Penguin Books Australia

1

1927. Snow had fallen overnight across the city and turned to slush, making the pavements slippery and dangerous. It was a bleak January afternoon as I walked up the slope from Fleet Street, the wind in my face feeling as if it came directly from the Arctic. When I passed the Gothic facade of the law courts it began to rain. Not gentle English rain; this was a fierce gust that instantly disposed of my umbrella, turning it inside-out. A day to be somewhere else, almost anywhere else, I thought, until I went inside and for the first time saw Sarah Carson.

We reached the reception desk inside the lobby at virtually the same moment, disposing of soaked raincoats and battered umbrellas, and in the way of orphans from the storm exchanged jaundiced views on English weather. She was new to it, having arrived in the country only a few weeks earlier, and seemed glad to find a compatriot. She was not alone in being glad about that, as we introduced ourselves and shook hands.

'Daniel Anderson,' I said, 'sometimes just known as Andy.'

The occasion at Australia House was a rather formal one, the sort of event neither of us would normally have expected to attend. But I was there as a part of my job, to interview the guest of honour after the speeches. And Sarah? She hadn't been invited at all, she admitted; she'd gate-crashed after hearing that the High Commission staff served a decent French wine and plenty of hot snacks and sandwiches, and that the big function room was always kept warm by blazing log fires. It was the warmth, she confided, that lured her here in this most freezing of winters, having disembarked from the ship at Southampton without the right sort of heavy clothing and, as a result, having spent the past two weeks shivering while sharing a bed-sitter in an unprepossessing outer London suburb called Burnt Oak.

But never mind that; she happily dismissed it, saying the plonk was nice and the tucker terrific, as a hovering waiter, responding to her bright smile, refilled her glass and offered her another sandwich.

'Might as well,' she said, 'they're a bit dainty.'

'Take two, Madam,' the waiter suggested.

'I think you've tempted me,' she replied with a laugh.

When he moved away she confessed she hadn't eaten any breakfast or lunch lately, a necessary economy as she'd arrived in England without much in the way of funds.

These minor troubles were divulged with a cheerful insouciance, as if she felt herself on the threshold of a great adventure. There was an appealing excitement about her. She was of medium height and slender, with shoulder-length auburn hair, green eyes and an embracing smile that made me feel as if we already knew each other quite well and were sharing secrets. I guessed she was in her early twenties, and if her clothes did not match the stylish garb of other women at the gathering, her looks far outshone them. I noticed a looming male interest, a few wandering eyes beginning to turn in her direction, and steered her away from any possible intervention.

'So tell me about you,' she said. 'Who invited you to this shindig? Are you someone famous?'

'Definitely not famous,' I assured her.

'What do you do in life?'

'I work for the Express.'

'Which one? There's all those Express dairy carts, but I don't think you're a milkman. So it must be the newspaper. Are you a journalist?'

'Sort of,' I answered.

'What does a sort of journalist do?' was her next question.

'He writes a weekly column about planes. Stuff about engines, fliers, air races, that kind of thing.'

'Do you?' Something about this intrigued her, but I thought she was being polite or making small talk. As a rule my work was a social turnoff. 'Tell me about it,' she said.

'It's no great shakes. I'm 'Our Air Reporter', which doesn't sound important, and, believe me, it isn't. Just an occasional paragraph, and if there's a surplus of news I get stood over until next week. The editor thinks flying is of minor appeal. Particularly as a sport. He likes soccer, Goodwood car races and boating at Henley.'

'He sounds like a deluded old drongo,' Sarah declared, her blunt Aussie candour making me laugh.

The waiter came back. Sarah declined more wine, but allowed herself to be persuaded to another dainty sandwich.

'You'll spoil me,' she told him, and, when we were alone again, continued to ask more questions about my column.

I explained it came out on Fridays, on a lowly page between the bridge feature and the shipping news, but this week I hoped to get a few extra inches of newsprint.

'I'm here to do an interview with our main guest. He's a good flier and former mate of mine. Bloke called Charley Kingsford Smith.'

'Never heard of him,' she admitted.

'He was a fighter pilot during the war.'

'Where did you meet?'

'In France. We were in the same squadron.'

'Wow,' she said. 'You actually flew in the war? Were you old enough?'

'Only just.' Her interest was genuine, but I didn't want to talk of my part in it. 'Smithy was the real flier. He won a medal for bravery.'

'Which one is he?' she asked, and I pointed to the quiet young man standing alongside the Right Honourable Sir Joseph Cook, who had been Australian prime minister when I was at school in Brisbane and was now the high commissioner. Sir Joseph and those around him were formally dressed, but my old friend Smithy seemed comfortable in a sports jacket.

'Can I meet him?'

'If you stick with me, you can. I have to do the interview when this corroboree is over. As a matter of fact,' I continued, as if the thought had only just occurred to me, 'it'll be about dinner-time by then. Would you be free for us to have dinner together?'

She hesitated for a moment, studied me, then smiled. 'Just us? Not Mr Kingsford Smith?'

Not if I can help it, I thought, but told her Smithy was bound to be obliged to dine with the high commissioner and his wife. Whereas we were uncommitted and could head for Soho and a little place I knew in Frith Street. Did she like Italian food?

'I'll let you know,' she answered. 'You'll laugh, but I've never tasted any. There were no Italian restaurants where I came from.'

'Same here,' I told her. 'When I was growing up I used to think spaghetti only came out of a tin.'

'Doesn't it?' she said, laughing. It was a joyous sound in that staid room full of bureaucrats.

*

'Stone the crows!' Charles Kingsford Smith made his way through the dispersing guests to shake my hand vigorously. 'If it's not Randy Andy Anderson.'

'Charley,' I said, anxious to forestall any unruly reminiscences, 'this is my good friend Sarah. Newly arrived from back home.'

'Hello, Sarah.' He took her hand, raised it to his lips. It raised my eyebrows; Charley had clearly taken lessons in comportment since our larrikin days in 23 Squadron. 'Andy always had lots of good friends,' he said. 'I'm glad to see his standards haven't slipped. In fact, if you don't mind me saying so, I think they've risen considerably.'

Sarah looked at her hand as he released it. Clearly it had never been kissed before. I thought it was time to take control, even if he had been our paradigm and the best flier in the squadron.

'Old mate,' I said, 'the Express wants to give you a rap, to help promote aviation in Australia. So let's find a quiet space around here where I can interview you, then Sarah and I have an appointment.'

'I've got a better idea. Why don't the three of us get together for dinner?' he suggested.

'I'm told you're spending the evening with His Excellency and Lady Cook.'

'Lady Cook is fine,' he said, 'but the high commissioner is the most boring old fart I've met in years. Can't we tell him I have a prior engagement?'

'Much as it tempts me, Charley,' I said, 'Sarah and I are the ones with the prior engagement. We have to meet her friends out at Burnt Oak for a meal this evening.'

Sarah, to her credit, remained expressionless at this sudden detour from the truth.

'Burnt Oak.' Kingsford Smith shook his head in dismay at the idea of it. 'God, that's even further into the hinterland than Hendon.' He turned back to Sarah. 'Hendon drome. We were sent there to rest and recuperate, after a spell in France. A bunch of full-blooded kids, we spent every day bored and frustrated, wishing we were in London so we could get into a bit of trouble.' To me he added, 'Seems like another life, Daniel. Hard to believe it was only nine years ago.'

The Italian restaurant was crowded by the time we arrived, but Fabrizio who owned the place and ran it with his wife, Bianca, had saved us a table. The interview with Smithy had taken longer than I expected, for much had happened to him since we'd last met. During our short time together he'd ended up a hero, not twenty years old when he'd brought a bullet-riddled kite home to base while badly wounded, and as a result had surgery in which three of his toes were amputated. A few months later he'd been awarded a Military Cross by King George V at Buckingham Palace.

Sarah had sat silently to one side while we reminisced about the squadron and the flimsy planes we flew in combat, then listened intently as he told of his trip to America and working in Hollywood as a stunt pilot after the war. That was when, in a slight pause as I made notes, she asked her only question.

'Was that dangerous, Charles?'

'It sure was,' he replied. 'I didn't think it would be, but those film directors were crazy. They made us do aerobatics and tricks the planes really couldn't handle, then when we landed they yelled at us that we were chicken-livered. They actually pushed the boundaries to the limit,' he added quietly, 'until one of the guys couldn't climb out of a dive and was killed.' He turned to me. 'Dan, you can add if you want, that the kite exploded on impact, the kid was newly licensed and should never have been allowed to do stunts like that. The film company said it was his own careless fault, and refused to pay out on insurance. I quit the same day. Went home to Australia, stony-bloody-broke, but glad to be out of there.'

He told me how tough it had been after that. He gave joy rides at country fairs and worked in an aerial circus. Then he got a job with Western Australian Airlines, delivering mail around the outback.

'The flying postman,' he said. 'Eventually I couldn't stand it and started my own small transport company. It's smell-of-an-oil-rag stuff, but that's the reason I'm in London, trying to raise money to buy some decent planes. Long-distance jobs. Some day I'm going to fly across the Pacific, and after that around the world.'

'It's impossible,' I said.

'Only because it hasn't been done. You were always a bit cautious, Randy, old mate,' he grinned, 'although prone to adventure in other spheres.' He did not glance at Sarah as he said this. 'Some record-breaking flights like that would prove aviation is the way of the future.'

'I'll quote you,' I promised, hoping this story would get me a more prominent spot in the paper and perhaps a few extra column inches.

When we left Australia House Sarah agreed to accompany me to the Express office, so I could write the article while the interview was still fresh in my memory. She sat in the reporters' room, ignoring the curious stares of other journalists, while I found a typewriter and hammered out a thousand words. It meant a late dinner, and a taxi to Soho after I left my copy in the editor's tray. I had some quiet hopes he might show a rare sign of enthusiasm when he read it in the morning.

Fabrizio suggested a glass of Frascati, and told Sarah she must try his antipasto which was the finest in London.

'Sounds delicious,' she said, after he finished explaining the blend of extravagant delights it offered. For a girl who had never been inside an Italian restaurant, she was a quick learner. In the taxi she'd told me she wanted to try real spaghetti, so I'd given her the names of several dishes and how to pronounce them.

'And to follow,' she said studying the menu with a percipient air, 'Spaghetti carbonara.'

'Ah, bella Signorina, bravo!' Fabrizio exclaimed, deciding from her assurance that she was widely travelled. 'Conosce l'Italia, si?'

'Si,' she echoed him, while wondering what it meant.

'I'll have risotto Milanese,' I said rapidly, to prevent him asking her what part of Italy she knew best. 'And perhaps a bottle of your Valpolicella with dinner. What do you think, Sarah?'

'Si,' she said, smiling.

'The Signorina,' our host made it known, 'is molto bella.' He swept off towards the kitchen, as she looked to me for a translation.

'He likes you,' I said to avoid the issue.

'Is that what he said?'

'Well, no.'

'He dislikes me?'

'Certainly not.' I gave up then. 'He said you're very beautiful. He said it twice.'

'I'm glad you brought me here,' she announced. 'Does he say that about all the girls you bring here?'

'What girls?'

'Oh, c'mon, Daniel,' she said, grinning. 'Randy Andy Anderson indeed. I did hear what Charles said. You red-blooded boys, wishing you were in London so you could get into trouble.'

'Youthful follies,' I said. It had been true, of course. In the Royal Flying Corps, aged only eighteen, I'd chased every woman in sight, afraid I'd soon be killed in a dogfight over France, and wanting my fair share of loving and living before then. Wartime freed a lot of inhibitions and, with zeppelins dropping bombs on London and Paris, many women were just as eager for chance encounters. But I didn't want to revisit that year of living recklessly that had ended with the joy of meeting and falling in love with Sophie Mason.

Sophie was the same age as me, a trainee nurse at the base hospital outside Calais in the last six months of the war. I'd met her first when I was flat on my back in bed, and woke to find myself looking into a pair of gorgeous deep-blue eyes and an engaging smile framed by dark curls escaping from her nurse's veil.

'You look like the Angel of Mons,' I'd said stupidly, and she'd laughed and told me to behave myself, but had come back late at night to sit at my bedside and tell me the good news: my crash-landing may have wrecked the fighter plane, but, apart from concussion, it had left me intact. Even better news was that I would remain an ambulatory patient for the next few days, and she'd be on night duty and able to keep special watch on my progress. By the time I left the hospital we were in love.

Two months later the war ended, and soon afterwards, to my dismay, I was on a troopship headed for home. It was because of Sophie that I'd worked my way back to England again after two years in Brisbane, missing her every single moment, and vainly hoping to recapture that tender first love we'd shared.

I realised Sarah was watching me across the table.

'Was there someone special amid the youthful folly?' she asked.

'Sort of.'

'Where is she now?'

'Married to a stockbroker and living in Oxfordshire. Let's change the subject,' I suggested.

'All right,' she agreed.

'Tell me about you.'

'There's not much to tell.'

'I'm sure there is. Like where you came from back home. And why you're here.'

'I came from a little town in the middle of nowhere,' she said. 'In the Nullarbor, on the rail line from Perth. Two trains a week. A street of shops, some weather-beaten houses, a landscape of old abandoned gold mines. Not a pretty sight.'

She was silent for a moment, the soft restaurant lighting revealing an introspective look that suggested the recollection was melancholy. 'I wanted to run away when I was ten. But I didn't actually go until I was nearly seventeen – a few years after my mum died. She was always complaining that I was a dreamer. Said I was forever sitting on the back step of our house, lost in dreams. 'Whatever are you dreaming about?' she used to ask me. Poor Mum. I could hardly tell her I was dreaming of leaving there.'

Her mood changed; she smiled now. 'In the end I ran away with a boy who said he wanted to marry me. But all he really wanted was a short honeymoon without the wedding ceremony, then he intended to dump me so he could propose to the bank manager's daughter.'

'What happened?'

'Very little.' She laughed; it was the same infectious sound, and heads in the restaurant turned towards us like they had that afternoon at Australian House. She leant forwards and spoke softly. 'It would've been a terrible mistake. His parents owned the chemist's shop, and I guess he's there now, patiently waiting for them to retire so he can be the town pharmacist. That was the height of his ambition. I left him in Melbourne, got a job and spent a few years there, then went to Sydney, worked there for a few more years till I saved enough to leave there as well.'

'And now England. Why here?'

'It was the first boat leaving after I'd saved up. The cheapest fare. Eight of us in a cabin, steerage.'

'Your mother was right. Dreaming of leaving . . .'

'Dreaming of everything, Daniel. Growing up in the Nullarbor, I had few friends and not much family life. But I loved trains, the thought of travel. In Sydney I lived near the harbour, watched the big ships and began to dream of sailing on them. And even today . . .' She shook her head and smiled as if to cover embarrassment.

'What happened today?'

'Listening to you and Mr Kingsford Smith – hearing the talk of his plans to break records, it made me wish I could learn to fly.'

Before I even had a chance to digest this, Fabrizio arrived with our white wine. 'Frascati for Signor Daniel and his bella Signorina!'

The old lecher beamed at her, nodded his approval with lustful eyes while ignoring me, and went back to the kitchen. We raised our glasses to each other.

'To gate-crashers,' I said. 'And dreams of flying.'

'To air reporters, and unexpected meetings,' she countered. We touched glasses and felt as if we'd known each other far longer than a single afternoon.