‘Mebbe she ain’t, but show me a fella who ain’t and I’ll show yer an Ethel,’ Mavis, one of the other girls Hettie hadn’t spoken to much so far, chortled.
‘What’s an Ethel?’ Hettie asked Lizzie in bewilderment.
‘Oh now see what yer’ve done, Mavis,’ Lizzie complained.
‘It ain’t my fault if the kid’s too green to know what’s what.’ Mavis shrugged.
‘Well, I suppose it u’ll have to be me who has to tell her then.’ Lizzie sighed. ‘An Ethel, ’Ettie, is what we calls a man who isn’t a proper man, like.’
‘Not a proper man?’ Hettie was still confused.
‘What Lizzie means is that an Ethel is a chap wot only does it with other men,’ Mavis clarified, adding bluntly in case Hettie still hadn’t grasped what she was trying to say: ‘Instead of shoving it up a woman like other men, he wants to shove it up another chap’s arse.’
Hettie’s face went brick red with embarrassment and shocked disbelief. She knew in a vague sort of way what happened between married couples, although it had never been fully explained to her, but now Mavis’s brutally frank explanation had shocked her on two counts.
‘’Ere, that’s enough, Mavis. The poor kid doesn’t need to know about that,’ Babs told her, adding, ‘Come on, ’Ettie, let’s brush yer hair for yer, and put this flower in it’.
She had to say one thing for her chorus line friends: they were expert ladies’ maids, Hettie admitted, as her hair was brushed and then rolled into sleek elegance and a pretty red silk flower pinned into it.
‘All yer needs now is a touch of carmine on yer lips – yer don’t need no blackin’ on yer eyelashes like blondes do.’
Hettie wasn’t sure she should be wearing the carmine either but she didn’t want to offend kind-hearted Babs by saying so. She could always rub it off before her family saw her, she consoled herself as her helpers finally decided she was ready for her debut.
John stepped out of the tin bath and reached for one of the cans of water he had filled earlier, leaning over the bath to sluice his head and torso with it before repeating the exercise for the lower half of his body whilst standing in the now tepid bath water itself.
The sunlight coming in through the cottage’s small windows gleamed on flesh pulled taut against firm muscles, his arms and chest tanned brown from the hours he spent shirtless, working to ensure that the grass his sheep didn’t crop was kept short enough for the flying machines to land on.
John was not a vain man – he had more important things to worry about than silly lasses – but Ellie was for ever sighing over him and telling him he was the image of their good-looking father, and John had seen the looks young women gave him.
He reached for a towel and started to dry himself. There wasn’t a cloud in the sky and the thought of spending such a perfect flying day sitting togged up in a straitjacket of a suit, sipping tea, was not one that appealed to him. But Connie had told him how Hettie had begged her to ask him to go.
Luckily there were no flying lessons on today’s schedule, the students instead receiving instruction from Jim on the maintenance of flying machines.
John dressed quickly, smoothing his hair straight, and wondering if he would have time for a bite to eat when he got to the station. He had decided to cycle there rather than walk which meant he would have to fold up his suit jacket instead of wearing it.
He looked at his watch. Jim would have started his lecture, and rather than go and interrupt him John decided he would leave without saying goodbye to him.
He was half a mile from the station when he heard the familiar sound of the flying machine’s engine. Frowning, he stopped pedalling and got off his bike to look up. Suddenly, with an awkward movement, the pilot took the machine into an amateurish and unsafe loop.
‘Christ, you fool, you’re too low; you’re too bloody low, climb. Get back up. Get back up!’
John was screaming the words into the sky as he got back on his bike and started to cycle as fast as he could back to the airfield. The flying machine was floating in the sky belly up, the engine stuttering as the machine lost height while it slowly rolled over.
John prayed as he had never prayed in his life, even though he knew it was futile. The machine was so low that he could see the four helmeted heads in the cockpit.
‘Ease back, ease back, give her a chance to get some air and then take her up, take her up…Oh God, Oh God,’ he heard himself cry.
The engine coughed, and then the machine surged forward, before the engine coughed again and then died, the sounds of its struggle followed by an eerie silence, and then a mighty bang.
John could see the plume of black smoke rising like a pall, but then there was a second horrific explosion, with flames and smoke shooting up into the sky.
Ahead of him lay the airfield. Where the flying machine hangar had been there was now merely flames and smoke.
Leaving his bike he ran towards the inferno. Jim was in there somewhere. Jim, his friend and partner. Jim, who had warned him that he feared their rebellious student would do something reckless. Jim, who he hadn’t listened to, because he had had more important things on his mind. Jim, who was now being burned alive because of him…
John could hear the clang of the fire engine bell, and people were coming running from all directions; farm workers out of the fields; villagers who had seen and heard the explosion. He could feel strong hands dragging him back from the fire, whilst tears ran down his face.
He would bear the burden of the guilt of this day for ever.
Why had she ever thought she wanted to sing at the Adelphi? Hettie wondered nervously as she stood, trembling from head to foot, behind the screen that shielded the doorway to the staff stairs from the guests.
This morning Mr Buchanan had taken her down to the Hypostyle Hall – where she had gazed up in awe to where the four massive Ionic columns supported the ceiling, hardly able to take in the grandeur of her surroundings – so that she could practise her songs there and familiarise herself with the hall. She knew that after he had played a few introductory notes she was to walk in and go to stand in front of the piano, but to one side of it so as not to obstruct anyone’s view of Mr Buchanan, and that he would then play a piece of Bach during which she was to turn and gaze admiringly at him until he had finished.
Then he would play the first of her songs and she was to remember that if there were any gentlemen seated at the tables she was not to look towards them.
This, Mrs Buchanan had already given her to understand, had been the cause of her predecessor’s downfall, and a shameful reflection on the moral laxity of modern young women.
Hettie wished she could see through the screen. Had her family arrived? Would John be with them? Connie had assured her he would but what if he changed his mind? His anger had hurt her and she very much wanted them to be good friends again.
Mr Buchanan came down the stairs, his ‘patented’ strands of hair gleaming in the light of the chandeliers, the tails of his morning coat almost sweeping the floor.
‘My goodness, Hettie, I scarcely recognised you,’ he told her with a smile, adding warmly, ‘You look very pretty, my child.’
The way he was looking at her made Hettie feel slightly self-conscious, but she told herself she was being silly as he strode towards the screen and then walked beyond it.
Hettie could hear the polite applause of the guests. In another moment she would have to follow him past the screen. She couldn’t do it. How on earth could she sing so much as a note feeling like