It seemed interminable, lights ahead, and only shadows to each side, but they tried to peer through the dark to see a shadow that resembled an aeroplane. On past Mungeribar, on to Trangie and nothing. For three hours they drove and looked, stopped and looked, thought they saw something and found they were mistaken. On and on interminably.
Eventually, Angus said to Johnny, “What do you think we should do next?”
“Go home and start again when it’s light. I’d hoped we might see something, but it’s just too black.”
“Yes, moonlight would’ve been wonderful.” They drove back to Argyle Station to have a few hours sleep. Johnny’s father agreed to his spending the night there and continuing the search.
At dawn, Bruce Irvine’s plane had the dew wiped off it and it taxied down the runway, grunting like an old man who’d been woken too early. He knew he was to focus on either side of the road and go to Nyngan and back.
Angus and Johnny, yawning from too little sleep and too much worry, also set out in the car, travelling faster in the morning light.
Back at the aeroplane, Jessica and Mr Grahame had had a restless night, unable to get comfortable enough to sleep. As light dawned in the east, they scrambled up, dusted their clothes and decided to enjoy a sumptuous breakfast of water, with dried fruit and nuts, before they walked to the highway to hitch a lift to Narromine.
As they were collecting their belongings, a sound from the east caught their attention. A very familiar sound, the putt-putting of an aeroplane engine, its droning growing louder by the minute. “I bet they’re looking for us,” shouted Jessica, jumping up and down long before they had any hope of being seen.
“Let’s wait by the plane,” said Mr Grahame. “That’s more noticeable than anything we could do.” He didn’t like to say that the pilot would also want to see that they were all right, not wanting to remind Jessica of the fears of her family. So they watched as the plane came into view and stood in front of the propeller, waving with both arms, jumping up and down to make themselves more visible.
As the plane passed over and they recognised it and its pilot, a piece of paper was thrown out. It floated down, like a leaf and Jessica ran to grab it. “It says to wait for a car.”
“Well, landing here is not to be recommended.” They waited and eventually saw Angus’s car pull up just off the road, so ran towards it and piled into the back seat.
“I was sure you were dead,” said Johnny. No one else wanted to voice the thought.
“Not nearly,” said Jessica. “Mr Grahame took it down like a feather. Pity the ground was so rough, otherwise we’d have been able to just fix it and take off again.” She settled back in the seat, prepared to tell them all about it but fell asleep just as she opened her mouth.
She awoke properly in time for breakfast. She had expected to be told off, but no one said anything to her, apart from Billy who wanted the gory details, as he called them. Her parents had dark shadows under their eyes, her mother’s lips were a bit tight and she got a special hug from them before she went to bed.
* * *
She’d wanted to savour her last term at Narromine School but it whizzed by much faster than she’d expected. Jessica even won a few prizes at the end of the year. She knew it was because she didn’t have much competition, but all the same, it was great. Johnny of course was first in all mathematics and science — with marks that were high enough for a city school.
The end of year dance was acceptable. Jessica put on her ‘wedding’ dress and even smiled as she tried the Gipsy Tap and the Pride of Erin. They were much more fun than the Barn Dance. She had managed to tolerate the family wedding without disgracing herself. Mum threatened them with unimaginable consequences if they didn’t behave, her face as grim as Jessica had ever seen it.
“You will all smile,” she said through teeth that were mostly clenched, but she did manage to smile when they reached the church. Her grandparents did not attend, although Gran had helped with Velia’s dress (but only when Grandfather was out) and lent her some jewellery. Jessica wondered if it was difficult to be in ‘the middle’ this way. If she’d been Grandmother, she’d have gone to the wedding and let him roar. Aunt Velia and Mr Gibson (they were probably going to call him Uncle Ted from now on) were very sweet together, looking after each other and gazing lovingly. It might be sentimental but even Jessica recognised the emotions as real.
Then in December, the mail service began and the following March, passenger flights were to begin. It was a very exciting time to live in Narromine. Jessica wished she didn’t have to leave, but she’d lost that argument some time ago.
Chapter Thirty Two
Sydney 1935
Glebe
April 1935
Dear Mum, Dad and everyone,
I’m really relieved that I’ve only got a week left of this term and soon I’ll be on the train home.
Jessica put her pen down and thought for a minute. The words she’d written made it sound as if she was unhappy but that wasn’t true. She’d told her parents about school in earlier letters and about staying with her Douglas grandparents. She’d been vague about school but how do you describe all that? She wasn’t used to long descriptions. The work had turned out to be interesting and she’d been surprised that it was not too hard for her. The Narromine teachers had done a good job.
And, best of all, she’d made some friends. For the first time since she was small she had real girlfriends, something she hadn’t expected. Celia and Meg. That first day, she’d entered the grounds feeling starched in her new tunic (and matching knickers, none of the old white panties at this school) and full of trepidation. No one had spoken to her, but then they hadn’t made fun of her either.
For a couple of days it was as though she were part of the paintwork, not really seen. But in a mathematics class on the third day, she’d answered a question and noticed a couple of girls look at her and then each other. At recess they came over and introduced themselves. That tall girl, like a heron, turned into Celia and the small one who reminded Jessica of a dormouse became Meg, the sleepy looking girl who noticed everything and had a bigger vocabulary than a dictionary. By the end of the week they were inseparable. And they talked — they talked about everything — themselves, their ambitions, all sorts of things Jessica had never really put into words.
“Well, why do you want to become a pilot?” Celia quizzed everyone, because, as she said, she “just wanted to know”. Jessica was stumped. Not even her family had asked her this. How on earth could she explain? She just did. But that answer was never going to satisfy the curious Celia, so she thought about it.
“Um, I like the idea of being up in the sky, soaring.”
“But you could still do that as a passenger. So, why a pilot?”
“I suppose it’s because I like the idea of being in control up there, of conquering the sky.” Awfully grandiose, that, and probably not the right word, ‘conquering’. It made it sound like a battle. She frowned.
“You’re not used to justifying things in words, are you?” Meg took over. “You’ll learn to do a lot of that here. It gets easier, I promise.”
Jessica wasn’t sure if she meant the two of them or the school, but over the next few weeks she discovered it meant both. In classes, she was expected to explain why she did or thought things. “Use your brain, girl,” was a constant order in the classroom.
And outside, Celia who intended becoming a lawyer and Meg who wanted to be a journalist, quizzed her about all sorts of things. What flying was like, her family, how she felt about her brother, what having an aunt teaching at the school was like, even the latest fashions. She found it exhilarating; especially having friends she could tell anything to, friends who were interested in things other than boys.
They even made her curious about Aunt Louisa, whom she’d just accepted as her mother’s sister and a schoolteacher. But now she wondered; why had Louisa never married? Did she prefer teaching? One day she asked her.
&n
bsp; “It’s a bit difficult for my generation. So many of the young men died in the war and an independent woman is not always attractive to men who want a good homemaker wife.”
“So would you like to marry? Mum gave up her nursing when she married Dad and she seems happy enough.”
“She probably is. Most nursing is like housekeeping anyway and you’re always being bullied. I like teaching and if I did marry I’d have to resign. They won’t allow married women to teach, only widows.”
Jessica and her friends hadn’t decided to be lifelong spinsters, but they had a pact that if they married, it would only be to men who supported what they wanted to do.
Although she would miss Celia and Meg, she was looking forward to going home for the holidays. Even if the train took about 13 hours, through freezing mountain towns like Orange and Blainey, it was still going in the right direction - to Argyle Station and the Narromine aerodrome - home in short! It was where she could take a few more flying lessons.
Jessica returned to her letter writing. She rambled on, with some news of Gran Douglas’s arthritis and the funny story that Grandfather had brought home from school and then signed off, reminding them of her arrival.
* * *
“Mum, where’s my cardigan?”
“Isn’t it in the laundry, drying?” Jessica was finishing packing for her second term at Fort Street, working out what she needed for a Sydney winter. It wasn’t as cold as Narromine, but was wetter. She had her uniform, but she needed clothes for weekends and the occasional ‘dressed up’ performance.
“What else do you need?” Mum brought the cardigan and some underwear. She was still sighing over the case as her father’s voice called up the stairs.
“Jessica, want to come out to the aerodrome?” Any excuse, and it might be the last time before she caught the train for Sydney. Her packing could always wait, but she still wanted to know why. “Nancy Bird’s due in about 30 minutes and I thought you might like to meet her.”
Jessica did, but after her experience with Jean Batten, she was less starry eyed about female flyers. All the same, everything she’d heard about Miss Bird had been good; not just her flying, but the fact that people seemed to like the petite young aviator. About five years older than Jessica, Nancy had gained her commercial pilot’s licence the previous year and now had her own Gipsy Moth.
With a friend, Peggy McKillop as co-pilot, she was touring New South Wales to advertise her skills and find jobs that paid actual money. Even with support from the Shell oil company, keeping a plane in the air was expensive.
A small group was already waiting for the Moth to arrive from the west. Jessica and her father joined Mr Perry and his son Dick. After the Moth had touched down lightly in a perfect landing, the tiny figure of Nancy Bird emerged.
“What a wonderful aerodrome!” she greeted them. The locals agreed — they were used to this — but always swelled with pride when someone else noticed. “It’s one of the best in Australia.”
After introducing everyone, Mr Perry immediately chartered the plane to inspect a landing strip he had bought at Dubbo. Miss McKillop took off with his son Dick, while Nancy sat down to talk with Mr Perry and the others. Jessica hadn’t said anything so far, only nodded and listened.
“If you’re going to find work as a pilot, you need something with a cabin that’ll take at least a couple of passengers,” said Mr Perry. “That Moth’s not big enough.”
“No, maybe, but I can’t afford anything bigger at this stage.” Miss Bird and Mr Perry got into a long involved conversation about sizes and costs and the benefits of having something larger if she was going to make a living from flying. And ways it could be financed. Everyone else just listened.
Eventually, Mr Perry changed the subject. “I want you to meet Jessica Mackay. She’s hoping to get her licence next year. And she’s a very helpful member of the Aero Club.”
Jessica blushed as Nancy Bird gave her an open grin, holding out her hand. “I’m really pleased to meet you. You really want to become a pilot?” Jessica was so tongue-tied that she could only nod. Nancy grinned again. “I’m so glad. We need more women pilots. Even if Smithy doesn’t think we should be in the air.” She went on to ask Jessica what sort of flying she wanted to do. More comfortable by this time, Jessica told her that she didn’t want to set records, she just wanted to make a living flying.
“Yes, I think the days of setting records are coming to a close. With mail and passenger services out here, there’s scope for a lot more air services. Australia’s a big country and it takes a long time to get around by road. Air makes everything quicker.”
“And,” added Mr Perry; “out here, services like the flying doctor are really important.”
They all began to discuss the new routes opening, and the ways in which planes could make living in the outback easier. Jessica’s views were listened to and she felt as though she was treated as an adult, rather than a curiosity. The men of the Aero Club had become used to her, but she got the feeling that other pilots she met often thought she was a joke — a child with a silly ambition she would grow out of. They’d learn, she thought, she had every intention of getting her licence when she was sixteen and that was only a year away. Perhaps Miss Bird might need another pilot by then?
Chapter Thirty Three
Sydney 1936
As they left the State theatre on Saturday afternoon, Celia asked, “Would you want anyone to give up their throne for you?”
“Definitely not,” responded Jessica.
Meg, however, grinned at the pair of them. “It’d be awfully tempting, I think, to have that much power over anyone, but …”
“But,” finished Celia, “you might end up with more than you bargained for. Imagine having to compensate for a family, a country and a kingship, for the rest of your life. Yuk, I think it’d be more of a burden than an honour.”
“I bet he’d still have enough money to buy her an aeroplane if she wanted one,” said Jessica. They all laughed.
“What are you doing tomorrow, Jess?” Celia was planning to visit her grandmother in Pymble.
Jessica’s head was still back with the newsreels they’d just seen. The rising fervour of the Nazis in Germany was awe-inspiring and scary, she thought. And the questions rumbling along in England after the death of King George V, where the Prince of Wales and heir to the throne was still wanting to marry the not yet divorced American, Wallis Simpson.
But the story that was closest to Jessica’s heart was the continuing question about the disappearance of aviation’s hero, Smithy, Sir Charles Kingsford Smith, in November the previous year, somewhere over Rangoon. He was travelling back from England with Tommy Pethybridge, a famously competent pilot, in the Lady Southern Cross when they just went missing.
Months later, there was no sign of wreckage, but if anyone had survived they would have been found by now. Famous aviators seemed to keep dying in crashes. Charles Ulm had gone down a year earlier. Jessica was simply relieved her family didn’t harp on these deaths or remind her that flying was dangerous.
She still remembered the year before, when Smithy and P G Taylor had reached Sydney safely in a plane that had two of its engines virtually out of commission. Taylor had spent hours walking across the wings, carrying oil from one engine to another, with Smithy keeping the plane on an even keel.
She loved being up in the air, but it felt safe within the plane. The idea of balancing on a wing, above the Tasman Sea in a storm, made her shudder. “What? Oh, tomorrow?” Jessica grinned at her friends. “I, my dears, am embarking on my first solo flight.”
“Golly, gosh, wonderful!” An outbreak of stage girlishness seemed appropriate and the three of them began to laugh, to disapproving glares, spreading themselves across the footpath and annoying patrons emerging from the theatre.
“Can we come and watch?”
“No, you can’t. I’ll tell you all about it afterwards.”
“As long as you’re still in one piece.”<
br />
“Oh, well if I’m not, I’ll tell you about it from my hospital bed.” She had been visiting the flying school set up by Smithy since she started back at school in February. Her birthday present a few weeks earlier provided money for lessons, which she prized above diamonds, let along rubies. It was, she had decided, an epoch, her sixteenth birthday, marking her entry into young womanhood, not to mention the year she intended getting her pilot’s licence.
Even if she couldn’t vote for five years, or drink alcohol, those milestones of adulthood didn’t matter when compared with a pilot’s licence. The next day, she and Aunt Louisa arrived at Mascot for her lesson. There was always a buzz at weekends, with young men and a few women arriving in clumps for what they regarded as sport. The Aero Club provided a kind of headquarters and here, the young students mingled with the older, experienced pilots. Trained during the War, they were grizzled and sometimes dour, finding the young men rather frivolous.
Jessica spent her time there listening to tales of flying, as pilots discussed what students were doing wrong as they landed outside, listening to stories of crashes — and those where the pilots had escaped death. She listened to tales of how pilots got out of this spin or that, dealt with a sudden storm or wild winds or how they’d found their way back after being lost.
Jessica stored it all up, filtering their stories for those that would be of most help to her. The Aero Club building was long and squat with a veranda. From the lawn in front, the members had an excellent view of famous pilots landing nearby. Louisa had become used to it, the noise and laughter, as she sat with a pile of schoolwork, filling the time while Jessica was in the air and occasionally talking to some of the pilots.
Jessica had already spent hours practising her ‘circuits and bumps’, so that she could take off and land smoothly. She was fairly proficient at turns and spins but she had only done everything with an instructor on board. She knew enough to avoid stalling, spins and uncontrolled dives.
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