She did not care.
In her head was a beating drum, in her throat a cactus, on her skin a bed of nails. She was flying through the air in a little canvas tube that would not stop rattling, and she was three hours away from meeting her public.
Mabel Boll needed to pull herself together, and she knew it.
Do it for the fans, she told herself. Do it for history! Do it for the people of Havana who have waited day and night to witness such a fair-haired beauty in her jewels and furs, a sight most of them have never beheld in their lives.
And by the time Cuba was in sight, a dot on the horizon, then a complete island, Mabel Boll, still possessing the last vestiges of a robust inebriation, sat up on the fuel tank and pinched her cheeks, smoothed her hair, and pulled the sweater out of her skin. As the plane landed with a quake, finally peeling to a stop after a rugged ride down what felt like a field of lava, she took a deep breath and ignored the urge to die.
Finally, Stultz cut the motor, silencing the roar. She dropped her head in relief and took a deep breath, so delighted to be done with the clanging and humming and grinding. Both Levine and Stultz, however, were simply sitting there, Stultz checking instrument readings and playing with dials, Levine sucking something from between his teeth.
“Come on, fellas!” she said as she smacked the back of Levine’s seat. “Let’s ankle it outta here! We’ve got our fans to meet!”
Stultz looked at Levine, who didn’t exactly return the glance, but did as Mabel said. He unlatched his safety belt, put his hat on, opened the door, and jumped out.
Mabel was close behind, having grabbed her blue bag and finding her shoes stuffed inside of it. She would deal with her luggage later; she needed at least one hand to wave and possibly blow kisses if it came to that.
She wiggled over Levine’s seat as Stultz watched, amused at the show. She slipped on her ostrich heels and then took Levine’s hand as she extended one leg like a dancer, trying gracefully to slide to the ground. With the perfect smile on her face, she lifted her head when she felt the time was ready to bedazzle the crowd with her beauty.
Pop! went the flash of a camera, and Mabel braced herself for an onslaught of flashbulb bursts, although the first one did a pretty good job of getting her right in the eyes. Always a lady for a photograph, she posed, one hand on the strut, the other on her hip, giving full view to the gold sweater. She lifted a foot up on a bracing wire, her expression a mixture of joy and discovery with a touch of courage, looking into the distance, contemplating where she had been and where she might be going, and waited for the thousands of camera snaps to capture her brilliant and daring spirit on film.
But that one pop was it. As the flash blindness faded, she vaguely saw the figure of a man in a suit walking away, carrying his camera, and quickly realized he was the only other person on what passed for an airstrip.
She looked at Levine, who was busily fumbling with a button on his jacket.
“You said thousands,” she hissed. “You said all of Havana would be here.”
“It’s siesta time,” he explained, and pointed to his watch. “They’re all sleeping.”
“All of them?” Mabel questioned. “All of Havana is sleeping?”
“He’s not,” Levine said, shrugging, then pointing to the lone figure they could only barely see now. “It’s a national pastime. Whaddya want from me?”
“You lied to me,” she said.
“ ‘Lied’ is a strong word, Mibs,” he said. “I never lied. I hoped.”
“You hoped there would be a thousand people here, so you told me there would be?” she asked.
Levine shifted his weight from one foot to the other.
“Listen,” he said firmly. “You’re the first woman to fly from New York to Cuba. The first one ever. Does that change because only one photographer was here? No. Can anyone take that away from you because there wasn’t a huge crowd? Never. So, Mabel, look at what you got instead of what you don’t got, okay? We’re here, and that’s what we set out to do. We did it. Now let’s go get drinks at some hotel, yeah? I’m starving!”
“Shut up, Charlie,” she said quietly, and smiled the tiniest smile, which was barely noticeable except for one wrinkle above her top lip. “Get outta my way. I’m the first woman who ever flew from New York to Cuba, don’t you know? And don’t order me anything with gin in it, you got me?”
* * *
Elsie sat in one of the large armchairs that dotted Sir Samuel Hoare’s reception area. She had not been waiting long, but could feel her nerves stir. She hid her hands as she picked at one of her cuticles, an old schoolgirl habit, and put her gloves back on so as not to be tempted. Not securing the airfield would mean certain failure before they even had a chance to try.
Sir Samuel, frankly, was the Endeavour’s only hope. As the secretary of state for air, he was the one who could give final clearance for the use of Cranwell, but she had to be careful. He was also a trusted friend and peer to her father, stretching all the way back to when Elsie was a young child in India.
It was Sir Samuel who had actually eased her father’s fears about Elsie’s flying in the first place. Sir Samuel had explained to Lord Inchcape that although aviation was still a new form of transport, it was a safe and dependable one and rarely saw any accidents, wartime being the exception. With good care and proper mechanical upkeep, he insisted, aviation could possibly become quite common over the next several years as methods advanced and designs progressed. He also mentioned how taken he was with Elsie’s piloting skills and what a cautious and accomplished flier she was.
“Miss Mackay?” a young woman behind the reception desk asked. “The Secretary will see you now.”
As soon as she walked into Sir Samuel’s office, her apprehension vanished.
“I’m delighted to see you, Elsie,” he said as he sat down. “How is your mother? I saw your parents briefly before they left but have yet to hear any updates on her health.”
“Father says she’s doing incredibly well,” Elsie said, smiling as she also sat. “She’s almost back to her old self again. I’m awfully glad he decided to take her to Egypt. It seems to be just the thing she needed.”
“Oh, very good, very good,” he said, nodding. “But I don’t think you came to discuss your mother’s health, as important to the both of us as it may be.”
Elsie smiled and took off her gloves.
“I have come here today to ask for your permission to use Cranwell for a flight I have a financial interest in,” she said, getting straight to the point.
“Why is it that you need Cranwell so specifically?” he asked.
“The runway, naturally,” Elsie replied. “It’s the longest in England, and with the weight of our plane and fuel, we will need as much length as possible for a takeoff.”
Sir Samuel looked at her curiously.
Elsie sat forward in her chair.
“I am helping to finance a flight commanded by Captain Hinchliffe and his navigator and copilot, Captain Gordon Sinclair,” she explained. “It is our intention that they make a record-breaking flight early in March, when the weather becomes optimal, with fewer headwinds and gales. There are several teams from France and Germany also vying for the record, but we, naturally, believe the record should belong to England.”
“I see,” he said, folding his hands. “And your destination is?”
“Currently undetermined,” she said. “Possibly India, Egypt, or—”
“A transatlantic attempt?” Sir Samuel finished for her, then sat back in his leather chair and leaned it backward all the way to its limit. He took a deep breath, then let it out. “Elsie, I certainly can’t—”
“Sir Samuel, please hear me. I have in my employ the most experienced pilot in Europe, perhaps the world. We have purchased the most advanced, safest plane ever built, a Stinson Detroiter, which flew Ruth Elder across the Atlantic. All factors are optimum.”
“She crashed in the Atlantic,” Hoare corrected her.
> “Yes, due to an oil pipe leak, and because of that malfunction we have been very careful with our assemblage and attention to those mechanics,” she explained. “That plane can take us across. I have full faith in it.”
“But you yourself would not be flying, is that correct?” he asked.
“Absolutely not,” she confirmed. “I have flown in the plane and will participate in test flights, but as for the actual flight, no, only the pilots will be on board.”
“Germany has outlawed transatlantic attempts,” he said. “And France will, too.”
Elsie shook her head. “It won’t matter. There are ideal points in Ireland and Spain to depart from. This is a very determined race, I’m afraid.”
“And Cranwell is closed to civilians, as you know, due to Mr. Levine,” Sir Samuel went on. “I’m afraid the RAF felt that Levine had taken advantage of the facilities and made fools out of the officers by the behavior that occurred there.”
“I assure you, Captain Hinchliffe was in no way involved with Levine’s nocturnal habits,” Elsie replied. “He has asked the officials there for permission to use the aerodrome and has been rebuffed. So I have come to you to plead our case.”
“Elsie, let me ask you the most pertinent question,” he said. “I need to know how much your father knows and approves of this.”
“He knows that I have a financial stake,” she answered. “We acquired the ship after his departure to Egypt, but you have my word that I will inform him of such.”
“And his approval?” Hoare questioned.
Elsie smiled weakly. “Of course, he is opposed to my flying it, which is why I have decided not to go,” she said. “But that was his stipulation. That I not fly.”
Sir Samuel looked at her steadily.
“And you will not fly, you say?”
She nodded once. “I will not fly.”
“When have you scheduled the flight?” he asked, finally easing up in his chair.
“The first week of March,” she said definitely. “That is our window.”
Hoare nodded and scribbled on a piece of paper.
Then he sat back and took several moments.
“A week,” he finally said, “is what I can give you, but no more. I’ll be hearing it from the RAF as it is by giving you that. A week, then, you understand?”
“That would be fine,” Elsie said, delighted. “That would be perfect.”
Sir Samuel held up a finger. “On one condition,” he said. “That this department will assist in charting the route and alternative routes. If England is to be the title holder, we must do this correctly.”
Elsie smiled broadly. “If it is all right with the department,” she said, “we’d prefer to keep our edge on the competition by keeping ourselves shadowed. We’d like to retain an air of secrecy, if you will.”
“I completely understand and agree with you,” Sir Samuel said. “I think it’s wise. Let’s not show our hand.”
“Thank you, thank you, Sir Samuel. Captain Hinchliffe will be thrilled,” she said.
* * *
Ruth was finding it difficult to be in a good mood.
Pherlie, Pauline, and Aunt Susan had all left for home, and even though it had only been several days, she was missing their company sorely, especially since she had to find somewhere to live in New York City until her tour was over, and looking at empty apartments by oneself was just about the loneliest thing in the world, she figured. She had become very used to being around someone all the time, whether it was George, her sisters, reporters, or even well-wishers. But now that the immediate hullabaloo had settled, she had far more time on her hands than she could ever think what to do with.
She had sent Lyle home several days after the ticker tape parade. He played the poor husband beautifully, pretending that he’d been right by Ruth’s side the whole way, cheering her on and being a good sport. He was insistent that she return with him to Panama, which she had hated to begin with, and simply go back to being his wife.
“The truth of the matter is that you took yourself out of my life,” she told him flatly. “And I just got used to it. So now, if you want to come back in, Lyle, you have to know it’s under my rules. Because I’m not going to Panama. I’m going to California.”
She did see him off to the pier as he boarded the Cristobal to sail home, right after he made one last attempt at an insanely affectionate farewell as the reporters watched.
Ruth didn’t stay to watch the ship sail off; she had a business meeting with her new manager, Mr. Palmer, and some people from Paramount Studios about a possible acting career—which had gone very well and opened the door for more meetings about a film after her lecture circuit was over.
Since he had opened his big mouth on the day that she docked about her returning to Panama, the issue about “doing dishes” exploded, with people all over the country weighing in on whether she should go back home and be a wife. One woman even made a comment that, as far as Ruth’s flight was concerned, “a good typist is of much more service to humanity.”
Ruth couldn’t help but read these things—they were on the front page of the newspaper—and knew she shouldn’t care. She had flown that plane through storms and winds; she had stayed up with George during the flight, thumping him on the back every few seconds to keep him awake when he was flying, and he’d done the same for her. She had broken the record for longest flight, flown through the worst weather, and survived a crash landing at sea. None of you have done any of that, she thought. And none of you ever will.
Still, to Ruth, it stung to have something she believed in so strongly reduced to something so insignificant by anyone, especially another woman, who must have known how difficult it was to succeed in an area dominated by men.
* * *
Things were much more civilized at the Hotel Ambassador, where the National Women’s Party held a dinner in George and Ruth’s honor several nights later. Thankfully, Mrs. Haldeman was back to her usual calm self, since Ruth had heard she had had to reach for her smelling salts when shown a photo taken on board the Barendrecht of Ruth and George embracing moments after they were rescued.
“When are you returning?” she asked. “I suppose when your series is completed.”
“Actually, no,” Ruth told her, and watched her face drop. Mrs. Haldeman had bought into Lyle’s act of the devoted husband. “There may be some work for me in California. I think I might go out there for a while.”
“Really?” Mrs. Haldeman said, surprised. “But won’t you be lonely?”
Ruth laughed lightly. “I suppose I will,” she replied. “But I suppose you can be lonely anywhere, right?”
Ruth heard a throat clear into the microphone and turned around to see Doris Stevens at the dais. Stevens was one of the founders of the National Women’s Party along with Alice Paul and Lucy Burns, two iconic leaders of the women’s movement. Ruth took her seat behind the front table next to George.
“It is customary to hear us feminists on our feet protesting discrimination against women on the account of their sex,” Stevens began in her address to the aviators. “Tonight, thank heavens, you will hear us rejoicing. We pay feminist tribute to an American woman who has put her name high on the roll of honor in aviation.
“Ruth Elder smashed many myths, the most diverting of which is that beauty and women need not be unaccompanied by ability and ambition for a career. In common with men, we delight in your beauty, Miss Elder. We honor your ambition.
“George Haldeman, you are a pioneer in placing confidence in a woman in an untried experiment. Ruth Elder, your achievement distinguishes the whole sex. We honor you, esteem you, applaud you, and love you.”
Ruth was overwhelmed as the generous applause sounded like thunderclaps, and she looked over a room full of women who were looking back at her and smiling, not one of them thinking that a good typist was of more benefit to the human race than an aviatrix who had tried to make history.
Ruth stood up, smiled, and then spoke.
“I am glad if I have been able to do something to show that women have the ability to distinguish themselves in any field,” she said, her voice tiny and quivering a little. “Although our flight to Europe had failed, the failure was mechanical, not masculine or feminine.”
* * *
Mabel was hot.
The Cuban sun was relentless, even for that time of year, and as it beat on her gold link sweater, the heiress sizzled like a hot dog at a carnival. She was glad they had decided to stay in Havana only overnight; although she had friends there, her lack of a suitcase was prompting her to make a quick exit. Despite the charm and beauty of the city, it wasn’t exactly the kind of place that Mabel could find a wardrobe replacement unless she wanted to wear a cotton housedress, whether she was burning alive or not.
It was Levine who suggested they refuel immediately in the morning and head to Miami simply because he wasn’t sure how much longer he could watch Mabel sweat while wearing precious metal. He had taken care of his bootlegging business, and he had seen enough of Mabel turning purple and becoming shiny.
It took 127 minutes to get to Miami, most likely the longest 127 minutes of his life. When Mabel had flown unconscious, she was a delightful flier, but over water she questioned every bump, squeak, gust of wind, and rattle. Mabel was petrified, trying to look over Levine’s shoulder to see if there were any boats in the water that could possibly save them after their inevitable ocean crash.
“Mabel, get off of me!” he shouted, pushing her back. “You’re perching on me like a damn owl.”
“I’m trying to be prepared, Charlie,” she said, distinctly annoyed. “I am hearing strange noises from the engine.”
Levine sighed and surrendered as Mabel climbed on him like a house cat in her panic. After landing, they were greeted by several photographers. It was the first time he had ever seen Mabel run from a camera. In customs, she unabashedly laughed when they asked if she had bought anything in Cuba, saying. “I don’t think so. I couldn’t find a dress to wear that didn’t come with matching slippers.”