2. Just Another Flight
   

Harry? Anything interesting?”

Sir Harry Mortimer sat in a deckchair in the back garden of the Dower House; a beautiful morning for a pot of tea, and catching up with the news.

Kat was dressed in her gardening outfit, looking ready to wrangle any bush or hedge into submission.

So domestic, he thought.

“Oh, the usual. The king, God bless him, is still rather poorly. It seems China and Russia are about to go to war. Oh – and a rather impressive riot in one of your New York prisons.”

“You can always count on us New Yorkers for a good riot.”

“Believe such a thing played a role in your country’s quest for independence! Something about tea – Boston harbour?”

She laughed and came and sat down in the black iron chair facing him. She had a single smudge of brown on her cheek.

But that too – altogether charming.

“Any news from Cairo?” she said.

“Spot of unrest.”

“I miss the place sometimes, don’t you?”

“The place and the people? Why yes, I do,” he said. “Food too, actually. But the secrets and plots and all that? Not me. Give me my English garden and my American wife, and I count myself a very lucky man.”

“You know, if I wasn’t so dishevelled I’d lean over and give you a great big kiss for that.”

“Oh, don’t let a little dirt stop you.”

She smiled.

Then he thought, What about her? Was life too domestic for her?

“And you? Missing any of that skulduggery this lovely morning?”

Kat kept her smile. But did she hesitate a bit there?

“No. I mean, it was all rather exciting. But must say, Sir Harry, you have done an excellent job of keeping me entertained right here.”

“Hasn’t been too uneventful hasn’t it?”

“That’s how I like life.”

“Me too. And I have to say – this weekend might be rather fun. House party, lots of people flying in and out.”

“Literally,” said Kat. “In fact, you keeping an eye on the time, darling? Shouldn’t our special guest be arriving soon?”

Harry checked his watch and sat up fast.

“Good Lord – you’re right. Dammit, I was settling in for a nice snooze there.”

He watched Kat gather up the tea things.

“You coming up to the manor with me?” he said, folding The Times then helping her carry stuff into the house. “We can take the bike – be quicker.”

“Are you kidding?” said Kat. “Amelia Earhart landing at Mydworth Manor? I wouldn’t miss that for the world!”

*

With the tall microphone finally removed, and all the official farewells and handshakes completed, Amelia hurried over to the Rolls – that brilliant yellow colour, just as she’d requested.

After all, if we’re to have fun doing this – she had told the executives at Sandbourne – then let’s have some real fun!

She saw her young sister still chatting away with Greene in the back seat.

“Pidge, you all set?” She shot a look at the journalist. “Why not sit up front, with Mr Smythe?”

She hoped her message had gotten through to Greene. But neither he nor her sister showed any sign of shifting places.

“Know where you’re heading, my dear?” said Smythe from behind the wheel.

“Flight plan all sorted,” said Amelia. “Mydworth Manor – sounds like something from a story book.”

“One with a happy ending, I hope. Lot of money at stake this weekend, you know.”

“Don’t worry, Smythe,” said Amelia. “I know.”

“Landing strip should be all marked out for you. We’ll be just an hour or so behind you, I expect.”

She looked across at the expectant crowd, the Movietone and Pathé cameras all lined up.

“I must go. Looks like we are all set.”

“Don’t forget,” said Smythe. “Big wave, happy face, make it dramatic.”

Her sister smiled. “Mellie, Be safe.”

“Always, Pidge.”

Smythe cleared his throat. “Yes, of course, safety too, jolly good idea.”

But Greene offered a different thought.

“But if you do try anything a little risky, Amelia, do tell me, and all our readers, later? After your safe landing, of course.”

Amelia gave him a slight smile, though she felt little warmth for the man.

Greene was the pipeline to all the syndicated columns in newspapers back home.

So, she had to be nice to him… somewhat.

And, with that, Amelia turned again to the crowd that had been waiting behind a rope barrier, eager to see her take off.

Taking off was something she couldn’t wait to do. To fly, on a perfect day like this.

It was going to be – she knew – absolutely wonderful.

*

Amelia walked towards the plane, buttoning up her flight overalls.

She knew that this walk – the brave, lone woman striding towards the death-defying machine – always made for a great newspaper photo.

Sometimes a cover.

And, as Smythe never ceased telling her, covers sold papers, and papers brought interest. And interest? Well, that brought cash.

She knew he was right: so far this amazing two-week trip had earned thousands of pounds, 80 % of which would go towards launching the Ninety-Nines and training other women to make this “walk” too, this historic march into the future.

All thanks to Sandbourne and the loan of their prototype fighter plane – the Firefly. They wanted publicity, she wanted publicity.

It was the perfect match. And the plane – with its sleek single wing, its lean, aerodynamic lines – sure was a beauty.

Though she had her eyes on a very different sort of plane when she got back to the states.

A Lockheed Vega.

That she would make sure was the deepest of reds.

There’d be no missing that as she flew around the country, or even when – and she knew the day was not far away – she crossed the Atlantic.

This time, not as a passenger, but as the pilot.

As she got close to the Firefly, her engineer, an old timer supplied by Smythe, stepped out of the cockpit.

Paddy O’Brien. One of the best, Smythe had told her.

And sure, he was good. He knew the Firefly backwards and forwards – a real flyer’s engineer.

But when Amelia had been introduced to him two weeks back, she’d immediately noticed the tell-tale crisscross of bloodshot eyes.

And having grown up with that – with her father – the clues were not something Amelia would ever miss. Paddy O’Brien, good engineer and all, liked a tipple, and it showed.

As she reached the plane, she saw him crouch down and fiddle with the maze of pipes and wires beneath the cockpit.

“We all set, Paddy?”

“Just about, Amelia,” said the engineer, not looking up. “Nearly ready for you.”

Amelia picked up her flying goggles and aviator hat from the seat of the single-seater.

As she put them on, and adjusted the straps, she looked down again at O’Brien, his hands deep in the pipework.

“We got a problem?” she said.

The engineer moved back, then rose and turned to her, wiping his oily hands on a rag.

She caught an expression on his face – an expression she’d not seen on him before.

Anxiety.

“I dunno,” he said. “Fuel gauge acting up.”

“How?”

“Bit random. Full one minute, then empty.”

“She’s fuelled up though?”

“Two full tanks.”

Amelia looked back at the waiting crowd. Delaying was not an option.

“Right,” she said. “Can’t be more than a thirty-minute flight. Got the gas. Who needs gauges? Let’s go.”

“You’re the boss,” said O’Brien, with the usual shake of her hand. Then he took the cable from the starter battery trolley and plugged it into the side of the plane.

Amelia stepped up to the wing and gave a wave to the crowd who in mere moments would all shrink to the size of dots. Then she hopped into the seat and pulled the plane door shut.

Her flight cap on tight, she buckled it under her chin as she scanned the now-familiar instruments before her.

Altimeter, air-speed indicator, compass.

The fuel gauges – both reading full.

She reached forward and pressed the button for the ignition. The engine turned, coughed – but nothing.

Amelia frowned, looked through the cockpit glass at Paddy, who wiped his forehead with the oily rag, his face serious. He nodded. She hit the button again.

And then, as if awakening from a deep sleep – like some beast in a...