Charlie must have misunderstood her hesitation on the sidewalk, because he stuck his head out the window and pointed. “That’s the entrance over there.”
She waved her thanks then headed in that direction. Once inside, she was swallowed up by an echoing cavern with high ceilings and cement walls. Twenty feet away she spotted a desk, behind which sat one of the prettiest women Dash had ever seen. On her desk was a small sign that readMISS ROSE.
“Good morning,” Dash said quietly, then she cleared her throat and tried again.This is no time to be shy, she reminded herself. “My name is Margaret Wilson. I’m here for a job interview.”
The woman consulted a page before her, her lips pursed. “I have no such appointment listed here.”
“Oh, but you must,” Dash insisted, her face burning. “I received a letter, and, well, the company even sent Charlie in the car for me. He drove me from the train to the hotel last night. He just dropped me here…”
The woman was unimpressed. She glared at Dash with perfectly made-up eyes. “I do not have any appointments for Margaret Wilson.”
Dash couldn’t help thinking of what Dot would have said at this point.Of course her name is Rose. A beautiful face with a thorny disposition.
“Obviously there’s been some sort of misunderstanding,” Dash said, slightly panicked. “I’m—Oh, wait.” She almost laughed, realizing her mistake. “How about Dash Wilson?”
Miss Rose checked the paper. “Yes. Please take a seat.”
She bustled past Dash and knocked on a door while Dash clenched her hands in her lap. She had spoken with her Wren supervisor before coming, and the woman had been very understanding. If Dash passed the interview, the Wrens would simply transfer her to CanCar. If not, they would find something suitable for her in January. This interview meant everything to Dash.
A moment later, another woman appeared in the open doorway. Her short black hair was rolled neatly back, and all her weight was braced on two metal canes. Dash shot to attention as she’d been taught back at HMCS Conestoga, stunned that she now stood before Miss Elsie MacGill. Fifteen years ago, just before Miss MacGill had graduated from the University of Toronto, she’d been struck by polio, and the disease had ruined one of her legs. She could have quit working right then, but from what Dash had read, that idea had not fit into Elsie’s plan. Despite doctors’ warnings, she hadn’t let her disability slow her down.
She observed Dash through intelligent eyes. “At ease, Miss Wilson. Thank you for coming. Won’t you please come in?”
Speechless, Dash trailed her into a large office. Her knees wouldn’t stop knocking with nerves, so she was relieved when she was offered a seat.
“I liked your letter.” Miss MacGill remained standing, but she leaned back against her desk, facing Dash. “Tell me more about yourself. I saw that you have worked a great deal on automobiles. Do you feel you are qualified to translate that into airplane engines?”
It took a moment before Dash could find her voice, then shecouldn’t stop talking. “I got to know the basics of airplane engines a few years back when I worked with my uncle on his. Granted, that was only a Jenny—I’m sorry, a Curtiss JN-4, not a Hawker Hurricane, but still…” She took a breath then dove back in. “Since then, I have read everything I can find on airplane engines, comparing them to automobiles and adding to my knowledge. I’d love to show you what I can do if you’d give me a chance.”
“What is it about engines that grips you?”
“To be honest, Miss MacGill, flying is my real passion. I enjoy the challenge of solving mechanical problems, and I’m always happy to get my hands greasy, but working on plane engines brings me closer to flying. I’m keen to help out with test flying, if that opportunity were ever to present itself—in addition to mechanical duties,” she quickly added.
“Very interesting. I never learned to fly myself; however, I accompanied pilots on test flights of the aircraft I worked on.” Miss MacGill straightened. “Follow me, if you would.”
She led Dash through a pair of double doors into a brightly lit hangar that seemed to go on forever. Beneath its towering ceiling was a world unto itself, and Dash was so filled with wonder she could hardly breathe. The air was alive with thezing!of electric drills and the growls of riveters, and voices bounced off the floor. Dozens of Hawker Hurricanes were lined up down the middle of the enormous room, and as she walked between their noses, Dash inhaled grease and gas and everything else that she loved. The whole place bustled with men in coveralls.
Her step faltered, and she grinned. Just like she’d read, they weren’t just men. Most werewomen, about her age.
At the end of the vast space was a partially disassembled airplane, and Dash’s heart lodged in her throat as she recognized the challenge ahead. Until now, she had never seen a real Hurricane up close, but she’d read all about them. When she had told Uncle Bob that she had an interview at CanCar, he had magically produced an orange, thirty-six-page HawkerHurricane manual wrangled from a fellow flight instructor. Awed by what she held, she’d studied the pilot’s notes in the book, including photographs.
Miss MacGill stopped beside the plane. “Tell me something about this aircraft, if you would.”
“Of course,” Dash said, swallowing her nerves. “The Hawker Hurricane was originally launched in 1937 and is the primary fighting plane of the Royal Air Force.” She gazed up at the cockpit. “And she is absolutely beautiful.”
“Specifics, please.”
After all her studying, the answer came easily to Dash. “The Hurricane is thirty-two feet long, and her wings stretch forty feet from tip to tip. She has a powerful Rolls Royce Merlin V12 engine that I cannot wait to hear. She can take off carrying eighty-seven hundred pounds and can fly six miles per minute, which is about three-hundred fifty miles per hour. For battle, she carries up to eight Browning guns on her wings, and she can also carry up to four cannons plus a five-hundred-pound bomb.”
“Excellent, Miss Wilson. You have done your research. Now, tell me about this engine.”
Dash stepped eagerly toward the guts of the machine. “It’s a four-cycle, liquid-cooled engine.” Her palm skimmed the shiny pistons, each around fifteen pounds. “A V-12 with offset pistons, counter opposed.”
“Why would they be like that?”
“Balance,” Dash replied. “They’re very heavy, and if they all moved at the same time, the weight would overwhelm the airplane.”
“What are those?” Miss MacGill asked, indicating machinery farther back in the engine.
