- 1912 -
Amy languished in her small world at the London home of her parents. Her governess had left to teach a new, younger pupil and the servants removed any tasks which might stave off her perfect boredom.
Very rarely her father, an influential businessman and, some said a future peer, would permit her to attend one of the social functions with which the elite classes would introduce young ladies to society. In the hope of introducing her to a prospective husband. There was little for which Amy could want, but her life was dull for lack of them.
One ray of light in the life of this young heiress was Violet, another debutante who had more liberal parents than Amy, who would come visiting on occasion and entertain Amy with upper class gossip and news.
One day the two friends were taking tea in the summer garden at the Kentish estate of Violet's family. Apart from the waiter, who was at a discreet distance, the young women were alone. It was one of those rare occasions on which Amy felt totally free.
"Are you still writing that diary?" asked Violet as she proffered a plate of scones.
Amy took one daintily. "No, I cannot be a diarist and be honest. The pages would bore any reader to death."
"Still looking for excitement? I thought that James Molinueux was courting you?"
"He thinks that he his." Amy took a sip of tea, "all that he ever talks about is his expectations. Although he did write some poems."
"That sounds more like it."
"Not really, They are very bad, except for some witticisms which I recognise as the work of Oscar Wilde."
Violet laughed genteelly, "really?"
"Oh yes, what wasn't truly pathetic was truly plagiarised. Still, surely you have been having fun."
"Hmhm, I'll say. Have you ever been to the racing at Hendon?"
"No. Shall I take it that you have?"
"Yes. Every Saturday this month. They have motor races and aeroplanes too!"
"Father says that they are a dangerous waste of money, even balloons."
"Well, please do not take offence, but your father is just wrong. They give exhibitions each week. It has become fashionable for ladies to take rides in the air with those airmen." She paused, "I know, you and I shall go to this week's races. If need be, lie to your father. Anyway, that would add spice to your diary. Come on, what say you?"
Amy smiled. Which was a lovely sight. "Oh, all right."
Hendon racetrack and aerodrome was on the outskirts of London, capital of the Empire. And it looked the part. Here amongst the terraced suburbs the sizeable complex was amok with colour and sound. Music played and food stalls provided refreshments. The clientele were well dressed, the men in suits of various colours and sporting bowlers or boaters depending on exactly how old they were. Women dressed in fine dresses of delightful greens and creams, their wide hats and parasols were the very image of refinement.
Around the important garages was the smell of petrol and oils, and the sound of various engines. Here there was an atmosphere of youthful exuberance, as adventurous young men worked on the machines from which the twentieth century would bloom. Motor cars and motor cycles were becoming more and more commonplace, but both were still exciting. But beside them was the latest craze. With wood and canvas and piano wire the aeroplanes spoke only of fragility to the many who distrusted them. But each Saturday at Hendon, they conquered the air. They flew careful pleasure flights. They flew races, timed excursions around and around pylons, sometimes almost they touched the ground with their wingtips as they competed.
Amongst this carnival to technology Amy moved in a happy daze. Violet would guide her here and there, showing her some new attraction, of either of engineering or of manhood.
And so they watched several races. The pylon races were exciting in their novelty, and the road races were thrilling in their impression of vitality and speed. There was one crash, but the driver was uninjured. Amy felt Violet tap her arm.
"Look."
