Captain.
Perhaps, Patsy said to herself, as the car glided to a smooth stop outside her landlady’s front gate, it was in those three or four years that airline pilots got around to learning such excellent human qualities.
But there wasn’t mu ch time for Patsy to ponder the vagaries of pilots’ personalities, with rather special emphasis on those of Captains Maynard and Prentice. For the very next day they had to report at a shop in Regent Street to be measured for their uniforms, and then only a paltry week separated them from the dreaded word Examinations.
‘Just look at it!’ Cynthia said, after the last lecture ever, standing in front of the notice-board on which was Mr. Crosbie’s neat training programme. She pointed with her thin finger at the column starting October 3rd which was entirely taken up with the word in thin red spidery letters. ‘There we go ... Oral. Examining Officers, Mr. Crosbie and Mr. Simmons, that was the one with the scrubbing brush moustache at the Selection Board ... remember? And the place of execution is the Chief Catering Office itself. Doesn’t it sound grim ?’
‘They may have got other jobs, don’t you think?’ Patsy suggested cheerfully.
Like all examination periods, the precious time sped by. It was the shortest week Patsy could remember. And after a micro-second of a weekend sigh of relief that it was all over, came the longest Monday morning on record.
During the usual kitchen practical, hardly anyone spoke, except to compare answers, argue a little, and then gloomily go on with washing the floor, or peeling the potatoes, or cutting the sandwiches. Already Patsy’s fingers were too few for the mistakes she knew she’d made. She confided sadly to Cynthia the short, stark news: ‘I’ve failed.’ But all the comfort she got was, ‘Well, that makes two of us.’
At lectures, Mr. Crosbie was late. Normally, this would have meant that the whole room would be bubbling over with laughter and chattering. But not this afternoon. Instead, there was a strained quie t ness. People fidgeted with pencils. When Myra Yorke knocked over her books, there were hisses of explosive irritation.
The atmosphere was further heightened when Mr. Crosbie eventually arrived, carrying a sheaf of papers, and wearing a very long face indeed. He said, much more brusquely than usual, ‘Good afternoon, ladies,’ looked at them through his thick spectacles—and sighed.
No pin was actually dropped, but you could have heard one if there had been.
‘Silly mistakes!’ Mr. Crosbie said, rapping his baton on the desk. ‘Silly mistakes!’
He went through the pile, his voice getting slower and more sorrowful as he proceeded. And then, when it was perfectly obvious that their worst expectations had been fulfilled, the frown on his face suddenly switched into a smile, the pale eyes turned surprisingly mischievous, and the well-known brisk voice said,' ‘Well, ladies ... all in all, not too bad! I’ve watched your practicals. I know I’ve got the stuff into your heads, even though exam nerves don’t always allow it to come out on paper. All any of you need is a little experience.’
There were a few seconds of incredulous silence. Then Myra Yorke asked, ‘You mean ... we’ve all passed ?’
Mr. Crosbie nodded his head munificen tl y. ‘All,’ he said, and smiling at the relieved sighs and the scarcely subdued cheers, he proceeded to read out the marks.
Patsy had obtained a not very spectacular position in the order, but one that was at least safely in the middle. She and Cynthia went back to Mrs. Waterhouse’s that night in a state of blissful contentment. When Janet enquired what the exam was like, Cynthia declared airily that there had been nothing to it.
Then, just after six, Geoff Pollard rang up Patsy. ‘Congratulations,’ he said. ‘Pollard is proud of his protégées .’
‘How ever did you know so soon?’ Patsy laughed. ‘I was thinking of phoning to tell you ... and to
Perhaps, Patsy said to herself, as the car glided to a smooth stop outside her landlady’s front gate, it was in those three or four years that airline pilots got around to learning such excellent human qualities.
But there wasn’t mu ch time for Patsy to ponder the vagaries of pilots’ personalities, with rather special emphasis on those of Captains Maynard and Prentice. For the very next day they had to report at a shop in Regent Street to be measured for their uniforms, and then only a paltry week separated them from the dreaded word Examinations.
‘Just look at it!’ Cynthia said, after the last lecture ever, standing in front of the notice-board on which was Mr. Crosbie’s neat training programme. She pointed with her thin finger at the column starting October 3rd which was entirely taken up with the word in thin red spidery letters. ‘There we go ... Oral. Examining Officers, Mr. Crosbie and Mr. Simmons, that was the one with the scrubbing brush moustache at the Selection Board ... remember? And the place of execution is the Chief Catering Office itself. Doesn’t it sound grim ?’
‘They may have got other jobs, don’t you think?’ Patsy suggested cheerfully.
Like all examination periods, the precious time sped by. It was the shortest week Patsy could remember. And after a micro-second of a weekend sigh of relief that it was all over, came the longest Monday morning on record.
During the usual kitchen practical, hardly anyone spoke, except to compare answers, argue a little, and then gloomily go on with washing the floor, or peeling the potatoes, or cutting the sandwiches. Already Patsy’s fingers were too few for the mistakes she knew she’d made. She confided sadly to Cynthia the short, stark news: ‘I’ve failed.’ But all the comfort she got was, ‘Well, that makes two of us.’
At lectures, Mr. Crosbie was late. Normally, this would have meant that the whole room would be bubbling over with laughter and chattering. But not this afternoon. Instead, there was a strained quie t ness. People fidgeted with pencils. When Myra Yorke knocked over her books, there were hisses of explosive irritation.
The atmosphere was further heightened when Mr. Crosbie eventually arrived, carrying a sheaf of papers, and wearing a very long face indeed. He said, much more brusquely than usual, ‘Good afternoon, ladies,’ looked at them through his thick spectacles—and sighed.
No pin was actually dropped, but you could have heard one if there had been.
‘Silly mistakes!’ Mr. Crosbie said, rapping his baton on the desk. ‘Silly mistakes!’
He went through the pile, his voice getting slower and more sorrowful as he proceeded. And then, when it was perfectly obvious that their worst expectations had been fulfilled, the frown on his face suddenly switched into a smile, the pale eyes turned surprisingly mischievous, and the well-known brisk voice said,' ‘Well, ladies ... all in all, not too bad! I’ve watched your practicals. I know I’ve got the stuff into your heads, even though exam nerves don’t always allow it to come out on paper. All any of you need is a little experience.’
There were a few seconds of incredulous silence. Then Myra Yorke asked, ‘You mean ... we’ve all passed ?’
Mr. Crosbie nodded his head munificen tl y. ‘All,’ he said, and smiling at the relieved sighs and the scarcely subdued cheers, he proceeded to read out the marks.
Patsy had obtained a not very spectacular position in the order, but one that was at least safely in the middle. She and Cynthia went back to Mrs. Waterhouse’s that night in a state of blissful contentment. When Janet enquired what the exam was like, Cynthia declared airily that there had been nothing to it.
Then, just after six, Geoff Pollard rang up Patsy. ‘Congratulations,’ he said. ‘Pollard is proud of his protégées .’
‘How ever did you know so soon?’ Patsy laughed. ‘I was thinking of phoning to tell you ... and to
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