by Fiona Kidman
‘Two tickets?’
‘Just one. I’ve told you I’m flying. And it would be so wonderful if you were there waiting for me.’ Jean had recovered herself, as if nothing odd had happened. ‘You’ve never seen me land at the end of one of my big flights. I have to get the Gull ready. That’ll take a few weeks. So if you were to leave now, you’d be there for me.’
‘If you’re sure.’ Nellie was still doubtful.
‘I’ll be all right. I promise.’
JEAN SET OUT FOR DARWIN ON 15 OCTOBER, battling through red dust storms, flying low over kangaroos that hopped out of her path, following cattle tracks and causing stampedes amongst herds on the ground. After four days in Darwin, she took to the air again. News had come through that Jim Broadbent had set out upon his journey from England.
Before her lay one of the most difficult flights she had ever embarked upon, storm after storm battering the plane. She flew on, through monsoon rains, through the nights ahead, over the lonely Burmese coast where Smithy had disappeared. As she neared the edge of Pakistan’s Sind Desert, she was so tired she leaned her head against the side of the cockpit and propped one eye open at a time to stay awake. Death or a record, it didn’t really seem to matter. She took out a bottle of eau de Cologne and dabbed some on her burning face with a handkerchief, ate an orange, and drank some black coffee. Near Karachi, the heat was so intense that the crêpe soles of her shoes melted and stuck to the rudder bars.
She slept at Damascus for four hours. When she left, more storms hit, and she decided to turn back. Later she would think that, after all, some instinct for self-preservation still lurked within. Besides, her time was now so far in advance of the record that she could afford to take this break.
Storms confronted her again, but this time she determined that she would ride them out. Lightning flashed, the strange phenomenon of St Elmo’s fire creating thin blue circles of light around the propeller. Somewhere near Greece, she and Jim Broadbent passed in the air without seeing each other. Not that he would make it much further: his plane ran out of fuel, stranding him in the Iraqi desert.
At Naples, Jean was lifted from the plane, gaunt with exhaustion. A doctor called to the airport advised her not to continue for the sake of her health and there were grim warnings from the meteorological office of more bad weather ahead.
She flew on.
On 24 October, she arrived at Lympne, unable to walk. She recovered sufficiently to fly on, after twenty minutes, to Croydon, where vast crowds awaited her. She had flown from Australia in five days, eighteen hours and fifteen minutes, breaking the record by fourteen hours. She was the first person to hold both outward and inward records at the same time. Two policemen carried her from the plane head-high so that people could see her.
And there was Nellie, waiting, as she had promised.
PART THREE
Following the Sun
1938–1970
CHAPTER 32
‘SO THERE MOTHER WAS,’ JEAN SAID, to the audience of New Zealanders and other dignitaries who had gathered to honour her at a special luncheon. ‘She has been and always will be my inspiration, and I think I owe all my success to her.’
As three cheers for Mrs Ellen Batten rang out, Jean continued her speech. ‘You know there was a time when I was refused a job in Sir Alan Cobham’s Flying Circus. In fact, it seemed that the pilots thought I ought to go away and get married. One of the pilots gave me that impression so much that I asked him, “Is this a proposal?” He didn’t say any more about it.’
A man jumped to his feet. ‘Miss Batten, I’m Sir Alan Cobham.’
‘Oh my goodness, so you are. Now how did I miss you?’ Jean said, laughing and shaking her head. Nellie, seated beside her, sighed with relief. Jean was giving and taking quips, as she had in the past. She was dressed in an elegant white suit, with a matching hat that had a tilted brim.
Cobham said, ‘When my pilots demanded to know if I was going to let a woman in on the show, I thought there would be a riot. No, no, we couldn’t have had that, and what would have happened if we’d damaged the most famous woman in the world? We wouldn’t be here today. I think you should be thanking me, Miss Batten.’
They bowed to each other as the laughter and clapping continued.
At another function she was presented with a bouquet of crimson carnations and, just as she was burying her face in their scent, a note was put into her hand. King George and Queen Elizabeth would be honoured if she paid a visit that evening and joined them for supper. If she were driving herself, she just needed to present this note at the gates, as she was expected. This seemed a charming way of delivering a royal command.
It emerged, on her arrival, that she was first to meet with another king. A butler bowed and said, ‘King Leopold would be delighted if you could spare him a few moments. He’s staying here at the moment.’
Jean was puzzled. ‘Won’t he be joining us for supper?’
‘My instruction was to show you to his rooms, Miss Batten.’
She expected servants in attendance, but when she entered she found King Leopold III of Belgium alone, sitting on one of a pair of matching Regency chairs.
He was a tall man with a long face, pushing unruly hair back from his forehead. ‘Please sit down,’ he said, indicating the chair opposite. ‘I’m very interested in aviation. Belgium’s colonies are so far-spread, I’ve had to travel great distances myself, someone else at the controls, though I often wished it was me who was flying the plane. I’ve followed you on all your routes.’
‘Really?’
‘Indeed, I sit by the wireless whenever you are in the air, listening for reports of how you are faring.’
‘I’m honoured, Your Majesty,’ Jean said, bowing her head.
They talked then about their journeys, and advances in the aviation industry. After a time, he gave her a long, intent stare, and cleared his throat, as if he were nervous. ‘Miss Batten, I hope you don’t mind me saying this, but you’re even more beautiful than I expected. Your photographs don’t do you justice.’
‘Thank you, sir.’
‘I’d like to think we could be friends. I’m a widower by the way, did you know?’
‘I’d heard that you lost your wife. I’m so terribly sorry.’
‘It’s a while ago,’ he said, tucking his chin into his hand. ‘I was driving in Switzerland. Queen Astrid was by my side. She was due to have a baby. I lost control of the car, it plunged into the lake. I lived, but she did not. Nor our child. It should have been me.’
Jean felt hard knots of tears pressing behind her eyelids but she looked at him, stony-faced.
‘You’ll think me impertinent. It’s not for a king to pour out his sorrows. Sometimes — it seems there is nobody. I can’t think why I’ve told you. Miss Batten, I’m so sorry. When I saw you, I thought you might understand.’
‘We all have our sorrows,’ she said. ‘When you’re an aviator you become accustomed to the loss of your friends.’
‘I heard something …’ His voice trailed away.
Jean was wordless. She had not spoken Beverley’s name since his death. She hoped that the King did not intend to speak of the matter now.
‘Perhaps you’ll come to Brussels some time?’ he said at last. ‘I should so like to see you again.’
‘Thank you, that is a very kind invitation.’
He sighed heavily. ‘So long as Germany doesn’t bring war upon us all.’
There was a discreet knock at the door and a messenger entered. ‘Queen Elizabeth will receive you in her private apartment, Miss Batten.’
The Queen, seated on a blue brocade sofa, rose and greeted Jean as if she were an old friend. Her eleven-year-old daughter, also Elizabeth, was there, too, rosy-complexioned, wearing a dark pink crushed-velvet dress.
Jean curtseyed, first to the Queen and then to the Princess.
The formalities over, Jean turned to the child. ‘The children in New Zealand and Australia love you, ma’am,’ she said
. ‘They’ll be so envious to know that I’ve met you.’
Elizabeth blushed. ‘I’ve got a new puppy,’ she said. ‘Would you like to see it?’
‘Oh, how lovely,’ Jean said, trying to sound enthusiastic and hoping her reply hid her nervousness of dogs.
As the child disappeared to fetch the dog, the King entered the room.
‘I’m so pleased to see you, Miss …’ and here he stopped.
‘Batten,’ said his wife swiftly. ‘It’s Miss Batten, Bertie.’
Jean had heard of the King’s stammer. ‘I’d so like you to call me Jean,’ she said quickly.
The King looked relieved, as if this were one less thing to worry about in his new and unexpected role as a monarch. It was barely a year since his brother had abdicated to marry the divorcée Wallis Simpson, and already he looked exhausted. Jean smiled inwardly, remembering Edward being rolled in and out of a laundry van. She couldn’t imagine this man ever being in such a predicament.
Toasted crumpets were being served with tea. The Princess dashed about with her corgi, demonstrating its tricks to Jean, until her mother remonstrated, and the conversation turned, as it had with Leopold, to talk of aviation.
SO 1937 SLID INTO 1938 WHILE JEAN GAVE SPEECHES, met more royalty, received prizes, had her likeness created at Madame Tussaud’s — and partied, her clothes always remarked upon. When the parties were over she would disappear into the night, a taxi waiting to bear her off to her lodgings with Nellie. In the early afternoons, she sat down and wrote. She called her new book My Life, though there was only so much of her life she would reveal. She and Nellie took a cruise in the Caribbean, and when they stopped off at Jamaica declared themselves in love with the island. Now here might be a place to live some day. The Spanish Civil War had put paid to thoughts of going to Majorca.
There was talk of a wider war on the continent. Week by week, unease was spreading throughout England, as Hitler’s menacing behaviour pushed the stakes higher. It was not as if Jean hadn’t noticed, but the talk had gone on for so long that somehow it had stopped being real. Or perhaps it never was for her. If you went to a party and danced until you dropped it was easier to sleep. ‘I want to just keep following the sun,’ she said to Nellie. ‘I want to feel warmth on my face every day.’
Late in August 1939, when the Swedish countryside was simmering with gentle heat, she visited Axel Wenner-Gren and his wife. When she had first met them they said they would be enchanted if she could find time to visit them in their country residence. Wenner-Gren, who looked like a king, immaculate and suave, with fine Nordic features, was reputed to be one of the wealthiest men in the world, having made his money in international electronics, developing Electroluxes and refrigerators. The last guest of the Wenner-Grens had been the reclusive Greta Garbo. Jean hoped she might return while she was still there. Her own ‘Garbo of the Skies’ tag had lingered, long after the years of Gipsy G-AARB, and she was keen to meet her namesake. There were picnics and car trips, and in the evenings Jean played Chopin on her hosts’ grand piano. The war wasn’t mentioned in her presence, so that the sense of living in a golden bubble where no harm could come to them all persisted through the summer. Then, just as Jean was preparing to fly the Gull home, she received a telegram from the Foreign Office in London, warning her that she was not, on any account, to fly back over Germany. At once, she went to her hosts and asked them what on earth she should do. To her surprise, Wenner-Gren picked up the phone, and asked for a number in Berlin. It was done in a trice, her clearance to use German airspace obtained. ‘I spoke to my friend Göring,’ he said. ‘There’s nothing to worry about.’
On 27 August 1939, Jean flew over Germany, its skies curiously empty of air traffic. She passed above the rivers that streaked the countryside, the fields golden where the grain harvests had been cut, the dense forests and mediaeval castles. It was to the south that she saw a sight that made her catch her breath. Lined up on an airstrip alongside a huge factory, stood a hundred, perhaps even two hundred Messerschmitt Bf 109s, fighter planes, stretching almost as far as the eye could see. She was tempted to circle back and fly over them, but thought better of it.
When she landed in Lympne, a man was waiting for her at the airport. The man wore a striped suit and a Homburg, and carried a rolled umbrella. He had a polite warning for her, which he delivered in a quiet voice. It might be better, he said, if she were not to discuss her flight. Best for all concerned. He was interested in anything she might have seen.
The following week, Chamberlain’s fateful announcement was made from 10 Downing Street. Nellie and Jean sat by the radio, their faces pale, as they heard that England was at war with Germany.
‘I must do something,’ Jean cried.
‘What will you do?’ Nellie asked, not understanding.
‘It’s my duty to offer to help the war effort. I’ll write a letter straightaway.’
The response was swift.
Dear Miss Batten,
Many thanks for your letter of the 4th September offering your services and your Percival Gull G-ADPR for dispatch or communication work. I am at once communicating with Sir Francis Shelmerdine with a view to your name being included in a pool of civilian pilots for employment on Royal Air Force organization and delivery work or general communication flying, and I am asking him to communicate with you directly in the matter.
The letter was signed by a secretary in the War Office.
The correspondence continued for a while, then tailed away. The enthusiasm for Jean’s services appeared to dwindle. The Gull had been put in storage since the outbreak of the war.
In June the following year, the Air Registration Board wrote to her wanting to inspect the Gull and ‘assess its suitability for impressment’.
‘Impressment,’ Nellie said. ‘What does that mean?’
‘It means,’ Jean said bitterly, ‘that they’re seizing my plane. The one I paid for myself.’
‘And they won’t pay you for it?’
‘Oh, I think so. But that’s hardly the point, is it? Mother, don’t look at me like that. I’m not sick, you don’t need to go phoning my father. I’m angry, that’s all.’
The Air Transport Auxiliary did not, after all, require Miss Batten’s services.
They did require Amy Johnson’s.
Victor Dorée, she learned, had become an RAF flying instructor.
In New Zealand, the Royal Navy accepted John Batten, now divorced from Madeleine, as a dental mechanic. He would serve on the Achilles and the Gambia, seeing action on both.
Jean’s eyesight was a problem, she was told. But then so was that of several women who took to the air wearing spectacles.
The requisitioning of the Gull felt like the ultimate loss. She couldn’t put it alongside the loss of love, but in her bewilderment she felt lost to herself. She no longer recognised the person she had believed she was. It was less than three years since she was being described as the most famous woman in the world. It had been said as a joke, and the joke had turned out to be on her.
Her flight across Germany proved to be her last.
CHAPTER 33
NELLIE AND JEAN, MOTHER AND DAUGHTER, chose the place to build their house in Jamaica together, although not without some hesitations and misgivings about its location. The land they bought, in 1948, was beside the sea at Tower Isle, on a stretch of coast east of the town of Ocho Rios. It was a rough, winding ride to the sea, through countryside dotted with wooden shanties occupied by West Indian locals, and by places they called the balm yards, thatched covered huts clustered together, a bright red flag flying overhead, where revival meetings were held every night. Black cattle strayed among sparse coconut palms that barely moved in the almost non-existent breeze. Cane fields stretched into the distance, tended by West Indian labourers clad in white robes and white turbans. Towards the sea lay mangrove swamps that reminded Jean and Nellie of Auckland. And then they came upon the sea, so clear that they could see the grains of sand, the life of f
ish, when they stood above it. The beaches were the colour of pale champagne.
This is where it will be, they said, in almost one voice. It was not the first time they had lived on this part of the island. When they arrived, two years earlier, they had rented a house in the area, one with a long view of the Caribbean, surrounded by an exotic garden, darting with humming birds. Jean was enchanted. This was perfect, it gave her heart ease, she said. But Nellie hadn’t been so sure. There was something wrong with the house, she said, something evil was going to befall it.
‘Mother, don’t be so silly,’ Jean said. ‘You’re going back to that weird old church of yours. Just because you’ve come to a place where everyone believes in jumbies and ghosts, doesn’t mean you have to go spiritual on me again.’
‘I don’t believe in jumbies,’ Nellie said in a sharp voice, although she shivered. Jumbies, the islanders held, were the souls of live people who lived in the bodies of the dead. ‘Listen to the music, and all that chanting. It’s been building up louder and louder the last few nights. There’s something sinister going on. I don’t understand what it is, but we need to get away from here.’
She had been so insistent that Jean had agreed to them packing up their possessions and leaving the next day. Nellie was right, though. The day after they left, the young gardener, high on ganja, had run amok with an axe, breaking every stick of furniture in the house.
‘Perhaps he was unhappy because we left,’ Jean said, but Nellie would have none of that. They landed up in a cottage in a British army camp, high in the Jamaican Blue Mountains, for the next year or so. The trees, native cedar and teak, were high and thick; the mountains took their name not from the colour of the trees, as in Australia, but from the blue mists that shrouded the forest for much of the year. The rainfall was high, and there were more days spent inside than out. Besides, the proximity of the camp meant that well-meaning residents sent constant invitations to dinner. Jean wanted none of that. Nor, she told her mother, could she bear the constant memory of the Blue Mountains in that other country ‘where things had happened’. It was she who planned their escape route, consulted a builder and chose the piece of land at Ocho Rios, and, in the end, Nellie had to agree that it seemed the perfect spot.
