Amelia Earhart squinted, looking up at the stunningly bright sun, sitting in the deepest of blue skies.
Could not be a better day to be in the skies of England, she thought.
And she’d be there soon enough once the formalities here on the ground were taken care of.
The thought of the imminent radio interview made her feel uncomfortable. She never felt this way piloting a plane.
But standing here in front of a BBC microphone, just waiting – the slightest of breezes blowing her short hair – this was scary.
All she really wanted to do was walk over to the Sandbourne Aviation Firefly, hop into the single-seater, and take off.
Because that was just it, wasn’t it? To take off, as if she was escaping – not just the place, the people, the responsibilities, the expectations – but the very planet itself.
Up there, everything looked different. Distant, yet so beautiful. Normal life carrying on below while she sailed above it all.
Was there anything better?
But for now, Amelia waited as the gnome-like engineer from the BBC fiddled with a black box attached to electrical cables, getting all set to capture her words before her departure.
Hovering over him, impatiently, the owl-eyed radio reporter who was going to conduct the live interview gave her an optimistic wave.
“All set, Miss Earhart!” he said. “Won’t be a moment now!”
Amelia nodded. She had butterflies.
She looked to her right, where a crowd waited to see her take off. The Great Western Aerodrome, just a few miles west of London, was like most English airfields she’d seen so far on this trip – not much more than a grassy field and a couple of hangars.
But it seemed there were big plans in store for the place. Hard to imagine on this bright, sunny morning, with just a few biplanes parked up, and no hint of a decent coffee.
She turned and looked left. There sat the brilliant yellow Rolls-Royce supplied by Sandbourne, who had sponsored her trip over from the States.
Lounging against the hood, fedora tipped back, cigarette in hand, stood Wallace Smythe, the commercial agent who’d been forced upon her by Sandbourne.
His sole reason for existence seemed to be to take as big a cut as he could from the proceeds of her country-wide tour.
Back home, since her first barnstorming days, Amelia hadn’t really trusted anybody to organise the flights, the schedule, the stops.
But here on this hop-scotching tour around the English countryside, she didn’t have a choice. She’d been told that Smythe was indispensable. Word was, without Smythe there’d be no bookings, no tour and – most importantly – no fundraising.
Wonder whose pockets he’s lining apart from his own, thought Amelia, watching him in his sweat-stained shirt sleeves, his expansive stomach eager to pop the shirt’s buttons, looking about as uncomfortable as a man could in the summer heat.
Also looking on, standing at the back of the Rolls, was her sister Muriel – her beloved “Pidge”, as the family had called her since she was a toddler.
And standing rather close to her, the American journalist Ronald Greene.
He was the man hired to file the regular stories about Amelia’s English trip.
But he also seemed to have taken a rather strong interest in Pidge.
And with his dark good looks, easy smile, and also… what was the word?
Yes – she thought – glibness.
She wasn’t too sure how she felt about his interest in her sister.
“All right,” the radio interviewer said, hurrying over to adjust the plate-sized microphone. “Nearly there, Miss Earhart!”
Amelia nodded. Sooner this was done, the sooner she could take off, into that beautiful blue sky.
*
“And we are live in five, four, three…”
The interviewer held up fingers, counting down until the microphone, standing ominously in front of her, would be “live”.
She felt a tightness in her stomach.
This was something she never experienced in the skies above.
“Two, one… and…”
Then the reporter leaned in to the microphone.
“Good afternoon, everybody. We are broadcasting to you live from London’s famous Great Western Aerodrome, and with us is the world-famous aviatrix, Amelia Earhart! Miss Earhart would you like to say hello to our listeners!”
Amelia nodded, then felt silly. It wasn’t like anyone with their radio sets could see.
Why was this so hard?
“Oh, yes! Hello everybody.”
“Jolly good! Now can you tell everyone exactly what you are doing flying this wonderful British plane around the beautiful English countryside?”
“Ah well, I’m, uh, very lucky to have been loaned the Firefly here, by Sandbourne Aviation, and I’ve spent the last two weeks flying around your beautiful country—”
“You didn’t fly your own plane here, I gather? I imagine that old pond does rather get in the way!”
“Well, yes, I haven’t flown solo across the Atlantic – yet. But don’t you worry, I will soon!”
“Wonderful, wonderful! And you are here on a very special mission, yes? Can you tell our audience at home all about that?”
And this Amelia could answer.
A mission very close to her heart.
“Yes, you see, at all these stops I am raising money for the ‘Ninety-Nines’.” A pause. “Th-that’s the new organisation I am helping found for all the woman pilots worldwide. First of its kind!”
“Most excellent. I am sure all our female listeners, snug and safe at home, admire your guts and determination.”
Amelia gave a look back towards her waiting plane.
“I think it’s important that flying should be open to women and girls everywhere, and that—”
“And how are you finding the Firefly here?” said the reporter, clearly not wanting to hear more about the Ninety-Nines or women pilots. “British engineering at its best, eh?”
Amelia instinctively looked across the grass at her plane, where final flight checks were being made, the gas bowser just driving away.
“Oh, she’s an absolutely lovely plane to fly,” said Amelia. “Very sensitive. Very fast, too. Sixteen cylinders, air-cooled, three hundred horse power, supercharged you see, and—”
“Yes, jolly interesting, I’m sure. Must play absolute havoc with your hair!”
“Not really, I wear a—”
“Now, Miss Earhart, do tell us, where next on your thrilling whistle-stop tour?”
“Well, I’m off to Sussex now for one final flying display at the weekend, then—”
“Back to New York on one of our great Cunard liners, I hear?”
“Er, yes. On Sunday.”
“Excellent! Well it sounds to this reporter as if you’ve had the very best of British, so long may these delightful feminine hands across the ocean continue!”
Amelia nodded, then saw the reporter gesture hurriedly towards the microphone.
She leaned in. “Oh yes, thank you. And thanks everybody for looking after me so well.”
“Marvellous! Well that’s it for now, listeners, from the Great Western Aerodrome. As we wish the fabulous aviatrix Amelia Earhart a bon voyage!”
And the torture was over.
Time to get into the air at last.