[Facing p. 198.
Harry spent all his spare time in his workshop attached to the garage, where he always had some big undertaking on hand. He had the habit of singing or whistling at his work, unless things went very wrong, when he would work in silence and it was difficult to extract a word from him. But it was when he had two or three days’ work to be finished in one night that he developed that irritability which came so quickly and went as quickly which was one of his characteristics. But the occasions were comparatively rare, for generally he was perfectly happy and good-tempered during the evenings we spent in the workshop. He always worked with a rapidity which almost bewildered the stranger, and he had no patience with a slow worker, rather doing the work himself. In the winter months we decided to give up going down to the workshop after dinner, and spent these evenings reading. Or, rather, I read while Harry listened, as he could never read or write himself for any time, since he performed both in such a slow and laborious manner it was obviously no enjoyment to him. We always began with any items of interest from the current motoring and flying papers, and sometimes a long (and to me generally unintelligible) article from the Automobile Engineer, and then continued the book we had in hand. He was a schoolboy in his taste for literature, for it was always a tale of adventure, varied by something gruesome, such as Bram Stoker’s “Dracula,” which he chose to be read, and we got through many books in this way.
One evening, soon after the Armistice, Harry came in and said he had been asked to fly the Atlantic with a machine which Sopwith’s were prepared to build. He had always been keen on the flight, and I knew it would come sooner or later. Pamela was two months old at the time, and I had a great feeling of responsibility on her account. Harry gave me a perfectly free choice as to whether he should go or not, and I was torn between my duty to Pam to ask him to stay and my duty to him to let him go. I tried to imagine how I should feel if another man were to fly the machine that Harry ought to fly, just because I feared the consequences. I knew I could never allow that to happen. I said: “Why should you think I want you to stay? I want to be proud of you.”
So after that they went steadily forward with their preparations and were eventually ready to start for St. Johns, Newfoundland, on March 28th, 1919. Harry and Commander Grieve in a preliminary test at Brooklands in one day flew a distance of 1,800 miles, equivalent to the Atlantic flight, and there was no hitch, not even in the sandwiches which I cut for them!
Jury’s Imperial Pictures produced a film showing Harry’s trials for the Atlantic flight conducted at Brooklands prior to his leaving for Newfoundland. The operator who took this film went up in a second machine when Harry was in the air.
It was pouring with rain the day Harry started, and bitterly cold. During the preparations my courage had remained high, but when I went into Harry’s room just before we left, and found him crying, I lost heart and broke down entirely. He had been putting a few last things into his bag when his feelings got the better of him. He was always sensitive and soft-hearted, and I knew he was going to be terribly homesick until he got over the other side and had plenty to do. The sight of his grief was too much for me—my courage oozed out altogether. But tears—even the tears of a grown-up man and woman—are a wonderful relief to overwrought feelings. We felt much better afterwards, and were able to look on the bright side of things once more.
I only went as far as London to see Harry off, for I could not leave our baby for long at a time. The drive could hardly be described as cheerful. I sat on the floor of the 12-cylinder Sunbeam, for better protection from the rain, as we carried no hood. With my head on Harry’s knee, I longed to sleep away the next two months. He reached the station only just in time to catch the train, and a number of friends had gathered to see him off. I recall that at that moment I wished I had married a farmer’s lad without ambitions. I was thankful when the whistle blew, as I felt so very unsure of myself and was afraid of breaking down again. He was gone, and all I could do was to wait for the future to unfold itself.
I got back home at ten o’clock in the morning, oppressed by a feeling of great desolation. I could not settle to anything, and even Pam could not brighten me up.
After the first week of Harry’s absence, time at home went fairly quickly. I never left home for longer than two hours, and when I did I bought newspapers of every edition, in the hope of getting news.