.
Rotorua resembled a frontier town, with long unpaved streets, hitching posts for horses, small houses made of wood and roofed with iron. What made it different from other central North Island settlements were the thermal pools, volcanic steam rising in unexpected places from the turbulent earth. Geysers erupted, spewing hot water into the air, and mud bubbled on the corners of the streets. The air was suffused with the pungent smell of hydrogen sulphate. Although visitors to the town spoke of the stench of rotten eggs, those who came to live there soon stopped noticing it. Because of the curative properties of the water, a spa resort had been built at the eastern end of the town, a sprawling mock-Tudor bath house with its back to a lake, and also a number of large hotels to accommodate those seeking cures. Beneath the charming entrance to the bath house, with its grand sweeping staircase, and an orchestra playing soothingly on a balcony, lay a complex subterranean basement where patients underwent therapies intended to remedy all manner of ailments. The lights were dim, and the powerful reek of sulphuric gases caught one in the back of the throat.
