In another part of the prefabs, Maura Kane sat at her desk going over the hostess files. Every so often she glanced out her window distracted by the groups of airport staff hurrying into the adjoining hut. She knew all about the union meeting called by Beattie and for once, was fully in sympathy with the German girl.
Like her colleague, Maura was incensed by the airline’s handling of the situation. It was high time, she considered, that a system of maternity leave was put into operation in Celtic Airways. The fact that in this holy country of theirs unmarried mothers were still considered beyond the pale sickened Maura. Although there was not an inordinate amount of pregnancies amongst airport staff, there were undoubtedly a few every year. It was only hypocrisy to deny it. They just didn’t get the same publicity as aircrews. But then pilots and hostesses were always hotter news. Maura shrugged. In truth pilots were not the worst offenders.
With difficulty she turned her mind back to the work before her. Earlier, she had instructed her secretary to get her a pot of coffee and some sandwiches from the canteen and kept on working. Without telephone interruptions or taps on the door, it was the best time of day to get any work done.
Maura could have got Eva or one of the other Checks to help her sift through the hostess files, or even asked someone really efficient like Elinor Page in administration to spare an hour or two but she wanted to examine each one herself, then present her findings to the Hostess Superintendent. It was her job and she intended proving she could do it.
For Maura the last eight months had been a testing time, more demanding than anything she had encompassed before. She hadn’t minded all the extra work and responsibility it entailed, though it meant for a time a drastic cutting down on her social life. There was a challenge to it that she enjoyed, a feeling as if her capabilities were being stretched and she was more than able for it.
The only fly in the ointment was Oliver McGrattan. Whenever she found he was getting her down she went along the corridor to Elinor for a smoke and a chat. ‘Send him a memo about the sanitary dispensing unit,’ Elinor advised with a chuckle. ‘That’ll quieten him.’
The Hostess Administrator had no time McGrattan. ‘The revolution is coming,’ she was fond of quoting. ‘The women of Celtic are on the march. Some day soon you’ll see a woman sitting in the Chief Executive’s chair and she won’t be on Oliver’s knee either.’
Across the way the meeting was dispersing at last. Maura watched them go and wondered what conclusion had been reached. No doubt tomorrow Beattie would come and fill her in. In the meantime there was at least another hour’s work to be got through before she could lock up and go home.
Maura selected another file and bent over it. Tonight, she was concentrating on the new groups of hostesses, all of whom had to be assessed before being offered permanent employment with the airline. She aimed to have completed the files on the first two September training groups and their lists posted by the end of April. By then their six month probation period would be over. It didn’t leave her an awful lot of time. Less than a fortnight. Added to which were all the other concerns, the day-to-day running of the section.
She wrinkled her brow and gazed pensively at the little shaded light on her desk, her attention momentarily deflected from the file before her. Lately ditching drill was becoming a joke. The amount of hostesses offering excuses to get out of going in the water was rising steadily. Soon the number of bench-huggers would far exceed those actually in the pool. And they couldn’t all be having periods, Maura reckoned sceptically.
She decided that something drastic would have to be done, and soon! But short of a body search, what? As Dr. Price so often remarked, flying played havoc with the menstrual system, and obviously some had to be genuine. The only solution would be to keep a list of the obvious malingerers and ensure they were rostered twice a month until seen to participate.
Even Amy Curtis was beginning to remark on it. Since all the hullabaloo about the Atlantic hostess she was insisting on attending the drills herself, and urging greater chaperoning all round of hostesses.
Maura gave a broad grin. What did she expect? For pilots to carry off hostesses under her nose and pleasure them on the dressing-room floor? If anything it was much more likely to happen on overnights, Maura knew, and unless Amy had the power of bi-location, there wasn’t a blessed thing she could do about it.
Her expression grew serious. Joking apart it had been a trying time for all of them and because the erring hostess was on the Atlantic, toughest for Judy Mathews.
‘I suggest you fit chastity belts to your pilots,’ she had snapped icily at McGrattan when he attempted to lay all the blame on the hostess section.
Trust him, Maura thought scornfully. In his book it was always the woman’s fault. She was only thankful it wasn’t her problem. It could so easily have been. How her own sexy lot had so far escaped Maura would never know. She was aware that other airlines had a maternity scheme in operation, but in CA anyone caught in flagrante delicto invariably got the bullet. This time, however, they weren’t going to have it all their own way, Maura thought grimly. Not with the shindy Beattie and her gang were kicking up.
She turned her mind back to the files anxious to get finished and be on her way home. This evening she had planned an intimate supper with Simon when he arrived in from Copenhagen. She had managed to wangle some smoked salmon from the flight kitchens and had a bottle of Chablis already in the fridge chilling.
Forty minutes later, she was in her flat, showered and changed, reading through her mail.
‘Hope the new job is working out,’ her mother wrote from her Kensington flat where she lived with her sister Peggy, widowed like herself. ‘Do take a break soon, darling, and fly over for a weekend.’
Maura sighed and wished she could. She really missed her mother since she had gone to live in England. She read on and learned about the plum job she had landed, designing the interior of a new West End apartment block. It was a challenging assignment and from the tone of the letter, she sounded pleased and exhilarated. First chance she got, Maura promised herself, she would fly over and hear all about it.
She mixed herself a dry Martini and went to lower lights and plump up cushions. After a moment’s speculation, she replaced the flowered polyester cotton sheets on the bed with freshly laundered ones. Simon still had not arrived. Allowing time to deplane, check in his log book and flight recorder, change out of uniform and even add another thirty minutes to cover unforeseen delays, he should have arrived over forty minutes ago. Maybe his flight was delayed.
She stirred restlessly on the cushioned settee, her frowning gaze wandering over the white walls of her lounge on which hung the vivid Spanish prints they had picked up together in Nerja last November.
Maybe he was standing her up again.
She dialled the airport number and listened with a frown to the girl’s smug, ‘Five minutes ahead of schedule actually.’
Another ten minutes passed.
Maura gazed broodingly at the elegantly laid table with the neatly folded lace napkins, the sparkling crystal wine glasses and the deep bowl of tulips in the centre, and felt a slow burn begin. Just who the hell was Simon to treat her like this?
An hour later she gave upon him and went to bed.
The dawn was putting pale fingers of light in the sky as Captain Cooney let himself into Maura’s flat and ran lightly up the stairs. He paused in the lounge to strip off his tie and uniform jacket, the perfumed air making him sniff appreciatively. Chanel number 19. Maura had good taste.
He entered the dimly lit bedroom and crossed to the bed. ‘Maura?’ he questioned softly.
Maura awoke as Simon slid his hands under the covers. She lay quite still, remembering she was angry with him, very angry.
He moved his hands confidently down her body. ‘Sweetheart, you awake? ‘ he asked more loudly.
She remained on her side, eyes shut, senses resisting his touch. It was time he learned he wasn’t the only man around. Why only yesterday Captain Drummond had chatted her up in the canteen and given the tiniest bit of encouragement would have asked her out. Perhaps next time they met...
His tongue went on probing her ear; his hands sensuously caressing her breasts. ‘Ohhh... Simon...’ the words were suddenly torn from Maura. Weak with desire, she allowed him slide her nightie from her shoulders. Oh why could she never refuse him? Why could she never stay angry with him for long? Sighing, she turned to him.