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Chapter 1 : Anyone For Tennis?
April 1937; the sun dappled through the avenue of lime trees as a gleaming, blue, Bugatti sped through the Hampshire country side. The car swung between the wrought iron gates of the Stourside Tennis Club, crunching along the gravel drive towards the club house. The tourer skidded to a halt, it showered the club house lawn with gravel - a result of excessive enthusiasm applied to the hand brake. The honourable Bertie Graham grabbed a canvas bag from the seat beside him and vaulted out of the driving seat. Alice Mottram, who had been sitting on the veranda of the club house leapt to her feet smiling.
“Oh, Bertie, what a complete delight!” she exclaimed, clapping her hands. “How spiffing to see you.”
“And you, old thing,” Bertie laughed, bounding up the steps onto the veranda. “Now anyone for a sound thrashing on the courts,” he grinned, drawing his racket from the canvas bag with a flourish as if it was a duelling sabre.
“Not so old, you beast,” said Alice wagging an admonishing finger. “And we'll see just who thrashes whom.” She picked up her own racket and grasped Bertie by the arm. “Now you absolutely must tell me what you've been up to and where you've been, I've not seen you for ages,” she said, tripping off with him towards a free court.
An hour later the two of them were sitting on the veranda of the club house as one of the club stewards brought across a tray of drinks. “To the winner, the spoils,” smiled Bertie as he lifted a large Pimms from the tray and presented it to Alice with a gallant gesture. She accepted it with relish. “Why thank you, sir,” she said, smiling at him as she took a sip. “Now, come on, you promised to tell me what you have been up to.”
Bertie, was slowly packing tobacco from a small leather pouch into his pipe. “Well it has all been a bit hush-hush, don't you know?” He pulled a box of matches from the pocket of his striped blazer and lit up. An aromatic cloud of blue smoke slid lazily across the club house veranda.
“How exciting,” Alice grinned at Bertie's intriguing manner. “I know you've been spending oodles of time over at the aerodrome, is it something to do with the record attempt?”
“Ah, hah, my secret life is unveiled! No prospects for me as a spy, eh? Yes, I've got myself a bit of a job up there. Got a bit short of the old mazoomah; found a chap who was looking for a sort of business manager and finds the old title a bit of a help. I've been picking up enough to keep the Bugatti running and the pipe filled.” He tapped out his pipe on the heel of his shoe under the disapproving gaze of the steward and set to filling it again. “I've not had anything to do with the record attempt but there's obviously a lot of excitement about that.”
“Now don't tell me you've met Jean Alardyce, I'll just be too, too jealous.”
“Oh, yes, I see Jean quite often. I'm not really involved in her flight but she's been doing all her preparation up there, getting the plane ready, modifications done, that sort of thing.”
“Oh, Bertie, she's my absolute heroine. First woman to fly non-stop to Delhi; first to cross the south Atlantic from Cape Town to Buenos Aires; fastest solo transatlantic crossing east-west. She's an amazing airwoman. I've watched all her flights on the newsreels and I'm definitely going over to the field to see her take off on this one.”
“Gosh, I hadn't thought you such an expert. Wouldn't have thought that plane's were your thing at all. Far too noisy and greasy: what?”
“Oh, it's not the planes, silly.” Alice took another sip of her Pimms. “Have you seen how she looks? She's always dressed so fabulously. What woman can't envy someone that can fly two thousand miles and then leap down from her aircraft looking as though she just stepped out of a taxi cab in Mayfair ?”
“I don't think you'd say that if you saw her in overalls, with a spanner in her hand and grease streaks across her face.”
“Well that's the other thing – she does all her own work on the plane doesn't she? ‘The Flying Scot Keeps Her Own Kite Flying' it said in the paper. It must be so wonderful to be able to do all that and take on the men at their own game.”
“At more than tennis, you mean?” Bertie laughed. “Anyway, you're in for a treat, here she comes now.” He pointed to the supercharged Bentley that was growling toward them up the club house drive.
Alice craned her head to catch sight of her heroine as the car swung past. “Who's that driving her?”
“Oh, that's Clegg – the chap I'm working for – he's builds aero engines and he's developing a whole family of high speed seaplanes. I expect he's been trying to convince Miss Alardyce that she should use his engines for her future flights. It would be a good advertisement for him.”
Clegg and Jean Alardyce emerged from around the corner of the club house, evidently deep in discussion. Jean was tall and willowy; Alice had heard that she found it difficult to fit into the cramped space in her latest machine. Her blond hair hung unfashionably long and loose ignoring the fashion for bobbed, permed styles. She wore a simple, cream silk dress that flowed with lines as streamlined as the aircraft she loved. Alice thought she was the most beautiful woman she had ever seen. Bertie got to his feet and Clegg greeted him. “All right Bertie?” he asked. “We won't stop if you don't mind. Sorry to be rude.”
“No. Quite all right old man. I would just like to introduce my companion here to Miss Alardyce, if you've got a moment, though,” Bertie persisted. “She's quite a fan.”
“Why of course, I'm very flattered,” Jean's voice carried a soft Edinburgh accent. “I'm pleased to meet you, Miss?”
“Ah, sorry,” said Bertie. “I'm not doing this too well. Miss Jean Alardyce – Miss Alice Mottram.” Alice got to her feet and was shaking her heroine by the hand in a vigorous way.
“I can't tell you how pleased I am to meet you,” she gushed, “you're just such an inspiration.”
“Well thank you,” Jean smiled, modestly, a little embarrassed by the attention.
Clegg was looking impatient. “We really do need to get on, Jean, if you are to have enough time to make up your mind on the new engine.”
“Don't be stuffy, Freddie, there's plenty of time for that over lunch. I thought that was why we came over here – for a change of air?”
“Oh, I'm sorry Miss Alardyce, I didn't mean to delay you, but… Oh, could I ask you to let me have your autograph?”
“Of course,” Jean smiled at her admirer, “here, let me have that menu card.” She pulled a fountain pen from her handbag and signed the card with a flourish.
“And we really must go,” said Clegg, edging towards the club house restaurant. “Goodbye, Bertie, Miss Mottram.”
Alice Mottram looked down at the menu card as Clegg and Jean left. “To Alice ,” it said, “With very best wishes, Jean Alardyce.” Alice smiled contentedly. “Bertie, you've absolutely made my day,” she laughed. “I might even let you beat me at tennis next time.”
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